The Walking Dead

Banks remembered a zephyr of sneering laughter in a briefing room, the day before the American president's arrival on his last visit to the UK capital. A photograph pumped up on to a screen by the boss of the Rear Echelon Mother Fucker. A Secret Service guard, his arms thrown aside, gripping a machine pistol that was aimed at the heavens, waistcoat buttons bulging under strain, mouth open, as his president was collapsing, shot, on the pavement, and the caption across the screen's base was the guard's incredulous shout: Christ, it's actually happening. Yes it was, Christ, actually happening.

Clothes weren't right, were too full and too cumbersome for the upper body, too heavy in that morning's sunshine, and there was the loop of wire.

Remembered the cold on the neck, and the hackles up in the Alley where they practised. Saw the window and the cardboard figure in it. It spun and might show him the gun or a child in arms Remembered the age-long inquest after a Brazilian was shot dead in a train carriage: a guy working for a better life, not a terrorist bomber…Remembered an officer who had faced a charge of murder for killing when there was no cause to kill…Remembered a marksman who had fired with justification, and was now a stressed-out shell. The memories careered in his mind.

There was a target behind him, a moving, flowing mass, an ants' nest of activity on the steps and in the square. There was a young man with sweat on his face, a body that was not to scale, and a loop of wire that was too thick for a personal stereo's cables.

Knew it, and could not escape from it — it was actually happening.

He looked into the face of the stranger, the young man. Saw it as a sniper would have. Saw the shake of the chin and the fear in the eyes. Made a judgement, as a sniper had. Passed the sentence, condemned. He smelt, for the first time, the perfume — what a teenage girl would have worn — and the sentence was confirmed, no appeal.

Banks wondered, then, if the young man struggled to be brave — tried to summon up the principles that had sent him — but was now frightened, his brain fogged…He reverted to his training long hours in long years of it, because it was actually happening. The young man was coming level with the alleyway, crabbing sideways to avoid the rubbish bin on wheels. Banks's hand flicked against his jacket, and the weight of a notebook, loose coins and pebbles flapped it back. The hand went, one movement, to the butt of the Glock, and as it was snatched out a finger slid the safety.

The weapon came up, and his feet splayed out.

The young man had stopped dead, and stared.

Banks went to the shooting posture, Isosceles stance. Fast enough? Could not be. Aimed for the head, forehead and temples, but the head seemed to shake as if it sought to remove the reality of the moment. Couldn't, in the time that was a second's fraction, lock the aim over the needle. Gasped in the breath. Saw, the pocket, where the hand was, writhe, and knew the button was pressed and nothing…His finger squeezed, and the target backed away into the alley, and bounced off the rubbish bin. Kept the squeeze on.

* * *

She changed down, then stamped on the brake.

The damn thing did it again. Had had to brake or would have hit the van in front. Like two shots fired, the damn car that Avril Harris had bought seemed to explode with noise. It rang in her ears. She blushed, would have gone scarlet, and a man in a car beside her — in an outer lane — leaned clear of his window, grimaced, grinned and called to her, 'You want to have that seen to, Miss. It'll be the crankshaft and timing belt that need adjusting and—'

'Thank you. I know what the sodding thing needs.'

The van in front had pulled forward and she drove on after it, past the square and the great swaying crowd. She heard the town hall's clock strike, and saw the big doors at the top of the steps open, the surge that engulfed the security men.

* * *

He dropped the Glock back into the pancake holster, pushed it down so that it was secured. His arms quivered from the recoil of the firing, and cordite stench was in his nose.

His target had been thrown back. Could not see the head or chest because they were lodged behind the rubbish bin, but the frail-built legs and feet — and the loop of wire — were visible to Banks. He felt no emotion, did not know whether he should. He looked behind him, expected to see a crowd gathering in a half-moon, but people walked on the pavement, a pensioner couple, a family, youths with their hoods up, and all hurried towards the steps to the shopping centre, and the traffic cruised by.