‘Nor am I. But it’s a better idea than you not coming in.’
Silence.
‘Miss Smalling?’
‘Look, I’m not sure I want to set myself up for more attention.’
‘I repeat, it’s a better idea than you not coming in.’
There was a pause. ‘When?’
‘Immediately.’
The Foundation had put the finishing touches to what they thought would be their final demand. They were currently arguing about whose ransom was best.
‘Jog on, buddy. Mine was dynamite. If you’re so confident, when we get back we organise a national poll,’ said Jordie.
‘If we’re finished here, I’m going to head out for half an hour or so,’ said Liam.
The others nodded distractedly as he left, while they continued to argue among themselves.
Miller’s phone rang. He got up and walked over to the table where he had left it. ‘Hey . . . what . . . yeah, Liam, why? . . . Oh shit.’ Miller hung up.
‘Aiya, you’ve to get Liam back in now.’
‘Why not you?’
‘Go and get him NOW.’
Aiya read Miller’s panic and ran out the door. She came out on to the side lane and saw Liam at the end of it, deciding which way to turn down the main street. Aiya shouted his name three times. He turned around, motioning that he couldn’t hear. She gestured frantically for him to come back. ‘Run,’ she shouted. ‘Run.’ He caught the urgency in her voice and sprinted towards the door, which Aiya quickly closed behind them.
A few seconds later, a man arrived at the junction of the lane, surveyed its emptiness, and reasoned that the suspicious figure he saw there must have continued further down the crowded street.
‘He’s safe.’ Both Lucy and Michael sat back in their seats and let out a deep sigh of relief at the news of Liam’s safe return.
‘Well,’ said Michael, ‘I’ve never dug myself a hole this big before.’
They let Lucy’s information sink in. With news that the Egyptian army would soon try to flush them out, waiting was no longer an option.
Jalila and Aiya were all too aware of Egypt’s use of capital punishment. Miller was angry with himself for involving Lucy. Dreams of homecoming had turned to escape. The conceit of it all having been a game had disappeared.
Aiya would spend the next day on reconnaissance. They would need to know where the policemen were, and how thoroughly vehicles were being searched.
In the meantime, the show must go on.
Dear Britain,
We realise things cannot continue like this. We all have lives to lead. The next demand is simple.
Each week, starting on Monday, we ask you to commit one act of guerrilla kindness. Everyone in Britain must anonymously perform an act of generosity for a stranger, friend, or family member.
If you think you have been the recipient of such a gift, you must register the magic at www.guerrillaactsofkindness.org.
Be creative. Be subtle.
The Foundation
Even in battle, Rawlins had never felt responsibility weigh so heavily on his shoulders. An informant of his at Number 10 had just let him know the hostage’s fake girlfriend had come in to see Michael immediately following the COBRA meeting. The PM’s communication team denied the visit, while his informant had heard no reason for it. Rawlins could only think of one: and it was bigger than Watergate.
Aiya spent the following day walking the area. Some plainclothes policemen were easier to spot than others: some leaned against walls smoking for hours, others found seats out-side cafés. Some were on the rooftops. All vehicles with potential hiding places were searched at the roadblocks. Booths had been set up on the perimeter allowing female officers to check that those wearing a veil were indeed women.
They toyed with the idea of coming out on to the street claiming they had been released, but the police presence was such that it was impossible to get far enough away from the building without betraying the head office’s location.
‘So there’s no way out?’ said Richard.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Aiya, ‘there was one type of vehicle that wasn’t being checked properly.’
Thursday and Friday saw Britain getting acquainted with the premise of a guerrilla act of kindness.
Monday morning would see all those who had secretly dreamed of leaving gifts on people’s doorsteps, or of paying the toll for the car behind, pushed into overtly living out their feel-good fantasies.
Others, however, drew attention to the fact that the kidnappers had urged subtlety. This school of covert generosity stressed the subliminal: declining the last loaf of bread at the bakery, having toast instead of cereal so housemates could enjoy the last of the milk, cleaning your friend’s toilet floor during the house party. The goal of these acts was to protect others from knowing that a situation for kindness had even arisen.
In future years, the debate between the Overt and Covert Schools of guerrilla kindness developed. The Overt School happily conceded they had lost the debate, while the Covert School pretended there was never a divide in the first place.
After Friday’s breakfast the Foundation took down the bunk beds, leaving an assortment of metal rods and bolts. Spare clothes were bundled into bin liners with bed linen, toiletries, phones and towels. The white robes were torn up and divided between the bags. Later that day, Aiya dumped the evidence by the large piles of rubbish that hung around the street outside.
Michael felt terrible. Despite visiting through Number 10’s side entrance, rumours were circulating in the press of Lucy’s most recent visit. He had only ever trusted Charlie in his office: it would be no surprise if one of his own aides were reporting to Rawlins. There was little he could do to help her now. The only relief either of them would get was with the safe return of the hostages.
He dreaded every phone call in case it was Rawlins announcing updates from Cairo.
On Saturday afternoon there was news.
‘OK, I think we’ll start,’ said Rawlins after Michael had taken his place in the COBRA meeting room. ‘When we spoke on Wednesday, the Egyptian authorities had eyes everywhere in this neighbourhood in Cairo.’ A map came up on screen with the same red dots representing the possible sightings. ‘Since then there’s been one sighting of a person dressed in clothing that matches our description.’ Rawlins pointed to a spot at the junction of the main street and a small lane blighted with piles of rubbish. ‘However, they disappeared. That was the last lead, which indicates the kidnappers have caught wind of the search: probably a mole within the police.’ Rawlins studied Michael’s reaction.
‘This intelligence is pushing credibility to its limit,’ said Michael.
‘It’s almost as if you don’t want to find them,’ said Rawlins with a sly smile. ‘From midnight tonight the neighbourhood will be shut down, no one in or out. Three thousand troops will search every building within the perimeter, top to bottom.’ He looked at Michael. ‘And no one’s getting out.’
It was five thirty.
Jalila and Aiya had left to prepare food. The four men stared at the bare room. It was unrecognisable without the bunks. They were to make their bid for freedom the following day, and were searching the walls for any final lessons their captivity might offer.
Their sentimentality was dwarfed by their anxiety at what they were about to undertake. It was hard to believe that things would work out.
‘On the plus side,’ said Liam, ‘most hostages planning an escape worry most about their captors.’
‘On the downside, most aren’t hunted by their rescuers,’ said Richard.
Miller’s phone rang. They exchanged glances; it was an unknown number.
‘Hello,’ Miller said. He listened to the caller silently for 15 seconds. ‘OK . . . Thanks.’ Miller looked at the other three.
‘You better go get Jalila and Aiya.’
It was five past eleven. Jalila had disappeared to resolve a delay. At best they had an hour left, at worst – and this was wh
ere their minds were wandering – the army could have locked down the area already.
Jalila came back into the room and held up five fingers.
‘Time to get your hands dirty, gentlemen,’ said Aiya with a smile.
During the evening they had stapled bin liners and sacking to their clothes together with assorted rubbish. They were walking displays of crisp packets, fruit skins and water bottles. Their faces had been dirtied.
The four men lined up and looked at Aiya and Jalila. They broke into smiles.
‘A life of legitimacy awaits,’ said Richard.
‘We’ve all got to come clean eventually,’ said Aiya.
Richard nodded. ‘Some more so than others.’
They fell into a comfortable silence.
Jordie looked at both of them. ‘Thank you.’
Jalila returned his smile, nodded, and in a silky voice, weak with idle years, finally spoke. ‘I have yet to tell you my regret.’
They looked at her with respect at the parting gift.
‘I regret for years thinking the apocalypse would happen out there,’ Jalila said, gesturing to the world outside, ‘when actually it happens in here.’ She pointed to her chest and gave a final smile before motioning them towards the door.
Aiya opened the front door and peered out into the darkness, the piles of rubbish gently illuminated by the light from the main street. A pair of headlights rounded the corner and a low-geared rumble echoed down the lane. Three figures slipped down from the cab, and started shovelling the loose rubbish into the back of the flat bed. Crates and bags were thrown on top as they worked their way towards the Foundation’s entrance. Aiya checked on progress through a crack in the door.
The truck approached the main refuse pile outside the door. ‘Ready?’ said Aiya. She opened the door and gave a final glance up and down the lane. Just as she opened the door wide, a figure appeared at the end of the lane silhouetted against the main street. ‘Stop,’ she said, putting her arm across the doorway. The workmen met her anxious glances. The figure remained staring at the truck.
‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Richard.
Jalila nodded at Aiya.
‘Good luck, gentlemen,’ said Aiya as she walked on to the street. She approached the watching figure. They remained in view for ten seconds before walking out of sight. Jalila gestured for the men to go. They ran to the truck. Miller and Liam helped Jordie pull up his own weight, then the other three joined him lying down in the back of the truck, to be covered by the bin bags of clothes and bed linen thrown on top of them. A workman winked at them as he distributed the bags evenly over their bodies. For the next ten minutes they felt the steady increase in weight bearing down on them from above. The smell was overpowering as bin juices soaked into their clothes.
They felt the truck drive off, turn a corner and change gear. They estimated the distance they had travelled, hoping they might have already been waved through the checkpoint. But after two minutes they felt the truck slow to a halt. Outside they could hear raised voices. Next, they felt an extra weight on top of them and the sound of forks being thrust into the rubbish above. They braced themselves against discovery, or, worse, impalement. But then, suddenly, the weight was gone. A couple of voices called, ‘Yalla, Yalla,’ and the truck pulled away.
*
Michael tried sleeping, but at 2am rose gently so as not to disturb his wife and made for the sitting room, where he switched on a news channel, watching distractedly.
His phone rang. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Rawlins,’ came a voice heavy with disappointment. ‘I’ve just had word from the Egyptians. They found nothing.’
Michael closed his eyes and breathed out heavily. His hand shook as he held the phone to his ear. ‘Oh well,’ he managed eventually.
‘This is not the end. We will find them.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ said Michael. ‘Goodnight.’
The garbage truck continued its journey. It merged into Cairo’s midnight traffic as it made its way south through the city limits. The engine noise made communication impossible. The intense, stinking claustrophobia filled them with panic and nausea in equal measure.
But they had escaped, and their minds drifted to the unknowns that awaited them. They had no idea how long they had been driving. At some point the truck turned off the highway and on to a road riddled with potholes. After a further five minutes, it juddered to a halt.
Spades worked noiselessly above them. The weight eased until the bin bags were lifted away to reveal a familiar face against a background of a starry night sky. The driver who had dropped them in a traffic jam three months earlier put a finger to his lips as he helped them up, smiled and shook their hands. ‘Effect without cause,’ he whispered.
They were led silently down a path that led to the banks of the Nile, where a sailing boat lay moored, bathed in moonlight. A figure approached them: a stooped elderly man, wearing a grin that each remembered from their pasts.
*
On Monday morning, all over the country, thousands of front doors were opened to reveal presents left on doorsteps.
Takeaway coffees were drunk that had been paid for by someone ahead in the queue.
Gifts were found on work desks: tickets to plays and football matches.
Buskers found £20 notes in their hats. Workers from stores, cafés and hotels invited the homeless to decide how they wished to spend the credit that had been left on their behalf.
Charity shops received donations that people wanted. Soup kitchens received boxes of supplies. TVs, guitars and laptops were left on the steps of youth centres.
Guerrilla acts were big and small. Struggling community centres, hospices, libraries and charities found their financial holes filled by unnamed philanthropists. Playground equipment was mended or replaced.
But the demand did not ask for a record of what was given, but what was received.
Silence filled the felucca’s bows. The old man sat at the front, his back to his fellow passengers. The three workmen opened a bag with fresh clothes and threw a rope off the back of the felucca. They handed out soap and gestured for them to take turns being pulled in the boat’s wake. Jordie took off his top, smiled at the others, and took an ungainly running jump that shook the boat as he entered the water. He seized the rope and leaned back, looking up at the clear night sky, the river in his ears. This brief idyll was broken as the other three impatiently jumped into the water, and huddled around him to find a space on the rope.
‘Strange old day,’ whispered Richard.
*
It was 3am and Lucy was at home, sitting on a sofa with her knees pulled up to her chin. She had tried watching TV, but for the last hour had settled on staring at the minute hand working its way around the clock on the mantelpiece, her mobile phone in her hand. The phone vibrated to signal the arrival of a text message.
‘I’m very sorry to inform you that the operation was unsuccessful in finding the hostages.’
She closed her eyes, tears slowly running down her face.
They climbed back on to the boat, some more independently than others; two workmen grabbed Jordie under each armpit; Miller provided leverage from the water. ‘You managed to smuggle four wanted men from under the noses of the army, but you didn’t bring a ladder for the boat,’ said Jordie in mock outrage. The workmen smiled, and handed them all long trad-itional shirts that fell to their ankles.
After a couple of hours, with the first hint of dawn, the boat docked at the riverbank. The old man finally left his place at the boat’s bow.
‘We are here,’ the old man said.
‘I’m sorry . . . where are we?’ asked Liam.
The old man stayed silent as he walked past them.
Maybe the weekend allowed more time to plan and execute guerrilla acts. Maybe it granted a greater freedom to notice them. People started to appreciate the responsibility that lay upon them. The failure to recognise an act of generosity felt like a greater crime than not
performing one.
On Monday morning the kidnappers applauded the effort, and hoped the following week would prove even more successful.
Week two saw a notable absence of cash injections into bank accounts. Expensive gifts became scarce. In many ways, money was the easy way out.
Like Valentine’s Day, anonymous cards, letters, Post-it notes and texts were received. But these did not speak of flames that burned in hearts and loins, but of the need to let the receiver know they were appreciated, loved, that they were inspiring, or beautiful, or brave. They wrote to let them know that everything was going to be OK.
Vicars arrived at churches to find flowers placed on every grave. Bouquets found their way on to the bedsides of sleeping hospital patients. Comedians and musicians were hired to perform at nursing homes.
Teachers found messages and chocolates on their desks.
Children posted artwork through random doors, signing off with the message: ‘I made this for you.’
By midweek, a movement arose of people who wanted to present their gifts in person. They decided upon a code of ridiculous disguises to shield their identity. In workbags and purses lay fake beards, moustaches, wigs, glasses, eyeballs on springs, crazy hats, masks of every type, that would be put on at opportune moments throughout the day.
A million doors were held open.
Some realised they weren’t living up to the example they would like to set. In week two, some smiled at everybody they met; others made pacts to say good morning to at least 25 people before the start of the working day.
They walked up a path that led through vegetation towards the edge of a small village. In the centre was a clearing, where an acacia towered over a fire’s dying embers.
‘First,’ said the old man, ‘you must sleep.’
*
By week three, uncertainties arose over what was an act of guerrilla kindness, and what was the world they had known before. How could they be sure? Smiles from pedestrians, jokes and conversations with strangers, buskers, street performers: they all started to feel like gifts, but were they? Car parking spaces and empty tables at restaurants all felt like potential acts of kindness.
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