As the crowd surged towards the glass wall, they were confronted with six citizens, arms wide, knives held like swords. The back two rows of the congregation realized the danger first, pushing back against the advancing front rows. The middle rows were crushed. A reddening man in a khaki shirt, head high in the scrum, battered and pushed the shoulders of the man in front, trying to relieve the pressure on his chest. Pushed forwards and backwards, many more lost their footing.
The screams and shouts, magnified by the cathedral’s cavernous walls, reached a new intensity. They all knew now there was a killer behind them and six more in front. On what had become the front line, the mayor, white-faced, had stepped in front of his wife, lifting his chair as a shield against the advancing Kamran. He made a few stabbing gestures with it, like a lion-tamer keeping his beast at bay. But his grip was weak. Kamran kicked the chair from his grasp, hauled him closer by his chain of office, then drove the Böhler into his heart. The mayor fell. Collins took his wife.
The front line stepped back again, regardless of who or what was behind them. Hands and shoulders were grabbed. Shouts of ‘Jesus help us’. Gregor, grinning broadly, slashed at a tall blonde woman. She leant back, pivoting fast. The cut across her chest wasn’t deep but her white blouse flooded red. Before he could follow up, Gregor was floored, crashing to the ground. The white-haired man in the grey robes from the book stall had rugby-tackled Gregor at speed, then followed up with a flurry of punches to his face and neck, the knife spinning away under the chairs. Red Head stepped over, stabbed the cleric three times in the back, then hauled him away. Gregor scrambled to his feet, a nod of thanks to his rescuer.
The old man’s gesture of defiance ignited a fire in some. The American in the blue suit had fought his way to the front of the line. He wore a Stars and Stripes badge in his lapel, held a one-metre brass candlestick in his hand. It had a broad base, an elegant stem and a sharp metal point for securing a candle. He swung hard at Gregor on the forehand, then at Red Head on the return. Both men stepped back then rushed him. The American had to choose: the terrorist who had been tackled by the cleric or the one that had killed him. He managed a savage upward thrust at Red Head, piercing him behind his jawbone, fixing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, before Gregor stuck his Böhler in the American’s gut.
The citizens advanced towards the altar, attacking anyone they found in front of them. Each had their given targets but, in the melee, execution had become an imprecise science. The congregation now broke into three sections; one group of worshippers spilled left, another right. Small groups gathered fleetingly behind each pillar, judging distances, reaching, clasping. As the citizens passed, ones and twos peeled away, sprinting and stumbling for the glass wall and the exit. The third group had to retreat. Faced with four advancing attackers, they walked backwards into the choir stalls. The rabbi, his helpers and the man in the blue kurta were all in this group. Some shouted at their attackers, some cried, most were silent. Gauging the odds, glancing at the flanks, watching the others escape.
Hari hadn’t moved. One arm around his grandmother, the other around his sisters, they held on to the column like a ship’s mast in a storm. He had told them to pray. Their heads were down, his nana was singing quietly. He watched the advancing citizens, and if he leant left, he could watch the posturing Binici. He glanced at Amal Hussain, bleeding out. Gone soon.
There were no rules. Binici had his butcher’s shop and, as he was closest, he worried Hari the most. As soon as he left the altar and walked forward to the choir stalls, he would see the dying Hussain. Second pillar on the left. Just by the little Indian family. The clock was ticking. He looked to the exit, to the glass wall and the now empty steps beyond. An empty thoroughfare. No one moving. Lockdown. Maybe the police were nearby. Maybe they weren’t. He would assume nothing, he would do everything himself if he needed to.
From one of the middle rows, two men and a woman, suits and dungaree shorts, had reached the column in front of Hari. They looked at him, he waved them out. They crawled their way along the aisle. Past the font. Past the kaleidoscope window. Past the book stall. At the last column they dropped flat and moved, commando-style, along the polished marble to the door. They reached it together. They scrambled through. They turned left to the steps and the triumphant angel.
‘We can do that,’ Hari said.
He leant left. Binici wasn’t there.
‘OK, get up,’ he said. Millie looked up a fraction of a second before Amara. Hari managed a smile. ‘We’re going to walk out. Stay close.’ She nodded. The sisters helped their grandmother to her feet.
The old woman took Hari’s hand. Hers were trembling. ‘Take the girls, Hari. I’m too slow.’ Her voice barely a whisper.
Hari shook his head. ‘We’re walking out, Nana. You’re CPI-M. Remember? You’re coming with us.’
He saw some steel return to his grandmother’s eyes. She squeezed his hand, then suddenly pulled it hard. Her eyes, magnified by her glasses, were bright circles of fear.
‘That man,’ she managed.
Hari spun round. Binici had run round the back of the altar and choir stalls. To the east wall. Where he caught sight of Hussain, then Hari,
