Sandman

by Anna Legat

  ‘Which way did they go? Can you point me in the right direction?’

  The boy points to the hanging exit door. ‘They went through that door. Then I don’t know which way. Oscar told me to hide between the seats.’

  ‘OK, let me get you off this train,’ Gillian reaches out to the boy, who accepts her hand. She walks him to the door and helps him down to the ground. She leads him to a group of passengers cowering at a safe distance. ‘Take care of him. The Emergency Services are on their way.’

  ‘Come here,’ a woman puts a jacket over the boy’s body and hugs him. He is shivering badly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tommy Butler.’

  ‘Tommy,’ Gillian leans over him, ‘I’m going to go and find your friend Oscar, all right? Can I trust you with a message for when my colleagues arrive?’

  ‘The cops?’

  ‘Yes. DS Webber. Ask for DS Webber.’

  ‘Course you can trust me! I’ve got it all in hand, you know!’

  ‘Can you tell him exactly what you told me. I’m DI Marsh. Will you remember?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’ Tommy nods in earnest.

  Gillian jumps out of the door Tommy has pointed out to her, and runs straight on. Time is of the essence, she has no doubt about that. If the suspect carries explosives, he may be heading for the MOD base on Wensbury Plains at best, or for the nearest populated area in the worst case scenario. Either way there is no time to waste. Assuming Oscar is indeed a trained military man Gillian may be able to rely on his backing. He may be well trained for tracking down the suspect. Armed Response are on their way, too. They’ll soon join in the search for the suspect. If all goes well, they may yet be able to prevent this bloodbath from getting any worse.

  Luckily, the sky is clear tonight and the bright stars shed a modicum of light on her path. The ground is squelchy, still wet and treacherous from the days of incessant rain. It isn’t easy to run. Her shoes are caked with mud. She feels heavy-footed. The chill of the cloudless night is beginning to bite, but Gillian is now running. Her stride is measured and steady. She has to catch up with the two men. In her assessment, they have about fifteen or twenty minutes head-start on her. She can only hope that Oscar, a supposed army major, won’t do anything stupid on his own and that he will wait for backup.

  A single shot bursts through the air.

  It comes from her right-hand side. She stops and listens for more, but no more shots follow. She turns right and runs. She can feel her heart wrestling with her ribcage. Her breath burns her lungs, but she doesn’t slow down. She has been going for ten minutes, maybe longer. She could be closing in on whatever – whoever – awaits her in the dark. She is afraid to use her mobile as a torch. There is no telling who is out there with a gun in their hand. The night produces no sounds. No sounds of fighting. No sounds of calling for help. Only her own wheezy breathing. For all she knows, someone – she hopes it is the suspect – is dead.

  A body is slumped on the ground. It is no more than a black, tangled silhouette curled up into a messy bundle. It could be the man, Oscar. Or the other man – the suspect. Gillian tries to hold her breath as she approaches, but the man can hear her. ‘Here,’ he whispers, ‘Here...’

  ‘Who are you? Your name?’ She stands behind him, knowing that he is incapable of twisting his body to face her. He is definitely injured. But he may be holding a gun.

  ‘Oscar Holt... I’m...’ he struggles to speak.

  ‘DI Marsh. Help is on its way.’ Gillian is reassured that the other man is nowhere near. Gone. She puts on her mobile’s torch to take a closer look. The man on the ground – Oscar Holt – is in a bad way. He has been shot in the torso, on the left-hand side: the blood has soaked his clothes in that area. He has suffered considerable blood loss already. Gillian takes off her jacket and pushes it hard into the man’s left side. This may slow down the bleeding until the medics arrive. ‘Your little friend, Tommy, told me you were following a suspect.’

  ‘Thank God he’s all right! He is a good boy, Tommy...’ Oscar nods and winces as he tries to brief her. ‘The suspect is Asian, around sixty, maybe older. He’s heading for the military base... with a backpack full of explosives, I suspect...’ He is breathing fast, shallow puffs of air like a woman giving birth. ‘He pulled an emergency brake over the... the Little Horton viaduct... Two accomplices on the train. I heard an explosion. it happened at the same time... I think it was an explosion...’

  ‘Yes,’ Gillian nods. ‘Stay still.’

  ‘You must go after him. Leave me here. He’s slow... Limping. I may’ve inflicted some damage... We struggled. He shot me, but... I managed to wrestle the gun out of his hand... threw it in the grass... He isn’t armed... Apart from the explosives, in a canvas backpack. Go!’

  ‘I need to call for help. I can’t leave you here! You’ll bleed to death!’ Gillian whips out her mobile. There is no signal. There wouldn’t be in such close proximity to a military base. Still, she can dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. She gives the operator as precise co-ordinates as she can.

  ‘Go! For God’s sake, go!’ Oscar urges her. ‘I’ll be fine...’

  Gillian doesn’t have to be asked twice. She lights her torch and searches the ground. ‘Which way did you throw that gun?’

  Oscar tries to point over his head. She directs the beam of her torch in that direction. The light skips and dances on the wet grass. At last, it bounces off a shiny metallic surface. The gun. She picks it up, slides it behind the belt of her trousers. The gun feels cold and heavy. ‘Found the gun,’ she tells Oscar and waits for more encouragement from him.

  He obliges. ‘Go woman! Before it’s too late! It’s an order...’

  She runs.

  A lone figure is limping hurriedly. Away from her. He is a short, wiry man who despite his disability is surprisingly light on his feet. There is a backpack on his shoulders, under a fur-trimmed hood. Gillian draws the gun and holds it with both her hands, pointing at the man. ‘Stop! Put your hands up!’

  He does stop and turns around to face her. There are only a few yards between them. He has narrow, deep-set eyes and when he looks at her it seems like he is smiling. Oddly, his lips break into the semblance of a smile when he says in a hoarse voice, ‘Svetlana?’

  It is more of a question than a statement. He examines her, his head cocked slightly, his lips repeating slowly, incredulously, ‘Svetlana... Tyh vozvraschiwah...’

  ‘I said, put your hands up!’ Gillian repeats. Her voice and her hands are shaking. She is sure he can’t hear her. He is smiling at her, for God’s sake! ‘Put your hands up slowly where I can see them.’

  He makes a few steps forward towards her. He is an old man and a bit unsteady, and she should really be helping him to stay up on his feet. That’s her first instinct. She can’t possibly shoot an old man. What if she’s got the wrong man? Not to mention that trusting smile of his. ‘Svetlana...’

  He is walking towards her. It’s a trick. Gillian pulls the trigger and aims at the sky. The shot ricochets against the stars and it stops the suspect in his tracks. It shakes him awake. His eyes open wide for one second and now they are really looking at Gillian. She says, ‘One more step and I will shoot.’

  ‘I have explosives on my back,’ he tells her something she already knows. His accent is broad, foreign. He speaks surprisingly softly, considering that what he says is a deadly threat. ‘You shoot, we both die. Except I don’t mind dying.’

  ‘Put your hands up!’

  He doesn’t listen. He lowers his backpack to the ground and squats over it. He lifts the flap. ‘I give you five minutes to run, then I detonate it,’ he tells her in the same calm, soft tone. As if he is promising her a treat. But his eyes are cold steel. He means business.

  Gillian knows she won’t shoot him. She can’t kill a man, and even if she could, the whole bag of explosives would blow both him and her to smithereens. She could miss – her hands are shaking uncontrollably. She has no choice. At least, if he blows himsel
f up here and now, in the middle of the deserted plains, no one else will die. If she runs now... She knows she only has five minutes to put some distance between herself and the bomb. She runs.

  XXII

  She stumbles and lands face down in muddy, smelly water. Her side collides with a large stone. Pain shoots through her ribcage. For a split second, she thinks she’ll faint. As she gets up, her head goes into a spin and she feels nauseous. Blood must’ve drained from her brain. She kneels for a while, wasting precious seconds. It is more her willpower than her muscles that hoist her back up to her feet. She tries to run, but it’s like moving through liquid tar. She forces her body to run. From a distance this looks like a disjointed breakdance. Slowly, she regains her balance. She must keep going. How much time has she had already? She has lost track of it. She must not fall again. She takes out her mobile and, with wet fingers, tries to screen touch it to get the torch on. The phone doesn’t respond. Gillian curses, ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’

  She dries her fingers on her trousers, and tries again. This time the torch comes on. She breaks into a panicky sprint, the beam of the torch slashing darkness like a laser sabre.

  The five minutes must be up. Why has nothing happened? Has he been bluffing? Should she turn back and arrest him. She is the one with the gun!

  ‘Who’s there?’ the thin, weak voice of Oscar Holt travels from a few yards ahead. ‘Help me...’

  ‘It’s me. I’m back.’ She slumps next to him. The jacket she has left with him is completely saturated with blood. She pulls it off him. It weighs a ton. She grabs his hand by the wrist and pulls his arm over her neck. ‘Come on, help me here! Hang on to me! I’m going to get you up, on your feet -’

  He resists. ‘Why did you come back? Why did you abandon the pursuit? He’s going to -’

  ‘What he was going to do was to blow himself up and take me with him! Come on! Up!’ Oscar is heavy and cannot support himself, leaning on her with all his body mass, but she’s got him. ‘Let’s go! Let’s get you -’

  An explosion shatters the silence of the night. It seems like it is only a few steps away. Even though she has been expecting it, it takes her aback and she falls with the weight of Oscar Holt on top of her. ‘That’s him,’ she whispers. She doesn’t know why she’s whispering. The man is probably dead and she has nothing to fear now. But fear is exactly what is making her heart pound like a ram. She is about to implode.

  She wriggles from under Oscar and pulls him by both his arms onto her back. She doesn’t know where her strength has come from. ‘Hold on to me, Oscar!’ All she can hear in reply is a very faint and hoarse intake of breath. She takes a few steps forward. Oscar’s feet are dragging behind her, catching in the undergrowth in an attempt to slow her down, but she is pressing forward regardless.

  The bark is unmistakable. ‘Corky! Here, Corky!’

  He is with her within seconds, jumping, sniffing, whimpering. ‘Good boy... Did you bring help?’

  The dog barks and runs off. What the hell...

  Soon he is back, still barking. Human voices calling.

  ‘Here!’ Gillian shouts, but the sound that comes out of her is suppressed by the weight she is carrying.

  Black figures cut across the field. She recognises Webber. He recognises her, ‘Gillian! Fucking hell! I thought you were in that blast!’ He levels up with her. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Oscar Holt. Injured. Been shot. We need to get him help quickly. He’s bleeding to death...’

  The paramedics materialise with a stretcher.

  Webber takes the weight of Oscar Holt onto his shoulders to help him onto the stretcher. ‘You’re all right, sir? Speak to me. Can you hear me?’

  Oscar Holt slides from Mark’s embrace and falls to the ground. Mark kneels over him, puts his ear to his mouth. ‘He’s not breathing.’

  ‘Step aside,’ one of the paramedics tells Webber.

  ‘Stop the bleeding!’ Gillian yells. ‘He’s unconscious but he’s alive. Just stop the bleeding!’

  The paramedic gets up. ‘He’s dead. We’re too late.’

  Gillian feels sick. She staggers in a circle and throws up. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Mark tries to comfort her, his hand on her back.

  She shakes it off. ‘Of course it is! I left him and went after the suspect. I should’ve stayed with him... brought him back sooner! Fuck!’ She hits her forehead with the flat of her palm.

  ‘You went after the suspect? Did he get away?’

  ‘He’s just detonated the bomb,’ she tells Webber.

  ‘It was him? Just one man?’

  ‘Yeah. Gave me five minutes to run before he did it. God knows why!’

  ‘Better not ask...’

  ‘He’s probably dead.’

  ‘The bomb squad are there by now. He’s either dead or they’ve got him.’

  ‘I don’t mind either way.’ Gillian exhales. At last, her lungs aren’t burning anymore. She has recovered her breath. ‘Why aren’t you with them?’

  ‘I was bloody well looking for you, wasn’t I! You told Tommy, didn’t you?’ Mark has raised his voice. He never does that unless he is beside himself.

  ‘Tommy... How will I tell him about his friend, Oscar? Fuck!’

  ‘We didn’t know which bloody way to go! You should’ve waited for backup! Scarfe will be having a word with you...’ Mark is telling her as they’re walking briskly, following the men with the stretcher and Oscar Holt’s body on it. ‘Luckily, I saw Corky in your car. I let him out, and he was after you like a shot. We just followed him -’

  ‘Good boy, Corky...’ Gillian glances at the dog, who is right beside her leg, trotting contently, his job done.

  ‘How many casualties are there on the train?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. It’ll be a while before we do. And just to make things worse, a booby-trapped car went off as the Vehicle Recovery were putting it on tow. One of the workers is dead. It’s your worst fucking nightmare! We can’t deal with this shit on our own – counter-terrorism lot have taken charge of the scene.’

  ‘I need to get on that train.’

  ‘No way! They won’t let you. Anyway, haven’t you had enough?’

  Gillian pauses, looks Mark straight in the eye, and there he can see her steely determination. She says, ‘Charlie and the boys were on that train.’

  The hospital seems in chaos. The entire medical staff has been mobilised: nurses and doctors are running from patient to patient, tripping over each other; all the operating theatres are in simultaneous use; every ward has been commissioned to accommodate casualties that are still pouring in. The Accident & Emergency area is swamped, people are camping on chairs, some directly on the floor, wrapped in grey blankets and metallic-silver thermals. The noise is harrowing: moans, sobs and wailing. Some of the casualties have been sent to other hospitals, mainly Bath and a small number to Bristol.

  Gillian is standing by the main entrance, waiting for Tara to arrive and watching more and more ambulances unload their cargoes at the door and take off, sirens blazing, to collect more wounded. Some lie on stretchers and wait until someone finally wheels them indoors. Others try to wobble inside on their own. Blood is smudged on the floors like mud – crimson footprints and flamboyant brushstrokes of sliding footwear. As if someone has gone mad.

  As soon as Gillian managed to establish that Charlie had been air-lifted to hospital, she called Tara. It was the hardest telephone call she ever had to make. Because Tara was with Sasha, and Rhys was dead.

  She wasn’t there with the girls to see Sasha’s reaction, but she heard it. She heard the, ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ followed by a nervous laugh. Then the chilling silence. Then Sasha’s panic-stricken, defiant voice on the phone, ‘What did you say? You weren’t talking about Rhys... It isn’t Rhys – tell me it is NOT Rhys!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sasha. I’m so sorry...’

  And finally the almost voiceless cry, like a rattling hiss.

  T
he phone must have slid away from Sasha’s hand. Gillian could hear a distant, muted conversation between the girls. It isn ‘t true... She’s lying...

  She wouldn’t... lie.

  He’s not dead! We’re getting married!

  Come here!

  Muffled sobs – Tara was probably hugging her friend, Sasha’s face and her cries buried in Tara’s embrace.

  It was a good couple of minutes before Tara picked up the phone again. ‘Mum, I’m going to call Sasha’s mum. I’ll ring off now. As soon as she’s here I’ll be on my way to the hospital. Don’t go anywhere... Please, be there...’ Gillian detected a childlike fear in Tara’s voice, the fear of being left alone to deal with something that was too big, too scary to even contemplate.

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you at the main entrance.’

  She has been waiting now for half an hour, maybe longer. In all the bedlam, with people coming and going in the middle of the night, it is difficult to spot that one singular person. Gillian is worried she has missed Tara. She is worried that Tara is on her own, dashing along endless hospital corridors, looking for the man she loves. The man Tara loves and Gillian doesn’t – though she bloody well should at least try to like him! A pang of guilty conscience stabs at Gillian’s gut. She feels guilty, irrationally responsible for what happened to Charlie. Can something bad happen to people because we don’t like them? Did Gillian somehow, subconsciously, wish Charlie ill? She could’ve driven the boys all the way to Bath. That would have saved them. All of them: Rhys, Joe, and Adrian. And Charlie Outhwaite. As it is, Charlie is fighting for his life. The other three are dead. Just like that! Because she didn’t have the time to drive them to Bath. Because they took that cursed train. How will she ever explain that to Tara? To Sasha.