by Lenny Brando
Once inside, she called Kristin, but it went to voice mail. “Kris? I’m at home. Uh, something happened in South Ken. Call me back, okay?”
She turned on the kitchen TV. A news anchor announced there had been a terrorist incident and viewers should stay tuned for updates. He repeated the phrase ‘Police and ambulances are on the scene’ several times as if to emphasise the gravity of the situation. Alice grabbed a bottle of wine and opened it. With a generous glass of Pinot Noir in one hand and the remote in the other, she watched the news. The presenter wore a sombre face but couldn't mask the frisson of excitement in his voice as he announced live footage from the scene.
Alice watched open-mouthed as the camera panned up Exhibition Street, focusing on a blue van. “Oh lort,” she said out loud. “Oh lort.” She took a long gulp of wine followed by a deep breath. Then her mobile rang as Kristin called her back.
“Alice? Alice? You okay?”
“Uh yes... I’m fine. I think.”
“Twitter’s gone mad with a terror attack in South Ken. Where we were, you know...”
“I know. I know. Could you come to mine?”
“Sure, but have you, like, seen it?”
Alice took a sip of the wine. “Seen what? TV?”
“No. Twitter. I think you’re trending.”
Alice laughed. “Me? Why?”
“You are @TVGirlAlice, right?”
Alice took a larger sip of the wine. “Uh, yeah...”
“Did you send a tweet about somebody spilling your champagne?”
“Yes. But it was true.” She put the glass on the counter. “I meant it as irony, in a, you know, tragicomic way.”
“That’s not the Twitter interpretation. You’ve got your own hashtag now.”
Alice brushed through her hair with her free hand. “What do you mean?”
“They’re calling you #champagneTVgirl. Saying you only care about champagne while people are dying.”
Alice blinked several times. “What? Why? I mean... I don’t understand.”
“I don't either. I’ll try for another cab. With luck I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”
“But what should I do?”
“Wait. Give it a while. Look, Alice, um, some of that stuff isn’t nice. You know?”
“Like what? Tell me.”
“No. Wait until I get there. We’ll do it together.”
“Kris, hold up. Kris?” But the line was dead.
6
Ian Morgan joined the Friday evening exodus from the Lloyd’s building onto Lime Street and headed to the Lamb Tavern in Leadenhall Market. Already a large crowd drank outside, and it took several minutes to find Jo Page. She had her head down with her thumbs moving over her phone screen.
“Hey,” he said.
She looked up and smiled. “Hey yourself.” She put her phone away and squeezed his inside leg. “You’re late.”
“Work.” He pointed at her glass and raised an eyebrow
She nodded and he battled his way to the bar. Several minutes later he emerged from the crush holding a pint of Stella and a Monkey 47 gin with tonic. Jo took the gin from him. “Fever tree?”
“You have to ask?”
She shrugged. “How long have you got tonight?”
“Just this one drink. Alice got a new job. Producer of some new show. We’re meeting at the Provence later.”
“Oh.”
“You jealous?”
“Of what?”
“I don't know. Anything?”
Jo took a sip of her drink. “I know the rules. Don’t get caught. Always delete texts. But...”
“But what?”
“I never seem to get to set the agenda.”
“Want me to leave her?”
She laughed and almost spilled her drink. “No.”
“What then?”
“I want you this weekend. Come around mine. Bring a bottle. Or three.”
Ian’s phone rang. “Sorry.” He took it out, looked at it then put it back in his pocket while it still rang.
“That her?”
He nodded.
She stared into the distance. “Maybe you should, you know...”
He leaned in closer. “She can wait for a while.”
She giggled. “You want someone to see us?” She glanced around, slipped her hand in between his legs and rewarded him with a gentle tweak.
Ian shook his head. “I wish I could do that to you.”
“Then come see me over the weekend.”
“Temptress.” He smiled and nodded. “But it sounds good.”
7
Alice tugged on her lip with her teeth as she scrolled through her Twitter feed. Kristin hadn’t exaggerated. Several comments made her shiver. She considered replying but opted to wait. Perhaps the original tweet would lose itself among the deluge likely to result from South Kensington. She tried Ian again, leaving a message the third time. “Ian. Please call me. It’s important.”
She set her mobile down and picked up her wine. A large mouthful helped, and she took another. She upped the volume on the TV and watched Laura Bowfield show off her new hair colour and run through her range of facial expressions.
For a moment Alice felt as if their eyes connected, and Laura spoke only to Alice, one on one. Alice blinked and focused on the lipsticked words. Precise sentences, basted with a hint of affected plum, flowed through bleached teeth into her kitchen.
The TV cut to looped footage of the now familiar blue van. Several minutes passed with no new information, and then the screen returned to Laura. A young guy stood beside her, staring into the camera with cold eyes. Alice imagined a producer or runner waving at him, gesturing at him to look away. She smirked at the irritation it would cause Laura. Then they zoomed in on Laura, and when they pulled back, the guy was no longer staring out.
Alice narrowed her eyes and studied the guy in frame. She set down her glass and took a deep breath as she recognised him.
“I have an eyewitness to the attack with me,” Laura said. “Lewis Cole, can you tell us what happened?”
“Me and my brother Daz... We’re twins, see? Anyway, we were sitting having a beer. I nip inside to get another. I heard this crash followed by loud bangs. Screams and shouts. I ran out again. Then I seen, er, saw the van smashed into the tables. People were lying on the ground. Like, bodies. You know? This guy jumps from the van. An Arab. He’s swinging knives and shouting Allahu Akbar.”
“What made you think he was Arabian?”
“Er, he looked like one? The Allahu Akbar stuff?”
“I see. Let’s call him a terrorist until we’re sure. Now, were you afraid for your life?”
Alice watched the guy scratch his ear, then pull on his nose. His voice had contained a faint tremor, and now, as he cleared his throat, the microphone pulled out of shot, only to pop back in as he spoke again. “No. Not me. See, the, er, terrorist done Daz with the van.”
“Will your brother be okay?”
“Yeah. The terrorist hurt Daz bad, but they told me he’s gonna be okay.”
“That’s great news. Now, Lewis, tell us what the terrorist did next.”
“He tried to cut off a girl’s head, but he couldn’t do it.”
“Oh my God. That’s terrible. I apologise to our viewers for the graphic description of the terror attack. But this is live, on the scene, exclusive reporting from Xtra News.” Laura almost sounded breathless.
“That’s right. Yeah. He tried to saw her head off with the knife. Blood everywhere. Then he dropped her and looked around. You know, for more people. There was this other girl. She wore a red dress. I remember that. He walked to her, casual like, and stabbed her. Then he went to stab her again. Raised his arm up, like this, see? So, I ran up to him and hit him with a steel rod. I had to save the girl.”
“That’s incredible. You’re a real hero.”
Alice shook her head at Laura’s interview style. Who did she think she was?
Lewis Cole puffed his ch
est out on the screen. “I reckon most guys would save her.”
“I don't know about that. Anything else on the terrorist?”
“Yeah. A Muslim. All that Allahu Akbar stuff. Others jumped in to help me, and we got him. Then the police arrested him.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yeah. Just him.”
“You told me you saw him earlier? Driving around?”
Alice frowned as she listened to the TV.
Cole nodded. “I saw him when we were around the corner.” He pointed behind him. “On Thurloe Place. He drove by. Like I told the police, he spoke to a girl in foreign. Could have been Arabic and all. A blonde girl drinking champagne. Short black dress. White jacket draped on a chair. Didn't look like a Muslim. But I reckon they knew each other. There was something about her, you know what I mean? Maybe a look-out for him...?”
The sound on the TV faded into noise. Her legs trembled, and she plonked down on a stool. Minutes passed as she tried to make sense of everything. Her confusion persisted until the doorbell rang.
Kristin leapt into her arms at the door and they embraced. When Alice broke off, she dragged Kristin into the kitchen where she poured an extra glass of wine.
“Are you okay? You look pale. Gosh, you’re shaking.” Kristin stared wide eyed at Alice.
Alice pointed at the TV. “They think I helped the attack.”
“Oh my gosh. Why? How? Did they name you?”
“No. Just a description.”
“Are you sure they were talking about you?”
“Yes. They interviewed the guy who hassled me outside the Provence. He said I spoke to the terrorist.”
“Did you?”
Alice drank from her glass. She nodded. “Yes. I think I know the guy who did it.”
“Oh my God. Alice. Who?”
“Samir Hassan. He was a contract driver on the last job I did. He told me his family got asylum in Denmark when he was a baby. So he spoke Danish. He did deliveries and moved gear around for us. You know, a gofer. A nobody. A kid. He took a fancy to me.” She put the glass down and ran her hands through her hair. “Perhaps I played him a little. But to kill those people? Like that?”
“How does that involve you, in like...” Kristin waved her hand around in the air. “...all of this?”
“We sort of spoke outside the Provence while I was waiting for you. His van stopped in traffic. I felt him staring at me. You know, the way men do?”
“Forget about that, what do you mean sort of spoke?”
“I thought I recognised him, and I kinda said hello. That sort of thing. Then he said something odd. He said, ‘stop living this life’. In Danish, like he only wanted me to understand. I asked him what he meant, but he drove off.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re involved.”
Alice stared at the ground. “He was flustered. You know? The van cut out and people laughed at him.”
“You’re not a terrorist.” Kristin shook her head and frowned. “Call the police.”
“No. They’ll be too busy. Anyway, they got the guy, right? So what difference would it make?”
Kristin took Alice’s hand. “I think you should talk to the police. If the TV says you’re involved, they’ll come looking for you.”
Alice glanced down at Kristin’s hand. “I wanted to enjoy the buzz. A new show’s a big thing for me. Worth celebrating. I mean, like, I earned it.”
Kristin took her hand from Alice’s and lifted her glass. “I hope the Twitter people don’t connect that terrorist with you. They’ll go mental. #champagneterrorist is already trending.”
Alice topped up her wine. “Thanks Kristin. That’s good to hear.”
“Sorry. I don't mean it, you know...” Kristin pulled Alice close and held her tight.
“What am I meant to do?” Alice asked as she clung to Kristin. “I only wanted to celebrate. Nothing bad. And now? The Police? The TV? This Twitter lort? I did nothing wrong.”
The front door opened, and footsteps sounded in the hall. Ian walked in. “Oh, er, hello.”
Alice disentangled from Kristin and scowled at Ian. “I called you several times and you didn't answer.”
“Sorry. Got delayed at work. Then joined the team for a quick one. I, er, had the phone on silent.”
Alice pointed the remote at the TV and rewound the live view. “Yeah? You need to see this.”
8
Ian remained on his feet and watched the interview with his hands in his pockets. “Oh shit. What…”
Alice picked up the remote and upped the volume. “Shh. Listen.”
“Maybe a look-out for him. He was angry with her.”
“How could you tell if they were talking in Arabic?”
“I could hear the anger in his voice. He was shouting.”
“See?” Alice waved the remote at the TV. “That’s a lie. It’s not like we had a conversation. I only said hello.”
Ian stroked his chin as he thought about the interview. “Are you sure it’s you they are talking about?”
“Come on, Ian. What do you see? Huh? The description that man gave?”
“Yeah.” Ian looked at the bottle of wine and fetched a glass before he continued, “Did you know the guy driving the van?”
Alice nodded. “A driver on the job last year.”
Kristin stepped back. “Um, guys? Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” Alice said. “Stay.” She drank from her glass and placed it on the counter. Then she stood tall and folded her arms tight against herself. “This is all daft. It’s bullshit. I landed something I’ve been working towards for ages. I want to celebrate the contract. No terrorist will stop me. We are going out. End of.”
Ian frowned and rolled his eyes. “Are you mad, Alice? Call the damn police.”
“Don’t you understand? I did nothing wrong. They’ve arrested the terrorist. What more can I do?”
Ian waved at the TV. “Hang on, Alice. The guy in the interview said he told the police the terrorist spoke with you.”
Kristin moved closer to Alice. “We can celebrate another time.”
Alice sighed and her shoulders slumped. She looked from Ian to Kristin. “Maybe you’re right.” She plonked down on a stool and held her head in her hands. “I’m not thinking straight. God, I’m sorry.”
Ian set down his glass, went over to her and cradled her head against his chest. “It’s okay.” He felt her tremble in his arms, and he pulled her closer until he could feel her breathing. “It’ll be all right,” he said.
He saw Kristin shuffle her feet and when their eyes met, she said, “Guys, I don't want to intrude on this...”
Alice pulled away from Ian. “You’re not intruding. And you’re right. I better call the police. It’s just…”
Ian stepped back. “Let’s get it over with.” He picked up his glass and pointed at the TV. “Did they give a number to call?”
Alice shrugged.
“Guys,” Kristin said. “I’m gonna use your bathroom, okay?”
As he waited for Kristin to leave, Ian swirled his wine about, then stuck his nose into the glass. I ought to hide the good stuff from her, he thought.
“You know I don't like the police,” Alice said.
“This is different. They’re British.”
Alice rolled her eyes at him. “If it happened again, would the police in London be any different than Copenhagen?”
“I don't know. Maybe things are different now. Anyway, it was a long time ago.”
“What are you implying? That I should just forget about it?”
Ian looked away and shook his head. “No. No.” He raised his glass to his mouth and peered over the rim at her. “I’m sorry, okay?”
Alice burst into sudden tears. “Nobody understands. Nobody.” Then she grabbed her phone and ran from the room.
9
When Lewis Cole got off the District Line tube at Whitechapel, he stopped outside the nearest pub and made a call.
“Birdy?”<
br />
“Hey Lewis. You all right, mate?”
“You seen what happened in South Ken?”
“Yeah. I seen it. Seen you on TV and all. Proper hero, in’ya?”
“Daz got hurt. Leg’s broken, and he was moaning about a sore head. They took him to the hospital in Hammersmith.”
“You said he’s gonna be okay on the TV. You go to the hospital?”
“No. They wouldn't let me. Said no visitors allowed until tomorrow unless he’s dying, which he ain’t. The ambulance crew said he would be fine. Hospital congestion or some bullshit.”
“How come he got done, and you didn’t?”
“Getting the beer in at the bar. It don't matter though. I got the bastard. Gave him a good bashing and all. The old bill took him away. I gotta talk to them tomorrow.”
“I’d have done him proper.”
“Too many bleeding hearts, mate. They were whining at me to let the police handle it, know what I mean?”
“Shame that.”
“Yeah. But he had a helper. A bird. I fucking spoke to her and all.”
“You did? You know who she is?”
“Not yet. Gonna find out though. Listen, you still selling burners?”
“Yeah. How many do you need?”
“Just the one. Can I get it tonight?”
“No. Not tonight, mate. Something on.”
“All right. Tomorrow morning then. I’ll text you after I see the old bill. Gotta give a formal statement.”
“Good luck, mate. Those bastards make me nervous.”
“Not me, Birdy. I’m a hero now.”
Inside, the bar hummed with a standing room only crowd, and he struggled to get to the counter. Attracting the barman took longer. There was no TV and Cole couldn't tell whether the punters knew about the terror attack. Maybe the 30 minute tube journey from South Kensington made it someone else’s problem. As Cole glanced about, he saw the people in the pub embraced government terror advice. They kept calm and carried on drinking.
