Brixton Beach - Softcover

Roma Tearne is a Sri Lankan-born, Oxford-based artist, film-maker and writer. She trained as a painter, completing her MA at the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art, Oxford, UK. Her debut novel, Mosquito, was shortlisted for the 2007 Costa Book Awards First Novel prize and the LA Times First Fiction Prize. The Swimmer was longlisted for the Orange Prize in 2011 and Asian Man Booker in 2012.

There are police everywhere. From a distance it is the first
thing he sees. Even before he hears the noise of sirens, the screams.
Even before the BBC team appears. Acid-green jackets move grimly
about, directing the traffic, securing blue-and-white tape, herding
people away. That’s what he sees. A red, double-decker bus stands
parked at an odd angle, black smoke pouring out of its windows.
There is glass everywhere. His feet crunch on it and he notices shards
glinting dangerously in the light. His first thought is, Someone might
cut themselves; his second is, There must have been a fire.
‘Move along, please, clear the path,’ the policeman shouts, roughly.
He pushes several people back with the palms of his hands. Then
he speaks into his radio. There is a smell of sweat and rubber. And
explosives.
‘We need another ambulance over at checkpoint four,’ the policeman
says. ‘Quickly. They’re bringing more out. Have all the hospitals
been alerted?’
‘We need the reinforcements, now!’
‘Yes. They’re on their way.’
‘What happened?’ Simon asks, urgently. ‘Was it a fire?’
His voice is hoarse; his throat has tightened up. There is an even
tighter constriction across his chest. He has been running. All the way
over Lambeth Bridge, along Horseferry Road, up Park Lane towards
Edgware Road. He wanted to go in the opposite direction, towards the
Oval and the house named Brixton Beach. For a moment he had
wavered, wanting to call at the house, knock on its blue-fronted door,
but then he had carried on running. There are no taxis to be had. The
traffic is gridlocked. It will be gridlocked for hours. He should be at work,
he should be at his post, standing by waiting for the admissions, triaging
the flood of casualties, but he has fled, unthinkingly. Never in the whole
of his professional career has he behaved in this irresponsible way. Panic
chokes his voice; fear grips his limbs as he scans the faces in front of him.
‘Clear the path, please.’
The noise of yet another ambulance siren deafens him. He isn’t used
to hearing the sirens from the outside. He is used to the calm of the
operating theatre, the controlled energy of work. Scalpels placed where
they are always placed, nurses ready to second-guess his moves. He is
not used to chaos.
‘Oh my God! Oh God! Look! Look!’ a woman screams.
Her voice goes on and on screaming, making sounds but no sense.
It is only then Simon glances up and sees the bus. Its top has been
completely blown off. Roof, seats, windows, people. Half a bus really,
standing motionless save for the thin wisps of smoke sailing lazily out,
upwards like a kite; into a sky of startling blue. A man in rags with
blackened face and arms walks past holding on to a young boy. Tears
furrow his face leaving rivulets of white flesh. Two new ambulances
edge their way slowly forwards, sirens blasting, driving the onlookers
aside, clearing a path, deafening in intensity, removing all possibility
of speech. Three policewomen stand forming a barrier with their arms
stretched out, faces braced for what they are about to receive. In a
moment the ambulances are swallowed up in the crowd. Simon can
smell burning. As the sirens grow fainter he begins to hear other,
human sounds and he struggles to move forward.
‘Jesus! What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Does anybody know?’
‘Don’t touch them... for God’s sake!’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Mummy!’
A child’s voice with its upwardly rising intonations, distinct and
pure above the cacophony of cries, drifts towards him. The blood
pounds in his head, blurring his eyes, making him nauseous. He was
hot from running, now he is shivering. A motion of a different kind
grips his whole body.
‘Let me through,’ he says. ‘I’m a doctor.’
Inside the blasted double-decker bus, as his eyes focus, he sees that
trapped bodies are burning. Some of them are simply torsos without
heads.
‘I’m a doctor,’ he shouts. ‘Let me through.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, can I see your ID, please?’
The ambulancemen are moving a stretcher and two blood-covered
individuals are helped inside. Simon reaches for his doctor’s pass then
realises he has left the meeting without his jacket. He has nothing. No
ID, no mobile phone, no wallet. If she were trying to reach him she
would not be able to. He has rushed out, knowing ... knowing what?
That he couldn’t wait? That he needs to see for himself?
‘Could you move back, please,’ the policeman says.
His voice is edged with panic, bewildered and with a threat underlying
the calmness in it. The glint of metal on his belt is the firearm he
is prepared to use in case of necessity. Sweat pours down his face as
he answers his radio. He is young, mid-twenties, and what has just
happened is overwhelming him. It will mark him forever.
‘We don’t know what’s going on, sir. We’ve only been told there’s
been a series of explosions. In the underground. Yes, sir.’
But the bus?
‘Al-Qaeda?’ asks another voice, uncertain, shaky, on the verge of
hysteria. A woman’s voice. ‘Oh my God no! Not here, not in Britain?’
‘Don’t know, madam. Not at this stage. Sorry.’
Simon feels weak. He has to get to the entrance of the tube station;
he has to find out what’s actually happened. He needs a mobile phone
desperately. Then he remembers, of course, all his phone numbers are
in his own phone. He can’t remember any of them. So he pushes his
way across the crowds that are gathering and crosses the road, weaving
through the stationary traffic. Another policeman stops him.
‘Sorry, sir, could you step aside, please. This area has been closed
off to the public.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Can I see your ID, then, sir?’
But of course he hasn’t any. Helplessly he is shepherded across the
road, along with a few other onlookers. The sun is exceptionally
strong. There isn’t even a small breeze. It is a morning of tropical
intensity, a day for spending on the beach, perhaps. There are more
sounds as another fleet of ambulances rushes past. The sirens have
hardly stopped since Simon arrived.