Putting it away, she opened the door and slipped inside. The church was full, and everyone was standing, singing; the air was thick and warm; the light patterned with colour. A few people turned when she entered, but not many, and she closed the door behind her softly as she could. There were spaces on the back pews, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to stay, now she was here, though didn’t want to bow out immediately. It would be disrespectful. So she stood at the door and cast her eyes around. How long since she’d stepped inside a church? And did she have anything to say to God right now? She supposed she wanted to ask Him what made it all right to let those murderers intrude on this quiet place. But He’d been overseeing village massacres since time immemorial. Either He’d have a foolproof answer by now, or He didn’t give a damn either way.
The hymn swelled to a chorus, and the church filled with sound.
It was a good few minutes before anyone noticed the shooting.
When Chris saw the sign reading ABBOTSFIELD, which also suggested that visitors drive carefully, he increased speed to thirty, thirty-five.
‘Drive normally!’ Shin hissed behind him.
But An said, ‘No. This is good.’
There was blood on Shin’s shirt, not his own. It had sprayed from Danny when he died. There were other bits too, that looked like scrambled egg, and when he stepped into sunlight, he would look a fright.
But he would look a fright anyway, on Abbotsfield’s streets again.
‘There will be cameras,’ An said. ‘Our victory will be seen around the world.’
And then what? Shin had wondered. The Supreme Leader himself would see their victory, it was true. But then what?
‘We take the church,’ An said, as if answering Shin’s question. ‘That is where they are gathered now. They will be praying, but they will not get what they pray for.’
Thirty-five, forty.
‘We will seize their attention for all time.’
The van bumped and swayed on the imperfect road.
Up ahead, a police officer stepped out, and waved for them to stop.
When J. K. Coe saw the van approaching, he thought: this is not good.
Vehicles were weapons now. Everything was a weapon.
He had reached the far end of the village, the scene of the attack, before turning back towards the church. Outside the sole shop, on a forecourt boasting a row of newspapers in a plastic display unit, a pair of journalists had approached, one wielding a microphone, but he fended them off with an open palm. A little further on a police officer had stopped him and he’d shown ID once more, but offered no explanation for his presence.
The police officer stepped into the road to flag it down.
She was not armed. It would have made little difference if she had been: when the van clipped her she was thrown against the wall of the nearest cottage, where she hung for a fraction of a second before dropping to the ground. The van swerved in the aftermath of impact, sideswiped a parked car with a tortured screech, then righted itself and continued up the road towards Coe.
Who also dropped, taking shelter behind a car.
There was shouting and sounds of running; someone yelling into a clipped-on radio. The journalists were running too, towards the fallen officer, but as the van passed them its back door swung open and Coe heard the
Somebody screamed.
As the van hurtled past, a police officer appeared from a side street, took aim and fired three times, each shot hitting the rear door, which had bounced on its hinges and swung shut again. And then reopened as the van kangaroo-hopped: from where he crouched, Coe caught a brief glimpse of a khaki-clad figure, upright, armed. He smelled fear and metal and joy, and saw the policeman attempt a pirouette, and give up halfway through. His rifle hit the ground a second after his body. Up ahead, the van skewed to a halt.
Behind him somebody shouted, ‘Are you getting this?’
The driver clambered from the van, raised a gun and died as two armed officers opened fire simultaneously.
