BURGLARS I CAN HANDLE, BUT NOT DADDY LONGLEGS
IN THIS extract from Girl On The Line, Alice is part of a team guarding an improvised device found outside Wormwood Scrubs prison in London…
USUALLY sitting on a crime scene is the most mindnumbing job in the world. Not tonight. I’m happy to be involved. If this dumped rucksack could lead us to the bombers, well, it’s a scene worth sitting on.
I feel oddly proud at the thought I’ll be one of the few chosen to stand guard. I look out of the window of the van and realise that we’ve reached the river. ‘Crossing over to the dark side, boys,’ shouts the skipper from the front. A mock groan goes up from ‘the boys’ and I don’t even bother to point out that I’m not one of them.
Eventually we arrive at the Scrubs. ‘Have fun bomb-sitting,’ laughs one of the EXPOs [bomb squad officers] as he gets into the van. ‘Honestly, it’s completely safe. Just don’t poke it, OK?’ He winks at me and slides the door shut.
‘Right, now that 215 [Alice’s police number] has finished flirting,’ the governor says, giving me a pointed look, ‘we’re needed to station two points in the Scrubs. The first is that Portakabin.’ He points with a straight arm and an open palm, as if he is directing traffic.
‘215,’ the skipper barks, ‘you’re up first.’
‘Sarge,’ I nod, before turning and striding to the Portakabin.
I hop up the steps. The tables are littered with magazines, newspapers, polystyrene cups and fast-food wrappers. A packet of doughnuts sits in front of a large officer, who has jam at the corners of his mouth. ‘At bloody last,’ he grunts. As soon as I start to move things about I realise my mistake. It’s a summer evening. It’s dark outside and the windows are open. A daddy longlegs flies into my face and I sense the terrifying erratic flapping all around me. The cabin is full of them. Burglars I can handle but daddy longlegs are a step too far.
I let out an embarrassingly loud scream and flap my arms like a woman on fire. It’s no good, there are too many and I start to pant as irrational fear drives me to the door. It’s stuck. I pull on the useless handle as
the whole cabin shakes and I rock backwards and forwards, desperately trying to get the door open.
Finally it pops and I launch myself out, rolling forward and landing in a heap at the feet of a shiny-shoed inspector.
I look up at him through my glasses, which are steamed up and wonky. I try a smile. I will never live this down.
Later I tiptoe over to the tent to have a look at the bomb. I have never seen a real one before. It’s a clear, plastic tub full of a material that looks like mashed potato. I’m not sure what I expected but it wasn’t this. I feel a little deflated there’s no countdown clock. Then my cheeks grow hot as I think about how childish I am being.
I peer harder, noticing for the first time there are lots of little objects taped around the sides of the tub. My stomach churns as I realise they are metal bolts and screws. They are shrapnel for hurting and killing people, to rip through limbs and torsos and cause maximum pain.