First Response

BRIXTON (5.00 p.m.)

The pack around Bhashir’s waist vibrated and Father Morrison gasped. ‘It’s a phone,’ Bhashir said to the priest. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Did I look worried?’ said the priest. He took out his handkerchief, mopped his brow, then put it away.

Bhashir used his left hand to unzip the waistpack and take out the phone. ‘It is time to go, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘The brothers have been released from Belmarsh. In five minutes there will be a coach outside to take you to the airport. You are to take only the hostage you are handcuffed to. The rest can stay behind.’

‘It’s over?’ asked Bhashir.

‘It soon will be,’ said Shahid. ‘They have agreed to our demands. There is a plane waiting at Biggin Hill airport.’

‘To take us where?’ asked Bhashir.

‘Away from this country. To a place of safety.’

‘But this is my country,’ said Bhashir.

‘Then you can stay. But first you must go to the airport. The coach will be outside in five minutes. In five minutes’ time you are to open the main door and walk out of the church with your hostage. You are to get into the coach. But be vigilant. I will be watching. If I think that the police are up to anything, all the vests will detonate.’

‘Please do not do that, brother. I do not want to die, not like this.’

‘Providing everyone does as they are told, no one will die,’ said Shahid. He ended the call and Bhashir put the phone back in his waistpack, then zipped it up.

‘We are to leave in five minutes,’ said Bhashir. ‘The government has released the prisoners.’

‘So you got what you wanted?’ asked the priest. ‘You can release us?’

‘Your parishioners will be freed when we go. But you have to come with me to the airport.’ He raised his left hand and jiggled the chain that connected them. ‘I don’t have the key for this.’

‘What will happen when we get onto the plane?’ asked Morrison. ‘Will you let me go?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bhashir.

The priest frowned. ‘How can you not know?’

‘It’s not my decision.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Morrison. ‘Surely once you have the plane and the prisoners, you just let us go, right? And you fly off to where you’re going.’ He took out his red handkerchief again to mop his brow. ‘And where is it you’re going?’

Bhashir shrugged but didn’t reply.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Priest, you ask far too many questions,’ said Bhashir. He sighed. ‘I want a cigarette so badly.’

The priest grinned. His hand disappeared into his vestments and reappeared with a pack of Benson & Hedges and a cheap disposable lighter. Bhashir stared at the cigarette greedily. ‘I told you it was one of the only vices I’m allowed,’ said Father Morrison. ‘But I suppose the question is, how safe are we smoking while you’re wearing that bloody thing?’

‘I don’t think a cigarette will set it off,’ said Bhashir.

‘You’re probably right,’ said the priest. He flicked open the pack and offered a cigarette to Bhashir. He took it and smelt it as Father Morrison took one for himself and slid it between his lips. The priest lit Bhashir’s cigarette, then his own, and the two men contentedly blew smoke up at the ceiling. ‘This is against the law, you know,’ said Father Morrison. ‘The church is classed as a place of work so smoking is forbidden.’

‘With all that has happened today, no one is going to be charging us with smoking,’ said Bhashir.

The two men chuckled. Father Morrison noticed that one of the parishioners, a black man in his seventies, was looking at them longingly and he waved his cigarette. ‘Do you want one, Mr Donaldson?’ The man nodded. ‘Mr Donaldson is a three-pack-a-day man,’ the priest said to Bhashir. ‘Do you mind if he lights up? We often have a cigarette together outside after the service.’

‘Why not?’ said Bhashir.

‘You’re a good man, Rabeel,’ said the priest. He held his cigarette above his head. ‘Mr Bhashir has kindly agreed that the smokers among you may light up,’ he called. ‘If you do light a cigarette, please respect those who do not smoke and move away from them.’

Three of the men, including Mr Donaldson, and one of the women took out their cigarettes and shuffled along the pews to the far side of the church before lighting up.

The priest tried to blow a smoke-ring but failed. He smiled. ‘Just a thought, Rabeel. If that does go off, do you think I will go to my heaven or yours?’

‘That’s a good question, Father Sean. There are supposed to be seventy-two virgins waiting for me.’

‘You see now, that’s my problem, Rabeel. Most of the virgins I come across are nuns and, truth be told, you wouldn’t want to be spending eternity with them.’ He took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked it away. ‘Okay, let’s get this show on the road.’

‘What show?’

‘It’s an expression.’ He crossed himself and took a last look around his church, wondering if he would ever see it again.

The two men walked to the door. Bhashir undid the bolts and pushed the large oak doors open. There was a white coach parked in the road, the engine running. The front door was open. All the side windows had been blacked out. Just in front of the coach were six white police motorcycles and another four behind it.

To the left, crouched behind a police car, two armed officers were sighting down rifles at them. Beyond them were more vehicles and a cluster of policemen in fluorescent jackets. One was holding a megaphone. ‘Please move to the coach,’ boomed an electronic voice. ‘You are in no danger.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered the priest.

To their right, close to a large white van, there were two men in bomb suits. They both pointed at the coach.

Bhashir headed for it, the priest following. The driver looked down at them. ‘We’re on a tight deadline so if you could hurry up I’d appreciate it,’ he said. Bhashir nodded and went up the stairs, his left hand behind him. The priest followed. ‘Come on, come on,’ said the driver.

Bhashir went to sit on the seat behind the driver but he shook his head. ‘Not that close. Move down. And get a move on.’ Bhashir walked down the coach and sat on the right-hand side, next to the window, the priest beside him. The driver closed the door. The motorcycles switched on their flashing lights, giving everyone on the coach a bluish tinge. The coach lurched forward as if the driver wasn’t used to the controls. They quickly reached forty miles an hour. Traffic had been diverted from the route and they sailed through any red traffic lights as they headed north to Wandsworth.