No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  ‘You’ll be sorry for that, you low-life scum.’ Nathan’s face was florid and spittle sprayed when he yelled. Jacob knew that the barman was losing control and he covered his head with his arms to protect himself from the inevitable assault. Nathan punched him, then kicked him twice in the side, giving Jacob no chance of rising. Jacob knew he’d have to flee or fight back soon, otherwise Nathan would keep going unchecked.

  Suddenly, another loud voice interrupted the flurry of blows. ‘Hey Nathan, what the hell’s going on?’

  Nathan aimed a further spiteful kick into Jacob’s ribcage and turned away. ‘What do you think’s going on? I’m teaching this sonofabitch a lesson for stealing my whisky.’

  ‘What do you mean your whisky? How the hell did he get hold of it? You’re not drinking on duty, are you?’

  ‘No, of course not, you know I don’t do that, Merv. I meant our whisky, the hotel’s, not mine. It was a slip of the tongue.’ Nathan looked down at Jacob and glowered. ‘He must have got in during the delivery and got hold of it somehow.’

  ‘Well, in that case, we need to review our security, don’t we? But first, unless you want to call the police for theft,’ Merv said, pausing to make sure Nathan understood the implication, ‘I suggest we get him out of here and let him go with a warning. What do you reckon?’

  Nathan looked livid and ready to explode. He wanted to pulverise Jacob, but he knew that he couldn’t push it and he had no choice but to agree.

  Merv didn’t wait for an answer. He stooped down and pulled Jacob up roughly by the collar. ‘Right, time to go, and count yourself lucky this time. Don’t ever try this again or I might let Nathan give you a good kicking.’

  He unbolted the gate and pushed Jacob through, but before letting him go, he leaned towards Jacob and whispered so that only he could hear, ‘You were lucky I came along. He has a vile temper and would probably have put you in hospital. But at least I now know where that whisky has been going.’

  Then in a louder voice he said, ‘Don’t even dream of coming back, you hear me?’

  With that, Merv winked at Jacob and slammed the gate shut.

  ***

  Brandon was struggling. He had spent most of the morning thinking about the next steps for Proximity. His initial flush of excitement on returning to the loft after his success at Stratford had gone, replaced by a dawning realisation of his system’s limitations. He had grappled with a few possible solutions, to no avail, but he was determined not to be beaten.

  The main problem was volume. How could he infect enough devices in a short time to generate the amount of internet traffic he needed? He knew of numerous ways to hijack computers and tablets using traditional hacking and infection techniques, but the major internet security firms were getting pretty good at identifying and neutralising those viruses. Brandon didn’t want them to have time to do that; he wanted this to be a flash event that was over before anyone had even heard of it.

  Volume was a problem for Proximity because he needed to be near the devices being infected, and it also relied on people reacting to the pop-up message. People were attentive to their screens when idle, like during their commute, but in other situations they wouldn’t be looking at their phone when the message arrived. A large, dense crowd would be ideal, maybe at a concert or football game, but he would look conspicuous working on his laptop at such events, and he couldn’t risk attracting unwanted attention. In any case, the number of infections might still be too low. Despite the increasing number of people who were glued to their screens all the time, many others still wanted to watch a concert rather than record the action or post comments about it on social media. They were no good to Brandon. For once, he wanted to see, and abuse, the users’ addiction to their phones.

  It was no good, he needed some air. He thought he was missing something simple, a solution that would transform his project and make it a reality, and sometimes inspiration came to him during his walks. A random event or sight might illuminate a light bulb; he certainly hoped so. Brandon locked his computers, grabbed his hoodie and left the loft. He pulled his hood over his head and turned in the direction of Mark Square, with no particular destination in mind, and let himself drift northwards.

  At Great Eastern Street, Brandon headed towards Silicon Roundabout, colloquially named to reflect the technology entrepreneurship of the district, with its unsubtle comparison to Silicon Valley in California. Brandon was amused at the idea of this fringe of the City being compared with the sun-soaked home of Apple, eBay and Tesla, but what really tickled him was the absence of entrepreneurial inspiration in naming it so clumsily after somewhere else.

  Brandon was less amused at his own lack of inspiration. Every so often he would stop, sigh and shake his head at another half-formed thought, a fragment of an idea tantalisingly out of reach. His footsteps became heavier and his energy waned, so he turned into Whitecross Street, where he knew that the stalls would be up and running, providing what people now called ‘street food’. Perhaps he just needed to feed his imagination. When he arrived, there were well over a dozen stands and vans on both sides, serving numerous choices of food, from every corner of the globe. He queued at a burrito van surrounded mainly by City bankers, and bought a spicy chicken version of the famed Mexican dish.

  It was a bright day and Brandon headed for the terraces of the Barbican. He trudged up the ramp at the end of Whitecross Street, but he didn’t gravitate towards the open areas frequented by most visitors, where groups of workers would congregate during their lunch hours. Instead, he crossed to a quiet section near Ben Jonson House, which he knew was usually empty, where he could eat and think in solitude.

  Brandon picked a bench shrouded by shrubs looking away from the Barbican towers, and opened his lunch, expertly rolled in foil. He took his first bite and looked across the street towards a local school, his attention drawn to the joyful laughter and shouting of the children at play during their lunch break. Four girls were skipping and chanting a song which sounded vaguely familiar to Brandon, but he couldn’t quite remember the words from childhood. Another group of girls watched nearby, although a couple of them were giggling and pointing at some boys who were playing a game of tag the other side of the small playground. Even from where he was sitting, Brandon heard one of the boys shout, ‘Got you!’ as he slapped a classmate on the back, and then they both chased the other boys. They must be playing the version where everyone would eventually be caught by the ever-growing number of chasers.

  Brandon thought back to his own time at school. He recalled the same sense that he had right now, of watching other people play. Even at primary school, he had never fit in; he was always on the fringes pretending to join in, or sometimes he just stood there, alone, and watched the girls skip and the boys chase around. From what he could see of this school, there weren’t any obvious misfits like himself. Maybe they were better at concealing it now, or perhaps the other children were more accepting of their classmates’ differences. Whatever the reason, Brandon wanted to believe that times had changed and that no child had to go through what he had at school.

  Brandon watched the children play while he finished his burrito. He was conscious that if anyone saw him staring in the direction of the school, they may question his intentions, but he couldn’t help it, he was drawn to them and the way they interacted. There was something in the children’s behaviour that he felt was important, but he couldn’t work out what it was.

  Deep in thought, Brandon jumped when the school bell suddenly sounded. Lunchtime was over, and all of the children stopped what they were doing, gathered up their skipping ropes, jumpers and other belongings, and made their way off the playground. A couple of stragglers dragged themselves back to their classes, glum looks on their faces.

  Brandon stared after them, stock still and unblinking, transfixed by what it was he had just witnessed. The peal of the bell had reverberated around this small corner of the City, amplified by the echo from the buildings so that all of the chi
ldren had heard it. The sudden crescendo reminded Brandon of the final scene of a movie, The Lawnmower Man, when every telephone started to ring at once, signifying that the film’s main character, Jobe, had infiltrated all computer networks on Earth. The film’s plot was ridiculous, but that wasn’t the point. It was the way the sound had built that had caught Brandon’s attention, and he realised that he had been looking at Proximity all wrong. It needed to act like a real virus, self-replicating and spreading, contaminating other gadgets. Amplifying, growing, living. Like the boys’ game of tag, in no time, everyone was caught, but not all by the same boy.

  Brandon didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before. Everyone’s mobile phone, tablet or laptop was able to receive and transmit the virus, which would spread exponentially if it could self-replicate.

  Brandon dropped the rest of his burrito into the bin and hurried down the ramp on his way back to the loft. Refuelled and reenergised, he now knew how to make his plan a reality.

  He had work to do.

  7

  Michael strolled along Rivington Street towards the railway bridge. He felt the buildings watching him, leaning over the narrow street to follow his progress, spying. Despite recent renovations, many of the buildings had that typical East End feel to them, scruffy and old-fashioned, and even this close to the busy High Street it was quiet and unhurried, as though an invisible curtain had been drawn across the end of the street at the entrance to a different world. The centuries old buildings brooded, silent at this time of day, but that would change as night fell, when the local bars and clubs opened their doors.

  A train passed over the arches, the discoloured brickwork still standing after all those years of vibration and pollution. Michael saw that various businesses occupied the valuable space beneath the tracks, although a few of the arches were used solely as storerooms or as overflow for the neighbouring properties. Just like the one he had been summoned to.

  He approached a pair of doors set in a wooden facade about ten feet high, selected a key from his key ring, and unlocked the heavy-duty padlock. He released the securing steel bar and the door opened with a faint creak. After the cloying street, the lock-up was dank, and he felt a faint breeze of cool, stale air escape as he stepped inside. He reached for the light switch and the fluorescent tubes flickered into life.

  Inside, the lock-up was Tardis-like and the light barely touched the gloom at the rear. Michael remembered that the railway tracks diverged as they approached the double bridge at Old Street, and therefore the lock-up didn’t occupy only a single archway, but filled the void below and between the tracks and then carried on through the other side, into an area formerly used by a vehicle repair firm. It created an odd shape, impractical for many purposes, but ideal for storage and a perfect hiding place for all manner of craven activities.

  Michael lit a cigarette and threw the match onto the floor, where it joined countless butts and charred scraps. Between puffs, he wondered why this dingy space had been retained by the Brethren. It clearly wasn’t used very much. Hundreds of undisturbed cobwebs clung to the walls, the shelves were covered in dust, and discarded bottles and cans littered the place. He assumed that Paddy didn’t want the lock-up for its cleanliness, but for its location in a quiet part of Shoreditch, off the beaten track yet close to the centre of London. But what else did it have going for it?

  He heard a noise above and looked up. A second floor had been installed in the void between the arches, with a small loading hatch in the middle of the wooden floor providing access to additional storage space on the upper level. He was about to investigate when the sound came again, and he realised that it was only the scuttling of tiny feet. He peered into the loft space and thought he saw two small pin-pricks of light staring back at him. Rats. He’d leave that well alone for now, and perhaps Paddy would sort it out later if needed.

  Louder footsteps outside the lock-up alerted him to someone’s approach, and Michael forgot all about the rodents. Moments later, Paddy came round the door.

  ‘Hey, Michael, great to see you. How are you doing?’

  Michael opened his arms and stepped forward to embrace his old comrade. ‘All the better for seeing you again my friend, it’s been too long.’

  Michael gripped Paddy’s right hand in his and clapped him on the back with his left. He noticed that Paddy seemed thinner and, when he stepped back, he saw more lines in Paddy’s face than he remembered and his eyes were bloodshot and sunken. The change in Paddy was more than just advancing years.

  Paddy saw Michael’s expression and pre-empted his question. ‘Yes, I know, I’ve lost a little weight. But forget that, we’ve more important things to discuss. Like what you’ve been up to.’

  Michael looked at Paddy and shrugged. ‘Not much, this and that. All the usual stuff.’

  ‘By that I assume you’re still living the high life.’ Paddy nodded towards Michael’s cigarette. ‘I can see you haven’t quit the fags yet, and I can smell that you still like a Guinness or two, am I right? But what of your other weaknesses? How many women do you have in tow at the moment, eh?’

  Paddy laughed at his own humour and the leer that had appeared on Michael’s face, before adding, ‘I never could keep up with you on that score.’

  ‘Ha, you’re right, you never could,’ Michael said, ‘and you never will. You’re always too busy losing money on the horses, fool that you are!’

  ‘Too true, but I’d rather lose money on my nags than on yours, any day.’

  The two men laughed and it felt like old times. Except that it wasn’t; something had changed in Paddy, and Michael wanted to know what.

  ‘But seriously, Paddy, you do look a bit tired. Are you OK?’

  ‘Well, I could say that I’m fine, just getting a bit old for these jaunts nowadays, and I must admit, it seemed a hell of a long journey getting here.’ He paused before continuing. ‘But I won’t lie to you, Michael, we’ve known each other too long for that. I fear this may be my last job.’

  ‘Why Paddy?’ Michael asked, although he thought he knew the answer already.

  ‘Well, I always said that the horses would be the end of me, or the bullet if I got careless. But it seems I was wrong. The fags got me first, my friend, the big C.’ Paddy took a deep, wheezing breath. ‘I’ve known for about a month. Funny, eh, you do all these crazy things in life, and then it’s the little pleasure that kills you.’

  Michael placed his hand on Paddy’s shoulder, but said nothing.

  ‘My doc says I have about six months, so it’s not over yet, but I’ve got to finish this one last job. We’ll make it one to remember and then I’ll be happy that I’ve done my bit. Let’s make this the big one, eh Michael, together, you and me, one last time, the best team the Brethren ever had. Agreed?’

  ‘Yeah, of course Paddy, anything you say. But are you sure your doctor is right? Is there anything they can do, you know, like operate, chemo?’

  ‘Doc said I could take the drugs and see what happens, although he didn’t think it would make much difference. Might add a few months, might not. I really thought about it, I can tell you, but in the end I decided not to do it. What’s the point of living a couple of extra months, if those months are spent even more unwell because of the chemo? No, that’s not for me. I’d rather accept my time’s up and do something with the short time I have left. So here I am.’

  ‘God, Paddy, I don’t know how you can talk like that.’

  ‘That’s because it’s not happening to you, and I hope it never does. But you could help yourself by giving up those things,’ he said, and nodded at Michael’s cigarette.

  ‘But now, no more depressing talk. I’ve told you my news and there’s no more to be said about it. From now on, all we’re going to talk about is the task at hand. And maybe women and beer!’

  ‘OK, it’s your call, whatever you want Paddy.’ Michael was relieved to drop the subject, as he didn’t know what else to say. ‘So, what exactly is the plan?’

 
; ***

  It wasn’t the buildings that spied on Michael, as he walked down Rivington Street to his rendezvous with Paddy. Unknown to them both, dark eyes watched their every move through the grimy panes of a first-floor window, where a thin hand parted the jaded net curtain on their arrival at the lock-up.

  Despite knowing that Paddy and Michael were up to the job and had delivered whenever asked before, this was too big an operation for the leader of the Brethren to stay at home. It was the start of the most significant week in the Brethren’s history. Nothing could be left to chance.

  Donovan saw the two terrorists arrive without a trace of emotion. This was just one small step and they had a long way to go before they could claim victory on the streets of London. There would be plenty of time for laughter and celebration afterwards. Until then, even smiling could wait.

  ***

  At Great Eastern Street, traffic was bumper-to-bumper and the pavements were seething. A typical lunchtime, it was much busier than when Jacob had crossed it earlier in the day.

  For most people, everyday bustle offers a sense of security, safety in numbers and the reassurance of daylight hours. But not for Jacob; all he saw were potential dangers. A line of people queued out of a sandwich shop and into the street, and Jacob imagined enemies concealed in their number, camouflaged by the distractions and hubbub of the throng. A woman leaned out of an upstairs window, and he saw a sniper in the shadows, shielded behind her innocent look. Even the schoolchildren who joked together on the corner weren’t beyond suspicion, with their bulging backpacks and excitable high spirits.

  No, Jacob didn’t like daytime crowds. He preferred empty streets and the cold isolation of wandering alone at night. He told himself that he wasn’t just adopting a habit common to many homeless people, who hid away during the day. It was different for him. Years of combat had taught him that an enemy was just as likely to be lurking in a group of people, in plain sight, as hidden away in dark corners. He could never relax in a crowd.