“Not everything. I’ve still got Mum’s credit card.”
“What about my phone?”
Anna patted her back pocket, then checked the pocket of her jacket where she kept her own. Both pockets were empty. “Gone.”
“No!” Jem’s shout was a pain-filled howl. “No! How could you let them take it! This is all your fault!”
The next minutes were spent placating Jem as Anna fought with the first intruding thoughts that perhaps her sister would be better off in foster care. Finally, as the pain in Anna’s legs diminished, they walked back to the road and followed the route through the streets to the town centre. Ahead, traffic lights turned from amber and then to green, and the tall edifice of the shopping centre where they had spent happy hours with their mother, came into view.
“Look! It’s the shopping centre.” Jem strode ahead of Anna. “Can we go?” She turned back, all fear gone, though her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks tear-stained.
Anna checked her knee-jerk answer of ‘No,’ and instead gave her sister a weak smile. She still had some loose change in her pocket along with her mother’s bank card slipped into a hidden inner pocket. Plus, she needed some time to think things through, and they both needed to be somewhere warm. So far, their escape had been a disaster and, as the minutes had passed on their walk, she had convinced herself that she should call Social Services and talk to Angel Mallard. All she had to do now was figure out how to tell Jemima her decision. “Sure,” she replied. “You can have some millionaire’s shortbread in Greg’s whilst I find a cash machine.” What harm could it do?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Freshney Place, Shopping Mall
As Anna and Jem waited at the pelican crossing to get to the shopping mall, Jamshid sat at one of its coffee shops with his colleagues, all veterans of the process. The space was flooded with light thanks to the atrium ceiling of glass, and the white painted walls. He felt a tinge of sadness; he had spent many hours here with a variety of women whose company he had enjoyed, and who relieved his physical needs. None touched his heart of course, that belonged to his family—mother, father, and sisters, but mostly to his child and his wife.
Jamshid was not a religious man, an atheist in a country without freedom of belief, he had no time for the backwards theologians who had dragged his homeland to a darker age, and yearned for the day when the grip of a barbaric and monstrous religion would come to an end. Only then could light finally shine again on his land. When the others spouted on about religion he would nod and agree in the right places, go to prayers when requested and make all the right noises, but Jamshid’s loyalty lay with his family, his country, and his people. If being coerced by his backward government into attacks against a foreign power was what kept them safe, then he would do what they asked.
“Bombs are to be set off in the smaller towns, then the bigger ones, and then the cities, until finally, a nuclear device is to be detonated in the atmosphere which will take down their power, and cut off their communications. It will be devastating for them.”
“It is what they deserve. They killed the Major General-”
“We will take our revenge, brothers. Iran will be avenged. Soleimani will be avenged.”
“Death to America!” Kamran hissed.
Idiot! “Shut up!” Jamshid scanned the café’s tables. “Anyway, we’re in England, stupid.”
“Death to the England!” Kamran hissed.
Jamshid’s frown deepened. If Kamran didn’t keep his voice down, then someone would overhear.
Kamran gave a mocking grunt aimed at Jamshid. “No one can understand us, Jamshid,” he said. “These people are stupid, they speak only one language, no French, no German, no Italian, no Arabic, and definitely no Farsi.”
Mohammed, whose smile had broadened, gave a low chuckle. He leaned back in his chair, lifting a heavily sweetened Americano to his lips, but as he tipped the cup to drink, his smile fell away to become stony. Jamshid picked up on the change in his body language immediately. “What?” he asked, not turning to look.
“There is a woman. On the table near the counter. She is looking at me.”
“See! Idiot. I told you.”
“Shut up. She won’t understand.”
Jamshid began to turn. “Don’t look!”
“Who is she?”
“She has heard us.”
“I thought you said they didn’t understand us.”
“She looks Iranian.”
This time Jamshid turned. On the table behind them sat a woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair, olive skin, and the typical features of the people from the western region of Iran. He recognised her immediately. With her was a plump white woman with blonde hair, and another who looked of Indian descent.
“She could be second generation. They don’t speak so good.”
“Traitors!”
“She’s too far away. She can’t hear us.”
“Her name is Fauzia,” Jamshid said. “She speaks perfect English, Arabic, and Farsi. Her father is a dissident who escaped to England.”
“See! I told you. Traitors.”
“And you know this, how?”
“She told me. I was a student at the college here. She teaches English to foreign students.”
“Wave at her, pretend that you’ve just recognised her, and then carry on as normal. Be natural.”
As instructed, Jamshid waved, then bowed his head as though speaking to the other men around the table. Jamshid laughed as though one of them had told a particularly funny joke, and none looked across to the woman again. When Jamshid noticed movement in his peripheral vision, it was Fauzia rising. Their eyes met momentarily, hers flickered with confusion, and perhaps fear, then she walked at a quick pace through the connecting tunnel to the next hall.
“She heard us. I know.”
“So what? We have said nothing she could understand.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“No!” Jamshid lied, staring after the disappearing figure. “She is married to an English. A soldier. He teaches survival and has a shop somewhere in town.”
The table fell to silence then, with a dismissive flap of his hand, Kamran said, “It makes no difference if she heard. Before she has time to tell, it will be too late. It is planned too well for anyone to stop it.”
The men nodded in agreement. Jamshid disagreed—he wanted no part of the intricately planned attack to go wrong. Shock and awe, as the Americans called it, was the absolute minimum he would accept; he had spent too many years in this dreadful country, sacrificing being a father and husband, to tolerate anything going wrong at the last minute. There were to be four bombs in this mall with one placed beneath a bench towards the centre of the building for maximum impact. Their assignment was to simultaneously detonate the bombs. There were similar attacks planned for twenty-six shopping centres across the country.
The smaller towns were easy targets. The security focus was on London, Birmingham, Manchester, and then the lesser cities. No one seemed bothered about places like the small northern town of Grimsby. Certainly, at this time of day, the death toll would be minimal, but this was only stage one. Fifteen minutes after the simultaneous detonation of more than one hundred home-made bombs across the country, there were more to be set off; these were to be at the ports, railway stations, and airports. Other bombs were to be detonated at a series of banks, and hospitals. All of it was meant to plunge the country into chaos, overburdening its emergency services and distracting the military. After this, the next phase could begin. Here a high-altitude nuclear device, detonated above the country, would knock out its power and digital communications for months, forcing the country’s economy into a spiral of ruin from which it may never recover. It was a warning to the Americans of just exactly what Iran was capable of.
Jamshid drained his coffee, then picked up the rucksack at his feet. Though heavy, the rucksack was light on Jamshid’s back, and he visited an outdoor camping and adventure shop, trying
on various coats, and considering various boots, before leaving with the purchase of a pair of thermal socks paid for in cash. Once out of the shop, he moved along the hall and sat on his designated bench with the rucksack at his heels. Once the bomb had been detonated, he was to make his way to the dockyard where a small motorboat would take him, and the other members of his cell, away from the erupting horror and back to Iran, his wife and his son.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Freshney Place Shopping Mall, 3 minutes to first attack
Anna’s hand trembled as she passed the last of her change to the server behind the till to pay for Jem’s drink and millionaire shortbread. The practical side of Anna had told her not to indulge her sister, that she had to be firmer. The softer side said just this once and that after this there would be no more treats; the money in their mother’s account had to be saved for necessities until they reached their aunt’s house unless Anna had the courage - or was it cowardice? - to part with her sister and let her be taken into foster care. Turmoil seeped through every cell in Anna’s body—the decision would be momentous, and it wasn’t one she could settle in her mind.
A man at another table was rambling on about being ‘at war’, but Anna was on alert, too distracted to listen, and muted the man’s voice, her head full of imagined scenarios where Angel Mallard discovered them walking through the mall, and swooped down with a SWAT team to grab Jem and steal her away, and another where she handed Jem over to the odious woman. Her head ached, her thinking unclear.
In the café’s booth, crumbs of chocolate fell from Jem’s lips as she took another bite of shortbread.
“Promise you won’t move.” She rose to leave; checking the balance on the ATM now a priority. Perhaps once she discovered just how much money was available, she would be able to make a decision about their future.
“I promise,” Jem agreed, mouth full.
“I won’t be long.” Anna hovered.
“I know! I’ll be alright, Anna. I’m twelve now, not a kid.”
A kid was exactly what Jem was. “Just stay put.”
“I will!”
Anna glanced around the café. Only an older woman with hair held in stiff curls seemed to have noticed Jem’s burst of annoyance, and she quickly looked away before taking another sip of tea. “Keep your voice down,” Anna whispered. “The cash machine is at the end of the hall. I’ll be five minutes. Don’t leave here.”
“I won’t!”
Anna stepped into the main hall. Though desperate to seem at ease and not draw attention to herself, her gaze flicked from shopper to shopper, searching through the sparsely populated mall for the sour-faced Angel Mallard, or the flabby-bellied Michael Bembridge. The woman’s cold eyes and gravelly voice as she had informed Anna that a temporary foster home had been found for Jem, and a room at a hostel for her, was imprinted on her memory. She had hoped the shopping centre would be full; with so few people, Anna and Jem would be easy to spot.
A young mother with bleached blonde hair pulled back in a straggling ponytail, and dressed in baggy leggings and worn trainers, pushed a sleeping toddler in a buggy. Its face was blushed pink and smeared with chocolate, a feeding bottle filled with cheap cola gripped in its grubby hand. An older woman, grey hair in old-fashioned curls, fawn woollen coat buttoned to the collar, sat on a bench, rectangular trolley-bag at her side, one hand wrapped around its handle, knuckles angular beneath thin skin. The mother stared at her phone’s screen, the older woman into the space ahead. Neither noticed Anna.
Ahead, two schoolgirls took bites from huge cookies, their lips painted a matching, vibrant pink. Like Jem, both girls should be at school but, with their thickly pencilled, angular eyebrows, cheeks and jaws inexpertly contoured, and noses striped with highlighter, the streetwise girls looked nothing like Anna’s still innocent sister. As Anna drew closer, a young man with closely cropped hair, dark tattoo creeping up his neck from an overly large grey hoodie, mobile to his ear, pushed into the prettier girl, knocking her cookie to the floor. He stopped to pick it up. Both girls giggled as the man returned the cookie and exchanged excited looks as another man joined them. The younger man reached out to stroke the prettier girl’s blonde hair. Attention caught by the mini-drama playing out as she walked towards the group, Anna wanted to shout that the girls were just kids—too young for the men now openly flirting with them. As she passed the group, the older man, who must be at least twenty, caught her gaze. Blue eyes rimmed with dark lashes, locked on hers. Startled by his stare, Anna quickly focused ahead to the ATM at the end of the hallway. She quickened her pace, aware of his eyes on her back. Is it a set up? Is he one of them? Is he calling Family Services right now to report a sighting? The girls continued to giggle, and the older man laughed with them.
Identical images on a bank of television screens behind plate glass to Anna’s left simultaneously changed from a fighter plane taking off to an image of tanks, and then cut to an array of missiles. Beneath the images, running subtitles read, ‘Britain at War. Russian jets intercepted two miles inside British airspace. Security increased at Faz Lane after attempted coup. Sleeper cells activated. Nuclear submarine HMS Victorious targeted.’ The café customer’s words, ignored as she bought the shortbread, intruded as a memory. ‘Can you believe it! We’re at war—again! First ‘The Rona’ and now this! It’s the end of the feckin’ world!’ His voice faded as she slowed to watch the changing screens. The studio cut to a live feed of a suited man flanked by others in uniform. The title beneath him read ‘Andrew Bishop, Minister of Defence’. Anna continued past the shop, the display behind the plate glass now an array of mannequins dressed in the latest style. She ignored them too. There were always images of warships, tanks rolling through cities, jet planes crossing the skies, guns firing, men, women, and children dying, starving, blown apart, or chopped to pieces, somewhere in the world. Always some atrocity committed by monsters in the name of some ridiculous belief. What did that have to do with Anna? Nothing. What did it mean that they were at war? Nothing. They were always at war with someone somewhere in this messed-up world. The only war Anna was interested in was the one she had with Children and Family Services.
The ATM machines at the end of the hall, twin metal boxes flanked either side by double doors that led to the carparks, were only twenty feet ahead. Two lifts sat between them. Behind her the laughter of the clownish girl faded. A quick glance back showed both girls heading towards the exit, the younger man’s arm around the prettier girl’s shoulder. The older man turned and saw her watching. Unsmiling eyes met hers. He is! He’s one of them! She broke her gaze. Stay calm. Just get the money and then get Jem. Her mind turned to alternative routes back to her sister, and she decided to leave through the exit beside the ATM - once she had her money - and take the stairs to the upper floor, then come back down to the adjacent hall until she was parallel with the café.
Ten feet from the ATM, a man and woman stepped out from a shop doorway. Though dressed casually in jeans and jacket, neither looked like shoppers. The woman, slim waisted with curving hips and glossy chestnut hair pulled back into a military-style bun, focused on Anna before turning her attention to the other shoppers. Anna’s heart tripped hard against her sternum as she turned away from the pair, willing herself to stay calm, and quelle her instinct to push through the exit doors and run. She joined the queue as the customer at the ATM finished his transaction and moved away. Anna was now second in line. She gave a sideways glance to the pair; dark brown eyes were focused on Anna. The woman spoke into a radio – stay calm, don’t react - and then she walked in the opposite direction, following her colleague down the hall. Realising that the pair must be undercover security guards looking for shoplifters, Anna berated herself for being so obviously on edge—guilty is what you are, Anna! Guilty of kidnapping your own sister. Her heart tripped harder. Was that even a crime? The man in front pushed plastic notes into his wallet and Anna stepped up to the ATM, slipped the card into the slot, and punched in the PIN of her mot
her’s bank card. And guilty of theft, Anna! Add that one to the list. She dry-swallowed and stabbed the button marked ‘DISPLAY BALANCE’, then waited. The screen flashed with a message that twisted Anna’s gut. ‘This account has been closed. Card withheld.’
“Shit!”
CHAPTER NINE
Callum recognised the young woman’s unease as soon as she stepped out of the café. Tuned into suffering and discord, it was obvious to him that she was on edge, perhaps on the run, maybe a shoplifter, and he marked her out, giving a sideways glance to Dominic, and said, ‘Pretty redhead in the jeans, just out of Greg’s’. Dominic ignored his suggestion of the slender auburn-haired girl and said they should focus on ‘sweeter fruit’, then motioned to the two schoolgirls eating giant cookies halfway down the hall. Dominic had a nose for vulnerable marks too: the abused, the neglected, the poor; it was easy to spot damaged souls when you’d suffered yourself, empathy was what they called it, and it came in very useful in their line of work.
“Look at them,” Dominic said. “They’re up for it. You can tell by the way they’re checking out the men. See.” One of the girls followed an older teenage boy with her eyes, then locked hers with Dominic’s, holding his gaze as she bit into the cookie. “Two for the price of one, Frostie. Watch this.” He walked across to the girls, pretending to talk on his mobile then knocked into the prettier one. Callum joined him, keeping the slender young woman with the dark auburn hair in his peripheral vision; she was just the type Gregor would want. Perhaps they could snag three today; two runners the police wouldn’t suspect, and the new woman Gregor demanded. It would perhaps be enough to placate the psycho. Thoughts of Gregor pushed down any remnants of conscience Callum had, and forced him onwards to start the job. He joined Dominic and took out his wallet to offer compensation for the ruined cookie, opening it wide enough for the girls to see the thick bundle of notes. He took out a twenty and offered it to the chubbier girl as Dominic laughed with the prettier one, curling a lock of her bleached blonde hair around his fingers. She was already putty in his hands, and the chubbier girl threw Callum a broad smile, offering him an ineptly sexy and underage pout as she took the twenty. Dominic was right, they were up for it, easy pickings, deprived, probably neglected kids who would be impressed with the cash. Callum hid his cringe of distaste.
Dark Winter Series (Book 1): Dark Winter Page 5