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IMOGEN PULLED HER
office door closed behind her, took a quick glance around the small waiting room. It was empty, as she had expected it to be, and yet still her heart beat a little faster. It was as if she had expected the gunman to be sitting there, waiting for her. But then, thought Imogen, wasn’t that always the way of it. Even though this person could have nothing to do with her, could have no reason to make her a target, the hubris of humanity was such that our minds turn it into something seemingly inevitable. She pulled the handbag strap onto her shoulder, slipped into the corridor.

She could tell, instantly, who had heard about the gunman and who hadn’t. Could see it in the way they walked, the movement of their heads, whether their eyes darted or remained fixed. Doctors, nurses, the ones who knew, walked more quickly than normal, their shoulders held higher – seemed for all the world like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then there were the visitors, the ones who hadn’t heard the story yet. They moved at a slower pace, unaware of danger. The perfect victims. Imogen nodded at a pair of uniformed police officers as they moved past her, heading in the opposite direction, their jaws tight.

Security had been increased – now a notable presence. They would, hospital officials had assured staff, catch this person before they could cause any harm. Imogen had wondered how they could be so sure. She glanced at her watch, picking up her pace. She had an hour until her next appointment, would grab a sandwich from the coffee shop, pick up something for Mara too, would head down to Ward 11 to see Amy before work started again.

Amy was doing well. That was what the doctor – still wearing the same jeans, same scuffed trainers – had said before Imogen had left this morning. We’re going to keep her in, another couple of days, runs some tests. We have her scheduled for a CT later on today, an MRI. What about blood tests? Imogen had asked. Does she need those? Oh, said Mara, let’s wait and see what the other tests say. We don’t want to stick her with needles unless we absolutely have to.

Imogen picked up her pace, weaving past an elderly couple, their movements slow and painful. Could feel a band of pressure wrapping itself around her forehead: lack of sleep combined with a heavy morning. They had come in back-to-back today, her firearms guys – Aden and Tony and Rhys. Three men, all carrying the same burden, each handling it so differently. They wave it off, say they’re fine. But you can see it there, that wellspring of pain resting just beneath the surface. Tony’s marriage was crumbling. He didn’t say it, was a master of talking around the problem, but you could see it in the snippets that he told her; words that his wife had said, his absence where there should be a presence. Imogen wondered if he was cheating – things he said, little wisps of words, seemed to suggest that it was likely. She had considered pushing it, trying to unfurl that particular secret, but in the end had backed away. Tony didn’t want to be there anyway. He had made that much clear. So in the end Imogen had offered to refer them for marriage counselling. Tony had shaken his head. One shrink is bad enough, no offence, Doc.

It hadn’t been a deliberate choice. There had never been a moment when she had made the decision that she would be a psychologist, that she would work with the people who had walked through fire, seen things that no one should see. She had stumbled into it, after a degree, a research PhD that had lasted about three years longer than she had wanted, had taught her little more than that an academic career wasn’t for her. She was a year into her PhD, quietly wondering what the hell had inspired her to select the study of prosopagnosia for a subject, was in the student bar waiting for Mara, as she always seemed to be, when the news had flashed on. She had sat at the bar, her research papers forgotten on her lap, had watched as the second plane flew into the second tower, as a mushroom cloud of fire had spurted horizontally into the vivid blue Manhattan sky. Had watched as the helicopters flew overhead and the people spewed from the building, and the rows upon rows of firefighters, weighed down by impossibly heavy loads, the police, badges glinting in the sunshine. Faces upturned, studying the buildings with that thousand-yard stare that she would later come to know so well. Then looking down, forward, marching into the buildings, off to war. And then she had watched as the second tower shuddered, ever so slightly, then fell, tumbling to the earth in a tsunami of concrete. She had cried out. It hadn’t mattered. Because there were dozens of them then, young people with their lives ahead of them lining the bar, staring at the television, tears pouring. Then the first tower following, and it seemed it was almost inevitable. The wave of dust that raced through the Manhattan streets. The silence that hung afterwards. Then the cameras returned to the firefighters and the police, the ones who were lucky enough to be outside, the ones who survived, and they were racing towards the downed buildings, looking steely with fear.

Imogen had sat, cradled the drink that was now flat, hand fluttering to the scar that cut through her eyebrow, wondered how they would go on – these people whose fingers were plunging into concrete and glass and body parts. Wondering what their world would look like tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.

She’d completed her PhD. It was, after all, something that she had committed herself to. And it had an intrinsic worth, in and of itself, she had convinced herself, afterwards. And she had taught herself about trauma, the scars of psychological wounds. Had carved out a career that fitted.

Imogen slowed as a pair of porters guided a gurney out of a lift, the elderly man on it lying prone, blue blanket tucked up tight to his chin. Aden had come in before Tony, weighted down by a different kind of grief, the guilt of inaction, his confidence shuddering under the pressure of it all. And Rhys, her final client of the morning. So much younger than the other two, sometimes he seemed little more than a child. Always so correct, so precise, and yet you could see it in him: the price he had paid for what he had been forced to do.

They come in, the police officers, the paramedics, the firefighters. They bring with them their stories, darker than you have ever heard. About blood and death and tragedy. They cradle them to their chests like shields, so heavy that it stops them from sleeping at night, from eating, from wanting to be anywhere near the ones they love, but perhaps, if they hug it tight enough, the next tragedy won’t get through. They are exhausted by the time they get here. Always so reluctant to give in. Will rarely look at Imogen for the first session, spend the hour studying the institutional beige carpet, as they slowly begin to unpack their secrets.

It’s no big deal, really.

It’s not really an issue, but . . .

My boss told me I had to come.

Then they hand her their stories. Some of them like they are sharing a tale over a beer at the pub, others like they are peeling off their own skin. They talk about the woman with the carving knife who stands in front of them, digging the blade into her own wrist, daring them to come closer. About the ceiling, weighted down by fire and heat, that tumbles down in front of them, missing them by inches, landing instead on the man in front, so that where he was now lies a pile of timbers, a smoking carcass. The child, dead by its father’s hand, that they cradled in the ambulance, wouldn’t put down even when they know it’s too late and the doctors are begging them to let go. The gun pointed at them, the mouth of it so wide it seems to swallow the world.

Imogen turned into the lobby, suppressed a groan at the line in the coffee shop. She considered skipping it, just turning around and heading up to Amy and Mara, but she hadn’t eaten since yesterday and her stomach felt hollow, her head beginning to swim. She ducked through the crowds, reaching into her bag for her phone, thinking to squeeze in a quick call to Dave. Tell him that she wouldn’t be home late tonight, that she would pick up an Indian, maybe a bottle of wine. He’d like that.

Then came the sound of footsteps, running.

It was like a spark of electricity that rippled through the crowd, faces creasing with split-second anxiety, heads snapping towards the sound. Imogen’s stomach lurched, the sudden thought shooting through her mind that she had been right, that the gunman did want her after all. She turned towards the footsteps, bracing.

‘Imogen!’

It took her a moment to process the scene before her, to recalculate her fears. Mara’s hair was flying loose, her face streaked with tears. She reached Imogen, threw herself into her sister’s arms, shaking so badly it seemed that she would vibrate right into the floor.

‘Mara. What is it? Is it Amy?’ Scenarios shifting for Imogen, one horror replacing another.

‘No.’ Mara almost shouted it, seemed utterly unaware of the gathered crowd, that all eyes were turned towards her now, watching. ‘It was him. He was out there.’

‘Him – who?’

‘The man. The one they said had a gun.’

It rippled through the crowd.

‘She’s seen him.’

‘My God, I thought they said he’d gone.’

‘Oh, that poor girl.’

‘What? Mara, are you sure?’ Imogen held on tight to her sister’s hands, bitter cold in spite of the heat of the day. ‘Where did you see him?’

‘I . . . I went to the car.’ Mara’s voice shook, but came out loud, louder than Imogen had expected. The surrounding crowd seemed to press in, no one speaking, not a word, every breath bated to hear Mara’s next. ‘Amy wanted her dolly, so I just went to get it, that was all. I’d parked right over on the side, by the woods. And when I closed the car door, I saw him, standing in amongst the trees, watching me. He had a dark hoodie on, had the hood all pulled up tight so that I couldn’t see him.’ She gripped her sister’s hand tighter. ‘But I was scared, so I started to run and, Im, he followed me. He ran through the trees, chasing me, and I thought that at the door, that’s where he would catch me and . . . oh, Im, I was so scared.’

Imogen sucked in a breath. Trying to keep calm. Trying to think. ‘So you didn’t recognise him? You didn’t see his face at all?’

‘No, nothing. He was too far away. But, I mean, he couldn’t have been there for me, could he? I mean, why would he be after me?’

Imogen shook her head, studying her sister. Trying not to think about a day, perhaps six weeks ago. An early-morning visit to Mara’s house, one that Mara wasn’t expecting. Imogen had left her phone there the night before, had realised too late to call, had cursed herself, knowing that she would need it for work the following morning. It was fine. It was fine. She’d go there, would stop by on her way to work.

Imogen had arrived a little after 7 a.m. Could immediately tell that her sister and niece were still asleep, the whole house heavy with a soporific silence. She had slipped her key into the lock. The phone would be on the kitchen counter – that was where they had been standing. She would just grab it and be on her way. That was when she had seen it. A pair of men’s shoes. Boots, rather. Lace-ups that looked like their wearer was accustomed to hard work. On the kitchen table a bottle of wine, two glasses. A round burgundy stain scarring the marble worktop.

Jack had been working in Dubai for two weeks.

Imogen had bitten her lip, stared at the boots, the wine glasses. There would be an explanation. Her sister would have had a friend over, perhaps someone she had met in playgroup. The boots, they must be Jack’s. They did look a little familiar, she thought. Then she had heard footsteps on the stairs, a light, bouncing gait.

Mara was wearing a T-shirt, boxer-style knickers, bare feet. Had looked up and seen Imogen, had pulled up sharp, her eyes darting towards the boots and then to the kitchen chair, a man’s coat thrown across its back.

‘Im . . .’ Mara had stopped on the stairs, her hand over her mouth.

‘I needed my phone. I left it here.’

‘Oh.’ Mara nodded, dropped down a step closer. ‘Okay, I . . .’ She glanced back up the stairs, fingers dancing nervously.

‘I should go. I have early appointments.’

‘Okay.’ Mara’s toes curled around the bottom step. ‘Imogen?’

‘Yes?’ Imogen had slipped the phone into her pocket. Wasn’t looking at her sister.

‘Don’t tell Jack. Okay?’

The crowd in the lobby had pushed closer now, the murmurs building until it felt like a roar.

‘Someone call the police.’

‘Poor love, something needs to be done.’

Imogen hugged her sister in to her. ‘It’s all right, Mar. It’ll be okay.’ Mara slumped into her, and Imogen tried not to think about the secrets her sister kept, the people she may have angered, and how it could all end.

‘READY.’

Aden’s hand moved to his waist, thumb flicked the catch on the holster. The metal of the Glock cold against his fingers. Palm to the grip. Index finger stretched along the barrel. Waiting.

‘Aim.’

Pulling the Glock free from the holster, index finger against the trigger, feeling it taut. Pad of his fingertip against cold metal. Then that thought: ice-cold rain, plunging darkness and the sound of footsteps, running. Breathe. Aden focused along the sight – entire world narrowing down to little more than a pin prick. There, fifteen yards away, a cardboard torso, stomach lined with a series of concentric circles.

Breathe.

‘Fire.’

He squeezed the trigger. Felt the Glock kick back against the palm of his hand, bucking like a frightened horse. Steady. Find the circles. Squeeze.

Aden hadn’t slept much. Had managed four, five hours at the most. He had come into the office early, well before training started. Had pulled up the records for Emily Wilson’s three-9s call, late on the Sunday night. Emily had strained to keep her voice level and calm, but every so often there had been a little shake, a stumble over words, anxiety breaking through. There’s a man, at the door of the ward. It’s Ward 12. He has a gun. A long breath, and it seemed that Aden could see her, pulling herself together, reminding herself to be professional, stay calm. The man – he left when he saw me watching. No, I couldn’t see his face. Then, when she had almost done, a crease in her resolve. Please, tell them to hurry.