After just a couple of minutes, a second door opened. A policeman on the other side, his hand still on the door handle, leaned in. His posture indicated Myles should come through, and the wardens nodded to confirm that Myles should go. So Myles stood up and walked towards the door.
He was in the dock of Paddington Green Magistrate’s court.
Myles turned to his left, to an audience which had clearly reacted to his appearance. It was the public gallery: journalists were frantically scribbling in notebooks, and a few others were scowling in contempt. One looked like he was from East Africa, a middle-aged gentleman whose expressions made clear he despised Myles.
Then Myles saw Helen. She waved, desperate to make contact with him. Myles raised his hand in return. From her face, Myles could tell she still believed he was innocent. He wished he could hug her, but the policeman standing beside him and a solid partition made it impossible.
Helen silently mouthed the words: ‘I love you!’
Myles smiled back, relieved she stood by him.
The judge sitting directly in front of Myles cleared her throat. The dignified wrinkles on her face frowned and her eyes turned down to her desk. It was an indication that Myles’ attitude — smiling and nodding to people in the public gallery — was not acceptable. Myles was too relaxed.
He tried to look serious. He straightened his back, and prepared himself for the judge’s word. ‘Mr Munro, this is a magistrates’ court,’ explained the judge, labouring her words. ‘You have been brought here because a crime has occurred and there is important evidence to indicate you were involved.’
The judge paused to see if Myles would react. Myles remained still. He let the judge continue. ‘Therefore, for the purposes of this hearing, I would like you to confirm for me your name: are you Myles Adlai Munro?’
Myles rocked his head forward in confirmation.
‘Mr Munro, if you wish to confirm your name, please say “yes” or “yes, I am”.’
‘Yes, I am Myles Adlai Munro.’
The judge looked down at the papers on her desk before continuing. ‘And do you live in Pembroke Street, Oxford?’
‘Yes, I do,’ replied Myles, trying to comply.
‘Accommodation which I believe belongs to the university?’ She raised her voice at the end, turning the statement into a question.
‘Yes, it does.’
‘Thank you, Mr Munro.’ The magistrate paused again. The court paused with her. It hung on her words.
After half a minute of silence, the judge leant forward and spoke directly to Myles. ‘Mr Munro, you are being held under the 2006 Anti-Terrorism Act. Under the terms of that legislation, you may be held for up to fourteen days without being charged. So far you have been held for only one day. That means you may be held for a further thirteen days before a formal charge is brought…’
Myles could see Helen fuming with fury: the woman magistrate was describing Myles’ detention nightmare as if it were a matter of arithmetic.
Myles saw the rest of the public gallery react too. The journalists were wondering what was going to happen next, while the middle-aged African seemed to be bent double in some form of hysteria.
The judge addressed Myles again and he sensed his court appearance was already coming towards its end. ‘And so, Mr Munro, I recommend that you be held in further custody while the evidence against you is investigated in greater depth.’
Myles spoke back. ‘Can I know what the evidence is?’
The judge checked her answer with an official before she gave it. ‘I can assure you, Mr Munro, that the evidence is significant. At the appropriate time, you will be told more about the evidence against you. But under the terms of the legislation, the investigating authority is not required to divulge its evidence before charges have been brought and an arrest made. You, Mr Munro, have not yet been arrested.’
‘So, I’m not under arrest?’
‘No, Mr Munro. You have been detained.’
Myles was about to query the distinction between arrest and detention, but he was distracted by Helen. She mouthed the word ‘lawyer’ to him. Myles picked it up. ‘And will I be allowed a lawyer?’ he asked.
The female magistrate consulted with her official again, this time in more detail.
Myles was turning back towards Helen to thank her for the cue when he saw the middle-aged African man had pulled a long, thin bag from the floor and was lifting it towards him.
Something about the man’s face scared Myles. Something was wrong.
It was then Myles realised the man was holding an automatic rifle, and was about to fire.
Thirty-Three
The officials couldn’t believe what was happening. Men in legal gowns stared at the weapon, wondering whether it was real. Journalists in the public gallery froze, completely unsure how to react. Even the men responsible for security in the courtroom were too surprised to respond properly. Was it really a gun?
Hardly anyone in the room had seen a real-life weapon fired before, and only one of them had had a gun pointed at him. That man was Myles.
The sight of the rifle triggered a deep instinctive reaction which bypassed the slow but rational thought processes in Myles’ mind. Myles’ muscles automatically pulled down his head, just as a loud burst of bullets flew towards him. His time in warzones may have cursed him with some peculiar form of post-traumatic stress disorder. But they had also imprinted a reflexive response to danger. That instant reaction had just saved his life.
The first volley of bullets embedded in the defendant’s dock above him, showering splinters and other debris. Myles cowered while the tatters of wood burst down.
As soon as the gunfire stopped, the courtroom was filled with screams and panic. Chairs were kicked over in a stampede to escape. People began shouting. Confusion clattered all around. Myles immediately thought of Helen, and hoped she would be able to find a safe way out.
But Myles also understood he was the target. The second volley of fire hit the defendant’s stand where Myles was crouching. Its thick wood warped and holes appeared as bullets flew through. The policeman beside Myles was hit — and immediately slumped to the ground.
Myles pushed the policeman’s limp body away and rolled through the door behind him, out into the waiting room where he had been just a few minutes before. There he moved past the lift, keeping his head and torso low in case the gunman had a clear line of sight.
Myles had half a second to contemplate what next before another burst of gunfire removed the choice.
Instinctively, he ran down the corridor, following it fast, wherever it led. He turned a corner to find himself moving into another part of the building.
Myles could only wonder what was happening in the courtroom. An alert had been sounded. Myles guessed it was the alarm for an escaped prisoner, since the court couldn’t have a pre-assigned signal for a gun in the public gallery.
The security officials in the magistrate’s hearing had not been armed. Their large physical presence was meant to be sufficient deterrent against the usual disturbances. But size and weight would mean nothing against this gunman. And if nobody in the building had a gun, how would the man be stopped?
Myles continued sprinting along the corridor. He bumped into a policeman who was emerging, confused, from his office. He ran on, towards two court officials who were blocking his way, too scared to move. ‘Let me through…’ he shouted as he ran.