Tell someone.
69
Thursday, 14 June, 7.20 a.m.
FAMIE WOKE WHEN the fan died with a small pop. Breakfast in room 204 was instant coffee and painkillers. She woke Charlie, hauled on her jeans, knocked on the interconnecting door. Sophie was dressed, Sam was showering. The air in both rooms was fetid and unyielding. Famie opened the doors to the corridor. What passed for fresher air drifted in, a barely perceptible change.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, cradling a steaming mug. The coffee smelt sharp and chemical but it was freshly made, and its acidity was familiar and reassuring. She inhaled deeply. As she exhaled she noticed her tremor was back.
Famie leant her head against the door jamb. If she was right, somewhere nearby some men were in the final stages of planning an atrocity. The university, the synagogue, the cathedral, the theatre. One of them, all of them. Maybe none of them, maybe something else she hadn’t thought of. And involved somewhere, and certainly more scared than she was right now, Hari Roy. A man she’d never met, never spoken to. A man who had got himself involved in something he couldn’t control, couldn’t escape from. The man in the stripy top, beer raised to the camera. Round face, spiky hair.
‘Hey Famie.’ Sam had emerged from the bathroom fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Clean and not clean. Soapscented steam billowed in behind him.
‘Hey Sam,’ she said, turning back into the room. ‘We need to split up,’ she said. ‘Two and two. We can’t cover everything.’
‘Already?’ he said. ‘It’s just gone seven, Fames. Where would we go?’
‘Breakfast, please,’ said Sophie. ‘Anywhere with bacon rolls.’
‘Not hungry,’ said Famie.
‘You’re not pregnant,’ said Sophie.
Famie, eyes wide, glanced at Sam, still rubbing his hair with a towel.
‘She told me,’ he said. ‘Last night.’
‘Seemed the right time,’ said Sophie. ‘Doesn’t change anything.’
Famie didn’t argue, what was the point? It did change everything and they all knew it.
She walked back into 204. Charlie was showering, the clattering of the pump uncomfortably loud in the cramped room. It was only when the water stopped and the shower pump was silenced that she realized there was another sound. What sounded like a glockenspiel played a ludicrously fast, urgent tune. Over and over.
A ring tone. Beneath the melody, a low, insistent vibrating sound. From somewhere close. The direction was not obvious, it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.
‘Whoever that is, I can’t find the phone!’ she called, loud enough for Charlie to hear. Loud enough for Sam and Sophie. ‘Bloody stupid ring tone too,’ she added. Famie reached the burner phones. Switched on. Charged. Silent. ‘Huh?’ she said.
The shower-room door burst open. ‘It’s the fucking tablet! Mum, it’s the tablet!’ Wrapping the towel as she ran, hair dripping, Charlie found it under the bedclothes, held it up. It was pulsing, the screen lit up. The calling number was displayed in a rectangular green box. It started with 07, Famie didn’t recognize the rest. A mobile was calling the tablet. Below the numbers, a green phone icon and a red phone icon were offered. Accept or reject.
Sam and Sophie crashed in from 203.
‘Is that the tablet? Is that him?’ Sophie said.
Charlie held up the vibrating tablet.
‘Shit, it is,’ said Sophie. ‘Well answer it then!’
Charlie handed it to Famie. Famie, hands shaking again, took three attempts to hit the green icon. For a moment she thought she should hold it to her ear, like a phone. Then she held it in front of her. She stared at the screen as though she was expecting visuals. It stayed black.
‘Hello?’ she said.
There was silence, a digital squelch, then the acoustic of an enclosed space. The noise from the tablet sounded indoors. Muffled. She heard movement, clothes brushing against a microphone. A satellite delay. Maybe the caller had missed her answer.
‘Hello?’ she said again, now closer to the tablet.
This time, an answer.
‘Hello?’ said the voice from the speakers. ‘Is that Famie Madden?’
70
FAMIE FROWNED. ‘YES it is,’ she said. She knew the voice already. Not the one she wanted to hear.
‘Ms Madden, it’s DC Hunter.’
Famie deflated, her exasperation obvious and audible. ‘Christ! We thought you were Hari.’ She raised her eyes to the ceiling, nearly threw the tablet on the floor. ‘What the fuck do you want,’ she added. It wasn’t really a question.
‘Where are you, Ms Madden?’ said Hunter. ‘This really is urgent. It concerns the safety of you and your daughter. Threats have been made and we want to give you the protection you need.’
A moment’s pause. Charlie hooked her arm through Famie’s.
‘What sort of threats?’ said Famie.
‘Real threats, Ms Madden. Believable threats. Sourced and credible.’
‘Who from?’
‘Both your names emerged in chatter on jihadi websites.’
‘Which ones?’
A sigh. ‘Really, Ms Madden?’
‘Yes, really, Ms Hunter. Which jihadi websites?’
The exasperation now came from the police officer. ‘When I see you, I can go through the details. I can show you the translated pages. But there is an urgency you don’t seem to understand. You should assume that the people who tried to attack your daughter will try again. If she was my daughter, I know what I’d do.’
Famie glanced at Charlie, who shrugged. Sam and Sophie looked unsure, certainly unconvinced.
‘My assumption is that you’re in Coventry somewhere,’ continued Hunter. ‘Let me at least send a patrol car.’
‘OK,’ said Famie, ‘wait up.’ This was all the wrong way round. She was riled and she knew it. ‘To start with,’ she continued, ‘what news of Hari Roy? Do you know any more about him? Surely you’ve found something.’
Hunter didn’t even try. ‘No, we haven’t found him, no we don’t know any more about your man. Ms Madden, this isn’t a social call, this is an urgent request for you to get some protection.’
Famie spluttered with indignation. ‘OK, so firstly he’s not “my man”, but that was
