‘Like a psychiatrist? Oh goodness. You really think so? You don’t think we just need to give it some time?’
‘I honestly don’t know. Look. Do you want me to come home now?’
‘Are you busy?’
‘Sort of. But—’
‘No, then. It won’t change today. I’ve written off nursery for today.’
‘OK, so let’s try reassuring her together again when I get home later and see how the weekend goes. But let’s take some advice too. What about the school? Maybe we could talk to her teacher?’ Amelie’s nursery is attached to the primary school she’ll be attending soon. It’s a brilliant place. Long waiting list.
‘This is my fault, isn’t it?’ Sal sounds close to tears now. ‘For saying those things in front of her. For mentioning the gun, for saying I thought you were going to be shot . . .’
‘Sal, you have to stop that, love. This is no one’s fault but the bastard who shot that poor girl in the cathedral. Amelie will get past this with our help. We’ll make her feel safe again, Sal. Kids are resilient. We just need to give her a bit of time.’
He waits, sipping again at the coffee. The truth? He’s feeling now that this is his fault for charging off in the opposite direction; for heading to the cathedral into danger instead of protecting his family.
Sally lets out a long sigh. ‘You’re right, Matt. OK. I’ll try to distract her today and play it down. We’ll talk to her again later. Yes?’
‘Course. Together. Look – I’ve just got a meeting and then I’ll be home early. Promise. Love you.’
‘You too.’
In the car, he finds the faux-jolly banter of a music quiz irritating. He keeps thinking of Amelie bursting into tears when he caught up with them in the car park after the cathedral. He flicks from radio station to radio station. Some are running updates on a hurricane that has hit an island he’s never heard of. Meltona. Everyone stranded. He searches for a local news bulletin and at last there’s an update on the shooting. It repeats that police are still trawling through the huge array of photos and video footage of the graduation ceremony. There’s a sound clip in which you can hear someone in the background shouting, ‘She’s been shot. Oh no. She’s been shot.’ Then screaming. He snaps off the radio, his heart rate increasing again.
He’s picturing once more the small oak door by the laburnum tree. The faces of all the terrified students in that anteroom, unsure whether to make a run for it.
Ice cream. Ice cream. You wait for the password . . .
By the time he reaches the café, he feels inexplicably tired even though it’s barely 11.30 a.m. Mel’s already seated in their favourite alcove.
‘Hi Matt. I’ve ordered coffee and carrot cake for both of us.’
‘Good. You look as if you need both.’ He takes in the dark circles beneath her eyes. ‘So the pressure’s really on then?’
‘Understatement.’ She checks her watch. ‘The suits upstairs and the press office want updates every five bloody minutes.’
‘And you so love politics.’ He’s trying to make her smile but it doesn’t work so he changes gear. ‘OK. So do you have a big enough team?’
‘Well there we do have a surprise. They’re throwing resources at it like you wouldn’t believe. Most unusual. I’m told I’m to do whatever needs to be done, mostly because of the national media crawling all over us. Universities up and down the country are watching like hawks. Everyone wants to know what to do. If this is a one-off. Or some weird new MO.’
‘And what are counterterrorism saying?’
‘All clear. No terror link and no intel so they’re backing right off. First twenty-four hours, there was talk of cancelling every graduation across the country until there was a proper steer. PM in the loop. Now it’s all suddenly changed. I was briefed first thing. They’ve found absolutely nothing. There’s been some big meeting and the new focus is to reassure the public this is not terrorism. My job to make everyone feel safe.’
Matthew at last understands Mel’s demeanour. ‘So all back on your shoulders?’
She just stares at him by way of response as the waitress arrives. They both lean back as the server places down their coffees, apologising as froth spills into one of the saucers.
‘Don’t worry.’ Matthew grabs a paper napkin from a stainless-steel carousel in the centre of the table to mop up the spill; the waitress smiles, saying the cake will be just a couple of minutes. He watches the woman return to the counter.