from the early days on the Met, and finally tottered into an old pub on Dean Street he remembered from years back. It hadn’t changed much. The bar was full, and even the smokers had come back inside to watch the breaking A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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news coverage on the large-screen TV in the back. It had probably only been used to show football before, Banks thought, but now it showed images of the carnage around Oxford Circus, less than a mile away. It was all so unreal to Banks, seeing on the large screen what he had just been a part of only minutes ago. Another world. Another place.
That was what it usually was, wasn’t it? Didn’t these things happen somewhere else? Darfur. Kenya. Zimbabwe. Iraq. Chechnya. Not just up the bloody road. The barman was watching the television, too, but when he saw Banks, he went back to his position behind the bar.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What happened to you, mate? You look like you’ve just . . . Oh, bloody hell. You have, haven’t you?”
Other people were glancing over at Banks now, some pulling their neighbors’ sleeves or tapping their arms and muttering. Banks nodded.
“Whatever you want, mate, it’s on the house,” said the barman.
Banks wanted two things. He wanted a pint to slake his thirst and a double brandy to steady his nerves. He said he’d pay for one of them but the barman wouldn’t have any of it.
“If I was you, mate,” he said, “I’d pay a quick visit to the gents first.
It’s just behind you. You’ll feel better if you clean yourself up a bit.”
Banks took a quick gulp of beer and pushed the wooden door. Like most toilets in London pubs, it wasn’t much of a place; the urinals were stained ochre and stank of piss, but there was a mirror above the cracked sink. One look was enough. His face was smudged black with smoke, his eyes two staring holes in the darkness. The front of his white shirt was burned and smeared with blood and God knew what else. Luckily, his wind cheater wasn’t too bad. It was dirty, but then it was navy blue to start with, so it didn’t show the stains too badly, and his jeans were just singed and tarry. He didn’t even want to think what was on the bottom of his shoes.
About all he could do for the moment, he realized, was a bit of cos-metic work, give his face a good wash and try to cover up his shirt, which he did by zipping up his jacket almost to the collar. He got the water running good and hot, squirted some liquid soap onto his hands and did the best he could. In the end, he managed to get most of the dirt off, but he couldn’t do anything about the look in his eyes.
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“That’s better, mate,” said the barman.
Banks thanked him and drained his pint. When he put his glass down and started working, more slowly, on the brandy, the barman filled up his pint glass again without asking. Banks also watched him pour a large whiskey for himself.
“Suicide car bomber, they think,” the barman said, gesturing over toward the television set, to which the other customers were still glued. “That’s a new one on me. Pulled out of Great Portland Street into Oxford Street, just shy of the Circus. Makes sense. You can’t park around there, and only buses and taxis can drive on Oxford Street.
Bastards. They always find a way.”
“How many injured?” Banks asked.
“They don’t know for sure yet. Twenty-four dead and about the same seriously injured is the latest count. But that’s conservative. You
“I was.”
“Right in the thick of it?”
“Yes.”
“What was it like?”
Banks took a sip of brandy.
“Sorry. I should know better than to ask,” said the barman. “I’ve seen my share. Ex-para. Northern Ireland. For my sins.” He stuck out his hand. “Joe Geldard’s the name, by the way.”
Banks shook hands. “Good to meet you, Joe Geldard,” he said.
“Alan Banks. And thank you for everything.”
“It’s nothing, mate. How you feeling?”
Banks drank some more brandy. He noticed that his hand was still shaking. His left hand was slightly burned, he saw for the first time, but he couldn’t feel any pain yet. It didn’t look too bad. “Much better for this,” he said, hoisting his brandy glass. “I’ll be all right.”
Joe Geldard moved to the end of the bar to keep an eye on the TV
with the rest. Banks was left alone. For the first time, his mind managed to focus a little, come to grips with what had just happened, un-believable as it still seemed.
Apparently, a terrorist suicide bomber had set off a car bomb just around the corner from where he’d been walking. And if he hadn’t A L L T H E C O L O R S O F D A R K N E S S
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decided that the crowds on Regent Street were too much and turned onto Great Marlborough Street at the time he did, he would have walked down Oxford Street, and who knows what might have happened to him. It wasn’t courage that had driven him into the f lames, he knew, just blind instinct, despite nearly dying in a house fire himself not so many years ago.
