Not now, I thought to myself. I could feel sweat dripping down my back.
Shemika reached out for me and we waited, hand in hand, for our fate. What felt like a lifetime later, though it was probably only a few minutes, we finally heard a noise: the footsteps I’d so dreaded. I thought I might be sick.
Then, all at once, the door to the cupboard was pulled open and standing there in the sudden brightness, before my tear-blurred eyes, was a man with a gun.
Chapter Twenty-two
Saturday 9 December 2017
Enid
‘You’re safe, it’s okay – you’re safe.’
Emerging from my confusion, I saw he wasn’t the gunman, but one of the people in uniform who’d been standing with the negotiator. ‘Come on!’ he said kindly, reaching out a large hand. ‘Let’s get you both out of there.’
Shemika and I were ushered into a little room where we were given tea and water and biscuits and a lady wrapped blankets around our shoulders. Shemika kept asking for her mum.
Eventually a regal-looking woman with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen was led into the room. Seeing Shemika, she promptly burst into tears.
‘Oh, my baby, my baby,’ the woman wailed, kneeling down to cuddle her daughter. ‘Dear God, I thought I’d lost you forever! I thought you were gone! I’m never going to let you go again. You must never let go of my hand ever, ever again, you hear me? Oh, my baby!’
It was an emotional scene, but by now I felt completely numb. Shemika’s mum was saying things to me with a wide smile, showing off those teeth; I’m pretty sure she was thanking me profusely, but I’d lost the plot. I started to shake and I couldn’t stop. The lady who’d given me the blanket spoke into a walkie-talkie and then several medics were in the room and I was heaved on to a stretcher and taken off. I had no idea what was happening or where I was going. All I was aware of were the blindingly bright strip lights above me. Then I started to scream. As if I were experiencing a delayed reaction to the terror. I felt a prick in my arm, a strange rushing feeling in my veins, and then nothing.
When I woke I was on a high bed in a medical-looking room. My eyelids felt heavy, but eventually I managed to lift them and I saw that Bess was there by my side.
‘What are you doing here?’ I croaked. My throat felt sore, maybe from my mad screaming.
‘Enid, oh my goodness – look, I’m going to try not to fuss, okay, but you poor, poor thing! Are you okay? You must still be in shock!’
I reached out a hand and Bess took it. She gripped it tight and it felt like an anchor, steadying me. ‘I’m okay,’ I whispered and I fell back to sleep.
When I next woke I realised I’d been moved. I was in another medical room – in a hospital, by the look of it – and Bess was dozing in a chair at the end of the bed. Sitting next to her was a lady police officer with a youthful face and short, bleached hair. The woman nudged Bess when she saw I was awake.
‘Enid,’ Bess said immediately. ‘Listen, this lady’s here to take a statement about what happened but if you’re not feeling well – if you’re not ready – then that’s absolutely fine.’
I nodded and sat myself up, taking a sip of water from the turquoise beaker beside my bed. I looked around. I was in a private room, thank goodness; being in a ward full of people might just have sent me over the edge.
‘I’ll get it over with,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to have to explain it more than once. Bess, you stay, and then you’ll know what happened.’
And so I began. And the police officer sat there asking questions in her London accent and scribbling away while Bess tried her best not to cry. Finally, it was done, though I had my own questions.
‘What was he doing? The gunman? And what happened? After we ran off to the toilets?’
The police lady hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure how much she was allowed to say. But then she sighed and sat back in her plastic chair. ‘You were a bit of a hero,’ she said. ‘You enabled the team on the ground to get to him while he was distracted. As soon as you ran they tackled him to the floor. There was a right old tussle and the poor hostage ended up getting her arm broken, but they were able to get the gun off the suspect. Somehow or other, though, he managed to break free and run off. He was told to put his hands up and surrender, but he kept running so one of the men had to shoot his leg to stop him. That was the gunshot you heard.’
‘Where’s he now?’ I asked.
‘In hospital, too, though not this one so you don’t need to worry about that. And there are armed guards outside his door there. Once he’s been treated he’ll be interviewed.’
‘But why?’ I said. ‘Why did he do it?’
‘Good question. Obviously everyone thought it was a planned terror attack, but it looks like this guy was working alone. Turns out he’s known to us and has mental health issues. I hate it when that’s the case: there’s mental illness in our family and I hate the stigma attached to it, like everyone who suffers with it is dangerous – or a weirdo at best. Then you get the people who’ll say that he’s using the illness as an excuse.
‘He escaped from a psychiatric hospital in South London, apparently, with some plan to take a hostage and demand that a pilot fly him to his homeland in a private jet so he could visit his dying father – though it turns out his father actually died a year ago. How he managed to get hold of a gun is anyone’s guess at the moment . . . Look, I’ve probably said too much so please don’t broadcast this info. I just feel you deserve to know.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘Thank you,’ I added, remembering my manners.
After the police officer had left, having explained that I might be needed at some point as a trial witness (no, thank you, I felt like saying, but I didn’t), a nurse came into the room to do something called ‘obs’. She told me I should be fine to go home the following day.
‘Or we could get you on another flight to Perth?’ Bess said tentatively.
I was taking another sip of water at the time and I nearly spat out my drink. ‘I’m not stepping another foot in that airport, Bess. Can you get us on a ferry? Please, I just want to get home . . .’
‘Of course, I’ll get us tickets for the Condor tomorrow afternoon. I just thought . . . I mean, what do you want to do about Fred?’
I closed my eyes and thought of Fred. Of how disappointed and worried he must be. Then I shut him out of my exhausted, scrambled brain. ‘Bess, please . . . Just get us on that ferry home.’
PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-three
Sunday 10 December 2017
Fred
Fred’s stomach lurched as he watched the news on Sunday morning. He’d just had a coffee and a bagel and they sat heavily in his belly as he tried to come to terms with what had happened. He was confused, though, because the whole drama at Gatwick had taken place on Saturday afternoon and, even accounting for the different time zones, the gunman had been captured hours ago, and Enid should have been in touch since – even just to send a text message to let him know she was safe. Which made his stomach lurch again.
He took comfort from the fact that the news hadn’t reported any fatalities: apparently the only major injuries suffered had been by the gunman himself and the hostage, whose arm had been broken in the scuffle. It must’ve been a nightmare experience but however shocked Enid had been, it was more than strange that she hadn’t made contact.
Fred phoned her airline, who were ‘experiencing high call volumes’. He waited patiently and was eventually advised that all flights out of Gatwick from the afternoon and evening before had been affected, but they were hoping to get everything back to normal during the course of Sunday. The tired-sounding guy who eventually picked up told him Enid would have been advised to go to the airline’s desk and rebook on to the next available flight to Perth. Theoretically, then, she could still be with him by the following day.
Next up, he dialled Enid’s number. Okay, so it was the middle of the night there now, but this was an emergency. No answer.
He texted instead.
Just seen the news. Are you okay? Are you still coming? Hope you’re good. Please contact me as soon as you can.
He paced the floor and bit his nails. Finally, half an hour later, he heard his phone beep.
Hi Fred, you don’t know me (yet), but I’m Enid’s sister, Bess. You’ve probably seen the news by now. Just wanted to let you know that Enid’s okay. She was involved in the incident but is unharmed. However, she’s in shock at the moment and I’m afraid she’s not in a fit state to travel on her own. I’m so sorry. We’re going to head back to Jersey by ferry tomorrow (Sunday) and once we’re home I’ll be in touch again.
Fred was horrified. Enid had been involved in the incident – in what way, he wondered? The news said the hostage worked for an airline, so that can’t have been Enid, but obviously something had happened.
Driven by a sudden energy, Fred ran through to his bedroom, pulled out the battered suitcase from under his bed and began to throw clothes into it. T-shirts, jeans, a couple of sweaters. He tried to remember where his Driza-Bone was, then threw that in too, together with some undies and a couple of pairs of trainers. He dashed through to the bathroom and gathered up his modest toiletries: razor, shaving foam, toothbrush and paste, some soap and a tub of moisturiser. What else? Enid’s Christmas gifts and, of course, his passport. He found it in his mum’s desk, checked it was in date and threw it into a small backpack with his wallet. Then he called a cab and, while he waited for it to arrive, he found a bag, filled it with all the just-bought groceries in the fridge and nipped round to offer the stuff to his neighbour.
Within the hour Fred was entering Perth airport.
‘Excuse me, g’day . . . I need a ticket to the UK as soon as possible,’ he said to a woman behind a ticket desk in departures.
‘Sure, no worries,’ she said, tapping away on her keyboard. ‘When were you thinking? Next flight to London Heathrow is this evening at 1900 hours or there’s an Emirates to Gatwick at 22.05.’
‘Any difference in price?’ he asked. His heart was thumping. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something so impulsive and radical.
‘The one to Gatwick’s a bit cheaper. Fourteen hundred dollars . . .’
Fred gulped. ‘Okay, yeah, that one, please.’
‘How will you be paying?’ the woman asked.
Fred looked at the cards in his wallet and tried to work out which one stood a chance of not being declined. He passed one over and kept his fingers crossed.
‘Check, savings or credit?’ she asked.
‘Check.’
She popped it into the machine and frowned. ‘Declined,’ she said. ‘Want me to try again?’
Fred blushed. ‘No, try this one,’ he said, handing over the other card. ‘This one’s savings.’
They waited, both seeming to hold their breath. ‘No luck, mate . . . Any other cards you want me to try?’ Fred shook his head, biting his lip. ‘Listen, do you want me to hold the ticket for you?’
Fred could feel himself perspiring. ‘Yeah, if you don’t mind, that’d be good . . . I won’t be long.’
He wheeled his case to a quiet corner and found his phone, wishing he wasn’t allergic to the internet and could just check his balance online.
‘You’re through to Bendigo Bank,’ an automated voice told him. ‘We’re experiencing high call volumes at the moment, but please wait and we’ll connect you as soon as an operator becomes available.’
Fifteen nail-biting minutes later, Fred finally got through to a human being.
‘Bendigo Bank, how can I help?’ the lady asked. She sounded not dissimilar to the automatic voice.
‘I’ve just tried to book an air ticket to the UK, but both my cards were declined. Can I just check the balances?’
‘Sure,’ she answered, and after asking him a series of irritating security questions and saying ‘bear with me’ a load of times she finally broke the bad news. He didn’t have enough for the ticket, even if he combined the funds from both accounts.
‘Don’t I have an overdraft?’ he asked, convinced he’d arranged that a while back.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, sounding embarrassed. She reminded him gently that he’d gone over the overdraft limit a year ago, meaning that privilege had been withdrawn. ‘Why don’t you use your credit card?’ she suggested helpfully.
‘Good idea, I’ll do that’ he said, but Fred knew he’d maxed that out, too, trying to get the house sorted so that it was in a state to sell. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘No worries! Have a great holiday!’
Fred rubbed his temples, trying to decide what to do. For one wild moment, he considered asking his dad to help him out – the guy was loaded – but as he hadn’t made contact with Fred once in the last five years, even after his mum died, he quickly dismissed the idea.
So that was it. A dead end. Fred could hardly bear the humiliation. He wished he could just disappear without relaying his pitiful financial situation to the woman holding his ticket, but he knew it would be rude when she’d been so helpful. He wheeled his damned case back to her desk.
‘Any luck?’ she asked.
Fred shook his head. ‘Nah, afraid not. I’m gonna have to let the ticket go.’
She looked at him, her eyes full of sympathy. ‘Maybe this trip just wasn’t meant to be,’ she said.
Fred sighed. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘You could be exactly right.’
Chapter Twenty-four
Monday 11 December 2017
Enid
Home: my place of safety. At least, it’s always felt like that. But now, after a night of bad dreams, I’m not so sure.
The journey back from the mainland was hell: the sea was rougher than I’ve ever known and Bess and I threw up the whole way. Nigel redeemed himself somewhat in my eyes by finding us sick bags, although every time I caught a whiff of his cologne I felt more nauseous. It smells like grapefruit, and for some reason that scent always puts me in mind of stinky body odour.
Nigel’s not the sort of person who’s had much experience of life going wrong and he looks nervous of me now, like it might be catching. It’s preferable to his usual overconfident approach, anyway.
After he dropped us home and smoked one of his horrible cigarettes, he headed off, presumably to his mother’s house, and Bess stayed by my side all evening. I know what she’ll be thinking – that this withdrawal is going to lead to one of my dark episodes. That’s how it’s happened in the past. But I honestly don’t think that’s where I’m headed. I feel afraid and discombobulated, but I also know the cure. I just need, for now, to be alone with Clifford and the hedgehogs.
While I lay in bed last night trying to sleep, Bess sat quietly in a chair beside me. Eventually, she could contain herself no longer.
‘Enid, I need to tell you that I’ve texted Fred. To let him know what happened and that you’ve come home. I know you’re in shock and everything, but you’ve got to think about him too. He must be so disappointed! Perhaps tomorrow you could call him? Reassure him that your feelings for him are still there, even if your trip to him needs to be postponed.’
I was quiet for a long time, the only sound in the room Clifford’s purring.
‘They’re not, though,’ I whispered, turning my face into my pillow.
‘What?’
‘My feelings. They’re not still there.’
‘But Enid, this wasn’t Fred’s fault! What do you mean? How can you have suddenly fallen out of love with him just because of what happened?’
‘It’s not him in particular. I just don’t feel anything. I feel numb.’
Bess breathed deeply, perhaps relieved. ‘That’s just the shock, Enid, and you know that when you withdraw from life your feelings tend to get a bit muddled. Give it time . . .’
‘But you don’t want me to give it time. You want me to speak to Fred tomorrow. I will, if you want me to, but I’ll tell him the truth.’
‘No,’ Bess said quickly. ‘
No, don’t talk to him yet. He won’t understand. Look, I’ll speak to him. Explain that you’re not yourself after what happened. But Enid, don’t give up on him just yet. Please don’t. Promise me?’
I turned my head back towards my sister, that heart-shaped face surrounded by a mass of golden hair. She was like a beacon of hope. I sighed.
‘I promise,’ I whispered, then I closed my eyes and pretended to fall sleep.
Chapter Twenty-five
Friday 15 December 2017
Bess
I’m worried sick about Enid. She’s not showered or eaten since she got home, despite my pleading. She promises me she’s not slipping into depression, but once she stops eating I know how it goes. She needs to eat and shower and have her normal routines to stay healthy – physically and mentally.
Everything seems to be going wrong at the moment. The weather, recently so snowy and Christmassy, is now just grey and rainy and windy. The rehearsals for the school play are going terribly badly and poor Harry is tearing his hair out. The kids keep getting unwell and missing rehearsals and there’s a sense that they’re beginning to lose interest. We really need someone to boost their enthusiasm in terms of the subject matter, but Enid – the obvious choice – is refusing to leave the house.
To top it all, this morning was Patricia’s funeral. I asked Enid if she might like to come with me.
‘I didn’t know her,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Well, no one really knew her that well apart from her family, but she was a huge part of the community. Nigel called her “the misery seeker”, poor woman, as she used to go to all those funerals! And it might do you good to get out. It’s not like you’d need to go far: just across to the church. I could walk you back home afterwards – you wouldn’t have to come to the wake with me.’
But Enid was resolute. She didn’t want to leave the house. Perhaps I’m rushing her – but with very good reason. I spoke to Fred on Monday, telling him Enid sent her love and that she wasn’t up to talking to anyone just yet, and he told me he’s waiting to borrow some money from a friend and that he hopes to fly over from Australia this weekend. I don’t want to freak Enid out by telling her but my heart goes out to poor Fred, completely oblivious as he prepares to travel over here. I decided I’d discuss it with my sister by the afternoon. In fairness to Fred, it couldn’t be put off much longer.
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