Free Dead Man's Gift 03 - Today by Simon Kernick

Part 3: Today
20
    As far as Tim Horton was concerned, Matt Cohen looked every inch the archetypal football agent. He had black slicked-back hair, a fake tan, an even faker sincere expression in his eyes, and an expensive suit that was either way ahead of its time or twenty years out of date, depending on how charitable you were feeling. In Tim’s Grandma’s day they would have called him a spiv and he’d have been wearing a pork-pie hat.
    Tim hardly noticed him now, even though they were barely five metres apart. The committee’s chairman, Garth Crossman, the charismatic Conservative new boy who Tim didn’t trust one iota, was opening the hearing but his words were a faraway blur.
    The whole world seemed to be moving in muffled slow motion for him now. It was like being drunk. He couldn’t think straight. His heart was battering at his chest and he was sweating profusely. He wondered if the TV was picking up on his appearance. He wondered too if Diane was watching and, if she was, what she was thinking. Was she willing him to do it? To die so that their son could live?
    ‘Tim, you look terrible,’ whispered Brenda Foxley, putting a hand on his arm. ‘I think you should say something to Garth. I’m serious.’
    ‘Oh God,’ said Tim, loud enough to be picked up by the mike on the desk in front of him, and the next second he was on his feet and rushing towards the exit, tearing at his suit, knowing he had to get rid of the bomb. No longer thinking straight. No longer thinking of anything at all bar survival.
    Frank Bale cursed as Tim Horton leaped from his seat, tearing at his jacket like a cut-price Superman. He pressed the Call button on the phone in his hand and counted down the seconds as it connected to the phone attached to the bomb. The TV camera followed Horton as he rushed towards the door behind the committee table and in the opposite direction to Matt Cohen, who, like everyone else, was out of his seat, wondering what on earth was going on. Tim’s jacket was off now, and he was struggling to unbutton his shirt, while still making for the door, when a security guard appeared in shot, blocking his way, arms outstretched in a calm-down gesture.
    ‘Get hold of him,’ whispered Frank, clutching the phone to his ear, willing the guard to block Horton’s escape.
    ‘Get back! It’s a bomb!’ Tim yelled as the security guard appeared in front of him. His shirt was open now, revealing the vest beneath, and he was scrabbling at the Velcro on the pocket, trying to open it so he could chuck the bomb out of the door.
    The guard’s eyes widened and he dived out the way as Tim yanked open the Velcro, charging for the door, his mind suddenly totally clear. His fingers wrapped round the bomb and he started to pull it out, screaming at a young female researcher who was standing frozen next to the door to get out the way. Tim was running now, only a couple of metres away from the door, ripping the bomb out of its pocket.
    Which was the moment he felt it vibrate in his hand, and then the whole world seemed to erupt in a flash of intense noise and white blinding light.
    Frank saw the explosion on TV. One second, Tim was holding up the bomb like a trophy as he reached for the door handle, the next he disappeared in a fiery flash and the camera was yanked away from the scene as the cameraman hit the deck.
    A second, bigger explosion followed, and when the cameraman got back up a few seconds later the whole room seemed to be filled with smoke, and shouts of alarm and shock came from every side. And then, with exquisitely bad timing, Matt Cohen appeared in shot, looking as shocked as anybody but still unfortunately very much alive.
    As the cameras cut back to the studio, Frank cursed again and switched off the set. He was hoping the fact that Cohen was still alive wouldn’t affect his payment for the operation, although he suspected there’d be trouble as a result. Either way, he needed to think, and he couldn’t do it