Alias

by Tracy Alexander

  ‘At it already, lovebirds?’

  It was Elisa, looking incredibly tired. Liam sidled off.

  ‘Thanks for the party,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks for bringing you know who,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t bring him. He gatecrashed.’

  She spent the morning asking me all about Freddie.

  ‘Considering you live with him, you don’t seem to know much about him,’ she said, frustrated that she couldn’t read his horoscope because I didn’t know when his birthday was.

  ‘I do. He likes bacon and getting wasted, and has posh parents. What else is there?’

  ‘He said more or less the same about you,’ she said.

  ‘I’m all ears …’

  ‘Definitely got secrets, brilliant cook, no parents, good-looking …’ She stopped to see my reaction.

  ‘Obviously,’ I said.

  ‘But scary.’

  I let that one go.

  ‘Was he livid about Liam?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. He knew he was being an arse.’

  At lunchtime she dragged me to Primark, Topshop, Oasis, New Look and Zara, looking for something to wear to the pub. I didn’t see what was wrong with jeans and a T-shirt, but Elisa’s idea of casual was anything but.

  I went through the motions – pretending to care that the red polka dot was too tight under the arms. My only objective was to get through the day.

  At four o’clock, having blitzed through all my work, I went into the Gadget Man account and input the details of the seven parcels. SendEx drivers picked up Gadget Man packages from either the store itself or their warehouse. I used Liam’s password to add another approved pick-up point – a mini-supermarket near the office that took drop-offs. I’d been there with Elisa to return some ASOS purchases.

  The next job was to ensure that the six quadcopters all arrived at around the same time, despite the wild variations in distance. I had to pay extra to get Next-Day Delivery Guaranteed for the ones that had furthest to travel. Or rather, Gadget Man did. Scheduling the bomb to arrive twenty-four hours after the rest was easy.

  I’d just finished printing off the labels and the accompanying documentation when Liam came along. I rested my elbow on the pile of papers.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to come and talk reef knots with my brother?’

  ‘Tempting … but no.’

  ‘Tomorrow night, then?’

  ‘It’s my night to cook,’ I said. ‘Wednesday?’

  ‘You’re on.’

  I put the papers into my rucksack.

  I went to the lock-up, dumped the paperwork, grabbed my white lab coat and caught a bus to the university. The sun had dried up all the rain, so I sat cross-legged on the grass, bang opposite the entrance to the chemistry department. I was dreading the next couple of hours. Theft wasn’t my area of expertise, but without the chemicals from the locked cupboard, there’d be no bang.

  At twenty-five to six, my lab guide left the building and walked towards The Fav. Satisfied that he’d gone for the day, and therefore there’d be no one to recognise me, I went to the union to kill time. I wanted the labs to be empty, so that meant waiting until close to eight o’clock – any later and security would get involved.

  I bought chips and a pint of blackcurrant squash, and read a copy of Metro. The minutes went by excruciatingly slowly.

  By seven, I was in such a state that waiting any longer was counter-productive. I walked from the union to the chemistry building, swiped Polly’s card … and nothing happened.

  No!

  Polly must have finally got around to reporting her card missing.

  A young guy was right behind me.

  Snap decisions.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m so stupid. I’ve got the wrong —’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, holding the door for me. He glanced at my face. My mind fast-forwarded to his inevitable witness interview …

  I dived into the loos to put on the white coat and then strolled along to the lab with my rucksack on my back.

  Act like you own the place.

  It was empty. I put my rucksack on the floor, took out some papers and scattered them on the work surface. I went over to the metal cabinet with a pen in my hand. I opened the third drawer down and took out the key. I heard voices in the corridor.

  Ignore them.

  I went across to the locked cupboard, used the key to open it and quickly scanned the labels. The words danced. The voices got louder.

  I shut my eyes, calling up the visual memory of the names of the compounds I needed.

  Concentrate, Saffron.

  I read the label twice before taking the bottle I needed out of the cupboard and slipping it into my pocket. Two girls walked into the lab, chatting away. I pushed the cupboard door to and walked back to where I’d left my rucksack. I concentrated on nothing. My hand made shapes on the page.

  Five minutes passed, but it seemed like fifty. The girls finished whatever it was they were doing by the fume cupboards. As they went to leave, one of them turned to look at me.

  ‘Make sure you lock that one and put the key back or you’ll be in big trouble.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I will,’ I said, my heart banging in my chest.

  They left the lab

  I went back to the cupboard containing the restricted chemicals and, starting again at the top shelf, studied each word on every label as if it were a hieroglyphic.

  As I took the second and third bottles, knowing there was now nothing standing between me and an explosion on American soil, my knees almost buckled.

  Don’t think.

  I locked the cupboard and replaced the key in the cabinet drawer. On the side there was a long metal spatula asking to be taken. I slipped it in my rucksack, together with the papers.

  Back in the ladies, I scrumpled up the white coat and shoved that in too.

  The plan was to go back to the storage unit, but I couldn’t face it. Storing the chemicals in my room overnight was hardly going to foil the whole plot.

  I walked back through the park, as on edge as if the bomb itself was on my back.

  ‘Saff!’

  ‘Hello, Mack.’ Instant cheery voice. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘All right,’ he said. He was wearing new clothes.

  ‘Been shopping?’ I asked.

  ‘Mum got them.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘She’s going to college,’ he said.

  ‘Your mum?’

  According to Mack, whose stories rarely made sense, the social worker that his mum had assaulted had helped her enrol on a hair and beauty course.

  ‘I’ve been to school too,’ he said.

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I said.

  ‘Not today,’ he said, clearly a bit overwhelmed by my enthusiasm. ‘But I might go tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s going to decide you?’

  ‘The weather,’ he said.

  I turned my palms upwards to signify a lack of understanding.

  ‘Don’t want to be outside if it’s too hot. Might burn my neck again.’

  Fair enough.

  ‘I’d go if I were you,’ I said. ‘Might learn something.’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Can we have an ice cream?’

  I bought him a Cornetto.

  ‘See you, then, Mack,’ I said as we reached Hyde Park Road.

  ‘Is that man who runs your boyfriend?’ he asked, in his typically random fashion.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I’d noticed Mack had a knack for remembering faces, which was lucky given that he couldn’t recognise letters. It’s good to have some talents.

  ‘I like him. He gives me money,’ said Mack. ‘Fiver, every time.’

  He ran off.

  I walked down Brudenell Avenue, wishing I could turn back time.

  55

  I was at the storage unit by six in the morning on Tuesday, which gave me at least two hours before Alan was due to arrive. Didn’t want to risk him jamming his
steel toecaps in the door to offer me another discount.

  The only way I could even begin to make the explosive was by imagining it was a cake. I added each ingredient to the bucket I’d bought from Wilko and stirred, slowly and carefully, using the stainless-steel spatula. When the mixture looked uniform, I packed it tightly into one of the second-hand pressure cookers – chosen at random from the three. Attaching the phone was a bit fiddly, so I ended up taping it onto the handle. With the cooker bubble-wrapped as though it were Swarovski crystal, I turned the phone on and sealed the box. Knowing that all I had to do was ring or text the number and it would explode was both terrifying and unbelievable. I had to resist the urge to try it out, like people with vertigo who lean over balconies.

  I attached the labels and the paperwork to each of the seven parcels. There for all to see were the details of the sender, Gadget Man, and the recipient, a description of the contents and the warning about the lithium battery. In the see-through docket were the customs documents and the invoice.

  I left the pile of boxes in the centre and locked up.

  On the way into work, I rang the same taxi driver that I’d used before and arranged for him to pick me up round the corner from SendEx at twelve-thirty-five.

  If I’d thought the day before was bad, Tuesday was a thousand times worse. I struggled to act normally. The coffee in my cup slopped over the edge. My fingers couldn’t type. And unless I hooked my feet round the legs of my chair, my whole lower body fidgeted.

  ‘Are you ill?’ asked Elisa. ‘Or on drugs?’

  ‘Neither,’ I said, and then thought better of it. ‘I might have a temperature.’

  ‘Don’t come near me, then.’

  I kept my head down, pretending to work. A hand on my shoulder made me flinch.

  ‘Steady,’ said Liam, ‘or HR’ll accuse me of harassment.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ I said.

  He sat on the edge of my desk, relaxed and happy. I was the opposite.

  ‘About me?’ he asked.

  I nodded. Normally I’d have made some sort of quip. But my wit and humour were off sick.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘But I’d better get on.’ It was an entirely fake conversation.

  Bang on twelve-thirty, I left the office.

  ‘Can you take me to the storage unit on Kirkstall Road to get some boxes and then drop me and them off in town?’

  ‘Got any money today?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure, then.’

  There wasn’t much traffic, so minutes later we were there.

  I jumped out of the taxi and was about to put in the entry code when the door opened. It was Alan, with a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter at the ready.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘If it isn’t Picasso,’ he said, before looking over at the taxi. ‘That yours?’

  ‘I’m just picking up some … pieces I’ve made that are going to be exhibited. They’re boxed up.’

  ‘Need a hand?’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Thank you.’

  I went to my unit, unlocked the door and slid in. Took a few breaths. Dropped my shoulders. Wiped my damp armpits on some kitchen roll. The meter was ticking. I only had an hour for lunch. I needed to get going.

  I picked up three of the boxes going to journalists and carried them out. I wanted to lock my door, but it would have been far too suspicious.

  Alan was chatting to the driver, who’d turned the engine off and got out of the taxi.

  ‘Let me,’ said the driver, taking the pile out of my arms. He put them in the boot. I went to get the next batch. Alan, shamed into helping, stubbed out his cigarette and followed me inside.

  ‘How many more have you got?’ he asked.

  I had no answer. My mind was desperately trying to think of a way to stop him stealing another glance at my bomb-maker’s den. Pressure cookers, empty cold-pack wrappers, packing materials …

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  The phone rang in his pocket.

  ‘Go ahead and get it,’ I said. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He carried on past my unit towards his office.

  I took the other three out to the taxi and ran back to get the heavy one – the bomb – locking the door as I left.

  I jumped in the back, super-relieved to be seeing the back of Alan.

  ‘Where to?’

  I gave the driver the address of the shop where SendEx would, as per my paperwork, be expecting to pick up the parcels. He parked on double yellows, right outside, with his hazard lights flashing.

  Between us we carried the boxes into the drop-off shop and stacked them by the till.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said as he left with his fare and a small tip.

  I handed over the parcels to the shop assistant, one at a time. The guy was very slow. Checking everything. He was so intent on the task he didn’t seem to notice me. Good. I studied him. Six foot, slopey-shouldered, a name tattooed on the inside of his wrist.

  The fourth parcel, addressed to the chief exec of the drone manufacturer, was the loaded one. An X-ray would reveal exactly what it was, but there wasn’t time to screen every single parcel. Fate was in charge of that aspect, but having Gadget Man down as its sender gave it its best chance.

  ‘Next?’

  He processed the last three and gave me the receipts.

  It was surreal – as easy as returning an unwanted kettle to Tesco Direct. Yet in a day’s time six journalists were going to be dropping everything to cover the story. Maybe one of them would make it their life’s work to stop the drone wars – there was a constant stream of new material.

  Eighteen male labourers, including a boy, were killed when missiles struck a tent they’d gathered in for their evening meal.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ asked the man on the till.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  I had twenty minutes before I was due back at work. Food was out of the question – I’d choke for sure. Instead, I went into Harvey Nicks and looked at all the cashmere jumpers, pretending to choose one for Liam. It was frivolous but kept me occupied. The alternative was to dwell on what I’d just done, and that was out of the question. In between comparing shades of baby blue and turquoise, I tried to remember all the stuff Sayge had quoted about how nothing changes without a struggle. But already something like a conscience was bothering me. The bomb wouldn’t explode on its own. If I didn’t ring the number, it would just be a full-up pressure cooker …

  And I’d have ruined my whole life for nothing, said the part of me I was more used to hearing. And kids and grandparents and mums and dads would carry on dying in the most despicable way …

  I remembered Lamyah taking my hand that first day in Yemen, when the strangeness was overwhelming … Her hand was nothing more than fertiliser now.

  56

  I had to force myself to walk back into the building. Until I could see on the SendEx tracking system that the parcels had cleared American customs, I needed to keep Saffron Anderson doing what she did. But it wasn’t easy. I was as pale as a ghost. And struggling to hold it all together. It was nothing like the exhilaration I’d felt when the drone was in my control.

  I stared at my screen without seeing. Looked across at Elisa but couldn’t find anything to say. A wave of nausea came over me.

  I went to the loo and sat on the seat.

  If I didn’t get a grip, people would notice.

  I washed my hands. In the mirror above the sink I could see my old self starting to come through. The blonde highlights had grown out and darkened, and my fringe had become so long I’d had to change it to a side parting and tuck it behind my ear. Memories hovered in my peripheral vision, but I didn’t let them come into focus.

  ‘Seeing Freddie tonight?’ I asked Elisa as I sat back down at my desk. Steady voice.

  ‘Yes, but not till you’ve finished with him.’

>   It took me a sec.

  ‘Oh … I’m glad he’s taking our house meals seriously.’

  ‘It suits me too – I’m having my hair cut.’

  I needed to get mine cut too. When Dronejacker was hurtled back onto the front page, the press would have a field day. This time I’d be the subject of an Interpol Red Notice – only used for the most deadly criminals. At that point, I needed to look as unlike Samiya and Saffron as possible. Red hair, blue contact lenses, maybe I’d get a tattoo on my neck and ear stretchers, and wear vintage leather and Dr Martens.

  ‘I’ll make sure tea’s early,’ I said.

  The small talk helped the afternoon pass. Liam was in a meeting, which was a blessing. I didn’t want him interrogating me about my strange mood. There was only tomorrow to get through, and then I’d never see him again. It was like being a suicide bomber, except, instead of heaven for the faithful, I had the prospect of a life where no one would ever truly know me.

  Before I left the office, I input the tracking numbers from my receipts to see where the parcels were. Safely on their way to the freight terminal at the airport, as expected. I didn’t feel pleased. I felt numb.

  The meeting-room door was shut, but I glanced through the window as I passed by. Liam was standing up, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbow. He finished what he was saying and smiled at the audience. I looked away.

  As I walked home I ran through the timetable.

  If it all went according to plan, the journalists would receive their parcels between noon and five, local UK time, tomorrow. The bomb was scheduled to arrive before nine in the evening on Thursday. I’d added a command to the SendEx tracking system so that when the chief exec, or his wife, signed for the package a notification SMS would automatically be sent to my phone. All I had to do was make the call to the detonator and wait for the connection.

  Bang!

  As soon as I knew the bomb was on an American truck, I needed to get well away from Leeds. I tried to imagine myself on the train to Edinburgh, flushed with success. But couldn’t get rid of a sense of doom. Was it leaving Liam? Or the memory of taping the last label on the heaviest of the boxes? Knowing what that meant.

  Distract yourself, Saffron.