‘Sorry, folks, you’re going the wrong way! A bomb scare, no sightseers, I’m afraid.’
Mercs showed his press pass. ‘Standard, Sergeant. Okay if our photographer takes some pics?’
The policeman grunted. ‘Just keep out from under our feet and don’t try sneaking through to Tower Street. Don’t want you ending up like that News of the World photographer at the Bishopsgate bomb.’
The reporter nodded. ‘And this lady’s trying to find her daughter.’ % ‘Lost is she?’
Casey anxiously wiped the rain-lank hair from her face. ‘She’s at the Seven Dials Dance Academy.’
‘Ah, we’ve just cleared that. Over there, behind that squad car…’
Without waiting, she rushed off, struggling through the throng to where a group of teenage children were emerging from stairs that led up to the over-the-shop studio.
‘Have you found the device yet?’ Mercs asked.
The sergeant nodded. ‘I believe so. The Bomb Squad boys are around there now. We can expect a controlled explosion at any moment.’ He consulted his watch. ‘I just hope those bastard Irish were telling the truth — if so we’ve got four minutes. I wouldn’t want that job for all the tea in China.’
His last word was smothered by the sudden dull thud of explosive from the next block. It was followed by a musical tinkling of glass as a few nearby windows shattered.
‘Thank God for that,’ the sergeant said with feeling.
Hardly had the words escaped his mouth when a uniformed inspector crossed from one of the police Range-Rovers. ‘Sergeant, I’ve just been talking to Explosives Section. They say there’s a strong chance of a secondary. Something to do with the codeword they used. So get this whole area cleared fast, right down to Long Acre and Endell Street — we’ve had enough excitement for one day.’
Meanwhile Casey had found her daughter in the stream of young dance hopefuls emerging from the glass doorway. The tall slender sixteen-year-old, a raincoat draped over her leotard, was surprised to see her mother.
‘What are you doing here, Mum?’
‘We got the bomb warning at the paper, so I came straight over.’
‘Jeez, that was quick, we’ve only just been told ourselves.’
Momentarily Casey’s anger flared at the delay of almost an hour, until she reasoned it would have taken time to get forces in place, to find the bomb and confirm it wasn’t a stupid hoax. And, of course, the evacuation of so many people would take time, naturally starting with Tower Street itself and the immediate vicinity. She realised then that a sixty-minute warning was hardly as considerate as it first appeared.
She said: ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. Someone said the bomb disposal people have destroyed it.’
Candy looked pained. ‘I’m not worried, Mum. Don’t make such a fuss. We heard the controlled explosion. One of the girls knew what it was, she heard a real bomb a couple of years ago. She said you’d know the difference.’
‘Turning into a proper little Londoner, aren’t we? You’ll be talking about the Blitz next.’
‘The what?’
Casey was suddenly aware of someone standing beside her, holding an umbrella with a clear plastic canopy. The woman was thin and pale with an anxious expression on her face. ‘Casey, isn’t it? Remember me? Gwen. We met when our daughters did the Christmas show…’
Recognition dawned. ‘Yes, of course… Isn’t this a terrible business?’
‘Oh, yes. I’m so glad I decided to pick Shirley up today. I don’t usually but she’s got this tummy bug, you see.’ She glanced around at the group of young dancers walking away towards Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘You haven’t seen her, have you?’
A frown creased Candy’s forehead beneath the tightly pinned hair. ‘I expect she’s in the lap upstairs. She was having a terrible time.’
‘Alone?’ Gwen’s face was aghast.
‘No, I think the teacher’s still up there with her.’
Gwen smiled her flustered apologies. ‘Please excuse me, I must find her.’ She turned and disappeared into the doorway.
As she did so the harsh metallic voice of the bullhorn cut above the hiss of unrelenting rain: ‘PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA! WE ARE EXTENDING THE CORDON BECAUSE THERE MAY BE ANOTHER DEVICE IN THE VICINITY! PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA! DO NOT STOP TO PICK UP POSSESSIONS!’
‘Oh, God,’ Casey breathed, ‘not another one.’
‘Don’t panic, Mum, you’re embarrassing me.’
It seemed that Seven Dials and the six open streets were more filled with people than ever, a fresh wave having emptied from the Cambridge Theatre.
Casey gathered her arm around her daughter and urged her forward towards the sergeant she’d spoken to earlier. ‘Do you know where this other bomb might be? I mean, which is the safest way to go?’
The sergeant shrugged grimly. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, love, just be quick about it.’
She glanced around. There was no sign of Eddie Mercs or Hal Hoskins. Each of the exit streets running north and south were filled with people, some now starting to run as the voice on the bullhorn repeated its warning. She flicked the wet hair from her face, trying to focus through sheeting rain. Somewhere distant thunder rumbled in the prematurely black sky. Still the blue strobes flashed dizzily around the walls of Seven Dials.
God, which way, she wondered? The south stretch of Earlham Street was packed, probably with people heading for the tube station and an unexpectedly early journey home.
‘Mum, this way,’ Candy urged.
They stepped past the green-tiled frontage of the Boxfresh men’s clothing shop to the mouth of Shorts Gardens. The last of the evacuees were halfway down the straight recobbled street which was some hundred metres long. Following behind them were two uniformed policemen who were checking the few remaining vehicles which hadn’t been driven away by their owners. Litter bins and refuse bags were being prodded and probed.
‘They’re looking for more bombs,’ Candy observed matter-offactly. Casey swallowed hard, placed her arm firmly around her daughter’s shoulders and started walking. They passed the brown-tiled walls of the Crown pub, the pretty window boxes of evergreens unnoticed above the elegant shop fronts of the Andrew Chan and Elinor Lamond boutiques.
Before them stretched the long rendered facade of residential flats on the left and the hanging blue banners of a shopping arcade on the right. Then abruptly the street ahead was clear of people; Casey realised that they must have decided to run. She began to feel uneasy. There was a tightening in her chest. She felt giddy. They were left behind. Everyone had gone. The pace of her footsteps quickened with the pounding of her heart. She was aware of the crack of her heels on the cobbles rising above the sound of rainwater gurgling along the gutters.
Lightning spat and fizzled from the sky somewhere above the Thames, momentarily brightening the underbelly of the dark cloudbase. The rain-lacquered street shone with the bizarre patterns of refracted light thrown from the thrashing strobes in Seven Dials.
An instinctive sense of self-preservation was taking over. Deep, base and animal. Raw fear. They began to run, breath catching in their throats, the rain whipping at their faces. All pretence of calm was now abandoned, replaced by stark panic, unaware of sodden clothes and squelching shoes. The towering street walls seemed to be closing in, tottering above them.
Near the end of the street a policeman was standing beside a parked car. Casey saw his hand, a white blur, waving frantically. Urging them on. He was shouting something but she couldn’t hear above the drumming of the rain and the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears.
The constable was still waving. They were last. He must have been warned of something on his radio, she thought. He appeared frantic. <.