We Can Be Heroes (32 page)

We both stare at the phone.

‘We have to call the police,' says Jed.

‘We'll get in loads of trouble if it's not true,' I say.

‘And if it is?'

Jed is already ringing 999 on his mobile and he
doesn't look excited any more. In fact, he looks as scared as I feel and I find myself thinking how much braver he is than me. Perhaps that comes from having a dad. Or from losing a mum?

The police don't seem to believe him at first, but when he tells them that we live next door to the family of Stevie Sanders and that the potential suicide bomber is Shakeel Muhammed, brother of detained Mik Muhammed, it looks like they take him more seriously.

‘They're sending an officer round right away,' Jed says, phone still to his ear. ‘I have to stay on the phone till they come.'

So we stand there, looking at each other. We both know what a big thing we've started and I don't know what will be worse: if it turns out we're telling the truth, or if we're not.

‘Jed,' I say, ‘did you see the bikers beat Mik up?'

‘Yes,' he says, not looking away now.

‘How did they get his gun off him?'

Jed doesn't answer.

Just then the sound of voices makes us both turn
to the window. We see a policeman emerging from the Sanders' house; Mr and Mrs Sanders left for the service earlier so there's no one at home now. He's talking to someone on his radio, making his way in this direction.

‘We'd better tell the wrinklies what's going on,' says Jed. ‘Don't want them to have a heart attack.'

The sitting-room door is ajar and we can see Granny and Grandad, each in their favourite chair, watching the twenty-four-hour news channel, which is broadcasting live from the cathedral.

‘Who's going to tell them?' I whisper.

‘You'd better do it,' says Jed. ‘They like you more than me.'

‘No, they don't,' I say. It seems like such a funny thing to say, especially right now.

‘Sure they do – your dad was the favourite and so are you.'

‘That's not true.'

‘Yes, it is,' says Jed matter-of-factly. ‘Anyway, are we going to do this or not?'

‘OK, I'll do it,' I say.

Jed nods and I push open the door. ‘Granny, there's a police officer coming to talk to us,' I say quickly, before she's even had a chance to turn around.

‘Why on earth would they come at this time?' she asks, looking startled.

The presenter on the TV is saying, ‘We're broadcasting live from St Philip's Cathedral, Birmingham, where a service is being held for the Sanders family, who are still awaiting news of their missing daughter, Stevie. They are joined by a congregation of friends, family and well-wishers, all here to pray for Stevie's safe return.'

But before I get chance to explain, the doorbell rings and there, standing in the porch, is the police officer.

‘Somebody rang to report a bomb threat?' he asks.

Granny looks bemused.

‘That was me,' says Jed, stepping forward.

‘Both of us,' I say, joining him. Because we're in this together.

We have to show the police officer Priti's texts and then he asks us loads of questions about our investigations
into Shakeel. We tell him all about the radio equipment and the terror cell lists and the bomb belt and all the things we overheard. And the policeman says he's not sure this is enough to go on, to which Jed replies that Priti must have seen actual explosives or she wouldn't have texted.

‘Can you text her back and ask her to verify that?' says the policeman sarcastically.

‘You want us to text an eleven-year-old in the middle of a terror situation and alert the bomber that we're on to him?' says Jed. ‘Oh, yeah, great idea, mate!'

‘Nobody wants to create panic over a false alarm,
mate
!' says the policeman crossly.

‘So you'd rather have a Midlands 9/11?' Grandad demands. Now he's worked out what's going on, he's wide awake and apparently enjoying every minute.

‘Of course not!'

‘Because our son died in the Twin Towers,' says Grandad, pulling himself up to his full height, and speaking with great dignity. ‘And I wouldn't want any other families to have to know the grief we've suffered since.'

The policeman shakes his head and sighs. ‘If I lose my job over this . . .' But he doesn't finish the sentence; he just gets on his walkie-talkie and starts telling whoever's on the other end all the stuff we just told him. He uses words like ‘uncorroborated' and ‘unsubstantiated reports', and all the while Granny just stares at me and Jed and doesn't say anything.

I'm wondering whether Priti has arrived at the cathedral, and how long it will take for the bomb squad to get there, and for all the people to be evacuated. And I imagine Shakeel with the bomb belt round his waist, imagine him pressing a button, imagine the cathedral going up in flames, people screaming.

‘We'll try and apprehend him before he goes in,' says the officer over his radio.

But I can already see it's too late. On the TV the service hasn't started yet, but the cathedral is full to capacity. And then I see him. ‘There he is!' I say.

The camera is panning round the cathedral, focusing on the faces of the congregation, and there, in the back row, with Priti sitting next to him staring up at the high-vaulted ceilings of the cathedral, is Shakeel.

‘Positive ID of suspect,' the policeman radioes to his colleagues. ‘Where is he, kid?' he says to me.

‘There.' I point to Shakeel on the TV screen, leaving a fingerprint mark for Granny to clean off.

‘Back row, right,' he says into his radio. ‘Second from left. He's got a girl with him. Both in traditional dress.

‘How old's your friend, kid?'

‘Eleven and a quarter,' I say (knowing Priti would appreciate precision).

The camera pans back to them. Priti is fumbling with something in her lap, but she looks up startled when she realises she's being filmed and suddenly she's looking right at us down the lens of the camera. I wonder if she knows me and Jed are watching.

Then the camera moves away to focus on Mr and Mrs Sanders sitting in the front row – she's so big now she looks like she's about to burst, but he looks smaller somehow. A few seconds later, Jed's phone beeps again.

‘Pass it to me,' says the officer. So we do and he reads it out,
Whr r th bleeding bomb squd whn u
need thm?
The policeman relays this to whoever's on the other end of his radio and it is received without comment.

The camera is focusing on Shakeel again now and the commentator is saying how great it is to see people of all religions in the audience; how this tragedy has threatened to divide a community, but tonight those of different faiths are united in sympathy for the Sanders family as they await news of their daughter.

But despite what he's saying it's clear to me that the people sitting near to Shakeel are a bit uncomfortable with the presence of a man dressed in robes and a little girl in a sari (who keeps looking around nervously).

The service is starting now. The vicar (or is he a bishop – I'm not sure how you tell?) says a few words and then everyone is rising to sing ‘I Vow to Thee My Country'. Grandad mutters something about Shakeel being more loyal to his warped faith than his country – he doesn't say it that loud though. And the policeman paces up and down, looking dead worried, clutching his radio like it's actually the bomb.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, loads of black-armour-clad
police officers appear on the TV screen and our policeman groans and says, ‘I'm definitely losing my job over this!' The camera has panned out to show an aerial shot of the whole cathedral, packed with people, and so we get a bird's-eye view of the little black figures swooping down on Shakeel. They've got massive machine guns and even over the singing, which keeps going because I guess the people in the front rows don't realise what's going on, we can hear them shouting to the people around them to keep calm and, to Shakeel, to get down.

The camera goes all wobbly and we lose them for a minute. ‘Bet the cameraman is cacking himself,' says Jed.

‘And I bet the producer of the show is laughing all the way to the bank,' says Grandad. ‘TV gold, this is!'

Granny just looks at them both with eyes that are red and sad.

The poor commentator is trying to keep up. ‘It's unclear what is going on,' he says. On screen there's just a picture of Stevie Sanders now, wearing a bikini and licking an ice cream. She has a massive smile on her
face. ‘But we are hearing reports of a bomb threat . . . The cathedral is apparently being evacuated.'

‘Jed, are you quite sure he has a bomb?' asks Granny quietly.

‘Priti said so,' he replies.

‘You did the right thing, my boy,' says Grandad.

‘He'd better hope so!' says our police officer, now clutching his walkie-talkie in two hands so he looks like he's praying.

‘We are being told that a suspect has been apprehended,' says the commentator. Still all we can see on screen is Stevie Sanders' smiling face. But I imagine Shakeel, hands in the air, being surrounded by armed police yelling at him to get down on the floor.

‘I'm hearing that trained explosive experts are on their way,' says the commentator. ‘It's not yet clear whether reports that the suspect had an explosive device strapped to himself are correct, but the bomb squad has been called.'

‘Dear Lord!' say Granny. ‘What have you boys started?'

Next to me, the policeman stands very silent,
listening intently to the TV commentary.

‘What's happening to Priti?' I ask.

‘Perhaps they think she's a bomber too,' says Grandad.

Then the picture of Stevie suddenly cuts out, replaced with live images from outside the cathedral, where crowds of people are being ushered behind a cordoned-off section by police. I catch a glimpse of Stevie's mum climbing into an ambulance, clutching her tummy, her husband shouting something. The TV people clearly have no idea what's going on as they just keep repeating the same information over and over. And there's no mention of Priti.

We become aware of sirens approaching and, looking out of the window, we see three police cars come screaming up the cul-de-sac, scattering journalists in every direction. Out of the cars pour more armed officers who surround Priti's house.

Just moments later, the same scene is on the TV as some of the camera crews outside start recording.

‘Reports are coming in that armed police have surrounded a home in the same street where missing
five-year-old Stevie Sanders disappeared at the weekend,' says the TV commentator. ‘Yes, we're getting pictures of it now. The police are, in fact, storming the house. There's a suggestion that this raid is – er – linked somehow to the incident in the cathedral, and – er – eyewitnesses are saying that the man in the cathedral may have been the eldest son of the Muhammed family, whose younger brother has been taken in for questioning in connection with the Sanders case.' The commentator stumbles as if the information is being fed live into his headpiece and he can hardly keep up with it himself.

‘Bloody hell!' says Grandad as we see the police swarm into Priti's house. ‘I really hope you kids aren't just making this up. This little stunt is costing taxpayers a lot of money!'

‘Not to mention my pension!' mutters the policeman, whom I suddenly notice is crossing his fingers.

But it's not the taxpayers or the officer's pension I'm worried about right now – it's Priti.

‘They'll be trampling all over the place, destroying all the forensics for the Stevie abduction too,' says the
policeman. ‘If this is a hoax, we're all in big trouble.'

‘Still, if his own sister's trying to shop him,' says Grandad.

I glance at Jed and he looks at me, but neither of us says anything.

We watch policemen emerge from Priti's house with big boxes – full of evidence, I suppose. Maybe it's Shakeel's beloved radio equipment.

Then on the TV there's footage of a man wearing just a towel with a jumper over his head being taken out to an armoured vehicle behind the cathedral and driven away.

‘Experts are suggesting that the suspect may have been stripped and searched at the scene,' says the TV man.

‘Blimey!' says Grandad.

‘We are being told that a child – believed to be involved in the incident – is being treated for shock before being questioned by police. Unconfirmed reports are suggesting that both may be related to Stevie Sanders suspect Mik Muhammed.'

‘Poor Priti,' says Granny.

‘What happens now?' I say, turning to the police officer.

‘Depends what he had on him.'

‘And when will we know?' Jed asks.

‘Could be hours,' says the policeman. ‘Even days.'

‘And what about Priti?' I ask.

But the policeman just shrugs.

We get to stay up late. Me and Jed, Granny and Grandad and our police officer all sitting up in the front room as it gets darker and darker outside. Granny makes everyone a cup of tea and we all sit and drink in silence. Even Grandad doesn't have anything to say.

Granny makes us turn the sound off the TV because she says she can't stand listening to it any more, so we just watch the pictures and they keep showing the same footage over and over on a loop, with a running headline below.

I don't draw pictures and I don't even imagine any as I sit and watch the images on the TV.

The funny thing about waiting for the phone to ring is that when it finally does, you're still surprised.
We all jump up when we hear the telephone at about 8.30 p.m. Grandad gets there first.

‘Hello?' he says.

Then he turns to me. ‘It's for you, Ben.'

‘Me?'

He nods and hands me the phone.