Twenty Twelve Page 2

  ‘Got any bevvies?’ he asked.

  Ronnie didn’t even look up. ‘Cupboard next to the cooker.’

  Miggs helped himself to a warm can of Stella and handed out the rest. He wondered why Ronnie didn’t keep them in the fridge, but given the state of it, it was probably for the best.

  He took a swig and settled on the sofa where he knew Ronnie slept. A stained sleeping bag lay in a heap in the corner of the room, but the cushions retained the smell of their leader’s sweat.

  The TV was already on, though the sound was off. Some twenty-four-hour news channel.

  Deano took his place next to Miggs. ‘You want to get yourself a flat screen telly, Ron,’ he said. ‘Much better picture than this heap of shit.’

  Miggs caught sight of Deano’s beefy fingers. Between each tattoo, the knuckles were raw and bloody. How many times had Ronnie warned him not to get into any fights, not to draw attention to himself? ‘My brother could get you one for less than five hundred quid. Thirty-six-inch, surround sound,’ he said.

  Ronnie shrugged. ‘I’m not really bothered about all that.’

  Deano turned to Steve, who was perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘Got you one, didn’t he, mate?’

  ‘Put my order in.’ Steve flashed the gaps in his teeth. ‘Next day delivery.’

  ‘See?’ said Deano. ‘As good as fucking Currys.’

  Sometimes Miggs couldn’t believe what a stupid cunt Deano could be. Selling knock-off tellies was a sure-fire way to bring the five-oh crashing down on his head. He flicked a glance at Ronnie, looking for the telltale throb at the temples that would signal the shit was about to hit the fan.

  Ronnie and Miggs had known each other since they’d been in care. Miggs was originally from the schemes in Possilpark and had been acquainted with a few hard bastards in his time, but nothing prepared him for the brutality of the kickings wee Ronnie would dole out on an almost weekly basis. Miggs had been on the wrong end of a few batterings himself. Umpteen anger management courses and a spell in the madhouse had made no impact. Violence was simply a part of Ronnie’s life.

  Luckily for Deano, Ronnie’s attention was diverted by the screen. ‘Turn up the sound.’

  Steve leaned forward and punched the remote control. Some bird was standing outside the Olympic Village in Stratford. The breeze ruffled her jacket to reveal the hint of a black bra.

  Deano whistled at the screen. Steve joined in. Ronnie put up a hand and silenced them both.

  The presenter was smiling into the camera. She had those straight teeth you always saw on the telly but never in real life.

  ‘An excited crowd is gathered here today to watch the official opening of the Olympic Village, which will be home to more than fifteen thousand athletes from two hundred countries around the globe.’

  The camera panned around the village, revealing the rows of spanking new accommodation blocks built around communal squares. A water feature was tinkling pleasantly in the middle. A lifetime away from Miggs’s childhood.

  In the distance the five rings of the Olympic flag fluttered.

  Miggs risked another sideways glance, but Ronnie’s eyes didn’t leave the screen.

  I roar into the car park outside the Village and race over to where the minister is finishing an interview.

  Sam Clancy is a consummate performer. When he’s done, he sees me and the smile slides off his face. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘I had to visit my dad,’ I say.

  Sam’s face softens. Even now, Paddy Connolly’s name is royalty. ‘Where are we at?’ he asks.

  I pull out my BlackBerry and check my list of things to do. ‘The rooms are completely ready,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’ve checked the paperwork? We don’t want a re-run of the Delhi fiasco.’

  ‘It’s all in order,’ I assure him. ‘Building regs, health and safety, you name it. There isn’t a loose screw in the whole place.’

  Sam nods in satisfaction. ‘And the Yanks?’

  ‘All booked on flights and ready for a quick photo op at Heathrow.’

  ‘The ambassador?’

  I pull a face. The American ambassador is never happy. With anything.

  ‘Still banging on about security, I suppose?’ says Sam.

  ‘I danced him through every last detail, even the MI5 assessments,’ I say. ‘Short of holding the Games in secret, we can’t make it any tighter.’

  Sam cracks a smile. ‘You know what they say, Jo – you can’t please all of the people all of the time.’

  As we’re led towards the crowded Plaza, groups of children are pressing their way inside, laughing and pushing one another.

  ‘Looks like we can please some of the people,’ I say.

  Sam gives my shoulder a couple of taps. ‘And that’s what it’s all about, Jo.’

  We make our way inside and I can’t keep the smile from my face. The Plaza is fantastic. During the Games this is where the athletes will meet their friends and family, but today we are set up for a conference. Every seat is taken, press and cameramen standing at the sides. I’m glad I wore my new shoes – smart ballerina pumps, the colour of fresh raspberries.

  The front row has been allocated to a special school whose pupils have travelled by coach from Bromsgrove so that Sam can make the point that the Paralympics are every bit as important to London as the real deal. A teenage boy with Down’s syndrome is giggling loudly, his round features lit up in excitement. The girl to his right sits low in her wheelchair, clapping.

  Their teacher puts a finger to her lips to quiet them but they can hardly contain themselves. It’s infectious and I laugh too.

  See, this is what Dad doesn’t get. That politics doesn’t have to be all about arguments and meetings that go on into the early hours.

  The Olympic Games are about hope and optimism. They send out the message that we should all strive to be the best we can be. Who wouldn’t want to be involved in that?

  Sam takes to the podium. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, I’d like to welcome you to the 33rd Olympic Games.’

  The crowd bursts into spontaneous applause. Even the press corps joins in.

  ‘I’m sure many of you remember the rapturous news that the UK had been successful in its bid to host the 2012 games. I certainly had a few glasses of bubbly that night.’

  A ripple of polite laughter snakes around the room.

  ‘But after the streamers were cleared away, the reality of the task ahead began to set in.’ Sam lifts a finger. ‘Make no mistake that it has taken years of hard graft and commitment to ensure that everything is ready and in place. It hasn’t been easy. The country has been facing difficult times. We’ve all had our backs against the walls and, to be honest, there have been times when I’ve questioned whether we could pull it off.’

  He pauses and lets his gaze sweep across the audience.

  ‘But ultimately we succeeded because the people of this great country always succeed. We were determined to host a summer of unrivalled sporting achievement which will propel this country into a new era.’

  The crowd erupts into cheers and someone throws their cap to the ceiling. The boy with Down’s leaps to his feet and punches the air. He takes two steps towards Sam but security block his path.

  ‘It’s fine,’ says Sam. ‘We all want to celebrate, don’t we?’ He beckons the boy towards him and every camera in the place begins frantically clicking.

  Still grinning, the boy looks behind him to the back of the room. Perhaps his mum is there. ‘I’m here,’ he calls.

  I imagine her bursting with pride, snapping away. My mum would have done exactly the same. I hope she’s getting a good view.

  Then boom.

  A flash of light.

  An ear-splitting crack.

  Black.

  Chapter Two

  I try to open my eyes but they feel heavy, as if something is weighing them down. I lift my hand to my cheek but I can’t feel that either. Am I dead?

  I remember a sea of f
aces. Clapping. Laughing. A boy with a huge smile. Then nothing.

  I try to move but I don’t know if I’m sitting or standing. I can’t feel anything around me. It’s as if I’m suspended. As if all around me is air. Hot air. I break into a sweat.

  Christ on a bike, am I in Hell?

  I know I’ve been a bit of a twat to my dad, and then there was the time I told that bloke I thought I might be a lesbian so he’d dump me. But are these the sort of sins that warrant an eternal roasting?

  I need to open my eyes. I have to see where I am. I let my arms and legs loosen and direct every scintilla of energy towards my face. I control my breathing and concentrate. At last I manage to lift one of my eyelids. Only a tiny slit. But it’s enough.

  I see black smoke swirling above me and orange flames snaking towards me like tongues flicking back and forth.

  I open the other eye and try to take it all in. Sheets of metal are hanging and swinging like branches in the breeze. Rubble and dust shower down. There are chairs scattered everywhere, mangled and broken.

  I try to lift my head, ignoring the pain, and I see it. Through the billowing clouds of smog I can just make it out. A flag. Five rings.

  Not Hell, then.

  And it all comes flooding back to me. I know that sounds like a cliché but that’s exactly what it feels like. The sights, the sounds, the smells all pour back into my mind, in a raging torrent. Everything mixed up and violent.

  Sam was holding out his hand to the boy, urging him to come up to the podium.

  The boy, initially so eager, became uncertain. Sam stepped forward.

  Then an explosion that seemed to come from miles away and rush at me with the force of a train. It picked me up and slammed me against the wall. It sucked the air from my lungs, squeezing the life from me.

  But I’m not dead.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I call out.

  No one answers. I look around me but there’s no one. Where is everybody? ‘Is anyone there?’ I shout.

  Only the sound of roaring, like a wild animal, comes back to me.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ I shout out again.

  I realise I am lying at the back of the conference room in the Plaza, which means there is a hundred feet of twisted debris between me and the exit. And the entire place is on fire. I have to get out of here now.

  I put out my hands and push up. My head spins, making the room tilt. The taste of acid bile burns my throat. I force my chin to keep steady and focus on the horizon, the flag above the door. I can crawl to it. I can make it.

  I take a deep breath and the smell of carbon attacks my nose. I cough and spit to clear my mouth. The heat from the flames bears down on me, burning my cheeks.

  I can do this. I have to.

  I push myself onto all fours and propel myself forward. My hands scrabble through pieces of concrete and shards of glass. My knees follow, pain ripping through me. All I have to do is keep going. One hand in front of the other, then my knees. Every movement taking me closer to escape.

  I make it past the ruined stage, the podium completely gone. Out of the corner of my eye I see something white, abandoned on the ground. It’s a trainer, the Nike tick still visible. My stomach lurches. I turn my head away and focus on the flag. In less than a minute I will be out of here.

  Above me there is a terrible groan. Without thinking I look up. There’s a hole in the roof like a gaping mouth, the rafters still attached by no more than a thread. Another terrible heave and a sheet of metal over twenty feet long crashes free. It hurtles towards me and I close my eyes. When it smashes on the ground inches from me I scream. I throw myself forward, desperate to cross the distance to the exit.

  I glance up again. What is left of the roof shudders. It’s going to collapse and if I don’t get out of here in seconds it will crush me. I must run.

  Whatever’s wrong with me, whatever injuries I have, I must drag myself to my feet and run for cover. If I’m good at anything in life, it’s running. A skill that might just save me.

  I take all the weight on my hands and push up onto the balls of my feet. I force myself into a standing position and bare my teeth against the pain. I’m already panting as if I’ve finished a race.

  I find my centre of balance and I am ready to go when I hear something else. It could be the rush of the flames or glass smashing in the inferno. It could be the very foundations of the building giving way. Whatever it is I must ignore it and run.

  It comes again. I turn to the sound.

  ‘Help.’

  It’s the girl in the wheelchair. The blast has sent it hurtling across the room and turned it over. She’s trapped underneath. Her face is completely black from the smoke. Only her eyes are wide and pale.

  I don’t know what to do. Surely it would be better for me to keep going and fetch help?

  She opens her mouth, which seems impossibly swollen. ‘Please. Help me.’

  My heart is pounding in my chest, the blood banging in my ears. The roof above rumbles and a concrete slab crashes to the floor, missing me by less than a foot. Clouds of dust choke the air. If I don’t get out of here, we’ll both die. That’s certain.

  I focus on the flag. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she screams.

  ‘I’m going for help,’ I tell her.

  ‘Don’t leave me!’

  Torn in two, I run for the door. Each step is agony but I make it. When I am close enough to touch it, the roof rumbles and begins to shake. This must be what it’s like in an earthquake. Everything above you tumbling down. Those people you see on the telly who get trapped for days. The air running out.

  I glance back at the girl. Don’t, I warn myself.

  Too late. I’m sprinting back towards her. With the sky falling in around me, I hurdle over upturned chairs and slabs of concrete.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I shout above the din, hoping she can hear me.

  When I’m at her side she’s crying uncontrollably, her body wracked with sobs. ‘I thought you’d left me,’ she gasps.

  I throw the wheelchair to one side and pull her into my arms. ‘I would never do that,’ I say.

  She throws her arms around my neck and burrows her face into my shoulder. She weighs almost nothing, yet I can hardly lift her. I stagger backwards, almost losing my balance.

  There is one last almighty rip and the roof begins to cave. I have seconds to get us to safety.

  I tip myself forward and run faster than I have ever run in my life. Faster than all those training sessions and all those races I won. With the girl in my arms I can’t pump. With the pain in my head I can’t think. It doesn’t matter. I barrage through what I’ve decided after all is Hell and I let out a shout from the depths of my belly.

  As I burst through the door, the room exploding behind me, I’m still shouting. I don’t stop until I am outside and clear. Not until I feel cool drops of rain falling onto my face. Not until a policeman prises the little girl from me.

  Then I stop. And I throw up on my shoes.

  Deano and Steve were glued to the screen, leaning forward on the edge of the ratty sofa, mouths open, cans in hand, but Miggs kept sneaking a glance at Ronnie. No reaction at all.

  The picture showed in full Technicolor every grim detail of the disaster. People were running out of the Plaza building screaming. Blood was running down one woman’s face. Miggs wouldn’t like to ken how many people were in there. The beer tasted stale on his tongue and he had to force it down. He flicked the ring-pull with his thumb, making a soft metal twang. Ronnie appeared not to notice.

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Deano shook his head. ‘Totally un-fucking-believable.’

  Police cars and fire engines darted across the screen. A helicopter was circling, disappearing in and out of the columns of smoke.

  ‘Turn it over,’ said Ronnie.

  Steve flicked the button. Every station was running the same story.

  Deano jumped to his feet, knocking into Miggs.

  �
��Watch it,’ Miggs warned.

  But Deano didn’t care. He was doing some stupid fucking dance, hopping from one foot to the other. Soon Steve joined him and the two of them pranced around the sofa like the couple of twats they were.

  Miggs risked another look in Ronnie’s direction. There wasn’t even the smallest hint of emotion.

  ‘Tell me this isn’t happening,’ said the prime minister.

  Christian Clement didn’t look up from the television screen, watching as the last person managed to stagger out of the burning building. It was that young civil servant. The one who used to be a runner. Clem had met her briefly when he handed over the security assessments. Her face was screwed up in agony as she carried a young girl to safety.

  Simon Benning snapped the remote and replayed the scene, finally freezing the scene on Jo Connolly’s tortured face. ‘This is a disaster,’ he said. ‘A complete and utter disaster.’

  Christian Clement took a deep breath. As one of the most senior officers in MI5 he was used to difficult customers, but Benning, the PM’s publicist, adviser and general fixer, was one of the trickiest, slipperiest bastards he’d ever met. Give Clem a Taliban sympathiser any day of the week.

  Outside the PM’s study a hundred phones seemed to be ringing and three mobiles on his desk vibrated like angry wasps.

  ‘What do I say, Clem?’ he asked. ‘Was it an accident? Please tell me this was a freak accident.’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Clem replied.

  Benning filled a plastic cup with water. ‘Not good enough.’

  Clem gave him a hard stare. He despised men like Benning. An unelected suit who spent his time ensuring the red-tops were on message.

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’ Clem’s tone made it clear he was anything but sorry.

  There were lines etched across the PM’s face. He’d been a handsome bugger when he’d first got elected. Full head of hair. Bright smile. The worst recession in twenty years, an endlessly bickering coalition government and all-out rioting in the streets had put paid to that.

  ‘It’s your job to know these things,’ Benning told Clem.

  ‘And I will know as soon as we can get access to the scene,’ he replied.