The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  Along the corridor, holding hands, sat Felicity and Jules Swift, their faces pale and drawn, eyes bloodshot from the crying. Their son had been in a coma for five days now, and privately, the doctors had given up hope, but the parents had been given the same assurances as the Brooks. Tom was a child and children possessed remarkable powers of recovery. It was not convincing but whilst he clung onto life, there was hope, and hope was all they had to sustain them.

  The surly guard who had escorted Hugo Brooks from Belmarsh prison had sloped off for a coffee and a cigarette. A bit of a risk and he shouldn't be doing it but he considered it unlikely that his charge would try an escape in the circumstances.

  'You don't have to stay Maggie,' Hugo said. 'I'll be fine, honestly. And Philip is coming back later, you should go and get some sleep if you can.'

  She could really do with some sleep, that was for sure. She was dog-tired, but she didn't want to leave him. Although they had never got on, even before his trial, she did feel terribly sorry for him, as you would for anyone in his dreadful situation. In appearance, he was exactly like Philip but he possessed none of the magnetism that had so attracted Maggie to his brother. Whereas Philip was smooth, urbane and driven, Hugo had been content to potter around in his comfortable little world of progressive activism, getting by on his English teacher's salary and spending his weekends with his placards and banners on the demo frontline. And all the better if there was to be a bit of ruckus with the police, the chance to call them fascist pigs and hopefully get filmed by the BBC as you were dragged away struggling. Until it had all gone wrong when that young policewoman had died.

  'No honestly Hugo, I'm fine. I'll stay for the next couple of hours then go and collect Ollie from school.'

  It was the children's first day back, only five days after the attack, it being the view of the psychologists that it was best for kids to get back to normality as quickly as possible. Maggie's mum had been staying with them to look after Ollie whilst he was off school, but this morning she had returned to Leeds to look after Maggie's ailing father.

  She looked at her watch - just coming up to half-past-twelve. Her mum should be home by now. Time for a quick call.

  'Mum, how was the journey?'

  'Fine darling.' She sounded strained, hesitant, not like herself at all.

  'Mum, what's wrong?' asked Maggie, alarmed. 'Is it dad?'

  'Maggie, have you seen the news?'

  'No mum, what is it?'

  'I've just seen it on the BBC News website. You should look at it now. It's bad news I'm afraid.'

  Maggie pulled up the news app and read the headline. It hit her like a sledgehammer, her spirit crushed in an instant as she processed what it meant. The first reaction to a shock as big as this was usually denial, but this couldn't be denied, because there it was in bold type, unmissable and unequivocal.

  Freed Alzahrani set to be named as Hampstead Bomber.

  Suddenly a loud piercing alarm came from the heart monitor, and almost instantaneously, an amber beacon started flashing and a deafening siren shattered the quiet calm of the trauma wing. Within seconds, Daisy's bed was surrounded by a scrum of doctors and nurses, pulses racing, working in frantic unison to try and save the young woman's life. There was no time to pull down the blinds that screened the trauma room from the corridor, and Maggie watched in a daze as the electrodes of the theatre defibrillator were attached to Daisy's chest, her body involuntarily convulsing as the high-voltage charge was fired. Again and again they tried, but the heart monitor did not respond. A powerful injection of adrenaline was prepared and plunged into her chest, but still no response, and now there was a change in the atmosphere, something in the demeanour of the medics that told her that it was already too late.

  Hugo was wailing uncontrollably, alternatively calling out his daughter's name, then clasping his hands in prayer, repeating 'Please god please god' over and over again.

  'I'm sorry Mr Brooks, we did everything we could'. The consultant placed his hand on Hugo's shoulder, his voice steady, exuding warmth and professional compassion. Multiple organ failure caused by the trauma of the accident. Difficult to diagnose or treat. We did everything we could. Of course, what else would they say, could they say?

  Along the corridor, six-year old Tom Swift's life-support machine was finally switched off. He died peacefully with his mummy and daddy and his favourite teddy bear by his bedside. We did everything we could. Dena Alzahrani had claimed two more victims.

  And it was Maggie Brooks that had set her free.

  ◆◆◆

  Only one thought had occupied her mind. She had to get home, as fast as she could, to bury her head in her pillow, to drink until she could remember nothing, to just make it all go away, even if for only a moment. She would call Philip, make him leave his damn office early and go and collect Ollie for once. She had raced down a busy corridor towards where she thought the exit was, only to end up instead in the packed waiting room of the Blood Test clinic. Damn, these hospitals were like a maze. Eventually, she had spotted an ill-placed exit sign suspended from the ceiling which pointed her in the opposite direction from where she had come. Weaving through a crush of medical staff, porters, patients and visitors, she had eventually reached the heavy revolving doors of the entrance. Outside, she had breathed in a gulp of cool air then joined the long queue waiting at the parking machines to authorise their tickets. Come on.

  The traffic around the hospital had been its usual nightmare but at last she had reached her quiet Hampstead street, where she had been surprised to see Philip's navy blue Range Rover parked outside.

  In the kitchen, she had found Angelique Perez, dressed in one of her husband's striped shirts, her hair wrapped in a towel. A few seconds later, there was Philip in the white dressing gown she had bought him for his birthday. She would never ever forget his words on that day. It's over Maggie, I should have told you before. That was all he could find to say, on that day when her world was collapsing, where she desperately needed someone to help and comfort her, when she thought she would die. All he could say was it's over, whilst Angelique Perez looked on. So young, so beautiful, so bloody triumphant.

  It had taken her just five minutes to get to the school, and only a few minutes more to reach Ollie's classroom. 'Mrs Brooks, you can't just march in here during class,' Miss Roberts had tried to protest, but sod that, Ollie was her son and she could do what she wanted. 'Where are we going mummy?' he had asked again and again, but she hadn't answered, because she didn't know. She just had to drive, anywhere, just keep driving, for hour upon hour - north, south, east, west, it didn't matter where.

  She had not really been conscious of driving onto the level crossing or stopping the car so that it straddled one of the railway tracks. She vaguely remembered the sound of bells, which later she supposed had been the signal that the barriers were closing because of an approaching train. From the back seat, she thought that she may have heard Ollie crying but it was distant, detached and it did not disturb the feeling of peace and calm which had now blissfully enveloped her. At last, it would be over, the pain would be gone and everything would be okay. And then a dull thud as the articulated lorry rammed the back of the Golf, pushing it to safety. Seconds later, an altogether more violent crash as the Brighton express, travelling at ninety miles per hour, smashed through the lorry's trailer, sending debris flying in all directions.

  PART TWO

  One Year Later

  Chapter 9

  She watched him from across the room, transfixed, as he mooched around the neat exhibition stands, picking up a brochure here and exchanging a few words there with eager recruiting officers from the big names of the profession. What's he doing here, she thought, surely he's not hoping to get a training contract dressed like that? Perhaps just looking for an internship, but he's too old for that, isn't he? At least late twenties, no, older, early thirties at least. Scruffy and unshaven, with unkempt dark hair touching his shoulders, dressed in skinny black jeans and
a crumpled black T-shirt bearing a washed-out AC/DC logo - and was that really cowboy boots he was wearing? But tall, ripped and good looking. Very good looking, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by her rival recruiters, both female and, it should be said, male too. A pretty young redhead from Addison Redburn, the distinguished City firm where Maggie's own career had started, glided up to him as he wandered past, gently placing a hand on his arm to arrest his progress, whilst drawing his attention to the contents of a glossy flyer that she held in the other. She was clearly intent in luring him to the confines of Addison's elegantly-furnished stand, where a high-pressure hit squad would take over, tasked with selling the ethereal prize of a glittering career at the bar to naive recently-minted graduates. Modern slavery more like, thought Maggie, although a bit better paid. But he was seemingly not to be ensnared, smiling ruefully and raising his hand to decline the young woman's offer, but accepting the leaflet as if in way of apology, even feigning to read it as he continued along the gangway before disappearing out of sight behind another stand.

  In her peripheral vision, she became aware of a figure heading towards her, and in a split second she was drowning once again in the horrible emotional mash-up of hopelessness, fear and anger that had been her constant companion in the dark months since her perfect life had been turned upside down. The man, grey-haired, late forties, be-suited, marched onto her stand, brandishing a letter in his hand, demonstrably agitated. Trailing a few steps behind was a striking woman of around thirty, immaculately dressed in Armani and tottering uncertainly on a pair of expensive red shag-me stilettos.

  'What the hell is this Maggie? What the hell is this? A custody hearing? You know, you are a seriously deluded bitch if you think a judge is going to let a nut-job like you anywhere near my son. That's not going to happen. Never. Not on my watch.'

  Maggie had been expecting a reaction but not so soon, not here and not with her in attendance.

  'Our son Philip, Ollie is our son. And you know very well I'm getting my life back together. I've got a job and a home...'

  'You call this a job? What the hell do you know about investigations? And a home? Yeah, some seedy little bedsitter in Clapham is what I'm hearing. But what I'm really interested in is what the hell you are going to say to the judge? Oh of course m'lud, I know I tried to murder my son last year, but honestly, I promise not to do it again, honest I do. That's going to be an entertaining day out, that's all I can say.'

  'I need to see him Philip. I need to see Ollie.'

  She knew she should remain in control of her emotions, but her voice cracked as she struggled to get the words out. She stretched out her arm to steady herself against the pillar of the exhibition stand, waves of nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Pathetic, broken, she hated herself for what she had become. But she wasn't about to start begging to him.

  'I know I won't get full custody, not after...not after what happened. But a child needs his mother, and you can't cut him off from me completely, it's so cruel. So I'm going to fight for this with every bone in my body. I'll never give up, no matter how long it takes.'

  He moved slowly and deliberately, so that his face was almost touching hers. And then, speaking as if spelling out each word. 'This is the most stupid thing you've ever done, and that's saying something for a stupid bitch like you. So you can try what you like, but you won't be seeing my son, not now, not...'

  'Hey, what's going on here pal?'

  The voice was West of Scotland, working-class. Surprised, Philip Brooks swung round to confront his interlocutor.

  'Sorry, are you talking to me?'

  'Oh my, are you from Glasgow or something? I've not heard anyone say that for years. Mind you, by the look of you I don't think you would last five minutes on Sauchiehall Street.'

  He extended a massive hand towards Brooks. 'Stewart. James Stewart. My pals call me Jimmy'. It was ignored.

  'I was just having a private conversation with my wife,' Brooks said, his composure partially regained. 'Really, I don't think it's any of your business.'

  Jimmy gave a disarming smile. 'Well in my neck of the woods pal, men don't go around threatening women. So I'm making it my business, ok?'

  And then, recognition.

  'Hang on pal, I know you. That Question Time program on the telly, that's where I've seen you before. The human rights guy. And Julian Priest's pal. Yeah, I remember you now.'

  'What of it?'

  'Well I don't see much human rights going on here,' Jimmy said. 'Happy to talk the talk but not walk the walk, is that what it is? So my suggestion is you take your human rights and get the hell out of here before I shove them up your backside. And believe me, if you don't take my advice, it will be the most stupid thing you'll have ever done. And I also guarantee it.'

  It was evident from Brooks' expression that he wasn't used to being spoken to like this. He stood motionless as if weighing up his options. But finally he turned to his companion.

  'Ok Angelique, I think we're done here.' His tone suggested he was anything but finished, but the intervention of Captain Jimmy Stewart had clearly prompted a change of plan. But as they walked away, he suddenly spun round and making no effort to hide the bitterness in his voice, shouted, 'You've not heard the last of this Maggie, believe me. I said it before, and I'll say it again. You are not getting within a million miles of my son. Understand that.'

  Maggie was vaguely aware of an arm being gently wrapped around her shoulder and of her being led to a wickerwork armchair at the back of the stand. She sat down, head bowed, whilst her rescuer struggled to rip the cellophane off a pack of paper tissues.

  'Bugger, why do they make these things bloody impossible to open?'

  'Th..thank you,' she said, her voice barely audible, and then to her surprise, came a quite unexpected sliver of a smile 'Yes, they are impossible to open aren't they? But thank you so much for helping me.'

  Finally he had managed to rip open the pack but with such force that the tissues sprang out and spilled across the carpeted floor of the stand.

  He laughed. 'That always happens, doesn't it? Bugger it. Come on, let's wipe away these tears and see if we can clean up some of that scary mascara, shall we? Would that be ok?'

  Without waiting for her reply, he kneeled down in front of her and started to dab the tears from under her eyes. His touch was kind, gentle, caring, considerate and for Maggie, simply overwhelming. She threw her arms around him and buried her head in his shoulder. Then started to cry.

  'There, there, let it all out, just let it all out.'

  And for nearly ten minutes she did let it all out, the former wannabe hotshot barrister and soon-to-be former wife of the UK's highest-profile human-rights brief crying her eyes out on the shoulder of the man the papers had christened the Hampstead Hero.

  ◆◆◆

  Jimmy placed two polystyrene cups of tepid milky coffee on the table. 'Do you take sugar? I hope not, since I forgot to get any.' They had repaired to the scruffy little cafe that sat adjacent to the entrance hall of the exhibition centre. Maggie had made an effort to pull herself together, and now the tears had gone but she could not stop shivering, although she knew the room wasn't cold. She had draped her coat over her shoulders and pulled down the sleeves of her grey cardigan to warm her hands. She thought she must look like a refugee on one of these black-and-white Second-World War newsreels.

  'No, just milk please. And thank you so much for helping me. Jimmy, isn't it?'

  'Aye, it's Jimmy and that's about the tenth time you've thanked me in the last ten minutes. No more required now please, I get the picture fine. You're grateful for my intervention.' This accompanied by a broad disarming smile that she would come to love.

  'No, I mean yes but... well I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come along when you did. So thank you...' she smiled, realising what she had done '...sorry, sorry, I can't help it.'

  'Not surprising, after all you've been through. Your husband seems like a right pig, if you don't mi
nd me saying. Mind you, I'm not surprised, because he always comes across as a pompous idiot on the telly.'

  'You must know who I am then, I suppose?

  'Well, you don't exactly need to be Sherlock Holmes to work it out. I've seen your picture in the papers. 'Is this the most hated woman in Britain?' I think that's how the Chronicle described you. Of course I know who you are - you're the infamous Maggie Brooks.'

  She laughed. Hell, she had actually laughed, despite the fact that she knew, without doubt, that she did not deserve to laugh ever again in her life after everything she had done and everything that had happened.

  'Yes, I'm afraid that is me. The most hated woman in Britain.' It was true, more than a year on, and no easier to come to terms with despite the time that had passed.

  'So what are you doing here?' Jimmy said.

  'I was going to ask you the same thing. I was watching you earlier, you know, before Philip turned up.'

  'Ooh, a stalker too are you? Only joking. Actually, I'm looking for a job Maggie, same as everybody here.'

  'Dressed like a half-stoned rock singer? That's a novel approach, I must say. You certainly stand out from the crowd.'

  'I wasn't expecting to be interviewed today. I was just doing a bit of a high-level survey of the market, collecting a few brochures, looking at what's on offer, etcetera etcetera.'

  'If you don't mind me saying so, aren't you a bit old for a graduate recruitment fair?'

  'And if you don't mind me saying so, I'd guess I'm still quite a bit younger than you.' Again, delivered with the same devastating smile that instantly defused any potential offence. 'No, after Uni, my future as a lawyer was all talked about and planned, but I gave it up for music and the Free Electric Band.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'It's a line from an old song from the seventies by Albert Hammond. The Free Electric Band. Sorry, lame joke. My old man really wanted me to become a lawyer but I didn't fancy it so I joined the army instead. Did twelve years, Iraq, Afghanistan, Belfast, the lot. Got demobbed about twelve months ago and been bumming around ever since trying to figure out what to do next. Well, to be honest, I did have a few wee problems to sort out but nothing that I couldn't deal with. It was a wee bit tough, but I'm good now.'