First Response

MARBLE ARCH (12.33 p.m.)

The man who had handcuffed himself to El-Sayed’s son was watching the television anxiously. A blonde presenter was detailing the latest suicide bomber who had locked himself into a pub in Marylebone, not far from the coffee shop.

‘How many is that?’ asked the man, almost as if he were addressing the newsreader. Then he turned and glared at Hassan. ‘How many?’

‘S-s-s-seven,’ stammered Hassan. ‘It was five, then you, and then the pub.’

‘Can I get you something to drink, brother?’ El-Sayed asked the man. ‘Water, perhaps. Or a fruit juice?’

‘No,’ said the man, who was now staring out of the window. There were two armed police, sheltering behind a car, aiming rifles in his direction. He shouted to one of the waitresses, ‘You! Yes, you!’ She looked at him and pointed at her chest. ‘Yes! Stick some newspaper over the window so that they can’t see us.’

The woman left the counter and picked up a copy of The Times. Another waitress gave her some Sellotape and she went over to the window to begin sticking the sheets onto the glass.

‘I’ve got to go home and feed my dog,’ said a woman sitting at the table next to El-Sayed. She was one of the few non-Asian customers in the shop, in her thirties and wearing a green parka with a fur-lined hood over an Adidas tracksuit. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she had applied too much blusher. Her lipstick was also a slapdash affair and she had smeared some across her top teeth. ‘I can’t stay here all day.’

‘Madam, that is a suicide vest he is wearing,’ said El-Sayed. ‘If he presses that trigger in his right hand, it will detonate and everyone here will die and then there will be no one to feed your dog. Now, please, be quiet.’ He turned to the man again. ‘What about something to eat? You must be hungry.’

The man shook his head.

‘May I know your name, brother?’ asked El-Sayed.

He shook his head again. ‘My name doesn’t matter.’

‘It matters to me, brother. We are both men, are we not? We are in this situation together. My name is Imad El-Sayed. That is my only son, Hassan.’

‘You need to stay quiet,’ said the man. ‘If you want to talk, talk on Twitter and Facebook. Tell people that we want the six warriors released from Belmarsh.’ He waved his right arm around. ‘All of you, do it now. Keep sending messages to all your friends. Keep telling them what is happening here. And use hashtag ISIS6 with every message.’

Customers and staff began taking out their phones.

El-Sayed smiled. ‘I never use Twitter,’ he said. ‘I never really understood the point of social media. People need to talk to each other. They need to connect, face to face, or at the very least to hear each other’s voices. I call my friends and family, I don’t text them.’

The man said nothing.

‘At least let me get you a drink, brother,’ said El-Sayed. ‘Some water if nothing else. You must be thirsty.’

The man didn’t look at El-Sayed, but he nodded.

El-Sayed waved at a barista and clicked his pudgy fingers. ‘You, bring him a water. Quickly.’

The barista hurried over with a bottle, twisted off the cap, put it down in front of the man, then scurried back behind the counter.

The man used his left hand to lift the bottle to his lips. El-Sayed smiled and sipped his coffee, then smiled encouragingly at his son. Hassan’s face was bathed in sweat and El-Sayed could smell the boy’s fear. He wanted to tell him that everything was going to be all right, but he had to take it one step at a time.