But it was none of this that chilled Andy’s soul and made him want to retch. It was what he saw further down the woman’s body. She had obviously been pregnant. Her abdomen had spilled open and he could quite clearly see — bloodied and contorted but quite distinct — the figure of her unborn child.
It took a split second for Andy to take all this in. A split second to yank his gaze away as a terrible nausea suddenly overcame him, accompanied by a curious sense of shame, as though he had looked at something that should never be looked at. He realised why none of the older hands from the press corps had joined him.
‘If you’re going to chuck up,’ the same policeman who had warned him away from the stretcher called to him, ‘don’t do it near us, eh?’
Andy took a deep breath and tried to settle himself. ‘They, er.. they found any survivors?’ he asked, more to keep his mind off the sickness than anything else.
The two policemen glanced at each other. ‘They’ll brief you when there’s anything to know,’ the copper replied, before looking back over the cordon. ‘You might want to move along now. There’s another stretcher coming.’
Andy looked over towards it. Two more paramedics, one more body. He could see its outline, but he couldn’t bear to look any closer. He nodded at the policemen and started staggering back towards the press pack. The image of that woman and her unborn baby was burned into his mind. He knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life.
As he approached the others, his cameraman came running up to him. ‘TX in two, Andy. Jesus, mate… you all right?’
Andy didn’t answer. He had to get his head together. Formulate the words of his upcoming broadcast in his mind. Settle himself.
Easier said than done.
He was still pale and nauseous as he stood between the cameraman and the cordon, a radio mike clipped to his lapel. The words he had cobbled together tumbled from his wind-bitten lips.
‘At approximately twenty past five this afternoon, an explosion is thought to have taken place here on the Bristol to London line.’
The image of the baby flashed in front of his mind, and he stumbled. The cameraman made a rolling gesture with his right arm to encourage him to keep talking. Andy took a deep breath.
‘Although the authorities have yet to make a statement regarding the source of the explosion, there seems little doubt that it is linked to almost identical events that occurred at the same time on the outskirts of Washington DC, Paris and Delhi.’
He paused, so that live feeds showing scenes of similar devastation across the globe could be transmitted into the living rooms of the country: daytime in Washington, still night everywhere else, but chaos and calamity and weeping no matter what the hour. In Paris, the camera cut to the sight of a screaming young child being restrained by her tear-sodden mother, clearly howling for a loved one — perhaps her father — on the wrecked train. The journalist could only hear the sounds through his earpiece, and not see the images. He was thankful for that.
‘Paramedics have been combing through the wreckage for a little more than an hour,’ the young journalist continued, his voice wavering a little. ‘So far, the only passengers I have seen have been… have been dead.’
He paused.
‘As we stand here,’ he continued, his voice a little quieter than before, ‘relatives of the passengers on the 16.55 are beginning to gather in a neighbouring field, anxious for news of their…’
He felt his voice cracking.
He turned, and looked back towards the train. The floodlights. The neon blue. The smoke.
The woman.
The child.
He tried again. ‘Anxious for news of their loved…’
But his voice failed him once more, and to his horror he realised he was breaking down live on camera. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, before putting one hand to his forehead. ‘I’m very sorry…’
With these words Andy Carrington walked out of shot, pulling his mike from his lapel. The camera didn’t follow him. Instead it kept itself firmly focused on the train. The cameraman could see that Andy was not in a state to talk to the nation, and some sights, after all, need no words to accompany them.
Albany Manor was a grand estate in rural Buckinghamshire, surrounded by acres of woodland and boasting its own chapel, paddocks and enough outbuildings to house a small village. The phone calls had started a minute after the blast and were still continuing. Alistair Stratton had declined to take any of them.
Stratton’s PA, Christopher Wheatly, was an eager young man who hoped one day to go into politics himself. This was why he was willing, despite his trust fund and his lofty sense of entitlement, to suck up to the one-time British PM turned Middle East peace envoy. The outside world saw in Alistair Stratton a man of charm, a man whose conviction was obvious even to those who disagreed with him. Wheatly knew a different person: a person of quick temper and obstinacy, small-minded in many ways and a difficult man to like. When the White House came on the line at 20.10 hrs UK time, Wheatly knocked on the door of his boss’s office.
‘Come.’
Stratton was standing in front of a painting to which an entire wall of the office was devoted. Wheatly knew nothing about art — it wasn’t his thing — but he did know that this particular painting, a hellish scene of burning buildings and dead bodies, was by Hieronymus Bosch and had been acquired anonymously at a Berlin auction for the sum of twelve million euros.
Stratton gave the young PA a crushing look when he announced that Washington wanted to speak to him. ‘I said no calls. You do understand what “no calls” means?’
Wheatly felt himself blushing. ‘I just thought you… you might want to speak to the White House… they’re jolly keen to…’
But Stratton just walked over to his desk, took a seat and picked up a folder. Wheatly caught sight of an ornate, monogrammed ‘G’ on the front of the folder as he stood there awkwardly. After a few seconds, Stratton looked up, seemingly surprised that he was still there. ‘No calls,’ he said.
Wheatly was learning fast. Not only that the private personas of the powerful were very different to their public images, but also that the powerful were not always the first people to get their hands on the choicest information. He was astonished when, just after nine o’clock, the TV coverage had been interrupted for breaking news, delivered by a breathless reporter standing at the crash site.
‘The BBC has learned that a small militant Palestinian group, the Union for Free Palestine, has claimed responsibility for the attacks. The UFP is loyal to the Palestinian administration, Hamas. So far Hamas have declined comment.’
How had the press had this information before Stratton, the Middle East peace envoy?
As the evening wore on, Wheatly grew increasingly ragged — not on account of the TV footage of the train attacks — but from the long hours of refusing phone calls from the most powerful people in the world. He was no shrinking violet, but the aides in Washington, London and Tel Aviv gave such withering responses to his inability to put his boss on the line that it was starting to get him down. That and Stratton’s steadfast silence. With the exception of the short statement he dictated for Wheatly to release to the press wires when the news about the UFP came through, it almost felt as if Stratton was cocooning himself away from the outside world.
At 11.30 a communique from London informed Wheatly that an American amphibious warfare vessel, Wasp class — currently on anti-piracy duty in the Gulf of Aden — was heading north into the Red Sea. A ‘precautionary measure in the light of the day’s events’, Washington was telling the media, glossing over the fact that the ship carried a full complement of marines, a squadron of Harrier II ground-attack aircraft and an air group of personnel helicopters. Stratton seemed barely to register the information when his PA announced it. ‘Sir, you know what this means… the Americans are mobilising…’ he had started to say. ‘The British won’t be far behind… the Foreign Office need to speak to you…’ But his boss shooed him away with a flick of his left hand.