No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  Jacob shook his head. Who was he kidding? In the end, the actions of others hadn’t killed Selma; she had died because he hadn’t been able to hold the family together. No, even that wasn’t right, it was worse than that. Jacob had ripped the family apart.

  He had allowed his horrors and demons to escape, and they’d overwhelmed them all, haunting and hounding Selma to her death. He had been so immersed in his own troubles and terrors that he hadn’t understood what Selma was going through. Jacob didn’t know whether she had intended to take her own life, or if it had been a cry for help or a tragic accident as everyone had told him. But to Jacob, whatever her reasons, the result was the same. Selma was dead because his own torment had inflicted pain and misery on her, and he had failed to stop her suffering. It was dereliction of duty, through and through; there was no other way to describe his crime.

  Jacob screwed his hands into balls as tightly as he could and his nails dug into his palms. He had to stop punishing himself with his past; it wouldn’t change anything.

  He forced himself to concentrate on his Barbican surroundings. The concrete buildings, canopies of plants and thickening fog cocooned him in eerie silence, punctuated only by the occasional drip from leaves that soaked in the enveloping fog. It was time to move. Unless he found a sheltered and less cramped spot, he would soon seize up in the dank atmosphere, and then he would be unable to shake the cold. He was already feeling stiff and damp, having brooded too long in his hiding place.

  Jacob poked his head out from beneath the brick structure, looked around the courtyard to ensure that no one was about, then slid out commando-style. Once on his feet, he massaged his agonising knees, then tottered forward, each small step bringing more life to his tingling, aching limbs. In the gloom, he could see no more than ten metres ahead and he listened intently for signs of danger, but the solitary sound was his own breathing. Jacob reached the dry path beneath Ben Jonson House, and in the improved visibility he could tell that he was the only soul around. He relaxed for the first time in hours.

  Jacob skirted the shadowy pillars and recesses of the building, all the time keeping away from the security cameras, and headed towards one of the maintenance entrances facing Beech Gardens, sheltered from the worst of the cold and next to one of the block’s air vents. Although still outside, it would be several degrees warmer than most other doorways and was a favoured spot for those living on the streets. Unfortunately, it was also popular with the security patrols, who would remove any homeless people and then use it themselves for a smoke or coffee. The trick to maximising warm time was to wait for the security guards to move on, and then take the space as soon as they left.

  Jacob saw that the entrance was occupied by another man he didn’t recognise. Lying next to him was a Jack Russell Terrier, whose eyes locked on Jacob as he approached.

  ‘Howdy friend,’ Jacob said, his usual greeting to someone he didn’t know on the streets. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘About ten years, I’d say,’ the man replied, his toothless grin giving away his attempt at humour. ‘No, only kidding. Best part of an hour, I guess. Nice spot.’

  He looked at Jacob without blinking, but he put a hand on the dog’s back, not sure if Jacob intended to take his place or join him.

  ‘Ah, OK, I’ll leave you be then, you’ll be nicely settled,’ Jacob said. ‘I’ll head up to the next one.’

  ‘No need for that, there’s space here for two, and Mitzy here doesn’t mind shuffling up a bit.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate it, but I’d think about moving if I were you. The patrols are pretty frequent around here and they’ll probably move you on soon if you’ve been here an hour already.’

  Jacob suspected that the man already knew this, if he really had been living on the streets for ten years. But it felt only right to warn his comrade that he was running the risk of being turfed out into the damp chill of the night, even though Jacob would be the chief beneficiary if he was. There was nothing he’d like more than the warmth of this space.

  ‘Obliged for the warning, but I think we’ll stay put. It’s hard to give up a spot like this, as I’m sure you know.’

  Jacob knew that feeling only too well, the need to stay a few minutes more in the warmth, even if it meant possible discovery. But as he had learned in the Army, you had to be disciplined about how long you stayed in one place, and the more comfortable you felt the less alert you became, and that’s when things went wrong. Eventually they always did.

  Jacob nodded to the man and walked back the way he had come. He’d only passed two sets of resident staircases when he heard voices ahead, and he dashed out from under the building towards a screen of bushes close by. The two approaching men patrolled in the light of the walkway underneath the building, keeping them out of what had now become a light drizzle, and Jacob was confident they wouldn’t see him hiding in the dark garden. He waited for them to pass before he returned to the dry walkway behind them, but he didn’t retreat any further. He wanted to see what would happen to Mitzy and her owner.

  Jacob didn’t have long to wait. A few seconds later he heard voices, and despite being too far away to hear the exact words, he knew what the two guards were saying: this is private property, he had to leave immediately and he wasn’t to return. The words were always the same, although the tone and aggression varied from guard to guard. Jacob was relieved to hear no obvious anger in their voices tonight and no shouting as there sometimes was. Maybe they felt guilty at sending the man out into the worsening weather, or perhaps they were animal lovers. Jacob had noticed that homeless people with dogs were sometimes treated with more sympathy, although occasionally some of the more vicious guards, or members of the public on the streets for that matter, felt that they could vent their anger on an animal, so it worked both ways.

  One of the two guards led the man and Mitzy to the same ramp that Jacob himself had used to flee from Nathan, but he didn’t accompany him very far; it was too damp for that. He stepped back under the cover of the walkway and turned away once the man reached the bend and disappeared from sight. Jacob watched the scene from the shadows and reflected on his own wretched luck over the past few hours, and for the second time that miserable day a homeless man left the Barbican to Jacob’s same muttered words.

  ‘Time to go.’

  ***

  Maria dragged herself forward. She ached all over and every so often she jerked as her eyes sprang open after she’d started to drift off. It was almost as if she was sleepwalking home through treacle. She wanted to get back to the Refuge before the mist got any thicker, but despite the allure of a nice warm bed she was dreading getting there, and her footsteps became shorter and shorter.

  What was she going to say when they arrived at the shelter? Perhaps she should stay quiet, as Martin might not register the name of the building and could just assume it was a normal apartment block. Yes, that might just work. It was a dark street and it would be easy to mistake the sign above the door for the building name, and in the absence of any other ideas it was her only hope.

  One thing was for sure, though: it didn’t look like Martin was trying anything on with her. She had wondered earlier if his questions about a boyfriend meant he was interested in her, but now he appeared preoccupied during the walk. There was little conversation and he kept looking around rather than at her, almost as if he thought someone might be following them. He didn’t make any attempt to take her hand or brush against her while they walked, but kept his hands firmly in his pockets. It seemed that his offer to escort her home was courtesy after all, nothing romantic. Maria was disappointed, as she liked him, but maybe he was just a little old-fashioned and took things slowly.

  Maria was right about one thing: Michael was preoccupied. He visualised what he’d do if Maria turned out to be living with her family or a boyfriend. He didn’t want her talking to them about her job, and he was beginning to regret his decision to rope her in. But if he hadn’t, who would have done the work, a
s Paddy had been too unwell? Maria had been a godsend and might still have her uses, especially as she was the perfect choice for a starring role on the big day.

  Michael was torn, but he’d have to decide what to do by the time they arrived at Maria’s home. He knew he could handle Maria if needed, after all he was a warrior and he’d dealt with far more dangerous foes in the past. He also had the element of surprise on his side, and in his jacket pocket he felt the reassuring presence of his silenced pistol.

  Their route was quiet at this time of night, other than the point where they crossed Great Eastern Street, a road that never seemed to sleep. But even there no one noticed them, wrapped up in their own lives and hurrying to be out of the worsening weather.

  They walked the short distance along Luke Street to a corner where, to Michael’s surprise, Maria suddenly stopped and said, ‘Here we are then.’

  ‘Where, which is your place?’

  He then looked in the same direction as Maria and froze. His hand tightened around the pistol and he gasped. Surely not, he must be mistaken.

  ‘The Refuge... you’re kidding me, right?’

  Maria was shaken by his response. She’d hoped that Martin wouldn’t have heard of the shelter, and certainly hadn’t expected him to react to it like that. Something was wrong, she knew it from his tone, and she took a step back.

  Michael stared at the building through the thickening mist and tried to think. What does this mean? Orla works here and she’s bound to know Maria. Despite everything he’d said to Paddy earlier, his words of warning echoed around his head. There was now a way of linking Maria with Michael.

  He needed to act, now. If he dealt with Maria tonight, no doubt the Refuge would raise the alarm by the morning and Orla might somehow make the connection. Unlikely, but possible. On the other hand, he was certain that Maria would talk to others about what she had been doing today. He felt the pistol in his hand. There was only one thing for it.

  Michael took his hands out of his jacket and raised them towards Maria.

  He spoke with no emotion, although he was still in turmoil inside, and forced a smile onto his lips. ‘I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me you lived here? This isn’t living alone.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to know I was homeless. No one ever gives a job to someone like me. Anyway, it is like living alone. I have my own room and I have no real family or friends here, or anywhere.’

  In her tiredness and distress, tears welled up in Maria’s eyes. She saw her chance of a job slipping away, but she was determined not to cry and she needed to defend herself. She might not get another opportunity.

  ‘But as you saw today, I can work hard, as hard as anyone else, even if I don’t have a home to go to!’

  Maria’s outburst had given Michael time to think and he now realised what he needed to do to make this work. First of all, he had to get Maria back on side, and he stepped forward.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK, I’m not mad at you. I was just a little taken aback, that’s all. It’s not what I was expecting. Look, you have been great today and, if you still want it, the job is yours.’

  Michael watched the relief wash over Maria as she briefly closed her eyes and wiped them quickly with the back of her sleeve, but she said nothing. Keen to press his point, he turned to the oldest trick in the book.

  ‘And to prove it, I’ll give you the money now for today’s work, plus a small bonus. You deserve it.’

  Michael extracted three fifties from his wallet and held them out to Maria with a smile. Her eyes opened wide. This was more money than she’d ever received from anyone, and for just one day’s work. What a wonderful day it was turning out to be after all, and how much more exciting might it be in the next few days?

  ‘Oh, thank you, Martin, I was so worried you’d think I’d lied to you. I won’t ever do that again.’

  She held out her hand to take the money, but Michael pulled the cash back a few inches.

  ‘There is one condition, though. As I said earlier, this product launch is top secret and no one, and I mean no one, can know about it. Not your family, friends or anyone working here.’ He pointed at the Refuge. ‘If anyone else gets wind of what you’re doing, then there will be no more cash like this. That’s a lot to give up, for two or three days’ silence, isn’t it? Do we have a deal?’

  Maria nodded and held out her hand again. ‘Of course, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘You bet!’ Michael said, and he laughed at the childlike yet prophetic response. ‘Come to the store tomorrow, mid-afternoon, and I’ll tell you when you’ll be needed back. It will probably be Wednesday, but I’ll know for sure by tomorrow.’

  Maria turned, skipped across the road, and disappeared through the Refuge’s front doors without a look back. The frowning terrorist watched her all the way, deep in thought.

  As Michael walked to Orla’s flat, he considered the next steps of his heinous plan. It wasn’t how he had imagined his time in London would end, but maybe Maria walking into the lock-up had been divine intervention. It was more complicated now that both Maria and Orla were involved, but it would be a neater way to end his time here. His mood brightened. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he liked it, and his steel eyes glinted in the light of the streetlamps.

  At Orla’s door, he smiled, and three minutes later he slipped naked into the bed beside her, possibly for the last time, his smile now a malignant grin in the darkness.

  11

  Donovan stepped through the door, soaked to the skin. Tailing Michael and the young woman through Shoreditch had been an unwelcome way to spend the early hours of a cold, wet Tuesday morning, but it had to be done.

  Michael hadn’t seen his commander-in-chief following behind, despite his training. The weather had helped Donovan to avoid detection, but Michael wouldn’t have regarded the person pursuing him of being any danger anyway, even if he had been more observant. Donovan knew Michael’s reputation well, and the last thing he would have suspected if he’d seen Donovan would have been a fearless, predatory and unforgiving leader of men, with a history of unimaginable savagery. After all, he wouldn’t have believed a woman capable of such things, would he?

  Donovan was keen to encourage such thoughts amongst the Brethren’s members. She had kept her identity a secret for years, with only a few close disciples aware of the truth, and she was determined to maintain the pretence as long as she could. Not only did the name of the organisation imply it was a group of brothers, of males, giving her the ideal disguise and minimal suspicion, it also helped to confuse her trail amongst the security services and allowed her to come and go almost unchallenged. The mystery created its own folklore of rumours, speculation and conspiracy theories, most of them wide of the mark and invariably concerning ruthless acts of barbarity. Few men pictured a woman in this role, which was just the way she wanted it, as men who underestimated women were blind. Men like Michael.

  But there were more important matters to think about right now. Donovan couldn’t dispel the concerns she now had about this operation after tracking Michael back to the homeless shelter. What on earth had they been thinking and how could the mission be kept a secret? She might need to deal with their new recruit herself, if Michael or Paddy didn’t dispose of her first. Donovan knew she could do little tonight, now that their helper was back at the Refuge, so it would have to wait a few hours.

  She would discuss it with Paddy in the morning and maybe by then a solution will have presented itself. If not, it would be the end of the line for their homeless new recruit.

  ***

  ‘Bitcoin.’ Just saying the word was enough to conjure a multitude of images in Brandon’s mind. Wild speculation, greed and volatility in financial markets; computer hijacking and coin mining that depleted the world’s energy reserves; dark corners of the web where terrorists organised financing for their atrocities; but most vividly of all, a gleaming opportunity to create limitless wealth, brighter than sparkling diamonds or gl
istening gold.

  Brandon was excited by the prospect of using Bitcoin to commit such an ambitious crime. It wasn’t that he wanted to take advantage of the so-called cryptocurrency’s anonymity to hide his ill-gotten gains. His main motivation was the prospect of creating real money from what he viewed as a system built on thin air. He admired the technology and principles behind Bitcoin, the concept of a ‘blockchain’ to verify, authenticate and provide an audit trail of transactions. That part he liked, it made sense to Brandon. It was just unfortunate that the hype and hysteria surrounding cryptocurrencies had overshadowed the technology itself. Unfortunate, but hardly surprising.

  The world’s media had jumped on Bitcoin and exaggerated and demonised something they didn’t truly understand, and in doing so had fuelled the bandwagon. History was littered with examples of the public’s clamour for apparent one-way financial bets that often ended in heartbreak and destitution for those who were late to the game. But to Brandon, Bitcoin was nothing more than a scheme designed to line the pockets of its secretive founders, with no substance to the claim that it was a currency. Instead, he viewed it as a speculative financial instrument akin to an investment plan with no underlying assets, where the plan’s shares were called coins to create the illusion of value, but with no rational way of valuing them.

  He knew that people bought the digital coins because they assumed they would increase in value, not because they wanted to spend them. To Brandon, this was the sort of thing that happened in the playground, and he thought about the schoolchildren he had watched earlier that day. What if one of the pupils had convinced a friend to exchange a Monopoly note for a sweet? To record the trade, the children could write the details of it on the note, establishing the first block in the chain. The second child, as the new holder of the note, might later trade it for two sweets and then a third might use it to buy three. Just like the game of tag, eventually the whole class could be swept up by it, and by the time the note reached the last child it might pay for a whole bag of sweets and thirty transactions could have been scrawled on it. The blockchain would have done its bit, faithfully recording each transaction. But did that make the Monopoly note real money, and was it worth a bag of sweets?