She cleared up the living room, set the alarm, put Ziggy in the kitchen. Routines. Then she went to bed, promising herself that if she couldn’t doze off, she’d get up and read or something. It didn’t matter; she’d no work in the morning. She felt so tired, as though she’d not enough blood in her any more, insubstantial. She closed her eyes. And slept.
Mike
Mike’s first thought was that it was a movie. Someone making a film. The guy stepping out of the Beemer, raising his arm. The retort of the weapon cutting through the traffic noise, through Joe Strummer’s snarling vocals and the thrash of guitars. You saw plenty of filming in the city. Granada Studios were in town. Only a couple of miles or so from here. They used locations for Coronation Street, for other programmes they made. The Town Hall was popular – it doubled as the Houses of Parliament inside – all the marble pillars and stone stairways, elaborate ceilings and mullioned windows. They’d filmed across the way from Mike’s one time. An episode of Cracker, Robbie Coltrane, the big man himself, playing the police shrink, criminal profiler they called it. Coltrane had to knock on this door and when it opened he stepped inside. All morning they’d filmed. Mike had to move his van round the corner out of the way. The little street was chocker with cables and flight cases and the crew. Must have been twenty people milling around. Coltrane did his move again, and again. Up to the door, knocking, stepping inside. Mike grew bored after a while but Vicky was fascinated. She watched from their upstairs bedroom window. Circle seats. Working out what all the crew’s jobs were. Mike left for work. He had to wait for a signal from a guy in a knee-length bubble coat and headset before he could walk down the road to get his van. In case his shadow or his footsteps or something spoiled the shot.
So that was Mike’s first thought: a film. But there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach like he knew before he’d even thought it through. No vans or cables, no UNIT signs on the lampposts, no clusters of make-up artists or technicians. No camera.
The lad crossing the grass, he had his back to the man with the gun. Mike wanted to call out, the word rose in his throat. NO! A warning to the lad or a plea to the shooter. The word died on his lips as the lad was jolted, spun a quarter turn then, arms flailing, fell. Lay twitching.
Mike slammed on his brakes, felt the seat belt bite his shoulder, hauled the wheel over to the left and mounted the pavement. Earning a blast on the horn from the car in his wake. He killed the engine and The Clash cut out mid-beat.