GOOD FRIDAY<br >Five thirty was perhaps a strange time to take a walk in<br >the park on Good Friday morning. Later in the day the<br >media christened it Bad Friday ， but as she picked her<br >way down the hill， the day still felt good to her.<br > In the valley lay the lake， and by the fading light of the<br >tired moon it looked like liquid silver. In spite of its beauty<br >she turned her back upon it and began to climb the steep<br >path through the tangled rhododendrons.<br > When she emerged at last she had reached her favourite<br >spot at the top of the hill， where the beech trees towered<br >above their blanket of springy turf. At that time in the<br >morning， they had no substance and were nothing yet<br >but grey shadows.<br > From here she could look back at the hill on the far side<br > of the lake and see the road where she lived lying beyond<br > the park railings. It looked so peaceful， still lit by its amber<br > streetlights with her neighbours asleep behind their<br > curtains. Such an ordinary little terrace， yet so much had<br > happened there since Good Friday a year ago.<br > The sky above the town was beginning to flush with<br > the approaching dawn， but as she looked up she saw<br > something strange. For a moment she thought the<br > morning star itself had exploded.<br > For the rest of her life， the next few seconds were<br > :repeated in her dreams over and over again. The<br > anearthly streak of light sweeping towards her. The noise<br > which shook the ground and rattled the beech trees as<br > if they had been frail stalks of grass. Then the uncanny<br > silence which was the worst part of all.<br >