Lockerbie, Wednesday, 21 December 1988, 7.03pm Bunty Galloway had just sat down in front of the television to watch This is Your Life. Outside it was windy and cold. No one was out on the narrow street in front of her house. Many of Bunty's neighbours were also watching TV and others were wrapping gifts. It was four days before Christmas.
Suddenly, Bunty noticed a strange noise. She had never heard anything like it in her life. It was coming rapidly closer with a rising groan and howl as if at any moment the noise would make the house explode like a kettle under pressure. When she got to the door to look out, the roar had abruptly stopped. Now it was dark and quiet. The electricity had gone out.
When she looked outside, the scene was as awful and bizarre as a Hieronymus Bosch version of hell: a wall of flames, down a hill and only about 600 metres away, was bathing the town in orange light. It smelled of kerosene.
A terrace house was crushed from above, as if an enormous hammer had pounded through the roof. Two young women fell directly on to the street in front of her house.
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