His twin brother lay motionless in a pool of blood.
3
Alice texted Kristin. “Where are you? Fat person broke champagne!! Didn’t even stop! Anxiety attack coming!!” She stared at the screen until it beeped. “5 mins. In cab. Traffic grr!” She placed her phone down and glanced around. Neither the waiter nor the replacement champagne materialised.
Shouts and screams sounded in the distance and grew louder. She recoiled in her chair as more people ran from around the corner towards her. They spilled onto the street. Traffic screeched to a halt in a squeal of sudden brakes and irate horn blasts as individuals weaved between vehicles.
Someone shouted at her, “Run. Run. Terrorists.” She got to her feet, and a middle-aged man brushed against her and stopped. “Get out of here now,” he said, his voice quavering as he gasped for breath. His face was red and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “Go. Go.” Then he continued past her up the street.
All thought of the spilt champagne vanished. Her hands shook as she grabbed her phone and jacket. She cursed her heels as she tried to run. When she stumbled a second time, she stepped into a doorway and slipped them off. Then she ran barefoot with the crowd.
“What happened?” she asked a girl running beside her. But the girl didn't answer, she increased her pace and ran. A guy slowed nearby, panting hard. Alice turned to him, “What’s going on?”
“Bloody terrorists again,” he said. “Bastards.” He dodged into the stopped traffic and disappeared into the throng now crowding the road.
She ran to Cromwell Place and onto Thurloe Street. She gasped at two men carrying a bloodied woman in a torn dress. They set her down on the pavement and left her sobbing. Sirens sounded nearby, and a police car pulled up at the junction behind her. The doors burst open and two policemen jumped out, stopping traffic. Alice didn't wait for further information or orders. She pulled on her heels and tottered into South Kensington tube station where she fought her way onto the next train to Notting Hill Gate.
4
The news van screeched to a halt and everybody leapt out. Laura Bowfield grabbed her mike and ran towards the scene. Cameraman Ricky Moss followed, and their footsteps hammered the pavement in unison. Police tape cordoned off Exhibition Street, but Laura ducked underneath. “Ricky, come on,” she shouted. “Start rolling. Stop arguing.”
“But I haven’t said anything.”
“Good.”
A police officer hurried over to her. “Out,” he said. “Get the other side of the cordon.”
“Laura Bowfield. Xtra News. We’re going live.”
“I don't give a shit who you are. Get behind the damn cordon.”
She put her hands up. “All right. All right. I’m leaving.” She stooped back under the tape and the officer left her with a glare.
“Okay. What now?” asked Ricky.
“Hang on.” Laura ran her hands through her hair. “How do I look?”
“Your hair is perfect, Laura. Just perfect. Red suits you.”
“Good. Now keep shooting the scene. Get me great TV. Vivid images, remember?” A poster drifted towards her in the breeze and she studied it for a moment. “Hey Ricky, get me a close up of this poster.”
“Why? What is it?”
Laura read from the poster. “It says ‘Annual Thurloe High Summer Festival - come celebrate with us.’ That’s great. Poignant.”
Ricky threw her one of his looks, then pointed the camera at the poster on the ground.
“Wait.” Laura patted him on the shoulder. “It’s too clean.” She ripped the poster and ruffled it with her foot. “Okay. Now you’re good to go.”
“Improvisation on the visuals, huh?”
“It’s good context Ricky. When you’ve got it, get more destruction. Tight shots.”
“Like what? It wasn't a bomb.”
“Fuck’s sake.” Laura shook her head. “Broken tables. Shattered glasses. Look. Over there, to the left.” She pointed at several places, then turned away. “Where’s Nafeez?” She saw him over by the van fiddling with some kit and beckoned him over.
“Naz, I need you to slip in there and get me someone to interview. Go on.”
Nafeez raised his eyebrows and folded his arms. “You taking the piss? Chrissake, Laura. They’ll think I’m a terrorist.”
She looked him up and down. “Yeah. I suppose racial profiling might be a problem. All right. Get Simon.”
Simon appeared a moment later. “Laura, I’m on audio and comms as well as driver. I’m sure not paid to do this shit.”
She put a hand on his chest and smiled. “Oh Simon, please. There’s a guy over to my right talking to the police. When they’re done with him, nip in and bring him over here. Tell him we’ll give him £100 for something exclusive.”
“£100? From where? Remember what Tim said last time? Huh? Two words, Laura. Second word was ‘off’”
“Just go for it.”
“No.”
“Please Simon? I’ll put in a word.”
“You always say that.”
“And I always deliver.”
“Yeah right. Supposing he won't come over?”
“Then offer him £200.”
“Huh?” Simon raised an eyebrow. “Of monopoly money?”
“Bullshit him. Say we’ll take his details and send it on to him.”
“Bullshit him? What? You think I’m a journalist or something?”
“Funny guy. Just do it.” Laura pointed over. “Look. The police are walking away. Go get him. Quick. Before the competition get here. Go. Go.”
5
Thirty minutes after Alice tweeted in outrage at
