Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  ***

  It wasn't till he was back inside the Commons that Al-Ajnabi paused amid the pompous splendour of the parliamentary frescoes which adorned the hallway of St Stephen's Hall to ponder over Max's words. Why was Max so keen for him to capitulate? What was in it for Max Clayton? Just the kudos of siege-lifter, or was there something else at stake? It all came down to trust really, and he and Max would never share that again.

  But the more he thought about Max, the more his thoughts drifted back to Sophie and Alison. In different ways he felt sorry for both mother and daughter, but particularly for Sophie. A large part of him regretted ever having involved her in the drama. Sophie would be facing the trauma of police custody now, and however certain she might feel of her own innocence, there were very few who would not panic at the sudden loss of liberty, the bright neon lamps, the interminable interviews and the creeping self-doubt.

  His thoughts had accompanied him as far as the Commons Lobby and he could now hear the babble of the televisions, which Hasan had rounded up and placed on the Table. Here and there amid the strident drone of the TV, Al-Ajnabi could make out intermittent bursts of animated chat from the hostages on the backbenches; and a deep, rhythmical snoring indicated that at least one of the hostages was relaxed enough for sleep.

  Khalid Chentouf was standing in the centre of the House. Nearby, Neil had returned from his patrol to take a seat on the opposition benches. Hasan's lonely figure monitored the Public Gallery, while Abu Fawaz and McLaughlin were certainly ensconced behind their barricade at the north-western extremity of the Press Gallery.

  Al-Ajnabi approached Khalid Chentouf and they stared at the TV together. The BBC was running a special live news update of interviews with the released hostages. Smedley rose from his seat and crossed the red line to join them in the middle of the floor.

  ‘What have they been saying?’ Al-Ajnabi asked Neil and Khalid.

  ‘The Prime Minister's been on ‘t telly from the USA," Smedley replied. "Appealed to us to negotiate and end the siege, denounced our 'terrorist' tactics, urged people to go about their normal lives tomorrow, all the usual shit.’

  Khalid pointed to the screen and smiled.

  ‘At least we have some friends there,’ he said, waving his submachine gun at the pictures of released hostages clamouring animatedly at the cameras. ‘All of them say how well they were treated.’

  Smedley put his boot on the front bench and stretched his shoulders.

  ‘Aye, but there's been little mention of what we're all about. Those media buggers have been mainly focusing on how we got in. Dr Al-Badawi has issued a statement denying any Ramli government knowledge of us. The TV channels seem confused about your past, though, Omar. They've dug up a little about your career in the Paras, about the Falls Road Massacre and your court-martial, but they don't seem too sure about exactly what your quarrel is with Douglas Easterby or James McPherson.’

  "They won't need long,’ Al-Ajnabi replied. ‘They'll puzzle that one out tonight, I'd say. Any other reaction from around the world?’

  ‘There's been a quick flash from Sydney. The stock market is trading as normal. Tokyo opens fairly soon, apparently. Lots of the coverage is from the airports, Heathrow and Gatwick and how they plan to stay open like.’

  Al-Ajnabi shrugged,

  ‘I wonder if they’ll be saying the same at midnight, when Dave Cohen releases one of his calling cards?’

  Smedley smirked, ‘Not to mention what Yokochi’s boys might do.’

  ‘Nobody picked up on any of our websites?’

  Smedley grinned, creasing the dirty blond stubble sprouting around the corners of his mouth.

  ‘No, no mention of them on TV. Maybe well get out after all, like, carried away in the human tide that will be welling in support of you, Omar.’

  ‘Don’t scoff, Neil. But even if our message does catch on, there a lot of people ready to douse the fire before it gets going. And some of them may be sitting not far away.’

  Smedley looked up into the Press Gallery and his train of thought sent him walking up towards the Speaker's Chair. Al-Ajnabi followed him for a couple of paces, then paused in front of the television screen. A couple of photos of him in paratrooper uniform, undoubtedly supplied by the regiment itself, confronted him on the screen, while his brief army record leading up to April 3, 1977 was analysed and discussed by the presenter and a panel of high-ranking pundits.

  A slow, steady clapping of mock applause rose above the presenter's voice. Al-Ajnabi glanced over his shoulder at the back benches. He knew who that would be.

  ‘Bravo, Bailey, fantastic achievement!’ McPherson called out, the sarcasm lying soft on his Scottish accent. ‘What a superb TV show. And now what? Is it time for show trial and execution?’

  The sound of McPherson's voice so soon after Max's cut like a rusty razor across a septic wound. Al-Ajnabi leapt up onto the government front bench and rushed back three rows across the green leather to arrive at a vantage point from where he was looking straight down on top of McPherson's wiry hair and staring at that long, angular nose which he suddenly wanted to crush to a pulp under the butt of his Heckler & Koch. But he reined his fury back and squatted down instead so that he could gaze right into the watery blue of his former Colonel's eyes.

  ‘The only trial in here is going to be you against your own conscience, Colonel McPherson, when the press start ferreting about in your past. But at least I've given you the chance to stay put on the same bench for a few days. How many times have you switched sides so far? Twice? Sorry, I forgot, it doesn't matter which side of the House you guys sit on any more. All the benches have been sold off to corporate sponsors, haven’t they: Esso, BP, British Defence Systems…’

  ‘For Christ's sake, Bailey,’ McPherson interrupted. ‘Do you think anyone's interested in your politics of doom or your arrest and court-martial? If you had wanted a retrial for the Falls Road Massacre then you should have tried to drag us through the courts. Do you really think public opinion is going to rally to you when you're holding the Mother of Parliaments to gunpoint? We'll always be the victims, not you, as long as you've got that Heckler and Koch waving in our faces.’

  ‘Victims, eh?’ Al-Ajnabi asked through clenched teeth. ‘You don't need to lecture me about what it feels like to be a victim of somebody else's agenda, Colonel.’

  ‘OK, so you got a rough deal in the Falls Road fall out. It was a political compromise. The orders came down from government level. Going to a court martial wasn't my decision, Bailey, however much you try to personalize matters.’

  ‘Going to court-martial? Maybe not. But to prosecute me instead of Goss and Easterby? Whose decision was that?’

  ‘I judged the facts as I saw them at the time and I stick to that judgement now, Bailey, regardless of whatever you may try on in here.’

  Al-Ajnabi sneered loudly.

  ‘No wonder you got so far in politics, McPherson! The ability to lie comes fluently to you, just as fluently as the money and influence from Douglas Easterby's father smoothed your entry into politics. Just as smoothly as you changed the testimony of Privates Carroway, Orr and Kynaston to suit Easterby's version of events and convict me of manslaughter. With bastards like you behind the scene, I never even bothered going to Appeal.’

  McPherson shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and Al-Ajnabi likewise felt he had had enough. The debate had attracted quite an audience. The five other MP's sharing the bench with McPherson were staring at their colleague in astonishment, while to their left, Al-Ajnabi could see even Driscoll, Ferris and the two bankers casting sidelong glances.

  The mobile inside Al-Ajnabi’s waistcoat pocket rang, alleviating the tedious necessity of any further dialogue. He stepped down from the bench and walked away from the hostages. This was the phone that Dinsdale was using, no need to check the incoming number. And this time he would speak to them, but as soon as he pressed to accept the call, he immediately heard Max's voice instead.

  ‘Robbie?
Listen, here's the deal. I've just got the Prime Minister to sanction it. You get a British Airways 747 from Heathrow to Ramliyya or wherever you want in exchange for the remaining twelve hostages and the surrender of the Houses of Parliament intact. No one's been hurt yet, not on our side at least. The PM reckons he can pass this off as more of a personal vendetta, getting him off the hook from being accused of giving in to terrorist demands.’

  Al-Ajnabi sat down on the front bench and sighed.

  ‘It's getting late, Max, and if you've promoted yourself to chief negotiator you had better start by relaying my messages back the other way. I haven’t waited this long to bolt at the first sound of gunfire, so listen to me for a change. I want another interview with the same camera team and reporter at twelve noon tomorrow, or rather today, as it soon will be. No compromise. No discussion. Just do it, Max!’

  He caught the first of Max's protestations before he could click the phone shut and as he did so, the chamber reverberated to the twelve heavy chimes of Big Ben ushering in the new day. A maximum of ninety-six hours left, whatever happened. Four interminable days to go.