‘Wait. What carriage did she say?’
‘Coach J. If she stayed put.’
‘Can be at the front. Worth waiting.’
Famie, agitated, pulled away from Sam. She ran forward a few metres, through an open barrier, till she was alongside the incoming engine. The driver and the train’s enormous logo slipped past. She stepped back to widen her field of vision and saw a J on the first carriage, then a face against the first door’s window. It was Charlie.
Famie pressed both hands to her face, waved, then pressed them back again. Charlie flew from the carriage and Famie felt her daughter’s sinewy arms wrap tightly around her. She smelt the wine, the sweat and her daughter’s hair. She inhaled deeply.
Famie managed the hoarsest of whispers. ‘Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you!’
‘Mum, it was terrible,’ blurted Charlie, pulling away. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks blotchy. She’d pushed most of her hair under a red baseball cap. ‘It was so terrible. I’m sorry if I panicked you but she—’
Famie put a finger on her lips. ‘No apologies and no time. Tell me in the car. Sam’s parked just outside.’
Sam nodded, smiled broadly. ‘Hi Charlie. We’re kinda pleased to see you. But we need to move. Now.’ He turned and ran towards the exit.
Famie grabbed her daughter’s hand and they sprinted till they could tuck in behind him. Two minutes later, they all tumbled into Sam’s Fiat and he pulled into the late-night traffic.
46
1.30 a.m.
CHARLIE ASKED FOR the hottest bath ever. The night temperature had barely dropped but she said she felt like being ‘cleansed’. The attack, the three-and-a-half-hour train journey, the terror of not knowing who to trust, had left every muscle in pain. Famie added bubbles, then poured the Jack Daniel’s. A typical small London bathroom, engineered to make the most of every centimetre, it didn’t take much steam to turn it misty. Famie opened the top window but still the condensation ran from the tumblers, the window and the mirrors.
When Charlie appeared, swathed in towels, Famie made to leave. ‘No, stay,’ said Charlie. ‘Really. There’s too much to talk about.’
‘Hang on then,’ said Famie.
The briefest of trips to the freezer and she reappeared with a tub of ice cream and two spoons. Charlie, neck deep in the water already, managed a smile.
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Classic Mum. Half one in the morning and we’re eating salted caramel.’
Famie sat on the floor, her back to the bath. She scooped up some ice cream then handed the tub and a spoon to Charlie. ‘You eat, I’ll talk,’ she said.
Famie told Charlie everything. About Sophie, her baby, the laptop, the photos (‘how incredible that at your great age you can be such an idiot’) and about Hari Roy. She showed her a photo.
‘So he’s the guy sending you messages?’
‘Yes, it seems so. And he’s scared too. The DC we spoke to – Hunter – said she was going to check him out. Whatever that means.’ Her phone buzzed. ‘Sam’s home,’ she said. She sent a thumbs-up emoji and texted ‘Thanks’.
Then it was Charlie’s turn. She explained about the movie, the lookalike, the ocean of blood and the run for the train. ‘I spent the first twenty minutes under a table,’ she said. ‘The Germans got on at Tiverton. I listened to them mucking about and realized they had to be safe. There were four of them. I told them I was worried about my sick mother and asked to join them. They were just great. We drank a lot of wine.’
‘Still want the JD?’
‘I’m not old like you,’ Charlie said. ‘Course I do.’
Famie handed her a tumbler. Charlie took a mouthful.
‘Should I have told the police?’ she said. ‘Back at the cinema? I don’t know.’ Her hair was piled high and tied with a band, her face red and running with sweat.
‘But you didn’t see anything,’ said Famie. ‘What could you have said? That you look like the girl who had been attacked? That it was intended for you? Don’t think that would have been taken very seriously.’
Charlie found a submerged flannel, rinsed it and placed it over her face. Famie drank from her tumbler, allowing the fumes to fill her senses. She swallowed slowly, relishing the ice and the burn.
Her phone buzzed again. She wiped the screen then read the text.
‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ she whispered.
Charlie peeled the flannel away. ‘What is it?’
When Famie read the message again, Charlie understood. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she.’
‘Yes,’ said Famie. ‘It’s from Sam, he just read it online.’
Charlie’s face crumpled in an instant. Tears flowed with the sweat, and her shoulders shook. Famie turned, reached over and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Charlie hung on to her as though she were drowning. Famie felt the soap and hot water seeping through her T-shirt.
‘I don’t know what to say, Charlie. I know I’m supposed to have all this sorted but I really haven’t. It might have been coincidence but you’re not going to believe that. And neither am I. But you know what? They failed. The fuckers failed and some poor kid died instead of you. I’ll call the DC tomorrow. All we can do is tell her what happened.’
Still Charlie clung on.
‘What do they want, Mum?’ she said. ‘I don’t understand what they want. Why try to attack me?’ She slowly untangled her arms from her mother’s neck, slipped back into the water.
‘When the bombs started going off in Pakistan,’ said Famie, ‘everyone knew why. Knew what it was for. It was for jihad mainly, then maybe it was political rivalry, then it was business disputes. It was messy. Christ, it was messy.’ She sipped some more of the liquor. ‘But there was always a point, an argument at the heart of it. And there’ll be one at the heart of this too. Politics, religion, money, race. Pick one. Pick all of them. But this? Tonight? This is about power. About intimidation. My
