Utterly Monkey (26 page)

‘And it’s on the twelfth I love to wear
…’ Ian drove over the junction at Bank, took a deep breath and pretended to shout
‘THE SASH MY FATHER WORE.’
He indicated and slowed before he pulled in, then put the handbrake on and killed the engine.

When Danny drew up to the lights by the tube station, they could see the van across the junction, parked
up on the kerb on Threadneedle Street, just outside the grey steel door of the Bank of England.

‘He’s stopped.’

‘I should park up onto the pavement. If I cross the junction we’ll have to drive past and we’ll lose him.’

Geordie shifted around in his seat.

‘There’s nothing behind you. Put her into reverse.’

A number 25 bus was coming towards them fast but Danny managed to get back from the lights in time. He swung the Polo onto the kerb as the bus blasted its horn and glided round them.

During Ian’s dummy run on Thursday night he had seen the place, but this was the first time he’d stopped. He sat for a second, lifted his phone off the passenger seat and got out. He locked the door of the van, walked across Prince’s Street and started back towards Cheapside.

If it was dodgy videos, why had he parked the transit by Bank underground station? And if it was drugs, why was he walking away so friggin’ fast? And if the van
was
a shiny roulette ball bouncing through London then zero had just come up, and all the bets were off. Geordie said it first. ‘It’s a fucking bomb. There’s a bomb in the van. A bomb. In the fucking van.’

Danny had realized the same thing at the same moment. They were
so
stupid. So unbelievably stupid. Of course. It was a bomb. They sat for a second in astounded silence before Dan’s mobile started its mating call from the back seat, and was answered by a pneumatic drill from the roadworks straddling Lombard Street. There was too much noise. Ian’s van was sitting across the junction, outside the Bank of England. And Ian was striding towards them, passing two girls in school uniforms who had just stepped
off the number 25. Now he was swerving out of the way of a cycle courier wearing a luminous vest.

‘Fucking hell,’ Danny breathed, ‘there’s too much…’ He couldn’t say what he meant. ‘That’s the Bank of England. He’s going to blow up the Bank of England.’

As they sat and watched, Ian walked right past. His mouth was set into a neat line but his eyes were smirking. He hadn’t seen them.

‘Cunt.’ Geordie breathed the word out. Danny was silent. Turning round in his seat he looked through the car’s rear window. The people on the pavement seemed to have slowed way down and the black triangle of Ian’s back could easily be seen weaving and slipping among them. Then someone was tapping his window. Ian was getting further away. Geordie had opened his door a fist’s width but hadn’t moved. A traffic warden was standing outside the car. He tapped on his window again. Danny automatically lifted his hand to acknowledge him but didn’t turn round in his seat. With his eyes still following Ian he said, ‘What do we do now?’

Geordie answered immediately, ‘I’ll go after him.’

He had spoken with a tone of such solid authority that Danny looked across to check he wasn’t being sarcastic. Geordie didn’t smile and he said it again.

‘I’m going to go after him.’

‘Okay.’

‘You should call someone.’

Someone? Who? He thought of how interested his mother would be and then realized Geordie meant the police. He grabbed the phone from the back seat. Another bus passed round him and beeped its horn. He was blocking the traffic. The traffic warden started to bang
on the glass with the ball of his palm. Dialling 999 with one hand, Danny wound down the window with the other. The warden was young and white, and had an adam’s apple that jiggled alarmingly. He looked vaguely nervous. Well, Danny thought, he was about to get more so.

‘Sir, would you mind…’

‘Listen, I don’t have time to explain. I think there’s a bomb in that van. The white one. A
bomb.
You have to…Hello, police please.’ Danny waggled his finger in the windscreen at the white van. The traffic warden looked at him and then across the junction towards the van, one eyebrow raised. He was of the school of cynics.

‘Sir, if you
could
just move your vehicle…’

‘I’m not joking. Hello, hello? My name’s Danny Williams and I think there’s a bomb in a white van parked outside the Bank of England, by Bank underground station. Me? I’m on Cheapside…Cheapside…No, Bank underground…Of course it’s in London…There’s no plates on it…White. A white transit van.’ The traffic warden had stepped away from the car and was talking into his radio. Then he strode into the lobby of the nearest building, said something to an enormous security guard and started pointing over at Danny.

About a hundred metres behind the black stack of Ian’s shoulders a small man in a baseball cap was pounding along the pavement. What if Ian got on the tube? As he ran, baseball cap jiggling and T-shirt flapping, Geordie patted the pocket of his jeans to see if he’d cash for the tube fare. At the last possible moment he noticed a small black dog attached to a lamppost and managed to leap over its lead. Then the backs of two
large women in business suits were in the way. He ploughed between them, shouting
sorry
. Ian had been forced to wait up ahead at a junction. A huge maroon car pulled across the road and stopped in front of him, blocking his path. Geordie was going to catch up with him. He ran on and then, as casually as he could, slowed to a saunter as he came within twenty and then ten metres of Ian. The running had attracted attention and now people were staring at him. The two fat girls he had jostled apart were approaching so he pretended to look at his watch and leant into a doorway. As they passed him the blonde one spat, ‘Rude little prick,’ and the other one laughed. Geordie felt a pang of injustice. He had always wanted to have sex with a really fat girl. No time for that now. Ian had set off again so Geordie tugged his cap down and followed. What the fuck was Ian doing? Was he taking this seriously, like a dutiful soldier? Or was he smiling madly to himself, chuffed at how things had gone so far? This wasn’t funny any more. He didn’t want to get thumped by Ian. And he couldn’t run much longer. And he didn’t want his heart to burst out of his chest like it was trying to. And he didn’t want there to be a bomb at the end of the street.

Meanwhile, Danny had got out of his car and into some trouble. Although he’d decided to try to clear the nearby shops and offices of people, the traffic warden had set his heart on detaining him until the police arrived. Every time Danny tried to walk away the warden would hang tightly onto his waist and make the animal grunts of a pro wrestler. Danny was therefore limited to gesticulating to the bemused security guards and shop assistants who had gathered to watch the free street theatre.
Danny eventually pretended to sit contentedly on the Polo’s bonnet but then made a lunge towards the greetings card store. One of the shop girls standing in front of it screamed. The warden, assisted by a Nigerian security guard, held Danny in an armlock.

‘Sir, I
have
to
ask
you…’ the warden gave the arm a little twist with each emphasis, ‘to
calm
ly
wait
by your
car
…’

‘Listen, you have to listen. There’s a bomb in the white van over there, I think. The police are on the way.’

The Nigerian security guard said something to the traffic warden. Danny focused on the guard.

‘Mate, I’m serious. You have to clear the buildings. I’m a solicitor at Monks & Turner. Check my wallet. It’s in the side pocket of the driver’s door. The hat’s a disguise.’ The Nigerian was staring at his upper lip. ‘It’s felt-tip. It’s a felt-tip moustache. Someone drew it on when I was sleeping.
And
I know I have a black eye. A friend hit me in the face. But I’m absolutely serious.’

The guard sighed heavily and delved his huge arm into the car. He pulled out the brown leather wallet.

‘Open it. There’s a Monks security pass and my business card. I’m not a crank. You have to clear the buildings.’

The guard flicked it open and showed it to the warden who lightened a shade and let go of Dan’s arms. The guard said, in a sonorous African lilt, ‘How come
you
know about there being a bomb?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ve already called the police. They’re coming right now.’

And indeed the police
were
coming, albeit on horseback. At that moment Danny turned to see an officer
bobbing up the street towards him on a huge blinkered mare. He tugged off his sunhat and threw it into the car before rubbing at his felt-tip moustache again.

Fear is one of the few contagious emotions. Humour is another. The staff outside GAP had been happy laughing at Danny and striking poses in front of their shop, unconsciously imitating the mannequins over their shoulders but then they heard the police sirens and saw the first cop car pull up. Four policemen jumped out and one of them immediately started to wrap plastic yellow tape round a lamppost to cordon off the road. The air began to build with the static of police radios and the chatter of human voices. Three assistants appeared from the card shop trailing handbags and coats. The last one locked the front door behind her, and then they were off, up the street, gesturing and talking to whoever they met. Then suddenly the pavement was awash with faces and limbs. The police had ordered the offices to be cleared and a steady stream of workers, ties aflutter, poured from the marbled lobbies. Even the warden had changed his mind. He was sticking his head into the coffee bars and shouting, ‘Everyone out, everyone out.’

Ian was rounding the huge redbrick building at the top end of Cheapside when he heard the police sirens arriving at Bank and turned–to see Geordie walking straight towards him.
What the fuck?
He bolted into the road, dodging around a Range Rover and almost knocking over a girl carrying a cardboard box. Geordie unenthusiastically hurried after him into St Paul’s churchyard. This was stupid. He was out of breath and in not a little pain. He was wheezing so badly he thought he might puke.

The churchyard was empty, except for the sprinklers
shaking their heads and spitting at the pigeons strutting among them. Ian ran in between the benches and onto the lawn but the grass was glossily wet from the sprinklers, and he slipped. There is a difference between chasing and catching. Geordie had been quite happy to follow Ian but he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of catching him. Ian was down, sprawled on his side, and Geordie was only a few metres away. Maybe he should just walk right past him. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. He stopped. Ian sprang up–mud and grass stains all down one side of his jeans–and turned to see Geordie standing motionless by one of the benches. He smirked at him, nodded contemptuously, and said, ‘This is big boy’s stuff. You should walk away before you get hurt.’

Geordie just stared at him blankly and Ian started to saunter off down through the churchyard. Geordie let him get about fifty metres away before he started to follow. When Ian crossed the top of Ludgate Hill and headed down the walkway to the river, Geordie slipped his mobile out of his jeans.

Danny headed up Cheapside, towards Monks & Turner, telling everyone he saw to clear out. He rang Monks on his mobile and asked for Ellen Powell. After two beeps she picked up. ‘Hello?’ There was a ringing sound on the line.

‘Ellen, it’s Danny. Listen, I think there’s a bomb further down Cheapside. You have to get everyone out.’

‘They must know already. The alarm bell’s going off. Everyone’s leaving.’

‘Well it’s not a drill so hurry up.’

‘Where are you? Are you okay? The bid didn’t go through you know. Ulster Water won’t accept it.’

‘Why not? I thought it was in time.’

‘It was but Shannon and the board are backing Yakuma, even though it’s lower. Vyse has just sent an e-mail to the whole team.’

‘You’re
joking
. Can they do that?’

‘Apparently, if they think it’s in the best interests of the shareholders.’

‘Vyse must be spitting.’

‘Jill said she could hear him shouting from her pod. He has to explain it to Syder. Apparently he’d told them it was a shoo-in.’

‘Brilliant.’ There was a beep on Danny’s line. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. ‘Hold on, Geordie’s trying to get through.’

‘I’ve got to go out to the churchyard. Come and see me if you have time.’

‘I will.’ Danny swapped calls.

‘Danny?’

‘Yeah, where are you? Have you lost him?’

‘No, he’s heading over the footbridge across the river, on down from the cathedral. And he’s not even running now. Get the cops down here.’

‘Okay. Nice one mate.’

Danny could see three police cars blocking the crossroads by St Paul’s tube and he ran across to them. A very tall female police officer came towards him, hands raised as if to push him back.

‘I rang you earlier. About the bomb. My name’s Danny Williams. The bomber’s walking down to the Millennium Bridge from St Paul’s. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and
jeans. And he’s being followed by a skinny guy in a baseball cap.’ The giantess was looking at his top lip. He put his hand up to it. ‘And this was drawn on when I was asleep.’ Then he gestured to his eye. ‘This is real.’

The woman nodded indulgently. She spoke as if she had enormous experience of pacifying simpletons. ‘Okay, sir. Could you repeat that to me slowly please?’

Danny showed her the IDs in his wallet and she began to take him seriously. He then explained himself again and she relayed everything he’d said into the radio clipped to one of her epaulettes. All the units converging on the City were looking for a muscular suspect in a black T-shirt, being chased by a small man in a red cap.

Geordie pushed the phone into his back pocket. The Millennium Bridge was all ribs and struts and spine. It looked like the skeleton of a new type of dinosaur. A surprising amount of wind buffeted through the wire-strung sides and Geordie thought that his cap might fly off. He looked down through the metal floor into the lazy, unstoppable Thames. Ian was up ahead, walking quickly but not overly concerned. He hadn’t looked back for a while. A group of tourists had stopped in the middle of the bridge, and Ian had just pushed through them. They had segregated themselves along gender lines and the men stood apart at the back, uninterested in listening to the toy-squeak of the tour guide. Their nationality was apparent because the petite guide had chosen to carry, instead of the usual umbrella, a long pole flying a miniature red, yellow and black German flag. Geordie reached them and slipped through a herd of moustaches and beer guts before reaching the men, who dolefully shuffled
apart in time to see Ian up ahead, and opposite him two burly cops.

Where the Millennium Bridge runs onto the South Bank the pathway turns back on itself in a gentle slope down to ground level, presumably to allow wheelchair access. The police officers had just rounded this turn and were walking towards Ian. Geordie shouted, ‘That’s him. In the black T-shirt,’ and confusion broke out. As the cops made what looked like a three-legged dash, Ian vaulted over the handrail down to the lower level. The policemen turned awkwardly back on themselves and Ian was in front of them again, legging it down to the river and heading west for a second before more cops became visible, pounding towards him and screaming into the radios fastened to their shoulders.