Twenty Twelve (35 page)

‘Let him go,’ I tell Ronnie. She doesn’t react. ‘He’s told us all he knows,’ I say.

Reluctantly she releases him and the man sinks to the floor. ‘I cannot do this any more. Can you understand how difficult this is?’ He buries his face in his hands. ‘I cannot do this any more,’ he repeats.

Rory’s seat is 22A. He also bought a second ticket and reserved 22B so no one could sit next to him. It has been a difficult journey. Even with his ear defenders, the noise is deafening. He has considered going back, but Hawk is his friend. Hawk needs him.

A woman points at the seat next to him and says something. She has a jewelled ring in her nose, which catches the light and makes his head hurt. She speaks to him again.

The man opposite leans over and yanks off his ear defenders. ‘She’s talking to you, mate,’ he shouts.

Rory can hardly breathe. The noise of the engine, the wheels on the track, the whooshing of the automatic door to the next carriage all mix together.

‘Is that seat taken?’ the woman asks.

‘Yes,’ says Rory and goes to replace his ear defenders.

‘No one’s sat there the whole way down here,’ says the man. ‘So whose seat is it?’

‘Mine,’ says Rory.

‘What?’ the man snorts. ‘You bought both tickets, then?’

‘Yes,’ replies Rory.

‘Then have some manners and let the lady sit down. You can see her condition.’

Rory looks at the woman. Condition is the word used to describe an illness. The woman does not look ill.

‘Come on, love,’ coaxes the man. ‘Sit yourself down there.’

The woman smiles at Rory and sits down. She has eight bangles on each wrist and they jangle when she moves. Rory gags.

‘Is there a problem?’ the woman asks.

‘You smell of onions,’ Rory says to her.

‘A bloody racist as well,’ the man shouts. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

Rory can’t take any more. He pulls his ear defenders back on, pushes past the woman and runs down the aisle. When he gets to the toilet he goes inside. He daren’t touch anything because of the germs. Instead, he stands with his eyes closed and waits to arrive in London.

I tap my head with my knuckle and try to think. Ronnie is out of ideas but we must find the guy posing as Paul. ‘If we can’t find him, maybe we could send him a message,’ I suggest.

‘How?’

‘You said you contacted Hawk via websites. Is it likely he would do the same with Paul?’

Ronnie shrugs. ‘I guess.’

‘So let’s send a message to Paul, pretending to be Hawk, telling him the whole thing is called off.’

‘I don’t know,’ Ronnie replies. ‘Maybe they used code words to identify each other.’

‘Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t,’ I say.

Ronnie still looks dubious.

‘Look,’ I tell her. ‘It’s worth a try, surely?’

At last she nods.

We head to the nearest internet café and grab tea and toast while we wait for a computer. Then Ronnie looks up a website called Platformnow.

‘Do you know Hawk’s password?’ I ask.

‘No.’

‘You could make an educated guess.’

‘Such as?’

‘Your name?’ I suggest.

She screws up her face but types it anyway. No luck. Then she tries several other names. ‘My family,’ she tells me, but none give her access. ‘This is hopeless,’ she says. ‘It could be anything.’

I shake my head. ‘Most people use something meaningful. For someone like Hawk it would be especially so. How about where you grew up?’

Her face takes on a pained expression, as if the very memory physically hurts. ‘Old Maple Creek,’ she says. ‘That’s where we lived.’

She doesn’t need to say it. It was also the place where so many of her loved ones died.

She types in the words ‘Old Maple Creek’ and is given access to Hawk’s account.

We both take a long, slow breath. ‘What shall we say?’ I ask her after a few seconds. ‘We can’t just start a thread saying the bombing is off, can we? It has to be something Paul will believe.’

‘Let’s look at Hawk’s last posts,’ says Ronnie. She clicks a few keys and is directed to a thread started by Hawk not long before he died. He’s sharing images with a number of other posters.

‘What on earth’s that all about?’ I ask.

Ronnie doesn’t answer.

‘I said what’s that all about?’ I turn to her. Her skin, freakily pale in any event, has all the colour bleached from it and the light has left her eyes.

‘Ronnie?’

She doesn’t take her eyes from the screen. ‘You said Hawk was using people to plant the bombs?’

I nod. ‘Young people with learning disabilities.’

‘This is Hawk leaving a message for Rory,’ she says.

‘What does it mean?’

Ronnie shakes her head, but I understand what she’s alluding to.

‘You don’t think Hawk is using Rory to plant a bomb?’ I ask.

‘He can’t be.’ Ronnie speaks slowly. ‘Rory doesn’t leave his flat.’

‘Not ever?’

‘Not if he can help it.’

‘What if Hawk managed to convince him he was his best friend?’

‘Rory doesn’t have any friends,’ she says. ‘I’m the nearest thing he’s got.’

‘And when did you last check in?’

She shrugs.

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘If Rory now thinks Hawk is the only person in the world that cares about him, surely he’d be prepared to do him a favour.’

Clem’s doorbell was ringing. ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted, but whoever it was kept their finger pressed down. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Clem flung open the door.

Sebastian stood there, the collar of his lilac polo shirt obscuring his face.

‘You shouldn’t be here, lad,’ said Clem. ‘I’m off the case.’

‘I heard what happened and I think it’s disgusting.’

‘Thanks, but you still shouldn’t be here. They’ll sack anyone in MI5 who gets in contact.’

‘Luckily I don’t work for MI5, remember?’

Clem gave a snort. ‘You’d better come in.’

Sebastian followed him into the living room. He took in the bare walls, the empty shelves. ‘Homely,’ he said.

‘What do you want, Sebastian?’

‘The message from Hawk, I worked it out.’

‘What?’

‘He told R1234 to look deeply into the picture,’ said Sebastian. ‘So that’s what I did.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I looked into the pixels and there it was, a hidden message.’

‘Fucking hell, is that even possible?’

Sebastian rolled his eyes. ‘When all this is over I am giving you a crash course in technology.’ He handed a piece of paper to Clem. ‘This is what it says.’

Clem read the brief message, taking in the two important pieces of information.

11 a.m. Stratford station
.

Shit.

‘What time is it?’ asked Clem.

‘Ten thirty-five.’

Clem flew out of the door. ‘You’re a genius.’

The traffic was hideous. No matter how many times Clem got on his horn or cut up other drivers, he kept getting boxed in.

He checked the clock.

10.48.

He banged his fist on the steering wheel, abandoned his car and ran the rest of the way, one hand clutching his chest.

The pavements around the station were just as crowded as the roads. Groups of people blocked his path so he had to dodge into the gutter. Panting, he checked his watch.

10.56.

He wasn’t going to make it. His heart felt as though the PM was squeezing it with his bare hands. 10.58

People were staring at him as he staggered up the road. He didn’t care. He had to get there. Sweat pouring down his face, gasping for breath, he stumbled into the entrance of Stratford station. He looked around wildly for signs of anyone with a rucksack.

11.03

Surely the handover couldn’t have happened already? Surely he couldn’t have missed them? He pulled out his mobile. ‘Carole-Ann?’

‘Clem, I really can’t speak to you.’

Clem struggled to get his words out. ‘There’s a bomber on his way to the Games.’

‘Are you okay, Clem?’

He breathed deeply, trying to regain control. ‘There’s another bomber on the way to the Games, Carole-Ann,’ he said. ‘You have to trust me on this.’

She didn’t reply.

‘The handover took place at Stratford station,’ he told her. ‘I missed it, but the device must be on its way to the stadium now.’

‘Do we have an ID for the carrier?’

‘No, but it’s going to be someone on their own, someone different.’

‘Clem, that’s not enough to go on.’

He leaned against the railing. ‘Please, Carole-Ann, just look at the screens. He’s there, I know he is.’

She said nothing but Clem could hear those fingernails tapping. ‘Have the profilers spotted anyone?’ he asked.

‘Nope.’ She sighed. ‘Hang on a second, though.’

‘What?’ he shouted. ‘What is it? Carole-Ann, talk to me.’

‘It’s the face recognition software,’ she said. ‘It’s picked up your terrorist friend.’

‘Who?’

‘Ronnie X,’ said Carole-Ann. ‘She’s just entered the stadium and . . . shit . . . you will never guess who she’s with.’

I look through the crowds feverishly. I thought Rory would be easy to spot, but there are too many people. It’s as if the nations of the world have descended on east London, all chattering excitedly in a hundred different mother tongues. Children dart between street vendors selling balloons and vuvuzelas, their parents chiding them gently to stay close by. Somewhere at the back of my mind I know I should be pleased that the event is such a success, but right now I can’t let my thoughts wander.

‘Rory will hate this,’ says Ronnie. ‘He just can’t operate in this type of environment.’

We dive in and out of the crowds, desperately trying to find him. ‘What event do you think Hawk might target?’ I ask.

‘Track would be the obvious one,’ she says. ‘The world will be watching Usain Bolt.’

I nod and we begin to make our way across to the stands, trying not to think about how many thousands are in danger. Suddenly, there’s a commotion up ahead. A woman is shouting.

‘Can’t you watch where you’re going, you moron?’ She’s standing with her hands on her hips, a look of disgust on her face.

I catch sight of who she’s speaking to. A hulk of a person, his T-shirt too short, fluffy earmuffs balanced on his bald head. ‘Rory!’ I shout.

We watch him hurry off, the woman still berating him, and begin to give chase when we’re stopped by a burly security guard.

‘Can I see your tickets, please?’

Ronnie and I look at each other. No amount of clever chat is going to remedy this situation.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘What for?’ asks the guard.

‘This,’ I say and punch him in the face. As he hits the deck, blood pouring from his nose, we sprint after Rory. ‘I am sorry, honestly,’ I shout at the guard, but Ronnie pulls me away towards Rory, who has disappeared inside the mammoth aquatic centre.

‘Swimming?’ I say.

‘More damage in contained areas,’ says Ronnie. ‘Very difficult to evacuate.’

‘Would Hawk really be that much of a bastard?’ I ask.

Ronnie doesn’t answer. It’s a stupid question.

We race inside, hit by the heat, the smell of chlorine and the sound of cheering.

It’s actually a diving event taking place. The young British superstar, set for a gold, is making his way up the ladder to the high board. The crowd shout out his name. Rory is at the far side, pushing his way past grumbling fans, a rucksack bobbing on his back. When he gets to a spare seat, he squeezes himself in, placing the bag carefully on his lap and jiggling it like a baby. I hold my breath at the thought of the contents.

‘What are we going to do?’ Ronnie asks.

‘For a start you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on.’

I spin and find Clem behind me, gun in Ronnie’s back.

‘I knew you were a wild card, Jo,’ he says. ‘But this is fucking ridiculous.’

‘There’s a bomber in the building,’ I tell him.

‘I know that.’ He nods at Ronnie.

‘It’s not her, Clem. Believe me, it’s not her.’

Clem blinks once, gun in place.

‘Think about it, Clem,’ I say. ‘The last person Hawk would use for this would be his sister.’

‘Ethical soul, was he?’

I shake my head vigorously. ‘I know how it sounds, but Hawk had a twisted sense of morality. His family, or what’s left of it, was all that mattered to him.’

Clem doesn’t react. I have no idea whether I’m making any inroads. All I do know is that Rory is less than 200 feet away, carrying enough explosive to blow us all to kingdom come.

‘Anyway, Hawk had a much better system than risking his sister, didn’t he?’

Clem doesn’t reply.

‘He picked on the vulnerable and convinced them to do his dirty work,’ I say.

There’s a slight twitch at the corner of Clem’s eye.

‘See the guy over there?’ I gesture to Rory. ‘He’s the one.’

Clem glances up at Rory, taking in his ear defenders and illfitting clothes.

‘The bomb’s in the rucksack, Clem,’ I tell him. ‘We have to take action right now.’

Clem looks from Ronnie to Rory and back again, assessing the situation. At last he nods to himself, takes three steps forward, holds his weapon high in the air and shouts, ‘Armed police!’

Someone in the crowd screams and soon pandemonium breaks out as people try to move out of Clem’s way. He ignores the chaos around him and coolly points the gun at Rory. ‘Give me the bag, son.’

Rory screws his eyes closed and hugs the rucksack to his chest.

Clem gives a weary sigh and cocks his finger around the trigger.

‘No,’ Ronnie begs. ‘Please don’t kill him.’

‘I can’t take any more risks,’ says Clem.

‘Please.’ Ronnie’s voice catches in her throat. ‘Rory’s just like the other boy who was shot. He’s being used.’

Clem breathes audibly.

‘Let me speak to him,’ says Ronnie. ‘He trusts me.’

A pause stretches between them, then Clem gives a nod.

Ronnie takes a step forward. ‘Rory, can you hear me? It’s Ronnie.’

Rory begins to rock back and forth.

‘You have thirty seconds,’ Clem whispers.

‘Rory, I need you to give me that rucksack,’ she says. ‘It’s really, really important, do you understand?’