The traffic lights turn to amber. The silver BMW with the zero zero registration number eases to a halt at the stop line, first in the queue, right indicator flashing. Purring smugly, this morning it is ideally placed to catch the eyes of the passing motorists.

Another two-minute pause.

The driver yawns and relaxes his grip. He sits back, resting his head against the leather support. And now the business news. Shit: should be at the next lights for the business news. He drums his fingers on the Formula One steering wheel and studies the oncoming faces, edging past. Faces eating apples, white faces pouting lipstick into rear-view mirrors, faces miming classic hits, electric shaving faces, faces eating mobile phones. Some faces are smiling.

He sighs at the red light. A watched traffic light never boils.

These days he doesn't really need to keep the window open with Bruce Springstein at full blast. Lots of cars have cool CD players. Lots of people have silver BMWs. These days it's okay just to listen quietly to current affairs and depressing AA Roadwatch updates.

He checks for the flowers as usual. Good. Fresh bouquets are taped securely to the light post on the small island in the middle of the road. The blue scarf is there too, the Chelsea FC. crest proudly displayed as it would be around a short, slim neck on a cold school morning. Thank God it's not the Manchester United crest.

O Angel of God my Guardian Dear, To whom God's love commits me here

He gazes at the small cards attached to the flowers but he's not close enough to read the messages. It doesn't seem to matter what kind of flowers: just wonders about the tragic story. How many victims? How many shrine keepers? Where's the homework notebook now?

Like all the other mornings, he reminds himself to stop sometime and read the memorials. Pay his respects. Sport is next, right after this commercial break. He looks at the clock and, right on cue, the green filter appears and the world restarts.

But not for everybody.

Please give them comfort. Thanks for the chilling reminder. How lucky we all are. So sorry for your trouble. Goose pimples. So trivial. Immense relief. Compelling guilt. Somebody else's trouble.

Ever this day be at my side

Day by day the blue sticky tape sags progressively and the flowers inch their way down the black and white hoops. The rain-sodden scarf flaps in the wind. The driver watches anxiously for a day or two until the shrine is restored. Small, seemingly insignificant details occupy his mind. It must be a weekly ritual. What time of the day do they come? Supposes that it's a loving, longing exercise that might in some way help to ease the pain. Surely nothing can ease such searing pain.

He needs to pay his respects. Early morning at the weekend would be a good time: no rush-hour. Nobody around. Just to pause and read the cards. Names. Words of remembrance. Say a prayer. Pray they'll be comforted.

He worries that he might be an intruder. None of his business. Leave us alone. But support might be welcomed. Isn't that why the shrine is there? Thousands see it every day. Does anybody else feel the shivers on the back of the neck, or is he the only guilty one?

To light, To Guard, To Rule and Guide

Saturday morning : just after seven o'clock. The spring sunshine contrasts sharply with the usual dreary weekday scene. The gleaming, ultimate, driving machine slows down and stops, two alloy wheels on the footpath, twenty yards from the junction. The driver takes out compact binoculars and lowers the window. The stillness is eerie compared to the rush-hour maelstrom. The plush upholstery doesn't feel as comfy. Radio off: no 'finally and briefly' question for a pummelled Minister.

He shines the lenses. He focuses on the pole and observes the flowers slumped to the ground at the bottom, the limp tape having passed its stick-by date. He has a close up of the scarf flapping in the wind. As he moves the binoculars from side to side and up and down, he catches a figure standing on the path at the other side of the wide tarmac. Waiting for the traffic light to boil. A woman is holding a bunch of carnations under her arm and is tying the lead of a small black dog to the pedestrian safety barrier. Pedestrian Safety.

This wasn't part of the plan. He wanted to keep his distance, just explore the shrine and slip away quietly. Just like you do after shaking hands at a removal, without knowing what should be said. Not right to intrude: don't invade the privacy. You're not involved.

The lights change and the shrill beeps of the crossing signal bounce rapidly off the shiny black road surface and echo against the silent walls. A reminder of chopsticks gripped awkwardly in small fingers, banging the drum on a kitchen saucepan. The woman walks to the island and gently lays the fresh flowers on the ground. She starts to remove the fallen stalks from their jaded plastic wrapping, lying crumpled and covered in dewdrops.

The driver pauses. He shouldn't be there. Leave them in peace. Just keep saying the prayers. Stay outside.

The dog is barking and pulls on the lead as it tries to break free. The woman looks up and calls across to soothe him. Her voice is gentle and caring.

'OK Zola, good dog. Nearly finished'.

Zola is nearly finished too. After much frustration and tugging, the stubborn mongrel finally manages to loosen the knot. The driver stiffens as he scampers across the road and jumps up to lick her hand. The freedom is exhilarating and he romps back out towards the other side of the road. He always wanted to play where the cars play. He's running this way: the woman is shouting now. 'Here Zola! Goood boy. Come back Zola'.

The driver gets out of the car to intercept. With the binoculars swinging from one shoulder he stretches to grab the trailing lead. The furry dog slurps his hand gleefully, revelling in the excitement. The woman's anxiety melts and her pale face is warmed by the trace of a graceful smile. She moves closer and he can see her features more clearly. The tingling on the back of his neck eases.

'Thanks a lot. Zola is thrilled with the chance to do his own thing. He's lucky there's no traffic at this hour. Sorry to bother you.'

He's taken aback by her serenity. Up close her voice is even softer. Sweeter. He notices her blue eyes. He wants to speak but can't think of anything meaningful to say.

Small talk.'No problem. You're welcome. I always catch stray dogs around here early on Saturdays.

He grins at Zola. 'He's full of beans isn't he?'

She reaches out to take the lead but, before she gets a firm hold, Zola seizes his chance and darts away, waiting for a chase. She steps off the path as she tries to grab him by the neck.

'He's a handful. He'd wear you out.'

The driver is not listening: he's looking through her. His mouth opens to shout a warning, but the speeding van is on top of them. It too is revelling in rare urban freedom on that stretch of road. Screeching brakes and the smell of burning rubber transform the early morning calm. The black binoculars fly off his shoulder as the dog is crushed beneath the massive wheel: the van goes out of control and careers across the road, partially demolishing the granite wall which finally halts it's momentum.

***

Murmuring silence. The driver is watching a huddled group around a small white coffin, draped with a blue scarf. His eyes can't cope with the brightness. There's no soundtrack. There are no traffic smells, no engine noises. He wants to join the group but his body is frozen. He senses gentle fingers on the side of his neck and he tries to look around. His head won't turn.

Ever this day be at my side

His peace gradually evaporates, overwhelmed by the stench of petrol mingled with melting tar. His throat is full of exhaust fumes and the quietness inside is replaced with the sound of shocked voices, shouting and screaming. The dreaded sirens are getting closer. The brightness switches on and off. His head hurts. He wants to see the coffin. He needs to read the cards. The words are out of focus.

Slowly, he opens his eyes: he's looking directly into the angel's beautiful face. She's putting her rolled up sweatshirt beneath his head as she quietly tells the assembled voyeurs what happened. The sound of her voice, at first so distant, is becoming clearer now.

She tells them how lucky she was: how fast the poor guy reacted.

How he pushed her out of the way.

To Light
To Guard
To Rule and Guide
Amen

^