Panic over, we bound down the stairs to assess the damage from the lower angle.

“This is going to be a bloody nightmare.” Elliott moans as he clatters down two steps at a time. “I’ll have to call Jessie and Clifford. Bet that builder will have an eye on compensation.

“Not from you. It’s not your fault workmen caved in your ceiling,” I mutter back as we hit the ground floor.

Rushing into the lounge we’re greeted with the full effect of the devastation.

Stray shards of crushed plasterboard litter the living room, on top of which sits our smashed French style bed, and our two bedside cabinets which spill open, dispersing a tube of lube right on the top of the rubble for everyone to see. My eyes rise up to where the ceiling should be.

I stand in a daze, taking in the gaping hole almost the size of the fifteen by twenty room, observing the remains of our new master suite from an angle unlike any other. The pale grey of the bedroom walls shimmers, a backdrop to the dust which catches the light.

My eyes follow it as it drifts down and to the sofa which I hadn’t noticed until now. It's also supporting a selection of ceiling remnants and shattered furniture as well as the discarded wall. My eyes drift across the ruin and land on the woman who was helping Elliott when I arrived.

“Fuck.” Elliott sees her at the same time and lurches forward, grappling with bricks, trying to free her from the rubble. “Call an ambulance,” he shouts, but I already have my phone out and am dialing.

The rest of the builders join us, clambering over the debris and pawing at bricks, shouting instructions to anyone and no one.

The woman isn’t moving and I can’t work out whether she’s gray from shock, from the stone dust, or far worse.

Elliott is speaking to her, asking if she’s alright. He has his face next to her mouth checking for breath, “Come on, speak to me.”

Nothing.

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t respond.

“I’m going to have to open the gates, Elliott. I’ll go down and meet the ambulance,” I say.

He nods, just as the woman groans.

“What happened?” She tries to lift her hand to her temple, but it’s still buried so she only succeeds in raising her shoulder.

“There was an accident. Do you know where you are?” Elliott asks.

“Sure,” she nods.

“Try not to move your head,” he says, brushing his hand over her brown hair. Some dust transfers from her onto his palm. He strokes her hair from her eyes.

“I was sitting on the sofa, going through some boxes that I found in the kitchen.” Her voice is weak, but at least she’s speaking and making sense. Remembering.

Amidst all the terror, I experience the weirdest moment of clarity. I realize she'd been sorting through my Grandma’s china. I look for the box, and despite all the unimaginable horror of the last few minutes, I still manage to feel a sinking in the pit of my stomach that the one thing that remained of my dad's side of the family is irreversibly pulverized.

I turn and run from the room, and down the long gravel drive. As I wait for the ambulance, I pull my phone from my pocket and make another call.

“Clifford, it’s Kyle. There’s been an accident.”