Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  ‘No, let’s go,’ she said. ‘Gin and tonics in ten minutes.’

  She set off down the central path at a brisk pace, eyes everywhere. The smell of newly cut grass, mixed with a ripe stench from the overly full rubbish bins. Banana skins, nappies, half-full coffee cups. The park sloped gently downhill, levelled out for the benches and picnic tables, then rose steeply to the ornate Victorian wrought-iron exit gates. Dog-walker one, retriever, was stooped, poop bag in hand. Dog-walker two, cockapoo, had stopped to talk to number three, wolfhound, the tramp was peeling an apple, and dog-walker four was striding around the far end of the outer perimeter, her three charges straining at their leads.

  Something wrong. Famie pulled up short, heart exploding in her chest. Very wrong. She snapped back to the bench.

  Sam had it too. ‘What kind of tramp peels an apple?’ he said, his words an urgent whisper.

  ‘A tramp with a knife,’ said Famie.

  8

  SHE GRIPPED SAM and Tommi’s sleeves. ‘Turn round?’

  The man on the bench was now upright, carrier bag between his legs.

  ‘What do you see?’ said Sam.

  Tommi held up his phone, started filming. ‘I see a bearded white guy, forties, round-shouldered. Peeling an apple into a bag. Penknife maybe. Two-inch blade.’

  They stood three abreast across the path.

  ‘We can detour around him,’ said Tommi. He sounded calm. ‘I’ll keep filming. There’s three of us. And he might not be a tramp. He looks like he’s just a guy having his lunch, that’s all.’

  Famie relaxed her grip slightly, reconsidered. Dog-walker one was throwing away the poop bag behind them, two and three were still chatting a few metres from the apple-peeling non-tramp, four was on her phone with the three dogs all sitting.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s do that detour.’

  They resumed their walk, veering right, stepping on to the grass and arcing around the bench-man. Twenty metres away now, he looked up. Tommi kept on filming.

  ‘OK, he looks super annoyed,’ he said.

  Famie could see that for herself. The carrier bag and the apple had been stowed, the knife held loosely between his fingers.

  ‘You stop filming me!’ he shouted.

  European, thought Famie, Central Europe at a guess. Poland maybe.

  ‘You put the knife away!’ replied Tommi, the three of them still walking.

  The man seemed to consider that for a moment, before shaking his head then rising slowly from the bench. The knife was still in his hand, palm-up.

  Famie inched closer to Sam. ‘I’m calling the police.’ She raised her phone.

  Knifeman now pointed the blade at her, a stream of unidentifiable but clearly angry words pouring from him. Dog-walkers two and three had stopped their conversation and started walking towards them. Walker number one, over Famie’s shoulder, was moving towards them too.

  ‘Shit, it’s a set-up!’ she hissed.

  Sam’s head was darting everywhere. ‘Keep filming, Tommi!’ he yelled. ‘Make the call, Famie!’

  Walker four had tied up her dogs, all now barking madly, and was running towards the fray.

  ‘Run first!’ shouted Tommi, and they turned and sprinted back the way they’d come. They ran in a tight pack straight into dog-walker one, Sam’s shoulder making contact with his midriff, Famie’s boot with his shin.

  ‘Police!’ yelled Famie into her phone, then, on connection, ‘Knife attack in Arnos Park. I’m Famie Madden. I work for IPS. We’re running!’ She left the phone connected as they made for their original entrance.

  ‘Don’t look back!’ yelled Sam.

  Tommi did anyway. Knifeman was running too.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ cried Tommi, his panicky voice telling them all they needed to know.

  They slowed to negotiate the zigzag metal fences that formed the entrance, catching a glimpse of the closing Knifeman and, beyond him, a stooped walker attending to the man they’d just knocked over. They accelerated out of the park, instinctively heading back to the tube station – uniforms, barriers and order. Famie’s breathing was heavy and her head was ringing but she heard the chatter of voices from her phone and some distant sirens. They raced along the street towards the T-junction, needing a gap in the traffic to reach the station.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ screamed Famie, but the enforced slowdown lost them their advantage. Knifeman was out of the park, running like a sprinter and gaining fast. The incessant traffic filled both lanes. No gaps. The tube entrance was unreachable.

  We’ve got no choice, thought Famie, and stepped into the road. She ran in the gutter. Balls of her feet. She waved her arms. She caught the eye of the driver in a red Toyota. The woman jumped, startled, suddenly alert, her hands tightening on the wheel. For an instant Famie held her stare, then ran in front of her. She saw the panicked eyes and the steering-wheel lunge. The woman threw her car right as she braked, her wing ramming the rear door of an oncoming car. Both vehicles crunched to a halt then shuddered as they were hammered by a succession of cars hitting them from behind.

  Famie danced around the wrecks, vaulted the station ticket barrier and leapt back down the stairs to the platform six at a time. A train was in, they had seconds.

  She knew Tommi and Sam were behind her, she could hear their cursing. She didn’t know if Knifeman was behind them and from somewhere she found one more burst of speed. Famie threw herself on to the train as the door alarm started its urgent, high-pitched closing routine, leaning back against the doors as they tried to close. Tommi and Sam leapt aboard together, Tommi sprawling to the floor. As the train pulled away they stared at the swiftly disappearing steps for any sign of Knifeman, but they were deserted.

  Sweat-soaked and breathless, it was an age before any of them spoke.

  ‘Christ alive, Famie,’ was all Tommi managed.

  They rode three stops to the end of the line, then hailed a cab. By the time they arrived at Famie’s flat, there were six police cars waiting for them.

  9

  US PRESIDENT DESCRIBES LONDON KNIFE ATTACKS AS ‘AN ASSAULT ON OUR VERY PRINCIPLES AND VALUES’

  FRENCH PRESIDENT CALLS ON ‘FREEDOM-LOVING COUNTRIES’ TO UNITE AGAINST LONDON ATTACKS

  GERMAN CHANCELLOR ASKS FOR CALM AFTER LONDON KNIFE ATTACKS

  THE POLICE STAYED for three hours. They took statements from Famie, Tommi and Sam. They said they had the knifeman in custody and that the dog-walkers had disappeared. A police presence would be kept outside her flat ‘for the time being’. Tommi and Sam only left when Famie tried to play them Mozart’s Requiem. ‘I’ve had quite enough death for today’ were Sam’s words, and she shooed them both out of the door.

  ‘And yes, I’ve got food in,’ she assured them. ‘I’m not a fucking imbecile.’

  As it turned out, she didn’t have food in but couldn’t face the thought of negotiating take-out with the police. So she made toast then raised the volume on the Dies Irae until she felt the drums and cellos vibrating in her bones. The treble – or was it quadruple? – gin was working its way rapidly through her shattered body and the crashing urgency of the music penetrated to her core. Sprawled on her sofa, waves of sadness overwhelmed her. Seth was dead. Mary was dead. They were all dead. She closed her eyes and in spite of the Mozart, in spite of the grief, fell asleep.

  A fusillade of knocks on the door woke her with a start. Famie leapt to her feet, heart racing, head spinning. Images of knives, bloodied steps and zebra crossings faded quickly. She pushed back against the sofa, calves against its battered fabric, steadying herself. It was dark now. The streetlights provided the room’s only illumination and there was just enough for her to get to the window without crashing into anything. She glanced down from her second-floor window. The police car was still there, its interior light on, an occupant talking into his or her radio. Did they know there was someone at her door? Her phone said 10.20 p.m. and sixteen missed calls. Christ. More spirited knocking, and she jumped again. Either it was o
ne of her neighbours or someone had gained access to the block. No one in the block had ever visited before but then she’d never made the news before.

  She drew the curtains in the lounge, then edged her way to the front door. She swallowed hard and was about to peer through the fish-eye security lens when a man’s voice hailed her.

  ‘Ms Madden, it’s PC Grantley. We’ve been trying to ring. There’s someone here says she’s your daughter?’

  Famie uttered the smallest of staccato gasps. She stooped to the fish-eye. Behind the uniform she could see a familiar head of curls and suddenly she couldn’t get the door open quickly enough. The sight of her daughter, all angles and awkwardness, triggered a wave of emotion and Famie embraced her fiercely.

  ‘I said don’t come,’ Famie said, once she had regained some composure.

  ‘And I knew you didn’t mean it,’ said Charlie, extricating herself with difficulty.

  They both nodded their thanks to the policeman, who disappeared down the stairs.

  Famie steered her daughter inside and on to the sofa. ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ she said. ‘Or gin if you’d rather. Or both. I’ll get both.’

  Charlie stabbed a finger at the sofa cushion next to her. ‘Just sit down and talk, Mum. I had a drink on the train anyway. Just talk.’

  She tried a smile. It was what her grandmother would have called a brave face but Famie wasn’t fooled. She wouldn’t have noticed the smell of alcohol but she did notice the tobacco lingering in her daughter’s hair, the trembling hands. The fear radiated off Charlie in waves.

  They talked, arm in arm, until Famie’s voice started to slur with exhaustion. Charlie put her mother to bed, then crashed in her old room, smiling briefly at the bed’s familiar creaks. Both women were asleep in minutes.

  10

  Wednesday, 23 May, 6.05 a.m.

  BRITISH PRIME MINISTER SAYS LONDON KNIFE ATTACKS ‘BLATANT ATTACK ON OUR WAY OF LIFE’

  BRITAIN IS ‘COUNTRY UNITED AGAINST TERROR’ – PM

  ‘WE WILL SEEK JUSTICE AGAINST THE MURDERERS WHO COMMITTED THIS OUTRAGE’

  LONDON, May 23 (IPS) – Britain is a ‘country united against terror’, the UK Prime Minister said in his latest comments on the multiple knife murders in London on Tuesday.

  ‘When we have mourned, we will seek justice against the murderers who committed this outrage,’ he told reporters outside his official residence.

  The alcohol and the telephone woke Famie. She killed the phone, then went in search of painkillers. She pushed at the lounge door then recoiled from the savage brightness that enveloped her.

  ‘Hey Mum.’ Charlie appeared from out of the blaze, pulled her mother’s T-shirt from out of her knickers. ‘PC Grantley was here.’

  Famie was rooted to the spot, hand over her eyes. ‘Already? Only been asleep five minutes.’

  Famie felt herself being steered into the kitchen, the door clicking shut behind them. She slumped on to the kitchen chair. Closed her eyes again.

  ‘Paracetamol,’ she mumbled, her mouth sticky with sleep. ‘Nurofen. Aspirin. Whatever’s in the tin above the microwave.’

  She felt two tablets being pressed into one hand, a cup of water into the other.

  ‘Christ you’re good. Can I smell coffee?’

  ‘By your right hand,’ said Charlie, settling into the other chair. ‘The police wanted to tell you the tramp guy with the knife was just a tramp guy with a knife. A penknife.’

  ‘Is that right,’ said Famie, her words blowing the steam from her mug.

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘And the dog-walkers? Don’t tell me …’

  ‘Just dog-walkers. Well, two of them anyway. They contacted the police when they heard what had happened in the park.’

  Famie sighed, sipped some coffee. ‘Coppers must think I’m an idiot. Lost my marbles.’ She felt the liquid scorch its way into her stomach.

  ‘Actually they were very sympathetic.’

  Famie shook her head slowly. ‘To you, maybe. But trust me, they’ll think I’m an idiot.’ She sipped more coffee, peered at her daughter. ‘You’re dressed already?’

  Charlie gave herself a cursory up-and-down. ‘Slept like this. Needed to look my best for PC Grantley.’

  Famie nodded. ‘I’m sure he appreciated it. Crumpled university T-shirts will be just his thing.’

  They both smiled, but Charlie’s faded first. She leant forward on her chair, pushing loose curls from her forehead.

  ‘You’re not working today, are you?’ she said, her words managing to be both a question and a request.

  Famie felt the coffee buzz and wanted more. She reached for the pot, offering it first to Charlie, who declined.

  ‘I’m full already. Mum, you’ve not answered the question.’

  ‘Full already?’ said Famie, pouring. ‘How long have you been up?’

  Charlie crossed her legs, irritated. ‘Since five, which was when my phone started buzzing. Yours too by the way.’ Famie reached for her phone, charging on the table next to her, but Charlie covered it with her hand. ‘Tell me you’re not going. Whatever those messages say. I haven’t come home just to make you breakfast and then wave you off. Say it.’

  Famie managed a smile. ‘If I said it’s supposed to be business as usual … that you can’t let the terrorists win … life must go on …’

  ‘I’d say you were talking bullshit and you know it. So tell me you’re not going in.’

  Famie gave in. ‘OK, OK, I’m not going in. Life, it would seem, doesn’t go on after all.’

  Charlie released her phone. ‘Right decision.’ Mission accomplished, she popped bread into the toaster.

  Famie read her messages. A text stream from Sam, then Tommi and most of her team. An invitation to join a WhatsApp group. Emails from IPS management and HR. The gist seemed to be that the offices would be open that day but staff were not required to attend.

  ‘Correct,’ said Famie out loud.

  Charlie turned but said nothing.

  Famie’s phone vibrated again but she hesitated before reading the message, finishing her coffee. The cosy domesticity of a breakfast with her daughter was proving a welcome anaesthetic against the world. Famie didn’t want it to finish.

  ‘How’s your course going?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ said Charlie, handing her buttered toast. ‘Finish your messages.’

  ‘Tough crowd,’ muttered Famie, and read her text. It was from the EMEA editor Ethan James. She read it twice. It was succinct. It was heartbreaking. She folded her hands tightly around her phone, took a deep breath.

  ‘You want to come to a funeral?’

  Charlie was startled. ‘Already?’

  Famie closed her eyes, felt Charlie’s hand on hers. ‘It’s Seth’s. They prioritized the post-mortem.’ She kept her eyes closed, realized how much she wanted Charlie to say yes. ‘If you’re not missing a lecture or anything,’ she added weakly.

  Charlie laughed. ‘Do you ever stop your bloody parenting?’ she said. ‘Anyway, yes, I’ll be missing a lecture and a tutorial.’

  Famie opened her eyes and smiled. Shrugged.

  ‘But you’re coming anyway?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘But I’m coming anyway.’

  Famie had been to six funerals before: her mother, three grandparents, an old school friend and a journalist colleague. Cancer (twice), dementia, heart attack, overdose and a land mine. They had all been unbearable, a time to rage against the injustice and indignity of life, and now, in a back row of the overflowing Palmers Green mosque, she raged again. The setting was different, her modest dress and head-covering were different, but the raw anger was the same. Eyes closed, she gripped hold of Charlie’s hand for support.

  Seth Hussain had managed to combine gentleness with a forensic toughness that had won people’s admiration across IPS and throughout journalism – the turnout was testament to that. He had been a loyal friend then a devoted, if reticent, lover. He had been sweet and beautiful, and then some man
iac with a knife had taken him away. She suspected the silent prayers were giving fulsome praise and thanks to a God Seth hadn’t believed in, and she gripped her daughter’s hand tighter.

  Maybe funerals become an accumulation, thought Famie. It wasn’t just Seth she was grieving for but all the others she’d lost. There was too much unfinished business here, too many people she missed. Whatever the truth of it, Famie could barely bring herself to look at the coffin. She had many wonderful images of Seth in her mind, she didn’t need them sullied by his death.

  Instead, she glanced along the rows of mourners. Most of her last shift were here. Tommi then Sam caught her eye and nodded. Young Sophie Arnold had overdone the head-covering and almost disappeared into a voluminous grey scarf. EMEA editor Ethan James sat nervously inspecting his fingernails, and next to the Met Assistant Commissioner, head bowed and hands shaking, sat Andrew Lewis. In twenty-four hours he seemed to have wasted away, his jaw slack, his cheeks sunken. He looked as though he could crumble at any minute, she thought.

  She glanced towards the front. The first few rows were all men, some dressed in the traditional ghutra headscarf and robe. An ornate chair had been set closest to the coffin, occupied by a clearly uncomfortable man in his late thirties. Black suit, rounded shoulders, clean-shaven. Long black hair tied up in a bun. Although they didn’t look similar, she was sure this was Seth’s brother Amal. The brothers had barely spoken in recent years but Seth had had some old photos. The man in the chair fidgeted, glanced around. He nodded at some mourners on the front row. Famie looked at her feet. If Amal was checking who was attending his brother’s funeral, she’d rather go unnoticed.

  Famie felt Charlie lean closer. ‘Life is pain, Highness,’ she whispered. She paused, then added, ‘Anyone who says differently—’

  Famie finished the line for her: ‘… is selling something.’ She smiled and nodded. Where would she be without Charlie? Their favourite, much-quoted line from the movie The Princess Bride. She nodded towards the imam in his finery and whispered back, ‘And do you think he’s selling something?’