Once shed finished his bindings, Sophie looked round. She saw the muzzle of the gun and shrank back.
Get on the floor, face down.
Why are you doing this? wailed Sophie, tears streaming down her face. She was scared, the sounds coming in fast, her instincts running faster.
The gun was pressed harder into Bens neck.
Sophie! he yelled, his voice quivering.
Sophie dropped her head, the tears now a stream.
The buyer put the other gun softly under Sophies chin and lifted it, her streaked face coming back into view. Sophie opened her eyes slowly, the sparkle gone.
Do as you are told or Ill kill him.
It was said calmly, almost gently.
Sophie nodded, understanding, and she felt leaden inside. She lay down on her stomach, felt the buyer sit astride her, and then her wrists were strapped together by the duct tape. She was pulled onto her knees, then Ben as well, the buyer panting, straining.
Sophie watched as the buyer picked up the duct tape once more and walked over to them. She knew what was coming, and so she dipped her head to her chest, vainly trying to get her mouth out of the way.
She shot a look as she heard Ben gasp, coughing in pain. The gun was pushed into his throat, lifting up his head slowly. Ben was gulping back tears, the buyer over him.
Sophie closed her eyes as Ben closed his, and then she heard the rip of the duct tape, heard Bens grunts as it was stretched over his face.
Sophie opened her eyes when she sensed the buyer standing over her. She glanced at Ben. He was red in the face, breathing hard, trying to get his lungs to catch up through his nose, his chest heaving, tears running over the silver tape. Sophie stared up at the buyer and then put her head back. The duct tape went over her mouth as well, but Sophies eyes stared hard, trying to show she was strong.
Sophie watched as the buyer wandered over to the window and checked the time. The light breeze fluttered around the apartment for a while, before the buyer stepped back from the window and removed a tripod from the bag, opening the legs out on the floor before pulling out a collection of rags which clunked heavily. As the rags were unfolded, Sophie saw the pieces of a rifle.
She closed her eyes and prayed as she listened to the rifle being assembled, the soft clicks joined by Bens deep breaths and the chatter and movement of Old Compton Street, the soundtrack to a glorious afternoon in Soho.
Henri Dumas looked around and checked his watch, a TAG Heuer. Five more minutes and then he was gone.
He saw people looking at him. He shuffled nervously. He knew he shouldnt be doing this. Some kids across the road were staring at him, pushing each other, egging on one of their number to speak to him.
He checked his watch again. The kids started walking over the road, one of them being pushed to the front, camera in hand.
Shit. Not what he needed. He pulled out his phone.
The crowds didnt hear the crack of the rifle. Neither did Dumas. He just felt the hot slice of the bullet and then went to his knees as it crashed through him. His breath caught, his hand went to his chest, the view of the street slammed into a blur, the neon and movement changed into rainbows, just streaks of colour as he turned. The crowd rushed back into his head, a loud murmur of concern as he bent over, trying to work out what the splash of red had been. It was by his feet, a tail of splashes that tracked his spin as he sank to his knees.
He took a breath but it didnt come. A waiter started to come towards him. The kids had stopped in the road. Dumas looked up, confused. Why was he gasping? Why was he burning inside?
The waiter didnt get there in time. The rumble of the crowd made way for the sound of the second shot, a loud crack, and then the people around him began to scream when his head shot back, away from the cafe, a spurt of blood spraying an arc in the air as he crumpled onto his back, coughing blood onto his cheeks.
Henri Dumas was dead before anyone reached him, his Penck phone tumbling from his hand, soiled silver against the grey of the pavement.
Sophie could hear feet banging on the floor, shuffling, scared, then she realised they were her own. She could hear the screams from outside, the sound of panic spreading, people trying to get off the street. She put her head back, began to moan. She glanced over at Ben. His eyes were wild, his breaths trying hard to keep up, the gag making his face go red. Her ears still rang from the shots. The first shot had bounced around the room until it seemed to come back at itself. Then the second shot had filled her head, and she knew from the way the buyer relaxed that what had needed doing was done.
Sophie began to sob, could feel herself shaking, her head back. All she could see now was the ceiling, brilliant white, flashes of blue getting brighter as the noise of sirens came in through the open window. She could hear footsteps, people running, some away from the shooting, some towards it.
Her breathing stopped as she felt the tip of the gun under her chin, turning her face towards Ben. A tear ran down her face until it rested on the dark muzzle. Sophie looked at Ben and saw terror in his eyes.
Ben was shuffling backwards to the wall. His shoulders were shaking as he sobbed. The buyer stepped over to him, then lifted his chin with the gun so that it was in front of Bens face.
Tears for you, or tears for her?
The buyer stared down at him and then pulled at the tape around his mouth. Bens legs kicked in a silent scream of pain, the tape pulling hard on hairs, stretching his lips and taking soft flesh with it, flicking tiny drops of blood onto his chin. He looked down and grunted with pain, but it was cut short when the buyer thrust the gun into his mouth.
Ben didnt have chance to even look up before the buyer pulled the trigger, Bens hair just blowing lightly where the bullet cut through on the way out of his head and into the wall behind. He slithered to the floor as blood began to gather around him.
Sophie tried to scream, tried to make the sound loud through the tape. It came out muffled, desperate. She felt the buyer grab at her shirt, her body jolted as the shirt was pulled open, the buttons scattered across the smooth wooden floor, spinning like dropped pennies. Her chest felt damp with sweat. She felt the muzzle run up and down her chest, cold and hard, and then nothing. When Sophie opened her eyes, she saw the gun, twitching in the buyers hand, inches from her. She looked up, into the eyes of her captor, saw cold blue, and then looked back to the gun.
Sophie sniffed back a tear, looked at Ben on the floor, saw the pool of blood gathering around his head, and then slowly lowered her head to the muzzle of the gun.
The buyer stepped back, surprised. Sophie looked up and then sat back. She closed her eyes and began to sob. She thought of her parents, wondered what they would do when they found out.
Her thoughts were cut short when she felt something go tight around her neck. It felt soft, silky, but it was pulled taut.
She gasped, her eyes wet with tears. Her chest choked for air, tried to gulp it down, but the airway was blocked by the tape, cut off by the silk. Her arms pulled at the tape on her wrists, tried to get free, tried to get to her neck, her survival instinct engaged, but the tape held firm.
Panic set in, made her thrash, but there was no escape. Her chest strained, she could feel her face burning red. She fought against it, but the room started to speckle monochrome as she tried to force air into her body. Her chest tried to burst; sound amplified, distorted, and then it began to fade, the room turning white.
The last sound she heard was her feet scuffling on the floor, louder than the sirens, louder than the screams outside.
Then she felt peace.
TWO
I was just finishing a beer when I heard the sound of footsteps outside, running, the sound of crying.
I looked round to the barman. He hadnt seen anything, was too busy wiping glasses. I went to the door. People were running, looking shocked, hands over their mouths. Id seen this once before, in 2005, on that awful July day, when Al Qaeda sent young men to the capital to blow themselves up and kill innocent people.
I grabbed someones arm, a young woman, chain-store clothes, her eyes scared and upset.
Whats happened?
She stopped, bent double, panting. Someones firing into the street.
I looked back up the road. Is anyone hurt?
She nodded and wiped her eyes.
I saw a man on the floor, blood on his face.
I turned away. I had all I needed. I didnt wait to say goodbye, and when I looked back around, she had gone.
I thought I heard sirens. The Armed Response Team was on permanent standby in London and I wasnt far from major terrorist targets. They would be here in no time and this would be as near as I would get. I saw it was getting busier ahead, the streets full of people getting away from the shooting. If there was anything in the story, the news agencies would get the official releases, the CCTV footage. I would have to feed on the scraps I could pick up here, something different. As I saw the crowd, the running, the panic, I knew I had the angle: the reaction of the people who had been there, the human story.
I pulled out my camera and set it to telephoto, squashing the spread of heads. As I took pictures, the tide kept on coming, some running, some walking. I saw a young family, a couple of children just under ten with an anxious young mother. She was panting, shaking, clutching her children tight. I got some pictures of the children. The first rule of journalism: always get the children.
All the time, their mother was talking. We were just shopping, you know, just walking around. People around us ducked, like out of instinct, then there was a second shot. She waved her hand in the air, breaths short and panicky. Then people started running. The woman straightened herself as if to emphasise her point. Someone was shooting into the street.
I tried to concentrate on the children, but all the time I was making mental notes of what she was saying. She had tears in her eyes when she said, and what about my children? A daytrip to town isnt supposed to happen like that.
I blinked. There was my line. I thanked her and set off again.
I didnt get far before I realised how close I was to it. I could see the bob of police helmets, silver glints reflecting sunlight. They were pushing people back, away from the scene. The crowd was getting thicker, but as I pushed I was able to get to the door of my apartment building, not much more than a door squeezed between two shops. I ducked inside and rushed upstairs.
As soon as I got in, I went to the window. I could see a crowd of police around a man on his back. There was a dark patch on the pavement next to him, spreading into the cracks. He had his arms by his side, a funeral pose. He was in front of the Cafe Boheme, green awnings keeping the inside in shade, but I could see frightened faces looking out. Soho had always been a brave place, always done its own thing. This was the outside coming in, and people looked scared.
I lined up the body in my viewfinder, ready to start clicking, when I paused. There was something about the face which was familiar. I zoomed in, and when I did, I felt my hands go slick. I had something big.
I zoomed in close on his shattered head, his face blood-red, his cheeks sinking, hollow. I pulled back to put it into context, the deserted pavement littered with a body, napkins blowing against his ankles. I saw the faces in the Cafe Boheme looking at me, half of them hating me, the rest looking for an answer. I didnt have one.
I heard a shout from the street below my window. I recognised it straight away. It was the police. My dad was a policeman, up in the frozen north. One thing he always told me was that if a policeman shouts at you to stop, you make sure you stop, because hell only ask once. And I knew I couldnt get busy with my hands. I didnt know if the armed unit had arrived yet, but they were only human. They would only get a pinprick of time to decide if the shine in my hands was a gun. If they decided wrong, Id be dead.
I relaxed and looked down, nice and slow, my camera now slack in my hand.
Jack Garrett, I shouted. Im a reporter, freelance. I live here.
As I held out the camera, I saw the policeman relax.
Okay, he said. How long have you been taking pictures?
Not long enough to help. How is it over there?
He didnt say much, and I could tell he was unsure. Was I the shooter? He didnt know. He was young, maybe younger than my own thirty-two. Quiet, was all he said.
Have you got the shooter hemmed in?
He smiled warily. This is turning into an interview.
I smiled back, wider, more teeth. Oh, come on, officer. Its all going to come out.
He looked like he was going to start talking, like he was fighting an urge to help, to tell a story, but the conversation was broken up by the chop-chop of a news helicopter buzzing the scene for footage. We both looked up, but when I looked down again he had straightened himself, set his pose.
Vultures, arent they, he said, flicking his eyes to the sky.
I shrugged. Freedom of speech, I said, giving it one last try. Its a human right.
And so is the right to silence, he replied, and then turned away.
I said nothing. I just wanted to keep my camera, not have it seized as evidence. I knew what was on there was valuable. The encounter with the policeman was already part of the story.
I looked at the pictures I had taken, I knew I was right. There it was, a small splash of colour on the back screen of my camera, the biggest story of the week. I zoomed in, just to make sure, but I knew. I had recognised the body as soon as I had seen it. Henri Dumas, the Premierships top scorer, last seen wearing the big money blue.
I was stunned, too surprised to do anything at first. I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes, weighing up the need for sleep against the need for the big story. I was freelance. I could go to bed, or have another beer. Let the big guys have their day.
I smiled to myself. Maybe it was my turn for the big time.
Turners Fold, Lancashire, is a small slate town on the edge of the Pennines, an industrial template, surrounded by scrap grass hills and the shadow of Pendle Hill, green at the base, bracken brown at the top, barren, always dark with cloud.
Turners Fold, the Fold to the locals, is typically northern: tough, proud, and hard-working. The colour is dark. The grass around it grows short and clings to the hills like stubble, broken only by grey stone walls. The towns and villages are all close by, but the hills intervene, and at night they sit like shadows, topped by the orange glow from the next town.
Like most mill towns, there was nothing before cotton. It breathed life into the town, built its buildings, shaped its people.