23 hours - the eighteenth hour

17.00. The man steps up to the lectern and opens the Media Conference. The room has had to be changed because of the level of interest not just from the UK media but international journalists as well. To calm the level of noise and excitement the man goes through the traditional start reading out the statement for activities for the week before signaling that the questions can begin.

17.05. The people in the shop are complaining about not being let out onto the street. They are objecting to being questioned despite having been shown ‘some form’ of identification. Two of the team are reviewing the internal CCTV. They note the behavior of the group of young people and quickly assess the situation and what has happened. Only the Leader of the team knows why they all have to wear the surgical gloves.

17.10. Faith and I have feedback from our group in Oxford Street. They have not been able to get into the store as the shutters are down. One of the team says he is sure that he has seen an agent he recognised inside the shop. Somehow they have got there ahead of us again. As we curse the Minister’s superior walks in and glances around. The remainder of the CRISIS committee suddenly become animated and start barking orders.

17.15. The media conference has been dominated by the Minister’s death. The questions started respectfully but have now become more pointed and the first reporter for an online publication risks asking about the rumours. The man chairing from the lectern says he will not even ask the representative from the organisation ‘respond to such speculation’. The journalist sits and wonders whether he can ask his questions with such little substance behind it.

17.20. The bus has arrived at the terminus. The driver glances at the screen displaying the internal views of the bus. There is a shape at the back of the ground deck. The driver jumps out of his seat and walks to the rear. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, ‘end of the line I’m afraid. You’ll have to get off here.’ As he gets no response he leans forwards pushes the slumped figure. The next thing he remembers is screaming.

17.25. He sits and considers how he will take out the next contract. There has been no sign of either of them since they stepped out onto the balcony and the hotel now has police officers inside. It didn’t take them too long to work out which building the shot had to come from but they are on the wrong floor. With this much activity he is going to have to be really careful.

17.30. Everyone has been let out of the store and the Zurich team are explaining to the staff that they will have to be extra vigilant. They don’t of course but the team has used their ‘identification’ as members of the Anti Terrorism Squad. Although unnerved most of the staff feel somewhat excited to be trusted with such work. The security guard in particular thinks this is the sort of work he should really be doing.

17.35. The bus driver is explaining to the police what happened. Meanwhile the ambulance crew have called back to the hospital to say that they have never seen anything like this and need advice. On the bus, in a taped off area, Tracey-Rebecca is dead. Her face is covered with pustules that have hideously deformed her skin which, once clear, now is shaded with purple and black.

17.40. The lads and girls have walked then length of Oxford Street and gone to sit in Hyde Park. As they are messing about the boy with the USB stick produces it. ‘Where’d you get that?’ As he explains the others start laughing. That’ll teach the staff to hassle them. It’s tossed from one to another until one of the girls finally asks the question, ‘I wonder what’s on it?’

17.45. The dead Minister’s Superior has spoken to a handful of the CRISIS committee and then makes a bee line for Faith. It’s amazing how powerful people know automatically where the real power is. He ushers her away from me and they have a quiet conversation. At one point Faith’s face gives away a moment of surprise before almost immediately resuming the professional air.

17.50. The depot is now shut and taped off whilst people in white suits and face masks work feverishly on the bus. The driver has been taken into quarantine along with those people he has spoken to. A press announcement is prepared to request everyone who was on that bus to go to a named hospital. How do you say that without causing a panic? Meanwhile at hundreds of bus stops travellers are bemoaning the delays.

17.55. With the media conference drawing to a close and the rumours that the Minister’s death was not natural growing in strength he decides has little to lose. He raises his hand and is pointed at. He stands, gives his name and publication and then asks his question. A room that had been filled with background chatter falls to silence and stares at the raised dais. The representatives on the stage rise and file out as the spokesperson declares the conference over.

23 hours - the seventeenth hour

16.00. “What?” is screamed down the phone in offices and newsrooms around the country. The news of this death, as yet the cause is still a secret, richochets around the internet much as the bullet that took off half his face richocheted off the balcony wall behind him. In a window opposite the man has already broken down the rifle and returned it to a laptop bag. He is leaving the hotel as the sirens wail.

16.05. In and around the office is bedlam as the CRISIS team re-gather and remove a series of documents and computers before the police, in what ever form, arrive. A new ‘blank’ computer is placed on his desk. Faith and I witness all this and then finally are allowed into the office to view the scene. It seems that we are back at work. The man in pyjamas has throws up three times at the sight.

16.10. News bulletins are being broadcast reporting the death of the Minister. There is a state of shock. The tone of the announcements suggest that it wasn’t a natural death but no broadcaster can yet substantiate what is flying around Twitter. Only a satellite channel refers to the rumours. Already a crowd is beginning to gather outside the building and people working there are amazed at how many flowers and symbols are already being laid.

16.15. Faith is of one opinion – this was an execution. She really is astonishing as I watch senior representatives from the CRISIS committee naturally cede authority to her. “Get pyjama boy on a the computers where he can do some work and get onto our foreign offices to find out if there has been any movements of known ‘hits’ she barks. I stand nearby nodding trying to look as though I would have acted this way too.

16.20. At his desk in the anonymous building the news of the assassination has thrown everything into the air. He knows it wasn’t them so it can only mean there is a third ‘party’ chasing the secrets. He knows that the Minister’s organisation will suspect them and this will only serve to muddy the water. He patches a call the leader of the Zurich Team. “Find out what the f**k is going on,’ he demands. His PA frowns. In nearly forty years she had never heard his predecessor swear.

16.25. The reporter is making his way to what should have been a ‘run of the mill’ media conference by the organisation and one he was hoping to disturb with his ‘open’ questions. Now it is going to be packed and focusing on the death of the Minister. It’s unlikely he will get a question in but he most go as perhaps he will be the only one there who suspects there is far more to this than meets the eye.

16.30. Tracey-Rebecca has settled on her only course of action and has located the busiest PC World in London. The inside is packed with people trying out all types of electronic equipment on display. There are not enough staff to cope so after a surly ‘can I help you?’ is responded by her ‘just looking’ she is free to move from TV’s to laptops. She finds one where there is a USB port at the back and inserts the stick. A familiar ping brings an icon to the screen. She walks away and boards a bus.

16.35. The man in pyjamas has settled into his seat and relaxed. Screens are his friends and he can almost forget what has happened over the last few hours as he opens the programmes he needs. Within seconds he rocks back and shouts, “It’s been plugged in.” He runs an instant location finder. “It’s at Oxford Street, near Tottenham Court Road.” Faith shouts orders and agents are dispatched. There is a chance we are ahead of the others.

16.40. His PA opens the office door. “We have a fix on the stick, it’s in PC World, Oxford Street. I’ve sent the Zurich team the information and they are on their way.” He sits back in his leather chair and places his fingers together in prayer. ‘What on earth is happening now,’ he wonders.

16.45. The lads and two girls slouch into the store. The security at the door clocks them immediately and gives them a look. This only fuels the teenage angst. Victims of others attitudes they deliberately touch screens and keyboards to wind up the assistants. It’s free and it’s fun. One of the lads sees the icon on a screen and wanders over. He looks at the PC and reaches around the edges and finds the USB stick. Whilst looking in the other direction he pulls it out and pockets it.

16.50. “Signals gone,” says the man in pyjamas. The same is said in another office. “The team is nearly there,” says Faith. The teenagers are walking around the store when one of the girls notices the arrival of people in identical suits. They decide it’s time to leave and just get out before the team shows identification and brings down the shop grill. The customers left inside and the shop staff wonder what on earth is going on.

16.55. A woman climbs on board the bus with her bags of shopping and flashes her card across the payment mechanism. There is one seat available next to a young woman who appears to be asleep with her head in her chest. She asks her to move up but gets no reply. As the bus sets off she decides to shake her awake. Even with a shake her head remains lolled forward. She turns to other passages and says, ‘must be drunk,’ before shuffling further along to stand.

Two Tales of a City

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

As the dawn began to break across the skyline of the metropolis they were tired already. It had been a long night and, as they began to tire, all they could hear were the sounds of the port. Well, the sound of the port decanter being crashed against the rims of fine cut glass goblets. It would be time to leave the club soon into the blinking daylight and back to their busy lives.

Well why shouldn't they enjoy themselves, they deserved it. They were all ‘self made’ men. Self made if you call inheriting a family trust or business, a private education, Oxbridge ‘self made’. Oh yes, they had certainly faced challenges but they had overcome them. It was what made them so courageous and determined that everyone should have to face personal challenges and win through. To be tested by the fire. If they could do it, so could anyone. A safety net is only there for people who fear their own abilities. Remove it and everyone will discover their true worth.

As the dawn began to break across the skyline of the metropolis she was tired already. Another night without sleep wondering how she would pay, the bills, feed the children, heat the flat. This wasn’t how she had imagined her life but one debt had spiraled and her partner leaving had hemorrhaged the order of her life. Short term loans had only accelerated the fall. With heavy limbs and head she pushed back the duvet to start another day with clouds.

The television switched on to fill her head with noise and drown out her fears. Today the noise brought more to worry as a reporter on childhood poverty says ‘Children who grow up in poverty tend to do less well in education because of factors in their home background, for example having parents who are more stressed, less able to afford educational activities and resources and less well-placed to help them with their school work.’ She had no wealthy parents to run to, she had no opportunities to recover. She just had pills.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epo of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

23 hours - the sixteenth hour

15.00. The sound of one of the world’s most famous bells marks the passing of time. The young man sits at his desk and knows that with every minute that passes his job gets harder. Unless the information is found soon it could have left the country and be anywhere. The woman, who is now his PA, walks through the door with coffee. It’s the first mistake she has made, his predecessor drank coffee here for almost forty years. He drinks Earl Grey. He wrestles with this thought for a moment knowing she is in deep mourning. “I drink tea,” he says with a warm smile.

15.05. First edition of the evening paper has an article on the shooting and a separate report on the helicopter crash. There is also a type of ‘comment piece’ about ‘why so many important people’ have been is a series of meetings during the day. There is some speculation about reasons but none are even close to the mark. This will however be the last edition the day that will have a ‘Is she pregnant?’ headline

15.10. Tracey-Rebecca goes to the first public phone at the station and dials her police partner. As soon as he answers she says ‘Hello Pete’. When he replies ‘Hello Trace,’ she knows something is wrong. He always calls her ‘Trellis’. A gun is pushed into the side of his head. ‘Where are you?’ he asks. Without a second thought she lies and says ‘Manchester. I’ll call again when I’m settled.’ She hangs up and runs from the station. The second man at PC Groom’s house looks at a screen. ‘London’ he says with a dead voice.

15.15. Half an hour in and the CRISIS meeting has digested all the information they have. The news that the two ‘rogue’ agents have voluntarily come to the building and their email explanation has been reviewed. There is a consensus, but not total agreement, that their story and behavior stacks up. The Minister does not know who to trust anymore and at 4pm he has to go to see his superior. Today he hates his life however many good lunches it has provided.

15.20. A national reporter receives a phone call from someone who spins a tale so astonishing it brings the world weary cynicism of a seasoned ‘hack’ to the surface. Many of the names he is quoted are national figures and it is only when he ‘Googles’ some of the other names mentioned that he begins to see the links emerge. The phone goes dead. He is left with no proof but enough questions to start a ripple across the sea of the establishment that could cause a tsunami of trouble.

15.25. Faith and I have gone through our story three times and we appear to be believed. We have just covered visiting the man’s wife when we are suddenly asked, “Did you kill her?” We are both so quick and strong with our denial and then Faith states, “She’s been killed then?” A photo of the scene is shown to us. “So either someone has been following us or someone is just behind us in what we now know.” One of the men in the background asks, “What do you know?” “Not a lot,” I say.

15.30. Tracey-Rebecca stands in Trafalgar Square and feels sick and frightened. She knows taking the USB was quite simply the stupidest thing she has ever done and if she could rewind time she would have left it where it was. Slowly an idea comes to her. It won’t automatically save her but it could reduce the amount of attention focused on her. It’s probably her only hope.

15.35. He is still sitting in his pyjamas when the door is opened and he is asked to come out. He goes into the corridor and sees a man and a woman. He has never met them but he knows who they are. They are all asked to move along the corridor and get into the lift. The woman glances at him and once again he just wishes he had got dressed before stating work. The lift door shuts and he fears the worse.

15.40. News of the phone call is relayed to his office. They know she is in central London, they believe she has the USB stick with her. All the research they have done about her points to this being a ‘one-off’ piece of erratic behavior. That doesn’t help in trying to calculate what she will do next. Two members of the Zurich Team have her police partner and his wife held. ‘Needle’ and ‘Haystack’ come to mind. He sips his tea that is now cold.

15.45. The reporter shouts across the news room and the relevant correspondent tells him there is a general press update later this afternoon. After giving him the information of time and venue the correspondent asks ‘why he wants to know’ but the reporter has his head buried in his laptop. He is certainly not going to publicise yet what he has been told. Partly because it just doesn't make sense.

15.50. The lift door opens and we are shown into a very large office waiting room. We are asked to sit down. I sit next to Faith and leave the man in pyjamas to sit alone by the glass-topped table. As we sit and wait the inner office door opens and some of the most important people in the organization file out. I now know whose office we are outside. Faith leans towards me and whispers, “They must believe us if we are being brought here.” “But what else can we tell them?” I say.

15.55. The room has emptied out and the Minister has a headache that has grown over the last half hour. He believes the pain to be unbearable but he hasn’t really felt true pain until he opens the door to his balcony and steps out. With just two minutes until his 4pm meeting his secretary opens the office door to see the Minister slumped on the floor. The angle of his head gives the tell tale sign that he is no longer alive

A Strange Tale

The waste from the children’s ward was bagged and dumped in the basement ready for collection and incineration. Or it should have been but the key for the padlock on the metal doors was missing and after a while people stopped looking for it.

So the waste built up. Bags of bandages, splints, plaster casts and other materials that had sheltered and supported damaged children back to health. Bags with memories of pain. Bags full of healing.

For the man who slept rough the fact that the metal doors had not been yanked open and banged shut meant longer sleeps and less shouts of ‘move on’. He knew it couldn't last. Someone would notice and the padlock would be forced. What he didn’t know was it would be him who forced the door.

There was no doubt his life was lonely, made worse by the fact that once he had had a family. A tragedy had robbed him of his loves and with it his life and left him broken.

He drank to make the memories less painful, the hurt deadened temporarily. It started his slide until now no one could see beyond the dirty clothes and the stale smell. No one could see or hear a man who was sobbing on the inside.

As the moon rose that night creating striking shadows at the back of the hospital the man lay awake. The alcohol had not anesthetised his mind and the dark thoughts chased around his head.

At first he couldn’t understand where the noise was coming from believing it must be inside him. It was after many fuzzy minutes that he realised it was from the other side of the metal doors. The sound of soft scratching and a feint voice shouting ‘help’.

He stumbled towards one of the recycling containers and removed a metal bar. Ramming it between the chain and the metal sheet he forced the padlock until it fell with a resounding clang to the floor. He threaded out the chain as quickly and quietly as his shaking hands would allow

The door groaned open and there, standing in the frame opening, with the moonlight dancing across his body was Bandage Boy.

The man fell back his head banging against the cobblestone paving. His eyes shut as the pain racked through his body. He was about to moan when the strangest sensation swept through him.

It was as if all the pain and hurt was being washed from his body. He opened his eyes to see the little Bandage Boy bent over him, his bandaged hand resting upon his chest. As the pain drained away from him so he heard a slight whimpering from the strange little child.

His eyes cleared, the fog in his head gone and he stared at Bandage Boy. A child created and born from plaster casts, splints and bandages was smiling down at him.

As the man reached out towards him the little Bandage Boy crept into his arms to be hugged. The man wrapped his arms around him and held him to his chest. He could feel his heart begin to heal.