by Anna Legat
She can see a tall, willowy figure hurrying from the car park, towards the well-lit hospital entrance. It’s Tara. Gillian waves to her and shouts her name, but her voice and gestures are drowned in the general commotion of the hospital foyer. She runs towards her daughter and shudders to discover that the girl is only wearing a flimsy T-shirt and leggings. She draws her into her arms. ‘You’ll catch your death!’ she admonishes her and instantly realises how ridiculous that must sound.
‘Do you know where he is? What’s going on?’ Tara is shivering in her mother’s arms as they walk towards the entrance.
‘He’s in the operating theatre, undergoing surgery. He has lost lots of blood... They trying to save his leg, that’s all I know.’
A small gasp escapes Tara when she hears about the leg. Now, in the full light of the foyer, Gillian can see her daughter’s face. It is ghostly white. Her eyes are frightened, her lips trembling just like her whole body.
Gillian leads Tara to the first floor where, she knows, the surgery is taking place. They stand in the corridor, by the door through which they are not permitted to go. Tara is leaning against the wall and squeezing her mother’s hand. Squeezing it so hard that it hurts. ‘Mum, tell me he’ll be all right... I’ll believe you... if you say -’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Gillian would say anything, do anything to ease her child’s distress.
‘He has to be. He wouldn’t do this to me.’
Time passes. They are both slumped on the floor – there aren’t any chairs to sit in, all having been moved to A&E. It’s been several hours. No news is good news, Gillian assures Tara. The shock has rendered her very tired and confused. She has stopped watching the door and is now staring vacantly at the white wall in front of her. She is still holding Gillian’s hand, but her grip is loose and limp. No words can take her out of this state, so Gillian doesn’t try to speak. An hour ago, when it finally occurred to her, she called Charlie’s parents. They are on their way, but they’ve got a long way to come from Kent. They may not make it in time.
In time for what?
At last the door swings open. The doctor is brief, almost unsympathetic, but then he has to rush off to the next patient – he has no time for pleasantries. The good news is that Charlie is still alive. They’ve tried to re-attach the tendons and ligaments of his shattered leg; time will tell if that worked. The bad news is that he has lost a lot of blood and there is some brain swelling. He is in a critical condition. The doctors have done everything they could. It’s up to Charlie now. There is nothing Tara and Gillian can do here, either. They can’t see him yet. They should go home, but they can’t do that. They are waiting for Charlie’s parents to arrive. At least, Charlie’s parents can live in hope for the time being. Unlike Rhys’s parents. And Joe’s. And Adrian’s.
XXIII
This is relativity theory in action: a night, a day and another night gone by in the blink of an eye. The time is in a state of dizzying flux. Gillian has slept for a couple of short hours, so short that she isn’t quite sure if she’s got the right date. It is possible that time has not shifted forward at all and she is trapped in some time bubble.
She is up in her bed; Fritz is gawping at her, meowing. He is hungry and not too pleased with her. He doesn’t like the strangers sleeping in the spare bedroom: Theresa and Jerry, Charlie’s parents. They have shut the door in his face. He is not used to people coming into his home and restricting his free rein of the house. They had nowhere else to go, an argument that is lost on Fritz.
They all came home late yesterday night, only once they were sure that Charlie was out of danger – as far out of danger as he could be. He is stable now, but still critical. The scan has revealed some damage to his bones and soft tissue in various places, but nothing the doctors can’t deal with. He is in an induced coma until the swelling in his brain is reduced. So the danger is stabilised, but still present and pending. They found that out last night. A night and a day of anxious anticipation felt like a single lash of a whip, it went so quickly.
Gillian drags herself out of bed. She opens her wardrobe – there, concealed amongst her clothes, hangs Tara’s wedding dress. She hid it there so that Charlie wouldn’t see it before their big day – that’d be bad luck. Bad luck! How ironic! Gillian cringes. She pulls out the dress and suspends it from the wardrobe door. Such a beautiful thing! She caresses the immaculate softness of the satin and runs her forefinger over the elaborate pattern of the lace on the bodice. It is silver-white, out of this world. Will Tara wear it? Will she marry Charlie? Will he live?
Gillian shoves the dress back into the wardrobe and shuts the door. She goes to the bathroom – she doesn’t have to wait her turn today. It’s all hers. She longs to hear the usual commotion inside it, the banter between Tara and Charlie over the towel or the way each of them squeezes the toothpaste out of the tube, but today there is none of that. She takes a shower, brushes her teeth and looks in the mirror to find her face gaunt and her eyes framed in black circles. On the landing, she pauses by Tara’s door and listens to the comforting silence. At least Tara is asleep.
She puts the TV on and feeds the animals. Corky knows to be patient, but Fritz expels a few indignant yodels before swooping on his bowl. Her toast gets cold on the plate while she takes her coffee to the sitting room, and surfs for the latest news. It doesn’t take long. The media are buzzing with what will become to be known as the Sexton’s Bombing.
With the images of the derailed train and disjointed carriages in the background, the reporter confirms the death toll. ‘Thirteen people are dead, including the train driver, and a further eight are fighting for their lives at the Western National Hospital. Fifty-two passengers suffered various, non-life threatening injuries; some are still hospitalised. The majority of the casualties occurred in the first two carriages which sustained the heaviest impact from the bomb explosion. A hotline number at the bottom of the screen has been provided for people trying to track down missing relatives who could have been on that train. The police are hard at work trying to identify all the victims and to piece together the sequence of events. They have called for witnesses. I have with me Chief Superintendent Alec Scarfe.’
The camera swings away from the reporter, and in motion, catches Beatrice Pennyworth, the long-forgotten PR guru of Sexton’s Constabulary. From under which rock did she crawl? A blast from the past! She is always on hand when trouble brews – the more trouble the more indispensable Ms Pennyworth is. Things must be really bad if they had to call upon her services. Gillian dislikes the woman intensely. She is all about damage control and censure. With her in the picture, the facts will be buried and official versions will take their place.
‘Chief Superintendent, can you now confirm that this was a terrorist attack?’
‘No terrorist group, as yet, has claimed any responsibility for this, but yes – we have reason to believe that it was. We are still gathering evidence however and will only be able to comment in full in due course. Naturally, our sympathy is with the victims and their families.’ Beatrice Pennyworth is nodding behind Scarfe.
‘Is it true that the perpetrator is still at large?’
Ms Pennyworth taps Scarfe on the shoulder. ‘That’ll be all at this point,’ he says as if on cue. ‘We’ll call a press conference when we have more information available.’
‘But is it true?’ the reporter is relentless and the cameraman is still pointing the lens at Scarfe’s face.
He pauses. ‘We advise that the public remain vigilant. Our forces are on high alert. We are looking to members of the public for any information relating to this incident.’
So the bastard is still at large, Gillian interprets Scarface’s words. She gets dressed and heads for the station.
Sexton’s CID is as bad as the hospital was. It is in utter chaos. Neither DS Webber nor DC Macfadyen are in. Gillian is told they’ve been working flat out in the last twenty-four hours and have subsequently been sent home. As a matter of fact, the local
bobby is neither wanted nor desired on this case. MI5 and the Counter-Terrorism Squad have taken over the police headquarters and the investigation. MI5, Counter-Terrorism and of course, Ms Pennyworth. PC Miller is manning the desk and heartily advises Gillian to bugger off home, too. He’s heard about her antics following the suspect without backup, ‘It won’t be long before Scarface starts looking for someone to take the blame for the slip he gave us. You’re best advised to stay out of sight.’
‘So it’s true he got away?’
‘Yeah, he did. Gone with the wind. No sign of him.’
‘How the hell did he manage to get away? He can’t possibly know the area, he isn’t local. He sounded foreign. He can’t have been working on his own...’
‘What do I know?’ The constable shrugs his shoulders. Gillian leaves Miller on the desk and heads for Forensics to talk to Jon Riley. To her relief, he is at his desk, deep in his work, which isn’t something you can bank on at this early hour. Most likely, he never went home for the night. This is an educated guess: Jon looks like he has been dragged through hedge backwards, and smells even worse. Streaks of his long, wispy hair have escaped from the bun held by two chopsticks on top of his head. There are sweat patches gradually spreading from his armpits. His desk, as usual, is a dump.
‘Hi Jon! What can you tell me about the train attack?’ she shoots from the hip.
‘Nothing,’ he shoots back. ‘’Tis confidential stuff. Intelligence – top secret. I’m working for MI5 for the minute. My lips are sealed, I am afraid. But how are you otherwise? I heard you played hide and seek with the suspect? Neat!’
‘Come on, Jon! It’s me you’re talking to!’ Gillian plants herself in an empty plastic chair next to Riley. She isn’t going anywhere until he talks to her. She knows that he knows that. She just needs to play his game – the hard to get game. ‘I’ll tell you what I know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘You first.’
‘Between you and me, yeah? Nothing leaks to the media.’
‘As if I would!’
‘OK, what do you want to know?’
‘How it happened, to start with. How many perpetrators? Details, Jon – something you’re good at.’
‘It looks like it was just the one bloke.’
‘Just one?’
‘For now, yes. The explosion occurred outside the train. He must’ve planted the explosives by the rail tracks, over that infamous Little Horton’s bend, you know where the -’
‘Yes, I know the history of it. Get to the point, Jon, please.’
‘We’re still looking into it, but like I said, he planted the bomb by the tracks, and waited – detonated it just as the first carriage hit the point. It could’ve been a sensor. We’re going through the debris-’
Gillian interrupts him, ‘He can’t have been waiting outside. He was on the train! The boy, Tommy, saw him on the train. The man he shot dead, Oscar Holt, he followed him from the train. Someone else planted the bomb. He wasn’t working alone, I knew it!’
Riley clearly doesn’t like to be contradicted, ‘Not quite. He could’ve planted the bomb beforehand, then got on the train -’
‘And what? Take the chance that he doesn’t get blown to kingdom-come with the rest of the passengers? Bearing in mind, he was carrying explosives with him, in a backpack -’
‘DI Marsh! My office!’ Scarfe is standing over them, blowing steam from both his ears.
‘You’ve broken every rule in the book, Marsh!’ He is banging his desk with his fist, as is his habit whenever he talks to Gillian. Talking to Gillian is inadvertently quite violent. ‘You did not call for backup -’
‘I did, sir! I remember distinctly calling -’
But he can’t hear her. ‘You left a message with a little boy and took off, unarmed, after a dangerous suspect! I am surprised you’re standing here in front of me, still alive! Surprised, and frankly, I don’t know what to do with you anymore! You’re lucky you’re not dead, but I have the misfortune of having to deal with you and the consequences of your actions! Sometimes I wish you were de -’ He catches himself saying that and gawps at her, bewildered and befuddled. ‘You could’ve been killed in that blast, you realise that?!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘You did not follow the protocol -’
‘I wasn’t on duty, sir!’ Gillian decides to intervene and avert the course of her down-the-drain career. ‘I wasn’t on duty! I’m on holiday, you may recall... I acted in my private capacity, as a civilian, so to speak.’
‘A civilian?’
‘Yes, exactly that! The perpetrator was on the run and I was in hot pursuit, sir! With another man who had put himself in danger by following him directly, I had no choice... I tried to effect a citizen’s arrest.’
‘Citizen’s arrest?’ Scarface echoes again.
‘Yes, sir! Remember, I wasn’t on duty. I’m on holiday -’
‘Then get the hell out of here! Before I start a disciplinary against you! You’re not supposed to be here, so don’t be! Otherwise I have no choice but to have you suspended pending the investigation into your conduct.’
‘But, sir -’
‘No! You’re not here. You’re on holiday!’ He is beginning to calm down, having seen a way out of this sticky situation. ‘Besides, we are not handling this case. It’s out of our hands. It’s the MI5 and Counter-Terrorism lot. Our role is purely supportive. Out of our depth... And you,’ he points his finger in her face, ‘are out of here all together.’
‘Sir!’
On her way out, Gillian bumps into Beatrice Pennyworth. ‘DI Marsh, enjoy what’s left of your holiday,’ she smirks, making Gillian’s skin crawl.
She is glad she isn’t on the case. She shouldn’t be. She should be with Tara and Charlie, supporting them, like any decent mother would. It took Scarface’s wrath to make her realise that. Gillian decides to leave this mess behind. She isn’t supposed to touch it anyway. She is out of her depth! And that’s a fact.
Back at home, she realises that everyone is still fast asleep. The events of the last twenty-four hours have exhausted them on every level. A glance at the clock tells her it is only a few minutes after nine. She, too, is absolutely knackered. All the emotions and dramas have taken a bit longer to catch up with her. But now she is dead to the world. It is an enormous effort to drag herself to bed. She nearly trips over the cat, who once again is demanding food. She ignores him and slumps into bed, fully-clothed.
Something cold and metallic is wedged under her back. She shifts to one side to find the gun.
It is a .44 Magnum with a rubber handle. Gillian picks it up and examines it slowly. There are still four bullets in the chamber, only two having been fired – the one that killed Oscar Holt and the warning shot she fired into the sky instead of the terrorist’s forehead. Gillian flicks the chamber back in and slides the gun under her bed. She will have to think about it. She is too tired now for any rational thought, not to mention that it wouldn’t be in her best interest to reveal to Scarfe that despite being in possession of this weapon she had failed to apprehend the perpetrator. She should, of course, have surrendered it straightaway. That’s the protocol. Except that she wasn’t thinking. She didn’t even remember she had it. It must have fallen out from behind her belt when she dropped dead in bed last night. And now... Now, it’s too complicated to return it. Anyway, she is to stay away from the investigation... Tired... She may bury it and forget it. It’s too much trouble to declare it now. Maybe later, when she is in full control of her faculties.
She closes her eyes and is gone.
The banging on the door is not subtle. Corky barks, sensing a serious intrusion. Gillian is shaken awake and stumbles down the stairs in a daze. It occurs to her, irrationally, that the terrorist has followed her to her house and has come to silence her. After all, she may be one of very few people who saw his face.
She presses her back against the wall and asks nervously, wishing she has brought that bloody gun with
her, ‘Who is it?’
‘Eduard Gosling, MI5. We’ve met.’
‘Have we?’
‘At the Protect training.’
Yes, she remembers the stuck up, 007-type with his upper-class accent and an expensive suit. She opens the door. Two plain-dressed men, followed by Gosling, barge in. Corky and Fritz stand their ground, shoulder to shoulder in the hallway. Corky growls. The men halt, and the beasts and men stare at each other, a classic Mexican stand-off.
‘They aren’t very sociable,’ Gillian informs them. ‘Sorry, I didn’t have the time to send them to finishing school.’
Gosling presents a Roger Moore smile. Under any other circumstances, he could charm the pants off Gillian, but at this very moment she finds him plain irritating. The house invasion is not something she needs at this time. As if on cue, there are footsteps on the landing.
‘Mum? What time is it?’ Tara’s voice sounds hollow.
‘It’s too early. Go back to sleep! I’ll wake you when we’re meant to go! They said lunchtime, remember?’
‘Is someone there with you?’
‘No! I mean – yes. Just people from work. Don’t worry! Go back to bed!’ She turns to Gosling, ‘This isn’t really a good time, sir! My daughter’s fiancé was on that train – he’s in a critical condition in the hospital.’ She sees no compassion or understanding in his eyes, so she adds emphatically, ‘And I am on holiday.’
‘Just a few questions, DI Marsh. You’ll appreciate you’re the only one who can give us his description.’
Gillian sighs. She knows she has to cooperate. This may also be an opportunity to share her suspicions. ‘OK, I’ll come with you. I can describe one of them for you. Don’t know about the others.’
‘We believe he was working alone. A lone wolf.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ she retorts and gives him a short rundown while in the car.
