Page 5

Five

Sunday Midnight

Tom

Tom was floating. It should have been pleasant, but it wasn’t. He could hear the calls of seabirds, the rush of waves coming in and the sucking sound of them retreating, dragging the pebbles from the beach. In, and out. In, and out. There was a sensation of sunlight beating down on his body, or was it that he could see the sun, because he was cold. The jingle of an ice cream van interrupted his dreams. And then shouting. He thought of families playing cricket on the beach, arguing about the rules at the tops of their voices. Surely it was too cold to play on the beach? But he could hear the waves swishing and gurgling. In, and out. In, and out.

“One, two, three. And … thanks guys.”

Tom felt hands on his body. Hands made of steel rods, sticking into him, bruising his flesh, forcing him into movement when he needed to be still. The world spun around him and when it settled his head kept spinning. There was wetness and the smell of piss. Things tore. Flesh? Clothes? Coldness against his skin and then more pulling when he needed to be still. Should he open his eyes? His mind told him no. The tiny part of his mind that knew this wasn’t a beach; the part of his mind that dreaded this was something much worse than a beach, even a cold beach in winter.

“Cold,” he said. Nothing changed. The waves kept going in and out. The floating feeling came back, and this time it was nice. The seabirds screamed more quietly, rhythmically, and the ice cream van’s bells receded. The cricket-players must have gone for lunch because they weren’t arguing, just murmuring. He floated away to the sound of the waves. In, and out. In, and out.

Charlie

The lift couldn’t be heard from inside the flat so the banging at the door was shocking in the silence. Murphy went to the door, returning with two men. Both wore dark suits. Charlie wasn’t sure if they had been at the scene of the shooting. Maybe it was true that everyone in the FBI looked the same. They stood in the middle of the flat’s living room, dominating the space. Orianna had retreated to her spot on the sofa and Charlie felt a spike of fear from her direction, as if she was afraid these men were bringing trouble. Murphy hovered behind them in the doorway to the room, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Mr Rees, Ms Wildwood, I'm Special Agent John Mead and this is my colleague, Special Agent Andrew Bart. We’re from the hate crimes team. We hope you can help us understand the terrible events of last night.” If he had been at the scene, Special Agent John Mead must have made time to shower and change his clothes, which showed no sign of plaster dust or splinters of glass. Charlie was aware he was filthy with blood and dirt, and must smell of sweat and spilled alcohol but he didn’t care.

Charlie held his hand up to prevent the agents beginning their questions. “I need, we both need, information about Tomos Pennant.” Charlie folded his arms. Of course, they would both give all the help they could to law enforcement, but not until they knew what had happened to Tom.

“As far as I am aware,” John Mead said, “all the injured were taken to First United. I have no information beyond that.”

“I’ll find out,” Murphy said, and disappeared from view, the sound of his voice receding as he moved away from the living room. Charlie sat down on the sofa next to Orianna, and felt her hand grasp his. There was a grey space in his head where thoughts usually played and the space was full with his fear for Tom. His body was going to fall into the grey space soon. All that made up Charlie Rees would be swallowed up with terror. He was vaguely aware that the FBI agents had produced tablets and were asking if they could sit down. The voices murmured on, Orianna responding to whatever was being asked. Charlie’s ears were tuned to Murphy’s voice from the hallway. Abruptly, he stood up and headed out to the hall in time to hear Murphy say, “Thank you, I’ll pass it on.”

“What?” Charlie said. Please don’t be dead. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

“Mr Pennant is in the Intensive Care Unit. He lost a lot of blood, and he’s not regained consciousness. He’s stable, and the surgeons have repaired the injury to his leg.”

The relief left Charlie shaky, almost sick. He reached for the nearest handhold before he fainted. It was the hall table and it shifted under his weight, disorientating him even further. On wobbling legs, he led the way back into the living room and collapsed into a sofa.

“Tom is alive,” he said, looking at Orianna. “He’s in intensive care. I’ll head over there straight away.”

But Orianna didn’t seem to take his words in. “These men think the gunman was trying to kill me. If Tom dies, it’s my fault.”

Charlie was sick with worry about Tom, and weariness weighted his bones, but he couldn’t let this go.

“Orianna wasn’t the target,” he said looking at the FBI men, “it was Kaylan Sully. I saw it. Random shots into the crowd while he looked for a specific person. Once he’d shot that person, he quit. I didn’t see the victim was Kaylan until later, but I did see how the shooter behaved. It was Kaylan they were after. He looked straight at me and shot up the ceiling as he ran off. Kaylan worked for the FBI. Surely you want to know what happened to him?”

“We’ll be looking at all possibilities, Mr Rees,” Mead said. “As you know, there were other people killed and injured in the incident.”

“Yes. And Orianna isn’t one of them. This guy shot the person in front of Ori, and the person behind her, yet here she is. If he’d wanted to kill her, he could have done. He could have killed me, but he didn’t. He’d got what he came for.”

“I don’t suppose you have a lot of experience of mass shootings, do you, Mr Rees? Unfortunately, we do.” Mead’s tone was veering toward patronising.

“No, I don’t. But I am a trained observer, an experienced detective, and the best witness you’ve got.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr Rees,” Mead said and stood up. He nodded to Orianna. “Ms Wildwood.” Special Agent Bart stood up too, and the pair left the room. A moment later they heard the flat door bang shut.

This was all wrong. Charlie had no experience of mass shootings, but the FBI hadn’t been there, and he had. He knew what he’d seen. He’d described the shooter, the getaway car and the shooter’s behaviour, and law enforcement didn’t appear to care. Perhaps this was a sign that he shouldn’t care either, except about Tom.

Murphy cleared his throat. Charlie had forgotten he was there.

“Maybe the FBI are right,” he said.

“And maybe they weren’t there and I was,” Charlie snapped.

“I didn’t know the FBI dealt with hate crime,” Orianna said, perhaps trying to pour oil on troubled waters. “I thought they did kidnappings across state lines, and serial killers.”

“Those things too,” Murphy answered. “Hate crime can be terrorism, so that’s where they come in. Especially in shootings like this.” He played about with his phone, then showed it to Orianna. It had the FBI webpage. Charlie started to look them up too, then changed his mind and put John Mead, FBI into the search box.

“The lying bastard,” he said. “They don’t give a fuck about hate crimes. Special Agent John Mead and his mate head up the cybercrimes team in New York.”