The Red Box

‘Look, Monica, there’s that man again’.

‘Which man?’

‘The one who was in Marks & Sparks – with the red box; remember?  He’s up front’.  Monica casually scanned the bus queue but made no sign of recognition.

‘In the grey suit.’ hissed Brenda.

‘Well, what about him?  He looks harmless enough; probably going into Hyde park to eat his sandwiches.’

‘Silly!  The 53 doesn’t go that way.  Anyway, why sandwiches?’

‘What do you mean; “…why sandwiches?”

‘How do you know he has sandwiches in the box?’

‘Well, I don’t.  Perhaps it’s grapes, or a pizza, or Mars Bars for his kids: does it matter?’

‘That box looks suspicious to me.’

‘For Heaven’s sake, Brenda, everything’s ‘’suspicious’’ these days!’

‘If you’d been close to that bomb in … oh-oh!  He’s turning round!’

The man peered over the queue with an impatient frown on his face.  Monica compared her mental picture, conjured up by Brenda, with the figure half-turned towards her.  He was tall, with dark hair parted on one side and sideboards flecked with silver.  A carefully trimmed moustache gave him a military air.  Fashion trends dated his suit some years earlier; but it was the lapels that gave it away, it fitted him like a glove.
Sporting a diagonally striped ‘club’ tie and a miniature blood-red carnation, he fully emanated the impression of a well-dressed gent in his fifties.  But his appearance was highlighted by the item he carried.

A leather briefcase would have tagged him a business man, a bunch of flowers, a loving husband or even a considerate boss but a bright red cardboard box looked absurd, incongruous.  As Brenda said: ‘suspicious’.

The first two buses swept past in a swirl of dust and leaves but the third, roaring towards them as if to mow them down, pulled up with rasping brakes and grim-faced passengers bracing themselves against the seat supports.

‘First five ooonly,’ cooed the conductress, her dusky face accentuated by the enormous whites of her eyes and a slash of gaudy lipstick.  ‘Ooon top oonly.’

The two girls staggered up stairs to find the man sitting in an aisle seat, three rows forward, with the red box on the seat beside him.

‘I wonder if he has got sandwiches in that box’ murmured Brenda.  ’I’m hungry!’

‘Probably Irish smoked salmon on Hovis,’ Monica suggested, playing along.  ’He looks the smoked salmon type; not the sort to enjoy noshing soggy cheese ’n’ tomato.’

‘No,’ Brenda reasoned, ’it can’t be sandwiches, the box is too big.  Probably a present for his wife.  I’d say … sherry glasses.  He’s been handling it very delicately, or …’

‘Or something for his girl-friend; a voluptuous mistress, waiting for him in Sow – eth Ken -sing- ton’ said Monica, affecting an ’Oxford’ accent and grinning mischievously.

‘Suppose – he’s just robbed a bank, and it’s full of brand new ten-pound notes’ giggled Brenda.

‘O.K.  If he’s a robber, he’s got to have a gun – or a bomb.  Oh, sorry!’

Brenda had closed her eyes at the mention of the word ’bomb’.  If she’d not missed her usual train, on that fateful day, she would have been walking towards the Stock Exchange when the explosion …

‘Hayeeeemarket!’ announced a lilting voice, as the bus braked heavily.  Glancing through the window, the man jumped up with a start and darted down the stairs; it was several minutes before Brenda realised he’d gone.

‘Look!’ she gasped, ’he’s left it!’

Instinctively, they looked below but Trafalgar Square’s pavements were thronged with pedestrians.  The two girls stared at each other in silence.

‘What if it is … ‘ Brenda quavered, staring at the box.

‘Can’t be: he looked too respectable.  Like … an army officer in civvies.’

‘He could have been in disguise.  That’s how terrorists get away with it – dressing like ordinary people.  Quick, Monica.  Let’s get off!’  Grabbing their bags, they clattered down the stairs.

‘Nooo horry ladees, next stop’s Parlyment Square.’

‘That man, who jumped off …’ Brenda blurted out, ‘…he’s left a box upstairs.’

‘Well, now.  I’ll just book it as loost prooooperty.’

‘But you don’t understand: it might be a bomb …’   Brenda countered … ‘and this is Whitehall’ she gestured towards the grey buildings flashing past.

The conductress gave the girls a searching look, raised a mauve-tipped finger and jabbed the bell three times.  The bus immediately slithered to a halt and a ginger-haired man in baggy blue-serge trousers and a pregnant beer-belly materialised on the platform.

‘Wossup, Blinda ????’

‘Sum mun’s left a package oopstairs, deese girls tink issa bomb.’

‘Wot makes yer fink dat?’ the driver demanded, glaring from one to the other of the two girls.

‘Because the man looked … well, suspicious … and he suddenly jumped up and left it.’ Brenda protested.  ‘And we saw him earlier, carrying it very gingerly.’ she concluded.

The driver stared at her.  ‘Roight, Blinda, get’em off.  I’ll fone in.’

Belinda began herding indignant passengers onto the street, some complaining about having to pay twice, others philosophically forming a queue.  It wasn’t clear who mentioned the word ‘bomb’ but, as if by magic, everyone scurried for shelter – apart from a diminutive black conductress and an overweight driver, standing by their abandoned bus.

A police car skidded up. ‘What’s this about a bomb?’  a harassed-looking sergeant called out.

‘There’s a suspishus lookin packige upstairs, mate.  Someone fawt it moigt be a bomb.’

‘Who says so?’

‘One-uv me passengers… ‘Oo else?’

‘She’s ooover there, sarjunt; the wun in the bloo jeans’ said the little conductress, indicating Brenda.

The police sergeant marched over, listened to the girls’ explanations and quickly returned.

‘Right, constable.  I want everyone 50 yards from the bus – I’ll get these buildings evacuated quick!’  He twisted a radio, clipped to his shoulder-strap.

Central?  Sgt. Warren.  I’ve a suspect explosive device on a bus in Whitehall … Yes …Whitehall !

***

Down the street, in a hastily parked portable cabin, Brenda and Monica sat watching several flickering TV screens.  A young constable, operating a mobile camera by a joystick – the type fitted to computer games – was adjusting a screen showing the upstairs windows of the bus.

‘Where was he sitting?’ asked the operator.

‘About half-way along.’ Brenda answered.

‘By the fifth window,’ added Monica.  ‘We were in the third seat, he sat two in front – on the right’.

The picture panned sideways and stopped.  As the camera re-focused, rows of empty seats came into view.

‘The box was on the seat by the under the window,’ Monica said, ‘you can’t see it from this angle’.

The operator tweaked the joystick and the picture rose, then tilted downwards:  there on the seat lay the red box.  The camera picked up a small, red and gold sticker across  one corner; he zoomed closer.  It read ‘Horschers’.

‘That’s a foreign word,’ said Brenda.

‘And proves nothing,’ observed a bulky man, entering the cabin.  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Colville.  Now, tell me …’

‘What’s that?’ interrupted Monica, indicating a strange contraption creeping towards the bus.

‘It’s a remote detonator.  If the box looks too dangerous to defuse, we’ll blow it up.  The constable here is manoeuvring it into position.’

‘And the bus?’ asked Brenda, horrified; then whispered,  ‘Crikey, Monica, they’ll be pretty mad if it does only contain sandwiches!’

Movement on another screen caught her eye.  By the tapes, cordoning off Whitehall, a tall man was getting out of a taxi.  A camera zoomed closer.  Brenda stared, then, pointing, squealed

‘There he is!  There’s the man!’

‘Are you sure?’ snapped the inspector.  ‘Look again!’

‘Yes, that’s him,’ answered Monica calmly.  ‘I’d know him anywhere, after this.’

The inspector barked a string of orders into a radio and the screen silently pictured police officers converging on the taxi.  Minutes later, the man in the grey suit was being searched.

‘Come on, you two,’ called the inspector, bounding through the door.

As they ran towards them, the ring of police officers opened up.  ‘Is this the man?’ the inspector demanded, turning to the breathless girls.

‘Yes,’ Monica gasped, ‘He left the box.’

‘Did you find it, miss?’ the man asked politely. ‘Thank Heavens!  I hadn’t time to walk back.  A taxi tried to catch the bus but the whole area’s been cordoned off.  What’s going on, Officer?’

The man’s bearing appeared to puncture the inspector’s air of authority.

‘Er … did you leave a red box on that bus sir?  He enquired, indicating the empty double-decker.

‘I can’t be sure if it was that bus officer but, yes, a number 53.  What’s this all about?’

‘Would you accompany me – to retrieve it ?’

‘Of course!’

‘Then what, Sir, is in that box?’ enquired the inspector, glancing fiercely at the two girls.

‘Just some Apfelstrudel.’

‘’Apple …strudel?’

‘Apple Strudel!’ echoed Brenda, her face blushing red.

‘From Horscher’s – the German Delicatessen.  My wife’s Austrian and she’s singing at Covent Garden tonight.  If she doesn’t have her Apfelstrudel before a performance she can’t …’   He stopped.  ‘What did you think it was – a bomb?’

END

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