by Mayo, Simon
Collins had collected the pizza boxes and now lined them up, square face on, against the far wall. Hari counted ten in total. Some of the lids fell open, spilling crusts and used paper napkins to the floor. She closed them up again, removed the rubbish. ‘Throwing practice,’ she said. ‘The Russians have each recruit trained to hit the target three consecutive times from four metres away. Help yourselves.’
Teeth, Red Head and Kamran jumped to their feet, blades in hand. Hari had put his knife down when his hands started to shake. He closed his eyes. Folded his arms. Tried to make it look as though he was meditating before the rigours of the next twenty-four hours. But the reality was that he felt he was crashing. He couldn’t stop the nightmare. He couldn’t end it without risking the lives of Millie and Amara. If he walked, he disappeared; if he talked, a knifeman would pay a visit. Probably one of these knifemen in front of him now, with their new Böhler N690 steel blades. The sound of pizza boxes being ripped to shreds made him shudder.
And Collins had used him, he knew that. She had needed sex with someone, and he was the safest option. He had said yes, so it was his fault. And it had worked for her. She had smiled a lot since their return. But it hadn’t worked for him. He felt drained, exploited. He re-ran her little foreplay speech about the Angry Brigade – it turned his stomach. When the moment came, she would be a butcher too.
And tonight they were supposed to be ‘together’. To protect her from rape. Or gang rape. That was the logic of what she had said. Someone had warned her. She wasn’t taking any chances.
Hari heard her exclaim and opened his eyes. Collins and Kamran were sparring. He was advancing, step by step, knife in his right hand. She was backing away, balls of her feet, biding her time. Smiling. Only one winner here, Hari thought. Kamran began an attack, turning, reducing his angle, but she had read his body language, spotted the feint. His move was telegraphed. She crashed a fist on his forearm and he dropped the knife. Then, for good measure, she tipped him off his feet. Full mount and submission. The room’s floorboards shuddered and cracked. Hari closed his eyes again. She wouldn’t be needing any help from him.
When the pizza boxes were shredded and Collins had fought most of the men, Gregor called everyone to the middle of the room. He had stacked enough of the chairs to reach a height of about one and a half metres. The holdall that had contained the knives was perched on the top. Zipped up. Hari stood behind Kamran and Teeth. They could spread out more now. The shaded section of the room had increased to around seventy per cent, the temperature had eased back a few notches.
When he had everyone’s attention, Gregor unzipped the bag, produced a phone. Presumably, thought Hari, the one he was using in the van earlier. He turned it on, tapped the screen three times then propped it up against the back of the top chair. The screen was the size of a small book, the definition of the video he had paused was crystal clear. A ripple of excitement passed through the men. Hari felt faint. Gregor smiled. He relaxed. He knew what was coming. Everyone knew what was coming.
‘A short film,’ he said. He spoke slowly in measured, accented English. ‘The camera work is shaky. But you will understand I think. You will “get the picture”.’ He smiled again, apparently pleased with his words.
Hari braced as Gregor hit play.
The film began with CCTV images of a shopping centre, a wide shot. The time code in the top left corner said it was from last July. Hari guessed it was Africa. Kenya maybe. Busy, prosperous. He recognized some big chain store names. Then there was a commotion, people running and falling, and the screen switched to a different angle. Three masked men were running amok, stabbing and slashing as they went. The attack was indiscriminate. An elderly man and woman at a café table both had their throats cut; the man falling forward on to the table, the woman collapsing backwards off her seat. A shopworker who ran to their aid was stabbed in the stomach. A different camera. Two boys in football tops lay on top of each other, blood pooling from their necks. A different camera. Two men fought back with cutlery they had grabbed from a nearby table; both were slashed from chest to navel. Each attack, each murder, was greeted with cheers and applause in the room. Hari clapped too – it was something to do with still-shaking hands.
Next on the screen, a different location. A western street. It looked to Hari like it could be France but the film was grainy and shaky. Shopfronts and market stalls, shoppers and tourists. A heavy truck appeared on the roundabout at the bottom of the picture. It orbited three times then, accelerating, careered off the road towards the crowds. Few had time to react, to move, to run. A bowling ball through skittles. The camera didn’t see those who disappeared beneath the wheels, just those who were flung into the air. The camera operator could be heard cheering. In front of Hari, Kamran and Teeth cheered too.
When he was sure no one was looking at him, Hari shut his eyes. So he only heard the sounds of the last film. Only heard the screams of the synagogue congregation as they were attacked, the muffled cries, the shouts, the crying and finally the gunfire that finished it all. Hari felt his balance go, his legs start to give way. He knew he mustn’t faint but also knew he was going to anyway. He opened his eyes as he started to fall, then two arms slipped around him. It was Collins. She made it look like they were embracing.
‘Thanks,’ he said as they both sat against the wall.
‘We’re quits,’ she said.
Quits? he thought. We’re trading now?
He turned to remonstrate but she had leapt to her feet. Binici, Gregor and most of the others had too. They had a visitor. A squat, round-shouldered man with his black hair in a bun stood by the door in the remaining pool of sunlight. Dark glasses. Doughy face. Black suit trousers and white shirt. Hari watched the London Citizens greet him, one by one shaking his hand or nodding an acknowledgement. One of them, he assumed. Probably their boss. Had other things to do – until now. Binici introduced him as Amal Hussain.
The man peered into the room, looking for those he didn’t know. He ignored Collins. His eyes flicked between Binici and Hari.
‘We have a traitor here,’ he said.
61
HARI STUMBLED TO his feet, his guts churning and bile in his mouth. Hussain was patrolling, snarling. ‘Red alert, my friends. We have a red alert. We must look for traitors everywhere.’ He walked towards Hari, his eyes narrowing. ‘And you’re the one I don’t know anything about.’
‘I’m Hari Roy.’
‘Well, Hari Roy,’ said Hussain, stopping just a few centimetres away, ‘I’m looking for journalists. I know the people in this room. I don’t know you. So my guess is, it is you. You are the journalist.’ He spat the word with contempt. ‘A fucking IPS fucking journalist like that other fucking guy!’
Eyeball to eyeball. Hari’s back was against the wall. Kamran was to his right, Gregor on his left. The others stood behind them.
Deny, deny, deny. Confession means death. You’ve got a knife.
Hari tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. His tongue was sandpaper.
Hussain had more. ‘We found him, you know,’ he continued. ‘He was with us for quite a while. He was good, we thought. Committed, we thought. Howells, he said his name was. A citizen. A comrade. But mainly …’ Hussain pushed his fist into Hari’s chest, pinning him to the wall. ‘Mainly he was a fucking traitor. Kamran here found him sending messages to that Lawson bitch. Kamran slit her and slit Howells. Now he can slit you.’
Kamran stepped up on cue, a satisfied smile on his face.
So, it was Kamran.
Hussain fished in his pocket, pulled out an old-fashioned Polaroid photo, held it in front of Hari’s eyes. The shiny oblong of paper contained an image which caught Hari’s breath. Caught within its white frame were the unsmiling faces of Millie and Amara Roy. Not posed, taken from distance. It was a photo he hadn’t seen before. The twins’ hair was shorter, styled differently. It was new.
‘I decided to get to know you a little better. Your sisters,’ he said. ‘I stoppe
d by.’
Hari closed his eyes, despair and fury welling from deep inside him. He forced himself to stay silent. He knew this man would talk more.
‘Cute kids,’ Hussain said.
Hari nodded, opened his eyes.
‘Good,’ said Hussain. ‘We agree. So. You can tell me what you know about IPS and I’ll get Kamran to deal with you. Just you. Or you can fight us. Deny everything. Then Kamran gets to visit your sisters too.’ He held up the photo. ‘Like I said. Cute kids.’
Hari forced some deep breaths. He recalled Binici’s words from what seemed like years ago. We don’t deal. Arguing is pointless. Negotiating is pointless.
So Hari found his voice. It sounded like a strangled roar. ‘Wait! This is bullshit! I am not a journalist. I am not a traitor. I am Hari Roy, student, grandson of Indian revolutionaries and proud citizen.’ He cast his eyes around the room – caught Binici’s frown – but his words were for the thug in front of him. ‘I have no idea who you are, sir. I am sure you have carried the struggle with pride but you are wrong. When the fash attacked our group, a radiation attack, it was me they went for. I was in hospital! I can tell you that right here and right now, you have the wrong man.’
Hussain held his gaze. Kept his fist in place too. ‘I think I have the right man. Was it just a coincidence that you joined a few weeks after the Howells boy? It can only be you. Lawson hired you, didn’t she?’ He waved Kamran closer. ‘Ear to ear,’ he said, ‘just like last time. There is nothing else to say.’
‘Wait!’ called Binici. He stepped forward a few paces.
Hussain glanced round. ‘What is it?’ He looked, and sounded, irritated. A man not used to being told to wait. ‘You have something to say?’ The threat was clear: Binici was in the dock too.
Binici looked nervous, adjusted his glasses, put both hands in his pockets. ‘It was us who recruited him. Sara found him on campus. He wanted to join us. We did have a traitor. You are right to be suspicious. But I dealt with him. Two days back.’
Hussain turned to face Binici. ‘Dealt with?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Who was he?’
‘His name was Zachary Bourton-Jones. Zak BJ, he called himself.’
‘How do you know it was him?’ Hussain sounded unconvinced. ‘Tell me. Make it fast.’
Binici took another step forward. ‘He had a history of fascist sympathies. He kept his contacts. And he betrayed us. It is true that Hari was attacked with radiation. He only just survived. Zak was the traitor. No question.’
Hussain turned back to Hari. ‘You look scared,’ he said.
Hari nodded. ‘I am scared, sir.’
‘Scared of being found out?’
‘No. But scared of you, sir, and scared about what we have to do tomorrow.’
‘Convince me,’ said Hussain. ‘Because you may not look like Howells, but you do smell like Howells. If you see what I mean.’
Hari had no time to think. He ran to the stacked chairs, climbed on top. Kamran was at his heels but Hussain called him back, saying, ‘Let him speak.’
A preacher in a pulpit. A sceptical congregation. And the only soul he had to save was his own. Hari took off his shirt. Took a breath.
‘Tomorrow we have a job to do,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what it is yet but we will follow the instructions to the letter. I am a citizen first. I am committed to our revolutionary path.’ From his pocket, Hari produced his knife. His Böhler N690 steel stiletto. The blade was folded.
Kamran made to move forward but Hussain kept him back.
Hari held the knife to his chest. Right where he remembered Collins’ tattoo was. ‘We at Boxer Street were always reminded of the words from that play. Embrace the butcher. Because that’s what we are doing. So …’ Hari was flying, words spilling out of him. Out of control. He flicked the lever. The blade locked into position. He stuck the tip of the knife against his skin and pushed and pierced. Blood pooled, then ran down his chest. ‘Embrace the butcher!’ he yelled, and carved a deep horizontal line into his skin. The pain was blinding and immediate. He stuck the tip in again and cut two more lines, one below the other. It opened his skin like a zipper. Three parallel bloody lines, which he now joined with a vertical.
A capital E.
Next he carved a vertical with a horizontal on top.
A capital T.
Murmurs from the floor. They got it now.
The horizontals bled more than the verticals. They hurt just the same. Hari wobbled. Corrected his stance, restored his balance. His waistband was soaked. He could feel the blood running down his legs. His breaths were becoming deeper. His hands were steady.
One more vertical. Two more quick flourishes. A capital B. He had finished. He stood, ecstatic, agonized, chest heaving, blood running in three streams down his torso.
‘ETB – embrace the butcher,’ he said, his voice catching on the last word. He pointed the bloodied knife at his startled audience. He swung it left and down till it pointed at Kamran. ‘Your turn.’
62
BLOOD WAS IN the air. Gregor’s carnage film followed by Hari’s self-mutilation produced a tidal wave of cutting. Everyone but Hussain and Binici removed their shirts and cut ‘ETB’ into their skin. A new knife. A new blooding. A new bonding. There were no showers, no bandages, no antiseptic creams. The blood dried where it had run. For thirty minutes, bellowing, whooping and chest-beating filled the warehouse, the fear of discovery blown away by testosterone, adrenalin and pain.
Hari was startled by what he had done, stunned at the reaction. Kamran had cut his own letters as soon as Hari had suggested it. The others had swiftly followed. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to be left behind, they had wanted to join in. A herd branding. His own knife work was precise, the scar would be neat, and he was off the hook. Gregor’s was bigger, the letters longer. His ‘B’ was botched, looking like a childish, sideways M, but no one cared and certainly no one thought of pointing it out. Collins had cut her left forearm. She waved it at Hari, and mouthed a ‘wow’ from across the room. Hari could see that Binici, too, was thrilled. He wore a strange, teeth-filled, beatific smile.
Hussain, however, was torn. Hari could tell he liked the bonding, approved of the pre-battle psychology. The troop camaraderie. But throughout all the bizarre ceremonies his eyes kept coming back to Hari. He had barely moved. Around him his men were strutting and roaring, but there was a stillness about this new arrival that Hari found chilling. Kamran, Hari’s new best friend, had whispered his name.
Shadow had claimed the whole room by the time Hussain, Gregor and Binici returned to speak to Hari. Red Head and Teeth had crashed on the mattresses upstairs, Tattoos and Kamran were perched against the wall, under the windows, arguing about something with Collins. Hari was about to stand when Hussain approached, but the Egyptian motioned him to stay where he was. Hussain sat in front of him, cross-legged. Binici and Gregor stayed standing.
‘A neat trick,’ said Hussain, nodding.
‘It wasn’t a trick,’ said Hari.
Hussain tilted his head from side to side, as though weighing the evidence. Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe a traitor, maybe not. ‘So you say.’
‘I’ve explained.’
‘You have. And your heroics were impressive.’
‘They weren’t heroics.’
The head tilt again. Maybe yes, maybe no. ‘We’ll see.’
Hari felt Hussain’s gaze as a physical weight. He had bought himself time but maybe that was all. Although Binici had spoken for him, his judgement was under scrutiny too.
Hussain produced the photo again. The white-framed Polaroid. Millie and Amara. Not smiling. He folded it in two, placed it in Hari’s top pocket. ‘You will be with us for tomorrow, Mr Roy. We are too close now for changes. The men want you there. They expect to embrace the butcher. We can all embrace the butcher.’ He patted the folded photo. ‘But you should know that your sisters will be there too. I will see to it. An insurance policy for me. And I’ll
be right behind them myself.’ He tried a smile. ‘Just in case it was a trick,’ he said.
63
AS THE LAST of Wednesday’s light leaked from the warehouse, Amal Hussain told the Coventry and London Citizens where Thursday’s attack would take place, when it would happen and who would be attending. He wished them a good night.
No one expected to sleep well.
64
10.34 p.m.
DON HARDIN CRADLED his baby daughter over his shoulder. He hummed her a tune as he did laps of his lounge. She snuffled and coughed a little but seemed settled. He inhaled what was left of her new baby smell. Wipes and nappy cream was some of it certainly, leftover amniotic fluid was, apparently, the rest. He’d looked it up. She was asleep for now, his wife too. Tomorrow was busy, he’d be out all day, so it was his turn. All night. The bottles were ready, the spare bed made up. His vestments were ironed and packed, his day clothes laid out. Tomorrow he’d wear the shorts and T-shirt for the walk to the cathedral, then stay in the cassock and alb for the service and the demonstration.
‘Demonstration.’ He said the word out loud. Trying it on for size. ‘Protest,’ he said. ‘Protester.’ The smallest of smiles. He whispered to his daughter. ‘Your daddy is a “protester”. How about that?’ He stroked her few silky strands of black hair till they were flat. ‘I know the bishop will quote St Paul to me. He loves that letter to the Romans.’ A few more strokes. ‘He’ll say, “Let every person be subject to the authorities.” Then he’ll say, “The person who resists such authority resists the ordinance of God.”’ Hardin sucked in his cheeks until he thought he looked like the bishop. ‘What a pompous arse he is.’