Prologue

Chris remembered the day like it was yesterday. He had just finished his first day of year ten at high school. He remembered walking into the kitchen and grabbing a chocolate mousse from the fridge. He recalled walking down the hallway, hearing the humming of the television. He had thought that had been strange, yes, Chris remembered that very well. And he thought he could hear sobs. Christopher had recognised them as his mother’s. He had entered the door of the living room, quite at unawares, though deep down he was old enough to realise something terrible had happened. He remembered looking at the sparkly green calendar above the living room door before entering. It was August the 29th. He remembered it all crystal-clearly.

There his mum had sat, with her husband’s arm around her shoulders. They were staring somewhat blankly at the television. Chris had sat on the floor, mere feet away from the blaring television.

‘The death count so far,’ said a newsreader from the BBC, his face shining out of the box into Chris’s eyes, ‘is approximately six thousand, with many more injured.’

Chris had only been able to gape and stare in shock and disbelief.

‘Six – six thousand?’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘How?’

The newsreader seemed to have heard and answered for him.

‘It was the second week of the new Premiership season, with the biggest match of the season so far. It was Newcastle versus Manchester United, the match being a home game for Newcastle. But four bombs were separately taken into the match, each one placed in the centre of each of the four stands, each detonated at almost precisely thirteen hundred hours. This obvious terrorist attack caused devastation to the St James’ Park Stadium. Each of the four stands collapsed. And …’ then the newsreader suddenly turned his attention to his earpiece. He looked up. ‘News just in: shrapnel in the blast fatally wounded one Manchester United player, standing at the right wing touchline. The French player – Gaston du Pont – died literally minutes ago in Newcastle’s hospital.

‘So far,’ the newsreader continued. ‘There is no evidence that points a finger at one particular group, and unusually, no group has claimed responsibility. The ones who carried the bombs into the stadium went completely unnoticed, carrying the devices in large rucksacks. Further efforts will be put in to discover the identities of the terrorists who caused this tragedy and atrocity. Because of them, today thousands have been killed and a famous building that has long stood has been effectively destroyed. But it is likely that this may be a crime that can never be solved. This disaster will without a doubt send a message harshly across to the government: the terrorists are here and they don’t like us anymore than the Americans.’

Then the screen flicked over to the football match played earlier. At the top left hand corner of the screen were the words NEW 1 – 0 MAN.U, and then next it showed that twenty-nine minutes, twenty-two seconds of the match had been played. On the top right hand corner of the screen were the words Pictures courtesy of ITV. The referee blew his whistle, and shrilly it rang. A Manchester United player ran over to the touchline to take a throw-in. He picked up the ball. Then it happened.

BOOM. There was a deafening sound. Screams followed the explosion. The noise of the commentator gasping with terror and disbelief was audible. Then he spoke faintly.

‘My God,’ he murmured in a trembling voice. There was a brief spiralling silence. ‘ROBERT! Why are we still on air?’ he yelled furiously. ‘CUT! Off air, NOW!’ he commanded.

Chris and his family were given a brief glimpse of the harsh destruction; of the stands collapsing into each other; of the players rushing, terrified, into their tunnels. They were given a glimpse of the complete destruction. Then the screen cut. Obviously Robert had gone off air at last. It flicked back to the newsreader.

‘So there is yet another look into this tragedy.’ Emotion flickered through the newsreader’s voice. Chris couldn’t ever remember seeing newsreaders in that sort of state. He realised how big this was. ‘Here was the prime minister’s instant response to the attack.’

‘People of the United Kingdom,’ Prime Minister James Greaves solemnly began. His usually youthful features were smothered in a layer of grey oldness, and exhaustion, the bags under his eyes dark as holes. ‘Today a tragedy has occurred. Six thousand, possibly more, were killed today in the attack at St James Park. These people, whether they were Britons or no, will be sorely missed and will be mourned the world over. Mark my words: Great Britain will apprehend those responsible. Believe me, the anger and passion in my heart at this moment could outmatch any terrorist’s hatred. I cannot promise anything, but I assure you people today, for angered you will be, uncertain you will be, and many shall be broken-hearted too, that I will put a huge amount of my efforts into finding these hateful, disregarding criminals and delivering them their just punishment. Thank you.’

Chris remembered anger flaring up in his heart. How could those cold-hearted murderers do such a thing? Just how could they? Chris thought back to weeks before – he had been at St James Park watching a charity testimonial friendly match. Chris remembered closing his eyes and realising the frightening truth … it could have been him.

And then it was eight years later.

Christopher looked across the lawns with his bright green eyes into the primary school playground and saw the place where he had uncertainly told his three best friends the truth about his father. The three friends had been Marie Thompson, Murray Cullen and Joe Gautier. He remembered their reactions - Marie had been surprised, surprised and sceptical … Murray had been excited and interested in the gadgets and weapons. What about Joe? For a second Christopher recalled nothing of Joe’s answer to Christopher’s claim all those years ago, and he tried to remember if Joe had even been there. Then he remembered … there had been no answer. Joe had remained completely silent. But Christopher remembered his face at the meeting at that bench by that fence eight years ago, and he recalled his presence that day. Joe’s face had been blank, expressionless. Suddenly Christopher felt himself asking why.

Chris dragged a pale hand through his reasonably light brown hair. He remembered how short he’d been back when he was eight compared to all his classmates … he’d been one of the smallest in the class. Now he was six feet one, and solid and muscular. In eight years he’d changed so much, in body and mind.

‘Chris? Chris?’ Marie waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Aren’t you forgetting this is the last time I’m going to see you for a very long time?’

Christopher turned his head to Marie and looked her in the eyes. Suddenly he looked down and felt a strange jolt as he realised that he was still sitting on the top of a wall with Marie. He had been lost in his own thought.

‘Sorry …’

But still a few long seconds of silence awkwardly ensued. During those seconds Christopher realised how much Marie had changed also. She was no longer the bespectacled little girl with blonde locks she’d been back then. Now she had contact lenses, and short hair only down to the bottom of her neck. She was no longer little, or a girl, standing at a quite tall and beautiful five foot seven … as tall as Murray who hadn’t really changed a bit. He was still short, still stocky, and still had his cheesy grin, rosy cheeks, very short jet-black hair and other boyish features.

Christopher rushed back to the present with another jolt. Suddenly Marie burst into tears. Christopher gave a sarcastic sigh and shook his head theatrically before slipping an arm around her shoulders.

‘Don’t cry, please,’ he said, just as he himself felt a tingling feeling at the corner of his eyes. ‘Just think, now you can spend more time with Murray!’

Through the tears Chris heard a distinctive snort of laughter. Murray was generally recognised as the dim-witted joker of the small group, and he loved it.

Chris’s arm left his companion’s shoulders and Chris turned to look Marie in the eyes again.

‘Well if you don’t fancy the Murray idea, don’t worry! I will phone you every day – or close to every day anyway – and as soon as Dad’s job is over I’ll be back up,’ he said. ‘I love you like a sister, y’ know.’

Marie sniffed and her tears subsided.

‘I love you too,’ she choked back. She took a few seconds to wipe away her tears and clear her throat. ‘But do you actually know what it is your Dad’s got to do. You’ve never all had to move away before. Or can you not tell me?’ she added with a devilish grin.

‘Of course I can tell you, or tell you what I know anyway. I don’t even think my Dad knows much more than what I know. It sounds pretty serious. I think there is a very real terrorist threat to London and that there is an area of London where all the terrorists meet up. We’re moving to a place very nearby to that area, and I think my dad basically has to go undercover and find out all he can.’

Marie turned to look at Chris, shaking her head.

‘Jesus Christ, don’t you worry? Don’t you worry about how dangerous that is.’

‘Of course I do,’ replied Chris. ‘But you learn to deal with it after all these years. He’s done all right so far – staying alive, I mean …’

Marie blinked. ‘It’s just odd,’ she said slowly. ‘Well it must be serious if they need agents from this area going down to sort things out.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Chris.

‘Hmm,’ hummed Marie. ‘Nothing’s been the same here since the St James bombing.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Chris again.

Chris put his arm around Marie again and she leant her head on his shoulder. There they sat in silence for minutes on end. Then Chris suddenly checked his watch. He sighed and peered down at Marie. She looked up.

‘You got to go home now?’ she murmured, knowing the answer.

‘I’m late already,’ replied Chris, smiling slightly.

Marie nodded glumly. They both jumped down from the wall. The stars were twinkling, the moon was shining and the crickets were croaking. Not a dark cloud covered the sky, and so all the stars were out, each tiny and each brilliant in its own little way.

‘Don’t you go without giving me a hug and a kiss,’ said Marie dangerously. Christopher just laughed.

‘Come here,’ he laughed, and the two lifelong friends embraced. He kissed her on the cheek and then they parted.

‘Be careful,’ she whispered.

Marie was crying again. Chris hadn’t cried for months … possibly years, and though he felt a quiet urge to weep he knew he would not.

‘I’ll phone you,’ whispered Chris gently, ‘tomorrow night, when I’ll be in London. I love you.’

And then Marie uttered something that would stay in Christopher Nelson’s memory and mind and heart until he died.

‘Don’t forget me, Chris.’

‘I couldn’t,’ responded Chris simply. Then he turned and walked away. He slipped into darkness so that the streetlights no longer outlined him.

Marie stood watching the way he had gone even when she could see all down that street was dark and there wasn’t a sign or sound or scent of him. Then Marie jumped up onto the wall again and sat alone for two hours.

That was the last time she’d see Chris until that day.