by Greg Elswood
What could stop them now?
***
The men lay motionless as enemy fighters entered the building, the slightest movement almost certain to give away their position. Other than the faint glow of light from outside, which silhouetted each insurgent in the doorway, everything was in darkness. That is, until one of them struck a match and held it out in front of him, then slowly turned and watched the flickering shadows circle the room. Thankfully Jacob and his men were high up in the eaves and silent as the grave, and the glow of the match did not reach them.
By the light of the flame, Jacob counted a dozen fighters, far outnumbering the three Army men. The enemy also had the advantage of home territory and would know the layout of the building, its exits and vulnerabilities. Maybe more remained outside, so his men had no choice but to stay where they were, fighting their urges to move or sneeze, ignoring their pains and dismissing any thoughts of communication. It might not be possible for them to survive a whole night undetected, but time would tell.
The fighters below talked in whispers, but their words were indistinguishable from the incessant shuffling of their boots that accompanied their every movement. What were they doing down there, and why did it need to be done in the dark? Jacob strained to hear and see, but it was no use, they were deaf and blind.
Eventually the sounds faded and the fighters rested, the scraping and rustling replaced by snoring and heavy breathing. Occasionally another match would flare and then the tiny glow of a cigarette would last for a few minutes, but otherwise the men below slept.
Jacob’s men couldn’t risk sleep. The slightest snore or grunt threatened their lives, and they battled their craving for rest and struggled to remain alert and vigilant throughout the small hours. Every second was a torment, a potential moment of discovery and certain death, and the night dragged for an eternity.
At last, the faint gleam of day appeared in the doorway and the men below gathered together. Jacob saw by the dim light that they had unwrapped a deadly cargo, and each man slung several automatic rifles over his shoulders before heading out. He heard the rumble of a truck outside and then the men were gone, spectres of the night vanishing into the murderous morning sun.
It took Jacob and his men over quarter of an hour to rouse their aching limbs, frozen joints and tortured minds, before they could follow the enemy out to the battlefield.
***
Brandon had finished his whiteboard masterpiece, a work of genius in red and black, and he had tested his programs to exhaustion. He could do no more. He was ready, and in a few hours’ time he would be pushing the button at Liverpool Street to release Proximity.
Brandon sat back on his sofa and admired his art. He was the grand master of a work that would live long in the memory, sketched on a glass canvas and perfected on his laptop screen with a few keystrokes. Anyone who owned a mobile phone would see it, even if they didn’t appreciate its beauty or its genius. Like all bold, modern movements, it might take a while for cyber artistry to be taken seriously, but maybe in years to come, today would be remembered as the day when a new artform was created.
His stomach fluttered at his thoughts. The excitement and anticipation of the morning hit him, and he knew he could do with some rest. But he wouldn’t be able to sleep. It wasn’t just nervousness about his project, although that in itself was enough to make anyone an insomniac. It was also his disguise.
Brandon walked to the other sofa and looked into the bag he had dropped there earlier. It contained everything he needed to transform his appearance, but now that the time had come, he was in agonies. Had he made the right choice? He couldn’t shake the thought that he was committing a supreme act of self-betrayal in the altered image he had chosen and, when he saw the clothes and make-up, he trembled at the visions conjured up in his troubled mind.
Brandon knew that he needed a convincing disguise. It was inevitable that the epicentre of the cyber-attack would be traced back to Liverpool Street, and even though Brandon thought it unlikely that it would be pinpointed to the exact spot where he’d be standing, he couldn’t take the chance that he might be recognised if he was caught on camera using his laptop at the precise time the attack was launched.
Brandon went to the bathroom to start his transformation. First, he shaved his face as close as he could. It made his skin pink and itchy, but he knew that it would pass and he would apply make-up later to hide any residual redness. He then washed his hair, grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and applied the solution over the sink. After a moment’s hesitation, he then did the same to his eyebrows. Giving it time to soak in, he wrapped a towel around himself and wandered into his den to relax in front of the market news.
He wasn’t usually awake to see the Far Eastern markets open, but despite the novelty of watching his screens at this time of day, Brandon couldn’t concentrate on the numbers or the headlines. After half an hour he returned to the bathroom and, with a little trepidation, he rinsed the peroxide solution from his hair. He took a step back and reviewed the results in the cabinet mirror.
‘Not bad,’ he said to himself. ‘Not exactly bleached blonde, but quite a bit lighter. It will do.’
The loft contained only one full-length mirror, mounted on the wall of the second bedroom. Like the window blinds in the living area, it had seemed a good idea at the time, for use by potential guests, but as with everything else in that bedroom it was redundant. Brandon never used the mirror, in part because he had little need to check what he looked like in his habitual attire of jeans, T-shirt and a hoodie. But the main reason he didn’t use it was self-loathing. He despised his body, the shape and form of it, and in particular the reminder it gave him of his darkest days and nights.
But Brandon knew that he needed to examine his entire reflection tonight, unsullied by his memories and experiences, not just his face and hair. The power of his disguise depended on it. He took a last look at himself in the small bathroom mirror and sighed, then dragged himself into the bedroom wrapped only in his towel. For a couple of minutes he stood there, paralysed by doubt, inches from the mirror, and stared at his clean-shaven face and new hair colour. Come on, I can do this. I must. It’s too late to change my disguise now.
He stepped back to see his full-length image, took two deep breaths, and let the towel drop.
Brandon placed his hands over his face, his forearms squeezed in to cover his chest, and he glimpsed himself between his fingers. His hands inched down to his chin and then his neck, and his elbows parted to reveal his breasts. His fingers continued their journey downwards over his nipples and he shivered. He paused at his belly button, then dropped his hands to his sides.
Brandon stared at his body in the mirror and recalled how Orla had described him earlier: ‘I always said you were too pretty anyway, for a boy.’
‘Well,’ he whispered to himself with a wry smile, ‘maybe I’ll still pass for a girl then.’
The perfect disguise. One last time, Brandon would go out as a girl. Overcome with feelings of shame and duplicity at his choice, he sank to the towel in front of the mirror. He hugged his knees, and wept.
18
Jacob woke to the sound of a train clattering around his skull. He looked at the empty bottle beside him and hoped that the whisky had caused his pulsating headache, rather than Nathan’s assault the day before.
He pushed himself up and winced at the pain in his chest and groin, although not loudly enough to be heard by the men below. He grabbed the bottle and filled it with the contents of his bladder, a quieter option than risking discovery by urinating in the corner of this elevated space, and somehow more satisfying. He screwed the lid back on.
After relieving himself, he felt more comfortable propped up against the wall, and after a few minutes his pains subsided. He heard the occasional murmur of voices over the hum of the air conditioning units, and shadows darted around the top of the walls. Intrigued by what they could still be doing at this time, Jacob crawled to the opening and
looked down at the two men still at work. Instantly, his skin prickled with frost and his blood slowed to a glacial dribble, and he was glad he’d emptied his bladder.
Paddy was out of sight, but Michael sat at a table next to the carts, and in front of him were the unmistakable ingredients of a bomb. Jacob had seen countless different devices in his time, some more professional than others, and there was no doubt from the explosives, detonators and electrical equipment arranged on the table, that these men knew what they were doing.
He recalled the thoughts he’d had during the delivery, his impression of their military efficiency, and now the full force of it hit Jacob like a blow from a heavyweight boxer. They were paramilitary; organised and equipped, dedicated and murderous. From the amount of explosive on the table, they intended to inflict significant damage and bloodshed. What had he stumbled into, and what about Maria? She was an unwitting accomplice to their plan who would be shown no mercy. He had to do something.
He looked quickly around the lock-up and his eyes settled on two handguns at the far end of the table. Jacob was by nature a courageous man, but not a foolish one, and he knew that he couldn’t risk trying to reach the guns while the two men were nearby. They would certainly get there first and would kill him instantly. There was no way out other than down the ladder, which was in full view of the men wherever they were in the lock-up. He was trapped.
Down below, Michael was oblivious to the troubled spectator above him. He concentrated on his hateful task and with a steady, practised hand, he assembled the weapon. Once satisfied, he placed the rigged devices into the base of the carts and called Paddy.
‘See in here, Paddy, I’ve placed the explosives at the bottom of each cart, next to the cooling system. You were right, it’s a great idea to use these things, as there is already a power supply right here for the fridge electrics, and no one will suspect anything if they see any wires.’
Michael pointed to the receivers. ‘These have been set with different codes, so I can set them off one at a time from my phone. They can also be detonated manually from underneath, although of course that’s not recommended!’
He laughed at his morbid joke and Paddy wheezed a weary chuckle in reply. Michael failed to notice his partner’s discomfort and he grabbed a container from the table and placed it in its housing above the explosives in the nearest cart.
‘The yoghurts sit on top. We can get four-to-five-hundred of them in each cart, which should guarantee a big crowd. When most of the yoghurts have gone, I’ll detonate from my phone.’ He took a slip of paper from his back pocket. ‘But, just in case anything happens to me, I’ve written down the codes so you can do it. Make sure you put them in your phone in the right order.’
Michael passed the note to Paddy. ‘So, all we now need to do is load in the yoghurts. Are they finished yet?’
Paddy nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve just done the last row. Took a bit longer than I thought, but we got there in the end.’
‘Great, let’s fill the carts and then get them onto the van.’ Michael looked at Paddy and appeared to notice his fatigue for the first time. ‘On second thoughts, I can do that. You take a rest. It won’t take me long.’
Paddy moved towards the door, but Michael called him back. ‘Let’s not forget these things, eh?’ he said, and pointed to the guns on the table.
Twenty minutes later, the van was loaded with their unholy cargo and the two terrorists had a final smoke in silence while they waited for Maria. For men intent on massacre and destruction, they appeared surreally calm, absorbed in their own thoughts. Watching helplessly from the shadows above, Jacob shivered.
***
Maria reached the lock-up ten minutes early, humming to herself in good humour despite the early hour. She was keen to make a good impression and she stopped to adjust the sleeves and collar of her jacket before knocking on the door. She poked her head inside.
‘Hi Martin, Peter. Everything OK?’ She looked around the lock-up. There were no signs of the night’s activity and no food products. She frowned.
‘Yeah, all fine,’ Michael said, putting Maria out of her misery. ‘We’re all loaded up and ready to go. You’re a little early, so we’ll just finish our fags and then we’ll get going. The others are meeting us there.’
Relieved, Maria leaned against the table where an hour earlier Michael had assembled his murderous devices. From his hideout above, Jacob saw the excited smile that lit up her face, like a child about to enter Santa’s grotto. He wanted to shout a warning, tell her to run and call the police, but he knew it would be futile. Maria would never escape the two men, even though the older one looked pale and drawn after his sleepless night, and Jacob himself couldn’t escape. If they sacrificed themselves now, who would stop the death-carts in the back of the van? Jacob had no choice but to wait, and he prayed that he’d get another chance to stop these monsters.
The terrorists stubbed out their cigarettes and Paddy nodded to Michael. ‘It’s time.’
Maria didn’t catch the tension in his voice. ‘Watch out Liverpool Street, here we come,’ she said and laughed, but neither of the men joined her. She couldn’t help looking upwards, where she knew Jacob would be hiding, and she smiled into the void. But then she was gone, led out of the lock-up by Paddy.
‘You shut the place up,’ he said over his shoulder to Michael.
Michael made one final circuit of the lock-up, even though he knew everything was secure. At the back door he tugged at the bars, still bound together by the chain and padlock, and strode to the front door. He glanced up at the hatch and thought he saw a puff of dust swirl up in the dim light. His hand hovered over the light switch and he stared at the opening for a few moments.
‘Rats,’ he said under his breath. He hit the switch, slammed the door and slid the bolts. ‘I hope you bloody die in there.’
Michael climbed into the driver’s seat and reversed the van out of the parking bay, as a macabre joke occurred to him. ‘So, this is it, strike day, eh?’ He looked at Paddy and the two men howled with laughter.
Maria felt that she’d missed the joke, but said nothing.
***
Brandon wiped his eyes with a corner of the towel, buried his face into the soft cotton and inhaled through the fabric. It smelled fresh and calming, and he took a few powerful breaths to fill his lungs to the very bottom. Self-control, that’s what he needed. He had to be strong and clear-headed today, focused solely on the task he’d worked so hard to achieve. He couldn’t allow himself to wallow in self-pity. Too much was at stake.
Brandon picked up the towel and returned to the bathroom, without another look in the mirror, then stood for ages under the powerful stream of warm water washing away his tears and lingering doubts. He dried his hair, plucked his eyebrows and applied his make-up in front of the small cabinet mirror, taking his time to perfect the look. As he waited for his nail polish to dry, he told himself that, if this was the last time he would go out as a woman, he should do it well. He wanted to create a feminine appearance that wouldn’t attract too much attention, and he smiled at the challenge of this concept in the male-dominated world of the City. But when he stepped back to review his work, he was happy with the understated elegance of the face looking back at him. Just right.
He picked up the dress, slipped it over his snugger-than-usual underwear and smoothed it down over his thighs. The fit was good and the end result was simple and comfortable. However, his final act was to camouflage his new look, as he wouldn’t be able to pass the building’s reception unnoticed wearing this outfit. He folded the hem of his dress back up over his thighs and eased his loosest pair of jogging bottoms over the dress. When he then put on his hoodie and pulled the hood forward over his head, careful not to disturb his make-up, like a chameleon he reverted to his usual appearance. Unless someone looked at him head on, they wouldn’t notice his lighter colour hair or make-up. Perfect.
Brandon placed his laptop and a pair of low heels into his rucksack. Finally,
he walked into his den to make sure that everything was set for his return, even though he’d already checked a couple of times. For once he had turned off his news feeds, and his screens were all locked into programs he would need as soon as he returned to the loft, once Proximity and Replicant had done their bit at Liverpool Street.
He was ready.
He took the lift to the ground floor and strode across the lobby without a glance towards the receptionist. Elwyn looked up from the book he was reading, saw Brandon’s back as he disappeared through the door, but thought no more of it and returned to his novel.
Brandon’s chosen route took him over the tracks at Worship Street and then down Bishopsgate. The morning was bright and clear and, despite the early morning rush hour traffic, the air felt clean and fresh. With the Gherkin straight ahead of him in the distance, he turned down a little-used path next to the ‘Eye-I’ abstract artwork. But before reaching Exchange Square, he stopped, checked that no one was coming, and then ducked into a recess that housed a couple of bicycles. He removed his hoodie and jogging bottoms, placed them into his rucksack, pulled down the hem of his dress and then headed up the stairs to the square.
In his female attire, Brandon suddenly felt conspicuous and self-conscious, and a little chilly. He hadn’t thought about removing layers of clothing in the crisp morning air and had forgotten how that felt in a dress, and he hurried up the last few steps to the shelter of the covered walkway that ran alongside the station. With those negotiated, he removed his trainers and changed into his heels.
Brandon walked to the end of the passage and took the short escalator down to the station’s Bishopsgate entrance. A rush of adrenaline hit him and he felt light-headed, and he paused to let it pass. Breath, control yourself. He took a few moments, pulled back his shoulders, then entered the terminus.
A magnificent bright and open space greeted him, and light streamed through the panes of the spectacular Victorian roof onto the modern concourse below. Even at this early hour, it was vibrant, full of life and vitality, the beating heart of the City.