Reconstruction

by Mick Herron

  Ben hid his relief. He was in no hurry to face a gun, but he’d rather be inside before Chapman turned up. One bad man at a time.

  The pair headed for the nursery gates.

  Inside the annexe, Judy was all alone, all alone.

  Oh, there were others – the thug with the gun; the use-less man slumped against the wall; and, in the toilet now, Louise Kennedy with those children – but Judy was all alone. Policemen outside would know she was present, but none would actually care. She’d be a name on a list, was all. But these others – they’d have people worrying about them; people in tears, wondering if they’d see their loved ones again. Even the thug with the gun looked the type to have a mother. And she, somewhere foreign, would soon know what her son was up to, and would weep, and hope he lived through it. But no one wept for Judy.

  If Derek were alive . . .

  But Derek wasn’t, and even if he were, he’d be happy about her predicament. That was obvious. He’d left her, hadn’t he? Found some trollop and spent every last penny they’d saved – and some they hadn’t – on making a new life for himself. So even if Derek were alive, he’d be smiling to think of Judy in mortal danger; all it would take would be one squeeze of a trigger and bang, no more Judy. It had almost already happened. And then he could forget about her even more completely than he already had, and Judy’s life would dwindle to an unregretted close. Unregretted by everyone but Judy. She wanted to live – it wasn’t fair she had to die. Which you couldn’t say about Derek.

  Once or twice, she’d dreamed his death. It had taken place far away, and had been a hot death: a death in a car. Judy didn’t watch the kind of films where that happened, but her dream had felt accurate enough. Derek had been at the wheel, his trollop beside him. The road they travelled was long, and there was no other traffic. There was nothing at all, in fact; just miles and miles of sand stretch-ing every direction; mounds of it folding over and over; sinking from sight, then rising to greet the sky. The road was long and straight and bumpy. It was also mined. When the jeep hit a bump which wasn’t a bump, it turned to a ball of fire, somersaulting once, twice, three times, before coming to a rest upside down, while the flames that enveloped it blossomed brightly – an orange and black rose – and smoke purled upwards in a never-ending stream. What happened to the bodies, Judy didn’t know. She always woke before that part. But she suspected they’d be charcoal husks: faintly human shapes twisted to attitudes of pleading. Stripped of flesh and clothing, their teeth would be roasted corks; their organs a thick gravy, puddled beneath their heads.

  It wasn’t that Judy invited such images, but she was helpless to keep at bay the things that visited her at night.

  And now a noise escaped her lips again; something between a whine and a prayer for mercy. She hoped they’d all come out of this alive, but if there could only be one survivor, she wanted it to be her.

  Anyone would feel the same. Not anyone would admit it.

  And neither of the men paid attention, because Judy was all alone.

  The boys huddled into the same cubicle and weed either side of the bowl, their trousers and pants pooled round their respective ankles. Any other time, it would have been funny. Now, Louise just wanted it to be over. Who’d have thought little boys had so much piss in them?

  ‘Hurry,’ she told them. But no, that was wrong. ‘I mean, take your time. Don’t worry.’

  But hurry.

  Neither looked up, both intent on the job in hand.

  Their twin streams dwindled and finished at the same moment. Hoisting their trousers, they left the cubicle together – for full comic effect they should have jammed themselves in the doorway, but were little enough to exit side by side.

  ‘Hands,’ she said.

  Obediently, they turned to the sink, and four small hands shared the same stream of water for a micro-second. Timmy had turned the hot tap on; Gordy turned it off. There was a natural, unrehearsed choreography to this that informed a lot of their actions.

  ‘Good boys.’

  For a moment, everything was normal. Nothing was happening here that couldn’t be found every weekday in this building.

  Then normality sucked away at the sight of the Gun.

  The boys skittered to their father as fast their legs would take them. If things were still ordinary, Louise would have barked ‘No running!’ Instead she waited until they were safe in his arms, or as safe as the situation allowed, and then waited some more.

  ‘You come out now.’

  ‘I need to use the toilet.’

  ‘You come out.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I need to use the toilet. I’ll be two minutes.’

  But rather than turn her back on him, she remained in the doorway, staring. He stared back, his face a confusion of strong emotions, of which anger was the clearest. But his gun remained by his side. He was not about to kill her; not yet. And with that realization came another: that he was as much their prisoner as they were his. All he had was his gun. And as soon as he used it, policemen would burst in, and whatever demonstration he was intent on would be over, along with his life. Where terrorism was concerned, no prisoners were taken. That rule had been written in blood under the streets of London, and would hold true here.

  He said, ‘You must do as I say.’

  ‘Yes. But first I need to use the toilet.’

  ‘You are very stupid!’

  She said, ‘What I told you before, about what a mess there’d be if you didn’t let them go?’ She couldn’t remember whether she’d told him that or just thought it. ‘It’s true of me too. Of all of us. There’s no window, no way of escape. I’ll be two minutes.’

  Judy was staring at her now; had lifted her head from whatever well of misery she’d been drowning in, and was beaming pure hatred, as if Louise were endangering them all. And maybe she was. But this was part of becoming human; part of letting him know they were people. If he cut them, they’d bleed. And every so often, they needed to piss.

  After the longest seconds in recorded history, he said, ‘Leave door open.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She propped it open with the wastepaper bin, and stepped into the second cubicle.

  Inside, she relieved herself, because this hadn’t been just for show, and as she did so bent forward, fished in her jeans pocket, and freed her mobile phone.

  I don’t have one, she’d told him. I mean, I’ve got one, but not with me . . . It’s in the other office.

  It had been in her pocket. But it was a compact model, and didn’t make a bulge – slim was good; slim was cool and sexy, though no advert she’d ever seen had made use of this scenario.

  Mobile in hand, she felt she’d won a round. Had tricked him; had earned a minute’s space, and the freedom to communicate.

  It was only as she pressed the button that brought her phone to life that it occurred to her that everyone who needed to know she was here already did.

  At the gates to the nursery, Ben Whistler met Peter Faulks. He’d just emerged from the Major Incident Vehicle.

  ‘So you’re going in there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Done this before?’

  ‘Your boss already asked me that.’

  ‘We have five hostages. I’d like to think your joining them will do more good than harm.’

  Faulks was a round man with ruddy-coloured cheeks; had a face just begging for a disguise – pin a big white beard on it, he’d be Santa Claus. No problem about for-getting what he really looked like, because that could happen while you were talking to him. But he was a copper, and he’d done this before, and Ben hadn’t. And he was worried about what might happen to the hostages, which Ben was too, largely because he was going to be one of them soon.

  He said, ‘I’ve not done this before. I’d rather not be doing it now. But this man, whoever he is, asked for me by name. Going in there has got to do more good than harm, wouldn’t you say?’

  Whoever he is . . .

  ‘Let’s
hope so. You’re not armed?’

  ‘Christ, no.’

  ‘Wired?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘It might annoy him. Besides, we’ve got a mobile inside. It’s picking up everything in a five-yard range. Things are quiet now, and ideally they’ll stay that way. If you can’t talk him out – if it goes arse over tit – we’ll be with you inside four seconds.’

  ‘How long does it take to squeeze a trigger?’

  ‘Think positive thoughts. He knows who you are, right?’

  ‘Seems to.’

  ‘That’s good. The last thing a hostage wants to be is a stranger. You need to be a full person, with family, with feelings. He’s got to understand you’re not just a pawn in whatever game he’s playing.’

  ‘He’s given no hint of what that is?’

  ‘Your lot know more than we do. And none of you are saying anything.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m in the dark.’

  ‘We have to trust you, Mr Whistler. We have no choice in the matter. Got any electronics on you? Mobile, iPod?’

  ‘BlackBerry.’

  ‘Let’s have it. It might throw off transmission from our mobile. Besides, if he’s got any sense, first thing he’ll do is stomp on it in case it’s bugged.’

  ‘But he didn’t stomp the mobile?’

  ‘He needed that. He doesn’t need this.’ Faulks took Ben’s gadget and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Ben wondered if he’d ever see it again, and not because he thought Faulks might steal it. ‘Once you’re in, remember this. In intense situations, one person’s mood infects others with lightning speed.’

  ‘I’ve been in relationships like that before.’

  ‘And try not to be funny. He might take it the wrong way. And he has a gun.’

  ‘How many times have you done this?’

  ‘Talked people out?’

  ‘Gone inside.’

  ‘Never. We don’t do that. It’s stupid and dangerous.’

  But think positive thoughts, Ben remembered. ‘Are you wearing a vest?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. Standard practice. We can get you one if you want, but . . . ’

  ‘It might annoy him?’

  ‘Odd as this sounds, you’ve got to establish some kind of normality in there. Don’t forget the gun. But don’t act like it’s all there is. Would you wear Kevlar when you’re out on a visit? Oh, I forgot. You’ve been in relationships like that before.’

  And he grinned, which transformed his face. Maybe not so forgettable after all.

  Ben looked around – it felt like one last look. He knew no more about how to handle the situation now than when he’d got up this morning. When he hadn’t even known there was a situation. He checked his watch: 10.22. Any minute, Bad Sam Chapman would turn up and start throwing weight around. And Ben wasn’t wearing Kevlar.

  ‘Good luck,’ Faulks offered.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Superintendent Fredericks was standing a little way off. He nodded at Ben, as if echoing Faulks’ salutation, but the grin escaped him. Fair enough. This wasn’t a social gathering.

  On the other hand, Ben had been invited.

  He said, ‘See you later,’ and tried to sound like he meant it.

  ‘Yes. I’ll call him. Say you’re here.’

  For no reason he could have articulated, Ben checked that his collar was straight. Faulks was holding his mobile to his ear as Ben walked into the nursery grounds, where he truly felt alone.

  ‘. . . Mum?’

  ‘Louise! Where are you? There’s policemen up the road and –’

  ‘Mum, I’m okay.’

  ‘I can’t hear you. You’ll have to speak up.’

  She might have known this would be a mistake.

  ‘Mum . . . I’m in the nursery. There’s a man with a gun, and –’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying. God in heaven, you’re not trapped with him, are you?’

  ‘Yes. But

  –’ But what? But don’t worry?

  ‘– But it’s going to be all right, mum. It will work out fine.’

  She hoped.

  ‘Oh Louise, you should never . . . ’

  But whatever it was Louise should never, to have avoided ending up where she was, Louise’s mother couldn’t get to grips with.

  Louise was whispering – breathing the words, almost; it was a wonder they were finding their way through the ether. And as she opened her mouth, to see if anything resembling comfort would emerge, she heard, out in the annexe, the familiar sound of another mobile coming to life. The outside world was breaking in.

  ‘Mum? I love you.’

  ‘I can’t hear you, dear. What are you doing? I think you should come home now.’

  ‘I can’t do that yet.’ The other mobile’s trill cut off: she heard the boy answer it. Yes. Not a question. She dared speak louder, now he was occupied. ‘I have to go. Things will be all right.’ The second time she’d asserted this. ‘Mum? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Oh, what have you done, Louise?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ she couldn’t help snapping. ‘Oh, mum . . . I have to go. I love you, mum.’

  She didn’t wait for a reply. Perhaps she was worried it wouldn’t echo her own words. Instead, she stood, adjusted her clothing, and flushed the toilet. When she rejoined the others, the boy was putting the phone back in his pocket. ‘He is here,’ he said. It was as if they were complicit; as if they’d been waiting for the same thing.

  ‘Whistler?’ she said, just to maintain that pretence.

  ‘He is here, yes.’

  Louise went and stood against the wall again. Eliot looked at her, but she only glanced back.

  Mostly, she was wondering who’d come through the door.

  Fredericks joined Faulks at the gate, and the pair watched Ben Whistler as he made his way across the small car park, unlocked the gate in the dividing fence with the keys Louise had thrown over it, and headed for the annexe.

  ‘What are the chances of a good result on this?’

  Faulks said, ‘He’s never done this before.’

  ‘Bloody spooks.’

  ‘We have to assume he knows things we don’t.’

  ‘But mostly,’ Fredericks said, ‘we have to assume that his being here means this isn’t some misplaced domestic. Why do you think the girl went back in?’

  ‘You think she knows the gunman?’

  ‘God knows. She was with a City bank. Why did she leave to come and teach kiddies?’

  ‘And is there a connection?’

  ‘He hasn’t made any demands yet. When he does, I wonder if we’ll get to find out what they are. Before the spooks clamp down.’ He shook his head. ‘We should have brought her out while we had the chance.’

  ‘We didn’t have the chance,’ Faulks told him.

  ‘She was there, in plain sight –’ ‘She was there on sufferance, sir. If I don’t go back, he’ll use the gun. That’s what she said.’

  ‘And if he uses it now, he’s got one more body to use it on.’

  ‘She went back inside. She didn’t have to. Before we got here, I mean. She brought a little girl out, raised the alarm, then went back inside. Because there are other children there.’

  ‘I don’t trust heroes,’ Fredericks said.

  ‘Me neither, sir,’ said Faulks. ‘But they’re more use in there than out here. You know what we really need?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘Thermal imaging. Show us exactly where everyone is, what they’re doing. With the right equipment, we could take this guy out with no risk to the hostages. We have trained men, he’s just a kid with a stolen gun. We don’t even know he can use it.’

  ‘So killing him might be an overreaction.’

  ‘And might be saving five innocent lives. We don’t have to do the maths ourselves. The press will do that afterwards.’

  ‘Is that what recent history’s taught us, Peter?’

  ‘De Menezes wasn’t w
ho they thought he was. This guy’s got a gun.’

  ‘But we don’t have the equipment, that’s what you’re saying.’

  ‘We could have it within the hour. One call to the Met –’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  Faulks said, ‘Between the Chief Constable and the security services, we’re going to be lucky if today turns out right, Malc.’

  Fredericks didn’t respond. Instead, he turned and surveyed the house next to the nursery grounds, twenty yards or so behind them: a large detached building which had gone up at the same time as the nursery. Nice-looking piece of property, with two substantial chimney stacks, one either end of the roof. A figure nestled against the nearest; strapped to it, Fredericks assumed. The rifle it held was trained on the annexe door.

  On which Whistler knocked twice before pushing it open, and walking in.

  Knocking – the wood harsh against his knuckles – returned Ben to reality. As he’d walked through the deserted nursery grounds, this quality had been suspended: he’d entered instead some post-apocalyptic environment, though the nature of the apocalypse remained obscure. But it was clear that there had been people here, who had left in a hurry: there was even a doll face down on the grass, a movie-version staple of catastrophe. Other clues abounded: footprints in the flowerbeds; an abandoned sweater. Mostly, though, there was an indefinable sense of recent evacuation. Ben could almost see the shapes hanging in the air: cut-outs of children who’d been playing here, until fear dispersed them. The same fear was infecting Ben. Here in the quiet zone, the only living human was himself, though countless watchers studied his every footfall, their unrelenting gazes scoring hot marks on his back. Strange that he felt like a target to those behind him, when it was the man up ahead he really had to worry about.

  That’s his boyfriend in the nursery, Whistler. Miro Weiss’s boyfriend. His name’s Jaime Segura. You heard that name before?

  No, Ben hadn’t.

  But Segura had heard of him.

  There was a voice. ‘That is Whistler?’

  ‘This is Whistler, yes. Should I come in?’

  His voice scraped, as if he’d not used it in a while. He swallowed.

  There fell a pause. All this way: what were the odds Segura had sent for Ben just to put a bullet in him as he walked through the door? Numbers rattled through his mind, but none were any help. That was the thing about probabilities: they became irrelevant in the face of event. In the face of a gun.