Dead if You Don’t

24

Saturday 12 August

17.00–18.00

Roy Grace, holding the heavy camera, frightened it would explode at any moment, turned and raced up the stairs towards the stand exit.

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Had to get the device away from the players, from the crowds. He looked around. Where?

Where?

Where was safe?

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His brain was racing.

Some years ago, shortly after the stadium construction had been completed, he’d been given a tour of the building, along with several other police officers, by the Head of Safety and Security. There was a tunnel on the far side, through which the players came out to the pitch. It ran past the changing rooms, and out to the players’ secure car park at the rear. But that would mean running round the pitch.

Was there a better way?

Then he remembered.

A short distance away was another tunnel. It would probably be deserted now — no members of the public would be there, although there would be plenty above.

Yelling, ‘Police!’ at two startled stewards in the doorway, he sprinted past them and along past the stark, cream columns of the deserted concourse, narrowly missing colliding with a man who came out of the toilets. He reached the tunnel and turned into it, racing past machinery, utterly terrified the camera would detonate at any moment. Then to his dismay he saw steel security shutters, down, at the far end.

No!

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Just as he reached them they began to rise, clattering upwards. Agonizingly slowly.

Come on, come on!

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The instant there was enough clearance, he ducked under and through into the wide, deserted area outside the ground.

Should he dump the camera here and run?

The wall of the stadium was a hundred metres or so behind him. Too close.

Had to get it further away. At this distance, the EOD might still want a full evacuation.

27

He sprinted on towards the station, running down the incline, beneath the railway bridge and towards the deserted university rugby pitch. As he reached the barrier fence, the timer showed nine seconds left. He hurled the camera as hard as he could at the playing fields and watched it tumble through the air, then as it fell towards the grass he threw himself to the ground and waited, breathless, gulping down air.

He heard only the faintest thud.

Nothing more.

A whole minute passed.

Nothing.

He continued waiting, then cautiously stood up and peered across at the camera lying in the grass some distance away. His shirt stuck to his back; he was drenched in sweat.

‘Good throw, sir!’

He turned to see a steward in a high-viz jacket.

‘Thank you,’ he gasped, tugging out his handkerchief to mop away the perspiration running down his forehead.

‘You’re blooming nuts, if you don’t mind my saying, sir!’

Grace grinned. ‘I’m OK with that.’

‘I was in the army, out in Afghanistan. I once had to lob a grenade that had been tossed into our foxhole. Never managed to throw it as far as that.’

‘Yep, well, I just closed my eyes and imagined it was a rugby ball.’

The steward shook his head. ‘Tut-tut. Saying that at a football game, sir, that’s heresy, that is.’

Several more stewards and police officers rushed out towards them.