Panic on the streets of London,
Panic on the streets of Birmingham,
And I wonder to myself,
Would life ever be sane again?
“Oh well, there would be another”, he thought.
10 minutes earlier, Asif had been walking along Aldgate High Street. His shift had just started and as usual he was trying to make an effort to be both pleasant and authoritive at the same time to the people he passed, a mix of late night workers, some party goers and even a smattering of shoppers he thought. He loved this patch, always reasonably quiet with not a lot going on. For the 20th time in his career (well 4 months now!), he wondered how he ended up with such a lucrative beat. City of London! Not bad for a 24 year old new boy! Possibly something to do with his uncle, but he did hope it was on merit alone. “We don’t want too many of your lot” his Sergeant had told him on his first day, “don’t mind a couple of you for appearance sake, but we don’t want you taking over, now do we” he had said with a grin that somehow implied that Asif was part of the joke. He’d considered punching him in the face, but thought it might end his career prematurely. It probably was his uncle anyway, but who cares. The important thing was that he loved his patch.
“Now what the fuck is he doing now?” He strode ahead, taking long stride as he’d been instructed. “Would you piss in your own front door? No? Well don’t do it hear then!” The young man, in his cheap suit, probably some junior clerk after his first office party, stared at him bleary eyed. “Sorry Ossifer”. Dick Head. He didn’t need this. With one hand on the man’s collar and the other reaching for his notebook, he briefly considered just ticking him off and sending him home. The vomit that splattered his shiny black shoes changed that. “You…you little shit, are coming to the station, what do you think you’re….”
Funny, I’ve never noticed them before thought Asif. What a funny place to put an alarm, was his second thought. The siren was blaring its up and down rhythmic warning in a way that seemed very familiar to Asif. It’s a World War 2 siren surely? Or is it a fire alarm? He looked at the metallic casing as though it could somehow provide him with the answer. Ok, remember your training, assess the situation and prioritise actions!
The first shove was followed by an apology, the second wasn’t. “Oi”! It wasn’t this busy before, but people were now barging past him, and seemed to be heading into the tube station. “Ok, calm down, take it easy”. He wanted to sound authoritive, like his uncle, but his voice had somehow become way too high pitched for anyone to take him seriously. Some looked at him for reassurance, the blue uniform still getting respect even in this day and age. He suspected however that his height, and worse, his skin colour cancelled the blue out.
“Oi” His helmet now lay a few feet from him as the idiot with the massive rucksack strapped to his back gave him an apologetic glance before continuing in his rush for the stairs. “Fucking tourists” he thought “and Swedish at that”. Asif stooped to pick up the errant helmet and was instantly pushed forward sprawling on hands and knees. “Right, that’s it!” His hands were scuffed, and “oh shit” a nice hole at the knee in his trouser. He could just see his Sergeants gleeful face.
Straightening up, “now, back off! Take it slow” What’s the point, no-ones listening. Oh Christ, they’re screaming. A few strides towards the station door showed the cause. People were literally trampling each other to get inside. There was a woman (she looks Caribbean to me, but maybe African, they all look the same) was screaming, the wires from her Walkman pulled tight around her neck. He couldn’t help her because his sight was now on the other blue uniformed figure, where the hell had he come from, lying still on the floor with the black woman's knee across his throat, squeezing the life from his body. “Ok, back up, back up”.
He thought later, in his few moments alive, that he’d been quite lucky he was facing east, as at least he still had his eyesight. He didn’t have his hearing though, as the drums in booth ears had been ruptured in an instant. How long had he been out? What had I been doing, and how did I get hear? These thoughts were processing in his confused mind at the same time that his eyes were subconsciously counting. 2 of them looked frighteningly close. The other 3…another fucking 3…seemed a little more off towards the west. “Seriously?” he thought. The dreaded hated symbol. The mushroom cloud right here in London, and 5 of them! 5! He knew before thinking about it, that he couldn’t move. He knew before checking that both legs were smashed, and he knew without looking that the metal spike pinning his right shoulder to the wall had no business being there. He could turn his head freely to his left, (At least I haven’t a broken neck) and came face the face with the pissing puker. He only recognised him on account of the sick on his chin and shirt collar, but oh God, his eyes were just a red mess.
Before he could even think about thinking the words “Oh well, there would be another”, PC Asif Ismail, the proud son of a proud mother, if not the reluctant nephew of a corrupt uncle, had vaporised into nothing as the next missile to hit London detonated over Threadneedle Street.
