friends looked out for each other.
Sabri and Daljit were luckier. They destroyed themselves instantly, even before the rounds from Gallagher’s carbine ripped into them, and took out Shakir as well. Sabri was decapitated, as is common with suicide bombers, his head shooting like a meteorite across the room and mashing itself against the wall. The blast pulverised their torsos, fusing their limbs and organs into a single, indistinguishable heap of flesh. Gallagher could see Daljit’s head lying inches away, the eyes staring right through them in surprise. His last act was to pick it up by the hair and toss it aside, like a piece of trash.
With shock waves reverberating around them, a second pair of Trojans stormed into the room. Weapons cocked, torches lighting the way, they stood at the threshold searching fruitlessly for targets. Both men had witnessed bomb scenes before, but the sights and smells of flat 608 would never leave them. The room was dark as night and their gas masks protected them from the acrid smoke and dust, though the images were straight out of hell. The brightest light came not from their torches but from the flames shooting out of a gas pipe high in one corner, which had already set fire to the ceiling. From the other side of the room, water rushed down the walls in a torrent and a bloody pool lapped around their dead comrades, as if seeking out their bodies to cool them.
Then, with a rush, the Trojans saw daylight, which entered where the far wall should have been. As the smoke cleared, they felt another blast, this time of cold air. The scene outside was filled with flashing blue lights. They could see a double-decker bus in the distance, abandoned cars, and people racing towards them. It was as though they were looking through a giant picture window. In the deathly hush of the bomb factory, against the buzzing of their damaged eardrums, they heard strong voices shouting for them.
Their weapons found movement from the farthest corner. As the dust and smoke swirled away on the wind they saw a man balancing on the edge of the precipice, silhouetted against the clouds. He was standing with his rucksack still tight to his chest. Face lacerated and clothes in tatters, he had been wounded not by the energy of the bombs so much as his failure of courage. Hand out of sight behind the rucksack, he trembled in the cold as the Trojans’ carbines arrested him in their sights. ‘Stand still!’ the officers shouted, though neither had any intention of taking him alive.
They shot him as tried to activate his bomb and launched himself into the air, crashing onto the roof of a police personnel carrier. His bomb detonated as dozens of officers in riot gear were streaming into the building. It stripped open the roof like a tin can to lacerate the driver, killing him instantly.
Eleven
Thursday, 13 September, 11.47, Fielding Road, Walthamstow
Justin had reached the second floor on his descent with the Somali family when flat 608 exploded. He heard the snap of the stun grenade, then the much louder double crack of the terrorist bombs. The whole building shook violently. He threw the screaming mother and child onto the hard concrete stairs and flung himself on top of them, protecting them with his body just as a heavy chunk of ceiling plaster crashed onto his shoulders. With adrenaline keeping the pain away he picked up the little boy again and pulled the mother to her feet. Half dragging, half carrying her, he raced on with them down the staircase.
Five steps from the ground floor, with the open entrance door in view, their path was blocked by riot police storming the block. The surge of bodies overwhelmed them and almost certainly saved their lives: they were forced to stand to one side of the staircase as the bomber crashed onto the police personnel carrier. Seconds later Justin would have been running with them, past the vehicle, directly in line with the blast.
As they reached the ground, the bomb blew the
Sabri and Daljit were luckier. They destroyed themselves instantly, even before the rounds from Gallagher’s carbine ripped into them, and took out Shakir as well. Sabri was decapitated, as is common with suicide bombers, his head shooting like a meteorite across the room and mashing itself against the wall. The blast pulverised their torsos, fusing their limbs and organs into a single, indistinguishable heap of flesh. Gallagher could see Daljit’s head lying inches away, the eyes staring right through them in surprise. His last act was to pick it up by the hair and toss it aside, like a piece of trash.
With shock waves reverberating around them, a second pair of Trojans stormed into the room. Weapons cocked, torches lighting the way, they stood at the threshold searching fruitlessly for targets. Both men had witnessed bomb scenes before, but the sights and smells of flat 608 would never leave them. The room was dark as night and their gas masks protected them from the acrid smoke and dust, though the images were straight out of hell. The brightest light came not from their torches but from the flames shooting out of a gas pipe high in one corner, which had already set fire to the ceiling. From the other side of the room, water rushed down the walls in a torrent and a bloody pool lapped around their dead comrades, as if seeking out their bodies to cool them.
Then, with a rush, the Trojans saw daylight, which entered where the far wall should have been. As the smoke cleared, they felt another blast, this time of cold air. The scene outside was filled with flashing blue lights. They could see a double-decker bus in the distance, abandoned cars, and people racing towards them. It was as though they were looking through a giant picture window. In the deathly hush of the bomb factory, against the buzzing of their damaged eardrums, they heard strong voices shouting for them.
Their weapons found movement from the farthest corner. As the dust and smoke swirled away on the wind they saw a man balancing on the edge of the precipice, silhouetted against the clouds. He was standing with his rucksack still tight to his chest. Face lacerated and clothes in tatters, he had been wounded not by the energy of the bombs so much as his failure of courage. Hand out of sight behind the rucksack, he trembled in the cold as the Trojans’ carbines arrested him in their sights. ‘Stand still!’ the officers shouted, though neither had any intention of taking him alive.
They shot him as tried to activate his bomb and launched himself into the air, crashing onto the roof of a police personnel carrier. His bomb detonated as dozens of officers in riot gear were streaming into the building. It stripped open the roof like a tin can to lacerate the driver, killing him instantly.
Eleven
Thursday, 13 September, 11.47, Fielding Road, Walthamstow
Justin had reached the second floor on his descent with the Somali family when flat 608 exploded. He heard the snap of the stun grenade, then the much louder double crack of the terrorist bombs. The whole building shook violently. He threw the screaming mother and child onto the hard concrete stairs and flung himself on top of them, protecting them with his body just as a heavy chunk of ceiling plaster crashed onto his shoulders. With adrenaline keeping the pain away he picked up the little boy again and pulled the mother to her feet. Half dragging, half carrying her, he raced on with them down the staircase.
Five steps from the ground floor, with the open entrance door in view, their path was blocked by riot police storming the block. The surge of bodies overwhelmed them and almost certainly saved their lives: they were forced to stand to one side of the staircase as the bomber crashed onto the police personnel carrier. Seconds later Justin would have been running with them, past the vehicle, directly in line with the blast.
As they reached the ground, the bomb blew the
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