First Response

KENSINGTON (5.35 p.m.)

‘I’m hungry,’ said Sally. ‘I haven’t eaten since this morning. Nobody has.’ She was sitting with her back to the wall, her legs drawn up to her chest. Osman was standing next to her, his left hand at his side to keep the tension off the chain that linked them.

‘There’s nothing I can do about that, madam,’ said Osman. ‘I’m hungry too. I haven’t had food since last night.’

‘There’s stuff in the kitchen. We give the children lunch so there are sandwiches and fruit.’

‘Everyone has to stay here,’ said Osman.

Sally pointed with her left hand. ‘That’s the kitchen there. Just open the door and there’s food.’

Osman’s stomach growled. He looked at the five hostages sitting by the wall at the far end of the room. ‘Is everyone hungry?’

They all nodded. ‘I’d like a drink,’ said a middle-aged woman. ‘I have to take my cholesterol tablets and I need water for that.’

‘You can stand up and go into the kitchen,’ Osman said to her. ‘Leave the door open and stay where I can see you. Bring out some food and water.’ The woman pushed herself up and went to the door. As she reached for the handle, the mobile phone buzzed in Osman’s waistpack. ‘Wait!’ shouted Osman. She froze. He used his left hand to take out the phone and put it to his ear.

‘We have won, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘The ISIS prisoners are being taken to the airport as we speak.’

‘It’s over?’ asked Osman. He grinned, bobbing up and down excitedly.

‘Almost, brother. A coach is pulling up outside. You are to take your hostage out with you. It will take you to the airport.’

‘I don’t want to go to the airport,’ said Osman. ‘I want to go home.’

‘Once the prisoners are on the plane, you can go home,’ said Shahid. ‘Go outside now. Speak to no one. Just get onto the coach.’

Osman opened his mouth to say something but the line went dead. He fumbled the phone back into the waistpack. ‘We are to go outside,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘You and I.’

‘You’re letting us go?’ asked Sally.

‘Not yet,’ said Osman. ‘We have to get on a coach.’

‘A coach? Why?’

‘We have to go to the airport.’

She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘We just do.’ He gestured at the door. ‘Come on, please, madam. We have to go.’

‘I don’t want to. You go. You’ve got what you wanted. You don’t need me any more.’

‘Madam, even if I wanted to let you go, I couldn’t. I don’t have the key.’

‘How can you not have the key?’

Osman smiled thinly. ‘You have many questions, madam, but I’m afraid I have very few answers.’ He tugged at the chain that connected them. ‘Please come with me. At least then the others can go home.’

She looked at him earnestly. ‘Are you going to kill me?’ she asked.

He smiled. ‘No, madam. I am most definitely not. You have my word on that. Like you, I just want to go home to my loved ones.’

She stared at him for several seconds. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

He took her over to the door that led to the corridor and pushed it open. The corridor was empty but through the glass doors to his left he could see the street. There was a coach parked there, its windows blacked out, police motorcycles in front of it, blue lights flashing. The door was already open and the driver was looking down at them, his hands on the steering-wheel.

‘I really don’t want to get on the coach,’ she said.

‘There’s no choice,’ said Osman. He went up the steps first. The driver flashed him a smile and Osman smiled back. ‘Don’t sit in the front row,’ said the driver.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Osman.

Six of the seats were occupied. There were four sitting to his left and two to his right. Three Asians and three hostages. A priest, a young woman and an older woman, who was dabbing at her eyes with a red handkerchief. The men and their hostages stared at Osman. The fact that they were on the coach meant that it would soon be over. Shahid had won. The ISIS prisoners had been released and were on the way to the airport. Once the prisoners were on their plane, Osman would be free. He smiled but no one smiled back. He moved down the middle of the coach and moved to sit on the right-hand side, then realised that Sally would have to go in first. ‘I’m sorry, madam, after you,’ he said, nodding for her to take the window seat.

She slid along and he sat next to her. ‘Why have they covered the windows?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Osman.

The Asian man sitting in front of Osman twisted around in his seat. ‘It’s so they can’t shoot us,’ he said. ‘If they can’t see us, they can’t shoot us. Inshallah.’

‘Inshallah,’ repeated Osman. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Where are you from, brother?’ asked the man.

‘I’m Somalian.’

‘You’re a long way from home, brother.’

‘No, sir, England is my home.’

The door closed and the coach pulled away from the kerb.