Amelie is off nursery with a stomach ache that miraculously disappeared once a stay at home was confirmed. She’s starting proper school soon and they wonder if that’s worrying her. She used to love nursery so Matthew and Sally are ‘going with the flow’, hoping it’s not to be a new fad.
Amelie’s good at fads.
‘Yes to the flake,’ Sal adds suddenly. ‘I’ll have it if she doesn’t want it.’
And then, just as the man takes the money, there’s suddenly shouting and some kind of commotion off to their right.
‘Run. Run.’ A male voice, loud and desperate, from the midst of a small group running from the narrow street that leads to the cathedral. ‘There’s a gunman. There’s a gunman in the cathedral.’
The speed of the ensuing panic is extraordinary. Very soon there’s a lot of screaming. More people are running from the alleyway. People on the high street start running too. Matthew feels the familiar shot of adrenaline as he turns to grasp Sally by the shoulders.
‘Right. You need to take Amelie out of the city centre. Fast as you can. Jog so you don’t fall. Go to the Asda car park on the outskirts. I’ll meet you there.’
The look of horror on Sally’s face is like a physical blow. ‘You’re not coming?’
‘I’ll be right behind you. I just need to see if I can help first.’
‘No, Matthew, no. You come with us. You come with us now.’
‘There’s no time, Sally. Just go. I’ll follow you, I promise. Soon as I can.’
A terrible expression sweeps across his wife’s face. He can’t quite read it and just watches as she pauses for a beat before grabbing Amelie’s hand and starting to flee. He stares at their backs – Amelie crying over the lost ice cream – as Sally scoops their daughter on to her hip and jogs just as he instructed. A strong and steady pace down the high street.
Then Matthew turns to push against the tide of people running away from the cathedral.
As he forges forward, he puts his phone up to his ear and speed dials the only person he can think of. He prays for the sound of sirens. Prays that he won’t be needed after all.
DI Melanie Sanders picks up immediately. ‘What is it, Matt? Emergency here.’
‘I’m on Maidstead High Street. People screaming there’s a gunman in the cathedral.’
‘That’s my emergency. What are you doing there?’
‘Never mind. I’m not hearing sirens yet . . . Why no sirens?’
‘Traffic. They’re on their way but it’ll be a few minutes, Matt. I just got the call. I’m on my way too.’
‘And armed support? What’s the ETA for armed support, Mel?’
A pause.
‘How long Mel?’
‘Ten minutes minimum.’
Matthew increases his pace. As he reaches the green in front of the cathedral, there is the shock of a crush outside the main door. Some people are running away but others are standing still, faces terrified, calling out the names of loved ones.
‘Move away from the doors,’ he shouts. ‘Everyone away from the doors.’ He presses the phone back to his ear. ‘I’ll do what I can, Mel. But it’s chaos here.’
‘Not on your own, Matt . . .’
He hangs up and runs around the west side of the cathedral, avoiding the throng.
There’s a man in a high-vis jacket – some kind of usher or maybe security – looking completely overwhelmed, standing by temporary fencing, designed presumably to keep the graduation visitors to the front lawn, but which is now making the crisis worse – restricting the flow of people.
‘Get these fences down now so we can get everyone away faster.’ Matthew kicks one of the temporary barriers over by way of demonstration. The man in the yellow jacket copies him. As the fence is reduced – crash after crash after crash – people start to step and leap over the barriers, which slowly improves the flow.
‘Are all the doors open?’ Matthew barks.
The man frowns – can’t hear him over the screaming.
‘Are all the doors open?’ Matthew now shouts and the man shakes his head.
‘We locked some to check tickets.’
‘Get them all open now. All of them, you hear me – fast as you can? What’s my best way in? I can’t get through these crowds.’
‘Tower at the back. There’s a door by a laburnum tree. It was supposed to be left open for the staff to leave.’
Suddenly another man, grey-haired and face desperate, holds on to Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Are you in charge? Our kids are in there. The students. Some of them are still in rooms at the back. We can’t get to them. How do we get to them?’
‘I’m on it. Move away from the crush, sir. Help get this fence down. And get more doors open. Can you do that for me?’
The man nods. Matthew then jumps a fence on the ground himself and runs around the back of the cathedral towards the laburnum. Sure enough there is a small oak door with a large, black iron handle. Open.
Inside, Matthew moves fast through a narrow stone corridor to find himself to the side of the choir stall. This end of the cathedral is almost empty but there’s still a large crush of people at the main door, trying to get out.
There’s a lot of shouting. Some men are urging the women and children to leave but others are screaming to know where the students are.
‘Where are our children? Are they out? Who’s getting them out?’
In front of him, Matthew sees a small throng of people crouched down around a young woman on the ground in a pool of blood. Instinctively, he looks up, trying to work out where the shot would have come from. There is an upper gallery with carved shapes in the stone balcony. He watches. No shadows. No sign of movement. But the gunman could still be up there.
He realises what easy targets they are: sitting ducks. He thinks of Amelie and Sally and feels this terrible lurch. No choice. No sign of any uniforms yet . . .
He moves out into the open central area and joins the small group surrounding the shot girl. A woman is rolling her over, testing a pulse and doing compressions while instructing someone else to hold the girl’s neck in place. The woman’s voice is steady and firm – must be a doctor or nurse at least. Good. It may be a while before an ambulance is allowed through.
At last he hears sirens but not close yet.
‘Help’s on the way. I’m ex police. We’re going to get you all out of here.’
Another woman turns to look at him, tears pouring down her cheeks. The mother then. Alongside her is a man, face white. The father.
‘What should I do?’ The man’s voice is breaking. ‘What should we do?’
‘Stay with her. Talk to her. Help’s coming.’
Another man steps forward, his face steadier. ‘Marine. A parent. My wife and son are on their way out. What can I do?’
Another slim, tall woman in a black suit joins them, her face white with terror. ‘We have a lot of students in anterooms out the back. We don’t know what to do. Is it safe to bring them through? Two of my ushers have bolted. What should I do?’
‘Right. Take me to them. They’re opening more doors. The crush will reduce soon. How many shots were fired? Did it sound like an automatic weapon?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. We didn’t hear shots . . .’ The woman’s voice is shaking.
‘OK. You – with me.’ He points at the marine and the woman in the dark suit and leads them both through the choir stall to a narrow stone corridor with two large oak doors. There’s a single usher standing just inside one door and he can hear crying.
Matthew steps into the first room. ‘Right. There’s been a shooting but we are going to keep you all safe. This is . . .’ He tilts his head at the marine.
‘Tom.’
‘This is Tom. He’s military and he’s going to stay in here with you and bolt the door. You’ll be safe in here until the police arrive. I’m going to give you a password. The password is ICE CREAM. OK, Tom?’ The marine nods. ‘You don’t open this door until you get that pass
word. You hear me. Now shut this door and bolt it inside.’
He moves along to the second anteroom and repeats the instruction to the woman in black who agrees to stay with the students. ‘You’re safest in here for now. The password is ICE CREAM. Don’t open until the police give you that password. Yes?’
He retreats to the main part of the cathedral just as the first uniformed police officers appear at the far end.
Matthew dials Mel again. ‘We’ve got scores of students in two locked anterooms inside. They’re safe. Heavy doors. I’ve given them the password ICE CREAM. I’ll pass it on to the first teams who’ve just arrived. Can you circulate it as well?’
‘Good thinking. Will do. Any more shots? What kind of weapon, Matt. Automatic?’
‘We don’t know. But it’s not safe to move the students just yet, Mel. There’s still a terrible crush. But no more shots. No sign of the gunman. One victim. Girl. Looks in a bad way. But the shooter could still be around.’
‘Really good work, Matt. Thank you. You OK?’
‘No. We need that armed team. But I can see two more doors being opened. Good. And your guys are here at last. I’ll hand over. But I can’t stay. I’ve got Sally and Amelie in town.’
‘OK. Hand over and go to your family, Matt.’
‘Password – ICE CREAM. You get those students out fast as you can, yes? They’re terrified and some of the parents won’t move away until they see their kids.’
‘Course. You stay safe, Matt. And thank you.’
Matthew moves forward to speak to the first uniformed team to reach the doctor tending to the injured girl. They are on their radios checking the ETA on the ambulance. He tells them about the students and the password and they nod, then frown. They all know the ambulance won’t be allowed through until the all-clear is given on the gunman.
‘I’m ex-job. Matthew Hill. DI Mel Sanders knows me and can vouch for me. I’ve done what I can but I can’t stay. I have my own family in town. Do you need anything more from me?’
The officers shake their heads and Matthew glances around the cathedral again. ‘Up there. That balcony is my best guess for the shooter position. No sign of anyone now. But who knows?’
And then he moves forward one last time to speak to the parents of the bleeding girl. ‘The ambulance won’t be long.’ The doctor is continuing the CPR. ‘She’ll be in hospital soon.’
Matthew then retreats, using the door back out to the green by the laburnum. From there he jogs down a side alley and runs at a steady pace, using back streets to avoid the chaos on the high street. At first there is no phone signal. He hears more and more sirens as he nears the outskirts of the city, dialling Sally as he runs. At last. Three bars . . .
‘I’m safe. I’m on my way to you. The police are there now.’
There is this terrible sound. Like an animal howling.
‘Where are you, Sal?’
There’s a pause. Sort of gulping on the end of the line.
‘Asda car park. I did what you said.’
‘Good. On my way.’
He hangs up and continues jogging, replaying all the scenes in his head. The girl on the ground in the pool of blood. The sound of the fences hitting the ground. Smash. Smash. The students, crying and terrified in those two anterooms.
Ice cream. Ice cream.
He steadies his pace until he finally turns a corner to see the supermarket across the road.
There are quite a lot of people milling about – white-faced – and he can hear a steady stream of questions.
What’s going on? Is it safe? What do we do?
He sees the red of Sally’s coat in the distance and continues towards her.
As he reaches them, Amelie’s still crying. Sally too.
And then to his shock there is this blow to his left arm as Sally hits him really hard, tears pouring down her face.
He just stands there as she keeps hitting him.
‘Why did you do that? Leave us. Why . . . did . . . you . . . do . . . that?’ She punctuates each word with another blow.
He just lets her hit him over and over until finally she stands still and looks at him, the anger on her face changing. Next her shoulders are heaving with sobbing.
‘I thought you were going to get yourself shot.’
Tears are still streaming down her face now and he gently puts his arms around her, kissing her cheek – ‘It’s OK, I’m safe; I’m here now, Sally’ – before pulling back to lift Amelie, who is also crying, from the ground to hold her tight too.
CHAPTER 3
THE FATHER – NOW
He watches his wife, watching their daughter.
Through the window, beyond the hospital bed, he can see a nurse on the main ward talking to the uniformed officer who’s guarding their cubicle.
The staff say Gemma may be able to hear so they’re watching the news on the TV above the bed with subtitles instead of the sound. It’s Thursday. Twenty-four hours since the horror of the cathedral, yet the scrolling words confirm nothing’s changed. Still the police are saying there’s no evidence to suggest terrorism. There’s nothing, in fact, to confirm or suggest any motive or suspect at all. The appeal is repeated for photographs or video recorded on the many smartphones at the graduation ceremony.
He has to steel himself for a moment, remembering the screaming and the blood on the stone floor. Some news channels have been running appalling footage on a loop which brings it back so vividly time and time over, making his stomach churn and his wife cry. He tenses, worrying that the images may appear again right now. Gemma on the floor. That pool of blood. His baby girl’s blood . . .
He grabs the remote from the bedside table and turns off the TV.
His wife spins her head, her eyes full of questions. He takes in the exhaustion and the fear on her face. Also an ache that he recognises – that longing for better news. Any news, actually.
‘There’s nothing new, love. And in any case, DI Sanders is due soon. If there’s anything new, she’ll tell us . . .’
‘Shhh. She’s listening. I know she’s listening.’ Rachel turns back to Gemma to smooth her hair and kiss her forehead with a gentleness that is almost unbearable to witness.
‘We’re here, darling girl. Daddy and me – we’re right here. And we’ll be here when you wake up. Just rest for now. You’re not to worry about anything. You just sleep.’
He clenches his right fist and feels the nails dig into the palm. He finds that he likes this discomfort and so digs the nails a little deeper.
He tries to keep his eyes from moving to the terrible little hill within the bedding. There’s a frame beneath the blanket over her left leg, or rather where her left leg used to be.
How will they tell her? Still he digs his nails deep, deep into his flesh. When she comes round – if she comes round – how the bloody hell will they tell her?
Last night his wife stayed at the hospital and he dashed home to pick up some things. Clothes. Books. Toiletries. Gemma’s favourite perfume. He looked at the flatness of Gemma’s double bed at home – no hill; no nasty frame beneath the duvet – and in the end he swept everything from the top of Gemma’s dressing table, breaking a mirror and a little china dog that she loves. In the early hours he tried to superglue the dog back together, but it looks a mess. Like his daughter’s body.
He hasn’t told his wife yet. About the dog. About Canada . . .
Instead he brought Gemma’s grey rabbit to the hospital with some perfume that his wife has sprayed around the room. She seems to think their daughter will smell it from her coma and somehow be comforted. He thinks this unlikely but has not said so; not out loud.
He stares at the rabbit – a grey rabbit that has been a favourite since Gemma was last in hospital as a tiny girl. Asthma attack. At the time he thought it was the scariest thing he would ever endure as a parent. Four nights in the high-dependency unit. It was bad. But he had no idea back then just how bad ‘bad’ could be . . .
He watches his
wife pull her hair up into a high ponytail. For all the exhaustion and the greyness of her skin and the black circles beneath her eyes, her back is straight. She’s extraordinary. His rock. His everything. He remembers her pacing while Gemma had the surgery – up and down the corridor outside the operating theatre. Up and down. Up and down. And the doctor coming out with updates. The two body blows.
They were unable to save the leg. But the baby is OK.
Baby? What baby?
He was actually sick. Retching over and over in the nearest gents.
Kneeling over the toilet bowl, he was looking down at his own knees, wondering what they did with his daughter’s leg. Do they burn it – an amputated limb? Some kind of incinerator? That was what made him vomit. To think of a part of his beautiful little girl. Separate. Gone. Her flesh and blood. His flesh and blood.
Now, back on the ward, in this small and claustrophobic cubicle, he tries very hard not to think of any of these details, but there it is again. The little blanket hill in the bed. His beautiful girl. All chopped up.
‘She’s here.’ His wife signals with her head the arrival of DI Melanie Sanders who’s talking to the uniformed officer outside their little box.
‘We just need to get a drink, my darling.’ Rachel again kisses Gemma’s forehead. ‘We’ll be back very soon.’ Next, she raises her finger to her lips so that he’ll say nothing more until they’re outside.
Waiting for them beyond their daughter’s room, DI Sanders looks pale, which he takes to mean bad news. Or rather no news.
‘How’s she today?’ she asks.
‘The same.’ Rachel is careful to close the door to the cubicle before taking a seat alongside the police inspector. ‘They say the coma is the body’s way of taking a break. It will give time for the swelling on the brain to go down. It’s probably a good thing actually. The coma.’ His wife tucks her hair behind her ear and he wonders if Rachel realises that she has told DI Sanders this already. More than once. ‘We don’t know how long it will be.’
The doctors explained last night that Gemma’s blow to the head when she hit the stone floor was every bit as serious as her leg injury from the gunshot. She has severe swelling on her brain. Her pupils are responsive but there’s no way of knowing what the long term holds. It’s a waiting game. The medical staff are all very careful not to make any promises.
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