He felt hungry. And thirsty. He hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast and it was already getting late into the afternoon. More than anything, he was craving Mum's blackberry crumble and those ribs Rhiannon had bought from the restaurant they were supposed to meet at.
He was aching. The vest was heavy, making his shoulders and lower back hurt. His feet were killing him, especially his heels. He longed to sit down, or even lie down.
He was numb. The tumult of emotions he had felt on the way to Piccadilly Circus, the blubbering and tears that he had shed while on the phone with that Sherlock character and Rhiannon… All of those had died down, leaving him feeling like he had no emotions at all. The reality that he, Andrew Nightingale, was standing in Piccadilly Circus with explosives strapped to him was beginning to kick in, beginning to feel very… real.
He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. It felt as if the day had gone on forever. Now, standing in the face of death, Andrew longed for nothing more than a hug. Just a simple hug, reminding him that there were still good and loving and decent people in the world.
The sky was beginning to darken, the neon lights were being turned on. Piccadilly by night had been a favourite of Andrew's for a long time. Tonight, the darkening of the day signaled the approach of his end.
Rush hour was approaching. Already Andrew could feel the number of people increasing. A quick calculation in his head made Andrew realise that the time his vest was due to go off was when the most number of people would be out on the streets. Whoever had orchestrated this entire nightmare was clever. Chillingly so.
Andrew panicked. All these innocent, unwitting people around him… Should he warn someone? Would they believe him? Would the sniper shoot him and detonate his vest if he tried to talk to someone?
Where were the police in all this? They could trace his call, couldn't he? Even if the mobile had an encrypted signal, shouldn't the sounds around him signal them to the fact that he was standing somewhere major, somewhere central? Why weren't they issuing a warning? Has no one noticed something odd about a haggard-faced young man who has been standing on this street corner for the past four hours?
There were unseen events and forces that were directing Andrew's life. It was a sickening feeling.
Four hours left in his life.
If he had four hours left under any circumstances, what would he do?
He would eat a lot of ice-cream and orange juice. He'd heard that it wasn't a good idea to consume citrus and dairy within an hour, but who cared about discomfort when you were about to go? He would spend an hour with his mum, probably just talking. Then he would spend the rest of his life with Rhiannon. They would be listening to his iPod on shuffle, which would mostly be the Smiths, the Killers, MGMT, Radiohead, and Bloc Party. Mostly the Smiths.
His phone buzzed.
"HELLO ANDY PANDY. TIME TO MAKE ANOTHER CALL."