The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (8 page)

 Unlike the effervescent Osborne siblings, Mike was a quiet,
thoughtful soul; the type Marianne considered saw everything and commented on
very little. On the occasions they had met, Marianne felt a connection through
their shared Irishness and they would gently tease each other for becoming ‘Englified’,
a word she recalled her Head Nun used for anything she found too Anglican for
her taste.

Mike hugged Marianne in welcome. As he released her, she
caught her heel, losing her balance, to topple backwards into the arms of the
man standing behind her. It was Mike’s father, the surprisingly youthful
American TV star. He grasped her elbow swiftly and propped her back on her
heels. She caught his scent, a delicious blend of wood and amber. It was Zara
who took her arm, turning her fully to face him.

“Marianne, this is Ryan…” Marianne beamed upwards. Flinty
eyes glinted down at her. He was tall, tanned and smiling. Marianne caught her
breath, only just managing to prevent herself wobbling off her heels again. The
fabulous creature beside him was equally statuesque. Marianne’s gaze swept
upwards. The couple were stunning, luminous and just beautiful.

“The pleasure is mine.” He smiled, eyes crinkling. “But I
think we should have met before. I was scheduled to present the National Media
Awards and couldn’t make it. I’m sorry I let you down and I’m sorry I didn’t
show, because I heard it was a great night.”

Marianne was taken aback. She looked across at Paul,
delighted but surprised he had briefed her fellow guests so thoroughly. Paul
was oblivious, totally awestruck as a gaggle of soap stars hoved into view.

“It was indeed a great night.” Marianne smiled, glancing at
Mike. “You two look more like brothers. I can’t believe you’re Mike’s father.”

“I was a child bride.” Ryan laughed and then turned to
introduce the goddess at his side. “Angelique, this is Marianne Coltrane.”

“Delighted, you’re a journalist; award-winning too I’m
told,” the actress said in a sultry, Texan drawl. Marianne beamed back at them
both, all apprehension dispersed, she was looking forward to a truly memorable
evening. They took their seats in the middle of the auditorium, right in front
of the stage.

Marianne checked the place names, Paul to her left and Ryan
on her right. Ryan held out her chair, doing the same for Angelique. He took
his seat when the ladies were settled. He poured wine and water, handing her a
menu, passing her the order of events. He was attentive, he was easy. Marianne
felt her heart miss a beat, for half a millisecond, he reminded her of…

“George said you were a very special lady and he wasn’t
wrong. Brains and beauty.” Ryan was reading the list of nominations. He raised
his glass, “Here’s to him, God bless him, a great bloke.”

Marianne left her glass untouched.

“You knew George?”

Ryan was immediately apologetic; he had taken her by
surprise.

“I’m sorry. I thought you knew. George and I go way back. We
were in a band together in the early days, just after he left University and I
landed here from Ireland. We both thought we’d be rock stars one day, as you
do.”

“No, he never said. Well if he did, I didn’t register. You
seem an unlikely alliance.” She smiled and so did he.

“Not at all, he was the suave English gent and I was the
wild Irish rogue, a fatal combination when it came to pulling girls back in the
day, I can tell you.”

She burst out laughing. She could just imagine them, so
different, so charming, so incorrigible.

“What happened to the band?”

“Oh, a huge success, did you never hear of us? Gave some of
the big names a few sleepless nights I reckon.” He was teasing, his State-side
twang becoming less obvious as he talked. “We did a sell-out tour of two
village halls in South Devon, then fell out with our manager when the drummer
was recalled to London to join the family firm, taking most of the equipment
with him. George and I bummed around for the summer until we ran out of money
and had to find a proper job.” He grinned at the memory. “With me working in
the States I hadn’t seen him for ages, so when I found out he was an MP and in
Chesterford, which is where my son and his wife live, it made sense to visit
and do a gig while I was there. Sadly I couldn’t make the Awards Ceremony in
the end and asked him to stand in for me. I hope George was a good enough
substitute?”

“Oh, he was! It was how we met really, but I wasn’t aware of
the connection.” Marianne gulped back a huge slurp of wine.

“I did make it to the funeral, there were so many people
there, people I hadn’t seen for years,” He looked into her eyes, the flintiness
softened. “You were very brave that day. I’m sure you and George were great
together.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, then brightly, “I never knew
George was in a band.”

“Hey, come on you two, it’s about to start,” Paul
interrupted.

Ryan nodded at Paul and, touching Marianne’s hand briefly,
laughed.

“We were rubbish. Thank goodness we both changed careers.”
He turned and placed his arm lightly across Angelique’s shoulders. “You okay?”
he asked.

“Sure,” she replied, “why shouldn’t I be?”

Marianne noticed Angelique refill her empty wine glass
abruptly.

The beginning of the
attack was almost silent. A faint eerie hiss complemented the band’s opening
riff, followed by a vague rumble, gently vibrating the stage. It tripped along
the catwalk, as a floor-to-ceiling streak of light lit the auditorium. The audience
gasped; the effect was obviously pyrotechnic, a flash of firework genius. The
lead singer turned to check the musicians were still with him and as he nodded
back to the orchestra pit the explosion erupted; a loud crack, followed by an
enormous boom. Then stillness, as the sound hung in the air; a malevolent hum,
like a swarm of locusts. Flames burst from the stage, followed by immediate,
intense heat, then swirling smoke and screaming.

Someone turned the sound off as Marianne, watching in slow
motion, saw the stage implode and the Royal Box and its contents slide, arms
flailing, to the floor. Instantly people were crashing against her, charging
for exits as clouds of smoke mushroomed around them and the fumes intensified
growing into a dense, black, suffocating smog. Someone grabbed her hand, she
was spun round harshly.

It was Ryan. He put Angelique’s hand in hers, squeezing them
together. Paul had been pushed to the floor. Ryan hauled him up and put his
hand in Zara’s, who was holding onto Mike. Ryan signalled them to hang onto
each other, demonstrating by clamping his arms together. He tied a napkin over
his mouth and nose, urgently indicating they all do the same. He pinched his
nose and put a finger to his mouth, shaking his head, signalling them not to
breathe. No point speaking, people and alarms were shrieking and they were all
bomb-deaf anyway.

He did all this in mere seconds. Then taking the lead, he
began to move swiftly towards the exit. People were panicking and pushing, some
were shouting, trying to barge through the crowd, others had fallen to the
floor and were being trampled. The smoke kept building, blacker and thicker,
people were coughing and spluttering, some were collapsing as others pushed
them aside.

The area around the main entrance was a mass of bodies
pressed together, the crowd banked back into the auditorium. Violent struggles
were breaking out; teams of security guards in oxygen masks were trying to
maintain order. A man with a camera snatched a mask off one of the guards. A colleague
hit him with a truncheon, he fell to the floor. The guard tugged his mask back
on.

Ryan led his crocodile of survivors towards the main
entrance and then turned, pushing against the crowd. Marianne was struggling to
hold onto Paul, they were being buffeted and bashed as they battled through.
Paul’s hand fell away and as she turned to find him, she could just make out
his head as a black patent shoe crushed into his face. She yanked Angelique’s
hand. Angelique tugged Ryan. He slipped back and helped Mike drag Paul to his
feet. Paul’s left arm swung uselessly away from his body, his elbow smashed,
his nose flattened in a pulp of blood. Ryan indicated to Zara to hold onto
Paul’s shoulder and they pushed on.

There was a large group of people at a doorway, they seemed
to be passing through, not quickly but steadily when another explosion erupted
deep in the bowels of the structure. Directly above them, the walls and ceiling
of the marquee burst into flames, melting away to expose the night sky. The
influx of air exacerbated the inferno, the smoke intensified, Marianne could
hold her breath no longer, her throat was burning, eyes stinging and streaming
water. She started to cough. Angelique’s fingers were oily, they were slipping
away. They pushed on. She cracked her knee against what appeared to be a large
metal object, she was sliding as she groped ahead, sliding on water, or was it
foam? She could see metal shapes around her; they were in the catering area.

Ryan must have guessed there would be exits here to the
outside world. It was becoming brighter. The crush of bodies was easing; they
seemed to be peeling away. She looked down at her right hand, Paul’s fingers
were no longer there. When had she let go of Paul? She felt a wave of panic
rising in her chest and then a rush of air, fresh, clean air flooded her
nostrils, gushing into her face. She blinked against the light.

 Marianne realised she was outside. Through blurred eyes,
she saw a woman in uniform, who put her face close to Marianne, feeling down her
arms, touching her head. Smiling grimly, she urged Marianne into a vehicle.
Marianne could make out Angelique ahead. They were wearing the same shiny,
silver blankets. The vehicle lurched. Through the window of the ambulance, she
saw Ryan helping Paul onto a stretcher.

 Her skin hurt. No-one even tried to talk. She and Angelique
bumped along beside each other in silence. Marianne’s shoulders throbbed where
the roof structure had caught her as it fell to the floor. She could see
Angelique’s blackened legs, burned where her evening gown had melted onto her
skin. They rattled through the streets in a daze, deposited with the rest of
the ambulance’s bloodied passengers at a hospital on the outskirts of the city.

Once inside the building, bursting with trolleys and
wheelchairs, Marianne and Angelique were separated and Marianne found herself
sitting alone in a makeshift emergency bay for what seemed like hours. She
remembered a smiling, yellow-skinned man in a pale blue shirt, asking her to
count to ten beneath her oxygen mask, before she faded into the luxuriant
blackness of anaesthesia.

Luckily, her collarbone was only dislocated, but the gashes
to her shoulders and back were dangerously deep and needed surgery to remove
pieces of metal and debris from her wounds. Once cleaned, patches of skin were
grafted onto the largest wounds, the remainder pulled together with a variety
of stitches and small metal clamps.

When she came too, she felt fantastic for about thirty
seconds and then waves of nausea caused her stomach to tighten and she vomited
copiously into the dressing on her left shoulder. Struggling to sit up, she
began to panic as the nausea returned, terrified she would choke and die where
she lay. She was just losing consciousness again when a woman’s face appeared,
hovering over her. She was wearing white. She looked like an angel, a
beautiful, black angel.

“Up ya come me darlin’. Dere ya go. Dearie me, ya makin’ a
mess. Not to worry, we’ll soon have you cleaned up and resting nicely.” The
nurse set to work. Marianne was cleaned, drugged and as comfortable as possible
in less than ten minutes. Marianne stretched out her blistered fingers to touch
the nurse’s hand.

“It was bad, wasn’t it?” she hissed through a cracked mouth.

“De worst it could be.” The nurse’s eyes filled, and she
blinked. “Dere’s evil in de world. But dere’s good people too. We need more
good people.” She patted the coverlet and bustled away. Marianne was vaguely
aware of another wave of activity across the corridor; the noise was dull but constant.
She drifted in and out of sleep.

Three weeks had passed
since the worst terrorist attack London had ever encountered had blown the
‘Power 2 The People’ extravaganza apart. Marianne had witnessed and escaped the
main explosion at the every epicentre of the event. Forensics discovered the
device had been secreted in a drum kit, centre stage, the kit had had been
checked by sniffer dogs and cleared, it had to have been an inside job. The
explosion triggered ten more incendiary devices to simultaneously ignite across
the city; the bombs were placed in abandoned vehicles, shop doorways and
churchyards.

As the numbers of the dead continued to rise, the five
fatalities in the church were among the most shocking; so too were the
disturbing details of the death of the Baroness, who had masterminded the whole
evening. It was reported she had been found in what remained of her dressing
room, without a mark on her, in the arms of her loyal aide, whose handsome face
had been blown away. She had never even made it onto the stage that fatal
night.

With the emergency services stretched to breaking point,
teams of volunteers, hurriedly trained in rescue and recovery by experienced
disaster workers, had been flown in from all over the world. It took some time
to confirm the final death toll, but the impact of the catastrophe was made all
the more startling by the revelation that 2,996 people had perished in the
attack, exactly the same number as had died in the 9/11 atrocity in the USA.

The tales of carnage, heroism and sheer bloody mindedness
were endless, the media coverage relentless. Pages of reports, photographs,
interviews, facts and figures combined with hours of TV coverage. The aftermath
was both despairing and inspiring. Thousands had lost their lives pointlessly
and a handful had lost their lives rescuing others. The bitter irony being the
whole point of the event had been to save people, not massacre them. And every
day a different story, another faction to blame, hero to applaud. Yet still the
recurring question, why? Still the same answer. No answer.