How the Umpire giggled as he laid the wreath at Brant’s door. He’d had to bite down on his hand to stop, lest he be heard.
The Euro-hit from a few years back, ‘Hey Magdalene’, was jammed in his head and he hummed with forced repetition. Had he known the wild abandon the ordained had danced with in hordes on Ibiza to this song, he might have taken pause.
Deliriously oblivious to past trends, he hummed as if he meant it. He couldn’t believe the rush it was to tease, torment and outright taunt the police. When the cricket mob were done, he’d have to have a serious look at the Met. So much work, so little time.
He hummed on. Shannon felt so wired, he couldn’t stop walking. He saw sparks light up his steps and found himself in the middle of Westminster Bridge. On impulse, he threw the Marks amp; Spencer bag over. It contained the crossbow.
Then he decided to suddenly cross the road. Without pause, he walked out into the traffic and a 159 bus lifted him about six feet and he fell back onto the pavement. As if the bus had said: ‘Get back there, asshole.’
Passers-by gathered round, and a buzz of observations danced above him.
‘Did you see that?’
‘Walked right out in front of it.’
‘Pissed as a parrot.’
‘What a wanker.’
An ambulance was eventually called, but it got caught in the rush. Its siren wailed uselessly, but loud enough to irritate the shit out of the stalled motorists.