Twenty Twelve

by Helen Black

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  When the second shot rang out, Clem slid his phone back into his pocket and took out his Sig.

  He crossed the space to the door in two strides and gave it a push. Locked. He took a step back and shoulder barged it. It didn’t give. Clem wasn’t surprised. You didn’t live on a place like Roman Road without decent security.

  From upstairs he could hear shouts. He glanced behind him. Still no sign of C Group. Inside, the argument intensified.

  Clem leaned backwards on his right heel and held the gun inches from the lock. He clipped the silencer in place and let off two rounds, the recoil barely lifting his wrist.

  Behind him, someone screamed.

  ‘Armed police,’ he shouted. ‘Stay back.’

  He shot another bullet into the lock and the doorframe gave way. Then he heaved himself up the stairs, wishing he were two stone lighter and twenty years younger, until he was outside the flat door. He could still hear the voice from within. A male voice.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ the man screamed.

  It wasn’t an argument. The guy sounded desperate.

  Decision time. Let them know he was there or surprise attack. The inside door looked doable. Decision made.

  He drew back his right foot and kicked hard at the centre point. The door flew off its hinges, splintering wood.

  Inside the shouting stopped.

  Clem ran in, his Sig held at arm’s length. Swiftly, he clocked the scene. The flat was filthy and the smell of rotting food filled the air. Among the empty cans and wrappers lay a body. A gunshot wound to the head spilled blood and grey matter onto the carpet. The clothes told Clem it was Steve.

  He moved to his right towards the tiny kitchen. The man Clem recognised as Deano was backed against one wall, his shoulders pressing into the greasy tiles. His mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ and he didn’t take his eyes from the other man, Miggs, who had a Russian pistol trained on him. It looked like a relic from the days of the Iron Curtain, but it would still do the trick.

  ‘Put it down,’ said Clem.

  Miggs didn’t reply but kept his weapon pointed at Deano.

  ‘If you so much as touch the trigger I will blow your head off,’ Clem continued.

  Miggs looked at Clem’s gun as if weighing up the situation. Deano whimpered and the smell of urine hit Clem’s nostrils.

  ‘Please,’ Deano pleaded with Miggs. ‘You know you can trust me.’

  Miggs didn’t lower his gun.

  ‘You know my lips are sealed.’

  Miggs risked another glance at Clem’s weapon and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then he pulled the trigger.

  Deano’s head thumped backwards against the sticky wall as the bullet passed through his brain.

  Without hesitation Clem fired.

  Seconds later, C Group arrived to find Clem standing in a blood-drenched kitchen, a man slumped at either end, another body sprawled in the room next door.

  Isaac presses his eye against the chink between the shutter and the window. Daddy can join wood better than anyone so it’s mighty small. All the same, Isaac can see the figures out yonder in the scrub.

  ‘Still there, Mama,’ he says.

  Mama continues to trace the words in the Bible with her finger. ‘Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy and hear the things which are written therein.’

  Isaac turns to her. ‘I should go out there.’

  Mama blinks as if he hasn’t spoken. ‘The time is at hand,’ she says.

  Rebecca lets out a sob. Even though she’s not the youngest and Mama has been predicting the End Times for as long as any of them can recollect.

  ‘I’m just going to ask them what they’re doing on our land,’ he says.

  ‘You should wait for Daddy,’ Rebecca wails.

  Veronica-Mae looks up from her rag doll and gives Isaac one of her stares. She may be the baby of the family but she has a way of getting things across. ‘He put you in charge,’ she says.

  Isaac glances across at Mama who, with one finger still stuck to the page, gives him a nod.

  He’s the man of the house and he makes his way to the door. When he slides the dead bolt across it makes the same sound it always does. Thunk. Then daylight streams into the farmhouse. Isaac blinks away the spots it makes on his eyeballs and reaches for a rifle.

  Chapter Four

  I smile into camera one, face powder making my cheeks stiff. The make-up girl assured me that I would look perfectly normal on the television.

  ‘Just a healthy glow,’ she explained, as she removed the tissue paper from my collar. She nodded at the monitor where Toby Scott was already perched on the infamous Top of the Morning sofa. ‘He even tints his eyelashes,’ she winked.

  I don’t usually go in for make-up. Maybe a dab of lippy for a date. As the crew fiddle with the lighting I banish the thought that we look like the cast of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

  The producer counts us back in from the break: ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .’

  When he gets to five he simply puts up fingers.

  Scott opens his mouth wide and wiggles his jaw. I worry he might be about to swallow me.

  When the producer’s index finger is all that is left to signify one, Scott’s face settles into a smile. ‘Welcome back,’ he says. ‘Still with us this morning is the woman charged with seeing the smooth running of the Olympic Games, Jo Connolly.’

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘So, Jo,’ says Scott, ‘take us back to the moment when you decided to risk your own life to save a disabled child.’

  I cringe at the memory of my sheer inability to make a decision. ‘I did what anyone would have done,’ I say.

  Scott pats my arm. ‘Most people would have been too scared to do what you did, Jo.’

  ‘I was scared,’ I say. ‘I was bloody terrified.’

  Scott and the crew give a polite laugh. ‘And what about now?’ he asks. ‘Can the Opening Ceremony really go ahead this afternoon?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘This was a terrible accident. It could have happened anywhere. We owe it to those who died to ensure that something they cared about deeply takes place as planned.’

  ‘You’re still saying it was an accident, then?’ he asks.

  ‘Definitely.’

  Scott holds a finger to his earpiece. ‘But I’m being told the security services have now found what appears to be a detonator.’

  ‘What?’ My tone sounds too sharp.

  Scott nods. ‘A team managed to get inside the Plaza building late last night and have found what they say is evidence of an explosive device.’

  I lick my lips and the taste of lipgloss sugarcoats my words. ‘I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.’

  As soon as I’ve finished the interview I make my way back to Downing Street watching the PM give a live statement. When I arrive, the PM and Benning are waiting for me in the study.

  I glare at Benning. ‘You told me it was an accident.’

  Benning shrugs as if the fact that I’ve made an absolute twat of myself on national television is of no concern.

  ‘You said MI5 had confirmed it.’

  Benning looks down his nose at me. ‘Actually, Jo, I said there was no evidence one way or the other.’

  I shake my head, furious. ‘You gave me the impression it was a gas leak.’

  ‘I made no observation one way or the other.’ His tone is cold. ‘I simply told you the facts as we knew them at that time.’

  I can’t believe this is happening. Less than half a day into my new job and I’ve been outsmarted by a dwarf presenter in tinted moisturiser. My shoulders sag.

  The PM puts a warm hand over mine. ‘Mistakes happen.’

  I want to point out that it was hardly a mistake, that Benning deliberately misled me. But that would make me look like a schoolgirl excusing the loss of her homework. Sorry, sir, but the dog ate it.

  ‘It was a difficult day,�
� says the PM. ‘No one will blame you.’

  ‘So it was definitely a bomb?’ I ask.

  The PM nods, squeezes my hand.

  I sigh. ‘What now?’

  I can just imagine the fallout. No athletes will risk competing. How could they? I’ll be forced to announce the first cancellation of an Olympic Games. My name will forever be linked with the worst failure since the sinking of the Titanic.

  ‘Press conference,’ says Benning.

  I groan. My historic climb-down will naturally appear live, on satellite television.

  ‘What shall I say?’

  Benning arches an eyebrow. ‘That you’re sorry for the cock-up, but it’s business as usual.’

  I let out a bark of laughter. ‘How on earth can it be business as usual? The world’s greatest athletes are hardly going to come when they think their safety is compromised.’

  The PM and Benning exchange a look.

  ‘No one’s safety is being compromised,’ says Benning.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Yesterday I was nearly blown to kingdom come. Safe wasn’t how I’d describe it.’

  ‘The risk has been eliminated,’ says Benning.

  I stare at him, unable to speak.

  The PM puts up a hand. ‘I think what Simon means is that we have dealt with those responsible.’

  I still can’t utter a word. Less than an hour ago I was under the impression that I had fallen victim to a freak, yet entirely innocent, accident. Now I’m told that not only were terrorists involved, but that they’ve been caught.

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘That’s not for your ears,’ says Benning.

  I feel the heat of anger flush my cheeks. ‘I think I deserve an explanation.’

  Before Benning can answer, the PM leans forward and picks up his phone. ‘Show Mr Clement in.’

  Clem entered the study. ‘Prime Minister.’

  The PM smiled at the young civil servant sitting opposite. ‘Jo, this is Christian Clement, MI5.’

  Clem held out his hand and swamped Connolly’s in it. ‘We’ve met.’

  The young woman nodded her recollection but looked confused and unhappy.

  ‘Not surprisingly, Jo has asked for an explanation of the events of the last twenty-four hours,’ said the PM. ‘So I thought it would be better coming from the horse’s mouth.’

  Clem regarded Connolly. He felt sorry for any poor sucker caught in the middle of this mess, but the fact was she was part and parcel of this government and its machine. Those that live by the sword, et cetera.

  ‘In your own time,’ Benning sighed.

  Clem ignored him and continued to appraise Connolly.

  ‘Clem,’ the PM’s voice was searching. ‘Please.’

  Clem gave a small nod. ‘We have been watching a group of extremists called Shining Light. In particular a cell active in London.’

  ‘White supremacists, Jo,’ Benning added. ‘Very dangerous.’

  ‘This morning I intercepted the cell and two of its four members are now dead.’

  Connolly’s eyes shot open in alarm. ‘You killed them?’

  Clem suppressed a smile. Why did the ruling elite remain convinced that their safety could be secured by diplomacy and negotiation? In their narrow little world, they cleaved to democracy and the rule of law like a drowning man clawing at a piece of wood from a shipwreck. Let them try a week in a Kazak jail and see if they still wanted to discuss freedom.

  ‘One of the cell members killed two of his colleagues,’ said Clem. ‘I had no alternative but to shoot him before he turned the gun on me. He’s not expected to live through the night.’

  Connolly shook her head as if trying to clear it. ‘Why did he kill his own people?’ she asked.

  Clem shrugged. There was always in-fighting in these groups, those lower down the ranks prepared to do whatever was necessary to gain power and position. Not too different from the world of politics. ‘These sorts of people tend not to settle their arguments peacefully,’ he said.

  Connolly was visibly shaken. She reached for some water, but thought better of it as her hand trembled. Instead she coughed to clear her throat. ‘You said three members. What about the fourth?’

  Clem blinked. His team were still going through the flat in Bethnal Green, looking for evidence that would lead them to Ronnie X. A letter, an email, a telephone number, even a note for the bloody milkman. So far, nothing. Whoever this man was, he was bloody good. But there was always something if you searched hard and long enough.

  ‘We’re on it,’ said Clem.

  ‘Now you see, Jo,’ the PM interrupted. ‘This was a very small group of individuals who can no longer pose a threat to the Olympic Games.’

  Benning appeared at the PM’s shoulders and hovered there like an unfriendly spirit. ‘Think of it as a triumph for the forces of good.’

  Back home, I’m still too sore to go for a run, so I opt for the next best thing to soothe my tired mind, and heat a tin of tomato soup. Mum always used this as a failsafe method in times of sadness and adversity. Lost a race? No problem. Failed a maths test? Get a bowl of this down you.

  It had been Davey’s all-time favourite. So much so, I often wonder if he actively sought out grazed knees and broken hearts just to get his hands on the stuff.

  I kick off my shoes, slurp down a spoon of sweet red succour and switch on the box.

  The press conference is being repeated on every bloody channel. The sight of my gurning face next to the PM while he explains that crisis has been averted is enough to put anyone off their dinner. I push my soup aside.

  No doubt the PM is still on the phone, recanting the story to the leaders of the free world. I’d offered to contact my opposite numbers in China and the States, but Benning had looked suitably horrified. ‘Best leave these things to the professionals,’ he said. I was too knackered to be offended.

  The phone rings.

  ‘Jo? It’s Dad.’

  ‘Bloody hell, twice in one day,’ I mutter.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I suppose you saw the press conference.’

  ‘Bit soon if you ask me,’ he says.

  ‘Surely it’s better than letting everyone think it was an Al Qaeda attack?’ I reply.

  He harumphs. ‘Sometimes you have to let the hysteria run until you hand over your fall guy. Otherwise it looks a bit bleeding convenient. Still, I suppose there just wasn’t the time for that.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with timing and there’s nothing convenient about this, Dad. These Shining Light people are the real deal.’

  In the background I hear a scream and feet pounding along the corridor. ‘What was that, Dad?’

  He ignores the question. ‘Sounds dodgy to me,’ he says.

  ‘Seriously, Dad, I spoke to MI5 myself. They’d been watching this cell.’

  ‘If you say so, Jo.’

  ‘Listen, Dad, everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.’

  ‘Holy shit.’ Nathan Shaw scrambled for his weapon. ‘Someone’s coming out.’

  George leaned over and pressed a sweaty palm over Nathan’s hand. ‘Cool your jets, son. It’s only the youngest boy.’

  Nathan felt his heart thud. They’d been stuck out here broiling like steaks on a barbecue for hours. Now something was finally happening, he felt panicked. ‘He’s heading over here,’ he hissed.

  ‘Well now, that’s all right,’ George replied, his hand still on Nathan’s. ‘Probably just wants a breath of fresh air.’

  The boy crossed the yard, his work boots crunching in the dirt. He stopped about twenty feet from the place where Nathan and George were hiding and stared straight at them.

  ‘Let me handle this,’ said George. He pushed himself up from the ground with a grunt, hauled up his belt and brushed the grit from his trousers. Then he nodded at Nathan and took a step out of the scrub.

  The boy didn’t move. Or speak.

  ‘Isaac, isn’t it?’ asked
George.

  The boy didn’t answer.

  ‘I know your daddy,’ George continued. ‘Good Christian man.’

  There was a long silence punctuated occasionally by the sound of a coot.

  ‘There’s two of you,’ the boy finally spoke.

  ‘Indeed there is,’ said George. ‘Nathan, come on out here and meet young Isaac Pearson.’

  Nathan took a deep breath and stepped into view. He could see now that Isaac couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. He was tall, with a buzz cut, but still a child.

  Nathan would have laughed at his unease if it weren’t for the rifle Isaac carried across his chest, left hand cupping the barrel, right hand on the butt, a finger curled around the trigger.

  ‘I guess you’re wondering what the hell we’re doing out here,’ said George. He turned to Nathan and laughed. ‘To be honest we’ve been asking ourselves the same damn thing.’

  Isaac didn’t smile. ‘You ain’t got no right to be on our land.’

  ‘Don’t mean no harm by it,’ said George.

  Nathan watched the boy intently. He didn’t seem frightened or surprised.

  ‘You the police.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Surely are,’ said George.

  Isaac nodded and moved slowly around them to peer into their hiding place. He caught sight of the discarded beer bottles and threw Nathan a look of disgust. ‘You need to leave now,’ he said.

  Chapter Five

  I can’t sleep. Dad’s words are chasing me into wakefulness. He’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. After all, I’ve heard it from MI5 themselves. So why can’t I just leave it? I call the nursing home but it goes straight to answer-phone.

  Cursing myself, I throw on some clothes and head across town.

  Highfields is in darkness. No surprise – it is bloody midnight after all. Most of the residents can’t stay awake through EastEnders.

  I park the Mini and head across the lawns to the bedroom window I think is Dad’s. Praying I’ve got the right one, I rap on the glass with my nail. A minute passes so I tap again, louder.

  Inside I hear a groan and the shuffle of feet. The curtains open and Dad’s nose presses against the glass.