by Fin C Gray
It is a strange experience for Tom, being on the opposite side of the porters’ desk, wearing his dressing gown and seeing the vast foyer of his building from the porters’ viewpoint. Vince and Robert are busily winding back the video feed on the CCTV system.
‘Come and look, Mr McIntyre, please,’ says Vince.
Tom walks to the corner where the screen is and stands behind Vince, squinting at the grainy image coming into view.
‘Do you recognise this fellow, sir?’ asks Vince.
The time on the display shows 04:03. Tom watches the dark-bearded figure looking all around himself. He is carrying a backpack, and he quickly disappears into the stairwell adjacent to the porters’ desk.
‘That’s Daniel,’ Tom says, flatly.
‘Bloody hell, sir! I wouldn’t’ve recognised him in a million years. That tattoo! He was a proper clean-cut young man last time we saw him, wasn’t he, Robert? We did think we recognised him on the later footage, though. We’ll show you that in a second. The thing is, he ain’t got no tattoo later on.’
‘He was unrecognisable to me too, Vince. Took me completely by surprise las—’
Vince doesn’t allow Tom to finish. ‘You better have a seat, sir. You’re not gonna like what I have to tell you…’
Vince replays the other fragments of CCTV footage that he has, showing Daniel returning from King’s Cross, then the cleaned-up larger-looking version of him leaving the building via the hotel corridor at 16:58.
‘We reported this man – well, actually, we thought it was two men – to the police earlier. Robert thought that he was up to no good, sir.’
Tom blinks at Vince and looks back at the paused image of Daniel on the screen.
‘Explain, please, Vince.’
Robert casts a worried glance at Vince and looks away from them both, before disappearing into the staff kitchen to the side of the desk. Vince begins explaining what he has seen and heard in the gardens. Tom wants to cover his ears and block out everything Vince is saying.
‘What the fuck? Is he alive? Have the police found him? For fuck’s sake, is Daniel anything to do with this?’ Tom fires the questions as they come to him.
‘I’ve no idea. The last I heard was that they were going to search the area and get the transport police informed to look out for him. There’s been an explosion at Oxford Street Tube, though…’
Tom loses all his professional pretence and drops to his normal register. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! Vince, I’d better go back upstairs and call. Fuck, I can’t face going back anywhere near my bedroom. I can hardly face going back in my flat. Can you please get somebody to go and clear up that mess? I’ll fucking die if I have to go back in there.’
‘Best to let the coppers have a look first. Call them as soon as you get upstairs. I can call from here if you’d rather. Whatever, just steer clear of there until they get here.’
‘I’ll call them,’ says Tom.
He bounds up the three flights of stairs to his flat. The front door is still slightly ajar, and he feels a pang of fear as he pushes it open. As he closes it behind him, he starts to cry again. Help me, Alison, please. Tell me what to do here. Alison always helps him, in some way, through his worst times, but nothing can feel as bad as this feels tonight – except for losing her, of course.
‘I’m blocking you out, aren’t I? God, I wish I could turn my brain off.’ The phone begins to ring, and Tom rushes to pick it up.
‘Daniel?’
‘Hello. Is this Thomas McIntyre?’ The voice is female. It sounds soft and sympathetic.
‘Yes. Yes, who’s this?’ Tom can feel his heart pounding.
‘Oh, hello, Mr McIntyre. My name is Veronica Willis. I want to talk to you about Daniel—’
‘Veronica who? Why are you calling?’
‘I’m calling from the news desk at the Evening Standard. I want to… well, the news coming from—’
‘What the fuck do you want? I’m going through fucking hell here.’
Tom hangs up. He goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. His head is still thumping, and he can’t face calling the police yet. As he heads back to the living room, the phone rings again.
‘Yes, who is this?’ Tom shouts.
‘Hello, Mr McIntyre. This is James Aitken from News International. Can I talk to you about—?’
‘What the fuck?’ Tom slams the receiver down and clenches his head in his hands. What the hell is going on? Again, the phone rings, and he pulls the wire from the socket. The ringing continues in the study and the bedroom, so he runs to the study and pulls the cable from that phone. As he nears his bedroom, he pauses for a second and slams the door shut instead. The muffled ringing continues as he staggers back to the living room. Where’s the fucking remote? He turns on the news and sinks into the sofa. At the bottom of the screen, a red banner announces:
Breaking news. Oxford circus underground evacuated after terrorist incident. 38 dead. Nearly 100 believed injured, 27 critical.
‘God! What on earth has happened? This isn’t you, Daniel. It can’t be you.’
Tom watches the grim scene above the banner; smoke is billowing from the tube entrance, and people are running out of it. Police cars and ambulances are everywhere around the station, their emergency lights flashing and uniformed men and women running around. Tom stares at the screen in horror. Not Daniel. No. Please!
He stands up and walks closer to the screen, searching for some sign of his son. Tears blur his vision as he listens to the commentary. He hangs his head, defeated, disbelieving. The doorbell rings, and he ignores it, along with the incessant, muffled ring of the phone in his bedroom. But Vince and Robert wouldn’t allow any reporters to come upstairs before checking with him first, would they?
Tom answers the door and is greeted by a uniformed police inspector, who stares at him with serious, piercing eyes. A young looking policewoman stands by his side, carrying a portfolio.
‘Hello…’ Tom hadn’t expected anyone other than Vince to be there.
‘Mr McIntyre?’ asks the inspector.
‘Yes. Yes, how can I help you?’
‘I am Inspector Arthur Walker,’ he says, showing his warrant card. ‘This is Sergeant Gemma Ingram. Can we come in?’
‘Yes. Of course… come in,’ says Tom.
Tom shows them into the living room, and Inspector Walker points at the TV and says, ‘I see you’re aware of what’s been going on this evening, sir.’
Tom nods, trying to stop himself shaking.
‘Sit down, please, Mr McIntyre. We need to ask you some questions.’
‘Yes, of course, Inspector,’ replies Tom. ‘Please take a seat. Can I offer you both something to drink?’
Both of them decline with a shake of their heads and sit down. Inspector Walker indicates that Tom should sit opposite them.
Opening her portfolio, Sergeant Ingram lays some photographs on the table in front of Tom. Two of the pictures show an image of Daniel: no tattoo, short hair. Much as Tom remembers him before he saw him last night. They look as if they’ve come from CCTV footage in a shopping centre somewhere. A third shows Daniel with a criminal record number in front of his image. His hair is slightly longer. The fourth photograph is closest to him and shows Daniel as Tom had most recently seen him on the video footage downstairs. This picture is grainy and shows his son in the ticket hall of a tube station.
‘Are these pictures of your son, Daniel Thomas McIntyre?’ she asks.
‘What’s he been involved in?’ Tom begins to feel evasive, that he might be under suspicion.
‘Is this your son?’ asks Inspector Walker.
‘Yes.’
‘When did you last see him, sir?’
‘Last night,’ says Tom. ‘Well, the early hours of this morning, I suppose. He turned up out of the blue. I hadn’t seen him in nearly three years. It was a shock, to be honest.’
‘Did he stay here overnight, Mr McIntyre?’ asks Sergeant Ingram.
‘Yes. Yes, he did. I was
just about to call you when… I think he did something terrible here last night…’
‘Why do you say that?’ Sergeant Ingram pauses and begins scribbling into her notebook.
Tom stands up and starts walking towards the hallway.
‘I think it may be easier to show you. Follow me please,’ he says.
Both officers follow Tom to his bedroom and watch him fling the door open before standing to one side.
‘This is what he did to my cat. He placed the body on top of me as I slept, and he put the severed head on the pillow next to me. Then he locked me in my room. I had to call the desk to come and free me.’
Neither police officer enters the bedroom.
Sergeant Ingram speaks into the radio clipped to her lapel: ‘Get a SOCO team to Buckingham Court, ASAP. Flat 67. Inform CID that we need a D.I. here too.’ Then she turns to Tom. ‘Where did your son sleep last night?’
Tom points towards the study.
‘Have you been in there since you last saw him?’ she asks.
‘No,’ says Tom. ‘But Vince, one of the porters, popped his head in to see if he was there. I was worried that he might have done something to himself…’
‘Good,’ replies Inspector Walker. ‘We will have to cordon off that room as well as your bedroom.’
‘Why?’ asks Tom. ‘What else do you think Daniel may have done? Where will I sleep tonight?’
‘You’ve seen the news,’ he says coldly. ‘We think your son is responsible for that.’
‘The Scenes of Crime Officer will be here soon, Mr McIntyre. I don’t expect they will need to keep the areas off-limits once they finish. Tomorrow, we’d like you to come into the station. Can we say two thirty? We will need to interview you formally about past and present dealings with your son and any of his associates,’ says Sergeant Ingram.
Tom nods. Fuck, I’ve allowed all this to happen, haven’t I? All that money I threw at Daniel, his flat, the allowance I paid monthly to him. They’re going to say I financed him to do this, aren’t they? Fuck, fuck, fuck. I just keep having to pay the price. There is no end to this. Let it stop, please!
She continues, ‘We have a car downstairs waiting for you. My colleagues will need to take you to identify your son.’
‘Identify him? You have him in custody, don’t you?’ Tom looks at them both, confused.
The TV now shows Daniel’s YouTube video. Tom inhales deeply. ‘Turn up the volume,’ says Inspector Walker. ‘This is your son’s suicide video – he uploaded it before he went into the underground system. He blew up a train and himself. We need you to identify his… remains.’
Chapter Twenty Three
Then
Carlisle was grey, wet and windy. A month since he’d said goodbye to Waqar. Three weeks since the news reports from Paris, when that strange ‘terrorist’ face appeared on TV screens all around the world. It wasn’t Waqar’s face. Even Daniel didn’t recognise those photographs, those blurry images from CCTV footage showing that bearded, long-haired, evil-looking man. It wasn’t Waqar’s face as he wanted to remember it, at least. That face was the face he had seen once or twice in the camp. A cruel face, lacking in any emotion. One that looked as if it had never loved. A face that could never love or be loved. Even the name they printed underneath was not his: MOHAMMED WUAQIR LAKHEMI. That’s why it wasn’t Waqar. Not the name, not the picture. That was a photograph of an ugly chrysalis that had since metamorphosed into a heavenly spirit. One that illuminated many sunrises and cast warm peach shadows on sunsets all over the earth. Knowing this would keep him alive until it was his turn to change himself, to metamorphose, change completely and join his love in Jannah.
The journey from Pakistan had been grim; first, it was Mumbai and from there, Ankara. Ankara, what a nightmare. Three days of being preyed upon by the dirty, hairy, fat Turk who was responsible for his ongoing passage. ‘You want massage? I give you very good massage. No cost to you, my friend. You enjoy a lot. I take care of every stress inside you and outside you. You feel great, you love it. I touch you everywhere.’ No refusal. Refusal was like a curse to this deodorant-deprived gorilla. He had to let him do it, and the filthy outcome was against all belief. Three dire days in Turkey, followed by a flight to Athens, and from there it was land-based travel all the way to France. France was like heaven, almost like being home again. Here, he felt he shared the final steps taken by his love. He had walked the streets where Waqar must have taken his last, fateful journey.
Home was here, for now. This grey, concrete filing cabinet he had occupied so long ago. Back in his flat. Back to normality. But Waqar wasn’t here. For three years, he had loved here, lived here, discovered feelings. Back here, he still had feelings that he never felt capable of, even when Waqar was here. But Waqar had made these feelings possible. Real. Palpable. Without Waqar, he could never have believed any of this was possible. Thank you, Waqar, for showing me this road, this path to truth. This journey would end soon, and he would see his love again. Now was the time to prepare himself, make his truth real. Start wrapping himself in the layers of his chrysalis. He would stain the sky with his sacrifice. He would colour the world with the beauty of his transformation, his passage to God.
There were things to be done first. First, he had to take on the layer of change, show the world that Daniel was gone, that he had taken up the mantle. The change had begun, the ugliness before the beauty. Few would understand his journey, his metamorphosis, his sacrifice. In time he would be recognised as Waqar was already recognised. His path was unwitnessed, unwritten, still to be revealed. Waqar had proved this, shown Daniel his true path. His destiny was written, proven. Real. But first, he had things to do.
Tom’s house, the house that once had been home to him too, hadn’t changed since he walked out the door for the last time. Mum’s cherry tree was full, vivid, healthy. The driveway was populated with different cars; the grass seemed greener, more coiffured, than when he lived there. Daniel walked around the fence, peered over the top. Children lived there now; there was a tricycle like the one he used to have, a Wendy house like Jenny had played in, that he had smoked weed in, where she had dropped her pants for him. He had reciprocated, never knowing that this physical mystery would be forever strange to him. This was a world away. A lifetime away. A complete separation of family away. All gone to him. All of it gone, unimportant. Finished. Had he ever lived there? It was a different person who had. Not him. Goodbye, Cherry Lane.
Another cherry tree. Mum’s grave. This one was bigger, even though it was planted later. Maybe the sapling had been bigger. Tom would say it was her way of telling us she’s fine. That being dead for her is all blossom and branches, sunshine and breeze. Maybe she had already met Waqar in heaven. Waqar had said that he would find her and that he would wait with her. Mum would love Waqar as much as he did. All Waqar’s anger would have disappeared in heaven; he would be just like he was all those times they spent together here. Keep Waqar safe for me, Mum. He put his arms around the trunk and pressed his face into the bark, felt the striations pushing into his skin. The echo of them remained when he let go, and he touched his cheek, feeling the indentations left there. It was time to start the process.
All the natural beauty of the woodland graveyard changed into regimented paths and rows of sad headstones as he walked through the archway into the main cemetery. Light rain began to fall; was Mum letting him know she was sad? Don’t be sad, Mum, we’ll be together again soon. Be happy about that. Growing old, being successful, spending time in the world, didn’t make any difference to anything. What he would do, young as he was, would make a lasting difference, and he would be rewarded for it, just as Waqar had his reward now. In response, the rain stopped, and patches of blue pushed the grey clouds apart. He was sure he could see a rainbow. Thank you, Mum. Thank you, Waqar.
It took him less than half an hour to walk from the cemetery to the small back street near the castle. The name of the tattoo parlour made him smile. The sign, in gothic script,
said: IMMORTAL ETCHINGS – TATTOO, PIERCING AND BARBERSHOP. A man in his thirties – tall, stocky and with long, greasy, brown hair – greeted him. He wore jeans and a leather waistcoat with nothing underneath. Tattoos covered his arms, his chest, his hands, his neck and his face. His body was a riot of colour, shape and form. Quite a picture.
‘Hello, mate. I’m Jeff. What can I do for you?’
‘Hi, I’m Lakky. I want a tattoo on my face, and I’d like my nose and ear pierced.’
‘Lakky? What’s that short for then? Or is it a nickname? Have you got any other tattoos, mate? A face tattoo is a big step to take if you’re not absolutely sure about it. Why not try a small tattoo on your arm or chest, just to see how you feel about it?’
Daniel looked Jeff up and down.
‘As sure as you were when you plastered yourself with ink,’ he replied. ‘And it’s short for Lakhemi. My mother had a bit of a thing for the Middle East.’
‘This has been a labour of love since I was fifteen,’ said Jeff, pulling his waistcoat open, revealing dragons, daggers and naked women on his sides. ‘And I started small. Once you have a tattoo, it’s something you commit to for life. There’s no going back.’
‘I’m sure. I’m happy to accept this is a choice I make for the rest of my life. Now, will you do it for me? I want a snake with its fangs piercing my nose, and its body and tail twisting down my face and neck onto my chest. I want a piercing in my nose, where the fang will be, and I want a chain running from my nose to my right ear.’
‘Wow, mate! As cool as that sounds, it will completely change the way you look – for, like, ever. And it won’t be cheap neither. And you’re talking maybe six or seven sessions to do something as major as that.’
‘I want to change the way I look. It’s the reason I’m here. This year, I change forever. For good. I have the time and the money. Are you able to do that for me?’
‘As long as you’re sure, mate.’ Jeff was already pulling out some folders from a shelf near the counter. ‘When do you want to start? I’ll need a two hundred quid deposit. Cash.’