Something wrong. Famie pulled up short, heart exploding in her chest. Very wrong. She snapped back to the bench.
Sam had it too. ‘What kind of tramp peels an apple?’ he said, his words an urgent whisper.
‘A tramp with a knife,’ said Famie.
8
SHE GRIPPED SAM and Tommi’s sleeves. ‘Turn round?’
The man on the bench was now upright, carrier bag between his legs.
‘What do you see?’ said Sam.
Tommi held up his phone, started filming. ‘I see a bearded white guy, forties, round-shouldered. Peeling an apple into a bag. Penknife maybe. Two-inch blade.’
They stood three abreast across the path.
‘We can detour around him,’ said Tommi. He sounded calm. ‘I’ll keep filming. There’s three of us. And he might not be a tramp. He looks like he’s just a guy having his lunch, that’s all.’
Famie relaxed her grip slightly, reconsidered. Dog-walker one was throwing away the poop bag behind them, two and three were still chatting a few metres from the apple-peeling non-tramp, four was on her phone with the three dogs all sitting.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s do that detour.’
They resumed their walk, veering right, stepping on to the grass and arcing around the bench-man. Twenty metres away now, he looked up. Tommi kept on filming.
‘OK, he looks super annoyed,’ he said.
Famie could see that for herself. The carrier bag and the apple had been stowed, the knife held loosely between his fingers.
‘You stop filming me!’ he shouted.
European, thought Famie, Central Europe at a guess. Poland maybe.
‘You put the knife away!’ replied Tommi, the three of them still walking.
The man seemed to consider that for a moment, before shaking his head then rising slowly from the bench. The knife was still in his hand, palm-up.
Famie inched closer to Sam. ‘I’m calling the police.’ She raised her phone.
Knifeman now pointed the blade at her, a stream of unidentifiable but clearly angry words pouring from him. Dog-walkers two and three had stopped their conversation and started walking towards them. Walker number one, over Famie’s shoulder, was moving towards them too.
‘Shit, it’s a set-up!’ she hissed.
Sam’s head was darting everywhere. ‘Keep filming, Tommi!’ he yelled. ‘Make the call, Famie!’
Walker four had tied up her dogs, all now barking madly, and was running towards the fray.
‘Run first!’ shouted Tommi, and they turned and sprinted back the way they’d come. They ran in a tight pack straight into dog-walker one, Sam’s shoulder making contact with his midriff, Famie’s boot with his shin.
‘Police!’ yelled Famie into her phone, then, on connection, ‘Knife attack in Arnos Park. I’m Famie Madden. I work for IPS. We’re running!’ She left the phone connected as they made for their original entrance.
‘Don’t look back!’ yelled Sam.
Tommi did anyway. Knifeman was running too.
‘Go, go, go!’ cried Tommi, his panicky voice telling them all they needed to know.
They slowed to negotiate the zigzag metal fences that formed the entrance, catching a glimpse of the closing Knifeman and, beyond him, a stooped walker attending to the man they’d just knocked over. They accelerated out of the park, instinctively heading back to the tube station – uniforms, barriers and order. Famie’s breathing was heavy and her head was ringing but she heard the chatter of voices from her phone and some distant sirens. They raced along the street towards the T-junction, needing a gap in the traffic to reach the station.
‘Come on, come on!’ screamed Famie, but the enforced slowdown lost them their advantage. Knifeman was out of the park, running like a sprinter and gaining fast. The incessant traffic filled both lanes. No gaps. The tube entrance was unreachable.
We’ve got no choice, thought Famie, and stepped into the road. She ran in the gutter. Balls of her feet. She waved her arms. She caught the eye of the driver in a red Toyota. The woman jumped, startled, suddenly alert, her hands tightening on the wheel. For an instant Famie held her stare, then ran in front of her. She saw the panicked eyes and the steering-wheel lunge. The woman threw her car right as she braked, her wing ramming the rear door of an oncoming car. Both vehicles crunched to a halt then shuddered as they were hammered by a succession of cars hitting them from behind.
Famie danced around the wrecks, vaulted the station ticket barrier and leapt back down the stairs to the platform six at a time. A train was in, they had seconds.
She knew Tommi and Sam were behind her, she could hear their cursing. She didn’t know if Knifeman was behind them and from somewhere she found one more burst of speed. Famie threw herself on to the train as the door alarm started its urgent, high-pitched closing routine, leaning back against the doors as they tried to close. Tommi and Sam leapt aboard together, Tommi sprawling to the floor. As the train pulled away they stared at the swiftly disappearing steps for any sign of Knifeman, but they were deserted.
Sweat-soaked and breathless, it was an age before any of them spoke.
‘Christ alive, Famie,’ was all Tommi managed.
They rode three stops to the end of the line, then hailed a cab. By the time they arrived at Famie’s flat, there were six police cars waiting for them.
9
US PRESIDENT DESCRIBES LONDON KNIFE ATTACKS AS ‘AN ASSAULT ON OUR VERY PRINCIPLES AND VALUES’
FRENCH PRESIDENT CALLS ON ‘FREEDOM-LOVING COUNTRIES’ TO UNITE AGAINST LONDON ATTACKS
GERMAN CHANCELLOR ASKS FOR CALM AFTER LONDON KNIFE ATTACKS
THE POLICE STAYED for three hours. They took statements from Famie, Tommi and Sam. They said they had the knifeman in custody and that the dog-walkers had disappeared. A police presence would be kept outside her flat ‘for the time being’. Tommi and Sam only left when Famie tried to play them Mozart’s Requiem. ‘I’ve had quite enough death for today’ were Sam’s words, and she shooed them both out of the door.
‘And yes, I’ve got food in,’ she assured them. ‘I’m not a fucking imbecile.’
As it turned out, she didn’t have food in but couldn’t face the thought of negotiating take-out with the police. So she made toast then raised the volume on the Dies Irae until she felt the drums and cellos vibrating in her bones. The treble – or was it quadruple? – gin was working its way rapidly through her shattered body and the crashing urgency of the music penetrated to her core. Sprawled on her sofa, waves of sadness overwhelmed her. Seth was dead. Mary was dead. They were all dead. She closed her eyes and in spite of the Mozart, in spite of the grief, fell asleep.
A fusillade of knocks on the door woke her with a start. Famie leapt to her feet, heart racing, head spinning. Images of knives, bloodied steps and zebra crossings faded quickly. She pushed back against the sofa, calves against its battered fabric, steadying herself. It was dark now. The streetlights provided the room’s only illumination and there was just enough for her to get to the window without crashing into anything. She glanced down from her second-floor window. The police car was still there, its interior light on, an occupant talking into his or her radio. Did they know there was someone at her door? Her phone said 10.20 p.m. and sixteen missed calls. Christ. More spirited knocking, and she jumped again. Either it was one of her neighbours or someone had gained access to the block. No one in the block had ever visited before but then she’d never made the news before.