Lasting Scars

by Lenny Brando

The picture reverted to the panel, and the discussion moderator spoke into the camera. “Sources tell us the police are now actively looking for this girl and she is being treated as a person of interest.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Ian sat up and leaned forward. “Jesus H Christ. It gets worse. You’re just a witness. Why are they saying all this?”

  “Because it’s a good story.” Alice’s phone beeped and she picked it up.

  “I’d avoid Twitter if I were you.”

  Alice shook her head. “It’s not Twitter, it’s Kristin. A text.”

  He fumbled with the remote while she fiddled with her phone. The remote slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He reached for it, but the batteries had spilled out. By the time he had re-inserted them, the TV panel were speculating on the connection between the ‘Champagne TV Girl’ and the ‘Champagne Terrorist’, both of which were now trending on Twitter.

  “...well, come on.... Champagne and Islamists don't mix.... Supposing she’s an innocent bystander... Could be part of a terror cell...”

  “The news channels must love this shit.”

  Alice tapped on her phone, then looked up. “Kristin found condoms in Olivia’s bag.”

  Ian pointed at the TV, then to Alice’s phone. “And that’s important now?”

  “I guess it is for Kristin.”

  “Isn't she worried about you?”

  “It was the first thing she asked. The condoms were a PS.”

  “Why was she searching Olivia’s bag?”

  “She thinks Olivia is seeing someone else.”

  “A guy? I thought she was gay.”

  “Condoms? Kristin thinks she likes the occasional penis.”

  “Lucky penis.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “She’s an attractive woman. Most men would, you know...”

  “Including you?”

  Ian picked up his glass and took a small mouthful. He swirled it around his tongue before he swallowed. He raised an eyebrow at Alice. “Somehow, I can’t imagine that working out.”

  “Kristin and Olivia or you and Olivia?”

  “I can’t believe we’re talking about this when the police are coming to grill you about your terrorist connections.”

  Alice got to her feet. “Forget it. I wanted to take my mind off the police. Don't you get that?” She rocked a little and steadied herself against the arm of the sofa.

  “Maybe you should have a coffee?”

  She threw him a baleful look, picked up her glass and downed it all. A dribble trickled down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. Then she filled her glass again.

  Ian raised a hand in defeat. “Fine. Go ahead. Get pissed.”

  Alice flopped back onto the sofa and folded her arms. Then she sat forward and ran her hands through her hair, messing it up. She shook her head and then shrivelled back into the folds of the sofa, as if she had somehow become smaller, or less significant. She said something, but her voice was low and tremulous, and Ian couldn't make it out. Before he asked her to repeat herself, the doorbell rang.

  14

  When he got home to his flat in Bethnal Green, Cole showered and changed. He took a readymade dinner from the groceries he’d bought on the way home and threw it in the microwave. The harsh sound of his shoes clattering over the laminated wood flooring in the lounge annoyed him, so he kicked off his shoes and tuned to the TV news while the food reheated in the kitchen.

  He watched the speculation and reporting as he ate in his living room. When they re-ran his interview, he pressed record and increased the volume. He played the recording several times. TV presenters referred to a potential look-out or spotter, but the police appeared less convinced. Innocent until proven guilty and all that bullshit. “She’s guilty you stupid tossers,” he shouted at the TV. “I seen her.”

  After dinner, he scrolled through Twitter on his phone and followed #SthKen threads. He dismissed TV Girl Alice’s apology for her earlier tweet as bullshit. Opinion remained divided on her sincerity. Other users posted veiled threats and promises of justice, and a handful threatened violence. Cole read them with a grin. Terror through Twitter. No doubt about it, TV Girl Alice deserved her terror. Daz lay in hospital because of the Arab and his blonde friend. He looked to the photo of Daz on the mantelpiece and nodded at it. “You’re gonna be all right mate, but this bitch ain't.”

  He stared at his phone and decided it was time to up the pressure. But not on this phone. He needed the burner from Birdy and a new Twitter account. He also needed patience. Fine, he’d wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, he’d post something less threatening. He shrugged at his caution and told himself he’d be hard core when he got the burner.

  How many #innocents did @TVGirlAlice help KILL in #SthKen? #champagneTVgirl #champagneterrorist #AliceMadsen

  He read it several times, then added #lockherup. When he’d sent it, he lit a cigarette, and as he thought more about the attack, he realised he’d be able to scam a few weeks off work. With luck, he might even get compensation from the government for trauma or stress. With that in mind, he searched for the related symptoms so he could convince the GP at the medical centre. The TV footage would be useful too. Nobody could deny he was there. For additional evidence, he switched to FaceBook and typed a bland update.

  He read the post twice, trying to see it from someone else’s point of view, and he decided the ‘difficult to cope’ line was too much. People might think he was a snowflake. He deleted the sentence and posted the rest.

  He powered up his desktop computer, opened a browser and followed through to Alice’s Twitter profile. She had her own website listed along with a brief bio and Cole clicked on the link. His eyes scanned the text, taking in relevant information on Alice Madsen, the freelance TV producer who lived in the Portobello Road area. He smiled as he recorded her mobile number and email address in his phone.

  From what he read she seemed an unlikely terrorist. But she knew the Arab. They had spoken to each other. Cole had seen them. Could it all be a clever cover? Like a sleeper cell? Most people on Twitter condemned her, so she must have done something. The police wanted her too. They said it on the TV, so it must be true. Called her a potential accomplice. And the stuck-up bint dissed both him and Daz. In Cole’s mind, it all added up. Everyone else thought she was guilty, and Cole promised himself Alice Madsen would pay for Daz and all the others.

  15

  Alice tugged at the skin on her knuckle while Ian went to the front door. She heard voices that carried authority and menace despite indistinct words. The footsteps were heavy in the hall and she got to her feet. As the figures loomed in the lounge doorway, she smoothed her hair and watched them walk towards her.

  The older one in a dark suit offered his hand. “DI Colin Marks and my colleague, DS Barry Gilmore. We’re from Counter Terrorism Command. SO15.”

  She shook hands with both, and each used a grip stronger than needed. Gilmore was attractive in a rough way, but Marks was plain rough, as if he’d encountered too much bad on the job, and either couldn’t, or wouldn’t do anything to prevent the taint.

  Marks gestured at the armchair for her to sit, while he plonked himself onto the sofa. Gilmore followed his lead, lowering himself with one arm. When seated, Gilmore picked up a notebook and scribbled in it.

  “We need to ask you some questions,” Marks said. “Mr. Morgan will leave us. Okay?”

  Alice took a breath. “I guess.” Ian nodded at everyone and slipped away.

  Marks pointed at the wine glass on the table. “How much have you had to drink tonight, Alice?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. It’s hard to tell.”

  “I see.”

  She giggled. “Sorry. It’s just, you know...”

  Both officers stared at her. No smiles. Just cold and serious. Plain rough. Marks broke the silence. “May I suggest a coffee?”

  “All right. All right.” She got to her feet and held onto the back of the chair with one han
d. “Ian? Ian?”

  Marks grimaced and exchanged a look with Gilmore. They muttered to each other, low enough for her not to hear. Ian appeared in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Would you get a coffee for me please? Perhaps our guests would like one?”

  “We’re fine thank you,” Marks said. “Please, Alice. Sit down.”

  She slumped into the chair. “Sorry, officer. Is that right? Officer?”

  “Detective will do.”

  “Okay then. Detective it is. How can I help?”

  “Tell us about Samir Hassan first.”

  “He worked with us on a GMP gig...” She stopped at Marks’ raised brow. “Oh. I thought you knew. It’s an acronym for Grange Michael Productions, the company I worked with. Anyway, I remember him because he spoke Danish.”

  Marks waited a beat, “What kind of work did he do?”

  “He drove a van. Moved equipment around. There were several sets. He was more of an emergency gofer. You know? We’d call up this company when we need extra transport and they’d send someone out. Sometimes it was him, other times it would be, like, someone else.”

  Marks joined his hands together and cracked his knuckles. “The name of the transport company?”

  She pursed her lips and looked at the floor. Her gaze wandered to the detectives’ feet. Marks’s shoes needed a polish.

  “Alice? Do you remember?” Marks asked.

  Ian entered and handed Alice a mug of coffee. “It’s black,” Alice said. “You know I prefer latte.”

  “Sorry,” Ian said. “You had a few drinks...”

  She waved her hand at him. “It’s okay. I’ll drink it.”

  Marks continuing stare made her uneasy. He didn't take his eyes off her and said nothing until the door clicked shut after Ian. “Alice. This is serious. I can bring you down to the station where you will spend the night. And I assure you, the facilities will not be as comfortable as those available here. Best drink your coffee and answer my questions.”

  Alice blinked several times. She scratched at an itch on her neck. Then she ran her hand along her forehead. The air was warm and humid, and she was sure she could see a damp sheen on her fingertips. In her head, she sought year-old memories. “It was a small company. It might have been Peter’s Transport. Or Peter’s something. I don't know. I could ask someone from the job on Monday. Would that help?”

  Marks ignored her. “You said the terrorist spoke Danish?”

  “Yes. I am Danish.”

  “We know.”

  “Oh. Right. You probably know more about me than Ian.” She smiled at Marks, but he betrayed no emotion or any sign of empathy. Her thoughts jumbled, and she cursed the alcohol. Then she cursed Samir for being a terrorist, Ian for being Ian, and she damned the hatred and threats on Twitter. She sipped at the coffee. “Ow. It’s hot.”

  Marks held his direct gaze. “Did he ever talk to you about his background?”

  She shook her head. “I remember he told me he wasn't in the UK long and his English wasn't great. He was born outside Copenhagen. A place called Hellerup. That's about it. I would confirm instructions to him in Danish. You know, like a translator. I think someone complained about his language skills.”

  “Did you have a personal relationship with him?”

  Alice rubbed her nose. “Me? With a guy like him? Yeah, right.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Alice smiled at Marks. “He wasn’t in my league. Too young. Too...” She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “...foreign.”

  “I see.” Marks took a deep breath and coughed. He wiped his mouth with a tissue he pulled from his pocket. “Witnesses say you spoke to him this afternoon. Before he carried out the attack. He drove his van along Thurloe Place. What did you say to each other?”

  She glanced at the ceiling. Marks’ staring eyes unsettled her.

  “Go on,” Marks said.

  “I was waiting for a friend outside the Provence. I noticed... no... Not notice. It was more like I felt this guy staring at me. It happens a lot to me. Anyway, I looked up and thought I recognised him. Then I said something like, ‘Samir? How are you?’ He stared at me. A funny look.”

  “What do you mean funny?”

  “Cold. Serious.” Marks was getting on her nerves. “If you had a mirror, you’d get it.”

  Marks feigned a smile. Even after it disappeared, its chill hung in the room. “Anything else about his demeanour?”

  “Anger.” She sipped on the coffee again. Cooler now. “No. Not just anger. More than that. Fury. Rage. Hatred.”

  “Did he look in control?”

  “He looked… I don't know... Determined? Why? Was he on drugs?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that, Alice. Did he say anything to you?”

  “I didn’t get it at first, you know. Then he said it again. In Danish. He said, ‘stop living this life’. I asked him what he meant, but he didn't answer.”

  “And then?” Marks asked.

  “The traffic moved. Someone beeped him, might have been a taxi. I don’t remember. He stalled the van and people laughed at him. Then he drove off. I didn’t see him again. A few minutes later, people ran past my table. They knocked over my champagne. Broke the bottle. It was almost full.”

  “That’s terrible,” Gilmore said. “You should get a refund.”

  She cocked her head and looked askance at Gilmore. “You think?”

  Marks threw a brief glance to Gilmore, who bowed his head to his notebook. When Marks turned his attention to Alice, she noticed he couldn't hide a sneer as he spoke again. “The social media response to your public comment should give you the answer to that.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I can hardly breathe for the sarcasm.”

  “Then let’s dispense with it, shall we? Please continue. What happened next?” Marks asked.

  “I didn’t mean that about the champagne. People took it out of context. I didn't know about the terror attack. How could I?”

  Marks nodded, but Alice saw scepticism all over his face. She shook her head and continued. “I didn't know what was happening. How could I? I couldn't see from where I sat. As far as I knew, it was a bunch of idiots. Minutes later, more people came running. This time they were shouting. Telling people to run. They said terrorists were attacking people. I ran then. I got the tube to Notting Hill and came here. That’s it. Nothing more.” She pointed at the blank TV screen. “All that TV stuff is wrong.” She wrapped her hands around the mug, feeling the warmth seep through to her palms.

  “Any reason you chose the Provence earlier?” Marks asked.

  “I like it. And the festival was on.”

  “You go there a lot?”

  Alice shrugged. “Two or three times a month. Usually Fridays. Depends.”

  Marks flipped through his notebook. “You ever go there with Samir Hassan?”

  “The GMP crew had a wrap party around the corner from the Provence last year. He, Samir, was there.”

  “You talk to him at the party?”

  An itch developed in Alice’s nose and she rubbed at it. Marks shifted in his seat as he watched her. Alice noticed and brought her hand down. “A little.”

  “He come on to you?”

  “Guys are always coming on to me. It’s happens too often to girls like me.”

  Marks nodded and waited a beat. “Did you brush him off? Humiliate him?”

  “I told him I wasn't interested. I think he was drunk. So, I said stuff to make him stop. Look, I don't remember, okay?”

  Marks cocked his head. “A lot to drink that night too?”

  “Yeah. I guess I did. But so did everyone else.”

  “I see. Regular is it?” He pointed at her. “You know, a lot to drink?”

  “No.”

  Marks leaned to Gilmore and whispered so she couldn't hear. Gilmore put a finger to his notes, Marks nodded once, then asked her, “Have you told us the truth about everything that happened?”

  She nodded.
“Yes. It... It was supposed to be a celebration, you know? I got the biggest job in my life. I meant no harm. Nobody should suffer like those people. Nobody. It’s not fair. It’s not right. I’m sorry. So sorry.” She placed the coffee on the floor and put her head in her hands. “Why did he do that? Why? People died. The TV talked about life changing injuries.”

  Alice’s shoulders shook, and she rocked in the chair as sobs wracked her. “I didn't know what happened when I sent the text. How could I? It’s not my fault. Now people hate me. I did nothing. Nothing wrong.”

  She rubbed her eyes and looked at the two detectives. Gilmore glanced up from his notes at Marks and raised an eyebrow. Marks nodded. “All right Alice. All right.”

  “Do you understand? What could I do? I did nothing wrong, did I?”

  “You spoke with the terrorist.”

  “It wasn't a conversation.” She picked up her coffee mug. It trembled in her hand as she drank. “More like a chance meeting and I recognised someone I used to work with.”

  “Perhaps it was wrong place, wrong time.”

  She sniffled and wished she had tissues. “I see,” she said.

  Alice watched Marks run his eye around the room. His gaze lingered on the large framed photograph above the mantelpiece. “What’s that all about?” he asked.

  “It’s called ‘Woman in Chains’. By an American photographer, Valeria Maria Marquez.” Alice held her head higher and looked at Marks. “It’s from a limited edition of 5. Signed by the artist. That’s the only print in Europe.”

  “Expensive, was it?”

  She gazed at the photograph. A naked woman struggled to free herself from shackles and chains. Her long red hair hid part of her face as if she wished to conceal her true feelings from the watching world. The portrait helped Alice recover a measure of composure. “I wouldn’t know. Ian bought it for my 30th.”

  Marks shook his head. “Sex thing is it?”

  “No, detective. It’s not. It’s a metaphor.”

  Gilmore looked up. “It’s an interpretation of Andromeda, right? Greek mythology. Perseus sets her free.”

  Marks’ eyes alternated between the photograph and Alice. “Oh I get it. You’re Andromeda and your boyfriend is Perseus. What’s he going to free you from?” Marks smirked and added, “Metaphorically speaking.”