First Response

CAMBERWELL (12.54 p.m.)

The man was sweating and a vein was pulsing in his forehead. He kept looking at the window. He was in his late twenties, Metcalfe figured, and conformed to the racist stereotype of a suicide bomber, straggly beard and all. He had taken Metcalfe to the outer office and had slipped the bolts on the main door so that no one could enter or leave. The window overlooked the street. They were on the first floor, over the main constituency office.

A dozen people were sitting on hard-backed chairs, most of them elderly. The man stood with his back to the bolted door and told his hostages to stand up and move to the front office where Metcalfe had been taking his meetings. They filed through one by one and stood in the far corner, huddled together and whispering fearfully.

‘Shut up and listen!’ the man shouted. ‘You are all prisoners of ISIS. You are to send text messages to your friends and family to tell them what is happening. Use Twitter and Facebook, if you can, and use hashtag ISIS6. Tell everyone that you are being held hostage and that the government must release the six ISIS fighters who are being held in Belmarsh Prison. Do you understand?’

A stick-thin West Indian woman, wearing a shapeless hat and a herringbone coat, raised a hand. ‘I’m sorry, what is a hashtag?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

‘That thing that looks like a noughts and crosses game,’ said the man.

The woman’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t know what that is,’ she said to the man next to her.

‘I’ll help you,’ said Molly. She smiled at the bomber. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get them to do it.’

The man pointed at the far corner of the room, away from the window. ‘Everyone sit down there. Just do as you’re told and everyone will go home.’

The hostages obeyed, though several were quite elderly and had to be helped onto the floor. Molly fussed around them, making sure they were comfortable and explaining what they had to do.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Metcalfe. The man frowned at him, as if he hadn’t understood the question. Metcalfe repeated it slowly, enunciating every syllable carefully. He could still smell garlic but it wasn’t as overpowering as when the man had handcuffed him.

‘I’m not fucking retarded,’ snapped the man. ‘What — you think cos I’m Asian I don’t understand English? I was born here, mate. I’m as British as you are.’

‘I’m sorry, I thought you hadn’t heard me,’ said Metcalfe.

‘No, you thought I’d just got off the bloody boat, that’s what you thought. You condescending prick.’

‘Seriously, no. I’m sorry. I just wanted to know your name, that’s all.’

‘Why do you give a toss about who I am?’

‘Because you’re handcuffed to me, that’s why. And if things go wrong and that vest goes off then yours will be the last face I see and that’s about as personal a relationship as you can have, so I just wanted to know who you are.’

‘This isn’t personal,’ said the man.

‘You came here deliberately, though. You chose me. You could have gone anywhere but you came to my surgery and handcuffed yourself to me, so it is personal. It’s very personal. You know I have a lot of Muslim constituents, don’t you? I’ve visited all the mosques here and have always been welcomed.’

‘You talk too much, mate,’ said the man.

‘I’m just saying, you’re attacking the wrong person here. I do a lot of work on behalf of Muslim constituents.’

‘What’s done is done,’ said the man. ‘You’ve got a phone, right?’

Metcalfe nodded.

‘Then start tweeting. Hashtag ISIS6. Tell your government to release the prisoners and you’ll be released too.’

‘The government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,’ said Metcalfe.

‘You’d better pray that they do, because otherwise we’ll all die today.’

Metcalfe rubbed his face with his free hand. He was sweating profusely and his hand came away wet. ‘And what are you? Al-Qaeda? ISIS? Who do you represent?’

‘I don’t represent anyone, mate.’

‘But you want the ISIS prisoners released, right? That’s what you told everyone?’

The man nodded. ‘If the prisoners are released, we all get to go home,’ he said. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his right arm.

‘Do you want some water?’ asked Metcalfe. ‘We’ve got bottled water in the fridge.’

The man nodded again. ‘Yeah. Okay. Thanks.’

Metcalfe gestured at his assistant and she got up off the floor and went over to the fridge. She took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap and gave it to the man, then sat down again with the rest of the hostages. The man released his grip on the trigger, though the Velcro strap kept it in place in his palm as he drank greedily. He put the bottle down and thanked her again.

‘My name is Roger,’ said Metcalfe.

‘Ali,’ said the man. He forced a smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

Metcalfe smiled despite himself. ‘I’d say I was pleased to meet you, and under other circumstances that might well be true, but…’ he gestured at the vest ‘… that scares me, you know that?’

‘You and me both, mate.’

‘You know who I am? I’m the local MP.’

‘Yeah. I know.’

‘So the thing is, Ali, I’m a pretty valuable hostage. You’ll get a lot of media attention because of me. I’m in the government.’

‘You’re a very important man, I get it,’ said Ali, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘No, I meant that you need to be talking to the police. You need to start negotiating.’

Ali nodded at the dozen or so constituents, who were now sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall, tapping away on their phones. ‘That’s what they’re doing. They’re putting the word out.’

‘You want those men in Belmarsh released?’

‘That’s what this is about. If they’re released, we can all go home.’

Metcalfe frowned. ‘We?’

‘I don’t want to die today.’

‘Then you need to talk. You need to negotiate. You need to show them that you’ve got me as a hostage. I’m an MP. I know the prime minister. They won’t want anything to happen to me.’

Ali said nothing.

‘You heard what I said? They need to know that I’m handcuffed to you.’

Ali gestured at the constituents. ‘They’ll explain what’s happened. I don’t need to talk to anyone.’

Metcalfe winced as his soaked trousers scraped across his flesh. ‘I need to change my trousers,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘I wet myself.’

‘You what?’

‘I wet myself when you started shouting.’ The MP pointed with his left hand at the door to the office. ‘I’ve an overnight bag in there,’ he said. ‘There’s a change of clothes.’

‘I have to stay here. By the door.’

‘My assistant can get the bag.’

Ali shook his head. ‘Everyone has to stay here.’

‘She can leave the door open. You can see everything she does.’ Metcalfe waved at the damp patch at the front of his trousers. ‘You can’t leave me like this. It’s disgusting.’

‘You’re the one who pissed himself,’ said Ali.

‘Yes, because I was scared. Now, please, I’m begging you, let Molly get me my trousers.’

Ali stared at him for several seconds, then gestured with his chin at Molly. ‘Go in there and get his bag. Come straight back.’

Molly did as she was told and returned a few seconds later with Metcalfe’s overnight bag. ‘There’s a clean pair of trousers in there, and underwear,’ said Metcalfe.

She took them out and handed them to him. Metcalfe looked at Ali. ‘Can you do me a favour and ask everyone to turn around while I change?’ he asked.

‘Just fucking do it,’ snarled Ali. ‘No one gives a fuck about the colour of your underpants.’

‘I’ll stand in front of you, if that’ll help,’ said Molly.