Bombmaker

by Claire McFall

  I memorised all twenty names, and the amounts they owed. It was an odd register. They were all girls, the cash sums paltry in comparison with most of Alexander’s deals. That didn’t bother me, though. There was less chance of trouble that way. Once I could repeat it by rote for Zane three times without making mistakes, he took me back upstairs, handed me a jacket and a phone.

  “What’s the number?” I asked.

  The mobiles I was given only ever had one telephone number logged into the directory, and that was the only one they could call.

  “Mine,” Zane said. I grimaced at the floor as I shrugged my way into a tight-fitting denim jacket. “You’ve got until four this afternoon,” he said, shoving the rucksack into my hands. “Don’t make me have to call you.”

  “Right,” I muttered.

  “Lizzie?” a voice behind me called my name. It was Samuel.

  “She’s going out,” Zane said curtly, his harsh Northern Irish accent jarring again Samuel’s soft Welsh one.

  “Where to?”

  “St Paul’s.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was used to being talked about as if I wasn’t there. It was nice to see Samuel make a face when he heard my destination, though. We shared a dislike of the Central Zone.

  “Come here,” he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket.

  “She’s leaving now,” Zane protested, putting a hand on my arm when I moved.

  Samuel stared at him, and Zane stared back, but only for a moment. Then he dropped his arm, and his head. Zane might be Alexander’s right-hand man, his shadow, but Samuel was Alexander’s brother. That meant he won the weigh in, just.

  I trooped forward, scuffed and tatty Cat boots clumping loudly on the wooden floor. My eyes were on a small jar in his hands.

  “You’ll need this, if you’re going to the Zone,” he said, dunking two fingers into a beige cream and smearing it across my skin, over the interwoven lines running a never-ending circle around my cheek. “It’s not a perfect match,” he said, rubbing it in. “You’re too pale. But it’s better than nothing.”

  He finished his work, but left his hand against my cheek. His touch was warm against my skin, comforting. His eyes – Alexander’s and yet absolutely not – stared down at me. I gazed back, saying nothing, doing my best to think nothing, waiting to be dismissed.

  “Why is she still here?” Alexander’s voice cut through the moment as he descended the stairs. I half turned my head to look at him, and Samuel dropped his hand at once. Not fast enough for Alexander’s quick eyes to miss it, though. He paused on the bottom step, exuding a deathly calm, but for the snakelike narrowing of his eyes. No one spoke, we were waiting for Alexander.

  “Elizabeth,” he murmured. “Go.”

  I went, shouldering past Zane on my way out of the door.

  “Four o’clock,” he hissed in my ear as I passed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The door slammed closed behind me before I’d made my way down the four steps onto the street. A man eyed me thoughtfully from the safety of a blue hatchback idling by the curb as I started walking, but I didn’t pay him any attention. He was either undercover police, in which case I was definitely not important enough for him to follow, or, more likely, he was part of Alexander’s security, watching who went past the building.

  It was a warm day, muggy beneath a thick layer of cloud, so I was far too hot under the layers of my T-shirt, light hoodie and the denim jacket. The rucksack was heavy on my back, weighed down by the package, and sweat quickly began to collect between my shoulder blades. I really wanted to shrug off the denim jacket, but I didn’t. I’d been handed the thing, which meant Alexander wanted me to wear it. Whether there were reasons behind the decision or not, it was smarter just to follow orders, spoken or otherwise, to the letter.

  There was no question of my taking off the hoodie either.

  Even with the thick make-up Samuel had coated on my face to hide the tattoo – the same stuff they give to burn victims – I felt like there was a spotlight on me as I walked. I wished I had thick, heavy curtains of hair, like I used to have, to hang forward and hide half my face, but Alexander liked my black hair chopped short, elfin-like, so that was how I wore it. Self-consciously I yanked the hood up, locking in the heat but covering up my deformity.

  Alexander’s headquarters was on Bancroft Road, in the midst of the Underground triangle of Bethnal Green, Mile End and Stepney Green, but I didn’t head to any of those stations. The Underground was the government’s favourite way of playing big brother. All tickets were issued, paid for and tracked using the government’s ID card scheme. Sharp cameras kept watch for anyone whose face didn’t match their card, and Alexander’s claws hadn’t quite dug deep enough to make a contact who could get him official ID cards. Not yet.

  I wasn’t walking either. It was three miles to St Paul’s, and I had to make my drop-off then get myself to Kensington and back by Zane’s deadline. I checked my watch. Just after eleven. I should have plenty of time, barring complications.

  The Underground might have been tied up tight with security, but the trains were lagging sadly behind. They were much less popular, having been an early target of the various Celt terrorist groups, and without the ticket money coming in, the government couldn’t justify the expense of updating the infrastructure. Only the underclass, the poor, used the overground trains. The ones who couldn’t afford their own transport and had reasons to want to avoid the more heavily monitored Underground. People like me.

  I made my way to the station at Whitechapel, bought my ticket to Blackfriars with cash I found in the denim jacket pocket, then stood unobtrusively beside a pillar to wait. The platform was fairly empty, a few youths loitering on benches, oblivious to the old woman with heavy shopping bags who really wanted to sit but was wary of opening her mouth. Down at the other end, as far from the ticketing booth as he could get, was an old man, homeless by the state of his clothes and the loaded shopping trolley that he’d somehow managed to get down the steps. There was one more person; the one I looked at the least, but was most acutely aware of. He was maybe mid-twenties and thuggish looking, and he was staring at me.

  Alexander was having me tailed. That was both galling and reassuring. He wasn’t doing a very good job; I’d clocked him when I was buying my ticket, and the more I watched the more obvious it was that he was following my every move. I sniffed, looked at him for long enough for our eyes to lock and let him know that I knew exactly what he was doing. I smirked to myself as I looked away. If I wanted to leave him chasing my shadow I could, I was positive of that, but I’d just get us both into trouble.

  The train rattled in and groaned to a stop. The door that halted in front of me was buckled and warped, the glass a spider’s web of cracks. It refused to open when I hit the button, forcing me to jog along to the next one and throw myself in behind the old woman before the door closed at my back.

  The inside of the carriage was dimly lit, the tightly meshed cages over the windows cutting out a lot of the light. They were more for show than anything else. If a bomb went off they would provide little protection. I sat on a plastic seat that had been warped and blackened by matches, and stared into nothing as I recited Alexander’s list in my head.

  At Blackfriars I got off, as did my shadow. We made our way up the hill along Queen Victoria Street, turning left onto New Change. The dome of the cathedral peeked at me at intervals, looming between the roofs of assorted buildings, guiding me in.

  The closer I got, the more nervous I became. The streets were full of business people and policemen. GE patrols drove past me every few seconds. Of course the Central Zone would be on high alert after the events of last night. There was no more dangerous place for the guilty bomber to be. Was this Alexander’s idea of a joke?

  I stopped in the small square outside the cathedral, sitting down on one of the white stone steps, the rucksack between my legs. My minder hovered behind the columns of the building opposite. I had a feeling
he’d disappear once I was no longer in possession of my – or more specifically Alexander’s – valuable cargo. Trying to look like I was just bored, I surreptitiously checked my watch. I was here exactly when Zane told me I should be. That was good, because if I’d been late I was sure it would have been reported. Clockwork, I told myself.

  “You can’t sit here!”

  I jumped at the harsh voice above me. Black boots came to a stop in front of my face. Above them, black uniform trousers and a black jacket. A red GE logo adorned the left breast of the jacket, as well as the hat. I gulped. Was this the man I was supposed to meet, or was this just another one of the hundreds of GE crawling over the Central Zone?

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I was just waiting for my friend.”

  “Oh really, and who would that be?” He didn’t stare at my face – didn’t seem to notice my accent.

  “Riley,” I stuttered out the name Zane had given me, but there was no spark of recognition in the man’s eye. He continued to glare down at me.

  “What have you got in the bag?” he barked. “Come on, open it!”

  I resisted the urge to look at the thug Alexander had sent to tail me. I was afraid of being caught exchanging wordless communication, and there was no guarantee he’d know who I was supposed to be meeting, either.

  With trembling fingers I unzipped the bag, pulled the two seams apart to show him the inside. The little brown package nestled on top, impossible to miss. The GE officer hunkered down, stretched a finger out to stroke the top of the paper. He looked up at me, his expression unreadable, and I felt a cold hand squeeze my chest. He was only a foot or so away. Was Samuel’s make-up good enough to hide my tattoo? Had I got the right man? If not, was I about to die?

  He licked his lips. “Is it all there?”

  Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded.

  His fingers curled around the parcel. He lifted it, tested the weight, then in one swift movement, snatched it up and stuffed it down the front of his jacket. It was too big and bulky not to stand out, but it could just as easily have been a firearm. Few people were going to question a GE.

  “Tell Alexander this will do him a month,” he said. Then he straightened up and marched away.

  My lungs unfroze as I watched his departing back and I hauled in gulps of humid, polluted air. My eyes searched the columns for my minder, but he was already gone. I wasn’t valuable enough to watch.

  I got up and made my way to a little fast-food shop across the street and bought myself a cheeseburger. It was limp, tasteless and difficult to swallow, but I persevered. Then I went into the bathroom and threw it straight back up. I was shaking, tension and adrenaline spiking in my veins like the drugs I’d just delivered. Flushing away the contents of my stomach, I sat down on the pan, my head in my hands, trying to get a hold of myself. I needed to get back in control; I still had another job to do.

  Sighing, I reached for the bag, unzipped it and peered inside.

  “You have to be joking!”

  The change of clothing that Zane had packed in the bottom of my rucksack consisted of a short black skirt and cardigan, a white shirt, red striped tie and sensible black shoes. A school uniform. At the bottom of the bag my searching fingers wrapped around a sheet of paper. Alexander’s spiky handwriting had scrawled across the surface.

  KING’S COURT COLLEGE

  Underneath was an address in Earl’s Terrace, one of the most exclusive streets in Kensington. He wanted me to go and collect drug money in a school? No wonder he hadn’t been able to send any of his usual lackeys; they’d stand out a mile down there. I was unlikely to fare much better. However, I wasn’t going back to Stepney without every penny of his money.

  I quickly stripped down to my underwear and dragged on the new outfit. It looked ridiculous. In the grubby mirror outside the stall I looked at myself critically. It was all wrong: the good little student who also had piercings covering her face? I’d never make it within a mile of the place without some overprotective parent or teacher calling the police. I drummed my fingers against the cold porcelain of the sink, thinking. Then I kicked off the flats and shoved my feet back in my Cats, leaving the laces untied. I yanked the short skirt up to obscene levels, opened the top four buttons of my shirt and stuffed the tie down inside it, like it was an arrow pointing the way to my non-existent cleavage. I already had the hair and the piercings for the look. When I was finished I studied myself. Much less posh, much more convincing. Every private school had misfits like this.

  I stuffed my old clothes in the rucksack and zipped it up before I pushed my sleeves through the cardigan. It had a hood, a rare show of consideration from Alexander that caught me by surprise. I flipped it up. Now I definitely looked like a good girl trying too hard to be bad. Perfect.

  Back at Blackfriars, I tripped on my way in, knocked into a girl dressed similarly to me, who was digging in her bag for her ID card. We both went sprawling, the contents of her satchel spilling across the ground.

  “I’m sorry!” I said, helping her pick up pens and make-up. She didn’t have an awful lot of books in there, I noticed. But then, if she went to classes she wouldn’t be out in the middle of the school day. I left her growling just outside the entrance, still hunting in her bag, whilst I used her ID card to buy my access to the Circle line.

  I got off at Kensington and headed for the High Street. It was another world; stately apartments over boutique shops, the roadside lined with expensive-looking cars. Housewives window-shopped, looking as if they didn’t have a care in the world. It was like the last five years had never happened.

  I fixed the look of contempt of a troubled youth on my face and started forward. My attire and my attitude afforded me plenty of stares, but they were disapproving and critical rather than suspicious.

  It was half one, the very tail end of lunchtime, but the kind of girls I was looking for weren’t likely to be rushing back for afternoon Latin. They’d be loitering somewhere, just out of sight of the school grounds, smoking, maybe drinking, congratulating themselves on putting two fingers up to the establishment and wasting the thousands their doting parents were spending on their education. They’d be easy to find.

  In fact, I struck gold with the first cluster of girls I came across. They were huddled just off the High Street, on Edwardes Square in the shade of a wall overshadowed by huge oak trees, cover enough to hide the spirals of smoke issuing from their roll ups.

  “I’m looking for Amy C,” I said, walking right up to them.

  One of them pouted, exhaling what was possibly supposed to be a ring of smoke from ruby red lips. It didn’t work.

  “You don’t go to King’s,” she accused.

  I smiled. “No, I don’t.”

  I wondered if I’d found Amy C.

  “Why are you wearing the uniform then? Why are you here? And what sort of accent is that?” she eyed me suspiciously.

  I ignored the first question. “I’m here to collect.” And ignored the last.

  There was a moment of silence, strained on their part, triumphant on mine. Their expressions ranged from fearful to resigned to disgruntled. The girl who’d spoken was definitely in the latter group.

  “How do we know who you are?” she demanded. “Have you got any proof?”

  I stared at her, my face immobile except for one eyebrow, which I arched incredulously.

  “Just pay her, Amy,” another girl sighed, her purse already opened.

  “Name?” I held out my hand expectantly.

  “Naomi.”

  “That’s one hundred and twenty.”

  Naomi handed it to me without a word.

  After her I went around the little group. Amy C was the last to hand over her cash. I wasn’t surprised; hers was the biggest bill by a long way. Still peanuts, though, comparatively speaking. Alexander was just playing with these girls, waiting for them to grow up before he starting charging them the big bucks.

  “Do you work for Zane then?” One of the girls, Ma
rie, was eyeing me curiously.

  I smiled thinly. “Sort of.”

  “Oh, you’re so lucky! Isn’t he fit?”

  I said nothing, wondering if she’d fancy him quite so much if she’d seen him choke the life out of a man with his bare hands.

  I counted the cash in my hands. I was at the bottom of my mental list.

  “Where’s Tanya?” I asked.

  No answer. I looked up, but no one else was waiting to hand me over their unearned pocket money. They all looked a little shifty.

  “Where is she?” I asked again.

  “She’s not here,” Marie answered. I waited. “She’s at home. She’s not feeling very well.”

  I sighed. Here was my complication.

  “Where does she live?”

  They all avoided my gaze. I locked in on Marie.

  “Marie?” I tried to make my voice soft, like we were confidantes. She squirmed. Time to turn the screw. “Marie, I’d hate to have to tell Zane you weren’t helpful…”

  I let that hang there, and three minutes later I was on my way, an address for a street on the edge of Chelsea scrawled across the back of my hand.

  It was a long walk, but I didn’t know the routes well enough in this part of the city to jump on any of the buses that were whizzing past. I could have taken any of the taxis meandering slowly by with their yellow lights on, but the cash I’d been given with the jacket was quickly dwindling and I wasn’t foolish enough to spend any of Alexander’s. At least the streets were safe, devoid of the junkies and thugs who roamed the less affluent areas.

  Tanya’s house was very posh. A town house, with fresh white paint, a glossy black door and flowerbeds hanging off each of the many windows. Her father was probably a politician, or a crooked businessman. They were the only type who had survived the recession.

  I didn’t hesitate on the street, but marched straight up to her front door. Anything else would have looked suspicious, and besides, the watch on my wrist was ticking on towards three. I was running out of time, and I really didn’t want to have to phone Zane.