Chapter 17: The Faint Light at the End of It

Well, there we are: the final chapter. You have until January 1^st to read this story before I make it available to premium members only. Your comments are welcome and if you find you like this sort of thing: there’s plenty more available on my site. – RD

It rained. I think it should rain, at funerals. Most people stood under black or transparent umbrellas, but I wore a Macintosh over my black suit and I just didn’t care. I needed to focus on not crying. Rain on my face might help to conceal the tears that crept through.

There were about forty people standing around the grave. I’d been one of the pallbearers, which I’d never done before. We carried her casket from the funeral building, which had been filled to capacity. Diana Albinson had many, many friends. There wasn’t an empty seat in the auditorium, but only a fraction of us got to take her to her final resting place.

After we had placed her casket onto the mechanism that would lower her into the grave, I found a place at the far edge. I didn’t need to be in front. As terrible as I felt, this was the last opportunity for others to be near her. Family, long time friends, her husband Nigel, her daughter Lola. So many sad faces.

I felt Kate’s hand locking fingers with me. Melody stood to the other side of me and linked arms, offering me a place under her umbrella. She was late in catching up, because I had walked at the head of the procession and she was at the other end.

Kate was sharing an umbrella with someone I didn’t know, but Kate knows everybody. A priest from the Church of England said the final prayers. All the eulogies had been given indoors. Nigel had asked me to speak but I know myself: I’d just stand there, going to pieces. It’s a minor miracle I managed to speak at my wife’s funeral, really.

Peter and Ali guided me into the tunnel, much like Mel and I helped Edwin with his first steps. I had no idea why they were there, but I trusted both these men with my life. We walked for a minute or so, in tunnels filled with gravel and dirt. They’re wider than you think.

Then we came to a raised metal platform underneath a door that had once been green. A light bulb in a metal cage burned brightly overhead. Peter merely needed to push for it to open. Then we passed through and ended up in a long, narrow corridor, with caged lightbulbs on the ceiling at regular intervals. I saw several steel doors, with locks that meant business.

“We’re underneath London Street right now,” said Peter, as if he was giving a guided tour. I didn’t answer. That didn’t stop him.

“We found this tunnel during a renovation. When we were digging the basement pool, actually. It’s maintenance, for the electricity company. We’ve used it a couple of times to get celebrities out of the building.”

I saw a rat scurrying away. I’m not afraid of them, but Mel is. I hoped she hadn’t seen it.

“Ooooh, I’m ill. I need sum woatah,” moaned Ali, who had just been vomiting and smelled of it. Peter rubbed his back as they walked.

“Just a few more minutes, my son. You did good.”

The air was damp, but the tunnel was dry. We passed through another metal door and Peter paused to lock it behind us.

“Just in case the Old Bill figures out where we went,” he said, still smiling as if he expected a tip. Meanwhile, I was dripping blood. Literally dripping blood. And it wasn’t mine. We would be easy enough to find. My trouser legs were stuck to me. I was drenched.

After what seemed like an interminable speed march through the easiest Doom map ever, we reached another door. Peter knocked ‘shave and a haircut’, and then it opened. We were in the basement level of the main building of Keller & Fox. I could faintly smell the chlorine from the pool. A security guard dressed in dark blue holstered a gun.

“Room thirty, Mr. Fox. Oh, wow ... Good evening, Mr. King. The others are there as well. They came in five minutes before you lot.”

“Good. Martin, see if you can stay on the linoleum.”

Room thirty is one of those places at Keller & Fox HQ you would not expect to find in a regular office building. At first glance it looks as if you’ve stepped into a GP’s practice. There’s a small desk with a PC, a treatment table with one of those paper rolls at the head, there are medicine cabinets with serious locks and cardboard dispensing boxes with gloves and spatulas. The company doctor uses the room from time to time. I think you can see him twice a week in the morning, which saves you going to your own GP. He treats a lot of STD’s, I’m told. And head lice, from all those woolly hats millennials are so fond of. Though that might just be one of the rumours Kate likes to spread.

There’s also an anteroom, where I found my family. Kate sat on a small plastic chair, slumped forward from stress and exhaustion. Someone from the media room, a lady I knew her to be friends with, sat in front of her, on her knees. I guess she was trying to comfort her. Kate looked up as we entered the room and had to be restrained from hugging me, because like I said: blood all over.

Melody was changing Edwin’s nappy on a square treatment table, her back to a large refrigerator that held medication, bags of IV fluid and even emergency stores of several blood types. Keller & Fox had an annual blood drive, but it was all for internal use: blood expires after twelve months. Mel looked exhausted, but she wasn’t injured. Edwin’s toiletries bag had been lost in the fray, but this room stocked just about anything.

“Go untie Caroline,” said Peter to Ali. “She’s in her office.”

“WHAT?” asked Kate. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“We tied her to her chair. She’d have come with us to get you,” explained Peter. “And I wasn’t having that.”

“Yeah, about that:” said Melody. “How did you guys know where to find us? Or that we were in trouble at all?”

“Because a bomb went off less than fifteen hundred feet from our offices. The Media Centre immediately scanned for any assets or employees in the area, via the K&F calendar app. Everyone was accounted for, but then we saw three dots where they shouldn’t be. Your phones saved you. Caroline ordered a rescue mission and wanted to come, but there’s no way I’m bringing her to a potential gunfight. So I tied her up. And her secretary. Ali, see to it.”

“I ain’t doin’ that, no way,” said Ali. “I’d sooner shave a lion’s bollocks, mate. Sir. Mista Fox.”

Peter sighed.

“I suppose I’ll have to, then. Look, get Martin’s kit off. Wear gloves. Stick it in this bin. I’ll bring his spare suit and some skivvies. If I don’t make it back alive, my house goes to the RSPCA.”

Caroline was there too, but she stood next to Nigel and Lola. That was only right. She had been as close to Diana as anyone. Of course she had the classiest funeral attire of us all: a small, black pillbox hat, with a dark feather. A black see-through veil. The finest gloves. A chauffeur in a rain coat, holding an umbrella up over her. But she grieved more than most here today, even though she appeared calm and collected, ready as ever to step in to avert any disasters. Peter had offered to accompany her, but she had said she wanted to go alone.

I was a bit too far away from the priest to hear his full prayer, but I caught a snippet. His voice was calm and soothing, I’ll give him that.

“‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ says the Lord. ‘Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’”

Bollocks.

Diana was dead. She died on my watch, saving my son and my wife. Edwin was with Kelly and her mother right now, back at our home. He wouldn’t remember a thing about the day, now a week ago, when someone was about to murder him in the name of Islam. A child. A toddler. But I remembered, and Mel and Kate sure as hell did, too.

And then there was Nigel, who had missed the attack as he had walked overground between Edgware Road and Paddington so he could have a smoke. He’d been worried sick for over an hour and a half, waiting at the edge of the police cordon. He’d heard the gunshots in the ticket hall. He’d seen people coming out, covered in blood and soot and grime. But none of those people were Diana. She would never come, never again kiss him or hug him. And then he’d had to tell her daughter, Lola. Tell her that her mother had died, and how.

And yet, here he was: desperately sad but seemingly calm, standing at the foot of the grave with his arm around Lola, who sobbed. I’d been to their house. I had told them what had happened, when my voice had come back. How their wife and mother had saved Melody and Edwin, without a thought for her own safety. They struggled to believe me at first, because my story was somewhat different from the official police report. But I was able to tell them that her last thoughts, her last words, had been for them.

“We now go live to City Hall, for the joint press conference of the Mayor of London, the British Transport Police and the Metropolitan Police. David Mason reports.”

“Thank you, Sue. Mayor Boris Johnson is just completing his introduction, and we’re about to hear from ... Actually, let’s just listen.”

We watched the press conference in our living room. Edwin was asleep and Kate had an evening appointment with a counsellor, which left Melody, Kelly and me. Mrs. Newman was in the kitchen, making tea. This last week her and my mother had been taking turns taking care of us, because it was all we could do to look after Edwin. We hardly slept and barely ate.

“ ... horrible event. I will now give you Chief Constable Marianne Foster of the uhm ... Metropolitan Police. She uhm ... will give us a summary of the uhm ... events and uhm ... please hold any uhm ... questions until later. Chief Constable.”

Such a gifted speaker, our Boris. I’d met him once. It’s like someone taught a haystack to speak Latin.

A uniformed lady walked up to the podium, nodded to Boris and began to read a prepared statement after she had braved the first wave of bright flashes from the photographers.

“Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, here is a summary of the events of Friday, the 11^th of June 2015. At around half past five several traffic incidents we now believe to be orchestrated, blocked traffic on and around Edgware Road and Paddington Station. This was done to drive commuters to the Underground and also to delay the response time of emergency services. The ... ahem, sorry, the attack was initiated at six fifteen, when a suicide bomber now identified as Muhammad Fakhoury, a Saudi national aged twenty-six, entered the main hall of Paddington Underground Station with the intention of detonating a belt with explosives. He was observed by a London Underground Lines employee, the 32 year old Mr. Rajesh Areef. Acting without any regard for his own safety, Mr. Areef pulled Mr. Fakhoury into his ticket booth as he was trying to set off the detonator, in an attempt to contain the blast. In this, he was mostly successful. The explosive did go off, killing both men and injuring one other Underground employee, Mr. Aaron Zimmerman, but the explosion was largely contained. There were, however, many casualties.”

She paused for a drink of water.

“The explosion damaged a control panel and a junction box, which deactivated both the main lights and the security cameras on all platforms. The ticket barriers also became inoperative, which made it difficult for passengers to exit the station. Ahem ... In the second stage of the attack, a gunman whose name we do not yet know, began to fire on the public as people emerged from the station, killing two people before he was assaulted by members of the public. The families have asked us not to name these two victims. The gunman ran into the station and struggled to operate his backup weapon, which allowed most passengers to climb the barriers and leave. Two police officers on foot patrol entered the building in pursuit and called in armed officers as they tried to capture the gunman. Due to heavy traffic, armed officers stationed at Paddington Rail station needed several minutes to reach the ... uh ... station.”

That’s three stations in one sentence. Mind you, Paddington IS three stations. Overground railway and then two underground lines, rather far apart.

“The third stage of the attack was carried out by ... Oh ... I should have mentioned that Mr. Areef, who pulled the suicide bomber into the ticket booth, is ... was ... a devout Muslim. It seems that ... given that there are rumours ... We felt we should mention that. That he ... was Muslim. Himself.”

The press murmured a bit.

“And he saved many lives, by his action. So ... the third ... ahem, sorry ... third stage of the attack was exe ... uhm ... performed by two men who were waiting at the far end of platform three. We have security footage of them entering the station ten minutes previous. These two men were ready to attack passengers on the platform. They have been identified as Muhammad Masood, uhm ... a British national, twenty-six, of Greenwich, and Farook Suleiman, a Moroccan national, twenty-seven. Both men have been identified as having fought for ISIS in Syria.”

Another sip of water. I sat on the edge of the sofa, so near the flat screen TV I could see the individual pixels. Kelly sat next to me and had both arms around me, almost as if she wanted to prevent me from disappearing into the screen.

“The uhm ... events on platforms three and four as we have been able to reconstruct them, are as follows. Uhm ... We do not have any footage, because the explosion disabled the camera system. But five people died on those platforms, by their hand. One of them used a machete-type knife, the other one had a handgun, which we have so far not been able to retrieve. The uhmm ... names of the victims are here.”

Someone wheeled out a large pinboard with pictures. I recognized the Indian lady and the guy with the weird hat.

“The uhm ... victims were Victor Wilson, a 42 year old estate agent...”

He’d been shot at the end of platform four. A promising platform in an up and coming area of London, in need of some renovation. Would suit first time buyer.

“And Leslie Dubonnet, an office manager, 30 years ... of age ... Ahem. Sorry.”

More water.

“And a gentleman from uhm ... Iceland. I will ... his name is...”

This was the guy with the rucksack and the unfortunate hat. I saw his name underneath the picture they had pinned up. It was Þjóðann Ölmóðurson. I kid you not. How the hell was this poor woman going to pronounce that? She gave it her best shot:

“It’s ... tjow ... dan ... ullmodur ... son. Uhm, forty. And he was visiting London as a tourist. The next victim was Elizabeth Pandit, fifty, a dental technician from Tower Hamlets.”

The lady on white sneakers, who had slowed down Scimitar long enough for Kate to hide Edwin and Melody in that hatch. A noble death, even if she probably didn’t know it or mean to go out like that.

“Now, two people on that platform have put up a fight and they have managed to uhm ... defend themselves against the attackers, and uhm ... kill them. As you know, the actress Diana Albinson was one of the victims. The final victim was Robert Wright, a former officer with Kent police. It is believed that he and Mrs. Albinson worked in tandem to fight off the attackers. Unfortunately, they both succumbed to injuries they sustained during the fight.”

Now the journalists piped up, even though she clearly wasn’t done.

“Can you tell us more about that?”

“What happened there?”

“I uhm ... I’m not answering questions right now,” said the Chief Constable. And then she answered the questions, because she was clearly not prepared for having to deliver this horrible tale.

“We haven’t ... We’re still working on the reconstruction, but we believe that Mr. Wright disarmed one of the attackers with a crowbar. One of the escalators was shut down for maintenance and the mechanic fled, but left his tools behind. Using this crowbar, Mr. Wright and Mrs. Albinson must have attacked the swordsman, who then fell into the access hole of the escalator and got trapped in the machinery. We uhm ... We spent three hours trying to get him out, I mean first responders did, but he died during the process. And we found the other attacker in the uhm ... eastbound tunnel. He had been run over by a train.”

“What were trains doing there?”

“The uhm ... the system was backed up and drivers were ordered to move to specific tunnel sections, but not to stop at any stations. I ... we...”

I’d seen enough. Or rather, I couldn’t take anymore. So many deaths. I reached for the remote and pressed mute.

“Are you okay, Martin?” asked Kelly, as she stroked my back.

I shook my head.

“He can’t talk yet, sweetheart,” said Mel.

I couldn’t speak for four days after the incident. It was weird and unnerving. I mean, technically I could speak. And I could nod or shake my head. My hearing was fine, too. But I couldn’t form any words. I couldn’t make myself speak, much like you can’t stick your hand in a meat grinder on purpose or take a bite out of anything that comes out of a Burger King. The body rejects the instructions from the brain, because it knows better.

At first I didn’t understand it, although at the same time I didn’t much care. But after about a day I began to realise I was afraid of what would come out of me, what vile words and horrible ideas would come tumbling out of my mouth, all of them to do with stopping the violence caused by this religion. And I didn’t want to say those things. I didn’t want to subject my loved ones to the dark and disturbing things I would barf out once I opened my mouth. And so I didn’t. But I could nod and I could even smile at Edwin, so that was ninety percent of my communication needs covered. I didn’t type, though I suppose I could. I just couldn’t be bothered to read my email.

Caroline understood. Of course she did. I recall her marching into room thirty, also known as the infirmary, with Peter in tow. They’d been having a row. In fact, they were still having it.

“With ROPE. That is what I find most unforgivable, Peter. ROPE!”

“Oh, I’m SORRY! Next time I’ll sedate you. Is that okay?”

“It is neither...”

That’s when she stepped into the anteroom, saw all of us and then went up to Melody to hug her and to kiss Edwin. She’s very fond of both of them.