Nightmares held me in its grip. I was in a vast bank standing in line with other patrons. They wore heavy wool coats over fine suits. The sun streamed through the windows and lit golden streaks on the marble floor. The floor was large enough to be a dance stage.
Gilt coated ushers led customers forward to the cages or desks. Security guards stood near the doors chatting with both people and patrons.
Giant portraits of the founders on the walls glared down at us. They had unhappily relinquished control of our pounds and shillings only in death.
Men in morning suits and tails wandered in from the Stock Exchange and Lords from Lloyds of London made their appearance. It was a microcosm of English life; I saw tweed countrywomen and high society models. It was first day of business after a three-day holiday and the bank was busy.
Waiting my turn, I was aware when the four men in a group entered. Not because of anything, they did or said or wore but simply felt something wrong. I turned to look and saw that they were four ordinary blokes carrying suitcases and set them down behind the umbrella stand, left them and walked out.
The people in front of me shifted their feet and stepped on me. He turned round to apologize and I saw it was the police officer, Van Gilder and with him were Tom and Cammy.
I shouted. No one moved. Went back to the four cases and opened one. Inside was a mess of circuitry and a timer. Ticking.
Everything blew apart, people screaming, pieces of metal, wood, bodies flying everywhere.
I woke up, a sprawl on the steps, my entire body frozen, stiff and aching. I didn’t go back to Tom’s. I stayed on the streets, sleeping in cubbies, abandoned buildings, and subways. Each night was the same nightmare trying to find the name of the bank and where it was.
I reasoned that if I left the city, even England, I might be able to prevent the bombing from happening. If I wasn’t there, it wouldn’t occur or so I told myself. I wasn’t someone else in this dream, I was clearly me.
I wasn’t eating; my liquids consisted of drinking out of public water fountains and from spigots in the Park. I had worn the same clothes for a week and smelled awful. When I did fall asleep, it was in snatches of thirty minutes on park benches, public restrooms, and bus kiosks.
I had just sunk into a stupor when someone’s arm snuggled up under my neck and lifted me. I woke; groggy and disoriented as I was rolled into the back seat of a car and belted in.
“Seen him this past week, DI. Been wandering about. Sneaks off before I could catch him. You know him?” The voices were over my head and I thought it was a dream, waited patiently to see where it led.
“I know him. He ran off a week ago, and he’s been missing since. His family’s frantic. Poor kid, he looks knackered. Bit of a rough.”
“Who is he?”
“Son of Tom Watson. Adopted.”
“Tom Watson! What’d he run off for? Abuse?”
“No. Watson swears he don’t know why. Kid’s never been in trouble. I couldn’t find any paper on him.”
“You taking him home?”
“No. Watson’s meeting me at the Bailey Building.”
I felt a mild frisson of unease run up my spine and I must have made a noise because one of them touched me on the face. “You awake, Aidan? I thought he said something.”
I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless void that pulled me under as if someone had grabbed my ankles and heaved.
Sharp voices dragged me back. It seemed as if I’d only been asleep for minutes yet the sky had lightened past dawn; there was a distinct chill in the air. A tall man was leaning over me and shook me awake. A scratchy wool blanket had been tossed around me and snuggled up to my chin. Seat belted, lap belted, I was secure in the back of a police cruiser.
The blonde Detective Inspector was trying to wake me; his blue eyes looked as weary as my own. “You awake, Aidan? Tom and his missus are meeting us here to speak to the Magistrate about you. Why did you run away?”
I looked beyond him and saw the building I’d seen in my dreams and paled. “Please,” I begged. “Don’t make me go in there. Don’t go in. There’s a bomb. Four of them.”
“Bomb! What bomb?” he asked sharply. “How do you know?”
“Is Tom in there now?” I yelled and saw from his face the answer. I unbuckled, pushed him out of the way, ran inside past the gilt coated ushers, the armed security guards, and saw Tom and Cammy standing with a woman from Protective Services. Swiveled and looked for the cases. Not there yet.
Tom saw me and started forward. I growled, yelled at him to run and saw the first of them coming through the doors.
I ran forward snatching the first case and smashed it into his companion’s knees taking two more down.
The Detective Inspector had reached the floor searching for me midst the chaos. I was screaming BOMB! at the top of my lungs and people were running willy-nilly for the doors and cover.
I heard gunshots; two of the four had made it to their feet and were hurrying out. The other two had pulled out weapons and were shooting at anything that moved.
I threw the case at the tallest one and he aimed at me, a look of horror on his face as the suitcase hit him in the chest. It didn’t go off, thank God but knocked him out.
I was able to grab the last case and run for the door when something smacked me in the back and sent me into a slide. I saw the case go past me into the street, bounce on the curb and down the sewer.
Seconds later, the grate exploded upwards and chunks of macadam just missed me.
I felt curiously light, detached. Heard klaxons from far away, the rumbling of the ground beneath me and people rushed by, dropping to their knees near me.
Someone rolled me over, voices called my name. I opened heavy eyes, tried to speak and found my mouth filled with coppery tasting fluid. Tom, Cammy and the Dutch DI knelt near me. Cammy had my head in her lap; her face was tearing and darkened by soot.
“You promised, Aidan,” she sobbed. “You promised. Don’t leave us.”
“Ambulance is coming, Tom,” said the DI. “Roll him over; let me put pressure on it. Aidan, how did you know?”
He rolled me on my side and pulled cloth from Tom’s jacket, wadded it and pushed against my shoulder blades. It hurt and I cried out, gurgled as my throat filled.
“Did anyone die?” I choked and felt a chill creeping up my limbs.
“No one, Aidan. You diverted the bombs so only one went off. The guards shot the bombers. You knocked one out. I shot the one who shot you.”
“He shot me?” my voice was fading.
“Yes, Aidan. They were Irish extremists bombing the Bailey to protest the new peace talks, confederates of Islamic terrorists. Aidan, can you hear me?”
His voice was fading away. Tom spoke, “Aidan, please don’t die. I don’t want this, Aidan. Aidan---.”
No light this time, no Ned to hold my hand, no sense of peace or warmth just a cold, dark slide into the abyss of time’s river. I was drowning and surrendered without a single stroke of protest.