Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  Hazma sighs at how long she’s taking, looks down at his watch, and notices a stream of piss flowing through his feet, rippling over the souls of his boots.

  He leaps away and immediately spins around to face Millie, who’s just finished peeing. With a satisfied face she shakes herself off, then stands, and though still naked below the waist stares straight into his eyes, sneering brazenly.

  Hazma looks disgusted as he tiptoes around her stream, averting his gaze from her privates, and bends down to pull up her trousers, but as he crouches, Millie asks, “Did you tiptoe around George’s blood?”

  He freezes; remaining crouched on his haunches, with head down at her groin level. She continues calmly, “After you beheaded him?”

  He remains still and silent; she confirms, “I know it was you!” then asks, “How did it feel… hacking his head off?”

  After an extended pause, the Iraqi lifts his head to face her. Millie detects sadness in his eyes and sincerity in his voice as he mumbles, “I’m sorry about George.”

  “He was your friend,” she states in disbelief, “how could you do that?”

  Hazma can’t find words to say that will make any sense, so takes the easy option, ignores the question, pulls up her trousers as he stands and replies, “Save your questions for the doctor.”

  “Talk to me, Hazma,” she pleads. “I know about your past, but is all this killing really what you want?”

  He dodges flack again, explaining, “The interview will be streamed live via the Internet. It will be brief. Centuries of oppression cannot be debated in minutes. He asks that you choose your questions well.”

  Like a dog with a bone, Millie won’t let it lie. “I know George influenced you. He was a good man and you know it. Ruparela made you kill him, didn’t he? He pulls the strings; don’t let him control you, Hazma. You’re better than that. Foot soldiers are controlled always by warlords… lords of war preaching death and destruction.”

  He refuses to comment, remaining silent, pulling out a roll of duct tape and tearing off a long strip.

  She talks faster as the tape approaches, “Did George die in vain? Was he killed for nothing… like your parents?” she hopes to prompt a response, but doesn’t, so tries again. “All those things you and George spoke about in prison. You can make a difference, by not following this madman; please see sense,” she pleads. “Hazma… please see sense.”

  He mutters morosely, “There is no sense.”

  Encouraged by this glimmer of common sense she replies, “You must—”

  But he cuts Millie short, pulling her chin up, plastering on tape and fireman-lifting her back into the van.

  She shuffles back against the side wall, as he stands staring down from the open doors, looking straight into her eyes; wearing the expression of a man who wants to converse… but can’t.

  Her eyes stare back; inviting pools… willing him to talk.

  •

  Chapter: 34

  Twenty-Three/Four

  At the Post Office depot, around midday, Larry stands alongside Agent Williams on loading bay 11, and though the morning started chilly, both now bask in warm sunshine beaming down from a bright cloudless sky.

  They observe plain-clothed agents and uniformed police questioning Post Office staff about Millie’s disappearance. Postal activity in the depot is currently zero, as a forensic team scours for clues, which so far, like the questioning, has drawn a blank. Apparently nobody knows or saw anything, and by coincidence, the closed-circuit television covering the loading bays stopped working an hour before Millie arrived.

  But then a lifeline, Agent Williams’ mobile rings, and after a few seconds he relays to Larry what he’s hearing. “The Mercedes is moving?”

  “What Mercedes?” asks Larry.

  Williams lifts a palm urging him to wait, and responds to the caller, “Towards Central London…”

  “What’s happening?” Larry niggles impatiently, and as the agent hangs up asks, “Well?”

  With a spring in his step Williams heads towards the car park, motions Larry to follow and replies, “We may have picked up Ruparela’s Mercedes.”

  Larry follows, looking confused, “What do you mean, may have?”

  “It’s got false plates, but fits the bill… we’re tailing it now.”

  “What about Millie?”

  “We haven’t ID’d the passengers yet.” Williams nods towards the passenger door, “Jump in.”

  An eager American squeezes inside.

  •

  Meanwhile, an iconic chrome Mercedes marque shimmers in sunlight, against black lacquered paint on the rear of Ruparela’s vehicle, which moves at a steady pace en route to Central London.

  Tailing them discretely is an unmarked car containing two MI5 undercover agents; both members of the Terrorist Surveillance Unit headed by Williams, who is following with Larry in a different car.

  As the Mercedes halts at traffic lights, the agents discretely manoeuvre alongside, attempting to verify its passengers. Agent Williams’ voice enquires over the radio, “Can you get visual?”

  “Negative,” replies observing Agent Ginger from the passenger seat, and reports, “The car’s got blacked-out windows side and back, those really dense black ones; I can only make out shadows inside. Two in the front and maybe three passengers in the back; we’ll only get ID through the front windscreen.”

  “Do it then!” commands Williams.

  “On it!” responds Ginger, whose hair colour and surname are spookily the same.

  •

  Larry sighs and reaches for a folded-up newspaper wedged between dashboard and windscreen. He opens today’s copy of The Sun dated 23rd April and scans the front-page headline SUPPORT OUR SAINT. With today being Saint George’s Day, the paper is running a campaign drumming up public support to make the day an official public holiday in England.

  •

  Ginger and his colleague in the tailing car are struggling to get ahead of the Mercedes, without blowing cover. Now only several miles outside Central London, traffic is becoming congested, and each time the agents attempt to change lanes to improve position, bullish London drivers typically refuse to concede ground.

  •

  Inside the Mercedes the atmosphere is tense and quiet. Imran drives with Binda alongside him in the front. Both wear green paramedic uniforms and fixed expressions of focused concentration.

  As growing congestion reduces traffic speed to a crawl, from the rear bench seat Ruparela barks, “What’s the hold up?”

  “It’s very busy,” Imran replies over his shoulder.

  Clean-shaven Hazma sits across the table, dressed in white shirt, black tie and black trousers, with a British Police tunic and helmet packed into a bag on the seat beside him. The doctor is also clean shaven and wears traditional conventional Middle-Eastern menswear: a white tunic and trousers.

  Millie sits alongside Ruparela facing forwards, next to the side door, wearing the same black cotton tunic, trousers and full sack hood. Millie’s feet are bare and her ankles remain tied, like the wrists behind her back. The reporter’s neck is also strapped to the cylindrical tubes supporting the headrest by a man’s leather trouser belt, and for good measure the seatbelt has been fastened across tightly as well. Her mouth remains taped beneath the hood, as she listens intently to every noise, seeking clues to what will happen next.

  •

  Ginger’s vehicle crawls along several cars behind the Mercedes, as Williams’ voice pipes up over the radio, “What’s happening, Ginger?”

  “Traffic’s rammed,” he replies. “We’re barely moving, just inching along… real stop-start stuff.”

  “Okay, listen,” instructs Williams. “If it’s that slow, I want you out on foot. Get in front of that car and ID the passengers now.”

  “On it.” Ginger nods at the driver and exits the car.

  •

  Two cars in front, the flip-down TV inside the Mercedes is tuned to BBC’s twenty-four-hour news chan
nel, without sound, while an open laptop on the table streams an Arabic news website live via 4G.

  Frustrated by the traffic Ruparela asks, “How long now?”

  “Nearly there,” replies Imran, “but it’ll take time in this traffic, the crowds are heavy now.”

  Looking outside Ruparela sees hoards of people everywhere, overflowing footpaths and crossing the road between cars. He turns his attention to the laptop, plugs in a USB cable, clicks a few icons and suddenly live real-time footage from inside the Mercedes appears on the flip-down TV screen. The USB lead is taped along the window, and runs to a small video webcam mounted on the door stanchion above and behind the driver’s head.

  Ruparela waves his hand to check it’s working, and waves back on TV, with the hooded Millie sat next to him. Hazma’s crown on the back of his head is also visible in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen.

  Imran continues nudging the car forward in short jolts, when traffic and pedestrians allow him. It is practically gridlock in both directions.

  •

  Out on the street, walking with intent, Ginger deliberately takes a wide berth around the rear of the Mercedes, so as not to arouse suspicion. His colleague watches from behind the steering wheel as Ginger disappears amongst the crowd herding along the pavement.

  •

  About half a mile behind them Williams’ car hits the traffic. He sighs at the congestion and radios, “Talk to me, Ginger.”

  The agent replies, “I’m stood at a bus stop a few yards ahead of the Merc… When it reaches me I’ll get visual.”

  Using a reporter’s instincts, Larry’s eyes and ears are everywhere, observing everything around him, while at the same time flicking through the newspaper, browsing the lead story: a large spread detailing why The Sun will lobby Parliament over the proposed bank holiday, and how it is sponsoring today’s Saint George’s Day celebrations. A list highlights the day’s events and celebrity visitors due to attend. Larry reads out loud to Williams, “It says here, today there will be thousands of people in Trafalgar Square, campaigning for Saint George’s Day to be a public national holiday in England… That’s where all these folks are going then.”

  Williams nods, “Must be.”

  •

  As the Mercedes nears the bus stop, Ginger applies sunglasses and discretely peers through the front window, then as it passes attempts to see though the blacked-out side windows. He reports back via a microphone in his sleeve, “I recognise the two in the front.”

  “Names?” prompts Williams in his earpiece.

  “The driver is Imran Al-Shamari,” he confirms, “and the front passenger is that crazy looking bald bloke, with the long beard and freaky poppy-out eyes. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Davinda Jaffari?” asks Williams. “Known as Binda?”

  “That’s him!” Ginger confirms. “And you need to know, guv, the two in the front are wearing identical green uniforms… But all I can see in the back are three silhouettes.”

  A brief silence follows, before Williams radios his team, “All units… The Mercedes could be heading towards Parliament for a second go, or maybe Downing Street or the palace… I don’t want that car anywhere near those targets. Set up detours now… Command, I’m working blind here; let me know when teams are ready to intercept.”

  “Affirmative,” replies the command centre.

  •

  The female silhouette remains strapped to her seat, shrouded and listening carefully, while the other two gaze respectfully at each other across the table like proud teacher and number-one student, or doting father and appreciative son. Ruparela has passed on much of his knowledge to Hazma, and now passes on the key to his prized possession, “I’m going to miss this car,” he admits, holding the spare Mercedes key fob in his fingers, which he kisses lightly then passes across the table, and explains, “I know how you feel about my decision, Hazma… so please, accept this as my parting gift to you… Use it well, my son.” And assures him, “Your time will come… soon!”

  Hazma cradles the fob carefully, like holding a newborn baby. With great appreciation he replies, “Thank you, Doctor… for everything.” Then with kid gloves tucks it away into the breast pocket of the uniform in the bag.

  “Thank you, my son,” replies the doctor.

  There’s a sombre mood in the car now. Ruparela taps his finger on a digital clock face on the laptop, and nods his head, one time, slowly. Hazma nods back, one time, slowly, then reaches to press a button operating the side door.

  The motor whirs, sliding the door open, busy street noise wafts in, but just for a moment, for once the gap is wide enough Hazma picks up the bag, squeezes out, and manually slams the door closed behind him.

  Out on the street Hazma moves quickly, mingling in with a crowd crossing the road all the way onto the footpath. Imran and Binda watch, as he disappears completely; engulfed within the crowd.

  “HAZMA SAHAR JUST GOT OUT!” Gingers voice erupts over the radio.

  “FOLLOW HIM!” Williams commands back.

  “I’ll try,” Ginger confirms, “but he blended in with the crowd. It’s packed! And, guv… the rear of that Merc looks low on its axle.”

  Larry looks quizzically at Williams, who nods knowingly, before issuing an all-points bulletin, “All units standby…”

  •

  Inside the hood, Millie’s brow sweats profusely. Through tiny gaps in the cotton weave she sees flickers of daylight, but nothing else, and having inhaled stale recycled air through her nostrils for some time now, she’s feeling queasy, and longs to open her mouth and breathe clean air.

  Millie thinks she heard Hazma depart and wonders: Where’s he gone? Where are we going? Is this it… the end? Will I see James or Larry or Mom and Dad ever again? Does James even know what’s happened? He was right, what he said… my obsession, got me involved too deep. I’m embroiled so deep in this festering melting pot… and I can’t get out!

  Her fingers and arms feel numb, lack of circulation. She wiggles them around. Her feet aren’t cold now; afternoon sunshine magnified through the windows has warmed the car. Subconsciously she draws her bare toes backwards and forwards repeatedly to-and-fro across the floor, a comforting thing, and wonders what the smooth plastic things are, that she feels beneath her feet.

  Ruparela enquires impatiently again, “How long now?”

  Imran delivers better news, “We’ll reach the gate in two or three minutes.”

  As he accelerates slowly from the junction, the impressive splendour of Trafalgar Square comes into view on their right-hand side. Nelson’s Column stands proud at the foot of the square, guarded by four monumental bronze lion statues, purring on its plinth. Other ornate historical statues and sculptures surround the square and its two cascading ornamental fountains; overlooked from the elevated terrace by the magnificent British National Gallery building.

  The square is jam-packed today, overflowing with revellers celebrating Saint George’s Day. A sea of bodies stretches from the road beneath Nelson’s Column, right across the square and up steps leading to the North Terrace, beneath the gallery, where a large temporary stage has been erected as focal point for today’s events.

  As they drive slowly south side of the square, Ruparela casts his eyes over the majestic lion sculptures and states, “Legend has it that those lions were made with bronze smelted from French cannons captured at the Battle of Trafalgar…” He sneers, “Another symbol of Great Britain’s tyranny!” and then instructs Imran, “Turn on the doctor’s lights!”

  •

  Williams is tortured by traffic. Everything’s happening ahead of him, and he can’t get to it. With cars log-jammed now he climbs out, steps up onto the running-board, and peers across an expanse of car roofs stretching along The Strand in front of him, right up to the traffic lights at Trafalgar Square. He ponders… until Ginger’s voice bursts over the radio, “He’s turned flashing lights on, green doctor’s emergency lights!”

  “Where are y
ou now?”

  “Trafalgar Square!” he confirms, “in front of Nelson’s Column… HE’S PULLING ONTO THE SQUARE!”

  Williams leaps from his car and sprints towards the square.

  •

  Standing behind Nelson’s Column, Hazma now wears a full police uniform, including helmet, as he looks out across sun-drenched people congregating the square. The large crowd consists of a wide cultural cross-section of folk: sightseeing domestic and foreign tourists enjoying the sights, along with hoards of Saint George’s Day revellers lapping up the organised celebrations. Huge English flags have been draped across the walls of surrounding buildings and hang from statues and monuments; virginal white flags emblazoned with the bold red cross of Saint George, blending in perfectly with an abundance of red and white bunting, balloons, and an ocean of complimentary red and white cardboard hats and flags on sticks donated by the day’s sponsor, The Sun, and handed out with smiles by their scantily clad promotional girls, whose bikini tops are emblazoned with The Sun logo and its SUPPORT OUR SAINT message.

  Many revellers are dressed in traditional English fancy dress costumes or suitable comical attire. A tall man prances around in a knight’s silver suit of armour including full helmet and long lance, while London’s Pearly King and Queen are stood huddled in serious debate with a life-sized bright yellow chicken. Winston Churchill’s cigar-puffing double is there along with Henry the Eighth, and a portly man in a life-like facemask of the queen, but for some reason wearing black stockings and suspenders. A small group of smartly uniformed Chelsea Pensioners stand proudly displaying their medals, while Oriental tourists eagerly snap photographs of practically everything they see.