Innocent Blood

Twenty-One

Frank had just taken a shower when he heard a knock at the door. He wrapped a towel around himself and went to open it. It was Astrid, wearing a bright-pink sleeveless dress and bright-pink lipstick to match, and her hair was all frisky with gel.

‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ she said. She took off her wraparound sunglasses. Her bruises had faded to yellow and lilac, and her eyes were far less swollen, although she still had a slightly foxy look about her.

‘Of course. Come on in.’

She came into the living room and sat down in the last triangle of sunlight. He stood watching her and said nothing at all. ‘Well?’ she asked him. ‘What’s happened? Cat got your tongue?’

‘No, everything’s fine. How about a drink?’

She frowned at him. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You don’t like my hair like this.’

‘Your hair’s fine.’

‘What, then? You don’t like my lipstick?’

‘Your lipstick’s fine, too.’

‘Then what?’

Frank took a breath. ‘I talked to Charles Lasser. I told him to stop beating up on you.’

Astrid slowly covered her mouth with her hand. She didn’t speak but her eyes said, oh, my God.

Frank said, ‘I know you told me to keep out of your life. I know you told me to mind my own business. But so long as you and I are lovers . . . come on, Astrid, you are my business. I care for you. I love you. I can’t just stand by and let that bastard hit you and burn you and treat you like shit.’ There was a very long silence. Eventually, Frank said, ‘I can’t, Astrid, and that’s all there is to it. Even if you tell me that you and I are finished.’

‘You really told Charles Lasser to stop hitting me?’

Frank nodded.

Astrid stood up, and came over to him, and draped her arms around his shoulders. ‘I can’t believe it. What did he say?’

‘What do you think he said? He told me that he didn’t have any idea what I was talking about.’

‘He denied it?’

‘Are you kidding? He denied that you even existed.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘I warned him to stay away from you, that’s all.’

Astrid scanned his face with those washed-out eyes as if she were trying to commit every detail to memory, as if she might never see him again. ‘Do you think you scared him?’

‘What? I very much doubt it. But I warned him that if he touches you again, I’ll come after him. And, by God, Astrid, I will.’

‘So what did he say to that?’

‘He said that if I ever mentioned his name again he’d sue my ass off.’

Astrid tugged at the towel around his waist. It loosened and dropped to the floor. She took hold of his penis and rubbed it up and down. ‘So long as he doesn’t sue your cock off, I don’t mind.’

Later, he opened his eyes and found her staring at him, very closely.

‘What?’ he asked her.

She stroked his eyebrows, and then licked her fingertip and stuck them up into devilish points. ‘I think you’re incredibly brave.’

‘I’m not brave. I never have been. But I don’t believe in giving in to men like Charles Lasser.’

She started to tweak his hair into points, too. ‘I’m making you into a demon.’ He caught hold of her hand to stop her, but he scratched his wrist on her ring.

‘Hey, that’s sharp.’

She spread her fingers so that he could admire it. It sparkled intensely green in the lamplight. ‘Emerald,’ she said. ‘My father gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday.’

‘It’s real? I wondered about that when I first saw it. He must be pretty generous, your dad.’

‘Not really. He never gave a bent cent to anybody without wanting something in return.’

‘So what did you give him, in return for that?’

Astrid gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Emerald’s my birthstone. It’s a saint’s stone, too.’

‘A saint’s stone? What does that mean?’

‘Twelve saints have their own special jewels, didn’t you know that? St Nevile’s is sapphire, St Peter’s is jasper. Emerald, that’s St John the Evangelist. All twelve jewels together were called the Stones of Fire and they used to belong to Lucifer. But Lucifer misbehaved and so God took them away and buried them in the walls of Jerusalem. If you have a whole set of twelve, they say that you can call on the angels to help you.’

‘I could use an angel right now.’

She kissed his nose. ‘Has it occurred to you, Mr Bell, that you have one already?’

He didn’t answer her, but looked her in the eyes. She was so close that he could hardly focus.

After more than a minute, she said, ‘What?’

‘I know I don’t own you. I know that what you do when you walk out of here is entirely your own business, and that it shouldn’t concern me. But you and Charles Lasser? I can’t get my head round it.’

‘I thought Charles Lasser denied that I existed.’

‘Somebody hurt you. If it wasn’t him, then who was it?’

Astrid said nothing. After a while, she turned over and closed her eyes, and pretended that she was sleeping. Frank watched her, and couldn’t help thinking about Charles Lasser, bulky and coarse, with his Neanderthal forehead and his deep-sunken eyes. For the first time in his life, he actually felt like killing somebody. It was a frightening feeling – frightening but surprisingly exciting. He dreamed that he was driving after Charles Lasser in a subterranean parking structure, determined to run him down.

The next morning, on the seven o’clock news, Commissioner Campbell announced that Dar Tariki Tariqat had contacted the police department to express their ‘anger, dissatisfaction and sore disappointment.’ They were ‘outraged’ that the major networks were still showing ‘profane’ television series, in spite of the fact that The Wild and the Willing had been replaced by reruns of Highway to Heaven, and that most of the daytime soaps had given way to cartoons and wildlife programs. In the media, a certain gallows humor was beginning to emerge. Los Angeles Times reporter Walter Makepeace remarked that ‘the only distinction between watching early episodes of The Waltons and being blown up by 250 lbs of TNT is that watching early episodes of The Waltons is a far more prolonged and agonizing way to go.’

Dar Tariki Tariqat said ‘it is obvious to us that the entertainment industries have no intention of changing their evil ways or atoning for their blasphemies. Therefore we will start our campaign of bombing as promised on the stroke of twelve noon today. This will be the first of eleven bombs to be detonated once every twenty-four hours, or until we are satisfied that the entertainment industry has seen the wrongfulness of the path which it seems so wickedly determined to follow.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Frank asked Astrid. ‘I don’t know where you’re going today – OK, OK, and I’m not going to ask. But like they used to say on Hill Street Blues, let’s be careful out there.’

‘I’m not going to Star-TV, if that’s what you’re worried about. Or Charles Lasser’s house.’

‘Just as well. My feeling is that Star-TV is next on the list.’

He poured out two mugs of coffee and they sat at the kitchen counter together, drinking it, their eyes fixed on each other. Frank wondered what she was thinking, but her expression gave nothing away.

‘It is essential that you report any suspicious behavior by any individuals,’ said Commissioner Campbell. ‘Also, please dial nine-one-one if you’re concerned about any vehicles that may be parked in unusual locations, or any vehicles being driven in a manner that for any reason at all attracts your attention. Your calls will be treated with the utmost seriousness, so please, no hoaxers. In the coming hours, many hundreds of lives could depend on your vigilance.’

‘It’s frightening, isn’t it?’ said Astrid.

‘Yes. But you still won’t tell me where you’re going today?’

She reached out and touched his hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be safe.’

‘Nobody’s safe.’

‘You don’t think so? I’m invulnerable, Frank. Nobody can hurt me.’

At ten twenty A.M., feeling bored, Frank decided to drive over to Fox. Lizzie had given him fresh enthusiasm for Pigs when she described Dusty and Henry as ‘living, breathing people.’ He had roughed out three or four new story lines and he wanted to find out what Mo and Lizzie thought about them. He had decided that the show needed more pathos, more tears. Maybe Dusty’s grandma could be told by her doctor that she was suffering from a life-threatening illness. If anything was guaranteed to bring a lump to the audience’s throat, it was a young boy’s gradual realization that no matter how much he loved her, his grandma wasn’t going to live forever.

When he tried to open the office door, he found that he could only push it six inches before it stuck.

‘Daphne?’ he said, putting his head around it. Daphne was on her hands and knees, surrounded by mountains of files and dog-eared scripts and photographs. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bell! I didn’t know you were coming into the office today.’

‘I was pining for you, Daphne. I couldn’t stay away a minute longer.’

She shifted a stack of folders away from the door. ‘I’m sorry about all this mess. Mr Cohen said that since I didn’t have anything else to do, I should sort out the filing cabinet.’

Frank squeezed his way in. As he stepped over the heaps of papers, he caught sight of a glossy black and white publicity photograph of the three of them – him and Mo and Lizzie – taken when Pigs first went on air. He stooped down to pick it up.

At the same time, Mo came out of the next room, a cigar in his mouth, patting the pockets of his vest in the time-honored gesture of a man looking for a light.

‘Look at us,’ said Frank. ‘I never realized that we used to be so young.’

Mo frowned at the photograph and said, ‘I never realized that I used to be so handsome.’

‘That’s me. You’re the ugly one standing on the right.’

Mo picked a book of matches from Daphne’s desk and lit his cigar. ‘So that’s it? You came all the way into the office today just to make me feel grotesque? You could have made me feel equally bad by email. Hey, Daphne, who wrote Forty Years as a Lion-Tamer?’

‘I don’t know, Mo. Who wrote Forty Years as a Lion-Tamer?’

‘Claude Bottom.’

‘Is Lizzie in, too?’ Frank interrupted.

‘Sure . . . we’re both dedicated wage slaves; where else did you expect to find us? Actually, Lizzie’s come up with a great scenario for Dusty and Henry’s first gig. They start singing “Your Heating Chart” but the audience hate them so much they hook the entire dance hall up to a tractor and tow it into the river, so that it floats off downstream.’

‘You want some coffee, Mr Bell?’ asked Daphne.

In their main office, Lizzie was sitting at her PC with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth, typing wildly. Today she was wearing a bright-green satin pants suit with a frilly scarlet blouse. ‘Hi, Frank. How’s things? How’s the anonymous Astrid?’

‘“Nameless here for evermore,”’ said Mo, quoting Edgar Allan Poe.

‘You told Mo about Astrid?’ Frank asked Lizzie.

‘Of course she told me,’ said Mo. ‘Lizzie and me, we’re like brother and sister, except that we can’t be, because my parents had excellent taste and they would have drowned her at birth. I mean, look at her. Green suit, red blouse. Kermit the Frog cuts his carotid artery.’

Frank sat down at his desk. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but Astrid still refuses to tell me what her second name is, and when she leaves me in the morning she still won’t tell me where she’s going or how she’s going to be spending her time.’

‘You should thank the Lord,’ said Mo. ‘Every morning Naomi gives me a detailed breakdown of every store she’s going to hit, and just how much she’s going to hammer my credit cards.’

Frank sorted through his mail, but there was nothing particularly interesting, only promotional leaflets and bills. ‘Lizzie . . . Mo tells me you’ve sketched out something for Dusty and Henry’s first concert. Want to run it by me?’

Mo relit his cigar. ‘Great idea. But when it comes to the singing bits, sweetheart, don’t actually sing. Remember the last time you tried? The super thought we were gelding a warthog and called for the ASPCA.’

‘Shut up, Mo.’ Lizzie scrolled back on her PC screen, one eye closed against the smoke from her dangling cigarette. ‘By the way, Frank, I did your cards last night, like I promised.’

‘Oh, yes? When do I get my first Emmy?’

‘Actually, your cards were very strange. I tried the Tarot, but they refused to tell me anything. The Tarot can behave like that – not often, but now and then. They’re very huffy, as cards go. If they can’t work out what your future’s going to be, they come out all muddled and contradictory.’

Mo coughed and waved away a dense cloud of smoke. ‘Did it occur to you that they might have come out muddled and contradictory because Frank has a muddled and contradictory life in store for him?’

‘I know what you have in store for you, if you don’t put a sock in it.’

‘No,’ said Frank, ‘maybe Mo’s right. Maybe I am muddled. Maybe it’s time I made some clear decisions.’

‘You’re still grieving, Frank. Don’t forget that. This isn’t the right time to be making decisions. This is the time to be taking stock.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mo. ‘Go to Kansas and rustle some steers.’

Lizzie said, ‘I used the Garga cards in the end. They’re much more philosophical, not so grand guignol.’

‘The Garga cards, what are they?’

‘A deck of sixty-three cards devised by Garga, who was the father of Indian astrology. Each card is based on a different aspect of your star sign, so they can tell your fortune like a horoscope.’

‘I never heard of them.’

‘Well, they’re quite rare. But you must have heard of the Eighteen Fates. The Garga deck has eighteen destiny cards; nine that tell you the best that you can expect, and nine that tell you the worst.’

‘All right then, how did I make out? I know, I get a huge demand for unpaid tax and I win a date with Madonna.’

Mo shook his head. ‘Nobody deserves a date with Madonna.’

‘Actually,’ said Lizzie, ‘I brought your destiny cards into the office. I thought you might be interested to see them.’ She bent down and rummaged in her large red woven bag. Eventually she produced two oversized playing cards and laid them face-down on her desk. On the reverse side they were decorated with purple lotus flowers entwined with serpents and stars.

‘I didn’t bring the whole deck, but the minor cards said that you would be happy in your life and prosperous in your work, although you would have to go through many months of argument with somebody close to you – somebody you once loved but love no longer.’

‘That sounds like Margot.’

‘Well, it could be. But it could also mean the end of a business relationship.’

Mo clapped his hand to his head. ‘You’re going to fire me – I knew it! Well, don’t think for a moment that I won’t expect custody of your John Denver albums! Or weekend visitation rights, at least.’

‘What about the destiny cards?’ asked Frank.

Lizzie turned over the first one. ‘This is the best that can happen to you.’ It showed a walled garden, with rose bushes and a sundial. A smiling man was sitting on a bench, with a smiling woman sitting close to him. At their feet a child was kneeling, playing diabolo with two sticks and a top. The man was wearing an extraordinary hat with spiral horns, which made him look like a demon. His suit was embroidered with wide-open eyes. The woman was very calm and beautiful, draped in a sari that bared her right breast.

‘So what does this mean?’

‘This is the card of family reunion and forgiveness. Quite soon you are going to have all of your loved ones around you, and your life will be sheltered and sunny.’

‘Your dress sense will border on the hysterical,’ added Mo, ‘but you will be well supplied with Oriental poontang.’

Lizzie turned over the second card. This showed two warriors struggling with each other, so closely entwined that it was difficult to tell whose arms belonged to whom. One was handsome and stern, with a winged helmet. The other was scowling, with demonic eyes and a helmet in the shape of a giant beetle. The men were surrounded by tongues of flame, and the sky was filled with jagged flashes of lightning. It was only on closer inspection that Frank could see that both men were skewered by the same spear.

‘This is the worst that can happen to you,’ said Lizzie. ‘You will defeat the man you hate the most, but at a terrible cost to yourself.’

‘Either that,’ put in Mo, ‘or you will have a nasty accident at a gay pride cook-out.’

‘Mo,’ said Lizzie, ‘this is serious. The Garga cards are always very accurate. The only reason I don’t use them very often is because they take such a long time to lay out.’

‘Well, they may be accurate, but neither of these destiny cards means very much,’ Frank said. ‘I’m separated from Margot, Danny’s dead, and Pigs is postponed. So much for having all my loved ones around me and a prosperous life.’

He picked up the second card. ‘As for this one . . . well, I don’t hate anybody – except Mo when he writes a scene funnier than me.’

Friday, October 8, 11:52 A.M.

Once the three of them had settled down, and drunk three cups of coffee each, and laid waste to a carton of cinnamon doughnuts, they started to write in earnest. By eight minutes of twelve they had reconstructed Lizzie’s concert scene to the point where even Mo had to admit that it was ‘almost humorous.’ Having said that, he collapsed into uncontrollable laughter, punching his desk and stamping on the floor.

‘I’m dying here,’ he protested, gasping for air. ‘You know what you did, Lizzie? You killed me.’

The phone rang. Frank picked it up and Daphne said, ‘Mr Bell? I had a call for you but the caller hung up.’

‘Do you know who it was?’

‘A woman. She said that somebody needed to see you, down in the parking lot. She said it was urgent.’

‘She didn’t give a name?’

‘No, that’s all she said. “Tell Mr Bell that somebody needs to see him, down in the parking lot, urgent.”’

Frowning, Frank slowly put down the phone and went to the window. He looked down into the parking lot, but at first he couldn’t see anybody at all, except for a Pizza Hut delivery boy climbing out of his car. But then, close to the steps that led up to the commissary building, he saw a small figure standing in the shadows.

‘Danny,’ he breathed. And this time it could be the real Danny, not just another spirit pretending to be Danny. He tossed his script on to Lizzie’s desk, crossed the office and opened the door.

Lizzie said, ‘What? You’re that jealous?’

‘Sorry – back in a minute . . . There’s somebody I have to see.’

Lizzie and Mo exchanged bewildered looks as he hurried out of the office. He ran along the echoing corridor until he reached the stairs. As he clattered down the first flight, he almost collided with the Pizza Hut delivery boy who was coming up. The delivery boy had spiky hair and dark glasses and was carrying a big insulated bag.

‘Bell, Cohen & Fries Partnership?’ he asked, peering at a grease-transparent delivery note.

‘Fifth door on the right.’

Frank vaulted down the rest of the stairs, through the lobby and out of the front door. He ran across the parking lot, dodging out of the way of a wardrobe assistant who was pushing a rack of swaying ball gowns. By the time he reached the commissary building, however, Danny had gone. He stood on the steps, panting, looking around him.

An electrician in an X-Files T-shirt came past with pliers and screwdrivers hanging from his belt. ‘You didn’t see a young boy around here?’ Frank asked him. ‘Eight years old, brown hair, blue windbreaker.’

The electrician narrowed his eyes as if he were thinking extra hard. ‘No, sir. Can’t say that I have.’

Frank quickly walked the length of the commissary building but there was no sign of Danny anywhere. Either he had vanished, or else he was hiding someplace. So why had he appeared? And who had called the office to say that Frank was wanted so urgently? A woman. But who?

He was still circling around the parking lot when he saw the brown metallic Honda belonging to the Pizza Hut delivery boy. The Pizza Hut delivery boy who had asked where Frank’s office was. Even though none of them had ordered pizza.

Dread gripped his chest like a heart attack. He turned around and stared up in horror at his office window, where he could see Mo placidly standing with his arms folded, puffing at his cigar.

‘Mo! Mo! Get out of there! Mo!’

Mo must have heard him, because he took his cigar out of his mouth and lifted it up in salute. Frank frantically waved his arms and screamed, ‘Get out of there! Get out of there! The pizza guy! For Christ’s sake, Mo! It’s the pizza guy!’

He sprinted back to the office building. As he ran across the lobby, he shouted to the receptionist, ‘Police! Call the police! And the paramedics! It’s a bomb!’

‘A what?’ said the girl, staring at him in bewilderment.

‘Bomb!’ he shouted, his voice distorted as he ran up the stairs.

Friday, October 7, 12:01 P.M.

Lizzie lit another cigarette. ‘I’m not so sure about Dusty’s grandma dying of cancer. What do you think? I mean, she could still be dying, but maybe she could be dying of something more amusing.’

‘Oh, you mean like kwashiorkor? That would be a scream.’

‘I don’t know. I still don’t think that tragedy is the right road for us to go down. OK, writing about death may help Frank to get over Danny, but Pigs is all about small humiliations, like having the holes in your shoes stuffed with newspaper and only having plain bread and butter for your packed lunch because that’s all your mom can afford.’

‘Whereas dying of cancer – that’s really embarrassing, right?’

‘Let’s talk to Frank about it.’

Mo was staring out of the window. ‘Frank’s down there in the parking lot.’

‘What?’

‘Take a look at him – he’s waving his arms.’

Lizzie stood up and looked out of the window, too. ‘You’re right. Maybe this is a new kind of script meeting by semaphore.’

‘I’ve got it,’ said Mo. ‘He’s thinking of writing an episode for deaf people. Great idea. We could call it If Pigs Could Sign.’

‘He’s coming back inside. Do you think he’s OK?’

Mo sighed. ‘I don’t know, Lizzie. I think Frank’s much more upset than he’s showing us. When you lose somebody you love, it screws up your head. But when your kids die before you do – well, it screws up your entire reason for being here on earth.’

Daphne knocked at the door. ‘Did either of you order pizza?’

‘Not me,’ said Lizzie. ‘Mo?’

‘Pizza? Are you kidding? I’ve just eaten four and a half doughnuts.’

Daphne turned around to the delivery boy, and said, ‘Sorry,’ but he pushed his way into the office behind her. ‘Hey, this is the Bell, Cohen & Fries Partnership, right? Large Neopolitan with extra chilies.’

‘Extra chilies?’ said Mo. ‘My proctologist would kill me.’

The delivery boy laid his insulated bag on Frank’s desk and opened it up. ‘Actually,’ he said, sounding oddly breathless, ‘you guys are only getting what you deserve.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Lizzie. ‘And for God’s sake, don’t open that thing in here. I hate the smell of pizza. Pizza smells like sweat.’

The delivery boy ignored her. He eased a large square package out of his bag, about the size of a pizza box, but wrapped in plain gray paper. As he put it down, Mo saw that two wires ran out of his sleeve into the side of it. He stared at the delivery boy and said, in a thick, congested voice, ‘What the hell is that?’ Then, more slowly, ‘Is that what I think it is?’

The delivery boy took off his sunglasses. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-three or twenty-four. His eyes were dark brown, with long feminine lashes, and there was an angry red spot by the side of his mouth. Any mother’s son.

‘That’s right. We’re taking you off the air, old man. You and all of your lies.’

‘What is it?’ said Lizzie. ‘Mo? What’s going on? What’s he talking about?’

‘Daphne,’ said Mo, ‘go dial nine-one-one. Tell them it’s a bomb.’

‘Don’t fucking move!’ screamed the delivery boy, holding up his right hand and displaying a small black electrical switch. Daphne stayed where she was, her eyes wide, biting her finger.

‘That’s a bomb?’ Lizzie asked, adjusting her glasses so that she could see it better. ‘So what are you planning to do, young man? Blow us all up? Why? What for? We’re comedy writers. What did we ever do to you?’

‘You mocked us, that’s what you did,’ said the delivery boy. He was beginning to hyperventilate.

‘Mocked you? Who mocked you? Nobody ever mocked you.’

‘Oh, you don’t think so? We were going through hell and what did we see on TV? Happy families – and people laughing!’

‘Come on, son,’ said Mo. ‘Nobody was laughing at you.’

‘You don’t think so? I had to hide behind the couch so that my father wouldn’t find me and all I could hear was people laughing!’

‘They were laughing at jokes, that’s all. What makes you think they were laughing at you? Hey – you were hiding behind the couch, they couldn’t even see you.’

‘You’re mocking me now! You’re still doing it! Look at him! Look at this ridiculous little kid! He’s so frightened he’s wet his pants, and when his dad finds out that he’s wet his pants, is he going to catch it then? Oh boy, is he ever!’

‘Son,’ said Mo, trying to sound calm, ‘I think you’re making a mistake here. We never mocked you, never. Shit, we don’t even know who you are.’

The delivery boy had tears in his eyes and he was shaking as if he were running a temperature. ‘Did your father ever pull down the pants of your pajamas and hold a cigarette lighter between your legs? Did your father ever hit you on the head with a hot steam iron?’

‘No,’ said Mo. ‘But if your father did that to you, that’s nothing to laugh at, and believe me, Lizzie and me, we’d be the last people laughing.’

‘But you did! I heard you! I was hiding behind the couch and I heard you! But you’re never going to do that again! No other kid is ever going to suffer what I suffered!’

Mo said, ‘We can work this out, son. Nobody has to get hurt. Tell me what your name is. Come on, at least let us know who’s come here to blow us all to kingdom come.’

The delivery boy lowered his arm. ‘Alexander Sutter.’

‘OK. Do you mind if I call you Alex?’

‘Why? Are you going to pretend that you’re my friend or something, like all of those welfare workers and all of those shrinks?’

‘I don’t want to make friends with you, Alex. I’m sixty-two years old and I like golf and Tony Bennett records. I just want to persuade you that it wouldn’t be a very constructive thing to do, killing us. You see, we can understand why you’re feeling so angry. The world’s a pretty unfair place, when it comes to happiness. Some people, they’re born happy. They have loving parents and lots of money and whatever they do seems to turn out right. Other people, their whole life is unadulterated crap from start to finish. Imagine being born in some village in Africa where there’s nothing to eat and no clean water and you’re lucky if you don’t go blind.’

‘That doesn’t excuse you!’ Alex shouted at him, almost screaming. Lizzie and Mo could tell that he was terrified, as well as angry. ‘If I was born in Africa, I never would have known any better, would I? But I was humiliated and punished all my life and what did you do? You showed me what it was like to be happy. You rubbed my nose in it. Well, that’s never going to happen, ever again, to any other kid, ever!’

‘Look,’ said Mo, ‘why don’t you put down that detonator and we can talk it over? There has to be a much more sensible way to make things better.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on, Alex. You don’t want to be an ex-Alex, even more than I want to be an ex-Mo.’

‘Dar Tariki Tariqat!’ Alex yelled at him.

Friday, October 8, 12:04 P.M.

Frank had almost reached the office door when the bomb went off. Three feet nearer and he would have been hit full in the face by a blizzard of flying glass. As it was, the door was blown across the corridor and the force of the blast knocked him backward so that he hit a framed poster for The Grapes of Wrath and cracked it right across.

Black smoke rolled out of the open doorway, filled with hundreds of fragments of burning paper. The stench of exploded Semtex and burned nylon carpet was overwhelming, and Frank found himself on his hands and knees, his ears ringing, his eyes streaming, whooping for breath.

The fire bell started ringing and he heard people shouting and screaming. He climbed on to his feet, leaning against the wall to support himself, and all he could think of was no, not Lizzie, not Mo, not Daphne. They were as much a part of his family as his father and mother, or Carol and Smitty. Closer, in a way, because he had spent every working day with them for three and a half years, laughing, arguing, writing and re-writing. He had probably known more about Lizzie and Mo than he had ever known about Margot.

Frank made his way to the office door, covering his mouth with his hand. Daphne’s room was relatively untouched, although it was full of smoke and her computer was lying on the floor. Her yucca plant, too, had been stripped of its leaves and stood totally naked.

Daphne herself was lying in the open doorway to the main office. She didn’t look as if she had been badly hurt. Frank crunched across the broken glass that littered the carpet, and knelt down beside her. ‘Daphne?’ he said gently, and shook her shoulder. She didn’t reply, so he pulled her carefully on to her back. It was then that he saw the triangular metal arm of a chair had embedded itself into her chest. She was staring at him intently, as if she were about to say something important.

He looked across the devastated office. Mo was lying in the opposite corner, one hand raised as if he were trying to catch Frank’s attention, except that the left half of his head had been blown away, and his left arm was a bloody, blackened tangle of bone and muscle and shredded skin. Lizzie was still sitting in her chair, surprisingly intact, her arms spread wide, her hair sticking up on end, and her mouth open in astonishment.

Frank circled the room, coughing. At first he couldn’t understand what had happened to the pizza delivery boy, but then he saw something that looked like a wet red raincoat hanging over the back of his chair. He didn’t want to look any closer.

He left the office just as three firefighters came bustling along the corridor. ‘Sir? Are you OK?’

‘Bombed us,’ he choked, with a mouthful of grit. ‘The bastards bombed us.’