Three Hours(32)
‘They know they can’t be taken out by a helicopter,’ Bronze Commander says, ‘nor can children be rescued, unless it lands. So they won’t be bothered by a helicopter.’
‘What about PC Beard? Does this change anything for him?’ another officer asks.
‘No. As far as we know there’s no gunman anywhere near him,’ Bronze Commander says. ‘And the gatehouse is secure. He should stay put.’
Rose turns to the three police officers who have been assigned to her from different divisions in Avon and Somerset Constabulary, an area covering almost five thousand square kilometres, including Bristol where Rose is based. None of them have met before nor worked in the school’s area. She managed to speak to them briefly en route.
‘Are we getting anything on number plates?’
‘Trying to with UAVs,’ DS Thandie Simmonds says. ‘But most of the plates are obscured by snow.’
‘Tell them to try and get partials. And we need to look at cars parked within a mile; but no one goes close. Columbine shooters booby-trapped their cars. And I want to know everything we get on that message to the BBC.’
‘If either gunman starts shooting, we go in,’ Bronze Commander says. ‘Until then we try every option to avoid civilian casualties.’
*
In the pottery room, the children are underneath the eight tables that sixty-year-old Camille Giraud pushed together. She’s given them each a fat chunk of clay and they’re making cups and bowls for their house while Camille makes clay tiles to stop flying glass. The children in their house haven’t seen the gunman.
The first row of clay tiles are stuck to the wooden window frame and if she moulds the next row just right they should stick to the first row. She’s been crouching down but now she needs to stand because otherwise she can’t reach to do the tiles. She unbends, her knees clicking. As she stands she sees the man in the balaclava through the window, pointing his gun at her. She pushes the clay tiles against the window, not looking at the man’s eyes in the slits in the balaclava, but instead remembering Jemima; how beautiful she’d been. Her smile. It was her smile that was beautiful, so completely artless, so unaware of its power; dazzlingly lovely. And meant for her. That was the miracle of loving Jemima. That this woman had loved her back. And not because Jemima had a husband, although she had, but because anybody loving Camille was surprising to Camille and that Jemima did was something she daily didn’t believe. The man in the balaclava shifts his gun, as if feeling the heft of it; it’s pointing pretty much at her mouth.
Up until now, she didn’t mind the idea of dying at all. If there was a heaven, an afterlife, which Jemima believed in, then they’d be reunited. She’d imagined Elysian fields. Or their first kiss, played over and over, the joy of it repeating. But it would be too much. She’d need to take a quiet calm walk in those Elysian fields, which hopefully would be English like Jemima, with bluebells and cabbage whites, and then return to Jemima’s kiss. And then she’d imagined just reliving the bits she loved and misses the most now, tea in bed together, the feel of her softly warm against her back when she woke up, the smell of Jemima’s perfume as she came in through the front door; the sound of her voice saying Camille’s name with more love and affection than either of her parents had ever used. And if there weren’t any Elysian fields, a heaven, an afterlife, then that would be okay too because she wouldn’t have to buckle under the weight of grief any more; the loss would stop eating at her. She wouldn’t have to hold it together all day until she could get into the house and crumple next to the front door, arms round her knees.
But the children.
Clearly, obviously, they have to live and that means she must too, because it’s up to her to keep them safe.
She bends down under the tables. ‘Do you think your house should have pets?’ she asks, giving them each more clay.
The children will not die. That simply cannot happen. And she will make sure they’re not afraid.
9.
9.49 a.m.
Neil Forbright, the deputy head, stands at the locked door of the headmaster’s office. The fire has gone out in the grate and the large Victorian room is cold as well as dark. An email comes in on his phone from Frank in the library, sent to him and Jacintha: Matthew is still conscious. He’s only realized today that Matthew is like a father to him, that he relies on his kindness and belief in him. His actual father would say Neil looks for a top dog, because he is not. His father believes that humans are pack animals. For a moment, he thinks absurdly about Elsie, his elderly Labrador rescued from the pound, and wonders who’ll feed her and let her out this evening.
His phone rings. ‘Mr Forbright? It’s PC Beard.’
‘Do you know if the children in the pottery room are safe? If—’
‘Sorry, I’m still stuck here in your gatehouse and don’t know anything, but the high-powered lot running this will be doing everything they can to help them. Your school secretary, Tonya, told me your head teacher was shot?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the gunman, he’s still in the corridor?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been to your school before with my wife, watched your plays when you open them up to the public. Les Mis, last year. Point is, I’ve been in your theatre and it’s very secure. So we need to get you all to the theatre.’