“Jesus Christ.” Ian sat up and leaned forward. “Jesus H Christ. It gets worse. You’re just a witness. Why are they saying all this?”
“Because it’s a good story.” Alice’s phone beeped and she picked it up.
“I’d avoid Twitter if I were you.”
Alice shook her head. “It’s not Twitter, it’s Kristin. A text.”
He fumbled with the remote while she fiddled with her phone. The remote slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He reached for it, but the batteries had spilled out. By the time he had re-inserted them, the TV panel were speculating on the connection between the ‘Champagne TV Girl’ and the ‘Champagne Terrorist’, both of which were now trending on Twitter.
“...well, come on.... Champagne and Islamists don't mix.... Supposing she’s an innocent bystander... Could be part of a terror cell...”
“The news channels must love this shit.”
Alice tapped on her phone, then looked up. “Kristin found condoms in Olivia’s bag.”
Ian pointed at the TV, then to Alice’s phone. “And that’s important now?”
“I guess it is for Kristin.”
“Isn't she worried about you?”
“It was the first thing she asked. The condoms were a PS.”
“Why was she searching Olivia’s bag?”
“She thinks Olivia is seeing someone else.”
“A guy? I thought she was gay.”
“Condoms? Kristin thinks she likes the occasional penis.”
“Lucky penis.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She’s an attractive woman. Most men would, you know...”
“Including you?”
Ian picked up his glass and took a small mouthful. He swirled it around his tongue before he swallowed. He raised an eyebrow at Alice. “Somehow, I can’t imagine that working out.”
“Kristin and Olivia or you and Olivia?”
“I can’t believe we’re talking about this when the police are coming to grill you about your terrorist connections.”
Alice got to her feet. “Forget it. I wanted to take my mind off the police. Don't you get that?” She rocked a little and steadied herself against the arm of the sofa.
“Maybe you should have a coffee?”
She threw him a baleful look, picked up her glass and downed it all. A dribble trickled down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand. Then she filled her glass again.
Ian raised a hand in defeat. “Fine. Go ahead. Get pissed.”
Alice flopped back onto the sofa and folded her arms. Then she sat forward and ran her hands through her hair, messing it up. She shook her head and then shrivelled back into the folds of the sofa, as if she had somehow become smaller, or less significant. She said something, but her voice was low and tremulous, and Ian couldn't make it out. Before he asked her to repeat herself, the doorbell rang.
14
When he got home to his flat in Bethnal Green, Cole showered and changed. He took a readymade dinner from the groceries he’d bought on the way home and threw it in the microwave. The harsh sound of his shoes clattering over the laminated wood flooring in the lounge annoyed him, so he kicked off his shoes and tuned to the TV news while the food reheated in the kitchen.
He watched the speculation and reporting as he ate in his living room. When they re-ran his interview, he pressed record and increased the volume. He played the recording several times. TV presenters referred to a potential look-out or spotter, but the police appeared less convinced. Innocent until proven guilty and all that bullshit. “She’s guilty you stupid tossers,” he shouted at the TV. “I seen her.”
After dinner, he scrolled through Twitter on his phone and followed #SthKen threads. He dismissed TV Girl Alice’s apology for her earlier tweet as bullshit. Opinion remained divided on her sincerity. Other users posted veiled threats and promises of justice, and a handful threatened violence. Cole read them with a grin. Terror through Twitter. No doubt about it, TV Girl Alice deserved her terror. Daz lay in hospital because of the Arab and his blonde friend. He looked to the photo of Daz on the mantelpiece and nodded at it. “You’re gonna be all right mate, but this bitch ain't.”
He stared at his phone and decided it was time to up the pressure. But not on this phone. He needed the burner from Birdy and a new Twitter account. He also needed patience. Fine, he’d wait until tomorrow. Meanwhile, he’d post something less threatening. He shrugged at his caution and told himself he’d be hard core when he got the burner.
How many #innocents did @TVGirlAlice help KILL in #SthKen? #champagneTVgirl #champagneterrorist #AliceMadsen
He read it several times, then added #lockherup. When he’d sent it, he lit a cigarette, and as he thought more about the attack, he realised he’d be able to scam a few weeks off work. With luck, he might even get compensation from the government for trauma or stress. With that in mind, he searched for the related symptoms so he could convince the GP at the medical centre. The TV footage would be useful too. Nobody could deny he was there. For additional evidence, he switched to FaceBook and typed a bland update.
He read the post twice, trying to see it from someone else’s point of view, and he decided the ‘difficult to cope’ line was too much. People might think he was a snowflake. He deleted the sentence and posted the rest.
He powered up his desktop computer, opened a browser and followed through to Alice’s Twitter profile. She had her own website listed along with a brief bio and Cole clicked on the link. His eyes scanned the text, taking in relevant information on Alice Madsen, the freelance TV producer who lived in the Portobello Road area. He smiled as he recorded her mobile
