I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
TWELVE
Abi
A voice quavers from among the frightened people in the booth.
‘Excuse me.’
It’s the woman in the beret—though she’s taken it off now, revealing a mass of short braids. A slender hand is half raised. Her other arm is wrapped around her son, hugging him close.
‘He needs to visit the toilet,’ she whispers. ‘He can’t hold on any longer.’
The gunman approaches, glaring with his over-bright eyes.
‘This is Emmanuel, my grandson,’ Mutesi remarks cordially. ‘He’s six years old and he likes to read. He’s been in here for three hours now. That’s a long time for a little boy, isn’t it? His mum is Brigitte. She’s a social worker, she’s meant to be at a case conference this morning.’ She smiles. ‘And I’m Mutesi. I am a nurse in a rest home. I just came off my night shift.’
Bold move, thinks Abi. Bold and clever. Mutesi is humanising our huddled group. My turn.
She clears her throat, slowly standing up. ‘My name’s Abi. I’m …’ She hesitates. Actually, who is she, in this context? ‘I’m not meant to be here. I was on my way to St Albans. I’m meant to be in court.’
It’s Neil’s turn, but he says nothing. He shakes his head and sinks lower behind the counter. There’s a long pause.
‘Um …’ The pregnant woman presses a hand to her mouth. She’s staring at the table as she whispers, ‘I’m Paige. Um, Paige Johnson. This is Lily.’
‘You forgot Roo!’ pipes Lily noisily, waving the toy in her mother’s face.
‘Shh, Lily,’ murmurs Paige. ‘Please.’
It’s as though the gunman has only just noticed the little girl. He stares at her, and he’s trying to smile—or maybe he’s in pain. Or both.
‘Um, and this is Arthur,’ adds Paige, squeezing the elderly man’s arm. ‘Arthur Beaumont. He’s our neighbour but he’s like a granddad to me. He’s meant to be at a clinic at the hospital. That’s where we were going today.’
‘Won’t make it now,’ mutters Arthur. His voice is hoarse. ‘They’ll take me off their list. They fuss like anything if you don’t turn up.’
Mutesi smiles at him before turning back to the gunman.
‘So that is us! And what is your name, sir? May we know it?’
He jerks his chin, motioning towards the bathroom. It’s on the left at the back of the café, where the room is narrower.
Brigitte slides out of the booth, never letting go of her son’s hand. They’re a dignified pair. The boy rubs his eyes, dusts his knees. They creep to the toilet like two cats: in slow motion, careful to make no sudden moves.
‘Where they going?’ asks Lily at the top of her voice.
Paige throws a terrified glance at the gunman, pressing her finger to her lips.
Lily adopts a stage whisper. ‘Where are they going, Mummy?’
‘Shh. To the bathroom.’
‘Why?’
‘They need the toilet.’
‘Why?
‘Hey, it’s time for Roo’s nap. He’s tired.’
The stage whisper is abandoned. ‘No, he’s not! Roo’s not tired!’
‘Shush, Lily. Please. Shush. Rock Roo to sleep.’
Lily huffs in indignation and begins to croon loudly, shaking the toy up and down with the kind of violence that would have the social services involved if it were a real baby, like poor Carla Bradshaw. Paige looks close to tears, and for the first time Abi feels almost grateful that Charlie and she are childless. There’s too much to lose. Imagine the paralysing terror. Imagine trying to keep your bored, tired toddler quiet, fearing she could be murdered for having a tantrum.
‘We’re meant to be at the clinic,’ fusses Arthur. ‘They’ll have called my name by now.’
‘It’s okay, Arthur,’ says Paige.
‘Okay, Arta,’ echoes Lily.
Abi can tell that the little girl is ready for a sleep. Her mouth has turned down. As time passes she stops crooning and slumps against her mother with her thumb in her mouth, rubbing Roo across her nose.
Emmanuel and Brigitte have been gone for a while. Could they have escaped, somehow? Abi rubs her temples, trying to picture the layout of the place. Perhaps the bathroom has a window, and maybe it opens into the courtyard. She likes that spot: a miniature haven with mellow bricks underfoot and high walls all around. There are wrought-iron tables, geraniums in pots and a wisteria drooping through a trellis. She and Charlie have spent many happy hours out there, in the summer. Saturday mornings in the leafy suntrap, after a lie-in. Coffee, breakfast and newspapers. Just the two of them. No guns. No dead bodies with spotty socks and lace-up shoes. They love one another’s company, that’s the thing. They’re lucky, really.
It occurs to her that Charlie must have heard that first shot, before she dropped her phone. She knows him. He’ll have dialled 999 straight away, and then he’ll have left work, got into an Uber and headed straight down here. He’s probably somewhere nearby right now. He can’t help, of course, but it’s a cheering thought.
Brigitte and Emmanuel reappear and make their anxious way back to the booth. Mutesi moves to let them in, mother and grandmother working together to shield their child as best they can. The little boy is sturdily poker-faced, his lips pressed hard together. Abi’s nephew has an expression like that when he knows he’s in big trouble and is trying not to cry. It’s cute. Heartbreaking.
‘Sir,’ says Mutesi suddenly, turning to the gunman. ‘Won’t you let these people leave? Old men, pregnant women, children … your war isn’t with them, is it? I will stay. I will be your hostage.’
He stops pacing and turns to look at her.
‘Come on,’ she wheedles. ‘Life can’t be so bad. Why throw it away? You live in this free country.’
He laughs at that. It’s a short, incredulous huh, almost a sob.
‘You have a lot of tomorrows,’ urges Mutesi.
Again, that sob-laugh. ‘I’ve no tomorrows.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Mutesi’s voice is soothing. ‘You’re young, you have your life ahead of you. Your whole life. Your whole life.’
To Abi’s astonishment, the nurse is easing herself to her feet as she speaks, confidently stretching out one arm towards him as though she’d just like to take a casual look at his gun. She’s closer, closer … and then her fingers are around the barrel. She doesn’t shift her gaze from his face.
‘Won’t you give this to me, son?’ she asks quietly.
He reacts without warning, erupting in rage, shouting, ‘I’m not your son! I’m not your fucking son!’ In one fluid movement he’s raised the gun to his shoulder and is aiming straight at her forehead, the barrel inches from her glasses.
It’s too much for Emmanuel, who lets out a piercing wail. Paige has shrieked too, an involuntary sound that she immediately suppresses with both hands. Lily copies her mother. Neil’s on his feet and yelling, ‘For God’s sake, put that thing down! Put it down!’
Abi finds herself bursting from behind the counter to grab a wooden chair, intending to use it as a weapon. She can’t just sit there and watch that woman get shot! But even as she swings the chair up high, she checks herself. It’s too dangerous. Smashing anything onto this guy’s skull will only make him pull the trigger.
Amid all the fear, all the uproar, Mutesi’s reaction is extraordinary. She stays absolutely still, her face alight with a broad smile.
‘I am not afraid,’ she says.
The group in the café form a horrified tableau. Abi stands frozen, holding a chair above her head. Emmanuel’s screams have turned to sobs. He and his mother hug one another while tears course down both their cheeks. Paige presses Lily’s face to her chest so that the little girl can’t watch. Arthur is gripping the table, staring open-mouthed at the scene.
‘I am not afraid,’ repeats Mutesi. ‘Even if you kill me, I will not be afraid.’
Ten seconds. Twenty. Sixty.
Mutesi
>
So here it is at last. Violence and death have caught up with her in the end.
She’s been waiting for them. She was never supposed to be the survivor. No. She was destined to travel with her family on the next journey, but she somehow got left behind. All these years she’s wondered why she was the one to live when they died in agony and terror. She’s had a full life since then, she’s seen her surviving child grow into a fine, successful man and become a father himself. She’s the lucky one. But it has all been borrowed time, every precious second of it.
The killers were so close. So close. They trampled the bushes all around her hiding place, calling out cheerfully as though she and Isaac were pet dogs. She could smell their hatred, she shuddered at the swish and bite of their machetes through the leaves. Yet they didn’t see her. Why didn’t they see her?
‘I am not afraid,’ she says.
It’s a lie. She is very, very afraid, but not for herself. Only for Emmanuel, who is watching. She can hear him crying. His life is all that matters. He and his father are all that remain of her family, and in him rests the purpose of her existence. For his sake she will smile in the face of this terrible thing. She doesn’t want her grandson to be haunted as she has been, lighting candles in the darkness for the rest of his life. I am not afraid is her message to him, and to the man he will become.
She looks past the silly gun and into the face of the boy who holds it. Yes, he is afraid. He’s haunted too. She has looked into the faces of men who take joy in slaughter, and he is certainly not one of them.
My fate is in the hands of God, she tells herself, not the hands of this frightened boy. There is a plan for me. Perhaps I’m about to join Mrs Dulcie Brown and Robert. Perhaps all my family are waiting excitedly to be reunited with me. Jesus, bring me home.
Silence. Fear. A smile. ‘Rocket Man’.
Eliza
‘The boss is looking at tactical options,’ says Ashwin, already talking as he hurries into the attic room. ‘They’ve had a dress rehearsal.’
It’s the last news Eliza wants to hear.
‘Slow him down,’ she says.
‘I’m doing my best but he’s getting jittery. He says it’s been three hours since this incident kicked off, we’ve been calling every fifteen minutes and we’ve still got no idea what’s happening in there.’
‘We have to be prepared to play a long game.’
The statistics are on her side. In a situation like this one there’s often pressure on negotiators to get fast results, but containment and negotiation work. In ninety-five per cent of cases a hostage crisis will end with no loss of life. By contrast, rescue attempts can be catastrophic. Yet sometimes it takes nerves of steel to hold off.
Paul’s been listening to this exchange.
‘I still think our man is going to answer soon,’ he says. ‘These fifteen-minute calls must be driving him nuts, right? If the ringtone’s loud in a crowded café, it’ll be worse in a quiet one. But he hasn’t turned off that phone. He’s keeping the line of communication open. Why? Because he wants help.’
The three negotiators are anxiously discussing their options—not that they have many—when Ashwin’s mobile rings. He answers, listens and runs to the window.
‘Screams,’ he announces urgently, peering towards the café. ‘SCO19 just heard a male voice shouting and children screaming. Something’s kicking off in there. They want to go in.’
‘No—tell the boss to hold off another minute.’ Without waiting for a reply, Eliza makes the call.
She listens as it rings, agonised, her heart racing. Come on, come on. She has seconds left in which to make contact. All hell is on the point of breaking loose.
Answer, answer, answer.
THIRTEEN
Neil
Elton bloody John, while a woman stares straight down the barrels of a shotgun. The bloody police, messing about with phones instead of sending the SAS or someone crashing in here. What the hell are they playing at?
But it works. It’s like a miracle. The lad lowers the gun, wipes his eyes in the crook of his arm. His whole face is quivering. He looks as though he’s woken up to find he’s been sleepwalking and was just about to step off a cliff. Neil’s met a lot of young blokes in trouble, both in classrooms and on the streets. He has a feeling this one could do with some help right now. He speed-crawls across to Robert’s body, closing his nose to the smell of butchery, and follows the source of the music until his fingers close around cool metal. He hasn’t held a phone in years, can hardly believe this smooth object is a phone. It’s silver, wafer-thin, vibrating as it blares out the song. Space age. How can something so impossibly light make so much noise?
‘Hey!’ he cries, scrambling to his feet. ‘I think this is for you.’
The gunman’s curly head turns. Neil waves the phone at him.
‘Aren’t you sick of “Rocket Man”? I know I am.’
Once upon a time—long, long ago—Neil had a little flutter on religion. He was a chemistry student and struggling with anxiety when a girl invited him to her wacky church. For a month or so he was intrigued by the music and general friendliness, but once he started asking questions it became obvious there was no evidence to support the existence of a deity of any kind. Quite the opposite. Of this he’s pretty certain; so certain that he hasn’t said a prayer in three decades. He’s never even prayed for a horse to win—not that he doesn’t harbour his share of superstitions: crossed fingers, lucky numbers.
But this is an emergency. Belt and braces. Better safe than sorry.
Lord, I know I’ve been a waste of space, but there are two tiny little kids in here who definitely haven’t. Help them now.
He stretches across the counter, holding the phone out towards the lad with the gun.
‘They’re not giving up. Do us all a favour. Answer the bloody thing.’
Amen.
Eliza
Buzz-buzz. Such a humdrum little noise, the ringing tone. Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz.
She’s tensed over the cluttered table, jabbing at her notebook with her biro. Answer. Answer. Answer. Her colleagues are listening in through headsets. Ashwin’s visibly sweating, his forehead slick. He sits hunched like a man in an ejector seat, bracing himself for the blast. He’s whispering into his mobile phone, giving Inspector Howard a running commentary.
Paul is updating the log in his elegant handwriting: Report of disturbance in Tuckbox. Screams/shouts. Call 9 made at 10.32. He seems calm enough, but she’s not fooled. He uses routine to keep himself from panic.
Answer, answer, answer.
The buzzing has stopped. She blinks rapidly, dreading the sound of Robert Lacey’s message.
Silence.
Or is it silence?
She looks up, meets Paul’s eye. All three negotiators instinctively lean forwards, straining their ears for the slightest sound. No, not silence. Someone is breathing. It’s fast and shallow, only just audible, but definitely breathing. A human being is on the other end of this line.
‘Hi,’ says Eliza. She’s careful with her tone: calm, but not patronising. Warm but not chirrupy. ‘My name’s Eliza. I’m a negotiator with the police. I’m here to help you.’
She lets the pause drift. Ten seconds, twenty seconds. Come on, come on. The breathing grows more laboured. Eliza covers her eyes with the palm of her hand.
‘I’m still here,’ she says.
At last there are words. A male voice, though not deep. Slightly slurred.
‘You can’t help.’
‘I can start by hearing what’s been happening to you.’
‘What for?’
There’s misery in this voice. Anger too, but mostly misery. The spoken word only represents about ten per cent of communication. Much of the rest is body language, useless down a phone. Eliza seizes on non-verbal cues that can be heard: breathing patterns, silences, changes in pitch and inflection.
It’s like defusing a bomb: cut the wrong wire, use too much force, and it could
all be over. Boom. It’s no good trying to fix the whole thing right at the start. That’s dangerous. The first priority is trust. She needs this man’s trust above everything else, or he’ll never let her over the doorstep and into his world.
‘I want to understand what’s brought you here today,’ she says.
‘You mean you want to talk me into coming out.’
‘No. I want to help find a way out for you. We’ll do it together. First, I need to know whether everyone in there is safe, including you.’
‘Safe?’ He seems to muffle the phone, but after a moment he’s back. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘Anyone need medical help? Including yourself?’
‘Er … medical … no. No.’
‘Can you tell me what’s happened today?’
‘He fucking …’ There’s another long pause; heavy, agonising gasps, a falsetto moan. ‘He destroyed her.’
‘Who?’
The voice is disintegrating. She hears garbled words—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—as the line goes dead.
She waits to be sure the call is over before sliding off her headset. Ashwin has already stepped outside, speaking quietly into his phone. He returns after half a minute or so, mopping his brow with a tissue.
‘The boss says to carry on,’ he says. ‘For now.’
FOURTEEN
Sam
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m worthless. This brave lady is worth a hundred of me.
All she did was call him ‘son’. That’s all she did. Hardly a crime, was it? For a moment it seemed she was mocking him, mocking his father, and the rage came pounding back. Dad used to call him ‘son’—with such pride and such a smile, as though Sam was the only son anyone had ever had. But how could she have known that?
Dad would be shocked and disgusted if he saw Sam threatening the lady. He’d be livid, even if he knew the safety catch was on and Sam would never have pulled the trigger. Sam’s just broken the golden rule of gun safety, the one Dad taught him the very first time he put the old .410 into his hands and took him out to shoot tin cans. He used a capital-letter voice: Sam, remember the golden rule: NEVER POINT A GUN AT ANYONE. Never, ever, even when it’s not loaded. Not for a joke, not in a game, not by mistake when you’re cleaning it. If you break this rule I will confiscate this gun forever. Understand? Father and son used to recite the unbreakable commandment every single time they opened the gun safe: What’s the golden rule? NEVER POINT A GUN AT ANYONE. It was drummed into Sam’s consciousness.
The Secrets of Strangers Page 6
