seats below the corporate boxes, people were stampeding for the aisles. The shot changed to a close-up of one of the exits, where some fans were fighting to get out while others were passing children over heads to get them clear. Then they were looking at the stand again, only this time there were flames licking the edges of the dust cloud and black spirals of smoke curling up as the dust cloud moved downwards. And now the people were screaming.
Carol was already on her feet and halfway to the door. ‘I’ll call you,’ she said, opening the door and running. Tony barely noticed her going. He was transfixed by the unfolding of tragedy on the screen before him. Without taking his eyes off the laptop screen, he reached for the remote and turned on the TV. It was almost impossible to comprehend what he was seeing.
Bradfield had joined that most exclusive club. The Twin Towers. Kuta Beach. Madrid. London. A list no city wanted to join. But now Bradfield was among them.
And there would be work to be done.
Tom Cross had served most of his years in the police in the shadow of Irish Republican terrorism. Twelve dead in the M62 coach bombing, two kids blown to bits in Warrington town centre, over two hundred injured and a city centre devastated in Manchester. He and his colleagues had learned vigilance, but they’d also been taught what was expected of them.
So when the bomb went off in Victoria Park stadium, Cross’s instincts were to move towards the seat of the explosion. The other 9,346 people in the Vestey Stand did not share his reaction. A floodtide of humanity surged for the aisles and the exits and Cross, sixteen rows below the hospitality boxes, put his head down, grabbed the back of his seat and let it flow over him.
As the press of bodies around him eased, he pulled himself hand over hand to the middle of the row, where there were no people. He started to clamber upwards as fast as he could, wishing he hadn’t eaten so much of the delicious lamb stew Jake Andrews had served him for lunch. His stomach felt distended and tender, as if it was swollen to a drum, its contents swilling from side to side like rainwater in a discarded tyre.
As Cross grew closer, he could see through the dust and smoke to the hole in the stand. Shattered concrete and twisted metal thrust out into the air, as if a giant fist had punched through from behind. Bodies lay at grotesque angles on the wreckage, most of them clearly dead, many of them lacking limbs. Through the claustrophobic ringing in his ears, he could hear the crackle of flame, the moans of the injured, the PA system begging people to leave in an orderly manner, the sound of distant sirens getting louder. He could smell blood and smoke and shit, taste them on his tongue. Carnage. That’s what he was tasting.
The first person still breathing that he came across was a woman, hair and skin turned grey by the dust. Her lower left leg was shattered, blood pulsing from the wound. Cross pulled the belt from her trousers and tied off a tourniquet above her knee. The blood slowed to an ooze. Her eyelids flickered then closed again. He knew the rules about not moving the injured, but if the fire travelled fast, she would be caught up in it. There was no real choice here. Cross slid his arms under the woman and lifted her, grunting with the effort. He stepped over debris, edging sideways till he came to an aisle. He laid her down carefully and went back for more, dimly aware that there were others joining him, some in the fluorescent jackets of the emergency services.
He had no sense of how much time passed. All he knew was the dirt and the blood and the nausea and the sweat pouring down his face and the pain in his guts and the bodies, always the bodies. He worked alone and with others, shifting debris, giving the kiss of life, moving bodies and telling the injured the old familiar lies. ‘It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fine. It’s going to be all right.’ It was never going to be all right again, not for any of the poor bastards caught in this shitstorm.
And all the time he was working, he was feeling worse and worse. He put it down to the shock and the exertion. His guts were cramping so much that he had to leave the rescue a couple of times to find a toilet. His bowels emptied in a gusher of liquid both times, leaving him feeling weak and feverish. The third time he tried to return to the bomb site, a paramedic stopped him on the stairs. ‘No way, mate,’ he said. ‘You look terrible.’
Cross sneered. ‘You don’t look so great yourself, pal.’ He tried to push past, but didn’t seem to have the strength. Baffled, he leaned against the wall, sweat pouring from him. He clutched his stomach as another spasm of pain shot through him.
‘Here, put this on.’ The paramedic handed him an oxygen mask and a portable gas cylinder. Cross obeyed. Shock and exertion, that’s what it was. He barely noticed the other man reaching for his arm and taking his pulse. But he did notice that the paramedic looked worried. ‘We need to get you to hospital,’ he said.
Cross lifted the mask. ‘Bollocks. There’s people up there with serious injuries. That’s who needs to be in hospital.’ Again he tried to push past.
‘Mate, I’d say you’re minutes away from a heart attack. Please. Don’t give those bastards the satisfaction of adding another number to the list. Come on, humour me. Let’s walk down to the ambulances together.’
As Cross glared at him, his vision seemed to blur and an arrow of burning pain shot from his gut to the fingertips of his left hand. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he roared, stumbling and clasping his shoulder. The pain fled as swiftly as it had come, leaving him sweating and nauseous. ‘OK,’ he panted. ‘OK.’
Carol made it to A&E in time to catch one of the emergency ambulances being despatched to Victoria Park. As they raced through the streets, siren screaming and blue light strobing, she was on the phone. First to Stacey in the office, telling her to send the rest of the team to meet her at the stadium. Then to John Brandon. He too was in motion, pulled away from a shopping expedition with his wife, who now found herself trying to drive like a police driver without the advantage of lights or siren. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘I know your first instincts are to help preserve life, but I don’t want your team involved in the rescue and evacuation. We can’t forget this is also a crime scene. Forensic teams are on their way, and your job is to work with them to make sure they can collect and preserve as much as possible.’
‘Is it mine?’ she asked.
‘Only until the Counter Terrorism Command get here from Manchester,’ Brandon said. ‘They’re on their way. They’ll be with us within the hour. Then you’ll have to step away. But till they get here, yes, the command is yours.’
‘Will CTC take over the whole investigation?’ Carol asked, snatching at a grab handle as they took a corner on what felt like two wheels.
‘In effect, yes. You’ll be working to them. I’m sorry, Carol. That’s the way it is. They’re the specialists.’
Her heart sank. Come tomorrow, she and her detectives would be no more than gofers for those arrogant bastards in CTC who thought being the saviours of mankind gave them the right to walk over anybody and anything
