Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  Eleven per cent.

  With battery drainage seemingly accelerating, Famie was reading faster now. Racing the battery, racing the clock. She developed an eye for spotting the web addresses of the most promising articles. The Earth Liberation Front. The Communist Party of Turkey (Marxist-Leninist). Then came the Antifa movements, and Famie read with particular focus. If the university demonstration tomorrow was calling itself anti-fascist, surely this was the most likely target. All the articles shed light on organizations whose avowed aim was revolution and some of whose methods were violent. Bombs, kidnapping, extortion, torture, rape. All apparently excusable, defendable, desirable in the cause of revolution.

  On and on Mary’s reading went. A spate of recovered articles from the 1970s detailed the activities of the Red Army Faction, Baader-Meinhof and the Angry Brigade. Then it jumped to the present day and British police reports of the work of Red Action, Red Front and the Revolutionary Communist Party. People’s wars, paramilitaries, vanguardism, insurrection, oppressors, uprisings, expulsions, assassinations.

  Five per cent.

  Then came the Islamists. These Famie did know. She skim-read insider accounts of life in every terror group in Pakistan, India, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Egypt and Indonesia. There was a terrifying list of their links to radical preachers in the UK. Now the buzzwords were caliphate, pure religion, offensive jihad, kuffar, near enemy and far enemy. Videos of executions and drownings were offered, Famie declined.

  Then, by accident, a train timetable. Famie was about to backtrack when she stopped short. Her hands recoiled, pulling back from the screen. ‘You. Are. Joking,’ she whispered. In place of the familiar newspaper fonts and photos, a poorly presented list of arrival and departure times lined up on the screen. She read aloud the words that were making her heart race. ‘Your trains to Coventry,’ she said.

  She leant back against the bedstead.

  Charlie stirred. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Mary came to Coventry,’ Famie said.

  The next http address sealed it. Famie recognized it from their last team meeting in her flat. She clicked the link. The Warwick Boar. The student newspaper. ‘Creating Conversation Since 1973’. And an article by Hari Roy.

  ‘Mary came to Coventry, and she met Hari Roy,’ Famie said, her voice an awed whisper.

  Charlie sat up. ‘What?’ she said again.

  ‘Mary came to Coventry,’ said Famie, ‘probably met Hari, maybe even hired him.’

  ‘Hari Roy was working for Mary Lawson?’ Charlie’s voice managed to be scared and admiring in equal measure.

  ‘Yes,’ said Famie. ‘That’s what it looks like to me. How about that.’

  She was sitting back, staring at the screen, when the tablet went black. Out of power. Out of time.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ said Famie.

  57

  1 p.m.

  THE TRANSIT VAN had been parked for too long. Its occupants were hot, sweating heavily and restless. Six citizens sat in the back, two up front. The rear of the van was seatless, a large green rug and a brown blanket the only attempts to provide comfort. They sat three and three. Hari sat by a wheel arch, with Collins wedged next to him on one side, and a stocky man with a tuft of red hair on the other. On the other side sat two white men and one brown. Hari remembered the brown-skinned man was called Kamran but he’d forgotten the others. Kamran was lean, no more than twenty, clean-shaven, and looked as though he’d just stepped out of a college lecture. The white men were very white, one with an arm full of tattoos, the other with a mouth full of uncomfortably protruding teeth. The killers of 22 May. The only light came from two darkened windows at the rear of the van. Burger and chip wrappings were scattered everywhere, the smell of vinegar and grease working hard to obscure the stale sweat of the occupants. They knew they had to wait. They just didn’t want to wait in a sauna.

  Tattoos cracked the door an inch, and the slightest of breezes drifted inside.

  Hari closed his eyes, sat on his hands. The men he was sharing the van with had executed seven between them. Maybe more. Slit throats, stabbed lungs and hearts. It’s what they did. That and God knows what else besides. Hari wondered which of them had killed poor Mary. Teeth guy? Tattoos? Kamran? It didn’t matter. Each of them could have done it and any of them could have been tasked to kill his sisters too. He’d known this moment was coming for weeks, but now it was here he wondered if he’d get by without vomiting. Wondered if he’d be able to stop his hands from shaking. Wondered whether he would make it out alive.

  He could hear the muffled talk from the front. Driver and passenger. The lighter voice was Binici’s, the heavier basso profundo was from a powerhouse of a man called Gregor. The London Citizens’ obvious leader, he radiated menace. Mousey-blond beard, bald, with grey, darting, intelligent eyes. A boxer’s nose, a boxer’s biceps. To Hari, their words were indecipherable, reduced to a low rumble by the metal panel that divided them, but the raised voices, the to-and-fro, were unmistakable.

  They had left the house in Boxer Street as soon as Binici had briefed the newly arrived London Citizens. All of his comments had been addressed to their leader. In front of him, Binici had become deferential, his whole manner transformed. He had poured them all water in the kitchen, then sat himself on the worktop. He had explained that the fash were out front. That there were door-to-door enquiries and that they may well return. The decision was obvious, but it was Gregor who had taken it. They had to leave, immediately.

  Collins, Binici and Hari had each led the way in twos and threes. Hari had been teamed with Tattoos and Kamran. Binici went with Gregor and Teeth. Collins had taken Red Head. Her route took them from the courtyard over three fences to a twisting alley. They had regrouped at adjoining cafés, staying in their ‘teams’ while Binici and Gregor retrieved the van from its parking space near Boxer Street. Teeth had stayed at a table by himself. No words were said. When the van drove past the cafés then parked in a side street, the ‘teams’ took it in turns to amble away, then climb inside.

  That was three hours ago. Since then, the van appeared to have been driving in circles. City centre, cobbled streets, ring road, narrow lanes. And now not moving at all.

  ‘Recce or accommodation?’ said Hari.

  It was a question intended for Collins but it was Kamran who answered.

  ‘It’s somewhere to stay,’ he said. ‘Your house is bad. You guys fucked it all up. Now we need somewhere.’

  Hari clocked the accent.

  ‘No one fucked up,’ said Collins, her voice casual, controlled. ‘There was an accident in our street. The police came to call. It was unfortunate. End of.’

  Kamran looked unimpressed. He looked away. A slight shake of his head. ‘This van, this stink, all of it, says you fucked up.’

  OK, leave Sara alone, thought Hari, we can do this inside. Or not at all maybe.

  ‘You from Karachi?’ he asked.

  Kamran blinked, surprised. ‘Not any more,’ he said.

  Well that’s that conversation shut down, Hari thought.

  From the driver’s seat, the sound of a phone ringing. Quickly answered. Hari exchanged glances with Collins. No phones, no computers, no technology. They were the rules. Simple, effective. And now broken. He strained to hear the half of the conversation that was leaking from the cab, then realized everyone was doing the same.

  ‘Accommodation,’ said Collins, finally answering Hari’s question. ‘That’s my guess. We need to be off the streets. We need to hide.’

  ‘We need to rehearse,’ said Kamran.

  Hari’s stomach flipped again.

  The engine fired and Tattoos slammed the back door shut. The van spun round, Collins leaning into Hari, her head touching his. Then when the manoeuvre had been completed, she stayed there. Hari held his breath. They’d been butted up against each other anyway, legs and torsos pressed together, but that could be put down to the cramped conditions. Now she was sending the signal. Opposite, Kamran, Teeth and Tattoos all notic
ed. Collins straightened up.

  Job done.

  Sara Collins’ guess had been correct. Accommodation had been found. When the doors opened again, the van had been backed on to a tarmac drive and Hari and the others eased themselves into the comparative cool of the afternoon. Hari stretched, prised his shirt from his skin, took a three-sixty. They were in the heart of an industrial estate studded with drab, functional sixties warehouses fronted with high roll-up garage doors. Large painted signs pointed the way to companies offering tyres and motor repairs, pharmaceutical packaging and furniture restoration. The network of roads was busy, vans and cars of all sizes ferrying goods and customers to the appropriate outlet. Across an enormous roundabout, the other side of what Hari imagined was the ring road, two ugly concrete boxes. One a hotel, the other its car park.

  Binici and Gregor had scored two large rooms above a packaging company. They formed the first and second floors of the building, linked by a single wooden staircase. Both rooms were light and high-ceilinged. Both had a large steel-framed central window, metal divides running between smaller panes of glass. On the first floor, many had been smashed, keeping the temperature bearable, but the ancient glass on the second floor had, miraculously, stayed intact. Out of range maybe. As a result, it was an oven. All the floorboards were scuffed, deeply grooved, and in places covered by battered rugs and blankets. Hundreds of flies and a sharp, pungent smell suggested dead rats hidden beneath. Floor one had some stacked wooden tables and chairs, floor two had two piles of mattresses. There was no kitchen. The only toilet was off the stairwell.

  Binici, as sweaty as Hari had ever seen him, clapped his hands. ‘Citizens! Gather, please! We have history to make.’

  Hari shuffled forward. Tattoos stood to his right, Kamran to his left. He smelt Collins behind him, felt her brush against his shoulder. Gregor leant against a wall. The rest of them gathered round Binici like he was some old street preacher handing out salvation.

  Binici’s eyes were glowing. ‘Tomorrow we make history,’ he said, making sure he made eye contact with each of them in turn. ‘For the comrades, citizens, brothers and sisters who, through the long years of struggle, would have died for the opportunity we will be given, we will strike hard. The work is heroic. The work is ferocious. But the work is glorious.’

  Stump speech, thought Hari. He watched his fellow citizens. Revolutionaries or mercenaries? he wondered.

  Binici was into his stride. ‘We have rejected the twin errors of sectarianism and opportunism. We are the vanguard,’ he declared, ‘a revolutionary base camp to collapse this nation and build a new one. Tomorrow we can jump-start the revolution.’

  Kamran and Red Head applauded first, everyone else joined in.

  ‘We embrace the butcher!’ called Binici. ‘We change the world!’

  Applause from everyone now. Hari started his clapping on ‘butcher’ just to be sure he wasn’t left behind.

  Binici checked his watch. ‘Finally. Three things now. Food and drink are on their way. Final training in an hour. And we need to move the van from outside. It advertises our whereabouts, obviously. There’s a large multi-storey across the way.’ He threw the keys at Hari. Hari caught them. ‘You and Sara, please. Be quick but be careful. Park it away from the ramps. Watch for the fash.’

  Hari drove the Transit, Collins rode in the passenger seat. She held on to the seatbelt strap as he swung the van around the roundabout. ‘Steady as she goes, citizen. We don’t have to be that quick.’ Hari took it down some revs. He hadn’t noticed his speed. He steered on to the service road that ran past the hotel, slowing as they passed its revolving front door. A striking woman with a head of blonde curls and a plain man in drab clothes were just leaving. He kept the van at five miles an hour all the way into the gloom of the multi-storey.

  58

  THE GROUND FLOOR was full. The first and second had a few spaces. Hari carried on up to the third. Just the one car was parked up, a black Volvo sat in the far corner. He went to the opposite end, tucked the van behind a pillar. Much like the Volvo had done. Hari killed the engine. Neither he nor Collins moved. They both stared at the concrete wall in front of them. This is it then, thought Hari. When I walk back into that warehouse, it’s a killing party. He could hear Collins breathing heavily. He wondered if she was having second thoughts.

  ‘It’s going to be knives,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Binici told me. Gregor told him.’

  ‘I see.’ Hari felt sick.

  ‘The day before is the worst,’ she said, still staring out of the windscreen. ‘Doubts. Nerves. Fear.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  A long pause. ‘Zak told me.’

  Dead Zak.

  ‘So you … haven’t done this before?’

  ‘No. But this is my path, Hari. When I was seventeen I met Anna Mendelssohn. You know her?’ Hari shook his head. ‘Member of the Angry Brigade. Anarchist. Communist. Went to prison for trying to set off bombs in the early seventies. They targeted Cabinet ministers, judges, civil servants, police, prison officers, big property companies. These people are the enemy, Hari, and you can’t get rid of them by voting. You get rid of them by fighting. She was clear-sighted. She knew what had to be done. She was consumed with a passion for revolution and was prepared to kill for it. I am too. Binici might be a prick but he’s right about the butcher. The Angry Brigade knew that.’

  Hari stayed silent.

  Collins undid her shirt. Hari gripped the steering wheel. What are you doing?

  Above her left breast was a tattoo of an automatic rifle clasped by two hands. The first hand was circled by the gender symbol for woman, the second hand by the gender symbol for man.

  ‘It’s the Angry Brigade logo,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hari.

  ‘Seen it before?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe in books. Not … in the flesh as it were. Sorry, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘You’re fine. Don’t worry.’

  Collins left her shirt unbuttoned.

  Hari couldn’t believe what was happening. Collins had been consistently cold to him. Always belittling, occasionally cruel. He forced himself to look away. Back to the concrete. There were cracks running through it like a river delta. A meandering line of rust-coloured residue ran from top to bottom.

  ‘Have you heard of terror sex?’ she asked.

  He hadn’t. ‘That’s not a thing,’ he said.

  ‘Oh it is,’ she said. ‘Before and after. If you choose it, it’s fine. If someone demands it, it isn’t. It’s biological, Hari. End of the world stuff.’

  She turned to face him. He made himself turn to face her. She took off her shirt.

  ‘Would you like me to show you?’ she said.

  Hari nodded.

  59

  IT TURNED OUT there was such a thing as terror sex. Loud, wild and brief. Very loud. Extravagantly wild. Incredibly brief. All the fear, rage and grief of the last eight weeks overwhelmed Hari.

  Afterwards, he apologized. Collins told him it had been just fine by her. Full mount and submission. They had rearranged the rug and blanket so that no one would notice. Not that they thought anyone would be looking.

  They walked back from the car park in silence. Hari and Collins were back in the warehouse within sixteen minutes.

  60

  2.45 p.m.

  AFTER PIZZAS, AND with the room still smelling of cheese, garlic and steamed cardboard, Binici nodded to Collins. ‘You’re up,’ he said.

  She jumped to her feet, looked at the men. The large windows behind her faced south-east. Despite the decades of grime, there was a hazy intensity to the light. With the door shut and only the feeblest of breezes coming through the broken windows, everyone had chosen to sit in the shade.

  Sat against a wall, Hari was between Teeth and Kamran. Then came Tattoos and Red Head. Collins, bouncing on her feet, was flanked by Binici and Gregor, who held a small holdall. She stood for a moment, hands on hips. A p
ower stance. Grey shirt, denim shorts. She pulled her hair back into a short ponytail, snapped a rubber band around its base. Hari noticed she’d missed a button on her shirt. The second one up from her waist.

  ‘I teach martial arts,’ she said. ‘Silat from Indonesia, Systema Spetsnaz from Russia, American Marine Corps martial arts and tantojutsu from Japan. I know you don’t need to be told how to use knives but tomorrow will be intense. Gregor thought some close-quarter practice might be in order.’

  She looked to Gregor, who unzipped the holdall.

  ‘You each have a knife,’ she said. ‘Italian stilettos.’ She held up a twelve-centimetre black handle finished with steel. The merest whisper of a click and the blade appeared, a nine-centimetre black-finished bayonet. ‘These are AGA Campolin Zero Bayo Leverlock automatic knives. Carbon-fibre handles. Böhler N690 steel blade. It has rock-solid blade lock-up, and snappy automatic deployment. I don’t know where we’ll use them yet, we’ll get told that soon enough. But get to know the knife. Feel the balance and weight. If you’ve brought your own, fine. But these will be better.’

  Gregor dispensed the knives as though they were the Holy Eucharist. Slowly. Reverently. Personally. He even muttered each recipient’s name as they took their gift. Binici first, then Red Head, Tattoos, Kamran, Hari and Teeth. Hari stared at his, weighed it, inspected it. It had a textured and shaped handle with stainless-steel bolsters at each end. A small lever snapped the blade into position. Hari thought it managed to be both the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing he’d ever held in his hand. Next to him, Teeth seemed impressed too. He whistled his admiration as he flicked the lever. Hari watched as the blade sprang from the handle then was reset and sprung again. Teeth ran his finger across the cutting edge of the open blade. Another whistle.