by KJ Griffin
Chapter 10: Oxford: Tuesday, October 14
‘Has Miss Palmer left the house?’ Al-Ajnabi asked Hasan, still sitting where Sophie had left him on the balcony overlooking the river.
‘Yes, Hadratak,’ replied the Somali. ‘She left twenty minutes ago.’
Al-Ajnabi smirked; he had never succeeded in making Hasan drop the honorific, even when they were alone, even after all these years.
‘Good. Then wait here. I will need you to drive me into town,’ he nodded, getting to his feet and pulling a mobile phone from his pocket. It had been a morning for phone calls, both local and international. From here until the big day the tedium of texting, calling, re-checking and fine-tuning arrangements would only increase.
Ten minutes later Hasan dropped Al-Ajnabi on the corner of the High Street and Cornmarket. Dressed smart but casual, with the collar of his black leather jacket turned up against the chill, only the deeply engrained suntan marked him as anything other than local. But Al-Ajnabi hadn’t come for sightseeing or to wallow in the nostalgia of days gone by—all those sandy-brown university buildings held little appeal.
He quickened his pace past the chain stores of Cornmarket, biting his lip against the chill breeze, the overwhelming bitterness still undigested inside.
The stench of a McDonald’s air vent made him feel like retching uncontrollably into the swirls of twisted litter that danced a mocking jig around a black metal dustbin. Before his time in England was out, he vowed, the streams of shoppers and students now side-stepping the mess would no longer file by in ignorance; they would understand such visions for what they really represented: the death-masks of the ten billion mark.
A punky girl selling Big Issues stopped him outside Boots. He gave her a fifty-pound note and told her to clear up the mess. At first, he thought she would refuse. She stammered for a few seconds, then checked the note, holding it up to the pale sky in suspicious pursuit of a watermark. When she found it, she stuffed the note down her chest and set to work half-heartedly on the mess all around. Al-Ajnabi watched in silence as the girl performed her side of the bargain, then disappeared around the corner of Turl Street.
Stepping out over paving stones in immaculate blue jeans and black leather boots, it felt good to be free of the restraint of traditional Ramli dress and he set a brisk pace to celebrate this modest boon. Before long, as his stiff pace took him far enough away from the shops and shoppers, he felt calmer and he slackened his pace to enjoy the unfamiliar taste of down-to-earth anonymity. Part of him had been reluctant to come here to the UK and risk everything he enjoyed, everything he had created. And risk it for what? The prospect of making a few ripples in a poisonous pond? Who did he care for so much that he would risk his future, his reputation, his very life even on what would most likely prove to be an utter debacle? Until very recently, he had been sorely tempted to abandon his plans and carry on leading a simple life of freedom, wandering the wide-open spaces of the less-developed world like a rider of the Apocalypse. For there would surely always be a few uncontaminated corners of Planet Earth left for the Last of the Nomads, safe enough from Walmart and Walt Disney till his strength failed him and till he curled up in some remote mountain hideaway to draw his last breath.
But that would have been the defeatist and self-indulgent choice. There had to be a few kindred spirits left in the world; he knew there were others who cared. And he had come here to find them. Find them and act. Find them and strike for change before the joy-riding world leaders of the Unstoppable Beast looked on in apathy while the last tree in the Congo rainforest was felled and shipped to a lumberyard in Shanghai, while the super-sized populations of the ‘developing world’ drank the last drops of the Nile and the Ganges dry from dust-bowl riverbeds.
Oh yes, the ‘developing world’ was just that these days—developing into poor copy of the West—no more than an investment opportunity away from becoming an over-populated, urbanized and polluted garbage dump. And while the feeding frenzy was in runaway full-swing, even to question the right or the feasibility of ten billion humans to drive Nissan Quashgais, to buy fracked gas for their homes piped in from Texas or to drink bottled mineral water air-freighted from Scandinavia was a heresy so obscene, it would earn you viral vitriol on Facebook, YouTube or Twitter.
The university buildings along Broad Street and Hollywell made Al-Ajnabi think of the more personal scores that he had also come to settle. But looking back, he had mixed feelings about what had happened. Yes, they had thrown him out onto the garbage tip back then. But it was only by standing on the outside looking in that he had discovered which was the shittier place to be.
By the time he had arrived on the working class Cowley Road Al-Ajnabi was feeling much better. The walk and the thoughts had re-stoked the anger he needed to see this business through, convinced him that right was on his side.
The Bullingdon Arms, Neil Smedley had told him, was a popular, downbeat evening haunt for Irish, hippies and less career-conscious students. On this Tuesday lunchtime it was deserted—tacky plastic in the front bar, sawdust and wooden benches in the rear, presided over by an Irish landlord with a Gerry Adams stare and a contempt for most of the customers and any of the drinks save Guinness or Bushmills.
‘They’re waiting for you round the back, Sir,’ the austere landlord welcomed him with such a reverential calm, Al-Ajnabi wondered what on earth Neil had told him, but he followed the landlord’s nod, checking the toilets and corridor that led to the rear, then stepped into the sawdust-strewn courtyard.
The group was there as arranged, huddled quietly around several corner tables.
‘Good to see you again, Omar,’ said a tall, burly young man getting to his feet. He had close-cropped blond hair, stubble, studs and tattoos; the accent was Yorkshire; the heavy, grey sweater emphasized a considerable chest.
Al-Ajnabi shook his hand warmly, ‘You too, Neil. Are you ready for business?’
‘Aye, ready as I ever was,’ he smiled. ‘Let me introduce you to the lads and lasses,’ and he pointed to the twelve young men and women now staring wide-eyed at the architect of a plan they were to serve but of whose true compass they were unaware.
‘So, the twelve disciples!’ Al-Ajnabi smiled, sitting down on the corner of a neighbouring table. Neil, to his left, began working his way around the tables, introducing each person to Al-Ajnabi by first name or nickname alone.
The names and faces were already familiar to Al-Ajnabi from the computer dossiers Hasan had prepared. He had comments for several of the representatives whom he had met before. At other times, he acknowledged them silently, sipping his Guinness and nodding while Neil spoke. And when the big Yorkshireman had finished, Al-Ajnabi took a long pull on his Guinness and looked seriously at the group.
‘OK. Some of you may have met before during training in Yemen and Eritrea. As you will be aware, for security reasons you should not know anybody else’s real name or location. I understand that each section has received all necessary funds and equipment?’
‘Aye,’ said Neil, ‘they’re all ready,’ and the calm stares around the table confirmed his words.
‘Good. Then you can expect the show to begin on time. By October 30th I want every team ready to go operational. From now on, you’ll be contacted by Neil, or by Mr Y. All you need to know about Mr. Y is that he will coordinate our operations and his word will be as good as mine once the game is in play. Mr. Y. will notify Neil within the next week of a code for verification of all instructions and Neil will pass this on to all of you individually.’
Al-Ajnabi paused to look at their faces, wondering if he could rely on each one of them when the time came.
‘Now to the most important point,’ he continued. ‘Remember that each individual unit is part of a wider team and that it is the coordination of all our efforts, rather than any particular individual action on its own that will bring us significant success. All of you are veterans of dozens of direct action campaigns and many of you have been inside fo
r your troubles.’
He paused to take a pull on his drink, checking for reactions over the lip of his pint glass; but he met only silence, a few grim nods and some serious stares.
‘But none of you,’ he carried on, ‘will ever have been involved in anything on this scale before; and whether we fail or succeed it is very likely to be your last ever action.
Again, Al-Ajnabi paused to see his words met by more nods and a few strained smiles.
‘Good, then,’ he concluded, ‘when you leave this pub it will be the last time you will see me or anyone else here, except, maybe, Neil. So it just remains for me to wish you all good luck—and try to enjoy yourselves!’
There were a few laughs, but the mood around the tables as sombre as ever. Drinks were finished and several people left, shaking hands with Al-Ajnabi and Smedley before leaving the bar.
Al-Ajnabi took Smedley to the counter for a private word.
‘Do you think it was worth the risk of bringing them all together like that, Omar?’ asked the Yorkshireman.
Al-Ajnabi thought for a moment.
‘They need to know that they are not acting independently,’ he said. ‘Having met the others face to face in here will give them courage and discipline when the time comes. Besides, Neil,’ he smiled, ‘I wanted to see in the flesh what you’re giving me for my money.’
Smedley chuckled, ‘Oh, they’re all good lads and lasses, Omar. Their hearts are in it—you needn’t worry about that. But what about your team? Has everyone turned up yet?’
‘Paddy, Maria, Magdalena, Oscar and Abu Fawaz will be at my place tonight. Khalid and Brendan arrive on the seventeenth.’
‘Are you sure you’ll be on schedule?’ Neil asked impatiently. ‘I don’t want them getting impatient on me.’
Al-Ajnabi grinned and pulled a mobile phone from the inner pocket of his jacket.
‘The first of November is still looking good, but there’s plenty to be getting on with in the meantime. Do you want Hasan to drop you anywhere?’
‘No, I’ll walk to the station, thanks. Wouldn’t want to be seen hanging around with a suspicious-looking bugger like you, Omar,’ he chuckled, draining his glass.
‘Talking of stations, Neil—how is the Jubilee Line coming along?’
‘I’m getting there, Omar. Another week and I reckon it’ll be going right to your stop!’
Al-Ajnabi laughed, patting his friend on the shoulder and nudging his empty Guinness glass next to Neil’s on the counter.
‘But will it be a single a return ticket, Neil?’ he sighed. ‘That’s what none of us can know.’