Fred
Fred woke early. It was already scorching – the heatwave the forecasters had predicted for the next few weeks had arrived. His bedroom was stifling but he knew better than to open the window. He just turned on the fan and kept the blinds pulled down. He went through to check the spare room, which he’d set up for Enid: not as hot, luckily, and even to his critical eye he thought it looked welcoming.
Fresh white sheets on the bed, brand-new towels laid at the end of it, and a bottle of mineral water on the bedside cabinet. A couple of kokedamas hung from the wall (Lisa had made them: beautiful, succulent plants poking out of handwoven hanging baskets), making the room look fresh and funky. He’d cleared the wardrobe so there was plenty of hanging space and there was a mirror on the chest of drawers so Enid could put on her make-up, though he suspected that she might not wear any.
Fred meandered around the house, checking each room was perfect, then scanned the fridge to make sure he’d thought of everything she might want to eat or drink when she arrived. She’d be suffering with jet lag, which made him a bit nervous; he hoped it wouldn’t have a detrimental effect on her Asperger’s. She’d be landing at about five on Sunday evening so he’d suggest she should just stay awake as late as she could manage in the hope that would minimise the effects.
Having done everything possible to prepare – and knowing he still had virtually the whole weekend to get through until Enid even arrived – he wondered what he could do to while away the time. He wanted to call Enid, but it was still Friday night in Jersey and he wanted her to get a good night’s sleep before her big trip. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen counter. He went for a jog, then a surf, then tinkered with his bike, then tried to read his book. By mid-afternoon he was feeling agitated, so he texted Enid – the two of them having agreed to make contact via their mobiles while she was en route.
Are you on your way?
Yes! Just about to board my flight to Gatwick from Jersey. Bess is with me. Not long now . . .
Then Fred’s phone beeped again. Two texts: one from Terri-Lee suggesting they head into the city for the evening and one from Todd asking if Fred wanted to join him, Lisa and Tess on a boat trip through Mandurah’s canals to see the Christmas lights. It was a no-brainer: by seven he’d made his way to the canals, where Father Christmas and an elf welcomed him on board a motor cruiser blaring out festive tunes. Lisa was already in the spirit of things, singing along to Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ with gusto. In Fred’s experience, Poms always seemed to be much more crazy about Christmas than Aussies and he could only assume it just felt more festive in the cold.
‘G’day!’ Fred said as he found them all inside the little boat, shaking Todd’s hand and giving Lisa a kiss on the cheek before hugging Tess. She was four years old and looked like a cherub, although Todd and Lisa swore she didn’t act like one. She was always good when Fred was around, though. He was her godfather and took his role as seriously as anyone who was sure they’d never become a father themselves.
‘I’ve got her some lollies,’ he whispered to Lisa. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Grand, they’ll help keep her awake for the tour! Fire away!’ she grinned. ‘And thank you, you’re dead sweet. You’d make a good dad.’
Fred smiled and shook his head. ‘You know, that just isn’t on my radar, Lisa . . . Much as I love Tess.’
‘Sensible lad,’ Lisa said, nodding. ‘I’m not going to lie. Tess is amazing but it’s bloody hard work, isn’t it, Todd?’
‘Yeah, think we might just stick with the one,’ Todd said. ‘Here, have a tinny,’ he added, throwing a can of beer to Fred.
A deep female voice suddenly cut through the music on the speakers in a very unfestive monotone. ‘Welcome to the Mandurah Chrissie lights tour. We hope you’ll enjoy the tour but your safety is our priority so we’d ask you to pay attention to the following rules with regards to the safety features. To repeat, this is for your own safety . . .’
The voice droned on at length before the blaring Christmas music began again. Fred found himself relaxing despite himself and soon he was absorbed in the tour (which mercifully required no further commentary from the on-board announcer), watching Tess’s face as she took in the incredible displays of lights decorating the multi-million-dollar properties that were wedged along the canals. He couldn’t help but smile to himself when he saw those houses that hadn’t bothered with any lights standing out as dark and drab in all the twinkling illumination.
‘Miserable sods!’ Lisa remarked, but Fred knew he fell into that camp himself. Still, he’d fixed some lights and a flashing snowman to the outside of his place this year, hoping Enid would find it nice and festive.
By the time Fred arrived home at ten, he’d received another text from Enid.
At Gatwick and just checked in. Will text again when I stop in Dubai. Can’t believe it. I can’t wait to see you Fred!
Fred felt like jumping up and down with excitement like a kid. Surely she wouldn’t have second thoughts at this late stage? He considered having a celebratory beer but decided against it. After all, the sooner he got to bed, the sooner Enid would be with him.
Before turning off the light, Fred picked up the framed picture on his bedside cabinet: it was a sketch Enid had sent to him shortly after his mum had died. He’d written to Enid that same day, telling her that, with Mum gone, he felt there was no light left in the world and no hope for the future. A couple of weeks later he’d received Enid’s reply, enclosing a sketch of herself and Fred looking uncannily like themselves but much older, their faces lined but happy, strolling arm in arm, a cat following behind. She’d written:
Fred, I know that feeling you described . . . the sense of being left behind with nothing but darkness and hopelessness. There’s nothing I can say that will make you feel better, I know, so I wanted to send you a picture instead. I hope that if you see how I see the future, you might be able to cling on to the possibility that there will be light again. One day.
Fred had received a load of condolences – well-meant notes telling him how sorry the sender was for his loss. But the only thing that really meant something – the only thing that had made a difference – was that picture from Enid.
He put the frame back on the side and smiled to himself. Enid had been right: the light was returning after all.
PART TWO
Chapter Nineteen
Saturday 9 December 2017
Enid
Bess travelled as far as Gatwick with me – her presence a comfort on the short flight from Jersey – but once we’d arrived we collected our luggage and said our goodbyes. Bess headed to the train station to catch the Express to central London, where she was meeting Nigel, and I caught the shuttle to the other terminal to check in for my next flight. Bess had offered to stay with me, but I knew it was time to get on with things by myself.
The crowds were unsettling but I was doing okay. I ran through the order of events in my mind on repeat: ‘Check in, find the toilets, go through security, locate a quiet spot, wait for flight to be called, walk to gate, board plane, go to sleep.’
At the check-in desk the blonde lady in her smart uniform was comforting. She was chatty, but didn’t seem to expect any response from me.
‘Now, just pop your bag up on here, that’s right . . . You’re travelling nice and light . . . Good idea, I always try to. The weather in Perth is lovely at the moment. There was a storm last week but it’s cleared the air and it’s sunny, just a little breezy, my daughter said. She lives over there. Well, not Perth itself, but down towards Margaret River. Lots of lovely wineries. You might go there while you’re over . . . Now, here’s your boarding pass. You’ll be stopping in Dubai and there’s a two-hour wait, but bear in mind it’s normally about a half-hour walk between gates. No delays today.’ She paused to take a breath and smiled at me. ‘You have a nice flight, dear. You can head to security now.’ I smiled back, feeling more confident. She turned to an approaching colleague, who’d just a
sked her something, and got up from behind her desk, tottering towards me on high heels through the gap beside the desk. I moved out of the way and sent a quick text to Fred, then stuffed my phone back into my satchel.
It was as I started to make my way from the check-in desk to security that, very suddenly, I felt the sensation: first, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Then, a strange, loaded silence – the feeling of an ominous pressure building. A sixth sense, I remember my mum calling it the time I hauled the two of us out of the way of a falling tree when I was eleven. If I hadn’t acted on instinct in that silent moment, then we’d have both been badly injured – or worse. This time it was the same, yet different: I heard the shattering sound of gunshot and one very long, high-pitched scream. Then chaos, as everyone started to run around like headless chickens. I stayed rooted to the spot. I didn’t want to follow the crowd.
A man in uniform ran past, talking urgently into a walkie-talkie, and then shouting at everyone within earshot to follow him down to the basement, but I didn’t obey his orders.
I knew immediately that this must be some sort of terrorist attack and, while part of me just wanted to freeze, another part of my brain was urgently insisting ‘Stealth’! My game, the game I’d played for five years of my childhood and still practise every time I go to the supermarket. What I didn’t want to do was follow the crowds to the basement. It was obviously the procedure for this sort of situation, but I didn’t trust anyone else’s plans or want to join a squash of sitting ducks. I knew I’d be better on my own, so, as I heard the wail of police sirens coming from outside, I ducked into the nook behind a check-in desk.
Within a very short time the melee had thinned out, as people did as they were told. I assumed the same was happening on the level below us.
I couldn’t see what had happened to provoke such panic. I only knew I’d heard gunshot and a scream. If I peeked from my hidey-hole I could see police vans starting to screech to a halt just outside the glass doors behind the café that were now firmly closed, armed officers jumping out and looking ready to charge the building. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t storm inside immediately. Surely if gunmen were on the loose they should act fast? Maybe they had to get all the civilians to the basement first to avoid too much collateral damage? Would that explain it? But there was hardly anyone around now . . . The whole of the check-in area was eerily quiet.
Then I realised why the police were being so cautious. A man wearing a balaclava appeared in my line of vision – a gun in one hand while the other arm was wrapped around the neck of a blonde lady wearing high heels. She had a smart uniform on, and I saw with a horrible sense of dread that she was the kind lady who’d checked me in. Ten minutes before, she’d been going about her job, and now she was a hostage.
‘Take one step and I will kill her!’ the man shouted in a heavily accented voice at a group of uniformed people inside the building. They had guns too, and must have been the airport’s security or something, rather than part of the squads of police still amassing outside the building.
I thought of all the terror attacks that had been happening around the world with increasing frequency in the last couple of years. It was puzzling. In all of the cases I could remember the gunmen had just gone on a mad rampage, killing everyone they could before being shot themselves. What was this man trying to achieve by taking the woman hostage?
‘What do you want?’ shouted one of the uniformed men – stocky, with ginger hair.
‘I have demands. You must meet them or I will kill her.’ His voice was quavering.
‘Okay, that’s okay . . . You need to tell us what they are.’ The ginger man sounded very calm. He must have been trained in negotiating. But I didn’t listen to the demands. I was distracted by a snuffling sound coming from the next booth along. As quietly as I could I crawled out of my nook, over the baggage belts, and dropped down by the next desk. And there, in her own nook, was a little girl. Her hair was in hundreds of tiny plaits with coloured beads at the ends of them, and she looked about five years old.
‘What are you doing?’ I whispered. She looked at me with huge dark eyes.
‘I lost my mummy!’ she whispered back, her bottom lip wobbling as she tried not to cry.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll find her. I’ll help you. You stick with me. But I need you to do two things for me . . . You mustn’t cry or make any noise, okay? Because we don’t want the bad man to know we’re here.’
The little girl nodded and I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, realising that I was sweating.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked the girl.
‘Shemika,’ she squeaked.
‘Right, Shemika. Are you ready? I have a plan.’
I whispered in her ear, then Shemika took my hand and, on the count of three, we sidled out from under the desks and ran.
Chapter Twenty
Saturday 9 December 2017
Enid
I knew where I wanted to get to – there were toilets not far away, but they were on the opposite side to the check-in desks. If we could just get ourselves there, we could lock ourselves in the disabled one – which I imagined would have a much thicker, heavier door than the cubicles in the ladies.
But if we ran straight to the toilets from the desks the gunman would be more likely to turn and see us – and even if he didn’t, the uniformed people almost certainly would, and might give the game away. So my plan was to zig-zag subtly across – the first stop being the bank of trolleys. We hid behind them and I peeped out, relieved to see the gunman had his back to us and hadn’t spotted or heard our quiet dash.
Before I could duck my head back behind the trolleys, though, my eyes locked with the ginger negotiator’s. He shook his head, faintly, and bit his lip. What did that mean? I had no idea! I started to feel more panicky. What was going to happen if the gunman saw us? Would he shoot the nice lady? Would he shoot us? Would he take us hostage, too? Yes, that seemed most likely. It was critical he didn’t see us. I began to think we should have stayed at the check-in desks – we were much more vulnerable behind the trolleys – but I knew that if we could just get to my next point, behind the enormous Christmas tree, we would be safer. I could hear dialogue between the ginger man and the gunman but it was hard to make out because Shemika had started whimpering.
‘You’ve got to be quiet, remember,’ I whispered and I took her hand again. ‘We’re going to run, hold on to me. He won’t see us. He has his back to us,’ I tried to reassure her, though my legs were wobbling with fear. ‘Ready?’ I asked, and Shemika nodded. But as we started to run I felt Shemika’s hand slip out of mine.
‘Ow!’ she wailed. I turned to find her face down on the floor – she must have tripped on the wheel of one of the trolleys. I watched in horror as the gunman turned to face us. In that moment I saw, through his balaclava, the surprise in his eyes, and then the terrible, tearful fear on the blonde lady’s face. I pulled Shemika up from the ground.
‘You!’ shouted the man. ‘You stay right there!’ Then I realised the distraction we’d caused had worked to the advantage of the negotiator and his team. They were encroaching on the gunman from behind. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I wasn’t going to stay rooted to the spot.
Ignoring Shemika’s wails, I ran with her towards the toilets. We hurled ourselves into the disabled one and I slammed the door in relief, only to find the lock didn’t work! Panic building, I dragged Shemika into the ladies and, looking around desperately for the safest spot, I plumped for the cleaning cupboard. It had no lock, but was slightly less obvious than the cubicles. We cowered in the dark, Shemika whimpering again, and waited for the inevitable sound of the gunman running in to find us. But two minutes later a different noise broke the suspense: another gunshot.
Chapter Twenty-one
Saturday 9 December 2017
Enid
I was certain the poor hostage must have been killed and that we would be next. In my terror, I’d closed in on myse
lf. All I could hear was the thumping of my heart in my ears and I’d lost all sense of time since that horrifying gunshot. It couldn’t be going well or surely we’d have been saved by now.
I was uncomfortable, my thighs starting to burn in the squat position I’d adopted, with Shemika balled up behind me. If necessary, if it came to it, I was quite prepared to be her human shield. Shemika was only five or six, after all – just Dan’s age – and with her whole life ahead of her.
I thought of Dan and wondered if I would ever see him again. Then I thought of poor Fred. Would he know by now what had happened? Last of all, I thought of Bess, but it was agony to consider that I might never see her again. My sister and soul mate and protector. At least I could be sure she’d look after dear Clifford and the hedgehogs for me. I broke down, silently, the tears streaming down my face, but I wiped them away on my sleeve. I didn’t want Shemika to know I’d all but given up.
‘I’m scared,’ Shemika whispered to me as I shifted to try to get more comfortable.
‘It’s okay,’ I told her. ‘It’s all going to be okay. You’ll see your mummy very soon.’ I didn’t mean it at all, but if Bess has taught me anything over the years it’s that sometimes there’s no place for honesty. I might have had my doubts about that in relation to Patricia, but right then – with Shemika – I knew it was the only way.
‘Do you like animals?’ I asked. I knew I should try to distract her.
‘I’ve got a doggy. She’s my best friend.’ A girl after my own heart.
‘What sort of doggy?’ I asked.
‘You mean what flavour?’
Despite myself, I smiled. ‘Yes, what flavour?’
‘A Pomeranian. She’s called Pixie and she has a sweet little pink tongue and the kindest big eyes.’
‘She sounds like you,’ I whispered. ‘She’ll be pleased to see you. Who’s looking after her?’
‘My Auntie Aliyah and her boyfriend, Donnie. We’re going to Ghana, me and Mummy.’
The Christmas Forest Page 7