rang New Scotland Yard.
The girl who answered the phone seemed unfazed when I told her I wanted to report a terrorist bomb in London; I suppose they get a lot of prank calls from idiots who want to be the centre of attention. She said she’d put me through to a detective named Harman, and I waited impatiently on hold, with classical music playing over the phone line.
About 20 seconds or so later, the detective answered his phone. “Detective Harman here, how can I help?”
“There’s a bomb at Westminster Abbey.”
“At Westminster Abbey, eh? And how did you come to know about this, sir?”
I faltered. I’d known they would ask this question, but was suddenly unsure how to answer it. “I saw it,” I said.
“When was this?” I heard the sound of paper rustling on his desk and the clicking of a pen.
I rolled my eyes and sighed.
“In a dream, last night.” Before he could interrupt or put the phone down on me, I added. “I’ve seen other things before that have then happened. I’m quite serious, so don’t think I’m crazy or something.”
“Can I take some details please sir?” he asked, sighing loudly enough for me to hear it.
I ran my hand through my hair and turned around. Outside the phone box, a woman in a green mac was glaring at me and making a point of looking at her watch.
“Look,” I said, “I don’t know when it will happen, but probably within the next two or three days. People are going to die, and I rang you because I hoped you’d take me seriously – that you would do something to stop those poor people from getting killed.”
“We take all calls seriously, sir,” he said in a patronising voice.
“Yeah, sure. Just check, will you? How much will it cost to check?” I hung up the receiver, shaking with anger and hit the window with my fist in frustration. The woman outside the phone box flinched and raised her eyebrows before turning and hurrying away.
I didn’t go into work that day; I just paced the floor at home, with the television tuned to the BBC News Channel, and waited. I hoped that Detective Harman would have sent some men to look for the bomb and that I’d see a news story about a bomb being made safe at Westminster Abbey. But no.
At a few minutes past three in the afternoon, the newsreader said, “We have breaking news of a bomb blast at Westminster Abbey in London. There are no details about casualties as yet, but we’ll keep you informed and updated as soon as we have any information on this story.”
I sat down on the sofa with a bump, put both my hands over my eyes and groaned. “No, no, no, no!” I growled in frustration, each word gaining intensity over the last. “Why? Why couldn’t you go and check it out? It wouldn’t have hurt, would it? How stupid and pointless: all of those people could have been saved!”
By the time the evening news came on, I was just feeling numb. I almost turned it off before the headlines were announced, not wanting to relive the nightmare and punish myself for not having made Detective Harman believe me somehow. The main headline was the bomb blast, of course, but then came an announcement that made me turn cold: “Police are looking for a man who rang Scotland Yard yesterday; supposedly to warn them about the attack. They think he may be a member of the terrorist group responsible for the bomb. Police have tracked his call to a public phone box somewhere in Brighton. Anyone who thinks they may have information about this man should contact their local police station immediately.”
“What?!” I sputtered. “What the hell can I do now?” I almost laughed with the absurdity of the situation. I thought about phoning Detective Harman but, considering how I was treated the last time, decided against it. I thought about running away, but decided that would only make matters worse. So all I could do was sit tight and see what would happen next. The only person who had seen me at the phone box was the woman in the green mac. But since I’d never seen her before as far as I knew, I thought it unlikely that she’d be able to help the police, even if she did put two and two together and realise that I was the caller they were looking for.
I tossed and turned in bed that night, eventually getting to sleep at about four o’clock in the morning. Half an hour later, I was awake again, having dreamt about police breaking into my house. As I lay there in the dark, I heard the inevitable crash from downstairs. “Bit bloody late for that dream!” I berated myself.
“So that, Mr Broughton, is how I came to be here and how I came to need your legal expertise. I hope you’ll take my case, and find a way to explain my precognitive dreams to the jury, because I really don’t want any nightmares about growing old in prison.”
Thank you for reading my work
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Other works (novels) by Sian Turner
Turning Points
The perfect life is out there, waiting for you to live it…
Bronwyn Bowen had been an inspiring woman: a talented teacher, a gifted artist, an exceptional piano player and a hardworking business woman. Carys thought she was the perfect mother too; she admired and loved her and wanted to be just like her when she grew up.
But when Bronwyn dies, 10-year-old Carys’ father Gareth sends her away to live with her aunt. It has always been obvious to Carys that she isn’t as good as her mother and now her beloved father is proving she’s right by not letting her stay at home and look after him.
And the dreams don’t help…
Growing up in rural 1940s Wales, Carys has a lot to learn about life, love and what’s really important.
Leaving her rural home for the excitement of London, Carys hopes she can prove that she’s good enough
For details of this, and future works by Sian Turner, please visit my website www.sianturnerauthor.co.ukor my Facebook page www.facebook.com/sianturnerauthor
I am working on a sequel to Turning Points, tentatively entitled Doorsteps and Dreams, which will hopefully be available early in 2015.
Sian Turner
Dedication
In memory of my mum, Eve, who never quite got to write her own book, and my dad, Clive (who gets a very brief mention in Time to Go as “Mr Keeler, the driving instructor”).
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my husband Martin, my daughter Abi, my brother David and his wife Katie for their considerable support and encouragement. I would also like to add my posthumous thanks to my grandfather, Henry (aka Jack) Keeler, whose stories of life in the cottage homes (workhouses for children) inspired the story Poor Law.
Thank you also to Sally Patricia Gardner and the members of Shorelink Writers in Hastings for listening to pieces from this book (and, in some cases, for running the workshop that inspired me to write a particular piece). And last (but absolutely not least), I would like to thank Rosemary Bartholomew for her ‘nit picking’ proofreading, which has made these stories – and scribblings – the best they can be.
Although I have gone to considerable effort to ensure that the book is historically correct where appropriate, please forgive any errors that may have slipped through the net.
Enjoy the book.
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