Page 3

Three

Sunday 10pm

After several lifetimes, someone came to talk to them. Orianna gave Charlie the spare T-shirt she kept in her bag in case she spilled something on herself before a gig. It was too small, but it didn’t matter. He sat on the floor by Orianna’s chair, his arms wrapped around Tom’s jacket. Out of the window they saw the street fill with cars: marked NYPD cruisers, unmarked black SUVs, and a darkened van with multiple aerials sprouting from its roof. Overhead, a helicopter clattered. Men and women conferred, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, some in navy blue jackets with FBI in big letters. Floodlights illuminated the scene. The bookshop door was still blocked by the same cop who stepped aside for some, and blocked others until they argued their way past. The noise of police radios, of the cop by the door, of the sobbing from inside the bookshop blurred into a soup of nausea-inducing sound. Charlie’s head was full of Tom crying in pain, and all he could feel was Orianna’s hand on his shoulder and the softness of Tom’s jacket in his arms.

The someone who came introduced herself as Detective Marion Levine, and she looked as sick and tired as them.

“Could you tell me what happened here?”

Charlie raised his head. She was a forty-something white woman wearing black trousers and a white blouse. She had blue gloves on her hands and a facemask pushed down onto her neck. Round her hips was a substantial belt holding a holster with the top of a handgun poking out. Her hair was thick, short and well-cut, dark, with a streak of silver in her fringe. She looked strong and competent, radiating the same kind of confidence Charlie had met in senior women officers throughout his police career. She would let him go to Tom.

“I saw the gunman. Tall, probably Caucasian. I chased him into the street. Black SUV was waiting, engine running. No license plate.” All Charlie wanted to say was I need to see Tom .

The detective’s face sharpened like a dog who has just seen a squirrel. Charlie didn’t care. He felt Orianna’s arms around his shoulders. She leaned forward in the chair, her breasts against his neck. It should have been comforting, but Charlie was beyond comfort. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. His eyes were heavy with unshed tears.

“Don’t cry, Charlie. He’s going to be okay. He saved my life. And you saved his.” Orianna’s words didn’t make much sense. Nothing did.

Charlie was so tired. All he wanted was to see Tom and fall asleep in his arms.

“I need to see my boyfriend, Tom Pennant. He was shot. I need to know how he is. They wouldn’t let me go with him.”

Levine chipped in. “If you can tell us what you saw … police work does seem insensitive sometimes, sir, but lives might be at stake.”

“Don’t give me fucking insensitive .” Charlie’s rage went from zero to sixty in less than a second. “I tried to tell your doorman what I’d seen hours ago . You could have had the information when it might have done some good. But it’s a bit fucking late now, isn’t it?”

Charlie felt himself flush hot and sweaty in his anger. The outside door opened, and the cold air cooled him down too fast. His hands and jeans were covered in dried blood, and he could feel it flaking on his face. Orianna was the same. He couldn’t lose the image of Tom bleeding and dying as he struggled to tie the tourniquet and stem the blood. His head swam. The shop seemed to close in around them, the bookcases looming too high and shading the lights.

“Charlie,” Orianna murmured into his ear. He shook her off. Levine opened her mouth to speak, but Charlie didn’t give her the chance.

“You listen to me, and then I want to see Tom. My name is Charlie Rees, Detective Sergeant Rees, Clwyd Police. In Wales. Tom and I were sitting right at the front with Orianna. I heard a noise from the back of the room, turned round and saw the gunman. About six-foot tall, skinny build. All in black wearing a balaclava with holes for his eyes and mouth. He was white — I could see a bit of skin round his mouth. I shouted to people to get down, and he started shooting.”

“What sort of a gun?”

“I don’t fucking know. One of those things they keep trying to ban. He was firing short bursts at specific people. Not just random shooting. Then he saw me and he shot up the ceiling and legged it. There was a car waiting for him in the street. The door must have been open, because he jumped straight in and they drove off.” Charlie pointed to the right, the way back down toward Morningside Drive and into the city. “There was no license plate on the back, and the windows were tinted too much for me to see anything. The car was black, some kind of a Range Rover with lots of chrome.”

“Could you identify it from a photograph?” Levine asked.

“Yes,” Charlie snapped. “I haven’t finished. One of the victims was Kaylan Sully. He’s a criminal, a psychopath, a computer hacker and he works for the FBI.” He took a breath.

“He was in prison waiting to be tried for shooting me. He stole a lot of money from my boyfriend’s place of work. I will give you the contact details for my boss, assuming you want them now as opposed to next week. But then I want out of here so I can go and see if my boyfriend is dead or alive.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Levine said. She went and conferred with one of the men in an FBI jacket who started making phone calls. “We’re arranging for a police car to take you back to your accommodation,” she told them, “And then you should be able to see your partner.”