And there were the dreams, so real that Sam woke up thinking everything was all right, Dad was sleeping next door. Then the sadness came crashing in again. That was like him dying every day.
In one dream, Dad and Sam were visiting Sundance Kid up by the spinney. They’d brought apples from the orchard. Bouncer and Snoops came too, lolloping through the dry summer meadow with their tongues hanging out.
‘How’s Mum?’ Dad asked.
‘She only cries at night.’
‘Doesn’t she remember me during the day?’
‘Yes, but she’s being strong for me.’
‘Give her my love.’
Sam leaned his chin against a warm fence post, closed his eyes and let the sun shine on his face. He loved Sundance’s horsey smell and the chomping sound as he munched apples with his big teeth. He was happy to be here, with Dad. It didn’t matter about him being dead.
‘Robert turned me into dust,’ said Dad.
‘The doctors think it was the cardi thingy.’
‘It was Robert.’
‘How did he do that?’
‘It was Robert.’
When Sam opened his eyes, Sundance was still munching and drooling juice. But Dad had gone. A cloud of grey dust was swirling away, like a swarm of bees.
TWENTY-THREE
Rosie
Someone called Ashwin is texting her. He says he’s a negotiator. Hi Nicola. I’m Ashwin, I’m here to stay in contact with you and make sure you’re okay. She takes comfort from imagining this person. She knows nothing except their name, but pictures a fatherly, solid guy in uniform, unflappable and caring.
But he isn’t in Tuckbox. He’s safe in some office, far out of the range of Sam’s shotgun. He can’t really help her at all.
Ash get me out of here pls for gods sake
We’re doing all we can Nicola. Are you still safe?
NO!!! He cld find me any second he will kill me
Our advice is to stay where you are.
Can’t you gas him or shoot him?
Please stay hidden. We’re watching your situation, you are surrounded by police. Try to stay calm.
She’s shivering now, suppressing sneeze after sneeze. Hay fever, colds, they all set her off. It’s hard to sneeze quietly.
How did this happen to her? How did she come to be hiding in a tiny little cupboard under a sink, scared half to death? Her dad was right; she shouldn’t have got mixed up with any of these people.
She’d only just come into work when it happened. She was at least ten minutes late—again. Well, Robert could deal with it. There had to be some privileges when you were shagging the boss. Julia’s nursery only opened at seven; it’s impossible to get her ready and dropped off and then run around here before seven-fifteen. She’d hurried in without glancing at the clock, heading past Robert who was cleaning cabinets. He looked up, raised one eyebrow and smiled. They had to be very discreet. There was plenty of loyalty to Harriet among the Tuckbox staff. People wouldn’t understand.
She hung up her denim jacket in the back kitchen and immediately got to work, running a toasted sandwich out to a customer. When Sam first came pelting into Tuckbox, she ducked behind a table before nipping into the customer toilet, hoping he hadn’t spotted her. Best to stay well out of it. She hadn’t seen him in months. She felt guilty about him—worried about him—but now was definitely not the time. Not when he was angry and shouting, not when she was at work, and certainly not when Robert was in the room.
Once the coast seemed to be clear she made a beeline for the main kitchen, hoping to have a word with Robert and find out what had just gone on between him and Sam. But Robert was too busy flirting with some female customers to speak to her, and the next moment Sam was charging back. She spotted him through the window, carrying that bloody gun of his. Lucky she happened to glance out there, and lucky he was so fixated on Robert. It all gave her a few extra seconds—just enough time to escape.
When her phone dies she’ll be alone again. No more Ashwin, no more Dad. The battery’s already dropped to twenty per cent. She turns off the wi-fi and location and dims the screen, desperately trying to conserve the power. Another sneeze is gaining traction somewhere at the back of her throat. It begins as a tickle, steadily building. She buries her face in the crook of her arm, trying to muffle the sound—three wrenching, half-suppressed explosions, one after the other.
So loud! Too loud.
Someone’s coming into the back kitchen. She recognises the squealing protest of the fire door, the heavy metallic clunk as it settles back on its hinges. Terror surges through her brain, numbing her body. Her pulse is pounding.
He heard me. He’s looking for me. I’m dead.
She holds her breath.
Footsteps on the concrete floor, heading straight for the sink.
She stares into the blackness.
Neil
Ah, that lass in the cupboard. Ever since he spotted her through the bathroom window, Neil’s been hoping for some way to make contact. His chance came while Sam was busy shifting the street-door barricade. Muttering about looking for a defibrillator for Arthur—a weak excuse, but people were too distracted to notice—Neil stepped past Robert and slipped into the back kitchen.
He leans down to the cupboard door.
‘It’s okay,’ he whispers. ‘I’m on your side.’
She’s an oval of white in the gloom, with shadowed hollows where her eyes should be. Pale fingers are curled around a phone. She seems winded; he can hear her struggling to inhale.
‘Oh my God, oh my God …’ She manages a gasping breath. ‘I thought you were him.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I thought I was dead.’
‘Sorry, sorry.’
He lowers himself onto one knee, and then sits on the floor beside her.
‘Robert?’ she asks. ‘Was he shot? Is he dead?’
Neil has already decided to lie. She’s stuck in this room by herself; she doesn’t need to know that her boss’s corpse is just through the door.
‘I think he’ll be okay,’ he says.
She’s crying quietly. Her eyes are closed, she’s covering her mouth with her wrist.
‘It’s me Sam’s after. I’m his ex.’
‘Nicola?’
‘Please go away, before he comes looking for you.’
Neil thinks for a second. ‘He’s a lot calmer now. It might be okay for you to come out.’
He intended to reassure her, but his words have the opposite effect. It’s like watching a clam retreat. She shrinks into the darkness, grabbing at the door to pull it after her, begging him to leave her alone. Fear can do that. Neil has often spent nights curled up under bushes and behind dustbins.
‘Is there anything you need?’ he asks.
‘Just don’t let him know I’m here. Don’t let him know.’
He promises not to betray her presence to Sam, and heads back into the café. To his astonishment he’s met by the sight of Abi and Sam standing close together, both of them looking out through the blinds. Sam’s sheltering behind Abi, peering past her shoulder. They’re similar heights, similar builds. They could be siblings.
And good old Mutesi! She’s making tea again, pouring boiling water from the hissing tap into a round white pot. Of course she is; this is what she does—but Neil reckons she’s streetwise, that Mutesi. There’s a lot more to her than meets the eye. She’s a master at the art of bringing people down from orbit. While waiting for her tea to brew she sways from side to side, singing in a mellow contralto. It’s a pretty melody, obviously a church thing: Jesus, sweet Jesus, bring me home.
Well, fair enough. Live and let live. Neil’s prepared to overlook this display of superstition. The woman’s glorious optimism—if not her faith in an imaginary friend—is irresistible. He limps behind the counter to lend a hand.
‘You’re a box of kittens,’ he says, as he fetches milk from one of the fridges.
‘Kittens! I like that.’ She has a dazzli
ng smile. ‘We must make the most of these calm moments, don’t you think?’
She rummages in a cabinet, emerging with a slice of carrot cake with butter icing and sugar carrots. She sticks a fork into it as she carries it across to a table.
‘Sit down, Sam,’ she orders briskly. ‘How about this chair?’
Doing the Right Thing about Arthur seems to have put Sam into a better headspace. He obeys—awkwardly, and with his shotgun in one hand—but it’s an improvement on one-two-three-swing, one-two-three-swing.
‘I know for a fact that you haven’t eaten one single thing today,’ scolds Mutesi, sliding the plate in front of him. ‘Your blood sugar will be low. Having low blood sugar makes people cranky. Eat this. No, don’t argue. There is no mickey finn of any kind.’
Sam scowls and says he’s fine, for God’s sake; but he takes a forkful of cake—and another—and stops talking. The gun is resting on the floor, barrel facing the ceiling, gripped in his left hand.
Mutesi watches him with folded arms and a fond smile, as though this young criminal were a favourite grandchild.
‘Thank you for letting Arthur go,’ she says.
He shrugs.
‘And the others too.’
He speaks around his cake. ‘The kids were scared.’
‘Yes.’ She makes a loud, disapproving tock somewhere at the back of her mouth. ‘Of course they were scared—and so were their mothers! Very scared. You’re a father, aren’t you? How would you feel?’
He looks up at her, muttering something that might almost be sorry.
Abi seems to have caught Mutesi’s upbeat mood.
‘Hey,’ she cries, heading for the front counter, where the retro radio jostles for space among jars of biscuits and coffee loyalty cards. ‘How about we have a listen to the news? I bet we’ll all be celebrities by now.’
Neil would hardly recognise Abi as the immaculate suit who power-walked in here this morning. She’s pulled out her hair tie and is wearing it on her wrist. Dark hair is hooked messily behind each ear. Without those elegant court shoes her gait seems flatfooted, even clumsy. The white shirt might as well be a dishrag: it’s come untucked from her skirt, crumpled and blood-spattered. She’s rolled up the sleeves.
She switches on the radio without waiting for an answer from Sam, and immediately the café is flooded with Mariah Carey singing ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’. It’s been everywhere recently. Neil’s heard it floating out of shops and pubs, even from the boom boxes kids bring along when they’re skateboarding under the arches.
‘Eh!’ cries Mutesi. She dances back to the teapot, swinging her hips, snapping her fingers.
Abi blocks her ears with a silent scream. ‘You have got to be kidding me. What does a girl have to do to escape from this effing song?’
‘There’s no escape from some things,’ says Neil.
If turning the radio on was Abi’s cunning plan to make things seem more normal, it’s worked. Neil feels better for being bombarded by Christmas music, by frivolous things, by human voices. Even the advertising slogans have a certain reassuring inanity. The presenter begins a phone-in competition, playing excerpts from three songs, starting with ‘Nights in White Satin’—which takes Neil straight back to his wedding day, because Heather chose it for their first dance. Callers have to guess the connection between the three songs. The prize is a weekend on Dartmoor for two, courtesy of the Devonshire Tourist Board. People keep phoning with suggestions. You can hear their nervousness at being live on air, making wild guesses while the presenter scoffs mercilessly.
Mutesi delivers tea all round. She takes a sip from her own mug before stretching herself along the vinyl seat of the booth, complaining that she was on a night shift and has heavy eyes.
‘Bizarre, isn’t it?’ says Abi. ‘We’re in here, Robert’s down there on the floor in a pool of … but London carries on exactly the same as normal. Listen to those smug twats with their jolly phone-in and their ads for plumbers.’
‘And that is only right and proper.’ Mutesi stifles a yawn. ‘Why should our problem spoil everyone else’s day?’
The half-hourly news leads with politics. The third item is a bulletin about shots fired at a café in Balham.
‘Here we go.’ Abi turns up the volume. ‘Our five minutes of fame.’
Hostages … ambulance seen leaving with lights and sirens … specialist firearms officers … no end to the stand-off in sight.
There’s a brief interview with a police spokesperson, studiedly calm as he follows his script in a monotone: Not being treated as a terrorist incident. Our priority is to ensure the safety of members of the public and all those involved. I can tell you that a few minutes ago two young children were released unharmed, along with three adults. One male has been transported to St George’s Hospital as a result of a medical condition. The release of five hostages is obviously very good news, and we hope to bring this incident to a peaceful resolution as soon as possible.
‘What about casualties?’ asks a journalist. ‘Can you confirm reports of at least one fatality?’
No, he can’t confirm that. The incident is ongoing. We’re not prepared to release any further information at this stage.
The reporter seems extremely enthusiastic about having a siege to cover. He’s done a bit of digging, it seems, and has found an anguished family member to interview.
‘I’ve been speaking to Charles Bowman whose partner, criminal barrister Abigail Garcia, is believed to be in Tuckbox. He’s been waiting here for news since early this morning. Charles, have you been told anything at all by police?’
Abi has whirled around and is glaring at the radio, her eyebrows drawn together. Charlie’s speech is clipped. He speaks rapidly and almost without inflection.
‘Not a lot,’ he says. ‘They’re playing it close to their chests. I’m hearing all kinds of rumours. I’m pretty sure someone’s been wounded.’
‘I think you heard the first shot?’
‘I did. I was talking to Abi on the phone at about seven-thirty. I heard shouting and a loud bang, and lost contact with Abi, so I contacted the police and came straight down here.’
‘You must be very worried,’ says the journalist, oozing faux sympathy.
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
‘And do you feel the police are doing—’
Charlie interrupts him. ‘There’s something I want to say,’ he declares curtly. ‘This is a message to the hostage-taker. I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. If you’re listening, I have a request. Let me swap places with Abi. She’s a great deal more valuable than I am, for all kinds of reasons. The world without her would be impoverished. I’ll take her place.’
‘Bowman! Put a sock in it,’ mutters Abi, as the news report comes to an end.
She’s blushing. Neil’s surprised by her vehemence.
‘Why?’ he asks.
‘It’s too public. Bloody hell, I never would have picked Charlie for a media babe.’
‘Would you let him take your place?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Because you don’t want to put him in danger?’
‘Because you can’t weigh the value of human lives like that. It’s endearing—I’m touched and I’m sure he means it, but … I owe him now, because he’s offered to risk his life for me. He’s done it in the hearing of about a million people. Anyway, why should he swap with me? Because I’m a woman? Does he think I’m some kind of princess in a tower?’
‘That’s not how it comes over to me.’ Neil scratches his head. ‘Sounds to me as though he loves you.’
‘He probably does—and he’s just proved it by offering to make the ultimate sacrifice. How can I ever repay that?’
‘I get it.’ Sam’s nodding as he polishes off the last crumbs of cake. ‘I get what you mean, Abi. Nothing comes for free.’
Blimey, thinks Neil. Some people are hard to please. Greater love hath no man than that he puts a sock in it and lets his friends t
ake their chances.
A traffic and travel update follows the news, heralded by a merry little jingle. The incident near Balham station has been causing all kinds of headaches for beleaguered commuters. Neil listens with bemusement. Shoot a man, take a load of people hostage, and you still come after Brexit in the news; mess up the Northern Line at rush hour and you make an enemy of the entire city.
Sam happens to be sipping tea when ‘Rocket Man’ starts up again. Neil watches as the young man carefully puts down his white mug before pulling the silver phone from the pocket of his jeans. He could be just an ordinary lad, enjoying a cuppa in a café—at least he might, if it weren’t for that shotgun.
‘Hello?’ he says.
Eliza
‘Hello?’
There’s far less energy in his voice. Less panic, less fury. Time is doing its work at last. Time, the crisis negotiator’s friend. His adrenaline levels are falling; perhaps sheer exhaustion is setting in too.
The negotiation cell is no longer working in the dark. Paige Johnson’s been taken to the hospital for a medical check-up, but Brigitte Uwase has described the scene in the café in meticulous detail. Thanks to her, police now know that three hostages remain: Mutesi Nkunda, Abigail Garcia and an ex-teacher from Bristol called Neil, of no fixed abode. Brigitte was astonished to learn of Nicola’s presence in the back kitchen.
‘Hi, Sam!’ Eliza pitches her tone somewhere between enthusiasm and concern. ‘How are you doing in there?’
‘You got Julia yet?’
She’s ready for this. The negotiators have decided on a tactic—though tactic seems a grand term for what amounts to stringing the man along while trying to distract him with good news.
‘I know you want to talk about your family,’ she says. ‘But let me tell you about Arthur Beaumont. He’s at St George’s Hospital. He’s stable now, sitting up and talking. They’re saying he can go home tomorrow.’
The Secrets of Strangers Page 14
