“Looks like we’ve been spotted,” Bill says as he opens the door. A group of armed men advances as a pack. Slipping his hand into his jacket’s pocket he checks for his knife.
Uri’s door opens then slams shut.
“Where you going, mate?” A young male, of perhaps twenty-five, steps out of the group. He holds a lump hammer firmly in his grip, its massive head pushed up against his hand.
“Just need something for a headache,” Bill replies gesturing towards the pharmacy. The tension among the group is intense.
Jessie’s door opens and slams shut.
“You local?”
“No, we-”
“How come he’s got a car?”
“How much for the car, mate?” the leader asks stepping forward.
“No one else has got a car running.”
Jessie groans.
“It’s not for sale,” Bill replies.
“It’s a beauty though,” the young man says running his hand across the paintwork. “I’d like one of these.”
“It’s an early seventies Ford Escort.”
“Seventies! That was last century. My mum was born then.”
“Not mine.”
“It’s crap. Bet it goes like an old granny.”
“Shut up, Nobby.”
“How come you’ve got a car and no one else does?”
“It’s not been zapped by the EMP,” another one adds.
“How much?” the man repeats staring at Bill—a challenge.
“It’s not for sale,” Bill repeats.
“Can we get out of here, Bill?” Jessie asks, her voice unconcerned, bored even.
“I need some paracetamol, Jess.”
“How much, Bill?” the leader presses again.
“I told you. It’s not for sale.”
“Everything is for sale,” he replies and the group of men take a step towards Bill. A bag unzips.
Bill holds the leader’s stare as his cronies swarm around the car. One reaches for the door’s handle. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you ... mate.”
Click.
“What’s she got?”
Bill sighs. His headache is getting worse.
“My pass to the chemist. Now get out of my way.”
“Make me.”
“You go to pharmacy, Bill. I take care of the men,” Uri says.
Bill takes a step towards the pharmacy. The leader blocks his path.
Bill sighs. He really didn’t want to have to do this; his head was banging, he was tired, his muscles ached and this scrote was the last thing he needed. In the next moment Bill grabs the man’s arm and in one deft move twists him over then throws him to the floor. The man lands with a thud, his head knocking against the verge. A dog turd sits inches from his mouth. Bill crouches next to him holding him down, subduing the man’s struggles and grimaces at the stink wafting from the dog mess.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he growls. Tiredness sits behind the adrenaline now flooding through him and any patience he had is gone.
The man thrashes and his hair trails through the dog turd leaving an imprint along its slimy surface. Bill grimaces. The turd was fresh.
“I would-”
A collective groan of disgust fills the air as the man thrashes again and slams his cheek into the mess. As he rolls back, his eyes widen with disgusted realisation. The squashed faeces slides from his face and plats back onto the grass. A stomach-churning stench rises to fill Bill’s nostrils and he jerks back in revulsion.
Groaning and mutters dissolve to whispers then laughing breaks out as the man stands then lurches unsteadily. The crowd takes two steps back.
“I told you not to,” Bill says. Behind him Jessie snorts.
“Is disgusting,” Uri says as Bill walks to the pharmacy.
“Best get him some baby wipes, Bill,” Jessie taunts as the man turns to leave.
“Get away from me!”
“Idiot!”
“Shut up!”
“That stinks!”
The men disappear down the road as Bill steps up to the chemist. The doors jangle as he pushes. He sighs in frustration and kicks at the metal frame. He’d had his fill of shit today—literally. He really couldn’t be arsed with this. Raising his leg, he kicks at the door in earnest. Three hard kicks later, the glass breaks and he’s inside.
Taking two packets of headache pills he grabs some liquid paracetamol and a stick of deodorant. The door to the pharmacy where the prescription drugs sit has no door and the shelves are lined with trays full of bags ready to dispense. Beyond is a locked door. A sudden wave of remorse fills him. He shouldn’t have broken the door—now anyone could come in and take what they wanted. He wasn’t bothered about the bottles of shampoo or moisturising cream—it was the hard drugs that were the problem—the methodone and medicine that could kill if it got into the wrong hands and what were the chances that it would land up in the wrong hands! Almost one hundred percent.
“Jessie! Uri!” he calls. “We need to shift this lot.”
It takes them twenty minutes to load up the car with the drugs from the pharmacy’s shelf and then they make the final part of their journey to find Bin Sayeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Aaron covers his ears as the woman screams again. The walls in the apartment block were paper thin and listening to her begging for the man to stop was unbearable. At least when the electricity was on he could turn up the television or put his headphones on and drown out her pain with music or a game.
Since they’d turned up life was different. Now, when he went downstairs, he’d run past the floor they were on. The men were menacing and would make fun of him if they saw him. Going to and from school had become a torture as they taunted him. It was worse when he was with his mother. They’d make foul comments to her. One had even grabbed her and, in his broken English, told her to cover her hair or he’d rape her in front of her kid. After that he wouldn’t let her go out without him and now he carried a knife in his backpack and another in his pocket. He kept one under his pillow. His mother had become fearful too and even said she may wear a headscarf just so they’d leave her alone. That had sickened Aaron and made him hate them even more.
The woman screams again and a bang sounds against the window—something thrown—maybe her. He’d seen her once—when she’d started coming around to see him. She was pretty, tall and slim, with skin like honey, dark hair like his mother’s but her eyes were a rich topaz. He couldn’t place where she came from. She spoke with an accent though.
His mother walks back from the kitchen just as another scream sounds. Their eyes lock and he recognises the frustration in her eyes—it was the same frustration he felt, and guilt. Enormous guilt. They should do something.
“Here,” she says passing him a plate. “It’s the last of the bread.”
“The last?” he asks although the question is rhetorical—he knows there’s barely any food left in the cupboards. There are a few tins, but his mother liked to shop for fresh meat and vegetables to make their meals - cooking from scratch she called it - and when the blackout had struck there was very little in the cupboards. They had rice and pasta but no way of cooking it. “What’ll we do then?”
“I’ll find some more. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We won’t go hungry.”
He takes the plate and lifts the sandwich. Jam. The bread is stale around the edges and she’s given him the thick crust—typical of his mum to give him the bigger portion. ‘You’re a growing boy,’ she would say as she piled the food on his plate, her own sparse by comparison. After his dad had bailed on them, there had been weeks when they’d had to eat more jam sandwiches than he could stand, that and platefuls of porridge.
“Eat up,” she urges watching him take the first mouthful.
The woman screams again and Aaron’s eyes lock with his mother’s. He can’t stand it for another second.
“Mum, I-”
“No, Aaron. It’s not our business.”
“They’re dangerous, Aaron. If we do anything they’ll ...” she trails off.
“Kill us?”
She nods.
“I can’t listen to her screams, Mum. We have to do something to help.”
“I tried once.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I went down there one day—when they’d gone out. I talked to her. It was before, when the beatings weren’t as bad-”
“They’ve always been bad.”
“Yes, but before ... they weren’t so ... regular.”
“I called the authorities and asked what I should do. They gave me the number of a women’s shelter. I gave it to her. I wish I hadn’t bothered though—the abuse she shouted at me!”
“She didn’t want your help?”
“I think she was too afraid to take it.”
A door slams.
“They’re going out.”
“Maybe. Eat your sandwich.”
Aaron nods and takes another bite.
“Where’s yours?” he asks with a mouth full.
“Don’t worry about me,” she replies and turns back to the kitchen. The bread tastes like cardboard but his loss of appetite has nothing to do with the staleness of the bread. He leans back against the sofa and slides his hand between the armrest and the cushion. His fingers touch the blade of the hunting knife. He’d bought it from Cal, it had taken all his savings, but it was worth it. When he went out next he’d take it with him. The last time he’d gone out he’d only taken the pen knife but things were different now. He swallows the last of the bread and takes a swig from the bottle of water.
“Sip it slowly, Aaron. There’s no mains water and we’ve only got the bottled water left.”
“Yes, mum.”
Another door bangs on the floor below and then someone takes the stairwell. Silence. The woman must be on her own—safe for a little while.
“Why don’t you go down and see if she’s ok, Mum? I think they’ve gone out.”
His mother leans back from the counter top and stares at him through the doorway. “It ... it’s not our business ...” She stops, takes a breath. “Right. Right. OK. I’ll go down.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Five minutes later Aaron stands at the top of the stairwell. Two flights of stairs lead down to the next floor. Apartment 16B. That’s where he lives.
“Let’s go then,” his mother whispers.
“No one can hear us,” he whispers back.
“Don’t believe that. They have their spies everywhere. There’s no one I trust in this block any more.”
She’s right. Even his friend Ali was running errands for them now. Aaron knew that he’d been forced into being a runner for them, but he’d changed. Now he was repeating their stupid extremist ideas and talking about killing kafirs. After he’d listen to him rant, Aaron had started to avoid him and bug his mum to move. She said the council lists were long, and she’d already put in for a transfer, but they might have to move up north though, and he’d have to go to a new school. It couldn’t come quick enough for Aaron. Perhaps up north they weren’t so organised.
JASMIN LEANS AGAINST the back of the sofa as the knock comes at the door again. The pain in her stomach and back is intense. She waits for it to pass. The knock comes again, light but insistent, too light to be one of them.
Taking a breath, she forces herself to the door and peers out through the spyhole. The woman from upstairs again—and with her kid this time. The boy hangs back as the mother knocks again. Through the door she can hear the murmur of their talk but not clearly enough to understand. The boy urges her to knock again. This time the tapping is stronger. Jasmin recognises the anxious, jerking movements as the woman looks left then right. She’s afraid. Just ignore her, she’ll go away. He’ll kill you if he finds out you answered the door. He’ll kill you anyway.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
She reaches for the lock, twists it to open, heart hammering against her ribs, and pulls the door ajar.
“What do you want?”
“To help you!” is the whispered reply.
She opens the door a little further. The woman sucks her breath between her teeth and Jasmin feels suddenly self-conscious. Did she look that bad? The boy stares unable to keep his eyes from her face. She must look that bad.
“I can’t let you in.”
“Come with us,” the boy urges.
Tears spring to Jasmin’s eyes. He can’t be more than fourteen years old, just a little younger than her own brother.
“I can’t.”
“Please! I know he’ll kill you if you stay. I hear him beating you. Please come now. We can take you to somewhere he won’t find you.”
“He’s right,” the mother continues.
He’s gone for the evening. You can do it. “He’ll kill you if he finds you here.”
“Then hurry!” the boy urges, his voice a broken whisper.
Leave him, Jasmin. Leave him and tell the police about his plans. Another pain shoots through her belly and Jasmin relents and opens the door wide enough for them to slip through.
“Get dressed as quickly as you can,” the woman urges as she steps into the living room. Jasmin nods though her hands tremble and her legs feel as though they’ll give way at any moment.
“She looks bad,” the boy whispers to his mother.
“Shh!”
“Go with her. Help her,” the boy urges as Jasmin opens her bedroom door.
“I will. Stay here whilst I help her get dressed.”
“Please, hurry,” the woman urges as Jasmin pulls at the drawer of the bedside table.
She remains silent as she takes out her underwear with trembling hands then sits on the bed as her stomach cramps and nausea waves through her belly.
“Do you need help?” the woman asks as Jasmin remains still on the edge of the bed.
“No,” she replies. Her head feels light, her heart as though it will burst. Perhaps she should stay. He would be so angry with her. What if he found out about the woman and the boy? It would be her fault if they got hurt.
“Tell her to hurry, mum!”
He could kill them. He’d definitely punish her. “I ... I’m sorry. You should leave.”
“No! Tell her she can’t stay. Tell her he-”
Footsteps sound in the corridor and the boy runs into the room and tugs at his mother’s sleeve. “Mum, listen,” he whispers.
“I hear it!” she whispers back and looks down at Jasmin with terrified eyes as the front door opens.
“Hide!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The car pulls to a stop. Further along the road, standing beyond the row of old terraced housing with their ugly shopfronts, is a group of apartment blocks. Bin Sayeed’s is among them. The car reverses and Uri parks it between two others, unobtrusive, although given the cars parked at various angles, and the van knocked through the shop front, it’s perhaps overkill on Uri’s part.
Already alert as she steps out of the car, the thrum of motorbike engines peaks Jessie’s curiosity. It fills the air then booms as numerous bikes ride beneath the underpass Uri had taken them through only minutes before.
“Sounds like bikers,” Bill says stepping next to Jessie. “From that noise I’d say at least five—listen to them open up their pipes as they go under that bridge—beautiful.”
“Once this is over, Bill, you can get a Harley and go cruising with the boys.” A figure in the distance catches her attention. Dressed in black from head to foot, it turns from the path to Bin Sayeed’s apartment block. “But right now, we need to get Bin Sayeed.”
“You think I don’t know that, Jessie?”
“I know you do—it’s just-”
“Then steady on—keep things calm. Revenge is a dish best served cold and we need to keep our wits about us.”
“Sure.”
“Good. Now,” he continues as the noise of engines increase
s, “we go in separately—nothing more suspicious than a group of armed men and women striding with purpose up to a goddamned terrorist.”
“I will go around the back—take the back streets and enter from the end of the street,” Uri offers.
“Agreed.”
“Jessie, keep that hat low—the bruise on your face will attract attention so, if you can look a little more ...” he falters and looks her up and down. She was a woman at the peak of her fitness, a trained fighter ready to kill and she looked like she’d done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. “If you could try to look a little less aggressive .... Perhaps ... more womanly-”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying nothing. We’ve got to blend in. That’s all”
Uri snorts. Bill sucks at his lips muting a laugh. Uri was right—there was little chance of them doing that. “Alright, Uri. OK, so we’ve got to look ... less obvious.”
“Hey, I can be feminine-”
Uri grunts and Bill holds back a smile.
Jessie frowns at them both. “I am!” Silence for a moment as she scans them for a reaction. “This is not worth the effort,” she huffs. “From this second on I’m just an ordinary girl in a baseball cap with a rucksack walking down the street.”
“Sure,” Uri replies. “Who also happens to be trained killer looking for terrorists to slaughter.”
“Well, that’s a bit over the top, Uri, and a bit-”
“Honest.”
“Well, yes, it’s true but a bit blunt.”
“Right,” Jessie says. “Here I go. Just a girl walking down the road with a rucksack.”
“Full of crossbow bolts, knives and guns.”
“Uri! Shut it, mate.”
“Sorry.”
The sound of engines ebbs. They must have taken a turning. Shame, Bill had wanted to see the bikes ride past and was intrigued to find out who had got them all running. It was certainly someone with a bit of mechanical savvy. Bill crosses the road and takes the passageway between a row of buildings as Jessie heads straight towards the tower block where Bin Sayeed is holed up. Uri disappears the other way.
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 52