‘Stop moving!’ Bronze Commander tells the counterterrorism firearms officers.
Victor Deakin is inside the pottery room.
He’s looking out of the window, dressed in grey. He must have predicted that CTSFOs would be deployed; so even if he was spotted people would assume he was one of them. But he wasn’t spotted. He left Old School as soon as the children and teachers ran to the theatre, went through the woods and then used the cover of the bomb – the noise and flames and shock, everybody’s eyes turned towards the explosion – to get inside the pottery room.
Rose is explaining what he did to try to deflect her mind from what she’s seeing, but her body shakes violently with the horror of it. Because what chance do they have to save any of the children now? Two men with guns that fire fifty bullets in three seconds; what chance for the children and their brave, indefatigable teacher?
‘There’s something moving,’ Amaal says, looking at the feed from the first police UAV. ‘Look …’
Through the snow and black smoke from the burning theatre, trees in the woods seem to be moving.
‘Jesus, it’s kids with trees …’ Rose says.
‘How many?’ Thandie asks.
‘Fifty? More? Must be all of them. Must be.’
* * *
There’s a long line of them, students and teachers, and another line behind them, and Daphne feels tremendously, wonderfully proud of them all.
Whose idea was it? Daphne can’t remember. It feels like it was everyone’s idea, or at least when whoever it was suggested it everybody had grabbed hold of the idea and made it their own. They’d gone backstage and taken the saplings that were Birnam Wood. And then they’d left the theatre, holding their trees in front of them, walking through the snow to try to help the children in the pottery room. A minute later, a huge explosion behind them and they’d carried on walking, their ears ringing, the force of the blast rippling the trees; black smoke billowing around them, stinging their eyes and throats.
She tries to resist quoting from Shakespeare, that really wouldn’t be helpful right now, Daphne. The last thing Frank needs, walking next to her, is a dose of Shakespeare at this point. Luisa is the other side of him and next to her is Benny and then Zac, and on the line goes, child after child; Tobias at the back, headphones on, marching too. She thinks about it though, the soldiers marching at the end of Macbeth, camouflaged with branches, Birnam Wood marching to Dunsinane Hill: good triumphing over evil. And really, is there any better image of goodness and courage than kids carrying saplings against bullets?
* * *
Up until a few minutes ago the children in the pottery room hadn’t questioned Camille’s game of house because for seven-year-olds playing is totally natural, pretending interchangeable with reality.
But then a man with a gun came in.
He is sitting, lolling almost, on one of the tables, their roof, and underneath Camille can hear them crying and whimpering and she’s livid with an anger she’s never felt before, white-hot rage, that this man can frighten children who have just made clay cats, dogs and a guinea pig for a make-believe house. This rage burns everything else away, so that all she is left with is love for the children and that is all that matters.
She has asked him, begged him, to let the children go. He didn’t even look at her, let alone reply; as if he has nothing human at all inside him.
She looks out of the window to the man outside with the balaclava, his gun pointed at them. She’s done this so many times, hoping to see police running to their rescue, but even if they are coming it’s too late now.
Through the thick snow and smoke, she can see the flames from the theatre, far away.
The woods are moving through the snow and smoke. She blinks.
Trees are moving.
It can’t be. The gunman lolling on the table has noticed because he gets up and shouts something at the gunman in the balaclava.
* * *
Watching the feed from the police UAV, Rose and her team see Victor Deakin coming out of the pottery room and he must say something to Jamie Alton because Jamie Alton turns. For a moment both men, holding their guns, are turned away from the children in the pottery room and towards the woods, looking through the snow and smoke at the kids and teachers they think are dead. The armed counterterrorism officers fire, killing them both.
* * *
Camille bends down and looks at the terrified children under the tables, her knees shaking as she crouches.
‘You can come out of your house now. You’re safe.’
She opens the door of the pottery room, with children clustered around her; all of them seem to be holding on to a part of her – her hands, her cardigan sleeves, her gilet. Anna is holding tightly to her skirt. Davy, his face tear-streaked, holds on to her wrist because her hands are already taken.
Police and men in grey uniforms are running towards the children, their hair and uniforms covered in snow and ash, and she sees that one of the men in grey is crying.
Beyond them in the woods, students and teachers are putting down small trees. She recognizes children that she’s taught, Hannah and Frank and Tobias, and more police are with them; she spots Daphne and Matthew’s secretary and Old School’s receptionist.
The ambulance people have blankets that they wrap around the children and someone puts a blanket around her too, and she thinks it’s not so much that she’s cold, although she is suddenly terribly, terribly cold, but that it’s symbolic of something good but she doesn’t have the energy any more to think or even to stand.
* * *
Rafi has crawled halfway across the car park towards the boatshed. He cannot feel his hands or his knees in the snow as he crawls, just the pain in his leg from the shrapnel. As he gets close to the shed, he thinks someone is watching him, following him to Basi; hatred wearing an anorak and cracking twigs, hunting them down.
He waits for the heavy snow to fill in his tracks, so that he won’t bring danger to Basi.
A little while ago, he got a text from Hannah.
We have left theatre. We r Birnam wood marching 2 Dunsinane. U were right about trees. Love u
A few minutes later he heard a huge explosion in the distance. But they were all out, they were in the woods. Safe. And then he heard shots. The police. Surely the police.
He looks around the car park, but the snow is too thick to see anything further than a foot away and the gusting wind camouflages all other sounds with its own.
* * *
He’s crying and his legs are shaking and he just wants Rafi. He can’t ever have Baba and Karam and maybe not Mama, not ever again, so he just wants Rafi; wants his arms around him, holding him tightly. But he fed his animals in his phone and he didn’t tell Rafi where he is. He’s stupid and he wees himself at night and Rafi’s wrong, he’s not brave as Basi Bukhari because Basi Bukhari isn’t brave at all.
He hears a quiet rat-a-TAT-tat, rat-a-TAT-tat; so quiet he thinks he’s imagining it. Then he hears it again rat-a-TAT-tat, rat-a-TAT-tat.
He gets out of the boat, feeling his way towards the door. He’s bumping into things and once he trips but he gets to the door; he feels on the door for the rusty, creaky bolt and he finds it and then he pulls it back and opens the door.
Rafi’s here!
Rafi comes inside and shuts the door and it’s dark again; and in the dark he can feel Rafi’s arms around him and he’s all covered in snow.