There was a loud rumble followed closely by a thunderous crash.
Clouds of dust billowed upwards in a choking cloud.
Stephen Casey stood on the corner of Lower John Street, one corner of Golden Square, and watched as the rubble tumbled down the chute before clattering to rest on the pile already gathered in the large skip to his left.
Casey could see that a Mercedes parked close by had been covered with a thin sheen of brick dust. The vehicle looked as if it was beginning to rust.
The car was legally parked. He knew, he'd already checked it, his inspection of the vehicle accompanied by one or two jeers from the workmen toiling high above him on the scaffolding of the building. Two of them had leaned over the edge of the parapet and called out something to him as he'd checked the meter beside which the Mercedes was parked. He'd also checked the tax disc, which was valid too.
He hadn't heard clearly what the men had shouted, the sound of crashing rubble had drowned their words. He'd only managed to catch the odd word here and there. Something about a ticket. He'd heard the word Hitler. He was sure he had.
He'd been a traffic warden for the last seven years, so it wouldn't have been the first time.
Casey readjusted his cap and crossed to his right, glancing back once again at the building with the skeletal framework of scaffolding before it.
As he reached the other side of Golden Square there was another loud crash as more rubble hurtled down the chute into the skip. More brick dust rose.
A despatch rider cruised into view from the northern end of the square.
He glanced at Casey as he slowed down, wondered whether to leave the bike on the yellow lines outside the building he was delivering to and decided to take the chance.
As he entered the building he held up one gloved finger in the traffic warden's direction, indicating how long he was going to be.
Casey waved back and smiled to himself.
He wouldn't have booked the rider. He wouldn't and neither would any of his colleagues. They weren't that bad, despite what the public thought.
Casey moved across the square, glancing around him.
People were moving through it on either side of the central grass rectangle. Surrounded by iron railings and flower beds, it was a pleasant enough setting. A little piece of greenery enclosed by the vast expanses of concrete and steel which seemed to have sprung up around it.
Casey often sat in the square on one of the benches and ate his sandwiches when he found time for lunch. He'd usually try and work his patrol so that he ended up there when it was time to eat. Workers from nearby offices did likewise in the summer. Some even sunbathed on the grass in hot weather. It was a pleasing little oasis.
There was another almighty crash as more rubble was despatched down the chute.
He glanced in the window of a design shop as he passed, gazing at the two or three mannequins there. They were all dressed in the garish, brightly coloured creations of the shop. Crop tops, wraparound skirts in multicoloured patterns, box jackets with unusually large shoulder pads.
He could see two young women towards the back of the showroom chatting animatedly. Both of them were dressed in black mini-skirts. One wore thick grey tights beneath. It seemed to defeat the object, Casey thought, noticing that they both gazed at him as he passed.
The Metro to his left was illegally parked.
He hurried his pace as he headed towards it, noting that it stood on double yellow lines outside the Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital.
There was nothing remarkable about the car. Pale green, about four years old, bodywork immaculately clean. As he drew level with it he gently placed one hand on the bonnet, which was cool.
The car had obviously been there some time.
He peered through the window into the vehicle.
There was an A-Z open on the passenger seat, bent back and dog-eared through use.
A fresh-air strip was hanging from the rear-view mirror.
Casey tried the door.
Locked.
He glanced at the back seats.
There were a couple of books there. Kids' books. Some balled-up sweet papers had been scattered over the upholstery. A half-eaten bag of wine gums also lay there.
A furry Garfield was stuck to the side window by four suction cups attached to its feet.
Casey walked around the car and saw a sticker in the back window.
A heart and the simple message: I Love Life.
Casey smiled and reached for his book of tickets.
The explosion was so ferocious that it lifted him several feet into the air.
All he heard was a sound like a paper bag bursting. A very, very large paper bag. Then nothing.
He was dead before he hit the pavement.
The skip had exploded with the force of a small warhead, the metal it was constructed from joining with the shattered bricks it held to form a blanket of lethal shrapnel.
Like some enormous hand-grenade, the shattered skip erupted, sending metal and pieces of stone in all directions.
The concussion blast was strong enough to overturn the Mercedes parked close by, the bodywork already shredded by the flying debris.
The back window of the Metro was smashed in by a piece of stone the size of a football.
The scaffolding in front of the building merely crumbled, pieces of metal piping and wooden gangways collapsing like a house of cards.
Two of the workmen toppled earthward with the ruins, one of them managing a scream of terror before he landed on the concrete below. His head burst like an overripe melon.
The second fell into what was left of the skip, his spine snapping in several places as he struck the riven container and what was left of its load.
Several of the cars parked close to the skip burst into flames, petrol tanks holed by lumps of flying stone or metal.
The fires seemed to start a chain reaction, each successive vehicle catching fire, burning for a few minutes then exploding, adding more thick black smoke to the heaving pall already settling over the square.
A combination of the concussion blast and the flying debris had blasted in almost every window of the buildings which made up the square.
Stephen Casey lay on his face, his back torn open by a piece of metal, his spine exposed, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.
The blast had ripped off one arm at the elbow, shredded his trousers, blown him out of his shoes.
It had all happened so quickly.
The blast, the deafening explosion, the flying debris.
An uneasy silence descended over Golden Square, as dense as the cloud of black smoke which hovered above it like an ethereal shroud.