The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two)

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  “But it won’t, ” I reply loudly over my shoulder without turning to look back.

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  Chapter Twenty

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  It’s Monday night and I’m alone in the flat. Several empty cans of beer are neatly stacked on the coffee table beside me, and I am watching one of the latest movie releases to have just come out on the Sky Movie Channel.

  For the most part I am able to enjoy the film, but every now and again my mind wanders back to Sal and Guy and I run over in my mind once more all the reasons why I believe that giving Sal the ultimatum is the right thing to do.

  When the movie finishes, I go through to my bedroom to fetch a CD. I flick through the selection of my current favourites, Jamiroquai’s ‘Dynamite’ album, some Franz Ferdinand, Coldplay’s ‘Speed of Sound’, Hard-Fi, and James Blunt, but given my mood, I eventually decide for my father’s favourite cassette, “Dark Side of the Moon”, pop it into Guys hi-fi, and lie back on the sofa, thinking. As the mellow tones of arguably the best album ever made slowly waft their way into my bones, I begin to relax.

  My thoughts drift back to the conversation I had with Gail at lunchtime, and how the lack of a mother figure has accounted for so much in my life. Then I think about my dad, and for some strange reason, I am soon remembering a holiday he took Hannah and I on when I was about fifteen. He had bought us both new bicycles for Christmas, and come the summer school holidays, he fitted panniers to the back wheels and proudly announced that that year we would be going on a cycling tour of the Scottish Highlands.

  “We’ll stay at all the youth hostels that I used to visit when I was a kid of your age,” he insisted to both Hannah and myself, “…and we’ll cook our lunches on a gas stove and fall asleep in the sun each afternoon.” It sounded idyllic and initially Hannah and I were really enthusiastic, but after four days we were all beginning to struggle, and could hardly face climbing onto the saddle each morning to start each new sixty mile journey to the next hostel. My dad kept us going though, promising that by the second week we’d all be loving it, and that our bodies would soon be used to doing sixty miles a day with no problems.

  The best part was that he was right. As the first weekend passed and we left Achmelvich Youth Hostel in the Highlands behind us, we found ourselves in love with the clean, fresh air, the wide open valleys with fantastic scenic horizons, and the empty roads where we were the kings, and our bikes were our chariots. I will never forget the long downhill freewheel to Torriddon Youth Hostel, staring up at the jagged cliff edges which towered above us and ran on for mile after mile like the pictures I had seen of the Grand Canyon in my books at school. We were never closer as a family than as we were then, the afternoons spent singing and chatting to each other as we cycled through the beautiful glens, or when we cooked our evening meals together in the communal kitchens in the youth hostels.

  I miss my dad.

  For a moment I consider calling Hannah to reminisce together, but then I decide against it. I know she has always missed him even more than I do. Which means that she misses him very much indeed.

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  On Tuesday I catch the train up to Birmingham, and visit a customer with my boss James and the account manager. The presentation with the customer goes well, and after taking a couple of them out to dinner afterwards, we stay at a hotel in the city centre.

  It’s lunchtime when we make it back into the office on Wednesday, but nothing much gets done for the rest of the day: London is celebrating!

  At 12.49 BST, relayed live by satellite from Singapore to a massive crowd in Trafalgar Square, the Olympic committee announced that the 2012 Olympics would be held in London.

  The city went mad.

  Only half a mile south of the river, James and I heard the roar from the assembled crowd in Trafalgar Square as the decision was announced. By the time we got out of the lift on the second floor, most of the office had assembled in the Executive Suite and were glued to the TV, watching the commentary from the BBC coming live from Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square.

  A wave of excitement quickly sweeps around the office, and even though I am not a Londoner, even though I have only been here a few weeks, I can’t help but feel some of the excitement rub off on me.

  An excitement which is however, very short lived.

  Checking my emails I find that Guy has emailed me to ask if I have seen Sal and if she is okay. In a flash I am brought back to my own personal reality and my happy disposition begins to ebb away. Thankfully I am able to tell Guy that James had taken me on an unplanned trip out of the city, so I haven’t had the opportunity to see Sal yet. “Maybe later on in the week,” I tell him. From his email it would seem that he is now starting to get a little nervous what her reply will be. I text Sal afterwards and confirm with her where and when we will meet tomorrow and she replies, ‘8pm at the pub near Convent Garden, as planned.’

  By the time I get home I am knackered. I’m in bed by ten, and I’m asleep by five past.

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  I awake on the Thursday morning, fresh, alive and raring to go. Unfortunately, my upbeat mood is short lived: as I am popping a tea-bag into a cup and adding some water, I remember just what I have to do this evening, and in an instant, my day has become grey and foreboding.

  On the train into London I am not lucky enough to find a seat, and I am forced to stand, hanging onto one of the poles near the door, swaying back and forward and trying to avoid banging into my fellow commuters whenever the train lurches forward or rattles on its tracks.

  My mind a blank, I start studying the faces of those fortunate enough to be sitting. After several minutes watching a businessman from the city hilariously struggling to stay awake, his head rolling forwards and jolting quickly upright every few minutes, I jump from looking at a spotty teenager to the more attractive face of a blonde woman, who I immediately recognise from somewhere, but cannot place. Subconsciously biting my bottom lip, I try racking my brains as to where I could probably have seen her before, matching her appearance in my mind to anyone new that I have met in the past couple of weeks. At first she doesn’t click, but as she suddenly looks up and catches my gaze, I find myself once again staring into the eyes of the very attractive woman I sat opposite to on the train into London last week. This time neither of us immediately looks away, and without a newspaper to hide behind, I simply smile directly back at her, acknowledge her, then slowly turn and start looking out of the window. A few minutes later, I look back, but she is reading a book. For a second or two, I study the gentle curves of her face, her interesting eyes, and her soft, blonde hair. Then not wanting to get caught leering after her like I did last week, I turn my head and start studying the faces of others elsewhere.

  Five minutes later, the train arrives at Waterloo, and within seconds my mystery blonde woman has left the train and melted into the faceless masses of commuters in the station.

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  It is a beautiful morning, and as I walk out of the train station towards my offices, my mood lightens again. I think back to how different my life already is to what it used to be in Edinburgh. In so many ways, the move to London has been good for me: I have made new friends, started a new life, and developed my career. Looking forward, I know that I still have to find the courage to make the bus-trip back down to Mitcham to fulfil the real reason I moved down here, and I mentally plan to do that this coming weekend. It’s funny how life works out. It is only through the death of my relationship with Kate, and only through the emotional pain I have had to experience from our break-up, that I am now evolving into a new life. But that’s typical of the way life works: from death comes new life, such is nature’s way.

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  Walking around the corner to my office, and staring up at the tall, glistening and impressive Euro.com office in front of me, I smile to myse
lf. I haven’t done too badly for myself now, have I?

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  It is 9.32 am.

  My phone rings.

  As I pick it up to answer it, I am unaware then that this single moment of time will be captured in my mind's eye for the rest of my life. In future when I think of this moment, I will be able to recall every aspect of the office around me: the smell of the flowers on someone’s desk only metres away, the sound of a colleague laughing quietly to someone else on the phone, and the light reflecting from the river as I gaze out onto the Thames as I put the receiver to my ear.

  “Andrew?”, a voice, urgent and shrill. My sister.

  “Yes, Hannah? Are you okay?” I answer, my senses immediately alert and quickly recognising that Hannah is very upset.

  “I’m fine? Are you?” she asks quickly.

  “Yes…why?”

  “Bombs are going off all over London! You need to turn on the news…I’m watching it now. Listen, I’ll turn up the volume…”

  On the other end of the phone I hear the volume of the television set increasing, and soon I hear the voices of excited reporters saying ‘…and reports are coming in, as of yet unconfirmed, of bombs going off on the London underground. We stress that these reports are as of yet unconfirmed, but…I’m sorry, I’m just being told that we now have confirmation of a bomb exploding on a underground tube near Liverpool Street station ….”

  “Shit!” I almost shout aloud, drawing the attention of my nearest colleagues. “Hannah,…Hannah?” I call down the phone. “Are you there?”

  “Yes. I’m here. It’s terrible, Andrew…Listen, if you’re alright, stay where you are. Don’t go anywhere just now….And call me back in an hour or so? It looks like it’s another 9/11 or something.”

  “Hannah, I’m going to hang up now. I want to go and find a TV somewhere.”

  “I love you, Andrew. Be safe, okay?”

  “I will.”

  I hang up the phone. The people sitting nearest to me are staring at me, wondering what is up.

  “Several bombs have gone off on the underground in London. I’m going to the Executive Presentation Suite to switch on the TV.”

  As I leave my desk and head to the Executive Suite I can sense that the office floor is coming alive, as other people start becoming aware of what is happening in the world outside. All around me the phones begin to ring, and in the far corner of the floor I hear a woman scream then start to cry. Fear starts to ripple throughout Euro.com.

  The door to the Executive Suite is wide open when I get there and a group of eight or nine people are already hanging on to every word that the reporter on the BBC is relaying on the News Flash.

  “…it would seem that a bomb has gone off on the underground on a train near Liverpool Street station. Other unconfirmed reports coming into the studio talk of other bombs going off in other parts of London. No other bombs have as of yet been confirmed, but we are currently waiting for the police to ….”

  A group of people come into the room behind me, some with their coats still on, one crying and being comforted by a workmate.

  “Shit, I was just there,” she is crying aloud.

  “And so was I,” someone in front of the TV joins in. “I must have left Liverpool Street just before it happened.”

  Within seconds, everyone is talking aloud, and the room is full of nervous excitement, fear and subdued panic.

  One of the men at the front shouts at us all to be quiet, and he leans forward and pumps up the volume on the TV.

  “…and reports are just coming in of another bomb going off on another tube near Edgware Road. This too is as of yet unconfirmed, but…”

  The room is now full of people, some crying, the rest just staring wide-eyed at the TV set. It reminds me immediately of the student union at Edinburgh University where we all stood around dumbstruck and watched the terror attacks on the World Trades Towers. And now it is happening again. Now London is under attack.

  I am not a Londoner. I am not from here. Suddenly I am very scared, and in spite of all the people around me, I feel very alone and vulnerable.

  For the next hour we all sit in the room staring at the television set, scared and starved of information as to what is actually going on in the city outside our windows. The television stations are recycling the same news over and over again, and as we flick between the channels, one common factor becomes evident. Confusion.

  No one really understands what is going on in London.

  Eventually people begin to drift out of the room, some going for a smoke and a chat, others to get a coffee or go to the toilets; some to call loved ones. No one even thinks of going back to their desk to resume work.

  I go back to my desk, pick up my mobile and walk down the stairs and out of the office onto the street, desperate for some fresh air. As soon as I walk out of the door the sound of police car sirens and ambulances wailing in the distance hits me like a foghorn. Before I have even had time to walk around the corner from the office, five police cars with blue flashing lights and sirens blazing have passed me on the way to Waterloo.

  Shit. What is happening?

  My phone rings. It is Hannah again.

  “Where are you?” she asks straight away.

  “Still at work. I was just about to call you.”

  “Have you been watching the news? I can’t believe it!”

  “Yes, but nothing’s been confirmed yet. No-one knows what’s going on. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Kate called me. She wanted to check that you were alright.”

  “Tell her I’m fine, but don’t give her my telephone number or anything, ok?”

  “Andrew, I’m worried about you. On the radio, they were saying that about fifteen bombs had gone off in London. Maybe you should try to get out of the city?”

  “Not yet. Until we know what’s happening it’s probably better just to stay put. Anyway, I think they may have had a bomb at Waterloo, because there are lots of police cars heading over there. I might have to walk home.”

  “Will you call me at lunchtime?”

  “Yes.”

  Hannah hangs up, and I decide to head back upstairs and check the TV again. Maybe they’ve found out something new. As I am walking back up the stairs, my phone goes. It’s my boss James.

  “Andrew, are you in the office?” he asks.

  “Yes. Where are you?”

  “Standing outside Liverpool Street Station. They’ve closed it all off, and it doesn’t look like we’ll be able to go anywhere soon. All the buses are packed, and some are even refusing to go anywhere, and they’re just standing at the sides of the roads. It looks like I may have to walk into the office.”

  “Have you any idea what’s happening?”

  “I think there was a bomb. There are thousands of ambulances everywhere, and all the streets around us are cordoned off and full of fire-engines.”

  “We’ve been watching the TV in the Executive Suite trying to find out what’s happening with the other bombs, but no-one knows.”

  “What do you mean, other bombs?”

  “You haven’t heard? It looks like it’s another 9/11. The TV is reporting bombs going off all over London, and I just spoke to my sister who told me that on the radio they said there were fifteen bomb explosions reported.”

  “How many?”

  “Fifteen, although none of them have been confirmed yet. I think everyone is just guessing at what’s happening…”

  “Oh dear,…”James says, interrupting me. “For the past hour people have been coming out of the tube station onto the street. Some are being carried out on stretchers, others are being helped out. They don’t look good…Listen Andrew, I want you to do me a favour, okay? I want you to call everyone in the marketing team, and check that everyone is alright. I can’t do it because it took me twenty minutes just to get through to my wife before I called the office, and there is no signal here with everyone else on
their mobiles as well. I’ve already spoken to Ben, and Simon who normally comes in via Liverpool Street, so just call the others. Try calling me back or send me a text when you’ve contacted everyone.”

  Returning to my desk, I first call Gail and am relieved to find out that she is fine. She got to work at 8.30 am. before any of the problems started. We talk briefly, and then I start to do the roll call of my colleagues as James requested. It takes me twenty minutes to establish that everyone else is accounted for and okay. They are all in the office now, apart from one who I call and find out is at home off sick, but unhurt. After letting James know, I return to the TV room, only to find the screen full of images of wounded people coming out of tube stations, and a horrifying image of a bus, blown to pieces, sitting on the road near Tavistock Place. We sit for the next hour mesmerised by the scenes of death and carnage filmed by the camera crews when they finally arrived at the scenes of four bomb explosions: three apparently on underground trains inside the tube tunnels themselves, and one on a bus. Horrific television images of blackened walking wounded people fill the television set. Fire-engines, police, and ambulances are everywhere, and as the news stations struggle to find out what is going on, we watch as people, scared out of their minds, shocked and dazed, are interviewed by reporters who are just as scared as those they are interviewing. Everyone is asking the same question, “There have been four confirmed bombs so far, are there going to be anymore?”

  Slowly, reports start to come in about the numbers of those estimated to have been killed by the bombs. At first the numbers are very high, with some reporters talking of hundreds of dead or dying.

  Most of us forget to take lunch. At two o’clock James finally makes it into the office, having walked all the way from Liverpool Street Station. He tells us that we can go home whenever we want, although he warns us not to take the tube, train or bus wherever possible. According to the news, catching a train or tube home may be impossible anyway, as most of the train and underground stations have now been closed.