Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  Hazma looks over his shoulder towards the road, and amongst black taxis, red buses, cars and Boris bikes, sees green lights approaching, flashing brightly behind the Mercedes windscreen and grill, as the car mounts a kerb at the south-west corner of the square.

  The masquerading policeman heads towards the car. Seeing an anxious-looking copper moving towards them, people automatically move out of his way. Hazma passes the west fountain, where an old white-haired, red-faced, cheery-looking chap is wading around in the water wearing a full 1966 red and white England football kit, with a large number six on his back. He’s acting like he’s quaffed a few beers already and is really enjoying being sprinkled by fountain spray, and attention from the crowd. After passing a court jester juggling balls, Hazma reaches an area where a small brass band puffs away merrily playing the old English song “The Floral Dance” for a troupe of prancing Morris men; but focused on his target, Hazma marches straight through the middle of them, as they dance skip and jingle while children eating ice cream mingle.

  Thousands are here today, basking in warm April sunshine. The scene is a depiction of innocent celebrated happiness, with the exception of Hazma… a policeman on urgent business.

  •

  Williams sprints along The Strand, in the middle of the road between traffic both sides. He’s a hundred yards from the square as Ginger radios through his earpiece, “Guv! The car’s on the path. He’s driving into the crowd!”

  Larry trundles along a long way back, blowing hot like a faulty vacuum.

  •

  The square is surrounded on its perimeter by solid barriers and pillars, positioned strategically to prevent vehicular access, but in the south-west corner a manually operated barrier has been installed to allow authorised delivery vehicles access at the beginning and end of the day.

  Today, this barrier is staffed by two council employees on security detail for the day; both are young males wearing high-visibility waistcoats, ID tags, and cardboard red and white The Sun hats. They seem to be enjoying the festivities as much as anyone, until a serious-looking policeman marches up to them and announces, “A man’s collapsed in the square, looks like a heart attack.” Hazma points towards the Mercedes, and commandingly orders, “The paramedics are here. Open the barrier.”

  Seeing a vehicle with flashing doctor’s lights approaching, the crowd breaks automatically like parting waves, allowing it access through a corridor of gawping people.

  Hazma instructs the staff further, “I’ll walk in front of the vehicle to clear the way. Close the barrier and stay here.” They nod, and as the Mercedes crawls past them, both peer inside. On seeing two men wearing Paramedic uniforms they have no reason for suspicion, and wave the car through.

  Imran manoeuvres the car slowly towards the centre of the square, as Hazma peels off, and disappears into the crowd.

  •

  On reaching the square, Williams climbs up onto the high stone plinth at the base of Nelson’s Column, joining Ginger and his partner.

  “Sahar?” Williams asks.

  Ginger shakes his head, grimacing, “Lost him!”

  This is a fine vantage point, overlooking the entire square. From behind a lion they watch the Mercedes inching through the crowd.

  Williams confirms into his radio, “Command… We have a confirmed imminent bomb threat and target…”

  Panting and sweating profusely, Larry reaches the plinth, looks up at them and asks, “What’s the target?”

  Ginger confirms, “Everything around you!” then pulls Larry up.

  •

  Though the Mercedes is well insulated, Millie hears noises of celebration filtering through the chassis. She recognises the tune of “Rule Britannia” being played by the brass band, accompanied by a singing ensemble, which sound so close. As the car comes to a halt she hears the gearshift positioned to park, and engine turned off. The hood is yanked from her head.

  Though Millie’s neck movement is restricted by the leather strap, she manages to move her head and eyes to the right enough to see Ruparela tossing the hood over his shoulder into the large storage compartment behind their seat, which is packed with plastic sacks right up to the ceiling. Millie watches him adjusting the laptop, angling it correctly so they can both view the screen streaming Arabic news. Looking up she sees real-time footage, of them both on the flip-down TV.

  Swivelling her head to the left she looks out through the window. The crowd are just inches away, directly behind the glass. Some touching it, attempting to peer in; one squashes his nose against it.

  Her mind fills with dread: she knows they don’t know what lies ahead.

  •

  Hazma makes his way towards the north-east corner of the square. Climbing the terrace steps he looks up towards the National Gallery and on the temporary stage sees guest-of-honour preparations now appear to be complete.

  A confident young lad warms up the crowd, blowing his soul through a brass sax, while a huddle of important-looking people congregate behind him; including the larger-than-life Mayor of London, whose shock of blond hair and buffoonery is impossible to ignore. He’s wearing a white waistcoat bearing a large red Saint George’s cross, and is sharing a joke with Virgin Group’s founder and figurehead, the goatee-bearded Richard Branson.

  Hazma walks around the stage, and arrives moments later at his own vantage point, overlooked by a statue of King George IV on his horse. Hazma’s own elevated command centre, standing behind a low wall close to a bus stop on the road running uphill parallel to the square.

  He has excellent views right across the area: from the sublimely symmetrical gallery building on his right, with its domed central focal point and sculpted columns beneath, then along the long wide balustraded terrace with its functioning temporary stage; panning left down the steps over a jostling sea of heads to where the flashing Mercedes is parked between both fountains, then Nelson’s Column away to his left, with the road and Mall entrance further to the left behind. The whole area is teeming with people.

  Hazma pulls out his iPhone, which also streams the Arabic news website. He applies his earpiece and concentrates on the screen, until distracted by a familiar sound. Leaning forward he looks over the waist-high wall down into the square below, and sees set-up directly beneath him a group of four young buskers; two lads on cellos and two girls on violins, possibly music students, who stand swaying playing classical music. Their thrilled faces show how much sharing their music with the masses means to them. The piling pennies in the violin case are just for coffee.

  Hazma returns his attention to the Mercedes, then back to his phone; stealing glances between both as he watches… and waits.

  •

  As festivities continue, Williams is joined on the plinth by other anxious-looking police and security staff. From their vantage point all eyes glance constantly between the Mercedes and Williams, as he barks instructions. “Let me know when snipers are set; get a dog sniffing at that car. I want to know what’s inside. I want a visual through the front, who’s in the back? Get uniformed plod setting up road blocks, stop people coming in and start clearing that crowd from the outside in.”

  An important-looking uniformed senior police officer with overloaded silvered epaulettes, and the air of arrogance that rank sometimes promotes, points out, “We haven’t enough men on-hand to set up road blocks yet. Fast response teams are on the way.”

  “How fast?”

  The officer grimaces, “Ten minutes max.”

  “Too slow!” complains Williams, then demands facts. “How many civilians in range?”

  The officer frowns, “We estimate about 3,000.”

  “Get clearing now then!”

  “I just said,” the officer objects, “the teams will be ten…”

  “Just do something!” Williams wants action now, “Get men in there,” he points, “clear that square… and Boris and Branson!”

  “What do we tell people?” the officer enquires, “What excuse? We don’t want a
stampede!”

  “I don’t know!” Williams snaps. “Make something up! Tell them health and safety cancelled Saint George’s Day, for overcrowding!” He shakes his head, “Everyone’ll believe that!”

  The brass band now plays a continuous medley of poignant rallying tunes, and after finishing “Rule Britannia” moves on to “Land of Hope and Glory”, much to the delight of the flag-waving crowd.

  Williams hasn’t finished with the officer, “Are the phones jammed?”

  He looks embarrassed to admit, “We’re working on it.”

  “What’s the hold up?”

  The officer looks increasingly uncomfortable in his tight collar, which grows hotter by the moment beneath. He twitches and waffles, “Listen, I know you don’t want to hear it, but there have been cut-backs you know, on manpower and funding; things take longer these days.”

  The officer is right, Williams doesn’t want to hear it.

  •

  Ruparela’s pearly whites are tucked away today beneath tightly pressed lips, and his furrowed brow frowns as he focuses on the task ahead. With his index finger hovering over the keyboard’s return button, he turns to Millie and with steely intensity states firmly, “Once I press this key, the world is our audience… Do you understand?”

  With heart pumping strong, she acknowledges with a faint nod.

  “First,” he explains, “I will make my address. You may then contribute, however you see fit.”

  A text message beeps. Binda confirms, “Hazma is ready.”

  Millie’s eyes are drawn down to the void between both front seats, where two machine guns are stored, and sees what her feet are resting on: the entire floor of the car is covered with layers of tampered plastic sacks full of oily fertilizer, like the sacks piled high to the ceiling behind her.

  Ruparela checks the onscreen clock and confirms “It is time!” then with an extended finger, ceremoniously stabs the return button.

  •

  Williams receives radioed notification from the police dog handler, “I walked a sniffer dog right around the car…”

  “And?”

  “As you thought… it’s a rolling IED; a big one!”

  Williams checks, “Did you get a visual in the back?”

  “Confirmed,” he replies. “Ruparela rear offside, Jones rear nearside.”

  Williams is trying to look controlled on the outside, while flapping like a budgie inside, as he frantically calculates a procedural order to the evolving information whirring cogs in his brain. He turns to the “officer with pips” and asks, “Snipers?”

  “Ready.” He’s pleased to confirm, “Clear shots at both front targets, but can’t get fixed sights on rear target.”

  The agent grimaces, and complains, “The square’s not clearing quick enough; why not?”

  “We’ve stopped people arriving,” explains the stressed officer, “but if we go in too heavy, it’ll cause a riot!”

  “I’ll cause a riot if you don’t get it cleared!” threatens Williams, ushering him with his arms, “Quicker, quicker!” then turns away shaking his head, but looks straight into Larry’s eyes boring into him.

  The American seethes, “You said you’d take care of her!” thrusting his Blackberry into Williams’ face, “Look!”

  His mobile device is streaming from the Arabic news website, which is broadcasting real-time live video footage from inside the Mercedes. The small screen shows Ruparela sat next to a bound and gagged, frightened, dishevelled-looking Millie, while a caption at the bottom reads LIVE FROM LONDON.

  Larry explains, “At CNN we monitor all news channels. This just went live, on the world wide web!”

  Williams swivels back to the officer, and pointing at the Blackberry yells furiously, “CUT COMMS NOW!”

  The floundering officer puts a phone to his mouth, while the rest huddle around Larry’s Blackberry.

  On screen Ruparela oozes with the calculated confidence and aura of an experienced newsreader, or politician delivering a party political broadcast. Calmly and eloquently he begins, “In several minutes… this car will detonate… and obliterate Trafalgar Square!” He flashes his eyes upwards, “The blast may even topple Nelson from his column…” The doctor pauses. His demonic demeanour portrays a man in control… a man enjoying his power trip, while to the contrary, Millie’s eyes flicker from side to side, fretting over his words and their catastrophic consequence to the unknowing innocents in and around the square. She looks suitably mentally tortured, as he continues, “Today is the twenty-third of April… I announce this because many English do not know the date of Saint George’s Day. The day to honour their patron saint… But from now on those heathenistic masses will know this date because after today twenty-three/four will be remembered as the day I, Doctor Raheem Ruparela, sent my message to the world… In the name of Allah and his people; the followers of Islam who represent one quarter of this planet!”

  The watching men’s focus on Larry’s Blackberry is interrupted as the editor quotes, “Twenty-three/four! The next date-denominated disaster… today!”

  Williams leans over to Ginger and whispers in his ear.

  •

  From his observation point at the bus stop, Hazma observes both square and broadcast, while listening subliminally to the string quartet below him playing the haunting Dambusters theme (soundtrack to a British WWII movie).

  •

  Inside the car Millie watches, as Imran and Binda reach around, grab a machine gun each, and hold them behind their seats.

  Ruparela continues his address, “Generations of Muslims have suffered and suffer to this day from the West’s obsessive oppression of our people… General consensus now agrees that their futile wars waged in Iraq and Afghanistan achieved nothing but death… yet they call us the terrorists!” He pauses. “But what else are we expected to do? Even now, as the West’s troops are withdrawn, their attacks haven’t stopped… Our people live in dread still, of facing faceless pilotless drones dropping death and destruction daily from the sky. The West’s war-crazed power-mongers plough on with their borderless war regardless.” He shakes his head. “We cannot defend against billion dollar weaponry. We are David versus Goliath… Strategic attack is our major defence.”

  •

  With one eye on Larry’s phone, Williams’ other eye watches uniformed police, assisted by colleagues on horseback, milling amongst revellers on the square’s perimeter.

  The streets are now cordoned off, traffic flow is stemmed and no new people are arriving, while slowly, the crowds around the periphery are beginning to disperse, though the square itself remains chocablock. He speaks into his radio, “Snipers standby. Confirm clear shots at both front targets?”

  His question receives an emphatic response, “Affirmative!”

  Larry fumes, “What are you waiting for?”

  As Williams’ eyes flicker between Blackberry and Mercedes, he justifies his delay, “We don’t have a shot to the rear… He won’t blow… until he’s finished his speech.”

  •

  The doctor reaches his arm out to the left, and appears to be putting an arm around Millie while explaining, “CNN reporter Millennium Jones will attempt to balance my views by arguing perspective from the West.” Without warning he rips the tape clean from her mouth. She winces with watering eyes, and chaffed lips split by tape.

  Gratefully gasping in air through her mouth, Millie wonders: Will screaming HELP help? And decides: Not.

  The tight neck strap constricting her throat combined with dry mouth and gullet restricts her voice somewhat as she responds huskily, “I do not speak for the West. I am my own person with my own mind. Whatever point I make… is mine.”

  He nods, “Duly noted.”

  Her voice loosens up as she continues, “You make comparison to David and Goliath, and quote defence by strategic attack… By strategic attack, you mean slaughtering innocent people here in Trafalgar Square? Where’s the logic in that? Sounds more like a cheap ticket t
o martyrdom to me.”

  Millie’s opening blow below the belt does not faze Ruparela, who responds tactically, “True believers… will sacrifice themselves for their cause… Would you not die for yours?”

  Millie didn’t anticipate that question, and while she searches for words he explains to camera, “This reporter has been a relentless thorn in my side whilst professing her wish to make the world a better place… Ms Jones, I too share your dream wholeheartedly… that is why we’re here today.”

  She snaps angrily, “Killing all these people won’t change a thing! Have you forgotten those dark clouds of 9/11, 7/7? They shrouded the world for years… and you want to do it again?”

  He snaps back, “Those clouds were miniscule compared to the wrath of the world police… Gung-ho Americans who interfere in every conflict on the planet, and their faithful old lapdog Britain, who massacred countless thousands conquering the world, building churches and spreading their religion right around the globe until eventually they realised… nobody wanted them there, so they gave it all back, and invited us here!” he exclaims in disbelief. “Now we build our churches in your countries, and while your churches are empty, ours are full. Islam guides us, inspires us, and instils moral guidance… while the decadent godless West wallows in irrefutable irreparable moral decline… and preaches to us about morality!”

  •

  Hazma notices a growing presence of uniformed police moving through the crowd, and watches as they form into one large circle, a ring of helmeted high-visibility vests, right around both fountains, with the Mercedes at pivotal centre. The police begin pulling people outward from the nucleus, away from the car, creating a slowly growing void around the vehicle, like an expanding drop of ink on blotting paper.

  The bands still play, none have yet deserted the ship; they know not of the iceberg. The string quartet below Hazma strike up their bows, and sweet music filters through his neurological system as they play the opening bars of a tune familiar to him: Johan Strauss’s “The Blue Danube” wafts deliciously through the air. He peeks over the wall once more and sees waltzing in front of the buskers, a young family of three: a turban-wearing father, sari-wearing mother and bouncing baby boy held preciously between them. They dance slowly around and around in circles, and as the baby smiles and gurgles… they do too.