Hardin lowered his head. A brief street-corner prayer and he pushed on. The steady, low rumble of the suitcase’s wheels became an urgent, machine-gun clatter. The concrete slabs of the shopping centre had become the cobbled streets of the old city, and the sanctuary of the cathedral was only a hundred metres away.
78
8.40 a.m.
SAM AND SOPHIE sat on a high bank of stone steps. Sophie leant against a metal railing, Sam the next step up. In front of them, and rising high into a columned sandstone porch, was the vast glass wall which formed the entrance to the cathedral. Lines of saints and flying angels were etched into the glass, and in spaces in between, the reflection of the ruined old bombed-out cathedral. It ran behind them at right angles to the new, a hollowed-out Gothic space.
The porch had eight slender pillars, four clustered at each end, the outside pair connected with a wooden cross. Lines of workers, tourists and worshippers walked around them, a few for the cathedral, most passing through. Sophie had a water bottle in one hand, her burner phone in the other. She watched the thoroughfare in front of her, a meeting of the old and new, secular and sacred.
‘Busier than expected,’ she said.
Sam didn’t respond. Glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes before the service. We should be doing something.’
‘We are doing something,’ said Sophie. ‘Cathedral then university. That’s it. Until we hear from Famie, that’s what we do.’
In front of them, a woman in grey shorts and long-sleeved white shirt with a shoulder bag kissed a farewell to a similarly dressed man, then turned into the cathedral. The man watched her go, then jogged down some steps towards the fountains that were playing in a wide piazza. Sophie glanced round at Sam – he was watching the man too.
‘Christ, we’re suspicious of everyone,’ she said.
‘So we should be,’ said Sam. ‘How many is that we’ve seen go in?’
‘Eighty or so,’ said Sophie. ‘Didn’t like any of them.’
Sam frowned. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning when you’re pregnant and paranoid, everyone looks like they could blow your brains out.’
Sam shrugged. ‘I think that, without even being pregnant,’ he said.
She checked her phone. Full signal. No text. ‘You wanna go in?’
Sam shook his head. ‘Perfect view from here. We get to see everyone who goes in.’
A small party, maybe a dozen soberly dressed men and women, climbed the steps from the piazza and fountains, then disappeared inside.
‘I think they’re safe,’ he said.
‘But why?’ said Sophie. ‘What the hell are we looking for?’ She could see the new arrivals the other side of the glass wall, huddled around what looked like a book stall.
‘I just think we’ll know,’ said Sam. ‘When the time comes. Maybe that’s stupid.’
‘Well they won’t walk in and buy tickets, that’s for sure,’ said Sophie, pointing at the queue inside. ‘But when you see the CCTV of terrorists arriving at, or on their way to, some atrocity, they don’t stand out. They look normal. That’s the whole point. You can’t tell by looking.’
Some shouts from the piazza. A crowd of students, presumably, came running up the steps and for the briefest moment Sophie clasped Sam’s arm. But they ran through the porch and out the other side, weaving their way through the people and around the columns.
‘This is different,’ said Sam. ‘We might be in the wrong place. But if Hari Roy arrives, we’ll know. I’m sure of it.’
Sophie looked doubtful. ‘A round British Indian face isn’t much to work with …’ she said.
Sam nodded. ‘But a terrified round British Indian face is,’ he said. ‘And he won’t be on his own. And he’ll be here in the next twenty minutes. So …’
‘So what do we do, Sam?’ said Sophie. ‘If that happens. What do we do then?’
A rattling clatter from the cobbled approach to the cathedral. Sam and Sophie glanced left to the paths that ran through the old graveyard. A tall man with a dog collar, stooped and steering a suitcase with difficulty, was bustling towards the porch.
‘Priest,’ said Sam.
‘Or dressed like a priest,’ said Sophie.
They watched him negotiate his way into the porch. He paused, mopped his brow with a handkerchief. A passerby stopped and started talking to him. The passerby seemed happy to see him. The man in the dog collar put his hand on the passerby’s shoulder and the passerby dropped his head as if in prayer.
‘OK, priest,’ said Sophie. ‘Let’s talk to him.’
She put a hand on the railings, pulled herself up. By the end of the priest’s blessing, she was in front of him.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Are you involved with the next service?’
Don Hardin frowned, then smiled. ‘Yes, and I’m afraid I’m late. If you don’t mind, I’ll need to press on.’ He moved as if to pass her.
‘What sort of service is it?’ Sophie forced a smile. An innocent enquiry.
‘One of forgiveness, peace and reconciliation,’ said Hardin, patiently. ‘There are many such services here, as I’m sure you know. But today is special. We have many foreign visitors and faith leaders.’ Sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘So I really do need to get on. If you’ll forgive me.’
