‘Ms Madden, it’s PC Grantley. We’ve been trying to ring. There’s someone here says she’s your daughter?’
Famie uttered the smallest of staccato gasps. She stooped to the fish-eye. Behind the uniform she could see a familiar head of curls and suddenly she couldn’t get the door open quickly enough. The sight of her daughter, all angles and awkwardness, triggered a wave of emotion and Famie embraced her fiercely.
‘I said don’t come,’ Famie said, once she had regained some composure.
‘And I knew you didn’t mean it,’ said Charlie, extricating herself with difficulty.
They both nodded their thanks to the policeman, who disappeared down the stairs.
Famie steered her daughter inside and on to the sofa. ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ she said. ‘Or gin if you’d rather. Or both. I’ll get both.’
Charlie stabbed a finger at the sofa cushion next to her. ‘Just sit down and talk, Mum. I had a drink on the train anyway. Just talk.’
She tried a smile. It was what her grandmother would have called a brave face but Famie wasn’t fooled. She wouldn’t have noticed the smell of alcohol but she did notice the tobacco lingering in her daughter’s hair, the trembling hands. The fear radiated off Charlie in waves.
They talked, arm in arm, until Famie’s voice started to slur with exhaustion. Charlie put her mother to bed, then crashed in her old room, smiling briefly at the bed’s familiar creaks. Both women were asleep in minutes.
10
Wednesday, 23 May, 6.05 a.m.
BRITISH PRIME MINISTER SAYS LONDON KNIFE ATTACKS ‘BLATANT ATTACK ON OUR WAY OF LIFE’
BRITAIN IS ‘COUNTRY UNITED AGAINST TERROR’ – PM
‘WE WILL SEEK JUSTICE AGAINST THE MURDERERS WHO COMMITTED THIS OUTRAGE’
LONDON, May 23 (IPS) – Britain is a ‘country united against terror’, the UK Prime Minister said in his latest comments on the multiple knife murders in London on Tuesday.
‘When we have mourned, we will seek justice against the murderers who committed this outrage,’ he told reporters outside his official residence.
The alcohol and the telephone woke Famie. She killed the phone, then went in search of painkillers. She pushed at the lounge door then recoiled from the savage brightness that enveloped her.
‘Hey Mum.’ Charlie appeared from out of the blaze, pulled her mother’s T-shirt from out of her knickers. ‘PC Grantley was here.’
Famie was rooted to the spot, hand over her eyes. ‘Already? Only been asleep five minutes.’
Famie felt herself being steered into the kitchen, the door clicking shut behind them. She slumped on to the kitchen chair. Closed her eyes again.
‘Paracetamol,’ she mumbled, her mouth sticky with sleep. ‘Nurofen. Aspirin. Whatever’s in the tin above the microwave.’
She felt two tablets being pressed into one hand, a cup of water into the other.
‘Christ you’re good. Can I smell coffee?’
‘By your right hand,’ said Charlie, settling into the other chair. ‘The police wanted to tell you the tramp guy with the knife was just a tramp guy with a knife. A penknife.’
‘Is that right,’ said Famie, her words blowing the steam from her mug.
‘Apparently.’
‘And the dog-walkers? Don’t tell me …’
‘Just dog-walkers. Well, two of them anyway. They contacted the police when they heard what had happened in the park.’
Famie sighed, sipped some coffee. ‘Coppers must think I’m an idiot. Lost my marbles.’ She felt the liquid scorch its way into her stomach.
‘Actually they were very sympathetic.’
Famie shook her head slowly. ‘To you, maybe. But trust me, they’ll think I’m an idiot.’ She sipped more coffee, peered at her daughter. ‘You’re dressed already?’
Charlie gave herself a cursory up-and-down. ‘Slept like this. Needed to look my best for PC Grantley.’
Famie nodded. ‘I’m sure he appreciated it. Crumpled university T-shirts will be just his thing.’
They both smiled, but Charlie’s faded first. She leant forward on her chair, pushing loose curls from her forehead.
‘You’re not working today, are you?’ she said, her words managing to be both a question and a request.
Famie felt the coffee buzz and wanted more. She reached for the pot, offering it first to Charlie, who declined.
‘I’m full already. Mum, you’ve not answered the question.’
‘Full already?’ said Famie, pouring. ‘How long have you been up?’
Charlie crossed her legs, irritated. ‘Since five, which was when my phone started buzzing. Yours too by the way.’ Famie reached for her phone, charging on the table next to her, but Charlie covered it with her hand. ‘Tell me you’re not going. Whatever those messages say. I haven’t come home just to make you breakfast and then wave you off. Say it.’
Famie managed a smile. ‘If I said it’s supposed to be business as usual … that you can’t let the terrorists win … life must go on …’
‘I’d say you were talking bullshit and you know it. So tell me you’re not going in.’
Famie gave in. ‘OK, OK, I’m not going in. Life, it would seem, doesn’t go on after all.’
Charlie released her phone. ‘Right decision.’ Mission accomplished, she popped bread into the toaster.
Famie read her messages. A text stream from Sam, then Tommi and most of her team. An invitation to join a WhatsApp group. Emails from IPS management and HR. The gist seemed to be that the offices would be open that day but staff were not required to attend.
‘Correct,’ said Famie out loud.
Charlie turned but said nothing.
Famie’s phone vibrated again but she hesitated before reading the message, finishing her coffee. The cosy domesticity of a breakfast with her daughter was proving a welcome anaesthetic against the world. Famie didn’t want it to finish.
‘How’s your course going?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ said Charlie, handing her buttered toast. ‘Finish your messages.’
‘Tough crowd,’ muttered Famie, and read her text. It was from the EMEA editor Ethan James. She read it twice. It was succinct. It was heartbreaking. She folded her hands tightly around her phone, took a deep breath.
‘You want to come to a funeral?’
Charlie
