Stephen Thompson was born in the London borough of Hackney, UK, to Jamaican parents. London and the UK feature strongly in Stephen’s writing. His first novel, Toy Soldiers, about a young man’s attempts to overcome his drug addiction, was published in 2000 to critical acclaim. He has written several novels and plays, and was a member of the influential Royal Court Young People’s Theatre.
Stephen has lectured in Creative Writing at a variety of educational establishments, including Birkbeck College and the University of Edinburgh. He is the recipient of an Arts Council New Writers Bursary and is a former Hawthornden Fellow. He regularly reviews for various online and print media and is publisher of The Colverstone Review.
To find out more about Stephen Thompson and for regular updates, follow him on Twitter: @SS_Thompson
Praise for Stephen Thompson
For Toy Soldiers
‘Assured, speedy and tersely convincing. His characters are effectively drawn without fuss or sentiment, and he contrives to paint a picture of a desperate world that is both honest and convincing’ Eldon King, Observer
‘A compelling, urban tale. Gritty, yet filled with inspired prose…’ Courttia Newland, author of The Gospel According to Cane
‘Thompson’s compelling tale of the rise, fall and return to normality of a London crack addict called Gabriel is satisfying, unsentimental and fiercely honest … Thompson’s description of life on the front-line is eye-opening. He reveals Gabriel as a troubled man who knows there is something beyond the thug’s life, yet despairs of finding it’ Steve Jelbert, The Times
‘Beautifully written, painfully honest and deeply affecting. Stephen Thompson’s debut novel is terrific’ Hanif Kureshi
‘A sensitive, subtle and fascinating account of a young black man’s fight against crack addiction…Thompson’s writing is compelling’ The Times
For Missing Joe
‘Following critically acclaimed debut, TOY SOLDIERS, Stephen Thompson uses the distinctive narrative of MISSING JOE to build powerful, solid characters. And though the potent Jamaican accents are initially unsettling the inflection soon adds to the atmosphere. A well paced, occasionally introverted, journey into the depths of the human condition.’ Steve Lee, Big Issue
Thompson’s second novel is as rich in dialogue and detail as it is in intrigue … the cultural clash and the inclusion of such strongly drawn characters as Neville, now coming to terms with middle age, ensure that Thompson’s storytelling impulse has enough energy to carry the reader through these quietly dramatic landscapes’. Victoria Segal, The Times
‘A sweetly melancholy book about loss and belonging … Thompson draws you in by mesmerising you with his subtle and tender characterisation.’ SleazeNation
‘Beautifully plotted, and in his sensitive interest in social outsiders, Thompson crafts an emotional honesty from a subject others would sensationalise or exploit.’ (Metro)
‘Amiable and quiet-toned while managing to disturb and convince.’ Stephen Blanchard, Time Out
For Meet Me Under the Westway
‘Stephen Thompson’s best book. Read it.’ Nik Cohn
‘A funny, evocative, authentic account of a struggling playwright’s rise from obscurity to semi-obscurity. Brilliant.’ Joe Penhall
Also by Stephen Thompson
Missing Joe
Meet Me Under the Westway
Toy Soldiers
No More Heroes
Stephen Thompson
First published in this edition in Great Britain 2015 by
Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd
5 Achilles Road
West Hampstead
London NW6 1DZ
www.jacarandabooksartmusic.co.uk
Copyright © 2015 Stephen Thompson
The right of Stephen Thompson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 909762 12 1
eISBN: 978 1 909762 13 8
Typeset by Head & Heart Publishing Services
www.headandheartpublishingservices.com
Printed and bound in Great Britain
by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
For Vanessa.
This book is dedicated to the victims of 7/7….and the heroes.
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Prologue
It was unusual for me to leave Theodore’s so early in the morning, but that afternoon I was working back in Duddenham and didn’t want to be late for my shift. At Kings Cross I got caught up in the rush hour crowd and was swept down the escalator towards the Circle Line. I reached the platform to find it thick with commuters, three or four lines deep. After missing a couple of trains due to overcrowding, I finally boarded one heading for Paddington. Barely able to move, I positioned myself near the entrance, thinking it would be quicker to get off at Paddington but as it turned out, it wasn’t the best decision.
With each new stop, I was jostled both by the people getting off the train and the ones getting on. By the time we arrived at Edgware Road I was feeling hot and tetchy, and my mood wasn’t improved when the train got held up. All the passengers were ready and waiting to leave but the doors remained opened for several minutes. We could breathe at least, and Edgware Road is above ground so at least we weren’t stuck in a tunnel, but even so, as the delay grew longer, a few people started tutting and sighing and one or two leaned out the doorway to see what the problem was. I was expecting to hear an announcement about the cause of the delay, but none came.
While we waited, I became conscious of being observed, and turned slightly to my left to see the man I now know to be Mohammad Sidique Khan staring at me. He was sitting on a row of four seats, two in from the double doors. I remember him very clearly because, unlike the rest of us, he looked cool and unflustered, without so much as a hint of sweat on his face. He gave me a squinty-eyed stare but I had the impression he wasn’t really looking at me, rather he was somehow looking through me. Eventually he glanced at his watch then started fidgeting with the backpack on his lap. It wouldn’t be true to say he unnerved me, you get used to all sorts of people on the tube, but instinctively I moved a little further along the carriage.
At long last we heard the driver say, ‘This train is now ready to depart. Please stand clear of the closing doors.’ A tall white man in a crumpled grey suit who was standing in front of me said, ‘’Bout bloody time.’ The engine hissed and grumbled, the doors slid jerkily together and the train crawled away from the platform. It was only eight thirty in the morning, but as soon as the doors closed I felt the heat rising. We were in the second carriage so it wasn’t long before the train entered the tunnel. The walls were lined with power cables and studded with lamps and there was a patch of daylight coming in from the open platform we’d just left. It was also very wide, with enough space for two trains, and high enough for me to see the soot-covered roof.
What I remember next was a hissing sound and out of the corner of my eye a white searing light. Just as I turned to get a better look at it, there was a moment of eerie silence followed by an
almighty blast that blew me clean off my feet sending me crashing against the window opposite. I bounced off the window and landed on my stomach on the floor. The carriage immediately went dark and filled with dust and debris. For several seconds nothing happened, I saw no movement, heard nothing except the loud ringing in my ears. Convinced that everyone was dead except me, my survival instincts took over. Dust filled my nose and mouth. To avoid choking to death, I wriggled out of my jacket and tied it into a makeshift bandage around my face, which was stinging and caked with grit. I was thinking I should stand up when the moaning started, quickly followed by the haunting cries for help, and then, soon after that, the piercing, chilling screams.
As the dust began to settle, I noticed a man sitting on the floor next to me, slightly hunched over, his legs splayed out to the sides like a rag doll. He wasn’t moving. His eyes were open but expressionless. An arm was missing and there was blood spurting from his wound. I jumped up. It didn’t even occur to me that I might be injured. When I was on my feet I suddenly thought to check myself for signs of serious damage. Everything seemed to be working. All my bits were there but the ringing in my ears seemed to be getting louder, my eyes were streaming from all the dust and even with my makeshift mask I was coughing so hard I could barely breathe.
Above the screams a male voice shouted, ‘For the love of God, shut up!’ Instantly the screams died down. Strange, how one’s person voice had immediately quietened the entire carriage. Now standing, I started looking around. It was dark, but the light coming from the carriage behind was enough for me to see the extent of the damage. There was broken glass and debris everywhere. Lumps of metal and electrical wires dangled from the mangled ceiling. The seat cushions were in shreds. I took a step and almost fell into a gaping crater in the floor, the chunky metal warped and blackened and folded in, slick with grease. The area immediately around it was littered with personal effects – credit cards, wallets, keys – and spattered with human entrails. People were trapped under huge pieces of metal, some of them with arms and legs missing, some with half their heads caved in, others with no heads at all.
Lodged in the crumpled window frame I saw a woman’s severed arm, a watch still on the wrist. The double doors had been completely blown off and from where I stood I could see a man lying on the tracks below. He’d lost both his legs, from the knees down, but he was fully conscious, his eyes were open and he kept swivelling his head left and right, as if he was only temporarily incapacitated and was preparing to get up and walk away. I knew he was without hope and it seemed to bring me to my senses. I began looking for a way out. The door to the carriage in front had collapsed and couldn’t be opened, but the one leading to the carriage behind was still intact and was actually ajar. A knot of people fighting each other to get through it caused a bottleneck. Those who couldn’t get through the adjoining door eventually lost patience and started clambering down through the double doors, using their arms to lower themselves on to the track. I did the same.
Down on the tracks, people were jumping from the other carriages and running back towards Edgware Road station and all at once I was hit by the horror of the situation. Many people were dead; others were dying in agony. I felt for them but at that moment I was mainly concerned for my own safety. I was about to take off when I saw the guy with the missing legs lying on the tracks and something happened to me. I just couldn’t leave him there by himself. Several people had stopped to inspect him, and one woman had actually crouched down and held his hand before saying she was going off to get help. For some reason I asked him his name. He was called Stuart. I was no doctor but I didn’t need to be to see the danger he was in. ‘You’ll bleed to death if we don’t get your legs bandaged. We have to do it but it’s gonna hurt. You understand?’ He looked at me, like a helpless dog, and nodded.
I took off my shirt and started ripping it. I had zero first-aid knowledge and it showed. In my anxiety to cover the bloodied stumps, I became all thumbs and had real problems tying knots in the tourniquets. The blood was running so freely, it immediately soaked through the material and made it almost impossible to get a grip on it. I managed it, though. Surprisingly, Stuart never once cried out or even winced. I guess he was in shock. While I was tending to him, I saw a black man hurrying towards me wearing a high-vis jacket and a safety helmet and clutching a walkie-talkie. I thought he was someone from the emergency services but he turned out to be a London Underground employee. His name was Charles and I later found out he was from Ghana. He hadn’t been in the job a year. He couldn’t have been more helpful. He told me to leave Stuart with him and to make my way back to Edgware Road. ‘The tracks are not live so it’s OK.’ I hadn’t even thought of the possibility of being electrocuted.
‘Go!’ Charles screamed, ‘It is too dangerous here.’
‘What the hell happened?’
‘No idea. They are saying it might have been a bomb.’
‘A bomb? You mean, as in a terrorist bomb?’
He waved me away. ‘Why are you still here? Go now.’
I looked at Stuart. He seemed to be passing in and out of consciousness. Charles assured me that the emergency services were minutes away so I stood up and started heading down the tracks. As I was leaving, I noticed there were still people moving about in the bombed out carriage, which, from the outside, looked like a semi-crushed sardine tin. From the tracks it was difficult to see exactly what they were doing but I knew they must have been trying to help the injured. Using my arms, I clambered up through the blown out doors. Charles saw me and shouted for me to get down, warning that the carriage could ignite at any moment, but I ignored him.
I once heard a war veteran talking on the radio about what it was like to fight on the beaches in Normandy. He said it didn’t take him very long to get used to the death and destruction. ‘You quickly learn to ignore your surroundings, you concentrate on the job in hand.’ That’s how I felt when I went back into that carriage. I was now so focussed on helping people I hardly noticed the curdled blood or the decapitated corpses.
Towards the rear of the carriage, near the adjoining door that hadn’t been damaged, two white men were standing over a young black girl who was stretched out across a section of seating that hadn’t been ripped out. She was trapped under a metal beam. I was in such a haste to get over there I slipped on a piece of bloodied material and almost fell over. When I got there I could see that the beam, big and solid, had come away from overhead and it would take a lot of time and manpower, and possibly machinery, to remove it. Half of it was wedged in the window and the other half had gone right through the floor. The girl under it, who couldn’t have been older than eighteen had been blown out of her clothes. She was naked except for her underwear and was barely breathing. The men standing over her introduced themselves as Ian and Ed. Ian was in his early thirties and had weedy arms and a beer gut. Ed was older, late forties, and more robust-looking. He had a slight cut over his left brow, which was dripping blood into his eye. We three were the only able-bodied survivors left. The others had all gone.
Looking around, I saw several other injured people in the carriage. They were either lying or sitting on the floor, amongst the rubble, in various stages of agony, and were either incapable or unwilling to move. Among them was an elderly white woman who had broken both her legs, a young white guy with severe lacerations to his face and hands and a young white girl with a huge make-shift bandage around her head that was soaked in blood. We could do nothing for them except offer reassurances that the paramedics were on their way.
I turned my attention to the girl trapped under the beam. According to Ian and Ed, there was no way to free her. They had tried. We stood around assessing the piece of metal, trying to work out if there was anyway of shifting it. Time was not on the girl’s side. She had no external injuries that we could see, but she was slowly being crushed to death. The beam was lying across her torso diagonally, pressing down on her so hard that her breathing had all but stopped. Ian and Ed s
aid they had tried levering it with other bits of metal, had combined their strengths and tried to heave it, they had even tried to rip the seat from under the girl in the hope of pulling her free. Everything, they said, had conspired against them. The space they were working in was too cramped, they had inadequate tools; they were shattered mentally and physically. By the time I got to them they were on the verge of giving up. I asked them to make one final effort but Ed said, ‘Trust me, it’s pointless. We should go get help.’
I said, ‘Help’s on its way. Meantime, let’s put our heads together and try and shift this thing.’
Ian started shuffling his feet. Radiating tiredness like an aura, he said, ‘There’s nothing more we can do here. And to be honest, I think I’ve done enough. The paramedics should be here any minute now.’ He bowed his head, as if in shame, said, ‘sorry,’ then left. Ed lingered a while longer then he too left. I watched them go through the adjoining door and kept watching as they staggered along the carriage, so tired they could barely move.
I turned to the girl. The colour had drained from her lips and she was now hyperventilating. Feeling desperately sorry for her, I couldn’t think of anything else to do but hold her hand. It was cold, clammy. Some of the people lying nearby looked at me pityingly, as if I was the one about to die. I continued to hold the girl’s lifeless hand and began to wonder what her name was. All of a sudden that was really important to me. I would have asked her but I knew she wouldn’t have been able to answer. She had almost gone now. Her eyes were closed and she had peaceful look on her face, as if she had resigned herself. Feeling helpless, I thought of something my brother was always saying to me: ‘Take everything to the Lord in prayer. With him all things are possible.’
From sheer desperation, I offered up a silent prayer, begging and pleading for the girl’s life to be spared. I hadn’t prayed since I was a child, since the days when I was a choirboy. I had no belief in it then and had even less now. And yet I closed my eyes and prayed, holding the girl’s hand throughout. When I’d finished, I opened my eyes and was amazed to see that she had opened hers, too. Not only that, she seemed to be smiling and, incredibly, she squeezed my hand. A baby could have squeezed it tighter, but even so I felt it. I don’t know what came over me – my brother said later I was being moved by the Holy Ghost – but I got up and started looking again at the metal beam, determined that I would use up every last drop of my energy trying to move it. I looked at it every which way, walked around it, put both my hands on it and shoved it, put my back against it and tried to heave it, sat on the floor and tried to use my legs to dislodge it even a little: it was all useless. Sweating and angry, I was now engaged in a tremendous struggle. I forgot about the girl and the others lying dead and injured. This was now between me and that piece of metal. If it was the immovable object, I was the unstoppable force. I simply refused to be beaten. I racked my brain trying to find a solution.
No More Heroes Page 1