Li'l Girl Saved

There’s something quite indignant, or at the very least unfair, about an attractive young woman scrunched up and dithering her way down the street in harsh weather, holding a handkerchief against a cold red runny nose. One hand in her pocket, even though she’s wearing gloves and the other trying to stem the flow. A clutch bag under her arm with no possible means of escape or accidental drop.

Her long thick, Grey coat, tied at the waist and buttoned to the scarf that bore heavy demands from the owner in their fight against the chill.

To anyone that was born and raised in any sub temperate zone, London was a mild affair.

Layla would disagree at this moment. She displayed her best intentions of easing her way down the street looking as elegant as she could possibly manage.

She was always elegant and dressed impeccably. Even now, her coat matching the colour of the London sky as she drifted towards The Coffee Crew, a warm ambiance in any weather.

At a now, stunning twenty four years old with the trials of her childhood more than far behind her she was content-not happy, just content. There was something lacking in her life. Something that she had left behind, or never had. But she didn’t feel it because, she doesn’t yet know it.

The door was always the most welcome of finishing lines as she used all of her lean body weight to push against the long chrome handle, with never any fear of breaking the glass.

The warm, above door convector heater was her reward for the marathonic struggle against the elements. And the unspoken sigh of relief, as the door closed shut behind her was all that was required as an acceptance speech.

" Flippin ’ell. ”

She thought, looking around the room to see not one familiar face, let alone the familiar face that she was to meet.

The coffee shop was predominantly forestry , with the tops of coffee ” tea chests ” hung around the walls with the many countries flags burned into them to represent the many different countries that coffee was imported from and used on these premises. The continuous brown flow of the flooring against the few wooden seats that were strewn around small round tables. The high windows that afforded you a sense of privacy whilst you worked on your homework assignment and the long plank bench with eight seats that anticipated a small crowd with a major topic to discuss.

But did the coffee really come from all these countries.

Maybe not. Layla neither knew nor cared. They could be getting their coffee from the local Smartmart, for all she was bothered. But, this place was cosy and warm against the elements even without any form of heating. It was probably due to the rich browns of the wooden floor, aligned with the velvety turquoise upholstery on the comfortable seating.

It was packed. She knew it would be. This time of day it always was. There were bus drivers just finished their shift and wanted to unwind their fat ” sitting on their ass all day ” bodies, The usual crowd of noisy schoolchildren, with an attitude to match, office workers that could not be expected to perform without their chosen drug-heaven forbid, a tramp, who had had a good morning of public charity that afforded him a warm drink, and a couple that should not be couples due to them being coupled to someone else. They were the hardest to spot. But Layla wasn’t looking. She wasn’t a divorce Private Investigator, she was a slender twenty seven year old eye catcher that was there to meet Fran.

Fran was a West Indian co worker that was absolutely revered by all the guys in the office that couldn’t think any further than their trouser zip.

Outwardly she showed all the charms of what a man’s wet dreams are made of. She was hot. She was so hot and wet. Dripping with sex appeal. But in reality she was the last girl you would want to take home to meet your mother. She knew it but it didn’t matter, men never got to the ” bring you home to mother ” stage. She was young and vibrant.

She loved life and life did not account for being a trapped bored housewife. Layla moved towards the counter, stopping only to let an elderly gentleman take his turn before her. He looked cold and much more in need of a warm drink than her. So, there were four people in front of her, now there are five. She took the time to look at the array of cookies and cheesecakes that were on display for all the weak of willed that passed along so regularly thinking it was just a treat. A very regular treat.

All the time spent in the queue there was the tantalising aroma of coffee that encouraged people not to give in on their quest for downtime. An array of magazines bulged from a stand near the milk, sugar and waste bin area.

Short staffed.

" WOW ” no change there.

Thought Layla with an equally quick repulsion of her lack of respect and understanding that these baristas are extremely busy and not just here at her whim. An unsolicited flashback entered Laylas’ mind. One of the depravity and regular sibling loss, coupled with starvation that was endured whilst still too young to understand why.

She quickly reconciled with her wait and patience, once again, prevailed. As the warmth crept through to her bones she readily relaxed and shed the layers of protection that were so desperately needed earlier. Unbuttoning her coat and untying her scarf to let the warm air to where she had earlier denied the cold.

The warm cosy ambiance of The Coffee Crew was made easily due to its possession of an old High street Bank building that had felt it needed a more modern, upmarket approach to it’s customers and the thought of closing this, one hundred year old building, and setting up offices in a new, glass fronted affair, would display to the public an image of openness and honesty. Plus, the rent was cheaper.

So now we have the ideal atmosphere for a warm retreat without the cold glass, privacy invasion of a modern shopfront.

One more customer to go and the dilemma now was, with so many customers served, will there be enough seats for layla. A problem that was soon answered by a gentle tug on her cot and a head turn that revealed Fran. Bedraggled by the weather and more apologetic than a man that has just run over your cat.

" Latte please, ”

She laughed.

" Sorry I’m a bit late, buses. ”

Almost sounding as if she really cared.

" Well I got to wait in the queue for you, whoopee. Go get us a seat. ”

Replied Layla.

One last look around the crowded room that mirrored the outside weather, except in temperature, and two coffees were on the counter in front of her. Declining the offer to purchase cookies or cheesecake, Layla paid and tilted her way over to where Fran had secured the only available table. Not cleared fro the last customer but available.

Layla placed the cups at the centre and went off to get sugar before removing her cold coat and sitting to listen to Frans work plans for that day.

Though the morning was always full of hope, Fran rarely finished the work she attacked each day. So the first part of any chat was the reasons why she was still behind

Layla listened semi-intently and shared her focus on the blurred, black and white posters around the walls, on the student’s clicking at their laptops, the grimy night workers that had come in to wait for their bus, and of course, that smell of coffee.

It beggars belief how any of Fran’s marketing company clients ever sold a single item with Fran as PA. She was not the girl to tell a secret to. She’s blab. Not intentionally, she’d have to be of clear thought to do that. But her scatter brain, coupled with her laid back attitude, would simply forget that it was a secret.

Layla sipped at her coffee leaning in to Fran to hear her above the murmurings of the packed shop. And, to huddle closer to Fran for warmth. The only table available was in a direct line with the door and a cold breeze reminded her so every time anyone came in or left this former sixties bank building.

Layla fell in love with England especially, and London in particular. It was vibrant and busy. People always seemed to be on their way to somewhere. Never resting and yet always having the time of day for a quick chat, without the unnecessary involvement.

She spent the first few years exploring and adoring the landmarks and sights. She delved into the history. The centuries of history that every square mile of London seems to have.

She visited Buckingham Palace and got photographed by the side of the Guardsman, just like any other visitor and kept the picture by her bedside as soon as Farrah had it printed off.

The Tate Modern, The national History Museum, The Victoria and Albert, all a regular haunt as she grew up and into her new country. She would often take lunch in any of them and resume her poring with a fuller tummy.

Right now Layla had a tummy full of coffee and stopped Fran mid sentence to go visit the ladies room. Fran looked around at all the voices that filled the room and then at her watch to wonder why they weren’t on their way to work and why she too should make her way there. The head of a young Arabic looking man passed by the high windows that overlooked the main road and Fran was puzzled as to why he pulled down a balaclava to cover his face before entering the Coffee Crew. Surely, he’s done the worst of the cold weather, he can take it off all together now that he’s coming indoors.

Shots were fired up into the ceiling immediately after a scream of ALLAH AKBAR. As quickly as the speed of the first bullet that left his rifle the entire room matched his scream. But of sheer terror.

Tables were flipped, phones and laptops were dropped and not recovered as the customers fled in the opposite direction. People stumbled, Fran stumbled as both her table and chair were strewn out of the way to make a clear run for the other side of the room. The staff tried to run into the little back room but there was no escape their either as there were customers and staff huddled in fear and hiding behind the counters.

Fran caught the gun man’s eye as she scrambled up to her feet in the coffee spillage from the next table. He shot and she was hit. The bullet hit her upper back at an angle that sent it searing through her rib cage and into her heart. She bled out on the floor along with the coffee pool.

Layla knew. She knew exactly what was happening. She’d heard this sound before. A distant memory had returned to haunt her once again.

She pulled up her panties, checked again that the door was locked, and stayed where she was.

The gunman carried an ISIS flag and ordered a chunky construction worker to fit it to one of the windows. He and his Hi viz vest wearing mate positioned a table to stand on and draped the Black flag over the outside of the Venetian blinds as best they could. Making sure that it was all unfurled and showing. Not wanting to give him any reason to shoot.

As the dismounted the table the younger worker caught sight of Fran’s lifeless form and the ever increasing pool of blood that was draining from her and readily emptied his stomach of it’s contents.

The gunman looked around and familiarised himself with the surroundings. Walking to the north/south facing wall and looked around into the street. A rather stout woman huddled behind the counter caught a sight of him there and along with the tubby construction worker, made a dash for the door. Which, would have been successful, had she not screamed at the top of her voice as she flew open the door.

The gunman turned and fired in their direction and within the three minutes of his acquisition, the body count was doubled.

Walking to the door he saw that the high street was now clear with the exception of traffic and rather than bring the ladies body in so as not to bring any attention to himself, he kicked it out into the street, to advertise his presence.

Layla hadn’t heard the scream of Allah Akbar above the sound of the pipe music in the ladies restroom that was situated at the far end of the coffee shop and through a set of double doors that prevented customers seeing into the toilets.

She recognised the sound of the rifle and had heard the third shot. She was well aware that the first shot was a warning. That was typical to all in this situation. She also knew that the second and third shot may well have been fired to any of the customers directly.

She was paralised in her stall. Sitting there wondering just what could be happening. This wasn’t home in Syria. This doesn’t happen in London, or in England. But still, the instincts of staying safe grossly outweighed the need to find out what was going on.

She remembered most vividly the clatter of gunfire when she was a child at the farmhouse when she was stolen by Hamzah. It all rushed back and filled her head, like it never really left.

So vivid was the sight of his fat sweaty bulk. His greasy skin, unkempt look and the smell of his breath when he tried to lay himself upon her fragile bones.

She again was caught in a crossfire of decisions. Stay and feel safe, in a lavatorial prison, or go in search of answers and get caught in another hell hole.

She stayed. She stayed with such angst. Her cell phone lay with it’s newly cracked screen, face down on the floor adjacent to a once fluent, vibrant girl, now with

opened staring but blank eyes and the only movement she had was a trickling from a bullet wound in her rear upper torso.

The assailant now, again at the front doors, turns to the manager and screams for the keys to lock them all in with him. Gun trained and ready, he made no mistake this time. All thirty seven customers, thirty six of whom were still with beating hearts, were now his captives.

He ordered all of the customers and staff out from where they hid and sat them down side by side on the floor with their backs to where they had once queued for drinks.

It was not a ransom situation. Much worse. The first thing a ransom kidnapper does is take away your means of communication. He cannot afford to have you call and tell.

This guy was strange, they all thought. Not only did he leave them with their cell phones, He allowed them to retrieve them from the sticky floor. He kicked Frans cell phone into the line of seated people in case it belonged to one of them. But there was no takers.

He allowed them freely to make calls to their family, friends, police. Who cares-He didn’t. Cries and tears went out through every network as loved ones said their potential goodbyes to loved ones.

There was not one person playing Candy Stripe. A cell phone game that occupied the minds of people that had empty heads. The busy people that automatically switched to it when waiting for appointments, or dates to turn up or anything other time that needed time filling.

Problem was, even when dates turned up, the Candy Stripe still prevailed, usually by both parties. It’s like their entire relationships had become cyber. But now cyber became reality. And not a single sole in The Coffee Crew, alive or dead, saw this coming-let alone be prepared.

School children cried uncontrollably. They were now witnessing in this few minutes, what Layla had lived through for eight years.

The keys and the coffee shop fully belonging to the unknown gunman, all the customers could do was wait it out. They felt scared. He was heavily armed, with an automatic rifle and a curved bladed sword tucked down his belt.

He belted out orders to the hostages to which they readily complied. He ordered the cessation of the children’s whimpering, but that was not easy. Yesterday they were in this very coffee shop meeting with friends and making their way en-masse to their first year high school class, and today, they had no tomorrow.