Defend or Die

by Tom Marcus

  At the end of the street I turned left past a boarded-up community centre and almost collided with a young mum pushing a buggy laden with shopping bags. I couldn’t see a baby, but I mumbled ‘sorry’ anyway as I went past and heard a shrill ‘fucking arsehole’ in my wake. I was looking for a right turn, but after fifty yards the road started curving left instead and I slowed down, leaning forward, hands on knees, my chest heaving. I tried to picture the map in my head. Where was the fucking turn?

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  Suddenly it all became clear. My head was so fucked up I’d gone left instead of right, and now I was going north, not east. I turned round, squinting back up the road while I tried to fill my lungs.

  And that was when I saw him. It was John, dressed in dark-blue trackie bottoms and a grey hoodie, his long legs swinging awkwardly, like a puppet’s. He looked in my direction as he crossed the street. I looked away, then looked back. He was gone. Had he recognized me?

  I sprinted after him. We were out of the estates onto a busier street lined with stalls selling old clothes, and at first I couldn’t pick him out. Then I saw his big head bobbing as he dodged between two women coming out of a sari shop.

  He was running.

  57

  The fat man was twitchy, no doubt about it. O’Dwyer had caught him looking curiously at people on the platform as they walked passed the bench, the way you would at someone you thought you’d recognized but you were trying to remember if you actually knew them or if they were just off the telly. He remembered once bumping into a bloke in the park and giving him a big smile and hello before he realized he was the twat who used to sit outside the tube with a mangy dog and a begging bowl. Or maybe the fat man was starting to lose his marbles and was worried he wouldn’t recognize people he really did know.

  Or, then again, maybe he thought someone had been following him for the last hour and was planning to push him under a train.

  Which, of course, was the truth.

  O’Dwyer thought about bailing, just calling it quits and going home. He didn’t know why the fat man thought he was being followed – he wasn’t being that slapdash, was he? – but even if he was just being paranoid, acting all nervous would make O’Dwyer’s job a good deal harder.

  He knew the smart thing was to leave it for another day. But then, there wouldn’t be another day, would there? The whole point of doing it now was so it looked like he’d done all three jobs before Stephanie Mason got taken out. If someone in the family knew he’d baulked at the third one, it might look like he’d figured out that he was playing with fire – to put it mildly – and decided the least worst option was to remove his employer. Once she was gone, there’d be no point in offing the silly fat bastard.

  He looked at his phone again. No fucking service, so he couldn’t tell if Hansen had texted. Every instinct told him to finish the job, as if he was a loyal employee of the Mason family. Sometimes you had to abort – of course you did. But not just because the old git had got the collywobbles, surely?

  He risked another glance down the platform. It was filling up, the next southbound train due in two minutes. The fat man would be getting on it. It was all shaping up nicely.

  Fuck it. In for a penny. He pushed off the wall and started easing his way slowly through the crowd. Along the platform the fat man was getting up, his eyes darting around. Even at this distance, he could see his forehead was shiny with sweat. The fat man pushed a strand of hair away from his eyes and settled his glasses more firmly on his nose.

  One minute.

  The fat man stood behind the yellow line. He was obviously staking his claim to a spot where the doors would open and he could scuttle into a seat, if there was one. He wasn’t going to risk not getting on the train, even if it was packed. O’Dwyer carefully manoeuvred past a gaggle of teenage girls loitering dangerously close to the tracks, thinking it might be quite helpful if one of them did face-plant onto the third rail, until he was just feet away from the fat man, then slipped in directly behind him. If the fat man turned now, he’d see him. He heard the screech of the oncoming train. The fat man looked longingly towards the tunnel, as if his salvation might be coming from that direction. As the train emerged, O’Dwyer took a step forward and shoved the fat man hard in the back. He toppled forward, his arms flung out sideways as if he might be able to fly, then disappeared over the edge just as the train roared over him. O’Dwyer turned smartly away and was halfway to the exit before he heard the first screams.

  58

  Alex slowed to a crawl as she rounded the corner of Buxton Grove. She could see the mosque a hundred metres to her left, the copper dome shining through the drizzle, small groups of young men, most in shalwar kameez, already beginning to congregate outside. Her first instinct was to stay on the bike, to keep as mobile as possible, but if she spotted the carrier, she needed to be able to take him out then and there. She squeezed into a space between two cars, turned off the engine and took off her helmet – wondering if it was better to bring it with her to use as a makeshift weapon before deciding it was more important to stay light on her feet. She stashed it in her pannier.

  She looked at her watch. Twenty minutes.

  The mosque was at a junction where two streets funnelled into one. That meant there were three approaches. If he was coming from the direction of St Saviour’s, which one would he use?

  Shit. For all she knew he’d got there ahead of time and was now doubling back. No point even trying to figure it out. Just get out there into the crowd and start looking for a white guy with a backpack and a zombie look in his eye. She walked out into the road so she could see people clearly on both sides of the street. A cabbie coming up behind hooted and she skipped back onto the pavement, giving him the finger.

  She spotted someone: short blond hair, backpack. She crossed over, skipped past a group of old men in shalwar kameez and put her hand on his shoulder. A woman, early twenties with pierced lips and eyebrows, spun round, shrugging Alex off.

  ‘Fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  OK, this wasn’t any good. She needed to get nearer to the mosque, then watch people coming to her.

  ‘Sorry. Thought you were someone else.’

  She stepped out into the road again and began to sprint, knowing she was making herself conspicuous. A bike swerved to avoid her as a group of boys caught sight of her and started calling and laughing. Fuck it. No choice now.

  She stopped twenty metres short of the end of the road. There was quite a crowd now in front of the mosque, men chatting and arguing as they waited to go in. With her blonde hair and leathers, she knew she couldn’t get any nearer without sparking a riot. She hung back, trying to figure out what to do next.

  Something made her turn. On the other side of the road a man was standing, just like her, looking towards the mosque and wondering what to do next. His head was shaved and he looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. The only problem was, he didn’t have a backpack.

  Then she saw it, discarded at his feet, her eyes drawn by his odd trainers – one red, one blue – while he cradled what looked like a thermos to his chest with both hands.

  She took two steps back to remove herself from his peripheral vision, then crossed over and ducked into a boarded-up shop doorway a few yards behind him. His perfect stillness, while pedestrians flowed around him, made her think of Moses parting the Red Sea. But why had he frozen? Had he lost his nerve? Or was he trying to decide how much closer he dared to go?

  Then she saw the subtle movement in his arms and shoulders and realized he must be opening the canister. Ten quick strides later he’d be in the midst of the worshippers.

  There was no time to think. She stepped forward, hooked her arm through his and yanked him back. He teetered sideways and she pulled him further towards the alcove. She heard a loud yelp, more like a dog than a human being, as he swung his elbow back sharply, breaking her grip and hitting her in the mouth. Then he turn
ed with a look of pure, animal fury and punched her in the face, breaking her nose. Alex stumbled, stunned by the pain, and felt him turn away. She reached out blindly, catching his sleeve, and pulled as hard as she could. He turned back towards her, holding the canister in one hand and swinging wildly with the other. She ducked down and to her left, his fist grazing her forehead, then brought her right knee up between his legs. He grunted, his teeth bared in a snarl of pain, and as his head came down instinctively, she pivoted to her right and brought her left knee up into his jaw with everything she had. The crack of breaking bone was like a pistol shot.

  The canister clattered to the ground as he toppled forward. She scooped it up, stomped his head hard with her heel a couple of times, then turned and ran.

  59

  John had that funny way of walking, like a puppet being jerked around, and he’d probably never done any serious running in his life, but he was strong. Stronger than me, at any rate. Whenever his brainwashing had been, he’d had time to recover, to rebuild some of that lost muscle mass. He might not get any points for technique, but I knew if I didn’t catch him within a hundred yards, I was fucked. My feet already felt as if they were only loosely attached to my body, but they still managed to send jolting shockwaves of pain up my legs and into my lower back. I gritted my teeth, knowing as soon as I stopped, I was going to throw up.

  He glanced back as I hurled myself forward and we locked eyes for a moment. Was there something I could say that would make him pause? Could I convince him the Holy Spirit had decided to abort the mission at the last moment? Was there some biblical phrase that would stop him in his tracks? If there was, it didn’t matter: he put his head down and the moment was gone.

  He hit an old dear clutching heavy bags of shopping, sending her careering into a shop window, but it didn’t seem to slow him down. A moment later, I hurdled her prostrate body, a bag of oranges tumbling into the gutter, but I wasn’t getting any closer; in fact, he was starting to pull away, his gawky running action proving surprisingly effective.

  I stopped, grabbing a lamp post for support, telling myself it was just for a moment. I just needed to get some air into my lungs, then I’d really give it everything. I held on tighter, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass.

  I spat a mouthful of bile onto the pavement and looked up. Thirty yards ahead, John had stopped, frozen in his tracks in the middle of the road like a cartoon character who’d just stepped off a cliff, before a black van suddenly slammed into him, sending him flying. There was a shout and the screaming of tyres as his body thudded onto the tarmac like a sack of cement. I pushed off from the lamp post and stumbled forward.

  Crouching over his body, I ran my hands over him, pretending to feel for broken bones. Where was the fucking backpack? His eyes were glazing over, blood streaming from his mouth and ears, a strangled wheezing sound coming through his mashed-up teeth. I glanced round. The backpack was poking out from under a car. I made a grab for it as the van driver staggered over, his face white. He was holding his phone to his ear and his mouth was open, but no words were coming out. A man in a suit ran out of a shop doorway and started listening to John’s chest. As more people started crowding round, I slipped away, unzipping the backpack and quickly transferring the contents to my own. I pulled my phone out. Fifteen minutes until Friday prayers. I wondered how Alex was getting on. Well, either she’d get her man or she wouldn’t. No point double-teaming when there was one more target left. West of the church, she’d said. I started to run.

  ‘What do you mean, there are no mosques? There must be.’

  I was walking now. There was no point trying to run, even though there were only minutes left on the clock. I just couldn’t do it. It was probably already too late, but I stumbled on anyway, not knowing what else to do. Alex’s voice sounded muffled, like she had a bad cold and was breathing through her mouth.

  ‘Ryan’s got a list of every mosque in the fucking country. There just isn’t one anywhere near where it should be.’

  ‘Then maybe the cross thing is all bollocks,’ I said.

  ‘If that’s true, then it could be anyfuckingwhere. And we’ve got five minutes.’

  I looked around desperately, hoping to see someone hurrying down the road in a shalwar kameez, or just a sign in Arabic – anything. But the rain had got harder and the streets were emptying. There was no one. I scanned the rooftops, trying to see the glint of a dome – anything that stood out from the faceless two-storey terraces that made up this godforsaken part of London.

  I stopped and leaned against the wall. I desperately wanted to sit down and close my eyes, but I knew if I did that I’d never get up again. I didn’t bother looking at my phone to see the time. We were already too late.

  That bastard Martindale. I imagined the smile on his face as he gave thanks for the news. Hundreds dead. The hospitals crammed with hundreds more desperate, dying people in terrible pain. Panic in the streets. Mothers, sisters, daughters weeping. Angry young men already plotting their revenge. Even if only one of the mosques had been hit, it would be enough. It was like 9/11: put enough planes in the sky, and at least one of them was bound to reach its target.

  As if echoing my thoughts, I heard the cry of a child. I looked round. A woman in a full burka was hurrying four small boys across the street. She spoke sharply to one of them as she pushed him forward, provoking another yelp of protest. I watched as they made their way along the street through the rain then disappeared down a narrow side street. I pushed myself upright. Where were they going?

  I watched for another minute. Another small boy hurried down the alley wearing shalwar kameez. Then two more.

  Should I follow? Or keep looking for this damned mosque? Friday prayers would be beginning now. There would be nothing I could do except witness the devastation.

  I waited for a bus to go past, then crossed the road. When I turned into the alley I started to hear voices. At the end, I could see figures scurrying past and quickened my pace to a pathetic, limping shuffle. The alley narrowed, then opened out into a housing estate. To my left, hemmed in by blocks of flats, was a squat prefab building. Women and children, with a handful of old men, were hurrying inside. A madrassa? An Islamic community centre? I didn’t know exactly what it was, but I had a feeling I’d found what I’d been looking for.

  I looked around. Standing in the shadow of the nearest block of flats, his back to the wall, was a young man. I’d never seen him before, but I instantly knew who he was. His head was shaved like mine and he was staring straight ahead with the look of someone who knew he was only a short step away from heaven. Maybe he was just filling his lungs with London’s stinking air one more time, to remember all the shit he was leaving behind. The backpack at his feet was a giveaway too. As I watched, he reached down, unzipped it and pulled out the canister, then walked towards the building full of children.

  I took a couple of steps towards him. He turned and looked at me, his fingers on the keypad. I stopped dead.

  ‘It’s over, brother,’ I said, trying to sound friendly but a bit intimidating at the same time. ‘Father Paul called it off. The Spirit of God spoke to him. He sent me to tell you. The time wasn’t right. He wants us to bring the phials back to the church so they’ll be safe.’

  I watched his eyes flickering. He was trying to decide if I was for real or a phantom, a demon sent by hell to trick him. I saw his knuckles go white as his grip tightened on the canister. His fingers trembled over the keypad.

  Then he smiled and I knew he’d decided. He looked at the keypad, his brow furrowing in concentration. Four numbers.

  I threw myself forward, knowing it would be too late. I was about to be ZX4’s first victim.

  His smile grew wider, then I saw a shadow dart out, there was a dull thump, and his head jerked forward. He stumbled, then fell to his knees, his head turned sideways at an odd angle. Through his pale lips, a long stream of blood splashed onto the grass.

  Behind him, Alex stood there, breathing
hard, her face swollen and bloody, her motorcycle helmet still held out in front of her like a baseball bat.

  60

  The door of St Saviour’s was closed. I watched for five minutes from across the street, but nobody went in or out. The rain seemed to have kept the worshippers away. Or maybe something had told them today was not a good day to go to church.

  I pushed the door open and slipped inside. The only light came from a flickering row of candles near the altar. The place seemed to be empty. Maybe he’d done a runner when he realized all his plans had come to nothing.

  Then I saw him: head down, praying in the first row of pews. I closed the door and pulled the bolts across.

  He turned at the noise. ‘Peter? Is that you?’ He stood, watching me carefully as I came towards him.

  ‘My name’s not Peter,’ I said.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘What happened?’

  ‘What happened?’ I smiled. ‘I guess you could say I saw the light.’

  For the first time I saw a flicker of uncertainty on his face. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘John’s dead, or as good as. The others too, I reckon.’

  ‘And what about the . . .?’

  ‘The phials? God’s wrath? They’re in a safe place. I just came back to make sure there aren’t any more.’

  His face went slack as the last hope went out of him. I’d been pretty sure there were only four canisters; now I was certain.

  ‘It’s over,’ I said.

  He tensed, and for a moment I thought he was going to run, or go for a weapon. Then he let out a long breath and his shoulders relaxed. Perhaps he saw the look on my face and realized there was no point.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Stevie Nichols,’ I said. ‘You killed me, remember? But now I’ve come back to life.’ I grinned. ‘Like Jesus.’

  He licked his lips. I could almost see his mind working, looking for a way out. ‘What do you want, Stevie?’