Days of Fire

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Looks like we’re not the only ones who need a rest,” Alex says and gestures to the men setting out the table. She turns to look.

  The five men are pulling at the chairs and turning them to sit on. They pull the table to the furthest edge of the café’s perimeter and are quickly in deep conversation. Laughing follows. Jessie can’t understand their words, but she thinks she recognises the language—Arabic.

  As she looks on, one of them catches her eye and winks. She turns back quickly ignoring his smile.

  “Got any of that chocolate left?” Alex asks.

  “Ooh, yes!” Clare adds. “The roots are nice and all that, but they’d taste better covered with chocolate.”

  Jessie laughs. They weren’t far from home now, so finishing off the chocolate won’t be a problem. “Sure,” she replies.

  She reaches into her bag, retrieves the chocolate and hands it round. As she offers the piece to Clare the woman’s smile suddenly drops. Jessie knows from the serious look on her face that something bad has happened and freezes.

  “What is it?” she asks quietly.

  “The men,” Clare returns. “Don’t look, Jessie. Shh!”

  Clare sits in silence as she listens to their conversation. Jessie’s stomach knots as she watches Clare’s face drain of colour.

  “Act natural,” Clare says then takes the chocolate from Jessie’s hand.

  Jessie scrambles for something to say and rambles to Alex about liking dark chocolate the best and how Craft ruined milk chocolate when they bought out Cadbury’s. Long minutes later the chairs behind her scrape across the tarmac. She turns to look. From what she can discern at least three of them are of middle-eastern origin, although one looks Somali and another has fair skin. Each has a backpack. She scrutinizes each face as they pass and is taken aback as the one who winked blows her a kiss.

  “What the!” Alex hisses as he notices the man’s gesture.

  “Ignore it, Alex,” Jessie says as she watches them. He moves as if to stand. “Don’t! Leave it,” she soothes quickly holding his hand down with hers. Hearing whatever Clare has to say is more important than any offence to her honour. “Clare,” she says turning to the cadet as soon as they’re out of earshot. “What the hell were they saying?”

  Clare’s face is ashen as she sits forward. She checks down the road to the group of men then turns back to the table and leans in. “They were taking about the fires in the city—how it was a cheap and easy way to kill the ‘kafir’.”

  “Kafir?”

  “Yes, it’s what Muslims call us. One of them said he’d set fire to the tall tower block at Hatfield Garden and watched as a man threw himself from the window with his hair on fire. He was laughing about it.”

  “Sick bastards!”

  “That’s near my house!” Jessie exclaims. Heart in her stomach, she leans out on her chair and watches the men as they walk further down the road. They were near her house! Burning the buildings near her mother and Stella!

  “They were saying that someone called Bin Sayeed would be pleased and that Hashim had plotted five more attacks tonight across the city. They were looking at a map.”

  “Oh, Christ! They’re the ones setting fire to the city.”

  “They’re terrorists!”

  “Jessie, they said that the blackout was Allah’s will because it made the ‘Days of Fire’ easy!”

  “Days of Fire!”

  “It’s a terror campaign!”

  “Yes, and as they were leaving they said something about getting back to work. I think that’s how it translates at least.”

  “So, they’re going to set fire to more buildings ... now?”

  “It could be what they meant.”

  “Come on!” Jessie says as her chair scrapes back and clatters to the ground.

  “Wait! Shouldn’t we tell the police?”

  Chapter 22

  Following at a safe distance, Jessie crouches behind a car with Alex and Clare. The men split into two groups and say their goodbyes. One group walks across the road then turns left whilst the two remaining men walk across the road and down the path towards a cluster of residential tower blocks. Surrounded by grass, the trees planted to improve the area, do nothing to soften the buildings’ harsh, grey lines.

  “Do you think those are the targets?” Clare asks nodding to the apartments.

  “Could be,” Jessie replies as she watches the men take the path to the closest tower block.

  A group of children play on the open grass kicking a football. The ball arcs high in the air and lands at the feet of one of the men. He stoops, picks it up and throws it back to the gang of boys.

  “Are you sure you heard right?” Alex asks as the children give the man the thumbs up then carry on kicking the ball.

  “Yes, I am,” Clare returns. “Perhaps this isn’t their target?”

  The men disappear through the double doors of the tower block’s entrance.

  “Come on,” Jessie urges as soon as the men are out of sight.

  Pushing the double doors of the tower block’s entrance open, she listens. She can hear the echo of footsteps and men’s voices.

  “Doesn’t sound like it’s coming from upstairs.”

  “I don’t think they went up,” Alex says nodding towards a blue door at the end of the corridor. “That could lead to the basement,” he continues and moves forward.

  Jessie follows him. The door sits ajar, its handle broken, and, as Alex opens it, a strong odour wafts out.

  “Petrol!”

  “I think this is their target.”

  “They’re going to torch the place!”

  Voices echo as Alex inches the door open. The room is dark but, in the distance, light moves. Shrugging off her rucksack, Jessie reaches for her torch. It’s small, but its light is intense and precise. Torch in hand, but switched off, she follows Alex down to the basement’s floor. There’s no sign of the men although their light can be seen. She turns on the torch and aims it at the floor. Ahead is a bank of metal boxes - probably part of the heating system - and beyond that the men. The smell of petrol is even stronger here.

  Rounding the corner of the metal boxes, the yellow of their flashlight is brighter and Jessie switches off her torch, pushes it into Clare’s hand, then watches as one of the men squirts liquid over the basement’s walls. The other crouches, fumbling in the bag at his feet. Their torch is upended to cast its glow on the low ceiling.

  Without a weapon to attack or defend herself with, Jessie’s only advantage is surprise and, she hopes, her fighting skills. The bottle of petrol empty, the man throws it to the floor and the other stands with what looks like a lighter in his hands. They exchange words then step away from the soaking walls, moving backwards towards Jessie.

  This is the moment.

  “I’ll take the one with the bag,” she whispers.

  “Sure,” Alex whispers back.

  As Jessie takes a large stride, her boot knocks something metallic and it skittles across the floor. Damn! Not wanting to lose the element of surprise, she lunges forward, jumps and hooks her arm around the man’s neck. He gurgles in surprise as her elbow tightens to a vice. He grasps at her arm as he topples. The lighter drops to the ground.

  “Get it Clare!” Jessie shouts as it clatters on the concrete floor.

  The pure light of Jessie’s torch brightens the floor as Clare retrieves the lighter and illuminates Alex for a second as he grapples with the other man.

  The fingers digging into her arm disappear and the man struggles against her, twisting to the side. He fumbles inside his bag and as Jessie attempts to force him to the ground gunshot rings out. The bullet ricochets against the metal pipes.

  Banging and grunts sound next to her as Alex tackles the other man.

  As the man topples, Jessie twists him over and he falls to the concrete on his belly, gun arm out to the side. She grasps a great handful of his thick hair and slams his head against the concrete whilst locking his elbow to the f
loor. “Give me the gun!” she shouts as he attempts to raise his forearm. Fingers scraping against the concrete, she presses at his hand, squeezing his fingers against the metal of the gun. Laying with her full weight across his back, she grabs his hair. He grunts in pain as her fingers tighten, pulling against his scalp. She lifts his head. “Gun!” she repeats and slams his head against concrete. He grunts but doesn’t drop it. She pulls his head back to its full extent and slams it again. His fingers release the gun and she grabs it. Sitting back, her fingers still tight through his wiry hair, she presses the muzzle into his temple. With the pressure she’s asserting he’ll have a purple and ring-shaped bruise in the next few day—if she lets him live. He squirms in pain. Anger is makes her vicious.

  “Bitch!” he spits.

  “Murdering bastard!” she says leaning into his ear. “Murdering, misogynistic bastard,” she whispers with hate. “Never thought it would be a girl that cut your balls off, did you!” He bucks and she readies the gun to fire. He quietens and fear passes over his face. She smiles with satisfaction. “Yeah, just lie there you pri-”

  Thud!

  A body slams against the pipes running up the wall. The metal clanks as Alex raises his fist and smashes it into the man’s face. His body slithers to the ground and he lies unconscious. Alex steps back.

  “Got him!”

  “We’ve got them both,” Jessie says as she leans into the terrorist’s back to stand.

  He grunts with discomfort.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asks as Jessie leans over him, the gun trained at his forehead.

  “Just a girl clearing up some garbage. Now, tell me. Just who you’re working for and exactly what is ‘Days of Fire’.

  The man grunts. Jessie kicks at his ribs.

  “Jessie,” Clare chides.

  Anger washes through Jessie. “Shut up, Clare,” she returns, any effort to conform to the niceties of social interaction gone. Now was not the time to follow rules. “Tell me now,” she says returning her attention to the terrorist on the floor. He ignores her and she kicks at his ribs. He grunts in pain.

  “Stupid bitch!”

  She kicks him again, harder. “Tell me!”

  “This is just the start,” he replies.

  “The start of what?”

  The man remains silent. Alex steps in and kicks his thigh. “Ugh!”

  “The start of what?” Alex repeats.

  The man grunts but doesn’t respond. Alex kicks him again.

  “The start of Armageddon!”

  “Armageddon? Hah! Am I in a bad film or something?” Jessie asks her voice scathing.

  “We will turn your country into a cesspit …” Alex kicks his thigh once more. “Ugh! … of violence and disease.”

  The hair on Jessie’s neck prickles. It’s not the first time she’s heard the sentiment. She leans in close to the man, the gun pointing at his head.

  “Jessie!” Clare chides.

  Ignoring her she pushes the gun into his temple again.

  “Who are you working for? You’ve got ten seconds to tell me then I’m taking this gun to your friend and blowing out his brains.”

  “You can’t do that!” Clare gasps.

  “Watch me,” Jessie replies. “Don’t underestimate what we’re dealing with here. You may think what I’m about to do is wrong, Clare, but we have no one to turn them in to. You’ve seen what it’s like out there. I haven’t seen a single policeman. Have you?”

  “No,” Clare admits.

  “We have to deal with this situation right now—ourselves.”

  Jessie turns her attention back to man on the floor. His eyes are rich with contempt. She’ll show him!

  “Let’s start the countdown shall we. You have ten seconds to tell me who you are working for.”

  The man spits and a large gob of mucus lands on Jessie’s boot.

  “Do that again and you’ll be licking the snot off the back of your throat!”

  He grunts and Alex stamps his foot down onto the man’s back, pinning him in place as Jessie takes a step back.

  “Ten, nine, eight,” Jessie counts back in quick succession whilst simultaneously taking a step towards the unconscious man slumped against the wall. The terrorist shows no sign of answering her question. “Seven, six, five.” She stands opposite the crumpled figure. “Four, three, two.” The man fidgets but remains silent. “Not going to talk? Really?”

  “You can’t!” Clare blurts.

  Jessie aims the gun at the slumped man’s temple. At this angle the bullet will plough straight through his brain—an instant kill.

  “One,” Jessie counts dryly and pulls the trigger. The man slumps to the floor, a patch of blood and gore splatters the breeze blocks and pipework.

  “What the hell!”

  “You got a problem, Clare? Do you want these people to burn more people to death?”

  “No, but-”

  “But what?”

  “You can’t just shoot people! There are procedures-”

  “Sod procedures! These aren’t people. They’re scum. They deserve to die. If you knew what they did to our men, what they did to my dad …” Jessie trails off, pushes down the memories that threaten to scratch at her again, and concentrates on the man in Alex’s grip. He looks at her with an angry stare.

  “You just murdered my friend.”

  “No! You just murdered your friend. You had the chance to save him. Now,” she says staring directly into his eyes. “Let’s see if you’re ready to talk.”

  Chapter 23

  “My home is just up there,” Clarissa says pointing to one of the impressive Georgian houses further along the street. “The one with the geraniums on the steps.”

  Bill looks along the well-kept street with its imposing three-storey buildings and lines of deluxe cars. “The red flowers?” he asks. The flowers are vibrant and seem to add life to the house. The street is certainly a contrast to the chaotic ones they left behind ten minutes ago.

  “I’ll leave you here, then.”

  “Oh!” she replies. “Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?”

  “Well …”

  “Please! It’s the least I can do … in the circumstances.”

  “There’s no electricity.”

  “We’ve got camping stoves … my daughter, Jessie, she loves being outdoors and we … love to go camping in the summer.”

  “Oh, well …” he falters again as they approach the house. He stands at the bottom of the steps and looks up. It was exactly the kind of house that he’d expect Clarissa to live in—elegant and expensive. He looks down at his shabby jeans—he must stink too. “No, really, it’s alright. I’ve done my job and seen you to your door.” He didn’t want to leave, but the thought of being inside what he imagines will be her pristine home in his current condition, makes him squirm. “You’re safe now.”

  “I don’t feel very safe.”

  He looks up, surprised at the honesty of her words—she’d put on such a brave front through the city. “Once you’re inside, you’ll feel better,” he says and turns to look down the street.

  “Are you sure you won’t come in?” she asks again … and is that a tone of disappointment?

  “Sure I’m sure,” he says with a smile though he doesn’t want to step away. Being with her this last hour has been … enjoyable, he’d felt almost normal again, like a real person. “I’ll be on my way,” he says turning down the steps. A tug at his sleeve and he turns back.

  “Thank you!” she says with a smile and leans forward.

  Bill’s heart skips a beat as her lips touch his cheek—they feel warm and soft. He could stand there all day and lose himself in their warmth. He shuffles and slips down a step. “No problem.” With a final smile in her direction, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks back towards the city. His stomach growls. He’ll find something to eat and then … then he’ll come back and watch the house from a distance, just to check that she’s safe.

  Clarissa
watches as Bill disappears down the road, an inexplicable sadness washes over her. He was scruffy, unwashed and homeless, yet there was something about Bill that drew her to him. She wants to know his story—why was a man like that living on the streets? It just didn’t make sense. She hadn’t asked him on the walk home—it seemed like a question that was just too personal. She sighs – and now she’ll never know! - and takes the final step up to the door and tries the handle. It’s locked. Good girl! Stella had listened. She lifts the brass knocker and taps the plate then waits. Looking down the road at the parked cars, and taking in the silence, she realises just how vulnerable being so dependent on electricity and technology has made them. The world had stopped and their lives were descending into chaos, and from what she’d seen on her walk home through the city, madness. Where was their resilience? She thinks back to her grandfather, a strong and proud man who had fought in World War II and served his country for a further twenty years; she can’t imagine his generation behaving like animals the way the people in the city were. With a frown, she turns away from the street and back to the white paint of the door. Footsteps approach then stop.

  “Stella! It’s me,” she calls through the door. The bolts slide back and the door opens and Stella flings her arms around her as she steps inside.

  “I was so worried.”

  “Is Mrs Clayton still here?”

  “She was until half an hour ago and then she said she had to get back to Mr Clayton.”

  “OK, that’s fine. I’ll pop round and check on them in a while.”