Siege

Fifty-five

20.50

YOU’RE NEVER SO alive as when you’re on the verge of death. Martin Dalston remembered reading that somewhere once. And the thing was, it was true. He felt more alive than he’d felt in years. Probably since those heady days with Carrie, almost a quarter of a century ago now. He wanted to survive this night. He wanted to tell his friends all about it over a pint and a decent Italian meal.

It was quiet in the restaurant. The thirty or so hostages looked tired and drawn, but an uneasy calm seemed to have descended on everyone. For the last hour there’d been no threats or angry scenes. The guards had become visibly more relaxed, and occasionally one would disappear into the kitchen for a few minutes, leaving the other on guard alone. At the moment, the cruel Scandinavian with the limp was the one in there, which made Martin feel a little better. He was thirsty, but knew better than to ask either of the men for a drink. Best just to keep his head down and count the hours, because at some point this ordeal had to end. Either way, he’d decided that he wasn’t going to carry out his plan for a quiet, dignified departure from the world. He wasn’t usually superstitious, but he took the day’s events as a sign that perhaps he should make the best of his last few months rather than throw away what little time he had left.

Still keeping his head down, he looked over and caught Elena’s eye. They hadn’t spoken since the incident earlier, when the Scandinavian guard had threatened her with death, but they’d exchanged the occasional smile, and he’d mouthed more than one ‘thank you’ at her for sticking up for him when he was being beaten.

He smiled at her again now, and she smiled back. ‘Tell me something,’ she whispered, stealing a glance towards the guard to check that he wasn’t looking at them. ‘I’ve been wanting to ask. What happened to Carrie? If she was the love of your life, why did it end?’

Martin never spoke about Carrie, not to anyone. She’d always been the guilty secret he’d carried with him all his adult life, but now he was suddenly keen to talk. ‘Because I was a fool.’

‘Tell me about her.’

He leaned closer, keeping his voice low as he pictured Carrie Wilson as she was more than twenty years ago. ‘She was beautiful. We met in Australia when I was travelling after university. That’s where she was from.’

Elena’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s where my fiancé Rod’s from too. We’re going to move there at Christmas.’

Martin grinned. ‘You’ll love it. I loved it. Carrie and I bought a clapped-out Beetle and travelled the whole country. It was the best time of my life. I still dream about it at night.’ For a few seconds he took himself back to those wild, carefree days, with the heat and the sun and the azure sea. ‘When my visa ran out I had to come back here. But we were still together, and we kept in touch, and we talked about all the things we were going to do. She was going to move to the UK for a couple of years, and a few months later she came over on business. She added a week to her stay and we spent it driving all over England. That’s when we came here for a romantic weekend.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I don’t think we left the room once.’

‘It sounds lovely,’ whispered Elena.

Martin sighed. ‘It was, and I really thought it was all going to work, but she had to go back to Oz, and although she applied for jobs over here, it was in the midst of a recession and there wasn’t anything. She didn’t want to come without a job so she asked me to go over there. I was working as an accountant and I think I probably could have got something over there, but I dithered, and I made the mistake of listening to my dad, who kept telling me I had a good job, with good prospects, and shouldn’t even think about leaving it. And in the end, I didn’t. Our conversations got fewer, I kept delaying a decision even though I was desperate to go, and finally the conversations stopped altogether. She stopped taking my calls, and then eventually she sent me a letter. It said that she’d met someone else.’ He paused. ‘That was twenty-two years and two months ago, and we haven’t spoken since.’

Elena put a hand on his arm. ‘Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.’

Martin felt tears well up and forced them back down. He looked away, which was when he caught the eye of a well-built man in his mid-twenties who was sitting on his own a few feet away. He was dressed in a crumpled suit and had the lived-in, slightly puffy face of a rugby player. The man looked at him and gave a very small nod. There was a grim determination in his face, as if he’d recently come to an important decision, and Martin noticed that he was inching closer to him across the floor.

Martin looked away quickly. He knew the man was thinking about some kind of escape attempt, and he wanted no part in it. It was far too dangerous, and he didn’t think he had the physical strength or the necessary speed to take on the guards. Deliberately, he lowered his head and stared at the floor, telling himself he wasn’t a coward, that under the circumstances he was simply being rational.

The sound of a lift door opening, followed by purposeful footsteps, interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see the leader of the hostage-takers march into the room through the kitchen door followed by the female terrorist in the black dress and jacket. They were both holding handguns with silencers attached, and the Scandinavian was just behind them.

Something about their demeanour told Martin that their presence meant bad news.

They stopped and conversed with the other guard in hushed tones, occasionally looking over at the assembled hostages; then, as Martin watched, the leader handed the woman a balaclava, which she quickly pulled over her head.

The tension in the room seemed to mount substantially. Something was about to happen. Everyone could feel it. Martin and Elena exchanged glances but neither spoke.

The woman broke away from the others and skirted the floor and the hostages before leaning over the furniture and pulling up one of the six blinds that covered the restaurant’s viewing window. She secured the drawstring then stepped to one side, facing the hostages again, the gun pointed at a forty-five-degree angle in front of her – a pose that, with the balaclava, gave her the appearance of an executioner.

‘Your government, the people you voted for in your precious elections, do not want to help you,’ announced the terrorist leader, stepping forward, his tone angry. ‘You are not important to them. None of us here wants violence, but we have to make your government listen to us.’ He paused. ‘And for that reason, one of you has to die.’

A collective gasp went up. Someone cried out, a strangled ‘oh God’, but otherwise there were no hysterics. Just a cold, silent sense of shock. Two young women to Martin’s right, still in their work clothes, probably no older than he had been when he came here with Carrie, clung to each other, shaking with fear.

Keeping his gun in front of him, the leader walked out among them, his eyes scanning the group as he hunted for a victim.

Martin stared at the floor, every nerve in his body taut, every sense heightened, more alive than he’d ever been. More terrified too.

I don’t want to die. Not any more. Not yet. I want to see Adam, my only son, one more time. I want to phone Carrie and tell her that I’ve never stopped loving her, that my greatest regret in life is that I didn’t follow her to Australia when I had the chance.

He could sense rather than hear the footfalls as they came closer, and he bent his head down even lower, as if this would somehow make him invisible.

I know it should be me. I’ve probably got the least amount of time of anyone here. But I just want one more chance at life.

He could hear breathing right above him, knew that the leader was there. Only inches from him. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just waited. Praying.

‘You,’ said the leader, and Martin felt a hand grip him firmly by the shoulder.

His prayers, it seemed, hadn’t been answered.