By Angela Wright
Gunshots! Gunshots!” my manager shouts through the phone. He has a penchant for being melodramatic and inflating the truth to make a point. It’s hard to hear him over the din in the background. The building is undergoing restoration and the sounds of hammers knocking against stone resonate through the hallways.
I finally sit my tea mug back on the desk when he runs through the door, panting, “There were gunshots going off in Centre Block so just stay here for now.” His eyes shift around the room as if to grasp for something familiar. He had only just left the office to give a guided tour of the building.
Gunshots . . . in Centre Block? I ask myself, my fingers still gripped around the ceramic mug handle. Sweat forms beneath my palms. I should have read the emergency preparedness emails Parliament security sent months before. I’d told myself Ottawa was a safe city, too banal to be a target. Self-assurance had assuaged my guilt before I deleted each memo.
My manager’s voice trembles as he asks me to search the Internet for answers. A Globe & Mail headline splashes across the screen:
Shots Fired at Parliament Hill
. . .