by Rob Wyllie
Suddenly the radio crackled into life.
'Sir, I think I might have an idea. I'm not sure if you will like it though.'
'Go on.'
'We think it might be IRA technology in the bomb sir, don't we, same as that Notting Hill one? So that probably means that it was delivered to the terrorists as a complete package. All wired up and ready to go. And probably fairly stable, no motion detectors or suchlike in the bomb itself.'
'So?'
'So maybe you could take it out of the van as a whole package too.'
Clever. Why hadn't he thought of that? It was because it was a stupid plan and still way way out of procedure. There was only five minutes or so left, and it might take him as long to disentangle the bomb from the van. One slip, a wire gets broken and it goes off, meaning certain death for him, and probably not even saving the victims either. And let's face it, he didn't want to die, and no-one would condemn him if he got out there and then. It was definitely a dumb stupid plan. If it went wrong, they would probably court-martial him. Posthumously. For thirty seconds he sat rooted to the spot, his mind in turmoil, a morass of indecision. The bloody army, they could only expect so much of a man, and hadn't he done more than his fair share over the years? Surely this was a step too far. Get out man, whilst you still can.
'Sir? Sir, we don't have much time.'
'I'm just thinking Marley, give me a minute.' But they didn't have a minute.
'Oh screw it, look, I'm going to give it a try. Can you get on to the Commander and make sure they clear everyone at least another sixty metres outside the cordoned zone. Oh, and just one more thing Marley.'
'Yes sir?'
'Does your plan say what we should do with the bloody thing once we get it out?'
'No sir. Sorry sir.'
'Thought not. Over and out.'
He set to work, taking off his backpack, placing it on the passenger seat and opening the top flap. Good, there was plenty of room in there beside his tools for the device. Next, he carefully prised the little timer off the dashboard, taking great care not to put any tension on the wiring. Fortunately, there was enough play in the wires to allow him to put the timer straight into the backpack. So far so good, now for the bomb itself. Fairly stable was what Private Marley had said, but he wasn't taking any chances. He managed with some difficulty to slide the package part-way out of the cubby-hole, but then for no obvious reason, it refused to go any further. Shit. He tried to squeeze his fingers into the narrow gap between the bomb and its receptacle, probing to see if he could find out what was jamming it, but it was just too tight for him. Come on, come on, come on. He stole a glance at his watch. Only about four minutes to go. Shit, shit, shit. His heart was pounding in his chest, his head throbbing with pain. Feverishly he began rooting around his backpack, looking for the long yellow-handled screwdriver that he always carried with him. Where the hell was it? But finally he located it, deftly pulling it out of the bag then carefully inserting it between the bomb and the side of the cubby-hole. It seemed to reach all the way to the bottom, but no matter how much he wriggled or probed, he just couldn't budge it.
'Sir, we're running out of time.'
'Do you think I don't know that Marley, for Christ's sake.'
He tried again one more time to free the package, tightening his fingers around the protruding edge and tugging with as much force as he dared, but still it refused to move. Shit, this was all going tits-up.
And now he had just a few agonising seconds to make the decision. Live to fight another day, that was official policy. Get the hell out of there whilst you still could. Leave the wounded, you can't do anything more for them, that's what they drummed into you in all these Sandhurst courses. Easy enough to say when you were sitting in a warm classroom.
'Sir...' Marley's voice was anxious. 'What's happening sir?'
There wasn't time to answer, but then what was he going to say? Then he had a sudden thought, the surging adrenalin clearing his mind. Ninety seconds, that's all I'll give it, and then I'm out of here. He grabbed a pair of wire-cutters from his toolbag and dived under the steering column, searching for the wiring leading to the ignition switch. Red... green... blue, yep there they were. Snip the red one, snip the green one, then strip the coating away to expose the bare wire. Done. Now twist them together, see what happens. He looked up to see the dashboard ablaze with warning lights. Yes, we have ignition. Jumping into the driving seat, he stabbed the start button. The big diesel began to turn over. Rah-rah-rah-rah. Come on, fire will you! He let the starter motor spin a few more times but still the engine would not start. But just as he was slamming his fists on the dashboard in frustration, the comms channel crackled into life.
'Maybe you could move it on the starter motor sir?'
'Private Marley, you're a blooming genius.' He rammed down the clutch pedal, crashed the gearbox into reverse and pushed the start button once more. As soon as the starter motor began to churn, he released the pedal, causing the van to shoot backwards a few metres. Keep it going, keep it going. He managed to reverse it about ten metres before the battery finally gave up the ghost, but at least that was something. He pushed open the door of the van and jumped down onto the road, and as he did so, his eyes met with those of the young woman who had been trapped under the wheels, still conscious and surely in unimaginable pain. To the left of him lay the little schoolgirl, no more than five or six years old, covered in blood and still crying for her mother. Leave the wounded, you can't do anything more for them. With just seconds left before the timer ticked down to zero, there was no time to save them, of course there wasn't. Leave the wounded, you can't do anything more for them, that's procedure. Live to fight another day, preserve the asset.
In a split second he had made the decision. He scooped up the little girl in his arms then, without a backward glance, ran for his life to the shelter of the school's sturdy stone wall.
Chapter 8
So it had been a hundred days? That's what the headline in the Chronicle was saying and she had no reason to doubt its accuracy, although to Maggie, it felt more like a hundred years. She still came into the office every day, but that was just through force of habit, the inexplicable human desire to cling to routine in times of difficulty. There was no work for her of course and their Clerk Nigel Redmond had barely spoken to her since the trial let alone brought her any briefs, not even the crappy ones she was used to. Colleagues avoided her in the corridor and it went strangely silent around the water-cooler whenever she came into view. The most hated woman in Britain was evidently no more popular in Drake Chambers, as if mere association with her was enough to taint their own precious reputations. And she thought they had been her friends.
As she sipped her lukewarm coffee, the same question went round and round in her head. Who could have done this to me? But done what? She had checked her inbox a dozen times, and it was absolutely the case that Khan's report had arrived just three days before the last day of the trial. She was no IT expert and she wondered if perhaps it had been sent weeks earlier and had somehow got lost somewhere in cyberspace, but a thorough Google investigation had ruled that out. The sender's timestamp was just a few seconds before she had received it. This was no mix-up, and so whoever had told the judge that she had it earlier was lying. But the question remained unanswered. Who and why? It didn't make any sense. To make matters worse, the organisation that had purportedly sent her the report had vanished into thin air. The website of British Solidarity for Palestine had disappeared and their email address returned a mailbox unavailable error. There was nothing to show that they had ever existed.
In twenty-three days’ time she would be in front of the Bar Standards Board when her only defence would be -what? It would be her word against Lady Justice Henderson, and that verdict was only going to go one way. She hoped they would finally tell her who it was who had made the assertion that she had that report more than six weeks earlier than she had actually received it. Because otherwise, how could she be exp
ected to get a fair hearing? But deep down, she knew that wasn't going to happen. They would all close ranks against her because who really cared about the fate of a second-rate barrister who had been too much in the public eye for their liking?
Not her husband Philip, for a start. Their marriage had been in trouble before all of this had happened, she knew that, but now he was spending the whole working week away, and at weekends if he did come home, he was cold and distant. It was only Ollie, her sweet precious Ollie, that kept her sane. He was only six and she wondered if he could feel the tension between his mummy and daddy, both of whom he loved unconditionally. For his sake if nothing else she thought she should keep the marriage together, but with each passing day that seemed to become less and less likely. Now she was spending more and more time working out how she would adjust to life as a single mum. There would be enough money for her to buy a small place, obviously nowhere as grand as their Hampstead home, but it would be more than fine for the two of them. She would not be able to practice at the Bar, but she could easily go back to the more mundane side of her profession. Wills and probate, property conveyancing, it was hardly thrilling but it would pay the mortgage. They would be ok, she was sure of that.
She looked up to see Redmond standing in front of her desk. From his expression, she could tell that there was something badly wrong.
'Maggie, there's been an attack on Ollie's school. A van. It's been driven at the school gates. The BBC is saying there are casualties. I think you'd better get there. I'm sorry.'
Instantly, her heart was crashing, her stomach churning as she tried to process what he had said. Please, please, please let him be ok. Through the fog of confusion she realised that Redmond was still speaking.
'Look, I can order a taxi, it will be the quickest way. Do you want anyone to come with you?'
'What? No, no I brought my car in today. I'll be ok.'
She grabbed her coat and rushed through the door leading to the stairwell. It had been a spur of the moment decision to drive in that day, but now she was glad she had, as she ran through the dark underground car-park to where her Golf was waiting. At least she would be in control, because she just had to get there, as fast as she could. She fumbled around in her handbag, searching for her gate pass. Hell, why was that barrier always so slow? She screeched out into the narrow street, attracting a barrage of horns as she recklessly threaded her way through the late afternoon traffic. These damn traffic lights, why were they never at green?
As she drove her head was swimming with emotion, her mouth dry, her eyes moistening. If anything happened to Ollie, she would die, she knew she would. Then suddenly, she thought about Daisy, her niece. She would have been standing at the gates waiting to collect Ollie. This was all too hard to bear.
As she battled along City Road the phone rang. It was her mother calling from home in Yorkshire. She could tell from her wavering voice that she was already beside herself with worry.
'Maggie, I've just seen the news. Is Ollie safe?'
'I don't know mum, I don't know, I'm just trying to get to the school now.'
Without warning, a pensioner in a Honda Jazz pulled out of a side street then proceeded to dawdle along at twenty miles an hour, neck craned forward peering through his windscreen.
'Get out of the way!' Instinctively, Maggie jammed her foot hard on the accelerator to overtake, narrowly missing an oncoming delivery van. The driver gesticulated wildly, mouthing an obscenity and blaring his horn.
'Maggie, are you ok?'
'London traffic mum. Look, I need to go, I'll call you as soon as I hear anything. I'm sure Ollie will be ok.' How she hoped against hope that this would be true.
Soon she was on the Holloway Road, where the traffic was moving at a snail's pace as the tail end of the school run clashed with early commuters on their homeward journey. Then the phone rang again. This time it was Philip. His voice was frantic, desperate, close to breaking down.
'I've just heard. I've been trying to call the school but it's constantly engaged. Can you get up there right away and see if he's all right?'
'I'm on my way Philip. I've not heard anything more than they're saying on the news.'
'Look, I'm going to catch the earliest flight back I can. Angelique has been looking and we can get the 5.30, should get us through Heathrow by 7.00. I'll get there as fast as I can. And call me as soon as you have news.'
Angelique. What the hell was she doing there? He was supposedly there for an important two-day meeting with the Scottish First Minister and her Justice Minister. Why would you take a junior associate to that? But there was no time to think about that now, she had to get to Ollie's school. Come on, come on! A long queue of vehicles was backed up at the junction with the Seven Sisters Road, seemingly grid-locked. She blasted her horn at the driver in front who was texting on her mobile, oblivious that the car in front of her was now moving. Then she saw the red sign that had been placed at the road side. Shit, it was road-works, and of course the temporary traffic lights which controlled them were at red. They always were. She banged the steering wheel in frustration, then jabbed the phone icon on the Golf's touchscreen. Scrolling down the phonebook, she chose Felicity Swift, mother of Ollie's friend Tom, but it went straight through to answerphone. Hardly surprising in the circumstances. And then a cold shiver passed through her as she remembered that Felicity was one of the many rich stay-at-home mothers who were able to collect their children from school each day. She would have been outside the gate, laughing and joking with the other mums and nannies. Like Daisy. Please no.
The lights had finally changed and she accelerated through the junction, moving to the outside lane and, ignoring the speed cameras, driving as fast as she dared. Then up Highgate Hill and onto Hampstead Lane. At last, nearly there.
She arrived at the school to a scene of frantic activity. Dozens of armed police and soldiers were on patrol, guarding the formal crime scene which had been established around a two or three hundred metres radius from the school gates. Tents had been erected and a string of ambulances were parked along the roadside, blue lights flashing through the gloom of the damp autumn afternoon, waiting to take the injured to the nearby Royal Free Hospital. Maggie abandoned her car in the middle of the road and ran to where two police officers, one male, one female, guarded a gap in the red-striped perimeter tape.
'Stop there madam please,' the male officer said sharply.
'I'm a parent,' Maggie cried. 'I need to see if my little boy is all right.'
'I'm afraid we will need to search you first,' the other said, more kindly, adding unnecessarily, 'This is a terrorist incident.'
'Please, as quickly as you can,' Maggie pleaded, almost in tears. 'Please.'
But the policewoman was not to be rushed. With painful precision she checked each arm in turn then filleted inside Maggie's coat with her hands, progressing down her back and over her bottom.
'Can you remove your boots please madam,' she ordered.
The policewoman stood impassively as Maggie removed her boots, leaving her stocking-footed on the cold tarmac. But at last the search was completed and she was directed to a tent to the left of the gates where teachers were trying to help the dozens of parents that had rushed to the school when they heard the news. Immediately she saw Miss Roberts, Ollie's young class teacher, armed with a clipboard and talking animatedly with a number of agitated parents.
'Look, it's really hard to get information, we can't get in the way of the emergency services and keep asking them for updates. I have a list of my class here and thankfully most of them have been accounted for.' Most of them. 'Please, please, that's all the information I have at the moment. Your children have all been taken to the school hall where they are being looked after by members of staff.'
In the crowd, Maggie spotted Felicity Swift and she could tell immediately that something was terribly amiss. She went over to her and gently took her arm.
'What's wrong Felicity?'
'It's Tom. H
e's not on Miss Roberts' list, and I've been to the hall and he's not there either. She thinks he may be one of the injured, I'm just waiting for my Jules to arrive and then we can go to the hospital.' Her voice was frantic with worry.
'I'm so sorry Felicity,' Maggie said quietly. 'I don't know what to say, but I'm sure he will be ok, little boys are so tough.' She wrapped her arms around her friend and squeezed her gently. 'It will be alright, it will be alright.'
'I saw Ollie in the hall,' said Felicity through her tears. 'He's ok. You should go and see him. I'll be fine, honestly.'
Thank god. Maggie took her phone from her pocket and texted 'Safe' to Philip and her mum. Now she must go to Ollie, hold him in her arms and never let him go.
She became aware of Miss Roberts approaching her.
'Mrs Brooks. Look, I'm afraid I've got some bad news. It's your niece, Daisy isn't it? She was... well, it seems she was hit by the van and was trapped beneath the front wheels for some time.'
She could see the young teacher was struggling to hold her emotions in check.
'They've taken her to the Royal Free. I think it's quite serious. I'm so sorry.'
◆◆◆
They sat in the cold corridor alongside the trauma unit, not speaking. From time to time they stood up to look through the window where Daisy was lying unconscious, wearing an oxygen mask and connected to a barrage of high-tech monitoring equipment. It was nearly a week since the attack, during which time the highly-skilled medical team had fought tenaciously to save her life. She had multiple broken bones and serious internal injuries, and already she had endured three major operations, with more to come. The doctors were cautiously optimistic. She was young and the young possessed remarkable powers of recovery. That was the message of hope they were giving the family. She was going to be ok, that's what they were saying.