Girls With Guns

by Ali Vali

  They moved as one, and although in the beginning Bel had struggled to concentrate on Esther while her tongue was inside her, she was slowly learning to stave off her own pleasure for the pleasure of another. It was a remarkably powerful experience. For many minutes their rhythm remained unchanged until Esther couldn’t take it anymore. Bel fucked faster with her fingers and licked harder with her tongue. All the while Esther’s tongue remained inside her.

  On one occasion, they had come simultaneously, but not tonight. Tonight Esther came hard and long, leaving Bel behind.

  She pushed Bel off her and removed the headphones. “I think I love you.”

  What?

  Esther pulled the covers over them both and snuggled close to Bel.

  Had she heard right?

  “What did you just say?”

  “You’re an amazing woman and you deserve to be loved. If I could give you the world I would.”

  This was the first time Esther had shown any hint of sentimentality. She behaved lovingly—without question—but that was her nature. She was a healer, a nurturer, and the most tender person Bel had ever met, but they rarely shared loving sentimentality. Until now.

  “I think I love you too.” Bel matched Esther’s words, frightened to create her own dialogue.

  Esther laughed awkwardly, the sound laced with embarrassment. “But what is love anyway?”

  “I honestly think the world of you. Don’t tell me that doesn’t count?”

  “For tonight, my love, it means everything. Tonight you mean everything. I want you to remember tonight for the rest of your life. Promise me that?”

  Bel nodded but realised Esther couldn’t see her affirmation in the dark. “Maybe we can make things a little more…” She struggled to find the appropriate words. “I don’t know, concrete, maybe?” The desperation in her voice annoyed her, but Esther deserved an honest appraisal of the situation.

  “Right here, right now is the most uncontaminated we will ever feel.”

  Bel saddened. Esther wasn’t answering her question.

  “I can’t be owned, Bel.”

  “I’m not asking if I can own you, just be with you.”

  “I have a spirit even I can’t contain or control.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t want to be tied down?”

  “No. I’m saying I’m not in control of my own destiny.”

  Bel didn’t understand. “Then who is?”

  “Tonight I’m yours. You feel that, right? Tonight I gave myself to you wholly and unconditionally. Tonight is all that matters. Tonight we became one.”

  Bel sighed. “And tomorrow? What do we become tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is a brand-new day. Unstained and pure. Tomorrow we start again.”

  It was no use. Esther always spoke in riddles when the conversation became too difficult.

  They were both exhausted, and soon Bel succumbed to the soothing swirling motions Esther was tracing on her leg. In no time at all, sleep took her.

  Chapter Three

  If you wanted good coffee in London, you looked for a place that served only one size—preferably nothing resembling the size of a washing-up basin—and you avoided the places where lanky sixteen-year-olds hollered your name to gain your attention before delivering a bucket of coffee to you without so much as a sideways glance.

  Bel needed coffee. The first sip of one’s first morning coffee was a private moment to savour.

  Esther had left the flat early, around five, and Bel had rolled over and gone back to sleep for another fifteen minutes before her day officially began. Everyone knew your day didn’t really begin until your alarm went off. Every precious second counted. Before then was your time. Bel chose to sleep.

  Yesterday’s briefing had been the first official one she’d attended where they had received direct information from other agencies that required a tightening of security around key London stations. The more experienced officers in Hotstream took it in their stride. This information was provided with alarming regularity, and the culprits had been thwarted well before they could get near the underground or, alternatively, the threats never amounted to anything substantial. Hotstream wasn’t in the business of taking calculated risks or hedging their bets. They acted on every piece of credible information.

  Bel was assigned to Hammersmith all day. Other than her loaded gun, which remained out of sight, she hid in the open. Her earpiece—her link to her superiors at Control—looked like earphones, and her radio pack sat in her breast pocket as a phone might. Her small but powerful torch was lodged in her front jeans pocket. On her first day, she’d stared in the mirror and immediately thought she stood out like dogs’ bollocks. She was convinced she would be spotted immediately, but when she stepped foot on the train for the first time, she realised just about everyone looked suspicious: the guy with the backpack, the lady with nervous eyes and an oversized handbag—the list was endless. Everyone looked suspicious, and this is why Bel knew she blended in; she did too.

  The one thing that annoyed her was her inability to switch off her suspicions while travelling on the train; before she’d even clocked in at work, she was alert. Would she ever be able to ride the underground like a normal person? Regardless of how she tried to preoccupy herself, she automatically assessed each passenger in her line of vision. The signs of a suicide bomber clicked through her mind in sequence like a slideshow on repeat. There was no prescribed sequence, only the order in which she’d memorised them. Shutting her eyes didn’t work; she couldn’t bear not to see everything that was going on around her. Everyone in Hotstream was the same. They all admitted over-vigilance. In that respect, her lack of normality made her feel normal.

  Until now, Bel had never had to travel on the underground as part of her daily routine. How did people cope every day? From the moment some commuters stepped on the train, they read from their tablet or listened to the news on their phone or read the paper. Those lucky enough to have a seat appeared relatively comfortable, but even those standing weren’t deterred; the coordination and balance of some passengers who read and fiddled with electronic devices impressed her. If it wasn’t for the mad dash to jump onto an overcrowded carriage, the entire experience could have been relaxing. Few people barely batted an eyelid when announcements were made regarding delays or when a train stopped unexpectedly mid-tunnel. As a sample of the population, given the volume of people and rather stressful timings, Bel concluded that London commuters were a chilled-out bunch.

  At exactly five fifty-five her earpiece crackled into action. “Hey, Bel.” It was Charlie from Control. After her shift commenced, she would be known as five-seven-oh-nine. Until then, she was Bel.

  She glanced up toward the nearest security camera. She knew Charlie had her in her sights. She casually spoke into the mouthpiece as if on the phone. “Morning, Charlie. What have you got for me?”

  Charlie was a great lady and an accomplished police officer. She was in her forties—Bel had no idea of the exact number—and she lived alone with her cats. Had every word of their conversations not been recorded, she knew Charlie’s reply would have been cheeky, but they always kept it professional for the tape.

  Every morning, time was dedicated to a briefing. Because Bel was always armed, unless there was a requirement for her to attend the office, she commenced work in the field.

  “Nothing new since yesterday,” Charlie said. “Let’s hope it stays quiet.”

  On the surface, Charlie’s job at Control was less than glamorous. In reality, it was one of the most stressful assignments on the Hotstream task force. Under pressure, Charlie was like an air-traffic controller at London’s Heathrow Airport with only one runway open and every other airport in the entire United Kingdom closed. Charlie was so cool and focused, she’d have all those planes down without incident and as efficient as you like.

  For the duration of her shift, Charlie and the five other Control officers would view the underground on dozens of monitors showing images from
any camera on the underground they selected. Those on duty had direct radio communication to every Hotstream officer. Charlie and her colleagues were authorised to stop trains, evacuate trains, and even evacuate entire stations. One visit to Waterloo station—with twenty-three escalators and approximately fifty-seven thousand commuters entering during the morning rush hours—and it didn’t take much to understand the enormous responsibility they carried and the gravity of even considering evacuating the bigger stations. Charlie was unflappable. Bel liked the security of her presence on the other end of the line.

  “You armed and loaded, Bel?” It was part of their procedures to have this question and corresponding answer recorded.

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent, 5709, I’ll leave you to it.” The line crackled into silence. Bel looked at her watch. It was one minute past six. She was officially on duty.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  On duty and hungry. The best thing about blending in and looking like everyone else was that Bel could act like everyone else. Her allocated home-base station was Paddington, and she knew exactly where to find breakfast.

  Ten minutes later, armed with a bacon sandwich, yet another coffee, and a pink iced doughnut for later, Bel rejoined the throngs of commuters and headed down to the next available train on the Hammersmith line. At this hour of the morning, the flow was steady. She listened to the public-address-system announcement that there were delays on the Bakerloo, Jubilee, and Victoria lines. This would mean an influx at Baker Street station in approximately twenty minutes when passengers looked for alternative routes; these two lines intersected Hammersmith at Baker Street, so this was where she would disembark and hang around for a while.

  At this hour, Bel rarely sat down. If a seat became available, she tended to offer it to older passengers. Standing gave her a better vantage point of the passengers. If the train was packed, she could barely see past the passengers immediately surrounding her.

  Exactly as she was trained to do, she immediately began scanning for the obvious visible signs of a bomber and resumed clicking through the traits.

  The first thing Bel looked for was thick, bulky jackets or clothing that looked too large for the wearer. Click! She blinked and cleared her mind, systematically commencing a scan of the passengers in her vicinity. Unseasonably thick jackets were number one on her list. It was summer, after all. Not exactly warm at that hour of the morning, but certainly not cold enough to wear a jacket that could be hiding explosives strapped to your body. She wore a jacket herself, but it was cotton and only just thick enough to help conceal her weapon. She concluded her scan. No one near her was overdressed.

  Not dissimilar to airports, train stations were one of the last places you would want to see an unattended bag or package, and part of Bel’s brief was also to scan for anything suspicious, unattended, or simply out of place. She scanned her immediate area, and all bags appeared to have owners.

  Second on her list for a suicide-bomber trait were hands, or hand, in a bag or in the bulky jacket pockets. Because no one was overdressed, she focused on hands in bags. The bag usually contained a detonator, and because a suicide bomber was a novice—it was, after all, their first and only day on the job—they were reluctant to let go of the detonator. Having your finger on the detonator made for a very nervous bomber.

  During training, Bel was asked to think about a time when she had participated in something that frightened her but was ultimately out of her hands. She immediately thought of the time when her close friend and colleague, Sam, beat her in the police charity fun run. Her loss resulted in a tandem skydive. Terrified of heights, she was violently ill the entire morning until the midday jump. Had the decision of when to jump been left in her hands, the plane probably would have circled until it ran out of fuel and jumping was her only option. Because someone else made the decision to jump at the optimum time, she was absolved of all responsibility.

  Making the choice, or having someone decide for you in difficult situations, was not a luxury suicide bombers were afforded. Making the decision to press a button and blow others up was one thing, but making the choice to press a button and blow yourself up also, now that was enough to make anyone a nervous, terrified mess.

  Suicide bombers were often a nervous wreck. They were trained to press the button at the first sign of trouble. If the bomber was forced to deviate from the plan or if they were identified and the authorities attempted communication or negotiation, they were to immediately blow themselves up. The hand in the bag was an unavoidable giveaway for a suicide bomber.

  Click! She saw plenty of hands in pockets, but none in bags. So far, so good.

  Characteristic number three, the bomber will most likely be chanting or praying. When Bel was eleven, her family dog, Tom Jones, was hit by a car. Her mum rushed him to the animal hospital, and because of his extensive injuries he underwent surgery and remained in care overnight. Bel had never been to church; she only really knew about Jesus because of Christmas and Easter, but that night in bed she found herself praying. Regardless of your beliefs, it’s not unusual to pray in times of extreme stress.

  For a suicide bomber, imminent death is understandably rather stressful. For those extremists of the Muslim faith, they believe their death will deliver them to paradise. It’s well reported that those about to be received in paradise are often praying.

  Click! A few passengers were grinning as they stared at their phones, but no one appeared to be chanting or praying. Bel’s ride was smooth so far.

  The trait Bel looked for next was ambiguous at the best of times. It involved someone on drugs. Suicide bombers were reportedly high before they blew themselves up. And why not? You were about to die, why not take the edge off with a good dose of happy pills? She was hit-and-miss at telling if a person was high at the best of times, unless they were behaving like a stoned-out idiot. If she could see them walking she had a better chance because they tended to walk erratically, and with the extra weight of a bomb strapped to their body, they stood out. But if they were sitting down, her strike rate was fifty / fifty or less. Someone with a good dose of the flu or a severe head cold looked high to Bel. People rarely looked at you long enough for you to peer into their eyes and check for dilated pupils.

  Click! She slowly scanned the faces in her line of vision. Everyone seemed normal in that respect, even the skinny teenage boy whose grey track pants sported a yellowing stain on the crotch. He certainly wasn’t a suicide bomber. He was probably smelly and a complete crap ride for the people sitting next to him, but at least he’d stay intact for the duration of the journey.

  Next on Bel’s list was sweat. It’s not difficult to imagine that, sitting on a train enduring your last moments on earth, possibly high as a kite, before you press a trigger that ends your life, you might work up a little sweat. Couple this with the fact that you’re wearing bulky warm clothes and are weighed down with explosives, one would expect the bomber to be dripping. Bel laughed to herself. She invariably worked up a decent lather just going for her smear test, so it was little wonder a suicide bomber might be a little clammy and shiny.

  Click! She didn’t see any excessively sweaty passengers near her. Everyone appeared to have the appropriate complexion.

  This led to her next characteristic. Many male suicide bombers of extremist faiths often shaved all visible body hair before blowing themselves up. It also helped to detract attention from them. A Middle Eastern man with dark hair, olive-toned skin, and sporting a dark beard often fit the public profile of the stereotypical suicide bomber. One of Bel’s close friends, Frank (his mother loved Frank Sinatra), was of Syrian descent. He was a handsome, well-dressed architect with about as much knack for bomb building as a gay man is for cage fighting. Every year their mutual friends held a themed New Year’s Eve party, and one year the theme was Bad Taste. Frank grew a beard and attended the party as a Bin Laden; (he wore a garbage bag to cover the Bin aspect). Given the theme, it was a clever costume, but in th
e weeks leading up to the party, as his fashionable stubble grew into a full beard, Frank became a target for abuse and threats. Extremists, regardless of their country of origin, made it difficult for ordinary people like Frank to live a trouble-free life. As usual, the minority of bad eggs screwed it up for the good people of the world.

  Click. No man near her was sporting a two-toned face where his beard had protected his face from the sun, nor could she see anyone with the orange glow of fake tan trying to hide a recently shaved beard.

  Characteristic number seven was staring or being fixated on a specific spot or object. An inordinate number of bombers captured on cameras or CCTV before death show a face with eyes staring straight ahead. It’s not clear why this is the case, but a bomber rarely makes eye contact with anyone, nor do they look about themselves smiling or gazing happily at the people they intend to kill.

  During training, Bel constantly reminded herself that these people behaved as they did because they were only minutes from death, minutes from meeting their maker, and minutes away from ever seeing anybody they knew or cared about ever again. If it was so easy to train a person to blow themselves up, why couldn’t a bomber be trained not to look so stereotypically like a bomber? Every time Bel’s mind wandered into this dangerous territory, she reminded herself they were going to die. It was always a sobering thought.

  Click! Loads of people stared into space on trains. Their thoughts and daydreams often consumed them, and based on this trait alone, over half the commuters on the London underground could be suicide bombers. But as Bel noticed someone staring, she clicked through her list and eliminated them. Systematically, she looked at the people in her vicinity and discounted them all; no one staring into space possessed any other suspicious traits.

  In reality, this process took Bel only minutes and, in some cases, seconds to complete. By the time the train had reached its next stop, she would have analysed all the passengers in her sight.