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“What’s going on?” Cress whispers.
I shake my head, then reach for the phone I had silenced and shoved into my pocket when we arrived.
A string of French-Canadian curses rolls out from JL. We all stare as he wipes his forehead. In fact, the whole of the crowd in the restaurant stare at the unfamiliar words. He waves his mobile to indicate he’s already got news.
Chest heaving, he chokes out, ““The police are reporting car bombs. Pain creases his face. “A coordinated attack in four places—Notting Hill, Lambeth, Clerkenwell, and Canary Wharf.”
Ian and I exchange looks. One of them must have been close by, and our shared house is down the street, on the other side of St. John Square. My stomach threatens to move north, and I gag. The phone I turned on drops to the table with a clatter. Cress squeezes my hand.
“How bad is it?” I croak, my mouth so dry the words hiss out.
JL and Ian’s eyes flick back and forth as they scroll on their mobiles.
“Looks like the bombs were small and mostly damaged cars and the façades of the buildings. No one reported injured. Yet.” JL’s comment is matter-of-fact.
I can deal with property damage. Tightness in my chest recedes. I loosen my tie slightly and unbutton the top button of my shirt. “Any more info coming through?”
JL shakes his head no.
Ian connects to some government database. “Yeah. Half a ‘mo.”
We watch as he continues to listen to whoever is feeding him information,
Allan escorts his “date” out, then moves toward our table, seemingly taken aback that Yavuz has gone. “What happened to Arslan?”
Dad regards him curiously, but doesn’t ask questions. “His brother texted him as we were finishing the main meal and asked him to meet at Victoria Station. We stayed on for afters.”
Allan takes this in, then slowly reveals what he has learned. “Coordinated attacks, but otherwise bloody incompetent if the goal was to blow up anything in the Clerkenwell blast. There is a whacking great hole in the middle of the street in front of your house and several damaged and destroyed cars, including a Bugatti and a Smart Car. Either of them yours?”
Ian and I shake our heads no. We don’t keep cars in London. Bloody nuisance with the traffic and the lack of parking. Walking and public transport are fine, along with the occasional taxi or Uber. We drive for fun, not a grind.
JL gives a sad chuckle. “Sad about the Bugatti, but the Smart Car, well, you know what I think of those tiny coffins, Max.”
I let out the snort heard ’round the world, but I sober at visions of gaping holes and twisted metal. Sirens from emergency services shriek through the streets.
Ian’s fist bangs against the table as he shuts down his mobile. “Bugger. Fuck. Goddamn bloody terrorists.”
We sit in silence, watching my rock of a sibling break down.
My voice a harsh squeal, I say, “You said no one died.”
His face twists with pain. “Not in Clerkenwell. Two pedestrians injured and taken to hospital. Several people at Canary Wharf wounded by flying pieces of metal. One dead in Notting Hill.”
JL follows up. “And Lambeth?”
“Bomb didn’t go off. Fortunately. The car was right outside the palace.” Ian essays a smile but can only manage a rictus.
“The archbishop is visiting Canterbury, I believe.” Allan’s pedantic monotone informs us.
“Yes, he left this morning,” Les states definitely.
“I’ve been there for the library.”
We all swivel to stare at Cress.
Her voice holds a note of apology. “Sorry. Felt I needed to say something.” After a long pause, she adds sheepishly, “but I had nothing appropriate to the situation.”
After word of the bombings, the restaurant empties amid nervous chatter, and we are at one of the few occupied tables. The management brings us complimentary brandies. Cress and Mum plump for Calvados and the rest of us sip Martell XO. Allan has pushed in another chair and is sitting next to Dad.
