Stella Rimington - Rip Tide

A huge answering roar came from the crowd.

Tahira was watching the big screen beside her as the group’s band began to play a heavy bass line accompanied by loud insistent drums. Suddenly from the wings the lead singer, Banditti Kahab, marched on to the stage wearing a white leather miniskirt, stamping her tall, shiny, high-heeled boots in time to the beat. She had huge silver hoop earrings in her ears, silver bangles on her arms, and her hair was brushed out in a lustrous black mane.

The two other Chick Peas now came on to the stage, one in wide-bottomed silk trousers displaying a bare midriff, the other in skintight crops and what looked like a bra made of sequins.

They stood side by side at the front of the stage, waving and smiling at the audience. Then suddenly the band started to play the intro to their hit single and the girls began to sing. Banditti waved to the crowd to join in and the resulting noise was deafening.

Tahira sang too, and glanced over at Malik to see if he was joining in. But he wasn’t singing; he was looking at her. She smiled but he didn’t smile back. She felt uneasy again. What was the matter? As the song ended and the applause died down a bit, she said, ‘That was great, wasn’t it?’

He didn’t reply. A guitar was being tuned before the next song and over Malik’s shoulder, on the screen, Tahira could see Banditti moving around the stage, waiting till the band was ready. Malik said, ‘Listen, I have to go now.’

‘What do you mean, go?’ She couldn’t believe it.

He nodded. She said, ‘So you aren’t enjoying it.’

‘No, no. It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I just have to leave.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why have you got to leave?’

He gave a thin smile. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just trust me.’

‘But where are you going? You’ll never be able to get out in this crush. When will I see you again?’

He looked at her and said, ‘I can’t predict that. But I am sure we will meet again. Maybe not in this world, but certainly in the next one.’

As he said these words, Tahira went cold from head to toe. She stared at him open-mouthed. There was a dreamy look on his face now, as if he was already somewhere else.

She didn’t want to think about that. Instead she said, ‘Why are you talking like this? Why can’t you stay here with me? You wanted to come,’ she added accusingly.

But he wasn’t listening. Malik seemed to be drifting away from her, right before her eyes. She was helpless to call him back.

He said slowly, ‘You are very special, Tahira. Please always remember that I said that. Goodbye.’ And he reached out his hand and touched her lightly on the cheek, then turned and walked away. She watched, mystified, as he headed towards the gates.

Then Malik suddenly changed direction, angling sideways into the back of the crowd. She lost sight of him for a moment, then saw the orange baseball cap bobbing among the excited teenage girls. What was he doing?

And then she realised he was heading for the stage, and suddenly she knew. It had all been a sham. He hadn’t changed his mind about the Chick Peas, or the West, or the evil he seemed to see in everything Tahira enjoyed. He had tricked her, pretending to have changed; he’d used her as cover to get into the concert. He was going to do something terrible.

‘We’ve lost them.’

Lamb’s voice came over the radio just as Fontana pulled up at the back entrance to the park. By coming this way, he’d managed to avoid the worst of the traffic. ‘no access to concert’ read a makeshift notice stuck on the gate. A couple of stewards wearing armbands were directing hopefuls around to the other side of the park.

The radio crackled and Lamb’s voice came through again: ‘Both targets were together outside the entrance gates two minutes ago, but we lost them in the crowd.’

‘Damn!’ said Fontana, banging his hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

‘Come on,’ said Liz. ‘Everyone’s looking for them. Let’s go and help.’

They left the car by the entrance. Fontana flashed his badge at the stewards and one of them opened the gate to let them in. The combined noise of the music and the audience was ear-splitting, even here behind the stage. Liz could see the vast crowd gathered in front of it, swaying to the music as the girls began to sing. A group of roadies stood smoking by the short flight of steps that led up to the rear of the stage. As a policeman walked towards them, waving his arm, they ground their cigarettes out in the grass.

Fontana was on his radio, talking to the crowd-control officer in charge of the concert, who was saying, ‘Four armed officers in the front few rows, ready to intercept anyone trying to reach the stage. The others combing the crowd. All uniform have the description of the suspect and the girl.’

The officer went on, ‘We’ve taken the decision to let the concert carry on. There’s a serious risk the crowd will panic and stampede for the exit if we make any announcement or try to stop it now.’

Fontana shook his head. ‘I’m sure he’s right,’ he said to Liz. ‘But I’m glad it’s his call and not mine.’

From where she now stood, by the side of the open-air stage, Liz had a clear view of the crowd. At the front it was overwhelmingly female, young Asian girls happily singing along with the group. Many of them were dancing to the music; a few sat on the shoulders of their friends, waving their hands from side to side in time to the rhythm. Finding anyone in this throng was like looking for a needle in a haystack. The only hope was that a single male figure would stick out in this predominantly female crowd. But the audience stretched almost to Stratford Road, and further back there were couples and families. If Tahira and Malik were still together and towards the back of the crowd, finding them would be well-nigh impossible. Liz did a rough calculation and reckoned there must be five thousand people in the park.

And then, incredibly, she saw Tahira. She was standing by herself to one side, just outside the ropes that cordoned off the audience enclosure, near a huge television screen. She was holding something in her hand, and looking to one side. There was no sign of Malik.

‘I see the girl,’ Liz shouted at Fontana over the din. ‘Tell your men Malik will be on his own.’

She ran along the edge of the vast crowd, outside the ropes. No one paid any attention to her; all eyes were glued to the stage as Banditti began to sing a new song. The noise was deafening, and when Liz shouted at Tahira as she drew closer, it was like shouting into the mouth of a gale. Liz could see the girl clearly now; she was holding her mobile, looking as if she were trying to make a call. When Liz reached her, out of breath and panting, Tahira still hadn’t seen her. She tapped her on the shoulder and Tahira looked up in astonishment.

‘I was just ringing you,’ she said.

‘Where’s Malik?’

‘He’s gone.’

Fontana joined them as Liz asked urgently, ‘Did he leave the park?’ Tahira shook her head. ‘He started to, but then he moved into the crowd.’ She pointed at the semi-hysterical mass of girls.

Fontana shook his head. ‘How are we going to find him in that?’

‘You might spot him,’ said Tahira. ‘He’s wearing a baseball cap now. He put it on when we got inside the gates. It’s orange.’

Fontana began shouting into his radio while Liz scanned the audience. Her heart sank as she scanned a sea of pulsating bodies and countless flashes of orange – baseball caps, and Chick Peas T-shirts emblazoned on the back with the band’s bright orange logo.

Then she felt a sharp nudge in her ribs. ‘I can see him,’ cried an agitated Tahira. ‘He’s taken his cap off. Look, he’s that one there, pushing through the crowd.’ She gestured towards the middle of the audience, about halfway between where they stood and the stage. Liz peered at the waving throng, then she suddenly spotted a bareheaded man, moving through the crowd, slowly working his way towards the stage. It was Malik.