London, England
July 2017
Don't let it get too dark
No-one sleeps much that night. In fact, I guess that no-one really sleeps at all.
Ken certainly doesn't. He cradles me close in that big, dark, old-fashioned bed that we also spent our nights in last year when Owen was ill, but even as I fall into a fitful slumber right before dawn, I'm pretty sure he doesn't close his eyes even once. When he gently nudges me awake in the morning, he looks tired and drawn and I guess I'm not a much more pleasing sight. I certainly feel completely knackered and somehow, those two or three hours of sleep left me more tired than I was before.
"Good morning." Ken smiles wryly.
I grimace. "Jury's still out on that one."
"True," he concedes and rolls around to lie on his back.
Sighing, I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, pausing there to rub my eyes. "I really don't want to go to work today," I announce glumly.
"You probably shouldn't go anyway," Ken tells me and when I turn to look at him, I see him still lying on the bed, one arm covering his face. "Not until we can be sure that the attack had nothing to with us."
"You don't really think…" I trail off.
He lowers his arm and looks at me. "I don't know and until I know for sure, I'd really prefer if you didn't go anywhere on your own. I can't prevent you from going to work, but –" He interrupts himself and shakes his head, pressing his lips together.
I understand anyway, all the things he's not saying. It's safe to say I didn't deal with yesterday's events too well, but I know they threw Ken even more. It triggered all kinds of problematic feelings for him, beginning with the very real fear that comes with being in danger and not even ending with the fear of losing me.
"I'll call Simone," I state simply and reach for my phone.
"Tell her you're feeling unwell, please," Ken asks. "Until we know for sure if there's a connection to us, we want to keep this as quiet as possible.
I nod. "Security reasons. I get it."
Thus, when I pick up my phone to call Simone, I make up something about a headache and ask her permission to stay at home today to sleep it off. As expected, she's super lovely about it and immediately tells me to get some rest and that she'll see me on Monday. Since Harriet is back from maternity leave to help her with the kids, I didn't feel too guilty about it my little fib either and hang up the phone with some relief. (Of course, Harriet's return also means I won't be able to work at the centre for very much longer, because even if Simone would never fire me outright, I know the numbers and I know she can't afford to pay us both for much longer. But I guess that's a worry for another day.)
"All done," I inform Ken and toss the phone aside.
He's still lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, but when I address him, he turns his head and gives me a slight smile. "Thank you."
I want to tell him that there's no reason to thank me, that I understand the security needs and that I understand his needs, but the words feel superfluous. Instead, I just smile back at him and lightly tap his knee, the closest part of him I can reach. His smile widens the slightest bit.
"They probably have breakfast ready downstairs," he remarks and waves a hand lazily in direction of the door.
Hmm… despite how shaken I still am, the sound of a Buckingham Palace breakfast is enough to make my stomach rumble. Ken, hearing it, laughs softly.
"It sounds like you wouldn't mind some food?" he asks.
"No, I wouldn't mind it at all," I agree. "But first, I need to take a shower. And I need something to wear that isn't last night's dress."
That sets him in motion, if only to reach for the phone on the table by his side of the bed. "You go have a shower, I'll organise for someone to bring you a set of clothes. Mum won't mind lending you some, I'm sure."
"Your mother is much more slender than I am!" I protest.
Ken shakes his head. "Not true at all. But if it makes you feel better, I'll ask her to pick out something herself. She has a good eye, so I'm sure she will send something that fits you."
"Yes, okay," concur. I have faith in Leslie.
While Ken makes his phone call, I stay sitting on the edge of the bed, contemplating the distance to the bathroom and how much effort it will take to get up and actually walk over there. It seems to me very effortful, but my rumbling stomach reminds me that it's the only way to get some food soon, so I muster up the strength to get to my feet and make them carry me to the bathroom.
Behind me, Ken places the phone back on the bedside table and softly calls out, "Don't lock the door, okay?"
Once again, there's a lot hidden in his words that he's not saying out loud, and once again, I understand anyway. With all the uncertainty still surrounding yesterday's events, a locked door between us is more than he can bear right now and frankly, I feel the same way. The image of him being hurried away by his PPOs is still seared into my brain and after being separated from him in such a crucial moment, I feel a raw need to keep him close.
Therefore, when I enter the bathroom, I don't lock the door and don't even properly close it, instead keeping it slightly ajar, the connection between us remaining unbroken.
We stick close to each other after that, too, neither willing to let the other out of sight. When we walk down to the breakfast room, Ken takes my hand and holds it tightly, the physical contact calming us both. He keeps hold of my hand beneath the table even after we've sat down, despite it making the process of eating a little awkward. If his family notices, no-one comments on it.
Evidently, yesterday's events didn't just put Ken and me on edge. Leslie looks like she didn't sleep at all and Owen keeps glancing at the door, clearly waiting for someone to bring more information about what happened. Amy is not crying anymore but still visibly sniffling, with Teddy doing his utmost to comfort her despite looking tired and pale himself. Persis, being the last to enter the room, impulsively rushes over to Ken and me and hugs both of us for a brief moment.
The tense atmosphere means no-one has any desire for small talk, so the first minutes of breakfast pass mostly in silence, except for Teddy quietly coaxing Amy to eat something. That she's so emotional doesn't surprise me as much as it probably should, because she's generally been easy to upset lately. (Last week, for example, when it was suggested that she and Teddy undertake a short trip to Ireland in autumn, she looked like a deer caught in the headlights and didn't relax until Ken stepped in to assure her that he'd do the trip if she didn't feel up for it.) Since both Amy and Teddy swear she's not pregnant, my best guess is that the honeymoon period of her public life is finally over and she's increasingly getting overwhelmed. I should talk to her, I know, but not now, not when I myself am still so shaken up and in need of reassurance.
The reassurance, thankfully, comes when there's a knock on the door several minutes into breakfast and Reed enters, the head of Owen's security. Beckett follows close behind him and so does Elphinestone. All three men take position in front of us and Reed politely clears his throat.
"Any news?" Owen asks shortly.
"We have word from the Metropolitan Police regarding preliminary results of the interview with the suspect of yesterday's attack," Reed states.
Owen nods curtly to indicate for the PPO to continue, itself an unusually impolite gesture for the usually so considerate Owen.
"It has been established that the suspect was not aware of the whereabouts of the Prince of Wales and Miss Blythe last night," Reed continues. "He chose Tottenham Court Road for being busy with pedestrians late into the evening and for no other reason. That the attack took place so close to where His Royal Highness and Miss Blythe were was a mere coincidence."
But the words do nothing to ease the tension, because this was just one of the things we want – nay, need – to know. The other thing, the more important thing, is about the many other people who were affected in the attack. What we need to know is –
"What else?" Ken asks tightly, directing the question at both Reed and Beckett. "How many causalities?"
Beckett takes a step forward. "By some miracle, there were no fatalities," he reports. "About two dozen people were injured, mostly through flying glass or debris, with many suffering from additional shock. Nine victims suffered more serious injuries and two people are still in critical condition, but doctors are tentatively hopeful that they will make it."
"So, no-one died?" Ken asks, his voice outwardly steady but the tight grip of his hand belying the show of calm.
"No-one died," Beckett assures, "and with the way things are looking now, it's unlikely that anyone will."
The sigh of relief around the table is almost palpable. I myself feel my shoulders sack and a tension leave my body that I didn't really take note of until now that it's gone. Beneath the table, Ken squeezes my hand so tightly it's almost painful. I raise our clasped hands from beneath the table and press a kiss to his knuckles. Briefly, his eyes flicker over to me and he smiles the slightest of smiles.
"Thank God," breathes Leslie, raising a hand to cover her face. Owen reaches out to stroke her back and Persis gets up from her chair to stand behind her mother and wrap her arms around her.
Thank God!
Owen has many more questions, about the suspect, his background, his motive and any possible accomplices, but I mostly tune out both his questions and Reed's answers. As far as I am concerned, the two main things are that no-one died and no-one meant to hurt Ken. The rest are details I'm currently unable to properly process anyway.
Ken seems to think the same thing, because he mostly appears to be lost in his thoughts, not really listening to what's being said either. I watch him with some concern, seeing his tense expression and his clenched jaw, and realise that I need to do something before the stress becomes too much for him to handle.
Thus, with breakfast over, I announce my intention to get back to KP and get some rest. Leslie doesn't look like she agrees with letting us out of her sight, but Owen steps in just in time, putting a calming hand on the small of her back and telling Ken and me to get home safely. As he does, our eyes briefly meet and he nods at me, showing that he understands what I'm doing and that he approves.
The drive to KP passes mostly in silence, but Ken holds my hand securely between both of his the entire time, his thumb intermittently stroking the back of my hand, and for now, that's enough.
The moment we step through the door of Wren House, we're immediately greeted by Lottie and George who clearly consider themselves very neglected and abandoned indeed. (Which, for the record, they aren't. Mrs Franklin stayed at short notice to look after them last night and Mrs Franklin takes her tasks very seriously, be it keeping the house clean, cooking a four course meal or caring for the pets.)
"Hello, girl," Ken murmurs as he kneels down to take Lottie's head between both hands and look at her. She looks back at him with her dark, trusting eyes, before wiggling her head free and pushing forward to try and lick his face. Chuckling, Ken moves his face out of her reach, but wraps both arms around her, which Lottie appears to deem a proper compromise.
Me, I pick George up from where he's winding figures of eight around my legs and clasp him tightly in my arms, burrowing my nose in his soft, warm fur. Unusually, he lets me hold him, even purring softly and bumping his head against my shoulder affectionately.
A long moment or two later, when I raise my head again (inconspicuously trying to blow away the bits of fur clinging to the outside of my nose) and Ken gets up from the floor, our eyes meet and instinctively, we both find ourselves smiling at each other. Ken reaches out to touch my face – before he quickly has to draw his hand back and out of reach of George's tongue trying to give it a good lick.
"I've missed you, too, Georgie," he assures, chuckling. Lottie, upon hearing that, whines and pushes her nose against his hand. "And you, Lottie," Ken adds, patting her head.
He looks much calmer now that we're home and have the animals around us, but I still can't fully banish my worry, nor do I want to.
"Will you call Otto?" I ask without preamble, my eye seeking his.
"Yes," answers Ken simply. "And you will call your parents?"
I open my mouth to protest, to say that I don't want to worry them and that anyway, nothing happened and there's no use upsetting them after the fact, but he seems to sense that. Raising his hand, he puts a finger to my lips (which is just the opportunity George was looking for to start cleaning his hand) and shakes his head.
"They'll want to know," he tells me and that, I fear, is not something I can argue with.
When I nod grudgingly, Ken bestows an approving smile on me and taps my nose once, before moving his hand out of reach of George's grooming efforts. Pulling out his phone, he walks over to his study, but when Lottie scrambles up to follow him, he lightly motions for her to stay with me instead.
"I think you're looking after me today, Lottie," I murmur as she looks at me questioningly.
With Ken in his study, the animals and I decamp to the main living room, where I make good on my promise to call my parents. Despite my initial reluctance, I realise Ken was right to make me call them in the very moment I hear their voices. Sometimes, there's nothing to make you feel safe like talking to Mum and Dad and today is definitely one of those days.
We talk for a good half an hour and by the time I hang up the phone – after assuring my parents repeatedly that I'll take care of myself –, I feel much calmer and more relaxed than before. Not surprisingly, Ken's phone call takes longer than mine, so I curl up on the sofa for a nap while I wait for him. George, having previously sat on my lap, snuggles against my side, while Lottie and her pink giraffe remain lying on the rug next to the sofa, keeping watch over me just as Ken asked her (them?) to.
The warm and comforting presence of my animals helps me settle down, and the sound of Ken's voice floating over from his office lulls me into a light slumber. Without there being any need to talk about it, we both kept the doors to the hall open to keep connected even during conversation with others, and I guess I could probably listen to what he says to Otto, but ultimately, I don't really care about the details.
I really only care that Ken feels better and when, some two hours later he sits down next to me on the sofa and gently nudges me awake from my nap, I immediately see that most of the tension is gone from his body. When he smiles at me it's relaxed and genuine, no longer tense.
"I'm going to go visit the hospital where they took most of the victims," he tells me, sounding calm and assured.
"I'm going with you," I state, not even needing a moment to consider, because frankly, I knew all along that he'd go and I knew all along that I'd go with him.
"Yes, I thought so," he replies simply – and that settles that.
Of course, visits like these take a bit of organising and even with Ken's team working at full speed, it's late afternoon by the time we arrive at the hospital. The visit itself is what they term 'embargoed', meaning that there won't be any press present nor will any photos be released of it later. As Oliver explains on the drive, they will simply put a short notice in the Court Circular tomorrow and that will be the extent of the information given to the public. This visit, after all, is about the people hurt in the attack and not about currying favour with the general public.
To keep the cover intact, we slip into the hospital via a side door, with just Ken's PPOs and Oliver and Melissa to accompany us. Inside, we're met by the chief physician and the head of management of the hospital, but after saying hello, I leave Ken to deal with them and wander off on my own (with Melissa and Butcher following me at some distance, I notice). Impressive as the work done by doctors and nurses is, they're not why we came here, after all, or at least not primarily.
A wide-eyed young student nurse directs me to the ward where they brought the victims of yesterday's attack and assures me that yes, they were informed about our visit and almost all of them agreed to meet us. I steer clear of the rooms of the two people who declined a visit and at first, I don't get to enter any of the other rooms either because before that, I stumble upon a young girl sitting on the floor in the middle of the ward. She's about six years old and is working on her colouring book with intense concentration.
"Hello, you," I greet her, crouching down.
Her head snaps up and she eyes me warily. "Who are you?"
Who am I indeed?
"My name is Rilla and I'd like to be a friend," I tell her.
She pushes her tongue in the gap between her teeth and considers me. "Okay," she finally decides and bends back over her colouring book without further ado.
"May I help you?" I ask and point at the crayons by her side.
Not looking up, she pushes a green crayon in my direction. "You can do the tree," she informs me generously.
So, I do the tree.
For a few moments, we work in silence, before the girl, keeping her head bend low over her colouring book, informs me, "I'm Kaley."
"Hello Kaley," I reply simply as I pick up a brown crayon to do the tree trunk. She looks at me from beneath lowered lashes, but doesn't protest.
Another couple of seconds pass.
"Mummy is hurt," Kaley adds while she works on a giraffe with a yellow crayon. "Daddy is with her."
"Do you want to be with her as well?" I ask carefully, watching her from the corner of my eye.
Kaley doesn't answer right away. In fact, she doesn't answer until she is finished with the giraffe and has selected a pink crayon for the flamingo. "I'm scared," she finally says, her voice almost brusque in an attempt not to let her feelings show.
I pick up the yellow crayon she just put aside and start colouring the sun. Deliberately, I don't look at her when I ask, "Are you scared of seeing your Mummy hurt?"
There's a moment of utter stillness as Kaley stops drawing, the pink crayon hovering in the air. Finally, she jerks her head up and down once. "Mummies shouldn't be hurt," she tells me and this time, I can see her lower lip quivering.
"No, mummies shouldn't be hurt," I agree, swallowing heavily myself.
I don't want to push her, so I don't say anything else. I can feel her eyes on me, but when I simply continue turning the sun bright yellow, Kaley slowly bends down and starts working on the flamingo again. She keeps colouring it, but I know that at the same time, she's working up the nerve to ask what she really wants to ask me.
It takes a minute or two until she does. "Do you think Mummy will be less hurt if I see her?"
Carefully, I place the yellow crayon on the floor. Kaley looks up, her face serious and her expression more angry than sad. (Which makes sense. Anger is easier to manage than sadness.)
"I know that seeing you will make her feel less hurt," I tell her, weighing my words carefully. "But I also know she wouldn't want you to do something you're scared of."
Kaley also puts her crayon down and considers my words. "I'm brave," she informs me after a moment.
"You're very brave," I confirm.
She frowns, her tongue once again pushing in the gap between her front teeth as she mulls over what to do. "I can be scared and be brave," she declares, her eyes flickering over to me for approval.
"I think you can be," I agree.
Apparently, that's all she needs, because she immediately starts gathering her crayons and the colouring book, stuffing everything in her little red bagpack, before getting to her feet. When I stand up as well, she holds out a hand for me to take. "Mummy's room is over there."
Allowing Kaley to take the lead, I follow her to one of the doors. Once there, she hesitates and sneaks a quick look up at me, letting me know that she needs a little support in being brave. Giving her a reassuring smile, I knock on the door and moments later, a male voice calls for us to enter.
As the door swings open, I can feel Kaley quaver beside me, but the moment she sees her mummy, sitting upright in the bed by the window, she tears her hand from mine and rushes over to her. Her mother extends both arms and catches her, holding her close and hiding her face in her daughter's hair. The man sitting next to her, undoubtedly Kaley's father, meets my eyes over the top of their heads and quietly mouths 'thank you'. I smile at him before stepping back into the corridor and quietly closing the door behind me. These three are in no need of my visit.
There are others though, who might not need me to visit them, but who seem quite pleased to have me sit and talk with them anyway.
There's an elderly gentleman suffering from a concussion who's very courteous and utterly uninterested in his own injury, instead telling me no less than six times that his wife of 52 years, who's busily bustling around the hospital room, was unhurt in the attack. (When I guess correctly that he stepped in front of her, he seems almost a little irritated at having that pointed out to him as being heroic.)
There's a middle-aged woman with a fractured leg who has her entire family surrounding her, clearly drawing strength and cheer from their boisterous presence that immediately swallows me up as well. (They also lose no time to feed me with lots of tasty dishes they brought in lieu of hospital food and when I take my leave again, I'm full to the brim.)
There's a girl of thirteen who is desolate about the burn mark on her neck, less so because of the pain and more because she's afraid of being considered ugly because of it, no matter how much I and her overwrought mother assure her she's beautiful. (With the permission of said overwrought mother, I help her put on some colourful eyeshadow and sparkly lip-gloss with the random pieces of make-up we find in my handbag and I think she looks a little less desolate afterwards.)
There's a young man my age whose left eye is covered by an eyepatch that hides the damage done by a flying shard of glass, but instead of being angry or sad, he's very calm and almost philosophical about his illness and all it entails. (Because he's got no other visitors, I stay with him the longest, just to talk, and when I finally elicit not just a smile but a genuine laugh from him, I feel I've done something good today.)
When I finally leave the room of the young man, I feel humbled and very pensive. I don't have words yet for what I learned today, but I know it's got something to do with courage and with the strength to carry on and with the comfort of knowing you're not alone. And when I step into the open arms of Ken, who's finished his own rounds of visits, I know for a fact that this will always be the place where I can find them all – strength and courage and the comforting knowledge that I will never be alone.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'School' (written by Rick Davies and Roger Hodgson, released by Supertramp in 1974).
To DogMonday:
I hope this chapter clarifies a little more about the reactions of the royals to the attack, after we only glimpsed them for a second in the previous chapter. I think they're so stricken both because two of their own were so close to the attack and, more so, because they didn't yet know if anyone was killed or seriously hurt in the attack. For one, just the knowledge of people suffering in such a senseless way is enough to make anyone feel awful, and for another, I imagine being royal also comes with a sense of responsibility for the people living in your country. (And for Amy, there was the added element of "What have I gotten myself into?" to shock and scare her.) I don't think anyone ever really thought it likely that Rilla and Ken were the target of the attack (though regardless of likelihood, the PPOs would have done a very bad job if they hadn't gotten them out as soon as possible), so the family's vulnerability was less because of them and more because of everyone else who suffered.
As for the royals' role to step up and find words of comfort and hope, I do actually think that's happening. Owen certainly released a statement on the very night of the attack, Rilla and Ken go visit the victims in the hospital the day afterwards and the next chapter will, for example, see Ken make a statement as well. Whether they (and, by extension, I) find the right words to address such a serious issue is really not for me to judge. Let's see what the next chapter brings, yes? =)
I agree that Rilla should probably have gotten some security training before now, but that's really not the royals' call. Even if Ken and Owen wanted her to get trained, they couldn't order that to happen. Security is the job of a special unit of the Metropolitan Police and they assess a person's individual risk to decide which measures are adequate. For Rilla, I don't think they ever saw a personal threat, so they saw no need to give her any security training or, really, any security at all so far. (Comparably, it's been reported that Meghan got security training before her engagement while Kate didn't, because Meghan's risk was deemed to be higher by the police.) When Hanson says that "we should have given you some training before", he means "we the police", not "we the royal institution".
And speaking of royal institution... I actually don't think the staff truly apologised to Rilla for that awful conversation during Ken's time in Cyprus, or at least not all of them. I could see Oliver approaching her and apologising, but Elphinestone and Weatherfield aren't the types to do that. They probably think that it's apology enough for them to start being supportive of Rilla and listen to her suggestions while Owen was ill. Hardly ideal, but I imagine that Rilla moved on and put it behind her. She's heard worse things in her time as Ken's girlfriends and for all her faults, she doesn't hold grudges.