Peter Robinson - All the Colors of Darkness

“I’m okay,” said Banks. “I’m a policeman. I can help.” He reached for his warrant card.

The man had a good look at it, and Banks was sure he memorized the name.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man said, guiding him away. “There’s nothing you can do here without the right equipment. It’s too dangerous. Did you see what happened?”

“No,” said Banks. “I was on Great Marlborough Street. I heard the explosion and came up to see if I could help.”

“Leave it to the pros now, mate. And as long as you’re sure you’re all right, the best thing you can do is go home, leave the medics for the ones who really need them.”

Down Regent Street, Banks could see the massed fire engines, police cars, ambulances and armed response vehicles, and the street swarmed with uniforms. The barriers were up already and the whole area had been cordoned off as far down as Conduit Street. He was glad that he could at least breathe now as he stumbled past the barricades into the stunned group of onlookers.

“What happened, mate?” someone asked.

“Bomb, innit?” answered someone else. “Stands to reason. Fucking terrorists.”

Banks just walked on through the crowds, oblivious to the questions, back the way he had come, he couldn’t say how long ago. At first, right in the thick of it with the body parts, the human torches, viscous smoke and walking wounded, time had seemed to slow almost to a halt; but now, when he turned and looked back up Regent Street toward the chaos, he felt as if it had been all over in a flash, a subliminal moment. The emergency rescue worker had been right; there was nothing more he could do. He would only get in the way. He had never felt so useless in his life, and the last thing he wanted to be here was a voyeur. He wondered how the blind Asian woman was doing, and the young blonde with her lapdog and Selfridges bag.

The chaos and carnage faded into the background the closer he got to Piccadilly Circus. He didn’t know where he was going now, or care, only that he was moving away from it. His breathing had almost returned to normal, but his eyes still stung. People gawped at him as he passed by, everyone aware now that something serious had happened nearby, even if they hadn’t heard it themselves. You could still see the smoke spiraling up from Oxford Circus beyond the elegant curved facade of Regent Street, its smell polluting the sweet summer air.

When Banks got past Piccadilly Circus, he knew what he wanted. A bloody drink. Or two. He made his way up Shaftesbury Avenue and turned into Soho, his old stomping ground from the early days on the Met, and finally tottered into an old pub on Dean Street he remembered from years back. It hadn’t changed much. The bar was full, and even the smokers had come back inside to watch the breaking news coverage on the large-screen TV in the back. It had probably only been used to show football before, Banks thought, but now it showed images of the carnage around Oxford Circus, less than a mile away. It was all so unreal to Banks, seeing on the large screen what he had just been a part of only minutes ago. Another world. Another place. That was what it usually was, wasn’t it? Didn’t these things happen somewhere else? Darfur. Kenya. Zimbabwe. Iraq. Chechnya. Not just up the bloody road. The barman was watching the television, too, but when he saw Banks, he went back to his position behind the bar.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What happened to you, mate? You look like you’ve just... Oh, bloody hell. You have, haven’t you?”

Other people were glancing over at Banks now, some pulling their neighbors’ sleeves or tapping their arms and muttering. Banks nodded.

“Whatever you want, mate, it’s on the house,” said the barman.

Banks wanted two things. He wanted a pint to slake his thirst and a double brandy to steady his nerves. He said he’d pay for one of them but the barman wouldn’t have any of it.

“If I was you, mate,” he said, “I’d pay a quick visit to the gents first. It’s just behind you. You’ll feel better if you clean yourself up a bit.”

Banks took a quick gulp of beer and pushed the wooden door. Like most toilets in London pubs, it wasn’t much of a place; the urinals were stained ochre and stank of piss, but there was a mirror above the cracked sink. One look was enough. His face was smudged black with smoke, his eyes two staring holes in the darkness. The front of his white shirt was burned and smeared with blood and God knew what else. Luckily, his wind cheater wasn’t too bad. It was dirty, but then it was navy blue to start with, so it didn’t show the stains too badly, and his jeans were just singed and tarry. He didn’t even want to think what was on the bottom of his shoes.

About all he could do for the moment, he realized, was a bit of cosmetic work, give his face a good wash and try to cover up his shirt, which he did by zipping up his jacket almost to the collar. He got the water running good and hot, squirted some liquid soap onto his hands and did the best he could. In the end, he managed to get most of the dirt off, but he couldn’t do anything about the look in his eyes.

“That’s better, mate,” said the barman.

Banks thanked him and drained his pint. When he put his glass down and started working, more slowly, on the brandy, the barman filled up his pint glass again without asking. Banks also watched him pour a large whiskey for himself.

“Suicide car bomber, they think,” the barman said, gesturing over toward the television set, to which the other customers were still glued. “That’s a new one on me. Pulled out of Great Portland Street into Oxford Street, just shy of the Circus. Makes sense. You can’t park around there, and only buses and taxis can drive on Oxford Street. Bastards. They always find a way.”

“How many injured?” Banks asked.

“They don’t know for sure yet. Twenty-four dead and about the same seriously injured is the latest count. But that’s conservative. You were there, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Right in the thick of it?”

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

Banks took a sip of brandy.

“Sorry. I should know better than to ask,” said the barman. “I’ve seen my share. Ex-para. Northern Ireland. For my sins.” He stuck out his hand. “Joe Geldard’s the name, by the way.”

Banks shook hands. “Good to meet you, Joe Geldard,” he said. “Alan Banks. And thank you for everything.”

“It’s nothing, mate. How you feeling?”

Banks drank some more brandy. He noticed that his hand was still shaking. His left hand was slightly burned, he saw for the first time, but he couldn’t feel any pain yet. It didn’t look too bad. “Much better for this,” he said, hoisting his brandy glass. “I’ll be all right.”

Joe Geldard moved to the end of the bar to keep an eye on the TV with the rest. Banks was left alone. For the first time, his mind managed to focus a little, come to grips with what had just happened, unbelievable as it still seemed.

Apparently, a terrorist suicide bomber had set off a car bomb just around the corner from where he’d been walking. And if he hadn’t decided that the crowds on Regent Street were too much and turned onto Great Marlborough Street at the time he did, he would have walked down Oxford Street, and who knows what might have happened to him. It wasn’t courage that had driven him into the flames, he knew, just blind instinct, despite nearly dying in a house fire himself not so many years ago.

He thought about Brian and Tomasina. They would be fine. Both were taking the underground from Piccadilly Circus. They might find themselves unable to get a train if the service had been shut down quickly enough, but apart from that, they’d be fine. He would phone both of them later, when he’d got himself together, just to make sure. It also entered his head that they might be worried about him, too.