A Fatal Game

by Nicholas Searle

  Still the rain poured from the night sky and he shrugged his collar further up. His hair was soaked and water dripped from his nose. The weather was nothing; the time was close. He had rehearsed this journey in his mind, but hardly needed to, he knew his city so well.

  They had all been trained in the art of evading the followers. They’d acquired many other skills too. Bilal and he had known each other as kids, lived in blocks opposite each other, played football, been to the same parties. Never best mates, until they’d both taken the same flight to Turkey, not knowing beforehand but meeting at Istanbul airport. He’d spied him at check-in, of course, but had thought better of talking to him until they arrived. Evidently Bilal had thought the same and they sidled up to each other at the baggage reclaim. Not that they’d travelled with bags: they’d been instructed not to be among the first to walk through the immigration controls but to tag along with a party of four or five. They spoke to each other quietly. That had passed for precautionary discretion back then. Now, since returning, apart from at these meetings they’d not exchanged a single word.

  The other two they’d met over there had been unknown. They’d all fought alongside each other and each had been reliant on the others. This was the way that the cause shaped you, to be reliant only on the brothers, and irretrievably so. At the same time you weren’t encouraged to become too close. Life expectancy was short – much less than a year for a foreign volunteer – and you had to accept that the brother next to you might fall. The four of them had been the lucky ones. Several boys from the city lay there still, unburied beneath the rubble and dust, their bodies decaying in the heat.

  Before they’d come back they’d planned their reunion, in this place. They’d been told where it was. They were not known to associate with each other – to all others even he and Bilal had different social circles – which made it vital that they make their respective ways to the place unseen. The other two were from separate communities in different parts of town. No one asked questions about backgrounds. For some reason he assumed them all, like him, to be college graduates. Something to do with the way they talked, the way they reasoned calmly and maintained the thread of the central argument, the core tenets of faith, rationally and without fuss. They avoided the trappings of their religion. This was acceptable, they knew, in order to fulfil the purpose that had been written for them. Out there, among the burnt-out trucks and the corpses, they had worn their beards proudly. Out there, they had broken bread together. They had killed to protect each other and sometimes simply to show their strength, devotion to their brothers and taqwa.

  In and out of Debenhams, quickly. A feint and a weave, just like Darius Solomon, City’s hulking striker, might execute with a flourish in the opposition’s penalty area, and into a side street, then an alley, picking up speed, nimble on his toes. Light, then dark. It was mushy underfoot but there were more important things than trainers. This was far distant from the glass and steel city where the Big Five plied their consultancy trades and where he worked by day.

  Stop. In that doorway. He could hear his breath as he looked back. No one. Pick it up again, man. Fast pace now; he might be back there, in what he considered his homeland, despite being born here in this city. He might be back there but for the rain and cold. There were other ways of paying homage. Other ways than killing toe-to-toe. Other ways of being a combatant. Soon it would be his day. Soon it would be all their days.

  Through the network of passageways and courtyards over which the concrete buildings loomed, many windows boarded up, others simply dark with no glass. Dodge in here and skip down the steps. And here he was, the first.

  Through the long, narrow corridor and into the windowless room, white-walled. It had power and heat and water. Most important, it had internet access, somehow routed to this place as if by sorcery.

  He switched on the music and turned it up loud. Just in case, they’d been advised, but shit, he loved it pumped up like this, the music of his home, his heritage, the jihadi rap. No other brother here but him, buried under all this concrete. It made him joyous.

  Bilal

  Running late. The story of his life at home. Never seemed to happen out there. The urgency of it all cleared what was irrelevant out of the way. His lunch hour today had been shortened as he’d argued with his supervisor, who’d criticized his attitude. Truculent, she’d called him. What’s truculent when it’s at home? he’d said, though he knew full well. See what I mean? she’d said. No, he’d replied.

  He’d dashed home at five, changed out of that bloody suit, and then his father had insisted on him speaking to his aunt, who was visiting. He’d sat squirming on the sofa, drinking tea, speaking politely for as short a time as possible. Mosul back in the eighties, the olds had talked about wistfully. He’d been tempted to intervene but kept his mouth shut.

  He’d known Adnan at school – flash bastard, still was – but he’d earned Bilal’s respect out there. Brave as a lion and trustworthy too, stronger than Bilal but respectful at the same time. They were true brothers. But so indeed were the four of them, unbreakable bonds formed on the battlefield.

  He needed to focus now, to avoid distraction. To remember the training that he’d received on how to shake off surveillance. A bus to the centre of town. A walk past the pubs where red-faced men guffawed at each other, to the stand near City Hall where he picked up a cab driven by a sullen Kashmiri that took him into the estates, where he walked, shaking off the rain, along the designated route to the designated place. He was safe now, and quickened his pace.

  Abdullah

  Talk of shelf displays and price points over, he could now revert to real life. Revert also to his true name under Allah. Back from the fight, he’d cropped his hair and shaved the beard, and to the world he’d once again become Dopey Darren, or Ginge, or whatever the blokes at work might toss at him along with all the other crap he had to suck up. Grin sheepishly and bear it, as he’d always done. It didn’t matter now, though. Almost touching distance.

  He lived on his own so at least he’d been able to turn his bedsit into a shrine. He’d wash himself, change into his modest robes, eat his modest meal and pray. Quietly, so as not to alert his neighbours through the wafer-thin walls. Behind the door he’d fitted with multiple high-security locks, in contravention of his tenancy agreement, he was safe.

  Not tonight, however. Tonight they were meeting.

  He was convinced he was being followed. But then he always was. He’d already had an altercation with a bloke outside the Multiplex who’d been staring at him. Waiting for his girlfriend, so he’d said. Abdullah had felt his cheeks redden and his fists clench but had walked on.

  There definitely was a shadow, though. He ducked into the nearest pub, unnoticed in the hubbub, and went straight to the Gents. He sat in one of the stalls and his brain steamed. He would be late, he would confront whoever was following him and mash his face to a pulp. He must calm himself before continuing.

  Rashid

  Rashid was second to the meeting. His memories of the battlefront were of constant fear mixed with disgust: at it, at himself. The explosions shattered his peace. The shouts of his commanders, hectoring and spitting in his face, were not the gentle soothing water of Islam he’d expected and for which he had travelled there. He was killing, daily, men and boys whose sin was not to resist but allegedly to have a different opinion of Allah’s wishes to theirs. He was not even sure it was a different opinion to his own.

  He did his duty, however. Women too, kids. He spilt oceans of these innocents’ blood in increasingly barbaric ways according to the wishes of his teachers and leaders. He’d known that he would be called upon in the name of Allah, he had been warned by his religious masters before he left England, but he’d not imagined it would be like this. He’d thought it would be more noble. Perhaps – undoubtedly – he was stupid; he should have known. He discovered new ways to extract pain and fear and to draw out the suffering before the clean strike of the blade, and yes, i
t was compulsive. It was enjoyable, more than enjoyable, it was as exhilarating as it was horrifying to see life extinguished in such routine, careless fashion. After a while you became ravenous for it. In your hands the power not only to do the deed but to think so little of it. He could not speak of his doubts, there or here, then or now. That would be apostasy, the penalty for which was death. Certainty of righteousness was everything.

  Now his destiny had changed. Sent back to join these other three, he was part of a greater plan, inshallah. Each of them would be given a task of utmost importance, to kill the infidels in their beds. They must adopt Western dress, behave like them. Avoid suspicion. Keep their heads down. Attend the mosque occasionally but do not shout down the imam. Do not associate. Pretend, apart from those times when you are together in your secret place.

  Yet he had a still separate destiny that he had continually to reconcile, somehow, with his religion. He was a spy, a secret observer for the unbelievers.

  Adnan was dancing gently, trance-like, to the music when he arrived. Rashid had paid careful attention, as he’d been trained, to ensuring he was not followed to this place. It had been show, however, just in case Adnan or one of the others was watching him. Jake knew full well where they met. Rashid had told him. As he entered and greeted Adnan he could sense Jake’s cameras and microphones in all corners of the room. They must be there, even though Jake and Leila insisted on debriefing him line-by-line after every meeting.

  The other boys arrived shortly, Abdullah and Bilal. He did not know whether these were their real names. It was, in the circumstances, immaterial. Though Jake and Leila would have liked to know, there was no way he could begin to find out.

  First, they prayed in silence, kneeling on the mats Adnan had placed on the floor. Once these were rolled away the young boy Abdullah unlocked the cupboard at the back of the room and took out the computer with its 36-inch screen. Abdullah was a white English convert whose eyes darted in all directions. He’d said he had never been overseas until he’d been taken over there to fight. Islam had given his life meaning, he’d said, and the fighting had given him, for the first time, a sense of belonging and achievement.

  ‘No, brother,’ said Adnan softly, placing his hand on Abdullah’s shoulder and slowly putting the trolley on which the computer stood back into the cupboard. ‘Later, perhaps. Before that we must go somewhere else.’

  It was the first the others had heard of it.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Adnan, smiling. ‘Good news. We’re taking one more step towards our fates. We will return here later. Anyone got their mobile with them?’

  The other three shook their heads. It would have broken all the rules to have brought a mobile phone to a meeting. They’d all received the training.

  They ensured everything was locked away securely before quietly leaving the room. As they walked up the ramp they saw a shabby white van parked in the darkness of the parking area below the flats, black scrape marks along one side and bashed-in hubcaps. Adnan opened the rear door but Rashid had no chance to look at the number plate. He could see a stick-on sign next to a heavy-duty lock, black on yellow: NO TOOLS KEPT IN THIS VEHICLE OVERNIGHT. The door slammed shut behind them and Adnan whispered, ‘We are to wait.’

  There were no seats. They sat on the floor. Rashid looked at his hands, which were about all he could make out in the dark. What was there to tell Jake? He would be impatient for answers, for clues. Rashid felt surreptitiously on the floor for small items he might pocket that might provide evidence of something. There was nothing. He smelt the air: the faint anonymous whiff of diesel was all he could discern. This was just a battered, ancient white van of which there must be thousands in the city.

  One of the front doors opened and the van rocked gently as someone climbed in. The driver’s seat, it must be. He heard an indistinct cough. The motor fired responsively enough and the van pulled away. It was not badly maintained, he concluded. But what would that tell anyone?

  The van went up a slope and slowly turned through the estate. He could visualize where they must be and at what junction they must be arriving. Then they were on the public roads. The crack of light that showed at the edge of the door panels offered no sense of their location. They went left, left again, right and once more left, by which point Rashid was disoriented enough to have no idea where they were heading. He was busy, too, like the other boys trying to prevent himself rolling around the floor of the van like a stray tin can. They were giggling with the effort of it, apart from Adnan who maintained a leaderly seriousness and tried to wedge his long legs between two walls of the van. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out: the van stopped and then suddenly started forward again – Rashid thought it must be traffic lights – and Adnan was pitched forward to join the rest of the jumble.

  At one point they accelerated for a distance, giving Rashid the impression they must be on the ring road that had long been superseded by the motorway encircling the city, then swerved left up an exit ramp. But there were exit ramps north, west, east and south.

  He didn’t think they’d left the city. The next turns and twists, as he held on for grim life to Bilal’s coat lapel, could have been on the country lanes to the east of the city, heading towards the national park and the moors he used to visit with his parents when he was a kid, but he thought it was more likely to be city backstreets. The van stopped and the driver got out, leaving the door open and the engine running. Rashid could hear a metallic shutter door being dragged open. The driver got back in and put the van in reverse. They turned into a space and the engine was stilled. The driver climbed out again.

  ‘Wait,’ whispered Adnan. ‘I was told we should wait.’

  Rashid heard the door being closed again. They were inside some building, then. A lock-up, possibly?

  A loud rap on the side of the van made them start. Slowly they collected themselves and Abdullah reached for the handle.

  They got out and stood, becoming accustomed to the light and to standing once more. Bilal brushed himself down with his hands and Rashid did the same. They were in a large open space of some kind, a disused warehouse or factory unit. Such buildings were commonplace around the city these days. Rashid looked for signs of logos, or any other detail that could later be used to narrow down where they were, but there was nothing that he could see in the gloom.

  Nor were there indications of what this place had been used for. Broken pallets could have been used for anything. An old, grimy hoist hung above them. There was a blue-grey oily smell about the place, mixed with the aroma of dusty decay, but nothing specific, so far as Rashid could work out. It was large, that was all he could say. By his reckoning several artics could once have lined up in the loading bay as the hoist was operated and forklifts ferried goods on and off the trucks. He imagined for a moment a world of activity here, a buzz of purpose, sharp-uniformed men checking items off on clipboards, weary drivers opening their flasks and pouring their coffee as they sat on the running-boards of their cabs. The prosperity that once sustained this city and then had died, leaving the weeds that grew up in the gaps between the concrete.

  There was another man in the space, they realized, sitting motionless some distance from them. He was smiling, Rashid could just make out. As one, they approached slowly but he raised his hand to stop them. They obeyed immediately.

  ‘As salaam alaikum,’ he said.

  ‘Wa alaikum as salaam,’ they mumbled in reply.

  ‘Brothers, remain there,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I must talk to you.’

  Light was cast by a small industrial lamp almost equidistant between them. It must be battery-powered. He could not make out the man sufficiently to describe him in any detail. He seemed stout but that could simply be the result of his robes, which made specifics difficult. He had a dark beard and wore a headdress fashioned from a checked scarf. Rashid wondered, for the first time, whether Jake and his people had followed them here and whether they knew this man.

  ‘You have been sen
t on a holy mission,’ said the man. Local accent. No other inflections that Rashid could hear. No Scottish or Welsh or Geordie or London twang or foreign vowels. ‘Let’s not forget that. When you were overseas, in the heat of the battle, that will have been obvious. But this is as important. This is your fate as warriors. You need to be ready to fight. You need to be prepared to do what is necessary. You need once more to look into your hearts. You have to harden those hearts because you will need to do things that will seem barbaric. You will be asked to kill your fellow citizens and it will be unlike on the battlefields. You must be braver than you ever imagined you could be.’

  ‘We’re ready,’ said Adnan, and the others nodded. Bilal scuffed his trainers on the floor and looked down.

  ‘I know,’ said the man. ‘Of course I know. How could I not? You are serious men, scholars. I am here to tell you two things. One, that the moment is soon and you should prepare for jihad. Two, that your brothers and friends are watching from afar and support you with their love. Now, you will listen to the instructions I carry.’

  ‘Yes,’ they muttered; it seemed necessary, for there was a pause.

  ‘You are all equals. There are no leaders between you.’ He looked at Adnan. ‘Adnan was given the initial instruction to prepare for this meeting. It may be another of you next time. It may after all be Adnan. Adnan …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I mean no offence by this. You have performed well.’

  ‘I don’t take any offence,’ said Adnan, but Rashid thought his face showed disappointment and that the man noticed.

  ‘Good,’ he said, smiling again, choosing, possibly, to ignore what he had seen. ‘This is what you have to learn. You are brothers, not in blood but in a more true sense. You will meet your destiny together. The important thing is now to make your preparations together. Pray together, read the Quran together, listen to the preachers who matter. Make yourselves ready physically. Sleep well. Be in a position to move quickly, within a day or so. You will soon need to obtain the necessary equipment.’