Lasting Scars

by Lenny Brando

Her phone beeped and she saw contact details for Alice Madsen with address and phone numbers. She saved the information and scoured Twitter as the van slowed in traffic. Perhaps Naz was right, if she read the comments it might help reduce her anxiety.

  Tweets relating to the attack varied in tone. Most were unsympathetic. Many were hostile. Several made overt threats and accused Alice Madsen of being a terrorist supporter. People questioned the sincerity of her apology for her original tweet, and both #TVGirlAlice and #ChampagneTerrorist still trended. Laura winced, and she almost hoped Madsen was guilty of some offence to justify the vitriol.

  She flinched when Ricky tapped her on the shoulder. “Not much new,” he said. “Madsen’s been out of work since last year, but she’s landed a contract as a producer with FMP Film and TV Productions.”

  “A producer?” Laura adjusted her collar. “FMP?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I said. Why?”

  “Doesn't matter.” She put the phone away and stared ahead. Ricky’s arm still rested on the top of her seat, and she shifted away from him. She felt him watching her. “What Ricky?”

  “Think you could do it?” he asked.

  “Do what?” She focused on the windscreen and saw his ghostly reflection. The bastard was grinning now.

  “Madsen’s new job?”

  Laura scowled out the window and shook her head. “I’m not just a journalist you know.”

  Ricky leaned in closer. “Should have pitched for it then, eh?”

  “Fuck you, Ricky.”

  He laughed and she felt him leave her space. But anxiety loves a void, and negative thoughts rushed to fill her mind. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. Several minutes later, she calmed and the shape of her on the scene report formed in her head.

  21

  When Alice shut her front door on the outside world, she turned to Ian and said, “Now I want to relax.”

  “Sure,” Ian said. “We can watch a movie?”

  “Anything as long as it’s not the news. I’ve had enough of news.”

  “I’ll set it up.”

  “Ok. I’m gonna change into jeans and T shirt first.”

  Ten minutes later Alice sank into the sofa and Ian handed her the remote. “Your choice,” he said. “You earned it.”

  “Romcom?”

  He grimaced, but his eyes smiled. “I said your choice.”

  “All right. Let’s see what’s there.”

  While Alice scrolled through the movies, Ian thumbed on his phone. He tapped her arm after a while. “Do you want to do something about Twitter? They’re still being nasty.”

  “I stopped reading them. It will blow over.”

  “You could delete the account?”

  “What? Why? I’ve got over 3k followers.”

  “So? What do they do for you?”

  She stopped pressing on the remote and put it down. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. It does. If the only thing you get from it is abuse, then why put up with it?”

  “It’s useful for work.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know Ian.” She scratched her eyelid and blinked. “Just leave it. I don't want to think about it right now.”

  “If you want my advice, I’d say delete it. Get them out of your life.”

  Alice sighed. “I don't want solutions. I want sympathy. Support. That’s what friends are for.”

  Ian shrugged. “Only trying to help. Sorry. I’ll change the subject then. What was wrong with Kristin earlier? She and Olivia have a tiff?”

  Alice picked up the remote and continued to scroll through the movies. “Something like that, yeah.”

  He pushed against her with his shoulder. “I think Kristin would prefer you.”

  “Don't do that.”

  “What? Say Kristin has a thing for you?”

  “No. Well yes. That too. But don't push me. Okay?”

  He put his hands up. “Jeez. Sorry. I was only playing.”

  Alice grunted and pressed play on a film she selected. “This is your penance, mister.”

  “Don't take offence if I fall asleep.”

  “Better not snore.”

  Around thirty minutes into a passable romcom, the doorbell rang. Alice looked to Ian. “We’ve no viewings or anything this evening?”

  “No. I told them to hold them all for a few days.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll get it.”

  Before Ian had got to the lounge door, someone banged on the front door. Alice felt her pulse quicken and she too, got off the sofa. She went to follow Ian, but he turned to her with a look of concern and motioned at her to stay. She heard him open the front door and someone shouted “Police”. Then the detective with the rough face from the night before barged into the lounge. Uniformed officers followed close behind him and took hold of Alice. They pulled her arms behind her and handcuffed her.

  “Ow. What are you doing? Let go of me.”

  “Alice Madsen,” Marks said. “You are under arrest on suspicion of aiding, abetting, counselling, or procuring the commission of a terrorist offence. We have a warrant to search the property issued under Schedule 5 of the Terrorism Act.”

  Fear coursed through her. She turned to Ian as if he could somehow help and make everything all right. Fingers dug into her arm with deliberate force and she flinched with the pain.

  “I’ll call a lawyer,” Ian said. “Say nothing until you see the lawyer.”

  Marks regarded them both with a condescending sneer, and before Alice could protest further, two officers bundled her into the hall. They hauled her out of the house towards a squad car. She looked up and saw a news crew filming her humiliation. Just to the right of the camera a familiar redhead shouted out, “Alice? Alice?” Even in the blur of motion and confusion, there was no mistaking the excited smirk on that powdered face. “Did you help with the South Kensington attack, Alice? Are you the champagne terrorist?”

  Laura Bowman’s words rang in her ears to the thumping soundtrack of a rapid pulse, and despite Alice’s efforts, no denials, no protestations of innocence would surface. Within seconds the police shoved her into the squad car, and she gaped wide eyed at the staring faces of people on the street. As the car sped off, lights flashing and sirens wailing, she saw those bystanders holding their phones high, recording her arrest in pursuit of social media likes.

  22

  Cole met Birdy down the Red Lion pub in Bethnal Green. Because of the weather, most of the punters drank outside, leaving the inside emptier than normal for Saturday evening. The juke box still hammered out crap and Cole had to shout at the barman. “Mate? Mate? Can you turn that thing down? Can’t hear myself think.”

  The barman cupped his hand to his ear. “What?”

  “Christ,” Cole said. “No wonder you’re deaf.”

  The barman laughed and lowered the volume. Someone in the corner cheered. The barman glared, then turned to Cole. “What’ll it be?”

  “Two Fosters and a little QT.”

  The barman didn’t laugh at that, but he was quick with the beers. Cole sat at a table and was halfway through his pint by the time Birdy arrived carrying a small package. Birdy sat and gulped from the beer Cole pushed across the table. “Go on then. Tell us about Daz.”

  “They operated on him this afternoon. Opened his fucking head.”

  “Wow. What did they find?”

  Cole leaned into Birdy’s face. “You being funny?”

  Birdy pulled back and raised his hands. “No, Coley. No.”

  “He’s got a brain injury. Can't remember the medical term. Said he'd be in a coma for days.”

  “But then he’s gonna be okay, right?”

  Cole looked off into the distance. “Daz is gonna be all right. He will. Nothing’s gonna happen to him.”

  “Fucking terrorists.”

  “Scum,” Cole said. He pointed at the package. “That the burner?”

  “Yeah.” Birdy slid it over to Cole. “Decent phone. You can use apps
and get free net using wi-fi.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Cole. “The number. Memorise it and throw this away.”

  “How much?”

  “£50.” Birdy held out his hand.

  “Really?”

  “Top of the range.”

  “Yeah, right.” Cole slipped the money across the table.

  Birdy shrugged and pocketed the notes. “What do you want the burner for anyway? You up to something?”

  “You oughta know better than ask that.” Cole gave Birdy what he hoped was a cold stare, but Birdy didn't get it.

  Birdy leaned in closer to Cole. “I get you. You’re gonna do something about the guy what done it. You know, his family? His mates?”

  Cole put his finger to his lips. “Don't be asking mate.”

  “That girl, right? You think she’s one of them? You sure? Don’t look like it to me. Them Muslim women look like, what did that politician guy say, letterboxes was it? He’s funny.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Birdy. They don't all wear them burkas.” Cole looked around and kept his head down. “She spoke to the Arab in foreign. Look what everyone’s saying about her on Twitter. The old bill are looking for her. Seen that on TV. You think they'd be looking for her if she was innocent? Huh?”

  “Don't trust the old bill neither. You speak to them?”

  “Yeah. This morning. Gave a statement. Wouldn't tell me nothing about arresting her. They said thanks, then more or less told me to piss off.”

  Birdy scrunched his face. “If they didn't tell you, how do you know they’re gonna arrest her?”

  “I told you. It was on the TV. And she’s on the front page of the papers.”

  “Maybe.” Birdy didn't look convinced.

  “And you know what mate?” Cole stabbed his finger at Birdy. “I blame her for what happened to Daz.”

  “Why? You said if you had stayed where you was, nothing would have happened to Daz, eh?”

  Cole looked around the pub and shrugged. “It don't matter. She dissed us. The bitch dissed us and we left.”

  Birdy took a deep drink of his beer and set the glass down. “I dunno, Coley. Sounds like it ain’t the Muslims with you. Maybe you need to shag a slappers’s brains out?”

  “Could do with that and all.”

  “Well don't you worry about nothing. I don't care what you do. Just leave my name out of it, you know, when you do something stupid and get caught.”

  Cole prodded Birdy in the shoulder. “I ain't stupid and I ain’t getting caught neither.”

  “You want my advice?”

  “No.”

  “Don't listen then.” Birdy shrugged and leaned away. “Your brother is gonna be okay. You got the Muslim guy, gave him a bashing. Leave it at that. Relax. Have a few beers. You ain’t got no need to do anyone else.”

  Cole grunted. “You know what Birdy? Sometimes need ain't got nothing to do with things.”

  23

  Ian watched Marks survey the lounge. Marks seemed to nod to himself, then turned to Ian. “We have a schedule 5-1 TACT search warrant for the premises. Items listed include mobile phones.” He held out his hand. “If you would?”

  “My phone?”

  “Yes. Mr Morgan. Your phone please?”

  “Alice was right you know.”

  “Oh yeah? About what?” Marks still held his hand out.

  “She said all police are the same. Can’t trust them.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You said she was no longer a suspect. That she was only a witness.”

  “Facts change. Now, your phone.”

  Ian frowned. “I want to call my lawyer first.”

  “Why? You got something to hide?”

  “No. Something to protect.” Ian folded his arms. “My rights.”

  “Rights? Really? Maybe you should tell that to the people who died on Friday.”

  “Alice had nothing to do with that.”

  Ian took his phone from his pocket. He gripped it tight to stop it trembling in his hand as he scrolled through his contacts for Malcolm Rix. Marks glared at him and took a step closer. Ian felt his heart thump louder. He was sure Marks would grab the phone, but he fought every instinct to hand it over, and he pressed the call button without dropping the phone. He saw Marks’ eyes flit to his shaking hand, and Marks did nothing to hide his look of scorn.

  “M... Malcolm. Uh, hi. It's Ian Morgan. Sorry to call you on a Saturday...”

  “Ian who?” Rix asked.

  “Ian Morgan. We met a few years ago at a dinner party. You’re a friend of Olivia Kelly. You told me if I ever had legal trouble to call you.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember now. You told me you wouldn't need me.”

  “Good memory, however...”

  “No, Ian. Everybody says that. What’s the problem?”

  “The police arrested my partner Alice in relation to the terror attack on Friday night. They’re in our house with a search warrant. Can I hire you?”

  “Are you under arrest?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so.” Ian looked to Marks, who stared back with his arms folded.

  “Good. Can you give me a brief background? Any context?”

  “Alice was in South Kensington yesterday during the attack. She knows the terrorist. They worked together last year and there may have been an incident between them, anyway, Alice spoke to the terrorist prior to the attack. It was caught on CCTV and ended up in the media.”

  “I saw it. Is Alice the one they’re referring to as the champagne terrorist?”

  “Yes. But we called the police last night and they came here. Interviewed Alice and told us she was a witness, not a suspect. Then they left. We thought it was all finished with, and now they’ve turned up here with this warrant.”

  “They must have received some new information. I’d imagine someone implicated her. Let me talk to whoever's in charge.”

  Ian held out his phone. “My lawyer wants to talk to you.”

  Marks scowled and took the phone. “DI Colin Marks. Who are you?”

  Ian shifted on his feet under glares from police officers while Marks spoke to Rix in monosyllables and grunts. After several minutes, he handed the phone back to Ian.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Look, Ian...” A sound like a gust of wind through trees came from the phone as Rix inhaled. “...under the provisions of the anti-terrorism legislation, they can question her for up to 48 hours without a lawyer.”

  “Christ Almighty. Does that mean she’ll be alone for 48 hours?”

  “Yes. But it gets worse...”

  Ian grabbed a handful of his own hair and pulled. “What do you mean worse?”

  “They can hold her without charge for 14 days.”

  “What? 14 days? That’s... That’s just wrong.”

  “That’s how it is.”

  “Christ. Alice won't cope with that. She’s innocent, Malcolm. Innocent.”

  “Sure. But the police don't think so. They tend not to arrest people they believe are innocent. They’ve got something on her.”

  “What?”

  “I don't know for sure. As I said, I suspect someone implicated her.”

  “Who would do that?”

  “If I were to speculate, I’d say either the terrorist or someone associated with him. But speculation’s not a wise move at this stage.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Nothing. We wait. That's all.”

  Ian stared at Marks with a growing hatred. “This is crazy.”

  “No. It's the law. First, take the search warrant and read it. It is limited to relevant material only, the definition of which is items likely to be of substantial value to a terrorist investigation. The warrant lists the items they can take. It excludes your phone, as your name is not on the warrant. That could be an oversight, although it’s likely they failed to get you onto the warrant because of lack of evidence.”

  “Can you come over?”

  “Unfortunately not. In
any case, there is little I could do, and the search could be over by the time I arrive. I suspect they’ll take her phone and any computers or tablets you have.”

  “Can I say they’re mine?”

  “No. The warrant has them listed as shared devices. Make sure they only take the items listed on the warrant. I’ll call them in the morning and get you an update.”

  “I don't know what to say. Or do. This is a mistake. Won’t they realise that?”

  “Even if they have made a mistake, they won't admit it. They will hold her for a few days at least. They need to justify this. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you in the morning. We’ll take it from there.”

  Rix disconnected the call and Ian stared at the phone in his hand for a moment as his mind whirled. He took a deep breath to steady himself. No way would he give Marks the satisfaction of a quavering voice. When he thought he had composed himself, he slipped the phone into his pocket and looked at Marks. “May I see the search warrant please?”

  Marks beckoned to another plain clothes officer and took several stapled sheets from him. “Here,” Marks said. “Read away. And while you’re doing that, my men will get started.”

  “Wait. I want to go with them.”

  “No, Mr Morgan. You will stay with me and answer questions.”

  Ian sighed. There was no point in fighting this. “Go on then.”

  “First, I must advise you that it is an offence for you not to inform the police about someone you believe is involved in a terrorism act.” Marks’ eyes bored into Ian. “You can get up to five years on conviction.”

  “I can assure you Alice is not involved in any terrorist stuff. You’re making a mistake.”

  “Oh yeah? Perhaps, Mr Morgan, you’re the one mistaken?”

  24

  Cole sat on his sofa with his feet up and fiddled with the burner. He set up a new Twitter account using the name @StalkingAlice, followed everyone who had posted negative comments on TV Girl Alice and thumbed a tweet - Hey @TVGirlAlice U BITCH!! I’m gonna grab u by the PUSSY!! My cock in ur mouth too!! Shut u up. #AliceMadsen #champagneTVgirl #champagneterrorist #StalkingAlice

  He laughed as he read it again. This would be fun. He alternated his attention between his phone and a movie on TV. During lulls in the movie he refreshed his Twitter feed. He grinned at every new follower for @StalkingAlice. Then a new tweet caught his attention.