To River’s left were sandwich outlets and coffee bars; a pub; a pie stall. To his right, a long train lingered. At intervals along the platform travellers negotiated suitcases through its doors, while pigeons noisily changed rafters overhead. A tannoy issued instructions, and the crowd on the concourse behind River swelled, as individuals broke away.
Always, in railway stations, there was this sense of pent-up movement. A crowd was an explosion waiting to happen. People were fragments. They just didn’t know it yet.
The target disappeared behind a huddle of travellers.
River shifted left, and the target appeared again.
He passed one of the coffee bars, and a sitting couple triggered a memory. This time yesterday River had been in Islington. His upgrading assessment involved compiling a dossier on a public figure: River had been allocated a Shadow Cabinet Minister who’d promptly had two small strokes, and was in a private ward in Hertfordshire. There seemed no process for nominating a substitute, so River had picked one off his own bat, and had followed Lady Di two days straight without being spotted—office/gym/office/wine bar/office/home/coffee bar/office/gym … This place’s logo sparked that memory. Inside his head, the O.B. barked a reprimand: ‘Mind. Job. Same place, good idea?’
Good idea.
The target bore left.
‘Potterville,’ River muttered to himself.
He passed under the bridge, and turned left too.
A brief glimpse of overhead sky—grey and damp as a dishcloth—and River was entering the mini-concourse that housed platforms 9, 10 and 11. From its outside wall half a luggage trolley protruded: platform 93/4 was where the Hogwarts Express docked. River passed inside. The target was already heading down Platform 10.
Everything speeded up.
There weren’t many people around—the next train wasn’t due to leave for fifteen minutes. A man on a bench was reading a paper, and that was about it. River picked up his pace, closing the gap. From behind him came a shift in the quality of the noise—from all-over babble to focused murmur—and he knew the achievers were drawing comment.
But the target didn’t look back. The target kept moving, as if his intention was to climb into the furthest carriage: white tee, blue shirt, rucksack and all.
River spoke into his button again. Said the words—
‘Everybody down!’
The man on the bench rose to his feet, and was knocked off them by a figure in black.
‘Down!’
Up ahead, two more men dropped from the train’s roof into the target’s path. Who turned to see River, arm outstretched, waving him to the floor with the flat of his hand.
The achievers were shouting commands:
‘Put the bag on the ground,’ River said. ‘And get to your knees.’
‘But I don’t—’
‘Drop the bag!’
The target dropped the bag. A hand scooped it up. Other hands grabbed at limbs: the target was flattened, spreadeagled, wiped on the tiles, while the rucksack was passed to River. Who set it carefully on the now vacant bench, and unzipped it.
Overhead, an automated message unspooled around the rafters.
Books, an A4 notepad, a pencil tin.
A Tupperware box holding a cheese sandwich and an apple.
River looked up. His lip twitched. He said, quite calmly—
‘Search him.’
‘Don’t hurt me!’ The boy’s voice was muffled: he had a faceful of floor, and guns pointing at his head.
Target, River reminded himself. Not
‘
‘He’s clean.’
River dropped the tin to the bench and upended the sack. Books, notepad, a stray pencil, a pocket-sized pack of tissues.
They scattered on the floor. He shook the rucksack. Nothing in its pockets.
‘Check him again.’
‘He’s clean.’
‘Will somebody turn that bloody thing off?’
Catching his own note of panic, he clamped his mouth shut.
‘He’s clean. Sir.’
River again shook the rucksack like a rat, then let it drop.
One of the achievers began speaking, quietly but urgently, into a collar-mic.
River became aware of someone staring at him through the window of the waiting train. Ignoring her, he began to trot down the platform.
‘Sir?’
There was a certain sarcasm to that.
Blue shirt, white tee, River thought.
White shirt, blue tee?
He picked up speed. A transport policeman stepped forward as he reached the ticket bay but River looped round him, shouted an incoherent instruction, then ran full pelt back to the main concourse.
