Six Minutes

It’s 3.54pm, and Phyllis is having a profoundly miserable afternoon.

She hates shopping, always has done, even in those halcyon days before her eyesight began to fail her and her feet became hobbled by bunions. She has ventured out to the busy town centre in search of a present for her new granddaughter, but every pack of patterned sleepsuits, every plastic rattle, smiling teddy bear and candy-coloured mobile she sees is tinged with sadness, as she wishes her late husband Derek were here to help her choose.

Derek never liked shopping either, but he would have loved finally having a grandchild to spoil. Together they could have retired to a café afterwards and watched the world go by over a toasted teacake, talking about something inconsequential like what to watch on telly that evening, or wondering aloud when this hideous weather would let up.

Instead, she is being bumped and jostled along the slippery pavement by impatient passers-by, struggling to see through the droplets of rain that have amassed on her glasses and feeling increasingly anxious that she might fall. The rumble of traffic, the cries of reluctant children and the jabbering of competing strains of conversation seem deafeningly loud. Behind her, a young couple are arguing furiously over the male component’s alleged flirtation with a third party.

“Don’t even try to act like you didn’t notice, your tongue was practically hanging out your mouth!”

“She was being friendly! Do I kick off every time you talk to another guy?”

She would like to turn and tell them to make amends, to treasure the time they have together while they can still enjoy it, but she knows they would only dismiss her as a doddery old fool. Or worse, perceive her as an interfering busybody and redirect their aggression her way.

The throng closes in tighter around her and she feels a slight pressure against her right shoulder, as though her handbag has caught on something. She dislikes this handbag, itself a present from her daughter: it’s far too large for a woman of her diminutive stature, and she can never find anything in it. It has proved useful today to protect her eventual purchase, a pink Squirrel Nutkin blanket, from the elements, but frankly anything that makes her perpetual quest to locate her purse more difficult is more of a burden than a boon.

Now paranoia sets in, and she worries that an opportunistic thief may have taken advantage of the crowded streets to slip their hand inside and steal her purse. Her balance is too poor for her to risk searching whilst walking, but an abandoned storefront up ahead offers a chance to stop and check. She makes a beeline for it as fast her aching feet will allow, murmuring apologies to the disgruntled bodies she inches between. Once stationary, she shifts her bag to the crook of her elbow and raises her left hand to peruse its contents.

Before she can reach inside, however, she hears a series of rapid thwacks of rubber soles against the wet concrete and turns to see a tall hooded man hurtling towards her at high speed. Rough hands seize the dangling handbag and she cries out in shock. She clutches at the bag's handles as her assailant swiftly manoeuvres it along the length of her arm, but they both know she has no hope of holding on. Her efforts are pitiful, laughable.

With a sharp, efficient tug, the bag is freed from her grasp and the man is away, sprinting down the street to a chorus of outraged gasps and shouts from onlookers. Some brave souls insert themselves into his path, but he shoves them aside as easily as if they were rag dolls.

“HELP!” screams Phyllis in desperation. “Stop him, someone, please!”

*

The woman’s wails of distress cut Sam off mid-sentence. He was engaged in a bitter row with his girlfriend over an attractive waitress he had been flirting with at lunch, but now his eyes dart to the shocking scene unfolding mere feet away: a tiny, frail-looking pensioner clinging feebly to her handbag; a large man wearing a black hoodie yanking it easily from her grip; the woman's face crumpling in despair as the man streaks away, his prize held aloft.

“Oh my God!” his girlfriend shrieks. “Sam – go after him!”

His feet move faster than his thoughts as they propel him down the street in pursuit of the thief. He bounces off sodden shoulders, ducks under umbrellas and veers around buggies, his eyes fixed on the hooded head making speedy progress through the hordes of shoppers bustling through the town centre.

“STOP HIM!” Sam roars at the passers-by gawping dumbly in their direction.

Two beer-bellied men reach out to grab at Black Hoodie’s arms, but he dodges them easily, surprisingly nimble for one so stocky. A young man with a straggly beard makes a lunge for him, only to be shoved aside, swearing. Muttering his own expletives, Sam presses on, watching as his quarry digs a phone out of his pocket, holds it to his mouth and begins yelling something inaudible. Perhaps, Sam thinks, there is an accomplice nearby, waiting in a car to spirit man and bag away.

The thief turns a corner, clearly hoping to throw Sam off his tail. The turn coincides with a gaggle of teenage girls exiting the drugstore ahead, gabbling excitedly about their purchases. To Sam’s immense frustration, the group temporarily block his path, and for a moment his primal instinct to give chase does battle with his deeply ingrained moral code: We Don’t Hurt Girls.

“MOVE!” he hollers at them, exasperated. They shoot him mutinous looks but nonetheless scatter obediently, and Sam races along the newly cleared pavement, hoping these few seconds of indecision haven’t been enough for the thief to gain irretrievable ground. Rounding the same corner, he squints through the rain, his eyes falling once more upon the tall figure tearing towards the road leading away from the town centre.

A stitch is now building in Sam’s side, and for the first time he contemplates abandoning his efforts and returning empty-handed. He is not a habitual liar (white lies over waitresses notwithstanding) but he feels there would be no shame in giving up now and claiming to have lost sight of the thief. He is not law enforcement; he has no obligation to see woman and bag reunited.

But then her frightened, pleading face swims into his mind and he thinks of his grandmother. With a flash of righteous anger, he wonders how many times Black Hoodie has performed this cruel stunt, how many little old ladies he has successfully separated from their worldly possessions. Panting, he redoubles his pace, ignoring the burning in his thighs as he draws nearer, adrenaline pulsing through him as he forces himself to sprint the last remaining steps between them.

The thief stumbles over a crack in the pavement and Sam spies his chance. It only takes a few seconds for him to close the gap; he collides heavily with the man's shoulder, sending his phone clattering to the ground. Sam grabs at the bag and manages to wrap his hands around its handles, but Black Hoodie has its body clamped firmly to his burly torso with his elbow. He tries to push Sam away, but Sam holds on, tugging and tugging with all the strength he can muster, kicking out at the thief’s shins, eliciting grunts of pain with each connecting blow.

The man is shouting something, but Sam only hears fragments above the roar of traffic, the hammering rain and the cries of the crowd encircling them: “– you don’t – had to – ID – police –”

“The police are on their way!” Sam yells, hoping someone has had the presence of mind to call them.

“– stop – ID –”

But his voice is growing hoarse, and Sam senses, at last, that the thief is getting tired. Blindly, artlessly, he stops tugging and throws his entire weight against him instead, trying to knock him off-balance.

It works, too well, and they both career into the road, directly into the path of a double-decker bus.

*

The scream of brakes is so loud Michael feels his eardrums will burst. Shaking, he locks eyes with the bus driver, who is shouting and swearing behind the windshield. His chaser, who still stubbornly has hold of the handbag, is quivering with fear, his earlier courage curtailed by this brush with death. Michael would feel sorry for him if he weren’t so infuriated by the precious time lost to their wrestling match. Every second counted where bomb threats were concerned.

With effort, Michael steers them both back onto the pavement. His chaser tries to land a punch, but Michael catches his flailing fist mid-air and seizes his shoulder with his other hand, pulling him closer so that their faces are inches apart.

“LISTEN TO ME!” he yells. “I am a police officer. I have reason to believe there is an IED – a bomb – in this bag. You have to let go before you get us both killed!”

“BULLSHIT!” snarls his chaser, spittle flying in Michael’s face.

“Look, you don’t –”

But there is no time to explain: no time to detail the weeks his unit has spent tracking down the terrorist cell responsible for the series of attacks that have blighted the UK’s major cities over the past six months; no time to recount his fevered tailing of the man known to them only by his online alias, Drax, through the centre of the town that afternoon. Michael had hoped to intercept him before he had a chance to plant the device, but he was too well-practiced at disappearing into the crowd. By the time he spied Drax again through the sea of bodies lining the streets, his stealthy hand was sliding into the unsuspecting pensioner's bag.

Instead, Michael reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, produces his police badge, and pushes it under his chaser’s nose. He wrenches his hood down, and the man’s eyes dart between his face and the photo on the badge.

“But... what? I don’t...” he stammers, frowning in confusion.

“How many times do I have to say it?” fumes Michael. “For God’s sake, let GO!”

Slowly, the man’s hand slides off the bag as comprehension dawns. Onlookers begin to flee, panic rippling through the crowd as the message spreads. Michael scours the newly cleared ground for his phone and sees it lying face down in a puddle a few feet away. He dives for it, his heart hammering; he can’t afford to lose contact with his partner now.

“Mike? Mike, can you hear me?”

Although the screen is cracked beyond repair, the sound of Gary’s voice, although faint, floods him with relief.

“Yes, I can hear you!” Michael yells, picking it up and breaking into a run again. He knows the Bomb Disposal Squad are standing by at the corner of Ashton Way, but he doesn’t know these streets well and his nerves are shot. He has no hope of reading a map on his shattered phone screen, and to stop and ask for directions would be to put further civilian lives in danger. He has to reach them before Drax presses the detonator.

He streaks across the busy road, ignoring the horns of irate drivers as he scans wildly for some indication of where to head. The rain is pelting down harder than ever, and every sign appears blurred through the thick film of falling water.

“What the hell happened?” Gary presses him. “Did you get attacked? Where’s the bag?”

“I’ve still got it! Someone thought – oh, it doesn’t matter! I’ve just crossed the road out of the centre, I’m in... Camberwell Street,” pants Michael, struggling to make out the letters on a sign to his left.

“You’re close, take a right at the end of the road and you’ll see them! Just keep going!” urges Gary. “And Mike... I’ve got an update on Drax.”

“Did you find him?” Michael asks, knowing the chances are slim.

“We got him,” says Gary. For a moment Michael is weightless, elated. If they have Drax, they have the detonator! He slows his pace, but doesn’t stop, because something is wrong: there is no note of triumph in Gary’s voice, and Michael senses a ‘but’ lurking in his silence.

“And?” he prompts, his mouth dry.

“We searched him, but there’s nothing.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“Certain,” Gary tells him grimly. “Bastards are changing things up. We think it’s on a timer. You still need to get to Ashton Way, Mike, the BDS are standing by.”

“Shit!” Michael shouts. “Do you have any idea wh-"

*

In the centre of town, the clock chimes 4pm.

Phyllis is mourning the loss of her hated handbag, unaware of the danger she so narrowly avoided.

A shell-shocked Sam is limping back to his girlfriend, his legs leaden and his head swimming with questions he will never receive answers to.

Drenched with rain and sweat, Michael is rounding the corner into Camberwell Road, praying that fate, at last, is on his side.