First Response

MARYLEBONE (6.02 p.m.)

The Asian Sky News presenter with too much make-up was describing the police van that was driving towards Biggin Hill airport at the centre of a convoy of police vehicles and motorcycles. She seemed to be struggling for words and was constantly correcting herself, so Chaudhry figured she wasn’t reading from a script.

‘What happens to us when the prisoners are at the airport?’ asked Kenny. ‘You let us go, right?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not sure?’ Kenny gestured at the TV screen. ‘It’s almost over. You got what you wanted.’

The picture changed on the TV screen. Now it was showing a white coach with blacked-out windows driving through the streets of London, flanked by police motorcycles. The pavements were thronged with onlookers, many of whom were holding up their mobile phones. The picture was from a helicopter flying overhead. According to the presenter, the coach was now heading east, presumably towards the Grapes.

‘It’s coming here, mate,’ said Kenny. ‘It’s coming to collect you.’

Chaudhry’s waistpack buzzed. He took out the phone and answered. It was Shahid.

‘The coach is on its way, brother,’ said Shahid. ‘As soon as it pulls up outside, leave with your hostage. The police have been told to stay well back. All you have to do is get on the coach.’

‘And when can I go home?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Soon, brother, soon. Once the ISIS warriors are in the air.’

‘Do I have to go with them?’

‘You can decide that at the airport, brother. It will be your choice.’

‘I just want to go home.’

‘Then, inshallah, you shall.’

The line went dead and Chaudhry put the phone away.

‘Who was that?’ asked Kenny. ‘Was it the police?’

Chaudhry shook his head. ‘No. Not the police.’ He stood up and looked at the TV screen. The coach was driving down Marylebone Road, not far from the pub. All the traffic had been diverted but there was nothing the police could do to keep onlookers away. There were hundreds of people on the pavements, most of them filming on their phones. Other spectators were crowded at the windows overlooking the street, pointing and grinning as if it were a parade they were watching. ‘We need to get ready, Kenny.’

‘Can I ask you a favour?’

‘Sure.’

‘Can I take a selfie with you?’

Chaudhry’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you fucking serious?’

‘Mate, if the papers interview me they’ll pay a lot for a picture like that.’

Chaudhry sighed. ‘Go on, then.’

‘You’re a star, mate,’ said Kenny. He had to use his left hand to pull his mobile out of his back pocket. He put it in camera mode, leant his head close to Chaudhry’s and took a picture. He checked the screen. ‘You’re not smiling,’ he said.

‘Why would I be smiling?’

‘Because you won.’ He put the phone away. Kenny looked up at the TV screen. ‘Bloody hell, there’s the pub,’ he said.

Chaudhry followed his gaze. The coach had just pulled up in front of it. It was flanked by police motorcycles and there were two police cars behind it. ‘Time to go,’ he said. He turned to the rest of the hostages. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to be able to tell you that it’s over. I’m leaving with Kenny here and the rest of you can go home.’

The hostages stared at him blankly, not sure how to react.

‘It’s over,’ Chaudhry repeated. ‘For you anyway.’ He stood up and Kenny followed suit. They walked to the main door and Chaudhry pushed it open. There were several armed police aiming their guns from across the road. Off to his left he saw more police cars, two ambulances and a fire engine.

‘Please board the coach right away!’ boomed an amplified voice. A uniformed officer was standing among the armed police with a megaphone. ‘Move straight to the coach.’

The door was already open. Chaudhry and Kenny walked towards it. Kenny grabbed his phone again and began taking photographs. ‘You are fucking mad, mate,’ said Chaudhry.

He walked up the steps, holding his left hand behind him and keeping his right hand up so that they could see the trigger.

‘Put that fucking camera away!’ shouted the driver, when he saw the phone in Kenny’s hand. Kenny did as he was told but the driver continued to glare at him.

Chaudhry looked down the coach. The windows had all been blacked out but there were small lights on near the roof. Six people were sitting on the left side behind the driver and four on the right. Most of the men wearing the suicide vests were in their twenties but one, sitting next to an elderly priest, was older, in his fifties maybe.

‘Sit down. We’ve got to be on our way,’ snapped the driver. He closed the door and revved the engine.

Chaudhry nodded for Kenny to sit by the window of the second row, in front of a young Asian man handcuffed to a pretty blonde girl. Kenny grinned at the girl. ‘How are you doing?’

She forced a smile. ‘As well as can be expected.’

‘I’m Kenny.’

‘Zoe.’

‘You got a boyfriend?’

‘Have you?’

Kenny laughed, but stopped when Chaudhry glared at him. ‘Mate, you need to focus,’ said Chaudhry. ‘This is no fucking joke.’ The coach moved off and Chaudhry took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart.