by Max Kinnings
“I need to get through,” she said as she tried to insert her body into any gap that she could find in order to move forward up the train. She knew she had to get a message to the outside world. Maggie looked at all the people clutching their phones, computer tablets, and laptops as though they were sacred objects. The mood was one of emotional anarchy as people wept and shrieked and prayed whilst others tapped out messages or spoke to relatives. Their communication with the outside world had become a precious lifeline.
“Please,” said Maggie to a woman about her age who was clutching her BlackBerry and staring at its screen as though it held some profound significance, “I need to get a message to my husband.” The woman looked up at her with tears in her eyes.
“I’m almost out of battery.”
“He’s the driver of the train and they’ve taken our children and locked them in the boot of a car. They’ll be dying in this heat.”
“I managed to send an e-mail to my mother,” said the woman with a faraway look in her eyes. “She’ll be trying to contact me.”
“My children might be dying,” said Maggie.
“You can’t make an ordinary phone call. It’s just Wi-Fi.”
“Please, let me send a message.”
“Be quick,” said the woman. “Try not to use too much battery.”
She held out the BlackBerry to Maggie who took it and opened up the browser on the screen and stared at it. Who was she going to contact? Who could she send an e-mail to who might conceivably be able to get a message to George in time? She could send it to her sister but she couldn’t remember her e-mail address. The police, that was it, she should contact the police.
“Please, have you finished yet?” The woman wanted her phone back.
“How do I call the police? Can I do that?”
“I don’t know. I know others managed to make a call but I don’t know how. I don’t know, okay?” The woman was teetering on the edge of hysteria. Maggie returned the BlackBerry and muttered, “Thanks.”
Maggie looked at the people crowded all around her. Messages were being typed and sent, people were making calls. There was a heavyset man standing next to her whose pink business shirt was stained with sweat. He was shouting into his phone, “Well they’ve got to fucking do something, they’re trying to drown us down here.” He was speaking to the outside world. Whoever he was speaking to could get word to the authorities about the children. Maggie put her hand on his arm to get his attention. As he looked at her she made her pitch.
“I need your help. I need to get a message to the police.”
The man looked at her with blank staring eyes and said, “They can’t leave us down here. Someone’s got to come.”
“Can you help me? Please.”
This second attempt at getting through to him was greeted with an angry expression and the man turned away from Maggie and shrugged her hand off his arm. She turned around and looked to others. A middle-aged woman with a calm impassive expression was standing with her back against a yellow vertical pole. She had her eyes closed and was clutching a mobile phone to her chest. As Maggie said, “Please, you need to help me,” the woman opened her eyes and she snapped, “No!”
Everyone was so possessive of their phones and computers—their lifelines to their families—that to try and borrow one was going to be almost impossible. Even if she could, she didn’t know how to make a call using the Wi-Fi link; she didn’t know who she was meant to be phoning, and even if she did manage to get a message out, there would be so many messages and calls from the train that it would take too long to filter through the system to save Ben and Sophie. A few hundred feet along the train was George. If he knew the truth about the children then he would be released from his enforced compliance and he might be able to do something. If she couldn’t get through the train itself then she would go down the side. If she didn’t make it—if she was shot or attacked by a hijacker—then so be it. At least she would have tried. The thought of Ben and Sophie locked in the boot of the car in the blazing heat of the hottest day of the year was too much for her. All the time she might spend trying to work out how to send a message from one of her fellow passengers’ phones—a message that might not even be read—was time wasted. She needed to get to George, now.
She splashed through the water on the floor of the carriage. When she managed to squeeze her way through the people in the fourth carriage and made it into the third, she could see the water in the tunnel through one of the sliding doors that had been partially wedged open.
An American man in a polo shirt and slacks stood by the doors, his fear manifesting itself as a jittery excitement. When he saw Maggie contemplating the water, he told her that the track might still be live. The lights in the carriage were still on, dimmed considerably, providing only a yellowy almost sepia tint, but on nonetheless. If she went into the water in the tunnel, the electric current might kill her.
But there was no way that Maggie could proceed any farther within the train itself. The bodies in front of her were packed too tightly together, crushed together in the center of the train where people had fled to from the scenes of violence at either end. Maggie looked through the open door, at the dim flickering lights reflected in the dark water.
As she moved toward it, the man who had warned about possible electrocution said to her, “They’re shooting at people if they try to go down the side of the train.” He said it as though he expected it to dissuade her. But her trajectory didn’t waver and she pushed her way through the gap in the doors and dropped into the water. It was cold enough to make her breathless but as soon as she had found her footing on the uneven floor of the tunnel, she started wading down the side of the carriage, a space narrow enough in places to force her to press herself against the side of the train. Inside the carriage she could hear crying and raised voices; there were faces contorted into masks of pain and a smell of excrement came through a broken window. Some faces were blank, as though in acute denial of the reality of the new world they found themselves in. Some faces reflected a weird sort of acceptance as though they knew this was meant to happen, as if they’d dreamed it, as if it was meant to be. But Maggie thought of nothing beyond her children, roasting in the boot of a car.
She lost track of the shouted warnings. “Don’t go down there . . . They’ll shoot you . . .” Over and over. Maybe they would shoot her. But she couldn’t stop herself. She had to get to George.
There was a man in the tunnel up ahead. He was trying to climb onto the roof of the train but he couldn’t get a steady footing from which to lever himself up. He turned to face Maggie as the lights in the carriage flickered and for a moment he flashed up as a green negative on her retina.
“It’s all over,” he said.
“What is?” said Maggie.
“It was only a matter of time. It was bound to happen again. We brought this on ourselves.” He wore a suit and tie; the side parting in his hair was still in place. But his mind had gone.
“I need to get to my children,” said Maggie, hoping that her heartfelt mission might resonate with him. He looked like a father.
“You can get in there,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Maggie and following his direction to the carriage door that had been pried open, she climbed back onto the train in the semidarkness, the lights fading fast. It was easier to move among the passengers here. She was going against the flow. At the end of the second carriage there were bodies, their blood coloring the water in which they lay. There were muttered warnings behind her but she paid no attention and moved forward toward the door at the end of the carriage, picking her way through the arms and legs.
She looked through the window into the first carriage and there was a man’s body halfway down. The door to the cab beyond it was open. There was movement from inside and she could hear someone speaking. The doors between the first and second carriages were chained together. She toyed with the idea of squeezing through the open windows in the doors but sh
e decided against it and crouched down.
“George, can you hear me? George, it’s me.”
Any worries that she might have had that she hadn’t shouted loudly enough disappeared when she heard George’s shaky voice: “Maggie?”
She had to speak fast. She might not have long. She couldn’t even stop to think of what sort of extra danger she might be putting George in. She just knew that she had to tell him about the children.
“Sophie and Ben have been locked in the boot of a car at Morden station. We’ve got to do something otherwise they’ll die. You’ve got to use the radio.”
A shot was fired. She would have worried for George if it weren’t for the metallic thud of the bullet striking a part of the train carriage near to her. It wasn’t George that was being shot at. She ducked down below the level of the windows.
“Did you hear me, George?”
There was no reply.
“You’ve got to do something, George. You’ve got to do something or they’re going to die.” Another shot and the bullet struck the door behind which she sheltered. She could hear footsteps approaching. If she stayed where she was, she was dead. In a running crouch, she made her way back to the first set of double doors in the carriage and ducked down behind the row of seats. When she chanced a glance, she could see a figure framed in the window in the door. It was the man who had held the gun to Sophie’s head that morning. But there was something wrong with him. He clutched his face and his entire arm was red and shiny with blood. When she saw him raise up the gun, she ducked down once again and a shot thudded into the seats inches away from her head.
12:42 PM
Network Control center, St. James’s
The radio connection to the driver’s cab on the train was relayed through all the headsets in the negotiating cell. Ed listened intently. His breathing quickened as the radio was answered.
“Hello?”
“George, it’s Ed Mallory. I need to speak to Tommy.”
The radio link crackled with white noise for a moment and Ed could hear a whispered conversation in the background before George came back on the line and said, “Tommy wants to ask you a question.”
“Tell Tommy that he can ask me the question himself. It’s essential that I speak to him.”
George’s voice trembled as he said, “Tommy wants to know whether you’d like him to shoot me.”
“Tell Tommy that we don’t want him to harm anyone on the train. And tell him that I need to speak to him as a matter of urgency.”
A pause and then, “He wants to know what you want to talk to him about.”
“Tell him that I want to talk to him about how we’re going to resolve this situation so that the innocent men, women, and children on the train can be released.”
Another pause before George said, “No deal, it’s God’s will that they must all die.”
“George, tell him that there’s some information that I need to give him related to that and I can only do it if I speak to him.”
Ed listened to the muffled conversation in the background.
“He says no.”
As long as the line was open, Ed would keep going, keep pushing, keep thinking. There had to be something that would make Tommy speak to him. There was clearly a degree of playfulness, however perverse, in the way that Tommy was fielding his requests via George. Ed had to keep believing that there was a switch in Tommy’s psychological makeup that once thrown would compel him to communicate. Ed knew he didn’t have long. He needed to find that switch before the line went down or Tommy tired of the game.
“Tell Tommy that I have information regarding the flooding of the tunnel that he’s going to want to hear.”
Ed waited.
“He says that he knows what you’re trying to do. You’re going to tell him that something is going to prevent the tunnel from filling up.”
Tommy had got it in one. Ed was going to tell him that he had spoken to an expert in the construction of the tube who had stated quite unequivocally that once the water had reached a certain level, it would start to drain away and rise no further. His intention was to try and make Tommy think that his mission was futile. Even if it was a lie.
“No, it’s something that I need to tell him directly.” Ed had no idea what it might be but that didn’t matter. He needed to get Tommy on the line. Once he had managed that, he would worry about what he was going to say.
“No deal,” said George.
Ed needed something that would jolt Tommy out of the game he clearly felt he was playing.
“Tell him I want to talk to him about his parents.”
Ed waited for his words to be relayed to Tommy. Silence over the line. Had the connection been broken? Before he could ask the question, he heard a voice that he hadn’t heard before coming through his headphones.
“Ed Mallory.” The words were pained and seemingly spoken with great difficulty.
“Is that Tommy?”
When the voice said, “Yes,” Ed clenched his fists. He was through.
“Tommy, we need to talk.” To people with no experience of hostage negotiation, the “we need to talk” line might appear corny but Ed knew that many perpetrators of hostage crises—Tommy included—had spent their lives being marginalized and shut out by family and wider society. No one had ever solicited their opinion on anything. No one cared what they had to say. The situation that they found themselves in was sometimes the only time they had been the focus of any attention. Ed was convinced that Tommy was enjoying his newfound celebrity; he was enjoying being famous, even if the fame and notoriety were only ever going to be short-lived.
“You might need to talk, Mr. Mallory, but I don’t.”
“Please, call me Ed.”
“Aren’t you guys meant to find someone from my past who means something to me like an old teacher or a former girlfriend?”
“Who would you like to talk to, Tommy?”
“No one, least of all you.”
“Why least of all me? Are you afraid that I might persuade you to stop what you’re doing?”
“Come on, Ed, you can do better than that.”
“Tommy, you’re sounding different from before. What’s happened?”
“I’ve been shot in the face.”
Ed didn’t think that Denning would back down now just because of an injury, even if it was excruciating, but Ed was heartened by his growing willingness to communicate. This represented something of a sea change in his behavior but whether it would make negotiation any easier remained to be seen. It was impossible to verify his injury but if he hadn’t been shot in the face then he was doing a good impersonation of someone who had been.
“Who shot you, Tommy?”
“Varick.”
“Who’s Varick?”
“Cruor Christi. Varick’s the main man.” The words tailed off into a gasp.
“What’s wrong, Tommy?”
“It hurts.”
“We could have you out of there in a few minutes and get you some medical attention, painkillers.”
“Why would I need painkillers?” The antagonism that Ed could hear in his voice made him realize that Denning’s outlook had changed from earlier.
“Tommy, if you put a stop to this now, you’re going to earn a lot of respect.”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. That sort of shit might work with some of the losers that you have to deal with but do you really think that it’s going to work with me?”
The negotiation wasn’t taking the course that Ed might have hoped but at least Denning was asking questions of him, seemingly keen to perpetuate their dialogue. Time for a different approach. Ed softened his tone in an attempt to remove any sense of a superior speaking to a subordinate. This was man to man.
“Why don’t you give it up, Tommy?”
There was a thin chuckle. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Silence, then: “Don’t be ridiculous, Ed. You don’t seriously think t
hat’s going to work, do you?”
Tommy’s questions were telling. However rhetorical they were, he was still asking Ed’s opinion. He was looking for reassurance. Now was the time for the ego massage.
“You’re on every single news report in the world. What you’ve achieved here is extraordinary. Everyone will respect you if you show compassion and release the passengers.”
“We both know that’s never going to happen.”
“I don’t know that, Tommy, and I don’t think you do either. If you let the passengers go now you’ll be a folk hero. People will respect you for it. You’ll have bought yourself a platform. You can tell the world about your thoughts and beliefs and the world will listen.”
Tommy sucked at his shattered teeth and gums. “They’re listening now, aren’t they?”
“They are, Tommy. Everyone’s listening to you now. And they’ll listen to you even more if you let the train passengers go.” Tommy remained silent, so Ed pressed on. “Don’t do this. Think of all the people. Think of the children. Think of their parents, think of the families of all the hostages and what they must be going through.” It was a tack that Ed rarely took, the emotional angle. He found that being rational and dispassionate was usually the best option; listening was as important as talking but he could hear something in Denning’s voice. He was at a low point. After all the time spent planning and anticipating this moment, the reality of what he was going to do was upon him and a vicious counterattack from this Varick person had clearly shaken him. He was feeling the pain that he had planned to bestow on others. He was the cocky young soldier no more. If there was any way of talking him down, now was the time. It was almost certainly the last chance that he would get. The power to the train would have died by now and what light remained would be coming from the battery. This, however, would last for only a few minutes more and then all communication with the train would cease apart from the occasional message from those passengers whose laptop computers and handheld devices were dry and still had power.