The Chosen Few

In his small semi detached house on the outskirts of London, Tom Dalzell slept a dreamless sleep. His bedroom was pitch black, save for the harsh light emitted from the glowing clock-face on his chest of drawers. Suddenly, a piercing noise broke the silence. It repeated itself several times, and eventually woke Tom up. He sat up in bed slowly, pushing away his bed covers as he did so, as if it required all his strength. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and then looked over to the source of the noise. His mobile phone. Shit.

He sighed and reached over to pick it up, then opened the display, and held it to his ear.

‘Yeah. Who is it?’ He said, barely awake.

‘Tom? We need you down in Bastington. How soon can you get there?’ The voice on the other end replied, which he eventually realised was his boss, Keith Gilks.

‘What? I don’t know… wait a second.’

He looked over to the clock, and after a moment, he registered what it was trying to show him; 4:37.

‘Christ’s sake Keith, what the hell can’t wait at least six hours?’ As he talked, he ran his fingers through his hair. It was a nervous habit that he did without realising it.

\'There\'s been a terrorist attack on a hospital in Bastington.\' Keith replied, solemnly. \'How soon can you get there?\'

\'Uh... don\'t know, probably about three, four hours, maybe less at this time in the morning.\'

\'I want you to take charge down there, found out what organisation or whatever is behind it.\'

He yawned, still irritated about being woken up.\' Uh...sure, why not.\'

\'Great. I\'ll call ahead about six-ish, tell the DCI there to take all the evidence here.\'

\'Thanks. See you later. ‘Keith hung up. Tom listened for a moment, and hearing nothing, cursed inwardly that he was forced to leave the quiet night and go roaring down the motorway at five in the morning. Sarah- his wife- stirred beside him, breaking the silence.

\'What was that about?\' she said, barely audible and barely awake.

\'That was Keith. He wants me to investigate some hospital.\' He replied, speaking softly.

\'Wh...What time is it?\'

\'Almost five.\'

\'I thought you were going to tell him you were going to do more desk work instead of all that stuff.\'

\'I know. I did. He wouldn\'t have called me if it wasn\'t important.\'

\'You promised.\' Tom recognised where the conversation was headed. He had heard various forms of it the year before, usually shouted at each other at the tops of their voices. He had promised to do more office work, but he couldn\'t stand it, so had actually been overjoyed when Keith had called.

\'I know I did, but they need me down there, so I-\'

\'What about my needs, our needs? What about our plans? You were going to do less of that stuff and focus on us. And Shaun? He never sees you when you\'re out all over the country. He needs you. We both need you. When are you going to make room in your life for us if you\'re out all the time? I thought we discussed this before.\'

\'I know; we did, I...I\'ve got to go.\'

\'Fine. Just go.\' She rolled over, turning her back to Tom. He sighed, then walked to his wardrobe and put on his clothes in silence. He hadn\'t thought she\'d react like this. He hadn\'t thought about her at all, he\'d been all too glad for a chance to do some real work. Shit. He\'d make it up to her somehow. He left the room, carefully shutting the door so as not to wake her, and then went downstairs. As he stood in the hallway, putting on his shoes and his jacket, the front door slowly began to open. He looked up from tying his shoelaces, curious as to who was on the other side, and then he knew whom it would be. The door swung open to reveal his son, Shaun.

Shaun understandably jumped back in surprise when he saw his father in front of him.

\'Uh...dad, I-\'

\'What? What the hell are you doing? It’s five in the morning?\'

\'Look, I just went to a party… it\'s not a big deal!\'

\'You\'re grounded. Go to your room.\'

\'What? Why? Nothing happened! It was just a party!\' Shaun exclaimed incredulously.

\'Now Shaun.\'

\'For fuck\'s sake.\' Shaun muttered under his breath.

\'What?! What did you say?\'

\'Nothing.\'

\'Go to your room. I\'ll talk to you when I get back.\'

\'Again? Why don\'t you just leave? You\'re never here, anyway.\'

\'Got to your room, Shaun. Now.\' Tom said, firmly. Muttering indistinct profanities, Shaun stomped up the stairs to his room, and slammed the door. Tom sighed. His day had started badly and gone downhill quickly. No doubt he\'d get the blame for Shaun\'s midnight excursion, with him being an absent father figure. He looked at his watch. If he was going to get to Bastington in good time, he\'d have to leave now. He picked up his car keys from on top of the table in the kitchen where he had left them earlier that day, and walked to his car.

As he drove to Bastington, Tom was filled with mixed emotions. Though he was ecstatic about having a chance to do some real police work after some time, it was lessened by his feelings of guilt about his broken promise to Sarah, and his anger at his son for his constant refusal to follow any rules that were laid down for him. But as he approached Bastington hospital all thoughts of himself vanished as the hospital- or what there was left of it- hove into view.
He stepped out of the car and looked around in amazement. The devastation before him was near total. Bastington hospital had been razed to the ground. Only the very furthest reaches of the hospital had not been completely destroyed, but they had been badly scorched by the fire. He walked over to the group of policemen standing nearby.

‘So, what do you know so far?’ He asked.

‘Who are you?’ One snapped back.

‘Tom Dalzell, I\'m with Scotland Yard’

‘Oh. Well, apparently the explosion was centred near the centre of the hospital, but that’s all we know for now.’

‘Fatalities?’

‘We don’t have an exact count,’ one of the detectives replied, ‘but projections are around two to three hundred. At least another sixty in intensive care; extensive burns, mostly second and third degree, so the morgues\'ll probably be full this time tomorrow.’

‘Shit. Who’s the DCI?’

‘Murray. Over there.’ Tom followed his finger, and saw a middle aged man in an immaculately pressed uniform. He looked exhausted, and quite flustered. He had probably been rudely awakened in the early hours of the morning to assess the damage and explain what they knew to the press. He was talking to a reporter, tentatively, as if scared to give away more than the bare bones of the case. Wringing his hands as he spoke, he had the look of a man who had aged years in the space of several hours. Tom approached him and, rather than waiting for the reporters to leave, began to speak over the top of the interview.

‘I’m To-’

The DCI looked round quickly. ‘Tom Dalzell, I know. You’re the one they sent from the Yard?’

That’s right. Do we know who is responsible yet?’

‘No.’ the DCI glanced around apologetically and asked the reporters if they could talk later, ‘So far no one has made contact, \'cept a few kids trying to take credit. Nothing genuine.’

‘You’re sure?’

’Positive. Anything else?’

‘Do you have any idea what happened here?’ Tom asked, becoming increasingly annoyed with the DCI’s unhelpfulness.

‘No. We haven’t uncovered anything as of yet. I’m sure you’ve been told everything we know so far.’ The DCI said exasperatedly.

‘If I’d been told everything, do you honestly think I would be wasting my time with you and your officers? Why don’t you call me if you find anything useful.’

Tom left the DCI, after handing him a card with his home, office and mobile numbers, irked that it seemed he had come all this way for nothing. It wasn’t like he had volunteered for the assignment, he hadn’t even wanted to be involved, but it appeared to be a terrorist bombing, so he had been assigned. This was the result of his work on a bombing in London eight years previously. He had been partnered with another, higher-ranking detective, David Freeman - a well respected officer- but he and Tom had never seen eye-to-eye, so he had not enjoyed being forced to spend so much time with him. His role had been purely one of observation. He was to watch his superior handle the case, and gain the ‘invaluable experience’ of working with such a talented individual. However, little progress had been made for months, until Tom had noticed how often David had been late for work, how often he had ducked out early, how often he left the room with little or no explanation. Eventually, he had decided to follow him, and seen him pouring whisky into his coffee. Tom saw him sneak out many times during that day, and every one hence. Realising that David was an alcoholic, he had finally informed his superiors. Removing David from his position in the case, they handed it over to Tom.

For the next month or so, Tom had continued where David had left off, but to no avail. The investigation had been a mess thus far without any guidance and had been slapdash at best. It was only when he had returned to the source of the criminal investigation that he picked up the threads, which David had drunkenly missed. Merely a week later the instigator was caught, as he planted another device, this time in Belfast. And to think Tom had been going to give up on the case, just like everyone else so clearly had. He had worked tirelessly for months, interviewing suspects, watching hour after hour of grainy CCTV footage, and it all paid off. The repercussion of such strenuous work was that he hadn’t been able to focus on what was the most important to him, and should have been his priority: his family.

His son was growing up without a constant fatherly presence and, as such, was starting to rebel both at school and at home. Too many times Sarah had called him at work to say that Sean had been reprimanded at school, or sent home, or that they would have to see his teachers to discuss his behaviour. He found it harder and harder to cope as time went on, and began sleep erratically, barely able to stay awake when at work, yet incapable to sleep when he got back to his hotel every night. His work and home life was suffering, and he was near to collapse. Then he had a lucky break. An officer spotted the priority suspect meeting with the head of a known militant Islamic group, and everything fit. Useful information began pouring in, and Tom began to edge closer and closer to his goal.

Eventually Tom went to join the surveillance team outside the Islamic group’s meeting place. They saw three of their suspects go in, and when they followed soon after, they found blueprints for the building which had been bombed, and several other major London landmarks; Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, among others. They also discovered nitro-glycerine, fuses, other bomb making paraphernalia, and a large number of assault rifles, handguns and ammunition. Though he didn’t actually get the credit for solving the whole thing, David still managed it, everyone knew he deserved it, and the reputation he had gained from it made him the first person to call for when investigating terrorist attacks.

Even though the main instigator of the bombing had initially escaped justice for many months, he had been given several life sentences, as well as the other members of the group – reinforcing Tom’s reputation. What he loved about the job was the feeling - the rush as he got closer and closer to finding the culprit. He loved the praised heaped on him by his colleagues and high-ranking officers. All the same, he couldn’t stand the low moments, of which there were many-more than there were high points. He had been in charge of investigating four terrorist attacks (all of which had been successful), and had assisted officers in several countries with their departments. However, more and more frequently his time was being filled with petty jobs, which could be dealt with by anyone- he didn’t care who by- as long as it wasn’t him. When he was doing that, his life seemed as if without purpose. When in charge of investigations, he felt alive, charged, and capable of anything. Inevitably, those cases would end, solved, with the culprits either brought to justice or having fled the country for lands unknown. Then he would be back to doing jobs he despised, feeling as if he had no core, and if his job began to be much more this way, then he knew he would go insane.

As time went on, he was losing interest in his personal life as well, which hurt him the most when his job was at its most mind numbing. His son had turned-almost overnight it had seemed- from an angelic cherub to a rebellious seventeen year old. Most, if not all, conversations with his son and wife seemed to deteriorate into arguments within seconds. His relationship with Sarah had lost its spontaneity as time went on, and it hurt him, because often he felt that he was the cause. That was what had first attracted him to her, her impulsiveness. She’d seemed like a wild animal that could never be caged, would always go her own way, and once she had her mind on something, it could never be altered. However, after Shaun had been born, she had begun to lose that spark, constantly having to make sacrifices for her husband and son, until that reckless nature had been buried under her obligations and responsibilities.

On the way to his car, Tom called Keith.

‘Keith? Yeah, it’s Tom. Where’ve you had all the evidence sent?’

‘Well, since we haven’t got everything yet, and we can’t just take over a whole police station, we’ve got permission to use the town hall in Beckford.’

‘Right. What about the autopsies? Where are they happening?’

‘Raeston.’

‘Do I detect a little nepotism on your part in getting them there?’ Both were only 10 miles or so from Tom’s house, which was perfect. He would be able to do what he loved, and still be able to be with his loved ones.

‘I may have. Look, Tom, I know how bad it got with you and Sarah the last time you were away. Christ, it nearly killed me seeing you like that, and that’s no mean feat since you’re normally no oil painting. Since you’re in charge of the investigation, it was the least I could do to help.’

Tom grinned. ‘You could’ve got a limo to chauffeur me there.’

‘Ingrate.’

‘Damn straight. Talk to you later. Hell, I’ll probably see you tomorrow or Wednesday. Uh…Keith?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks.’