‘You were here the night I took measurements, a few days after the old building was destroyed,’ John said.
‘Aye, I remember.’
‘And you were here when I fell and knocked my head, because you called the ambulance.’
‘Hmm.’
‘You were here either side of my amnesia, as if the world I entered for three and a half years was guarded by you standing at its entrance and exit.’
A cold breeze passed through the Square. There were still glimpses of stars in the morning sky. John shivered and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling almost at one with the expanse of the universe. The breeze whistled quietly in his ear like an angel enticing him to heaven. He didn’t know what he was doing in this moment, nor why he was doing it, but he opened his eyes, turned to the tramp, got down on his knees and bowed. Tears flooded into his eyes and fell from his cheeks to the ground. The tramp grinned warmly at him, and John walked back to the café. As he did so, he received a text saying the packages had been delivered to the building.
Upon returning to the Square an hour later, with only a couple of hours to go, a crowd had gathered. At the front of the crowd were yellow barriers and policemen, and in-between the barriers and the stage was a considerable gap where the press was setting up cameras and fiddling with microphones.
John knew he would not be able to see the overall appearance of the building if he tried looking now; but perhaps later today, when the symbol of freedom was burning to hell and the poison of its hypocrisy was dissolving inside him, he would. With this thought, adrenaline pumped through his body, and he lit a cigarette to calm himself before being let through the barrier by Security.
Wilkinson and Mann were at the stage. Mann stood confidently as ever, both legs straight and hands behind his back. Wilkinson appeared calm and detached, smiling amicably at John.
‘You’re joining us for the party afterwards, I gather.’ Wilkinson said.
John wondered whether Ronald, Head of Security, had told Wilkinson about the packages: ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Good, very good. I’m glad you can be with us today, despite our differences in the past.’
Pete approached and smiled cautiously at John: ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘With no future for my company, there didn’t seem to be much point in going to the office.’
Pete nodded with an embarrassed swiftness and adjusted his glasses. Wilkinson and Mann looked away, pretending not to hear. The press had already reported that Gowan Partnerships was ending so Zenith didn’t have to pretend they didn’t know, but it seemed likely that Zenith approved of Pete’s move; and perhaps, they even engineered it. Pete’s decision to form another company and all the staff going with him had created further public suspicion that John had not designed the building.
‘But I don’t blame you for forming a new company, Pete,’ John said, knowing that the building’s destruction would amend all wrongs. ‘It makes sense to distance yourself from me to gain better contracts.’
Pete raised his manicured eyebrows with surprise.
The four men ambled nervously for the next hour, drinking tea and watching the gathering of the crowd behind the barrier. People seemed joyful, but there were also political protesters, wearing t-shirts with topical messages, who were beginning to chant against the building. Over the past few weeks, their initial support for John, after the television and radio interviews, had waned because they, like those who supported Zenith, deemed his comments to be, at the very least, insensitive to the victims who died. Even Muslim extremists didn’t support John because he had said he didn’t support their cause.
Eventually, the four men were asked by organisers in yellow Hi Vis to sit on the stage where other dignitaries were beginning to sit. These included local and national politicians and the Blanworth Mayor with his ceremonial golden chains. A small selection of people who lost loved ones in the old building were also here.
At 11 a.m., in front of a protective screen of bulletproof plastic, the Prime Minister, with whom John had neglected to talk, rose from his seat and walked to a microphone in the middle of the stage. He was tall, broad and had the kind of thick hair that, no matter how well-cut, appeared scruffy.
‘Ladies and Gentleman, it’s with great happiness and delight that I am standing here today in front of the completed Zenith building.’ There was applause. ‘Five and a half years ago, this city and, indeed, this country were shocked by a horrible event but, in the aftermath, I was struck by the tenacity and bravery of the local people. Much praise has to go to the firemen, policeman, doctors and nurses who helped tirelessly after the attack, and also to you, the ordinary citizens who, in the days and weeks that followed, stood firm together, not letting it affect your daily lives. Your love, courage and endurance should serve as an example to us all.’
There was more applause as the Prime Minister turned towards the building behind him and raised his hand: ‘What better monument could there be to the victims and their families than this wonderful, new building we have here.’
There were yet more claps, and he looked at his notes on the stand in front of him: ‘It hasn’t been without a little controversy, but I’m sure most people will agree that this building is a marvellous symbol of our country’s values. I will now pass you over to the architects, Mr Pete Williams and Mr John Gowan.’
He, evidently, hadn’t intended to say much because Zenith’s business practises, along with John’s comments on television and radio, had become such a hot political issue that he needed to distance himself from them, as much as he could. He smiled and winked at Pete as he sat down. John followed Pete to the front of the stage.
‘Thank you, so much,’ Pete said, and the applause quietened. ‘It is an honour to be here, with you today, and to be a part of something so important to this city.’ It had been agreed by Pete, John and Zenith that neither man should say he designed the building: ‘I feel terribly grateful, because without Zenith’s belief in this building and, indeed, without the government’s backing, which you, the taxpayer, paid for, this would never have been possible. Thank you, so much!’
There were claps, whistles and a few boos from the protesters at the back of the crowd. Pete sidestepped and John moved to the microphone.
John had prepared his short speech, and Wilkinson had approved it as part of today’s agreement to be here. Zenith’s PR lady had thought the speech a little odd, but she didn’t object. If John, however, departed from it by even one word, there could be heavy legal repercussions because he had signed an agreement. Not wanting to jeopardize his operation today, in any way, and with the knowledge that his speech would be interpreted differently after today’s events, he began reciting.
‘Today is a momentous day and will be remembered for many years to come. The building should, ideally, offer a guiding light for people to see, to feel, to experience. From the ashes of the last building and from the construction of this one, there will only be light! It hasn’t been without controversy and, it’s true, I helped fuel the fire. But, whether you embrace its light or not, I hope you can, at least, experience something from it today. Thank you.’
There was some applause, some silence and many boos. The public had, unsurprisingly, sided with Pete in the debate over who designed the building. How could they not? Their feelings were entrenched in the warm solidarity against terrorism. John’s cause was altogether more elusive.
‘Well done,’ Wilkinson said quietly to John, clearly pleased he had kept to the approved script.
For the next thirty minutes, further speeches followed: first by Wilkinson, who said nothing that could be construed as political; then by relatives of the victims; and finally, by the Mayor, who praised local talent and local enterprise. At 11.40 a.m., on schedule, the men and women left the stage and stood to its side – at the centre of the Zenith building – with the press facing them in a huddled line.
At noon, the Prime Minister stood next to the red ribbon draped ove
r the entrance, ready for the ceremonial cut. John guessed it was a shop entrance and not the main entrance, which would probably be down the side road – as with the previous building.
‘To the future!’ the PM shouted, with a grin aimed at the cameras, and he cut the ribbon to great applause.
John looked at his watch. There were only five minutes before his packages would ignite. He had gleaned the idea for an incendiary formula from a television documentary about Australian helicopter pilots who drop fire initiators onto woodland, to minimise the possibility of wild-fires. The initiators included a mixture of ethylene glycol and potassium permanganate that, when mixed together, cause an exothermic reaction.
The ethylene glycol was sold in a hardware store, and the potassium permanganate, on the Internet. On the particular website where he had bought it, a customer had warned purchasers of police attention, so John had been ready to justify the considerable quantity that he had bought for cleaning his pond – which was, indeed, especially foul and bug-ridden.
In each wrapped package a plastic tub contained a kilogram of potassium permanganate powder. On the underside of the lid was attached an upside-down, two-litre plastic bottle of liquid ethylene glycol. The bottle’s tapering end was cut away and replaced with a thick layer of candle wax, which prevented the liquid from falling onto the potassium permanganate. Two light bulbs were attached to the candle wax. A battery timer, stuck to the box, was attached with wires to the bulbs. At the right time, the light bulbs would switch on, the wax would melt and, five minutes later, the ethylene glycol would gush through the melted wax, hitting the potassium permanganate powder.
Despite the exothermic reaction, John still needed to do two things to give his fire the best chance of spreading – disable the sprinklers and stop the firemen from entering the building. He also needed to evacuate the building to make sure there were no fatalities. He guessed that the fire only needed a good ten minutes of blazing before the building was beyond help, but he wasn’t an expert and had no way of knowing.
He stepped away from the other dignitaries, who were smiling at the cameras, and moved to the corner of the building, sufficiently away from people. By now, the light bulbs would be burning the candle wax. He phoned the police.
‘Blanworth Police,’ a bored female voice said.
‘Now, listen very carefully,’ he said, quietly but confidently. ‘There are several bombs in the new Zenith building that will detonate today at different times. You have five minutes to evacuate the building.’
John said there were multiple bombs to reduce the possibility of the firemen going inside and tackling the blaze.
‘I will send an email, immediately after this telephone call, with detailed information of the building, including password codes and photos of secret safe rooms, to confirm the validity of this threat.’
John had obtained this information from Janice over the past few weeks and, without looking at any of it, he had copied it all into one email.
‘My email address is ******, and the email will be entitled “Bomb”. If there is any attempt to enter the building, all the bombs will explode prematurely.’
‘Who are you?’ she asked, with a heightened pitch.
John ended the call and sent the email. He felt excited and turned to the crowd that was listening to another person speaking.
A minute later, a loud siren erupted through the building. The crowd stopped smiling and looked up with bemused faces. On his phone, John accessed a file, which he had obtained from Pete a few weeks ago, that controlled the building’s sprinkler systems. With the press of a button, he turned them off.
Amidst the whirring noise of the alarm, he looked at his watch. The wax must have melted by now, and the ethylene glycol would have dropped into the potassium permanganate, causing an immediate exothermic reaction. The fire had begun!
A few people ran past him, coming from the side road – presumably, from inside the building. Soon, nobody would be inside. Everything was going to plan. People in the Square were holding their ears because the alarm was loud. They stared up at the building, not knowing what was happening. The police were trying to push them further back, away from the barriers, but they were slow to move. John was beginning to feel his heart race.
The dignitaries seemed bewildered and were being forced to move away quickly by police and bodyguards. Pete was shouting frantically to Mann over the noise, and Wilkinson appeared perplexed and quiet. The Prime Minister could not be seen.
‘What’s going on?’ John asked, approaching Pete.
Pete turned from Mann and adjusted his colourful tie: ‘A bomb threat, apparently. But nobody really knows yet. Where have you been?’
John smiled with a great sense of excitement and tapped him on the arm: ‘The toilet.’
In the middle of the Square, the press were operating their cameras with expectant faces, like dogs waiting for their food.
‘Mr Gowan, do you know what’s happening?’ a young black reporter shouted.
John avoided the press and approached the police barrier, where he stood for a few minutes. People were heaving forwards and sideways, and policemen were struggling to contain them. The alarm was loud enough to get people out of the building; but outside, people seemed to be drawn towards it. A voice, through a loudspeaker, was telling people to stand back, but it was hard to hear.
‘Look!’ somebody shouted. People were pointing towards something on one of the lower floors.
‘Oh, a fire!’ shouted another.
‘Where?’
A huge whoosh of excitement spread through John’s body, electrifying it. His first floor incendiary device had worked! An intense fire had spread through the room, lighting the party paraphernalia and extra sofas and chairs which he knew would be there for the party.
Fire engines were arriving in the Square, and the crowds were forced to move aside. Their alarms were puny compared to the building’s alarm, which seemed to pulsate in time with John’s heart rate, uniting him with the fabric of everything. People appeared stricken, shocked. They were shouting, pointing and beginning to cry as they faced the prospect of terrorism, once more. John smiled and smiled.
Mann, Wilkinson and Pete joined John. From their steady stares, it was obvious they knew he was the culprit. John couldn’t help but grin.
‘Quite a spectacle,’ Wilkinson said.
John nodded.
‘Look there,’ Mann said, pointing high in the sky.
A thin line of dark smoke slithered into the pale blue sky, curling and imitating the clouds. John’s heartbeat increased as he realised it came from the top floor of the building, confirming that the other incendiary device had worked. He was, nevertheless, surprised at how quickly the building was burning.
‘The fire is spreading quickly through the building,’ Wilkinson said calmly, ‘and smoke is funnelling through open windows at the top.’
‘I do hope nobody’s inside,’ Pete said.
The alarm ended, and an eerie silence swept through the Square. Nobody was talking; some were crying; all were looking. The people, the Square and the black smoke that spiralled into the spring sun were united and whole, like the dark countryside and road in the moments before John crashed his car. There was a depth, a meaning, to everything that he saw: the way he experienced life as a child but with the addition of adult eyes that, far from sobering it, enhanced the truth of his experience. His heart had calmed down to a slow, undetectable throb.
‘Aren’t you going to look at it?’ Pete asked John.
‘I think I might.’
With the faith he would see the building and remember everything from the design process, he turned.
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The Freedom Building Page 19