The Wounded Thorn

by Fay Sampson

It was luxury to let the hot water pour over her. Perhaps a soak in a hot bath might have been a better idea, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t do that as well later on. The blood on her legs turned from scarlet to pink and trickled away around her feet. Her hair began to feel clean at last.

  Fragments of memory kept coming back to her, jagged as shards of glass. The words ‘flesh’ and ‘blood’ made all too visible in Baz’s partly severed leg. The flash of white bone. The screams from further down the street, where the fog of dust and falling debris was thickest. She did not think she would ever forget it.

  She longed for David to be home from Gaza so that she could cry against his chest. It was not something she often did.

  She was gradually feeling more human again. At least … surely what she had felt before was deeply human. The vulnerability of human flesh and blood. The pain of other people’s suffering. It would have been inhuman not to feel as she had.

  There was the comfort of the large fluffy white bath towel. The glow of hot water still on her skin. She looked down at the filthy clothes at her feet. She must not leave them for Veronica to deal with. But the little waste bin in the corner hardly seemed adequate. Perhaps there would be a plastic laundry bag in one of the drawers, which she must then dispose of. She picked them up in an armful and shuffled towards the door.

  Veronica looked up swiftly. A smile eased the tension in her face. ‘You look better. It’s put some colour back in your cheeks. Here, coffee and scotch. And a tin of shortbread, on the house.’

  ‘Let me make myself decent and I’ll be right there.’

  Fresh underwear, a clean pair of trousers and a warmer jumper than she would normally have worn at this time of year. Cleanliness had never felt such a blessing.

  ‘There’s a hair drier in the wardrobe,’ Veronica volunteered.

  ‘Later. Just let me get my hands on that scotch. I think I’ve left the bathroom habitable for you.’

  Veronica nursed her hands around her cup of coffee. ‘I can’t get over the way some people behave at times like that. I’d have thought the normal human instinct was to run and do what you could to help. Or run the other way if you’re scared and can’t stand the sight of blood. But you’d be amazed at the number of people who turned up on the pavement opposite taking photographs on their mobile phones. It makes me sick to think of them posting their snaps on Facebook and making themselves out to be some sort of celebrity because they were there.’

  ‘To say nothing of your pet journalist, Joan Townsend. Typical of the trade. More concerned about getting her story than seeing if there was anything she could do to help.’

  Veronica was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly, ‘Yes, I know what you mean. I suppose somebody has to do it – report on awful things like that. I never thought when I phoned her … I mean, I only wanted to help her get her interview with George Marsden … What happened to him, by the way? I didn’t see him or his wife afterwards and they’d been standing right next to us. No, what upset me about Joan was that she didn’t seem in the least concerned that I was only about fifty yards away when it happened. I’ve been thinking about that ever since. A few seconds more, and we’d have been outside that shop when the bomb exploded.’

  ‘What shop was it? Do you know?’

  ‘According to the women in the Tibetan shop, it was what you’d expect in Glastonbury. Like every other shop on the High Street. Crystals, joss sticks, charms. What I mean is, Joan knew I was in the High Street even before she got there. When she heard the bomb go off, she must have known we could be right in the firing line. But when she saw me, all she wanted to know was what I’d seen, where I’d been standing, had I seen any dead people. I like to think that if it had been Morag, she’d have shown a bit more humanity. She might at least have sounded as if she was a tiny bit concerned for us and thankful we were safe.’

  ‘I take it your sympathy for her career prospects is wearing off.’

  Veronica pulled a rueful face. ‘I suppose none of us knows how we’ll react to catastrophe until it happens.’

  ‘You did well enough. I saw you with a child in your arms. Did you find its mother?’

  ‘Thankfully, yes. I was terribly afraid …’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘I wonder how many people died. There must have been some, mustn’t there?’

  ‘We could put the BBC news channel on. They have news twenty-four/seven.’

  There was an unreality about seeing the drama reported on the screen. It was becoming harder for Hilary to realize that what she was watching was happening in Glastonbury, further down this same street. Television put it in the same category as disasters in the Philippines or Syria or the Central African Republic. But it had happened here, on the streets of an English town. This English town. She had been there. Clean and warm and freshly dressed, it was increasingly difficult to believe it.

  ‘Seven people are believed to be dead, and a number of casualties have been taken to hospital, some with life-threatening injuries.’

  Veronica sucked in her breath. ‘That many! I’d hoped it would be less.’

  ‘Fewer,’ Hilary corrected her automatically. Then, shamefacedly, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The police would make no comment about the possible perpetrator, but there is, understandably, speculation here about whether there is any connection between today’s atrocity and the discovery earlier this week of an unexploded bomb at the Chalice Well, also in Glastonbury. We’ll be interviewing a forensic psychologist later about a possible motive. The shop where the bomb was planted was the Spiritual Sphere. It specialized in the esoteric and supposedly magical goods for which many people come to Glastonbury. Could it be someone with a grudge against that kind of commerce?’

  ‘George Marsden,’ Hilary muttered. ‘He was right on cue. Near enough to the explosion to see what happened, but not close enough to get hurt.’

  ‘There was plenty of debris flying about in the blast,’ Veronica corrected her. ‘His wife was standing out on the pavement like us.’

  Hilary groaned. ‘Right now, all I want to do is snuggle down under a duvet and have a nap. But my conscience is telling me we ought to brave the wrath of the local constabulary and go back and tell them we saw him there.’

  Veronica’s cheeks grew pinker. ‘I already have. I phoned them while you were in the shower.’

  THIRTEEN

  Hilary and Veronica stepped outside the comparative safety of the Bowes Hotel. Hilary drew her jacket closer around her in spite of the sweater underneath. It felt unexpectedly cold for May. Shock, she told herself. Hot coffee and whisky and a steaming shower could only do so much.

  ‘Apparently there’s no police station in Glastonbury,’ Veronica informed her. ‘They’ve set up an incident room at the other end of town.’

  Hilary was alarmed to find herself wondering if she could walk that far.

  She told herself that she had seen just one of the casualties. What about David, who was doing his stint in the hospital in Gaza? She had not realized quite so vividly what shocking things he must see.

  ‘No hope of getting through the High Street,’ Veronica said.

  Police tape barred their way. The street beyond was swarming with uniformed officers, investigators in white forensic suits and others in plain clothes that Hilary guessed to be CID.

  A huddle of people watched from behind the tape.

  ‘Catastrophe tourists,’ Hilary growled. ‘Come to see if there’s still blood on the pavements.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ Veronica scolded her. ‘They may just as well be locals who know people who were in the street. They may even live in one of those houses, and have been turned out until the police are sure it’s safe.’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  They threaded their way around the side streets. When they came in sight of the incident room there was no mistaking their destination. The grey stone Baptist church hall struck Hilary as like a disturbed ants’ nest. Police officers were scurrying
in and out. A BT van she guessed must be setting up more phone lines. Just as they reached the steps a people carrier drew up and more uniformed officers leaped out.

  ‘They must have raided the whole of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary to track the bomber down. Cancelled leave.’

  ‘It looks a bit daunting,’ Veronica agreed. She stepped back hastily as half a dozen young constables charged up the steps. ‘Do you think they’ll really want to talk to us?’

  ‘It was your idea.’

  They made their way with difficulty through the crowded doorway, feeling uncomfortably out of place.

  ‘We’ve come to see DI Fellows,’ Veronica told the harassed-looking desk sergeant inside the door. ‘Mrs Taylor and Mrs Masters. We have an appointment.’

  ‘Was that before or after the bomb went off? Things aren’t exactly running as normal, you know.’

  ‘After,’ Veronica said firmly. ‘Why else would we be here? We have information which may be significant.’

  The sergeant ran his finger down the page of a ledger in front of him. He picked up a phone. After a brief consultation he laid it down again. ‘Right. So you do. Jenny!’ He hailed a passing policewoman. ‘Take these good ladies to number six.’

  It was hard not to lose sight of the diminutive officer as they followed her across the crowded room. Screens had been set up along one wall, dividing off cubicles with chairs and tables. Hilary glimpsed other interviews being conducted in some of them.

  The space they were allocated was cramped. They squeezed into the chairs on one side of the table. There was no one facing them.

  They waited.

  ‘There’s something about the police,’ Hilary murmured. ‘Even if you’re innocent, they can give you the feeling that you must have done something wrong.’

  It was a long time before the screen was moved aside. When Hilary and Veronica turned, rather too quickly, it was not the DI they were expecting. They met the stern features of DS Olive Petersen, who had challenged them at the abbey for interfering with the witness Amina Haddad. Her face held the same unfriendly stare.

  ‘You two again? What is it this time? Can’t you see we’re rushed off our feet?’

  ‘We have an appointment with DI Fellows,’ Veronica told her more politely than Hilary would have. ‘He seemed rather more keen to hear what we have to tell him than you do. I should have thought that any information which might lead to arresting whoever did this was what you wanted.’

  ‘As long as it’s hard information this time, and not more Miss Marple lookalikes wanting to be in on the action.’

  ‘I think we’ll ignore that,’ Hilary said. ‘We can wait for your senior officer.’

  Detective Inspector Robert Fellows looked as harassed as the desk sergeant. But he forced a smile for them as he advanced swiftly, his hand held out.

  ‘Mrs Taylor, Mrs Masters? Good of you to come. Sorry to keep you waiting. It’s bedlam here.’

  A slim, youngish man she guessed to be still in his thirties. Fast-tracked for promotion. Yes, she thought shrewdly, your investigation into the unexploded bomb I found at the Chalice Well will have been taken out of your hands. This is for the big boys now. A detective chief superintendent, probably, not a lowly inspector.

  ‘It was the coincidence that struck us. Seeing him at the Chalice Well before I found the bomb there, and now this afternoon. Right at the time when the second bomb went off, he was there. He and his wife. Just far enough to be out of range of the blast …’

  ‘Only just,’ Veronica said softly. ‘We were in line on the pavement. So was his wife. He was still in the shop doorway.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Hilary said. ‘We could have been hit by the debris. So could she. Well, we were pretty much showered with it, but nothing big, thank God.’

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?’ The inspector sat down opposite them. DS Petersen seated herself beside him with her notepad ready. ‘Now, just for the record, suppose you tell me who you’re talking about.’

  ‘George Marsden, of course. At least, that’s who the assistant at the Chalice Well gift shop said he was. We’ve not exactly been introduced. We’ve been looking for him ever since.’

  ‘For the reporter,’ Veronica put in. ‘Joan Townsend. She needed more of a story.’

  ‘She’s got one now,’ snapped the DS.

  ‘Yes, well. That’s why we followed his wife down the High Street.’

  ‘First things first. This began when you saw his wife? Mrs Marsden? Not Mr? When and where?’

  He took them through Veronica’s sense that she had seen the woman by the parked car before, tea at the Copper Kettle, the sudden memory of who the woman was. Then Veronica phoning Joan Townsend and the two of them rushing out on to the pavement. Tracking their quarry down to find the irate George Marsden pouring out an earful to the owner of the Archive of Avalon.

  ‘And just the same sort of shop as the one which was blown up,’ Hilary finished triumphantly. ‘He really does seem to have a grudge against that sort of stuff.’

  ‘All those poor people,’ Veronica said softly.

  DI Fellows looked sideways at his sergeant. ‘You tracked him down didn’t you, Olive? After the Chalice Well thing?’

  ‘There were dozens of visitors at the well that day. Marsden was no more suspicious than any of the others. He’d gone before the knapsack was discovered. Not hanging around like they’re trying to say he was today.’

  ‘Fair point.’ The detective inspector’s fingers played lightly over the table top, as if they remembered a passage of music. Then he sighed. ‘Right, thank you.’ He gave them a tired smile. ‘As you can see, this is a major enquiry now. Any information may be useful. Thank you for your time.’

  He rose to dismiss them.

  Hilary found herself reluctant to let the matter go. ‘Do you think it’s significant? Could he be your bomber?’

  ‘At this moment, half of Glastonbury could be.’

  ‘You were in both places yourselves,’ DS Petersen said, rather more tartly than was necessary.

  They were back out on the streets, which were swarming with black ants. Diverted past the shattered section of the High Street, where the forensic white ants were busy at work. Nothing to do now, Hilary realized sombrely, but to remember the scene she did not want to.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Hilary,’ Veronica ventured, ‘we don’t have to stay. It’s not exactly turning out to be the holiday we planned.’

  A hush seemed to have fallen over the little town as they walked back to the hotel. Hilary struggled to remember what time of day it was, or even what day. She looked at her watch. Five o’clock. Wednesday. It seemed incredible that earlier this afternoon they had been strolling contentedly through the wetlands of the nature reserve.

  ‘Is that what you want to do? Go home?’

  For her own part, she was aware of the loneliness of the empty house that awaited her without David.

  ‘Or we could finish the week somewhere else. Wells, perhaps. It’s got a lovely cathedral.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Hilary! You’re not going to let go, are you? You still think that because you found that bag you’ve got to be the one who discovers who did it. That’s ridiculous. The whole police force is on to it now. What can you do that they can’t?’

  ‘I still have this feeling there must be something I missed. We were so close. We must have seen whoever planted it.’

  ‘Nonsense. There’s no saying when it was left at the well. Let alone the one in the High Street. The bomber was probably gone long before we came on the scene.’

  ‘I can’t answer for the second one, but the one at the Chalice Well can’t have been there long. Somebody else would have seen it.’

  ‘Do you think it wasn’t meant to go off? Someone wanted it found?’

  ‘I’m not a criminal psychologist.’

  ‘But today changes everything. Seven people killed. That’s terrible.�
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  ‘I wish I could phone the hospital and ask them if Baz is still alive. But they wouldn’t tell me. I’m not a relative.’

  She pictured the young man’s pale face as she had stood aside, rather shakily, and relinquished him to the care of the paramedics. She wanted desperately to believe that she had saved his life, but she could not be sure.

  They turned in at the hotel. Veronica dropped her bag on the bed. She started to tidy her hair in front of the mirror, when suddenly she dropped the comb.

  ‘Goodness me! I never thought. The children! If they get news of this … I’d better phone them.’

  She snatched her mobile from the bag and switched it on.

  ‘Too late! Oh, dear, I’m in big trouble. That’s three text messages from Morag and two from Penny. Thank goodness Robert is abroad. It’ll take him a day or two to catch up with this … Penny, dear … Yes, I’m really sorry … Of course I’m all right. It’s been a terrible thing, but we were nowhere near at the time.’

  Hilary raised her eyebrows. Veronica made a rueful face at the half-lie.

  ‘Yes, we’re still in Glastonbury. Anyway, I must go. I’ve got Morag breathing down my neck too. Love you. Bye.’

  She smiled apologetically at Hilary. ‘Penny’s just finished A-levels. She and her best friend are camping in Wales. You wouldn’t think the news would catch up with them that fast in Snowdonia, would you?’

  ‘Nobody’s switched off nowadays.’

  ‘Except us. You’d better try your own phone. Oliver and Bridget are probably going mad as well.’

  ‘As long as nobody’s told David.’

  Did she really wish that?

  Mercifully, her married son had not yet switched on the TV to catch up with news of the catastrophe in Glastonbury, but he had seen her face in the morning papers about the Chalice Well.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. Monday was nothing much. I didn’t think I needed to alarm the family. I’m afraid it’s got much worse today. You haven’t heard? Another bomb, only this one went off. In the High Street. Seven killed … Yes, we heard the explosion, but we’re both OK. Shocking, isn’t it?’