First Response

SOUTHWARK (12.50 p.m.)

The lunchtime rush was in full swing and Calum Wade was worked off his feet. To be honest, he preferred it that way. Working in a restaurant that wasn’t busy could be soul-destroying: the minutes ticked slowly by and you were always looking for things to do. But the hours between twelve and two always seemed to whizz by, taking orders, filling glasses, carrying food from the kitchen and empty plates back to be washed. Wade always thought of himself as a people person, which was the main reason he had chosen to work in the restaurant business. And it had been a deliberate choice, too. Most of his fellow waiters were doing it as a fill-in before they found the job they really wanted, but it had long been his first choice as a career. Wade loved restaurants, and had done since his parents had first taken him into Harry Ramsden’s fish and chips emporium in Blackpool. It had been the first time he had been served food by a waiter and he’d never forgotten the man who had put down the plate of fish, chips and mushy peas in front of him, with a sly wink.

Wade had studied computing at university, more to satisfy his parents than from any interest in the subject, and during all his holidays he had worked as a waiter. When he’d finally graduated — with a decent degree because, despite his lack of interest, he was actually quite good at the keyboard — he’d gone straight to London and found a job in a bistro in Southwark.

Wade loved the front-of-house part, the bit where he got to deal with customers. He didn’t enjoy cooking, and could think of nothing worse than standing in front of a stove all day. He enjoyed the company of chefs, especially drinking with them after hours or tasting something they had created, but he’d never had any desire to work alongside them. Chefs never really got to see the customers enjoying the fruits of their labour: full plates went out and, hopefully, empty ones came back, but they missed the whole process in between. That was the part Wade liked — watching people enjoy themselves, and sharing in the experience. He didn’t plan to stay a waiter for ever, though. His ambition was to be a maître d’ in one of the capital’s best restaurants. The Ivy, maybe, or Scott’s, but that was for the future. Today he was just happy to be busy.

He had finished taking the order of table eight, three suited businessmen he’d persuaded to try the sea bass special and upsold on the wine, when he saw the Asian man walk in through the door. He was young, brown-skinned, bearded, and wearing a cheap raincoat. Wade was pretty sure he was looking for work. At least a dozen people a day dropped in their CVs, but he still smiled professionally in case the man was a customer. ‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’ he asked.

The man didn’t say anything but he looked around as if searching for someone.

‘I’m sorry, we’re totally full,’ said Wade. ‘Or are you here to meet someone?’ The man didn’t seem to be listening. He was still looking around, deep furrows in his forehead. Wade heard someone behind him calling for a new bottle of wine. ‘We’re full,’ he said again. ‘We might have something in an hour, but I can’t promise.’

The man’s right hand lashed out and grabbed Wade’s. Then he clamped something metallic around Wade’s wrist. ‘What the fuck?’ shouted Wade. ‘Get the hell away from me.’

He pushed the man in the chest and he staggered back but the chain linking them snapped taut.

‘What have you done?’ Wade yelled. The man began to unbutton his coat but Wade yanked his arm with the chain. ‘Get this off!’

‘I can’t. I don’t have the key,’ said the man. He continued unbuttoning his coat and Wade stared in horror as the suicide vest was revealed. ‘Don’t push me again,’ said the man. ‘I don’t know what it takes to set this thing off.’

‘It’s a bomb,’ said Wade, his eyes widening.

The man nodded and finished unbuttoning his coat. ‘Yes, it’s a bomb, and if you and everyone else in here don’t do exactly as I say, everyone will die.’ His right hand slid inside his coat pocket and emerged holding a trigger with a Velcro strap. The man wiggled his fingers so that the strap slipped over his hand and the trigger nestled in his palm. ‘Just do as I say and everyone will be all right. Do you understand?’

Wade nodded slowly, dumbstruck, unable to take his eyes off the explosives and wires attached to the canvas vest under the man’s coat.

The man held up his right hand and shouted, at the top of his voice, ‘Allahu Akbar! Everyone stay exactly where they are. If anyone gets up everyone here will die! Listen to what I have to say and this will soon be over!’