Whatever It Takes

by Barbara Elsborg

  “Fuck you to hell.”

  “Roman!” Zain shouted. “I need help. I need a belt.”

  Roman struggled to take off the one Dima was wearing then crawled across the room to Zain. His head and arm throbbed and the room wavered in and out of focus.

  Blood flowed steadily from a bullet hole in Arkady’s thigh. His trousers were soaked. Zain was pushing down hard on the wound. Arkady was barely conscious but his gaze was fixed on Roman.

  “Can you press here while I put on the tourniquet?” Zain asked.

  Zain managed to get the belt around Arkady’s thigh and tightened it. Arkady groaned; the blood still flowed.

  “Move your hand,” Zain told Roman and the moment he did, Zain stuck his fingers into the injury. Arkady cried out, then his eyes closed. Roman clamped his fingers back over his own wound.

  “Okay, okay.” Zain was breathing heavily. “That worked. Only now I can’t move. How’s Dima? Qashim?”

  “Dima’s dead, I think. Or soon will be. Where was Qash hit?”

  “Stomach. Twice.”

  Roman crawled over to Qash leaving a trail of blood. He was still alive, sitting with his back against the far wall, his arm on his abdomen, his face grey, his gaze fixed on Zain.

  “You saved him,” Roman whispered. “Thank you.”

  “I save for me…not you.”

  “Still, thank you.”

  The sound of sirens filled the air and Roman exhaled.

  “Keep pressing on your arm,” Zain yelled. “Qashim, keep the pressure on your stomach.”

  Men with guns burst into the room.

  “Armed police. Do not move,” one of them shouted.

  Roman could feel himself fading in and out of consciousness. Black spots danced in front of his eyes.

  “Put your hands where I can see them,” someone shouted.

  “I can’t move,” Zain said. “This man has damage to his femoral artery. If I take my fingers off it, he’ll bleed out. There’s one man with a stab wound to the chest behind me. The one leaning against the wall has two bullet wounds to the abdomen. Roman… Oh God. The man with no shirt has a bullet wound through his arm, and a bullet grazed his head. Look after him, please. The man with the slit throat is dead.”

  Roman’s hold on reality slipped and the world disappeared.

  Zain groaned with relief when paramedics came into the room behind the armed guys. He explained everyone’s injuries all over again and only removed his fingers from Arkady’s leg when he knew they were ready to take over. Then he rolled to one side, and almost threw up at the pain in his stomach.

  “What’s happened here?” A man in body armour leaned over him.

  “No questions.” A woman spoke and Zain recognised the voice. Helen. She showed ID to the policeman next to him and he moved away.

  Helen bent down next to Zain. “Don’t say a word,” she whispered. “Not even your name.”

  Zain stared across the room to where paramedics were working on Roman and Qashim.

  “Are you hurt?” Helen asked.

  “The blood isn’t mine.”

  “Check this man for injuries,” Helen said.

  Bright lights dazzled his eyes. Zain was trying to see what was happening to Roman but the world wouldn’t come into focus. Someone touched his chest, his stomach, arms and legs and Zain whimpered.

  “Tell me where it hurts?” a man asked.

  “Everywhere.” Zain’s heart pounded and he felt hot, not right, scared. Not just scared, suddenly terrified. Oh God, don’t let me panic now. Is that what this is? What sort of doctor would he make if he couldn’t cope with… Pain in his stomach stopped his thoughts.

  As Roman was lifted onto a stretcher, Zain tried to get to his feet. He couldn’t, so he crawled. He had to stay with Roman. When someone tried to stop him, he fought.

  “I’m checking for injuries. Lie still.”

  Hands pressed his stomach harder and Zain howled. Hurts hurts hurts. He struggled to keep his eyes open through the waves of pain and fear and confusion that kept washing over him. Then everything went black.

  When Zain emerged from the fog, the first words he heard were, “Back with us?”

  Zain blinked.

  “You’re in hospital,” a woman said. “I’m Doctor Green. What’s your name?”

  Zain almost told her until he remembered Helen had said not to tell anyone his name.

  The doctor didn’t seem to mind when Zain didn’t answer. She launched into an explanation of what was wrong with him—shock, splenic trauma, capsule hematoma…

  “All you need is bed rest and you should make a full recovery.”

  All Zain needed was Roman.

  “Everyone else?” Zain croaked.

  She frowned. “Everyone else?”

  “The others brought in at the same time as me.”

  “You came in on your own. You were mugged. Don’t you remember? Knocked down by a bike and robbed. There was no head injury. Does your head hurt?”

  “No.”

  “You came in with no phone or wallet. Is there someone we can call? What’s your name?”

  Zain closed his eyes and his mouth. Roman and the others must have been taken elsewhere. He had to wait for Helen to come.

  He reran everything, trying to figure out exactly what had happened, going over the sequence of events, needing to convince himself that Roman was okay. The head wound was superficial. His arm would recover. I did the right thing. Pressure. Even though he’d had to ask Roman to move to find him a belt… But Roman had gotten medical attention quickly. He’d be fine. So why do I feel anxious? Everything would be okay.

  What if Roman wasn’t fine? Zain found it hard to breathe. If I hadn’t helped Arkady, I could have helped Roman. But Arkady would have died. He might still die. Oh God. He’d judged that Arkady needed help more urgently than Qashim, and Qashim more than Roman but maybe he’d been wrong. He’d helped Roman first because he would always do that. It hadn’t taken a moment to assess what was wrong. But what if he’d missed something?

  Zain’s anxiety rocketed. How many times had he seen his father make the decision over who he had the best chance of saving? Who needed help the most? His heart pounded and his mouth went dry.

  I would have chosen Roman. I should have chosen him. I love him.

  But Arkady would have died.

  Roman would be okay. Just a bullet through the arm.

  Zain needed to see him.

  When Helen didn’t come, Zain wondered if he’d been abandoned.

  Roman woke to find Helen sitting at his bedside. He stared at her and said nothing.

  “The surgery went well. I hear you should make a full recovery. But…”

  Roman stopped breathing.

  Helen gave a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. Zain died. They did everything they could, but he bled out. His spleen had ruptured.”

  Faddei’s kicks. How can my heart still beat?

  “He’s already been buried. Islam dictates that burial should take place within twenty-four hours, so…we didn’t delay.”

  No.

  “Quite a bloodbath,” she said. “You’re the only survivor. You’re lucky.”

  Roman clenched his fists under the covers but kept his face blank.

  No.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to me?” Her voice was sharper. “You think your silence will make any difference? You have information we need.”

  Fuck off.

  “You messed everything up, Roman. All for your little Syrian toy.” She glared at him.

  Roman tried to piece together what had happened but his head… Not Zain.

  She leaned forward. “This is what’s going to happen now. You are not walking away. You’re going to take over Arkady’s business. You know his contacts. They know you.”

  “I quit.” He pushed the words through the fog.

  “You aren’t listening to me,” she snapped.

  “I already quit.” They came easier that time.

&n
bsp; She gave a cold laugh. “No, you’re not quitting. You’ll continue or you’ll be arrested as an accomplice. Not difficult for us to allow it to leak about how cooperative you’ve been. How long do you think you’ll survive if you’re known to be a snitch?”

  Roman swallowed hard. He couldn’t help it. He knew she’d noticed.

  “You have the chance to make a difference,” Helen said. “A direct line to information that Arkady withheld from you. A couple more years. That’s all we want.”

  He said nothing.

  “There is no walking out of this job.” She pushed to her feet. “You’re in or you’re dead. Don’t let Zain’s death be in vain.”

  Roman watched until she’d left the room, then closed his eyes and curled up on his uninjured side.

  If Zain was dead, he’d know, he’d feel it. But he remembered the way Faddei had kicked him and Zain’s grey face. Yet how convenient not to be able to let him see Zain’s body. How opportune that the main reason Roman wanted to quit had been declared dead. But he still felt uneasy. Zain might be dead. He had to accept that. But it was only a might.

  No.

  Not even a might. Zain wasn’t dead. Have they told him I am?

  They weren’t going to let Roman go because he was too valuable. The couple of years that Helen had tossed out were a lie. They’d never let him go and he had nothing to use to change their mind. He had information that they’d be grateful for but not grateful enough to let him walk away. They’d told him Zain was dead because Zain was Roman’s weapon against them. His reason, his strength, his shield. As his head cleared, his thoughts became more focused.

  He was never going to accept that Zain was dead.

  He couldn’t. Because Zain was alive.

  When Zain finally saw Helen coming into his hospital room, her face grim, he wanted her gone again.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Zain wanted her to be sorry about a lot of things, but not the thing he knew she’d come to tell him.

  “He’s not dead.” If he said it, it stopped it being true.

  “Both he and Arkady died of their injuries.”

  No! Zain could accept that Arkady might have died, he’d lost so much blood, but Roman had only been hit in the arm, grazed on his head. The paramedics had come quickly.

  “He’s not dead.” Zain wasn’t going to be swayed.

  “The bullet went through his arm and into his body.”

  Zain gasped and his heart stuttered. I missed that? I didn’t. I…

  “I’m truly sorry,” she said.

  I should have checked for other injuries. Zain put a hand over his mouth to muffle his sob. Had he learned nothing from watching his father? You never assume that the obvious cause is the whole answer.

  Tears flooded Zain’s eyes, trickled down his cheeks. “I want to see him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. He’s in the morgue of a different hospital. You understand how quiet we have to keep all this. You know what he was doing.”

  “Did everyone die?” he whispered.

  “Everyone but you. I’m arranging for your belongings to be brought here. They’ll only keep you in hospital a few more days. You’re going to be given a thousand pounds to—”

  “Go away,” Zain muttered. He could have been completing her sentence or telling her to fuck off. Both worked.

  “The money will help you relocate to another city. You shouldn’t be in danger but just as a precaution.”

  “Go. Away.” He closed his eyes.

  “Zain, listen to me. You have no choice in this. You were granted asylum but it would be very easy for that to be withdrawn. You need to make a new start in another city.”

  “Fuck. Off.” Zain was never rude to women but… “Just fuck off.”

  He curled up and turned his back. Roman is not dead. I didn’t miss a hole in his side. I didn’t.

  On the day Zain was due to be discharged from hospital, he was given new clothes to wear, even new shoes and a warm thigh-length coat. Helen had said she’d arrange for his belongings to be brought in, but she hadn’t. When he was wheeled to the exit, he wasn’t surprised to find her waiting by the door.

  “We have a car,” she said.

  Zain pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t need a lift, thanks.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Where are you going to go? I have your belongings in the vehicle. Your wallet and phone. Your laptop.”

  “Give them to me and I’ll sort myself out.”

  “Get in the car. It’s not a request.” She sounded pissed off.

  Zain got in the car. He was too weak to run or put up a fight and he needed his things. A guy in jeans and a grey coat was sitting in the back seat and for a moment he’d thought it might be Roman but it wasn’t. The man held out an envelope.

  “Take it.” Helen turned and glared at him. “In it, there’s a hundred pounds, a receipt showing a thousand pounds has been deposited in your bank account and the address of a shelter in Manchester that’s expecting you. You can stay there until you find work.”

  When Zain showed no sign of taking the envelope, the guy forced it into his pocket.

  “When’s Roman’s funeral?” he asked as the car set off.

  “We look after our own.”

  By closing ranks and keeping silent. They wanted Zain out of London and he suspected they’d each been told the other was dead.

  Yet right until they drove him to Euston Station, Zain hoped that this would turn out to be more than making sure he left London, that they might be taking him to Roman.

  It wasn’t.

  They didn’t.

  Helen turned to look at him. “You’ll be safer. It’s what Roman would have wanted. He was prepared to give everything up for you. That’s how much he cared.”

  Zain thought it might look better if he didn’t go along with this too easily. “I can’t see why I’d be in danger. I know nothing. If… Now everyone is dead, why would I be a threat? I wanted to study to be a doctor in London. That’s always been my dream.”

  “Apply in Manchester. I can pull some strings. In a year’s time, this will all be a distant memory. You’ll be excited about your future.” She smiled at him.

  You fucking two-faced bitch.

  “I’m supposed to go back for a check-up next week.”

  “It can be done at any hospital.”

  Helen turned to face the front.

  Two men accompanied Zain into the station. They showed a ticket for him at the barrier, then gave it to him, before they held up their ID to the guy at the disabled entry. Zain hoped that giving him his ticket meant they weren’t going to accompany him on the journey because he wasn’t staying on the train. They took him to his reserved seat, then left without saying a word. Zain’s plan was to get off at the first stop and catch a train back to London but when he listened to the announcement, he realised this train was direct and due to depart in five minutes. Fuck.

  The guys were still on the platform, talking to each other, not looking in his direction. Maybe his quiet compliance as they’d walked through the station had made them complacent. Zain pushed to his feet, picked up his bag and headed back down the train through the carriages they’d walked past until he saw a place on the platform where he could stand unseen, assuming he could get off and reach it without them spotting him. He removed the coat they’d given him, left it on the train and pulled out his beanie. Now he looked different. Except for his bag. Should he leave that too? But his laptop was in there. Zain groaned.

  Two minutes to departure. Latecomers were running toward the train and as the doors opened to allow on a mother with a pushchair and two children, Zain forced his way off as they tried to board. There were still people hurrying and Zain wound his way around them expecting to feel a hand on his shoulder at any moment, but he didn’t. He hid and waited.

  The train pulled out and a few moments later, the two guys walked past where he was hiding. His heart
was racing. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t spotted him.

  Zain waited. And thought.

  Maybe that had been too easy. Either he was more skilled at this than he’d imagined, or they’d wanted him to get off the train. If so, why?

  Because they didn’t have Roman.

  His heart thumped. They didn’t know where he was and they wanted Zain to lead them to him. Was that far-fetched? A product of wishful thinking?

  What was he supposed to do now? It was a Friday. Would Roman be at the Natural History Museum tomorrow?

  Think! He moved into the main concourse of the station and looked for a place to sit down. He was so tired. The adrenaline rush from giving those guys the slip had vanished. Now he was anxious and scared, and with no coat, he was cold. He headed for a row of seats, dropped down and looked through his bag. His phone was in there, fully charged. How fucking convenient. He gave a quiet laugh, then winced at the ache in his stomach. A few minutes later, he’d pulled up details of a cheap hostel in Shepherd’s Bush and booked for that night.

  He put a sweater on before he went down onto the underground. He didn’t bother checking whether he was being followed. It didn’t matter. Not yet. He knew they could track his phone but they might have put something in his bag, on his clothes, even on the things he was wearing. He had to be sure he was safe before he went anywhere near Roman.

  By the time he reached the hostel, he was shattered. He’d stopped at a café and made himself eat a meal he didn’t want because he knew once he was lying down, he wouldn’t want to get up. The bunk room was empty and he chose the lower one near the window. It crossed his mind that Helen might arrange for one of the room’s occupants to be one of her guys so Zain worked quickly.

  He started with the clothes he was wearing, checking pockets, hems, collars, anywhere that a tracker might have been hidden. He even looked to see if the shoes had been cut open and stuck back together. They might have been and there were no spare shoes in the bag, but there had been when he’d left the bag at Roman’s flat. So he was going to assume the shoes contained a tracker. He couldn’t find anything in any of his other stuff but when he discovered a tiny strange-looking thing with wires stuck under the plastic baseboard of his bag, his heart jumped. He put it on one side, kept looking and found something in the spine of a book. Shit.