We were in a post-war council estate, only a couple of hundred yards - as the shrapnel flies - from the scene of last month's explosion.
Looking down the street, the bright sunlight glinted off the few surviving windows and I saw the car carrying the bomb approaching. Perfect timing.
A silver Ford Fiesta, one of the many thousands which won't merit a second glance; as boring and forgettable as you could find.
Creeping closer in second gear. Looking at house numbers? You don't want to blow up the wrong innocent bystanders, after all. Who says history doesn't repeat itself? Certainly not me!
I'd spoken to Kirsty earlier that day so we were both clear on what had to be done and how we'd do it. Maximum impact, no holding back. Leaving the front door open, the young couple walked down the path, through the gate onto the pavement, chattering and smiling as they went. Down the street, a parcel-delivery man was knocking on a door but getting no reply as the Fiesta slowly passed. It was fifty yards away.
An elderly man was walking his black Labrador along the pavement. The dog pulled on its lead, finding something interesting to smell at the side of the road. The man looked up as a small sliver car drove past, slowing down even more. It was twenty yards from the house.
A neighbour across the road was mowing his lawn. The young couple started lifting Tesco carrier bags from the boot of their car which was parked in front of the house. Shopping they'd never get to use. The sound of the Fiesta's engine could be heard above that of the lawn mower.
The young man put a bag down – a box of Weetabix and a bottle of semi-skimmed milk clearly visible – to help his partner lift a heavy bag of vegetables. Too late.
The handle had snapped. A shrink-wrapped cabbage rolled along the ground towards the middle of the road.
The young woman turned, intending to retrieve it but instead stepped back as a silver hatchback appeared. A sharp crrr-unch! The cabbage was crushed under the front wheel of the Fiesta.
The driver, dressed in a grey hoodie and blue denim jeans and wearing wraparound shades, jumped out of the car. The young man approached him. Whether he was intending to complain, apologise or jokingly make light of the situation, we'll never know. Instead, the driver ran down the street, back the way his car had come. The young couple just stood there, looking bewildered.
The Labrador started barking as he ran past it. The delivery-man looked up as he closed the back doors of his Parcel Force van.
The neighbour paused, leaving his mowing in mid-stripe to wipe his brow. With ten or twelve houses between him and the car, the driver stopped and turned around. He looked back at the young couple with a wicked grin, lifted a mobile phone out of his pocket and pressed a key.
"Cut! Thank you everyone. Great work with the cabbage, Melissa. Next scene is the bombed house. Back to the Crimewatch minibus, please." You can always rely on us to make a drama out of a crisis.
So, it's a Sunday afternoon and it's heat haze, wobbling in the dips in the road, and you've been playing cricket at Broadgate with your mates in the gardens there (first one to tip it into the newt-pond wins outright - you'd never be allowed, these days, what with them being a protected species and all) and you've stowed all your gear in your bag and strapped it onto the rack at the back of the Honda 90
Fiction - Nowhere Man By Nick Quantrill
No one should have to stand at Humberside Airport's arrivals gate, name board in hand, waiting for Mr Van Der Kerkhof to arrive. Not at five in the morning. Groups of youngsters barge past me, shouting to each other at the top of their voices, excited. I can spot the cheap package holiday crews a mile off.
I don't understand it. If you work for months in an office or factory, why not enjoy your time away a bit more wisely? My brother tells me
Fiction - Returned To The Dark By Nicky Ellam
It's dark in here. That's because I live at the bottom of the jewellery box along with the other outcasts: the tangled necklace with the broken lobster claw and teddy pendant she got for her eleventh birthday, along with the bracelet that's missing a couple of gem stones.
She always says she will have them repaired but never does, preferring to spend the money on more fashionable pieces instead that imitate Asian and Oriental designs.
Fiction - Deep Waters by Gary Clark
The English are not a nation comfortable with the heat. An August afternoon in the city with the sun baking the pavements, overheating not just the diesel engines on the buses as they thundered by in a cloud of dirty fumes and dust, but the irritable people with fried tempers. Blaring car horns, sweaty armpits, uncomfortable in the heat. Manners and courtesy boiled away. Midsummer madness.
Fiction - 'Olde' Hull By Christopher Skolik
Martin sat on the wall, low, it was covered in graffiti; a matrix of over written names and messages to some dead junky, written over and over. Felt as though the sentiments were actually holding the place together, the place made up of the memories of those who knew Matt Kirk. Martin didn't. But he still felt the depths of this place.
Was there still enough of Old Hull left to lead Martin back into a better past?
Fiction - A Clever Use of Bins By Frankie Lassut
An uplifting, 'ultimate' romance fantasy.
Colin was the world's most romantic man, it was official.
Well, ok. His wife, Jean, had written into the local radio station, Hull Online, and told the presenter guy what he did for her i.e. washing up, ironing, rubbed her feet, was always telling her how lovely she looked (especially each time she bought a new dress), took her out for meals regularly etc.
She had won hands down.
Fiction - A Nice, Romantic Man By Frankie Lassut
Men! All the same! But, all I want is a nice one! All he has to do is be interested in me, and throw rose petals in my scented bath (which he ran) just like in American Beauty! Not much to ask is it? I deserve it.
She walked in the countryside with him, hand in hand; there was plenty of energy in the new romance.
Love was in the air! Wildlife could sense this. Birds sang, grasshoppers rasped, and butterflies just did what they do.
They came across a copse.
Fiction - All The Fun Of The Fair By Nick Quantrill Photographs by Darren Rogers
Jimmy held his hand out to the old man lying in a bed of wet cardboard boxes. 'Help you up, there?'
The old man took the hand. 'Good on you, son.'
Jimmy took the strain and pulled. 'No problem. You might want to get your face looked at, though.'
The old man took a tissue out of his pocket and wiped the blood from his nose. 'Don't worry about me, I'll be fine.' He laughed and wiped his hands on his trousers. 'So who are you, then?'
'New around here?'
Fiction - Side Orders - A Joe Geraghty Story By Nick Quantrill
'Ahmet's paranoid, man.'
I turned to Darren and shrugged. Ignoring him, I continued looking out of the car window and into the Hull night, the city flashing by. 'You've been robbed twice this week' I said. It had just turned midnight. People were staggering home, the streets slowly emptying, but plenty of drunks still wanted their fix of fast food.
'Bad luck, Joe. That's all. It happens.' Darren laughed. 'It's cool to have a bodyguard, though.'
'I guess so.' It'd make a good story down the pub, if nothing else.
Fiction - A Story About My Brother By J.W. Robinson
I was about twelve-years-old when my brother, James, came home from the supermarket carrying an enormous cardboard box and announced that he was going to live in it. He had been behaving strangely for a while. My mum said it was a phase he was going through and she didn't like to antagonise him too much; he was prone to emotional outbursts. Nevertheless I think she worried when he took that box up to his bedroom and climbed inside.
Fiction - Mary and Me By Leah Scarpati
The train station was full of children, a mass exodus of sorts. Some were crying, others were brimming over with the obvious excitement of their impending 'holiday'. A variety of ages, the children were all dressed in their best clothes and stood around on the platform with their boxed up gas masks hung over their shoulders and suitcases littered around with their names and destinations printed on them.
'Now you listen to me Billy,' his Mother said. Her voice wobbled a bit.