Left and Leaving Page 4

  It was getting on for eight o’clock by the time they emerged into Gower Place.

  ‘A few of us are going for a bite to eat,’ Howard said. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll head home.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded knowingly, clearly assuming that she was dashing back to Nick. ‘See you in the morning.’

  The sky was clear, the air sharp with frost and, by the time Vivian had crossed Gower Street and turned left into Euston Road, the warmth of the lecture room had seeped away. She shivered, suddenly wanting to be home. What was in the fridge? Eggs? Cheese? Maybe she’d call in at Budgens and see if they had a packet of salmon fish cakes. Comfort food for a chilly evening. Increasing her pace, she set her sights on the red, white and blue roundel above the entrance to Warren Street, looking forward to swapping traffic fumes for the fug of the Tube.

  When she reached Tottenham Court Road she waited at the crossing opposite the station. It was a complex junction where four lanes of northbound traffic became six and flew off in all directions, whilst beneath it, out of sight, a road tunnel conveyed east- and westbound traffic. It was a nasty but necessary crossing for those wanting to get to the station.

  A swelling huddle of pedestrians was waiting, ready to scurry to the traffic island, a temporary safe haven where they would regroup for the second half of their hazardous journey. Vivian checked her watch. Ten past eight. With luck she’d be home by nine. Her new boots felt a little too snug, the soles too thin. Perhaps she should have gone for a half-size bigger. She looked up at the sky, ambient light making it impossible to see all but a few stars. And planes, of course, winking their way to or from Heathrow. She stamped her feet attempting to restore the circulation to her aching toes. Come on.

  At last the traffic slowed and the red man changed to green. The convoy of pedestrians stepped off the pavement but she paused, glancing to her left, not trusting the drivers to obey the lights. They did, all but one car which was positioned, somehow, between the diverging traffic flows, as if the driver had been unsure whether to go straight ahead or bear right. She watched as it kept coming until it was halted in its tracks by the raised kerb of the island. Then it exploded.

  The procedure had gone smoothly and Gil was satisfied that he had all the shots that Freddy had requested. It was getting on for eight and rather than toil back over the road, he took the lift down to the studio where he locked the camera safely in the metal filing cabinet. He’d call in here for the camera card first thing tomorrow.

  That done, he climbed the stairs to the ground floor. Now that outpatient clinics were closed, the bustle of the working day had been replaced by a slight melancholy as the hospital settled into its night shift.

  Gil paused, making up his mind what to do. It was cool in the reception area, the revolving door drawing in fresh air and expelling stale as a dwindling number of staff and visitors came in and out. He shivered and buttoned his coat to the neck. It was too late to head for the South Bank and, pooped after his long day, he was ready for home. He was relieved that Feray was out this evening. She was a sweet, caring woman and he enjoyed her company but he had some thinking to do and he needed to be sure of his own position before sharing the news of Polly’s pregnancy.

  His bus stop was on the far side of Tottenham Court Road and he was within fifty yards of the crossing when an all-enveloping boom came at him from all sides and up through the pavement beneath his feet. He heard glass shattering then nothing but a hissing in his ears, as if he’d dived through a plate glass window into the deep end of the swimming baths.

  Instinctively, he moved across the pavement, away from the hospital building and its looming glass walls, trying to calculate where the immediate danger lay, anticipating a second blast. A man on the pavement ahead of him pointed towards Tottenham Court Road and shouted something which Gil couldn’t make out through the hiss in his ears. Pedestrians began running. His instinct told him to run in the opposite direction, away from the obvious danger, nevertheless he followed them.

  Traffic was still moving along Euston Road. Cocooned in their own worlds, drivers were taking a while to grasp that something had happened. Some were slower than others to react and Gil watched a car shunt into the one in front. A cacophony of horns started up.

  When he reached Tottenham Court Road he saw a burning car, its roof ripped off. It was belching black smoke and the tarmac around the vehicle was strewn with shards of mangled metal. Tracers of burning fuel snaked across the road. He identified a car door, still intact, lying on the pavement. The stench of fuel filled the air. Glass crunched beneath his shoes. People were sitting on the pavement. A motorcycle lay on its side. Vehicles that had been travelling up Tottenham Court Road were abandoned as drivers bolted. Someone was screaming. The street was well lit yet, amidst the chaos of heat and smoke and panic, it was impossible to make sense of what was going on.

  A young woman pointed at a bystander who was using his phone to film the car. ‘How can he do that? Someone’s been burned to death in there.’

  ‘We should move back,’ Gil said. ‘There may be more explosions. Let’s try and persuade them to move away.’ He indicated a cluster of onlookers who were mesmerised by what they were witnessing, shocked into immobility.

  ‘Best move back, folks,’ he shouted. ‘It’s not safe here.’

  To prove him right, flames started to engulf the vehicle on the far side of the burning car.

  ‘What about him?’ The young woman nodded towards a figure lying in the road next to the kerb. He was wearing a helmet and leathers and had, presumably, been riding the motorcycle.

  Gil’s ears were still hissing but he could hear better now. ‘He shouldn’t be moved,’ he said.

  Most of the crowd had moved well away from the burning vehicles, some of them sitting on the pavement. Sirens could be heard, growing louder and louder. The whole area was clogged with abandoned vehicles. He could see three buses – evacuated he hoped – parked amidst the chaos of cars and vans. The traffic must be snarled up for miles. It was difficult to see how emergency vehicles could get anywhere near.

  ‘Well we can’t leave him there,’ the young woman said, pointing towards the inert form.

  Together they eased the biker onto the pavement, away from the burning fuel.

  ‘Should we take his helmet off?’ she asked.

  ‘Best not. We don’t want to risk doing more damage.’ He turned to look over his shoulder, in the direction of the screaming woman. ‘I wish someone would shut that bloody woman up.’

  He watched the girl walk purposefully towards the hysterical woman, impressed by her composure amidst the bedlam.

  Swirling smoke made it difficult to make out what was happening on the far side of the road. Gil guessed that the kiosk selling newspapers and tourist tat outside the station had been damaged because sheets of paper were rolling and curling across the road, some catching fire and spiralling into the air before drifting into the darkness.

  The noise of sirens had swelled to an ear-splitting pitch. Blue and red lights flashed as emergency vehicles appeared from side streets. Motorcycles wove between the lanes of abandoned cars. Police were arriving in numbers, pouring out of white vans. Their torsos looked bulky beneath their fluorescent tabards and Gil guessed they were wearing flak jackets. He felt horribly vulnerable. His coat and beanie scarcely protected him from the cold let alone exploding cars.

  The girl was back. She’d succeeded in quietening the woman who was now sobbing at her side.

  ‘Is she hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘Her knees and hands are grazed. And she’s lost her bag.’ Her deadpan delivery made it clear that she didn’t think much of this useless woman.

  ‘It’s tan leather,’ the woman said, ‘and the clasp’s shaped like a cat.’ She pointed at the crossing. ‘I was there when…’ Her voice tailed off and she clamped both hands to her mouth.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up.’ Gil put an arm
around her shoulder in the hope of preventing another spate of hysteria. He turned to the young woman. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I think so, apart from my ears. D’you think it was a bomb?’

  They turned to look at the wreckage.

  ‘Yep. It was a bomb,’ he said.

  ‘What should we do now?’ she said.

  ‘The area’s bound to be sealed off. Nothing’ll be moving. There could have been other…incidents. In fact the whole Underground network will probably be closed down. I guess we’ll be stuck here for a while’

  ‘Shouldn’t we see if we can help them?’ the young woman said, pointing towards two motionless forms lying on the traffic island.

  It was too dark to pick out details but those poor people, who now resembled piles of sandbags, must have been no more than ten metres from the car when it went up. The steel railings, there to protect pedestrians from the traffic, were totally mangled and it seemed likely that the victims were dead.

  ‘We should leave that to the professionals,’ he said gently.

  Sensing that the girl wouldn’t be satisfied unless she was doing something, he said, ‘Why don’t you take…’ He squeezed the woman’s shoulder, prompting her to say her name.

  ‘Irene,’ she said.

  ‘Why don’t you take Irene along to A&E? She needs patching up. D’you feel okay to walk, Irene? It’s down there,’ he pointed, ‘only a coupla hundred yards.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good on ya,’ he said, slipping into the Aussie chumminess that worked so well with patients.

  ‘What will you do?’ the girl asked.

  ‘I’ll wait here with him,’ he said, nodding towards the motorcyclist. ‘Grab a medic. I’m Gil, by the way.’

  She held out her hand. ‘Vivian.’

  6

  Vivian took stock of the waiting area. Measuring no more than fifteen metres by ten, it seemed small for such a huge hospital. Grey metal seats, linked together in banks of four, stood against the walls, and in rows across the room. There was seating for about forty people and most of it was occupied. Fluorescent lights, set within the grid of ceiling tiles, cast a flat, yellowish light that made everything look lifeless. The place smelled of hotdogs and disinfectant and, like every hospital she’d ever been in, it was too hot.

  Staff hurried purposefully through the waiting room, their shoes squeaking on the vinyl flooring as they disappeared through the double doors or down the corridor in the far corner. Nurses were checking people in, assessing injuries, taking names and details. When it came to their turn, Vivian learned that Irene Tovey was fifty-six years old and lived in Upton Park.

  ‘Next of kin?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘My sister, Lillian. Lillian Dobson.’ She gave an address in Maidenhead.

  Vivian had expected her to say her husband or her children but, glancing at Irene’s hand, she saw that her ring finger was bare.

  ‘We’ll sort you out,’ the nurse said, studying Irene’s grazes. ‘Not too bad. But it’s as well to clean them up.’

  Irene Tovey had probably been a pretty child – rosebud mouth and blue eyes, that sort of thing – but now, in middle-age, her features seemed too small for her plump face. Short, highlighted hair in an easy-to-manage cut. Tiny pearl earrings, hardly worth wearing. Navy coat and shoes to match. Unadventurous. Neat. (Even now, amidst the horror and chaos, she was fidgeting with the sleeve of her coat, using a tissue to dab something off it.) Vivian occasionally came across ‘Irenes’– working at the bank or behind the reception desk at the dental surgery. Women who didn’t quite fit in the twenty-first century.

  ‘Are your hands painful?’ Vivian asked when they returned to their seats.

  ‘Sore more than painful.’

  Vivian hoped that Irene would offer to clean up her own wounds – they were very minor and the nurses were under pressure – but it was apparent that the woman wasn’t ready to relinquish her place in this drama.

  An elderly man wandered in. He was bleeding from a head wound, dribbles of blood congealed on his forehead and cheeks. Another, followed, clutching his arm tight against his chest. Vivian felt like a voyeur as she watched these distressed and confused people assembling around them and she turned her attention to Irene. ‘D’you need to phone anyone?’

  Irene raised a hand to her lips. ‘My phone’s in my bag. And my money. And my house keys.’ Her voice grew agitated as she listed her missing possessions.

  Vivian feared that mention of the wretched bag, and the consequences of its loss, would set her off again and she tried to calm her. ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘Here. Use mine.’

  Irene took the phone, staring at it as if it might do something unexpected. ‘I’ve not used one like this.’

  ‘Shall I get the number?’ Vivian asked.

  ‘Thanks.’ Irene closed her eyes, her face contorting with the effort of remembering. ‘Tsk. Silly me. You’d think I’d remember my own sister’s number.’

  ‘I expect it’ll come back to you in a minute.’

  Vivian retrieved her phone. The incident – or a version of it – would be all over the news by now. She ought to contact Nick. And her father. They had no reason to think she would be anywhere near Warren Street this evening, nevertheless she should tell them where she was. Howard, too. If he’d gone to Charlotte Street he must have heard the explosion and he knew she was heading for the Tube.

  Suddenly she wanted to get away from Irene and the dismal waiting area. ‘I’m just popping outside for some air,’ she said.

  Irene’s face flooded with apprehension. ‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Two policemen were stationed near the exit. ‘You okay, Miss?’ one asked. His face showed no emotion, no reassurance, and, for a second, she experienced a childish dread of having done something wrong.

  ‘Yes, thanks. I’m keeping a…friend company. I have to make a few calls.’ She held up her phone to confirm her explanation.

  ‘Don’t go too far, will you? We’ll need details of everyone who was in the vicinity.’

  ‘Sure.’ She hesitated. ‘D’you have any idea who…?’

  ‘No, Miss. Not yet. Our priority is to make the area safe.’

  She stood at the top of the steps leading down to the pavement, enjoying the chill after the fug in the waiting room. The whole area must have been sealed off because Euston Road was devoid of traffic. Two helicopters circled overhead, lights winking, spotlights trained on the ground. Their blades stirred the air, creating an unpleasant sucking feeling in her ears. If she looked to her left, towards Tottenham Court Road, she could see flashing blue lights reflecting off the surrounding buildings. An occasional siren wailed. The night smelled of burning fuel.

  She wondered what had happened to the biker. She hadn’t been brave enough to study him closely but he’d been lying very still on the pavement. People must have died. Whoever was in the car, for a start, and those in the vehicles closest to it. Then there were the pedestrians on the traffic island. She’d seen chunks of burning metal flying through the air – huge lumps of shrapnel – but, until now, she’d avoided picturing the damage done as they hit human flesh. She felt shaky, queasy.

  Both Nick and Howard had left messages asking her to get in touch. Despite their trying to sound off-hand she could tell they were anxious. Nothing from her father, though. She smiled. It would take more than a bomb for him to lash out on a call to a mobile.

  She’d been in Cambridge on 7/7 and remembered how all the networks had gone into meltdown. But this evening she had no trouble getting through to Nick. She explained, quickly, what had happened, reassuring him that she was perfectly fine, playing down how close she’d been to the car.

  ‘So where are you now?’ he said.

  ‘At University College Hospital. A&E.’

  ‘But you said you weren’t hurt.’

  She told him about Irene and her promise to wait with her until she’d be
en patched up.

  ‘I’ll come and find you,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need. Getting here’s bound to be a hassle. What are they saying on the news?’

  He filled her in on what had been reported. The police were being cagey but this was the only explosion. ‘Apparently there was no warning and so far no claims. They haven’t ruled out an accident of some kind.’

  ‘It was a bomb,’ she said. ‘Deaths?’

  He hesitated. ‘Four so far. And whoever was in the car. Several on the critical list.’

  Once more he offered to come but she wouldn’t have it, promising to call again when Irene had been sorted out.

  Next she spoke to Howard, again making light of her escape. He’d been on his way to Pescatori in Charlotte Street and had heard the explosion. Details had filtered through to the restaurant and he and his friends had cut short their evening.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Perhaps in future you’ll have the sense to accept my dinner invitations.’ Concern was evident in his teasing reprimand. ‘And don’t even think about coming in tomorrow. I shall only send you home.’

  Finally she phoned her father. It was late but he usually had a nap in the afternoon and rarely went to bed before midnight. She had decided not to mention the explosion unless he did. Judging by his rant about the Co-op and the argy-bargy he was having with them regarding an insurance premium, he hadn’t yet heard the news.

  ‘It’s gone eleven,’ he said. ‘Was there anything in particular?’

  ‘Did you go for your ’flu jab?’ she said, hoping that he would take that to be the reason for her call.

  ‘I went on Monday. The nurse was an incompetent idiot. My arm’s still bloody sore.’

  She warned him that colder weather was forecast, reminding him that the central heating was there to be used. ‘I’ll be down to see you soon,’ she said, surprising herself by adding, ‘sweet dreams.’

  She interrogated her Blackberry for the latest news. Accounts were sensationalist and scaremongering; they contained few facts. But the world demanded instant news and instant comment.