Secrets Inbetween...

Being bad at my job saved my life. Maybe you could put it down to laziness, or the fact I was addicted to my phone. Later on, I would be described as a beacon of hope and I would roll my eyes every time they said it. I wasn’t a beacon of anything.

I had been in my new job as a theatre usher for all of 2 weeks. With no prior experience, I had practically begged them for the job during the interview. The chance to watch The Phantom of the Opera every night, to be a part of it, was a dream I could tick off my bucket list which I had made when I turned 18 and moved to London, just over a year ago. I had been assigned a locker to hold my things while I was working; they had a strict ‘no phone’ policy. Whether that was because it could go off in the theatre, or they were afraid we would film the performances, or they just didn’t think we needed the distraction, I wasn’t sure. All I knew is that I managed a total of three days without my phone. On the fourth day I had pretty much learnt the ropes of the job and knew what I could and couldn’t get away with. By the end of my second week, due to what my grandmother referred to as an ‘ample bosom’ and the fact our uniforms had been designed with no pockets in mind, I had my phone safely secured in one side of my bra.

It was a Friday night performance, after the interval, that I slipped from the auditorium and made my way to the toilets. I settled down on a closed toilet seat lid and started playing candy crush with one hand, twirling a loose strand of blonde hair with the other. I had never thought I would think this: but there were only so many times one could listen to ‘Down Once More’.

I had activated a particularly good special candy when I heard them. Bangs, maybe doors slamming or something louder. Then the shouting came, barked orders, muffled by the distance. I heard footsteps running down the stairs that went above me to the foyer. I let my hand drop to my side as I exited the toilet stall and paused by the bathroom door. Something wasn’t right here. The banging continued and then the screaming began. I wrenched open the bathroom door and entered the bar area, which was eerily empty. I froze as the doors to the theatre stalls area were wretched open with a bang and people came flooding out. No, not flooding – running. They ran towards me with horror in their eyes, some clinging to each other, some pushing others out of the way. That’s when I saw him – or one of them. His face was concealed in a black ski mask and a black hoodie, the gun in his hands was something I’d only ever seen on films – but the way that he gunned people down was the most real thing I’d ever seen. He shot into the crowd almost lazily, taking no particular aim, nor needing to in the crowd of screaming, running, theatre goers. It was easy pickings. Horror filled me as I realised what was happening, or what was about to happen. As the ever-falling crowd reached me, I came to my senses and turned and ran to the stairs, upwards towards the foyer. “Don’t look back, Emily,” I told myself as I ran, “Don’t look back.”

I was the first to reach the stairs, my feet pounded up them clumsily, the vibration of my feet on each step shaking through my legs as adrenaline took over and I cursed my short legs. Other people were close behind and coming up to the side of me, I watched as they ran, scrambling to the top of the stairs. Some held hands with loved ones, my heart ached as I saw a man crying as he took the stairs two at a time.

My foot hit someone behind me causing me to falter and the hand of a woman reached out to steady me as we carried on climbing. I managed a half terrified, half grateful smile as we reached the top and she gave my arm a brief squeeze as people separated us and she was carried off into the crowd. The scene in front of me made me stop as people pushed in front of me, the sounds of gun shots and screams not far below as the gunman picked his way through the crowd.

My colleagues were dead. Our security guards and doormen lay on the floor, like rag dolls in their own blood. The girls in the souvenir stand lay splatted on the ground and the box office door had been ripped off its hinges. I dreaded to think what or who lay inside. Bile rose in my throat as beads of sweat matted my hair to my head. They were all dead. I was shaken from my disbelief by the sound of metal rattling. I looked up to see that the metal security gate was down, the one we put down to secure the doors when we closed up for the night. The surviving crowd of people who had made it to the foyer were clawing and pulling at the gate, attempting to lift it up. I was the only one who knew it wouldn’t be possible. Thinking fast I ran into the box office, the key for the gate would be in there. I stepped over the bodies of Dan and Ranjit with a cold detachment as I opened drawers that the key might be in. I had never locked up on my own, I had never been put in charge of the key. It was as I heard the bang of shots getting louder, closer, that I realised the gunmen would have locked the gate. They would have the key. I lifted my head to avoid looking at Dan and Ranjit’s faces, both not much older than me. They didn’t deserve this, no one did. Through the transparent box office screen, I could see the faces of people rushing past, some were bleeding, others screaming. People screamed other people’s names, searching for their friends or family members. Some seemed to just be screaming at the impossibility of what was happening. I knew those screams would haunt me forever.

With my phone still clutched in my hand, Candy Crush still shone on the screen as I shakily clicked my phone app and dialled 999. This was something I had only ever done once before when I was very young and bored at my grandparents, my cousins and I daring each other to call and fake some emergency.

“999, what’s your emergency?” A cool, calm voice responded.

“I need the police,” I said hurriedly, my voice tripping over the words. The phone seemed to connect again and another calm voice responded.

“What is your location and emergency?” The operator asked.

“I’m at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London. There’s a man, maybe more. They’re shooting everyone.” I forced my voice to remain calm, but the screams were everywhere now and the rattling of the metal gate got louder. How could I even begin to describe what was happening here? Ice seemed to seep into my bones with every word. It didn’t feel real.

“We’re aware of the situation, the police are on their way.” The calm voice responded, like milk trickling through honey. No accent, no panic, just smooth and calm. “Is there anywhere safe that you can hide?” She asked, quickly but calmly, her voice sounded fake in the room of screams.

I looked wildly around the small box office with no door, I was a sitting duck here. I moved to the doorway. The foyer was now full of people, those closest to the metal gate were pulling and hitting it in a desperate and wild attempt to open it. I wanted to scream at them to stop, that it was a useless waste of energy, but perhaps they needed the hope. People were still coming from the stairs leading from the stalls and down from the upper circle. They must be everywhere. Exits sealed; they had thought this through. “There is nowhere safe.” I whispered as the realisation dawned on me: I was going to die. We all were. A shiver went down my spine.

“If there is nowhere to hide, play dead.” Said the calm voice as I watched a man reach the top of the foyer and fall dramatically as a smattering of blood exploded across his chest. The gunman had reached the foyer.

“Play dead?” I repeated, my voice void of emotion as the gunman reached the top of the stairs and started shooting wildly into the foyer. Was that a machine gun? I’d never seen one in real life, it looked like a prop from a movie, completely unreal. People pushed past me to get into the box office to hide from him. It was only a temporary solution; of that I was sure.

“Yes, pretend you’re already dead.” Responded the operator, I had almost forgotten she was there. I let my hand fall from my ear as I pushed into the foyer and bullets shot around me, people fell with screams or grunts, writhing in pain. Another gunman, attire similar to the first, made his way into the foyer from the upper circle. More shots from downstairs made me realise I was right: there were even more of them.

I locked eyes with the first gunman, the only person frozen still in a room of running, screaming and writhing bodies. I couldn’t feel my legs, all I could feel was the beating of my heart as it went into overdrive, blood rushed through my body and I felt like I was on fire. It was then that I fell.

I vaguely remembered a distant memory of being taught how to fall at drama class at school. Onto your knees, then to your bum, then onto your side. Gracefully and painlessly. All thoughts of that drama class disappeared from my mind as I fell face first onto the hard marble floor. Pain exploded in my head as it collided, a burst of warmth gathered around my head in an ooze of blood. I closed my eyes and urged myself not to squeeze close my shaking hands. I willed myself not to shake, not to move and not to breathe. I’m dead. I thought. I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead. I willed the gunmen to believe it too as I attempted shallow short breaths, my heart beating louder and louder. The screams around me were getting less and less and I tried not to react as someone fell against my legs, a body trapping me. I fought against the adrenaline surging through my body, urging me to fight or flight, as if doing nothing was not an option.

My body ached from the effort of keeping it still. It didn’t seem long before the room grew silent, the smell of blood and sweat and fear thick in the air. All I heard was the squeak of the gunman’s footsteps, sweeping through the room, dodging bodies, and looking for survivors.

I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead I thought over and over. I held my body still yet relaxed, remembering the bodies of my colleagues who were not far away. As the squeaking of their shoes got closer, I held my breath. I’m dead I thought. Ignore me, I’m already dead. The pool of blood below me had reached my lips, tickling my face. I’m dead. The pounding of my heart seemed deafening to me, giving me away. I’m dead. My mind started to fog as I battled with unconsciousness. Maybe it would be easier if I did pass out. I wouldn’t be able to control my body or breathing, but I also wouldn’t be able to feel anything. Maybe it would be easier if it were over.

“We’ve got a live one,” I heard a gruff voice rumble nearby. My heart skipped a beat as a I heard a shuffle and a shot rang out. Then nothing. I desperately and internally checked if it was me, if I had been shot, but I felt nothing. The adrenaline in me saved me from having to feel the pain in my head. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel my own death whether I was conscious or not. The squeaking shoes continued around the room. Every step they took made my teeth clench.

Still holding my breath, the floor beneath me seemed to give way as my unconsciousness threatened to take over. I took in a shallow breath as the sound of sirens approached outside. I would have cried with relief if my body thought it safe to move.

“Shoot the rest, just to make sure.” Another low voice said quickly. “Then get the others.” A grunt of agreement came from the upper circle stairs and a shower of bullets spread out around me. My battle with my conscious gave way. I’m dead. Then my mind went blank.

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