Alias

by Tracy Alexander

  Food.

  I cycled through recipes in my head.

  In Sainsbury’s I bought all the ingredients for Thai green chicken curry. Making the paste would take a while without a food mixer. Suited me.

  Freddie came home to find me crushing coriander seeds in a mortar and pestle.

  ‘You’ve got a good technique going there, Saff.’

  ‘Plenty of practice,’ I said.

  He watched me peel, grate and chop.

  ‘Sorry about Friday,’ he said as I was zesting a lime.

  ‘No need to apologise.’

  The paste was starting to smell good, much better than any bought version.

  ‘Elisa told me off,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  It was very unlike Freddie to be so serious. Our relationship was based on banter.

  ‘She said if you have secrets, it’s no one else’s business.’

  ‘She’s right,’ I said.

  ‘I should have known better. After all, I’m really a Russky spy.’

  That was more like it.

  Dinner was ready by a quarter to seven. Polly was much more talkative than normal because her boyfriend had agreed to move to Leeds.

  ‘He’s going to start looking right away,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t forget to give me notice if you’re moving out,’ said Freddie.

  It was my last night, but he didn’t know it. I did a mental inventory of my room. No more than ten minutes and I’d be ready to go.

  ‘Great curry, Saffron,’ said Polly.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I managed to eat my whole bowl, partly because it didn’t need much chewing or swallowing, and partly because sitting with the two of them gave me a false sense of normality. If I could keep hold of that, maybe I’d survive the next forty-eight hours. The most important forty-eight hours of my life.

  57

  Polly cleared up as per the agreement. Freddie went to change before his ‘date’ with Elisa. I went to my room. The proof of my next alias was where it had been ever since I came to Leeds, hidden under the rigid bottom of my rucksack. I put my cash there too. I wasn’t taking much else. A few summer clothes to keep me going. My purse with the precious photo tucked out of sight. My all-important phone with the number of the other phone – the one taped to the pressure cooker – stored under B (for Bomb).

  I ran through the shape of the next day, getting it straight in my head.

  Act like it’s a normal day at the office, check the status of the parcels periodically.

  As soon as the parcels have cleared the airport, leave work saying there’s a family crisis and you might be away for a few days. Knowing your situation, no one will dare question what that means.

  Empty Saffron’s bank account on the way home.

  (Home – where would home be next?)

  Pick up the rucksack and some clothes.

  Leave a note for Freddie with the same excuse.

  Get to Leeds train station tout de suite.

  Quadcopters and warnings delivered to journalists Wednesday afternoon UK time.

  Chaos.

  Wait for text confirming parcel signed for Thursday evening UK time.

  Call the number.

  The last step didn’t need itemising. I’d been building up to it for nearly two years. I knew what it was.

  I heard the door slam shut and Freddie whistle his way into the distance. Ran a bath and dunked my whole body in it. I tried to enjoy the feeling of the hot water, but relaxing was out of the question. I gave up, put on my checked pyjama bottoms and a maroon vest and sat on my bed.

  I had a whole evening to spend torturing myself by over-thinking the bomb, the fallout, my life, drone pilots, victims …

  I went downstairs, hoping for some mind-numbing telly. Polly was playing music – couldn’t tell what. I shut it out with the living-room door.

  The controls were scattered among the furniture as usual. I turned on the set, the amp and the cable box.

  The picture sprang to life. I pressed Guide and up came the TV schedule. I scanned the titles. The amp continued to play the soundtrack of whatever channel Freddie was last tuned to.

  ‘So, Dan, how did you feel when the extradition order was withdrawn?’

  I can’t have heard right. Nerves getting the better of me. But I pressed Back just the same.

  There was Dan Langley – tall, skinny, dark hair, dark T-shirt – sitting on a sofa, being interviewed by a woman with neat blonde hair and clever glasses. I sat cross-legged on the floor, bang in front of them.

  ‘It felt incredible,’ he said. ‘I was sitting with my mum and then my lawyer turned up and said it was all over. I would’ve cried … but my girlfriend was there.’

  I pressed the button for programme information, desperate to understand what I was watching.

  It was a documentary called Faces of Extradition, following the cases of four Britons who were wanted in other countries. I didn’t know whether to stay or run. My pulse was so fast it was more of a flutter than a beat.

  Think, Saffron.

  ‘Did you really believe you were about to be extradited to the United States and tried?’ asked the interviewer.

  ‘I did. It’s been all over the news, so there’s no point denying anything – I was guilty of hacking the drone.’

  ‘To be clear, Dan, it was a military drone.’

  He grimaced.

  I decided I needed to watch. At least then I’d know what they were saying about me, if anything. No one knew anything about the bomb. It was coincidence that the programme was on tonight of all nights – nothing more sinister. Weird, though. Dan on telly one day, Dronejacker all over it the next.

  Dan gave a short explanation of how he met ‘Angel’, and his surprise when I turned out to be a girl.

  ‘It’s hard to explain how you can end up close to people you’ve never met in real life, but we did. Finding out Angel was a girl was like … what the hell?’

  I’d only ever seen photos of him where he looked like a bit of a dork – but he was actually quite cute.

  The interviewer was keen to know how he felt about Angel now.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ he said. ‘I know she tried to fire a missile at London and I should hate her, but if someone massacred my family, I don’t know how I’d feel. I know I’m meant to condemn her but … we got on.’

  Despite the fact that I was in shock at hearing myself discussed on telly, his comments trickled through to the memory of all the fun we’d had together. Of how much I’d liked him, until …

  The interviewer turned to face me.

  ‘Angel, whose real name is Samiya …’

  I listened to her summarise my story, from growing up in Buckingham to the collateral murders to the foiled drone strike, which I was ‘alleged’ to have masterminded. I relaxed ever so slightly. ‘Alleged’ was good. No new information.

  ‘Dan, it was your actions that led to the discovery of Angel’s base in a house in Norfolk. Your bravery.’

  Dan described, in a deadpan fashion, how he’d located my mobile phone – but it still sounded stratospherically clever. She didn’t comment, presumably because she didn’t understand, instead moving on to the fact that I was still ‘at large’.

  Her final question to Dan was, ‘Angel has disappeared – she’s presumed to be in the Middle East. Do you think she might be out there planning another revenge attack?’

  Stupid question. What did he know!

  ‘I hope not. Can I just say that I only agreed to be interviewed to have a chance to say sorry to my family, to Ruby and to the people of London who were scared that day. I —’

  The camera cut back to the interviewer.

  ‘Thank you, Dan.’

  She was getting ready to move on to the next extradition story, after the ad break.

  I thought I might make a cup of tea, but then another face filled the screen and I had to smother the urge to scream.

  58

  ‘Hugo,
you were a good friend of Samiya’s.’

  ‘That’s right. We met when I joined her school in Year 11.’

  He’d taken Dan’s place on the sofa. Wearing an immaculate white shirt, sitting with one leg casually crossed over the other, he was clearly loving his moment in the spotlight.

  Stupid me.

  I’d seen the documentary about the White Widow. That was the sort of thing journalists did. Interview old school friends, neighbours … parents …

  Please, not my parents.

  Hugo described how, after the drone attack in Yemen, I went from being a popular girl to a loner.

  ‘My sister and I used to talk about her a lot.’ He turned to give the camera the benefit of his good looks. ‘We were worried about her.’

  Two minutes’ worth of chatting with no substance and it seemed she was done with Hugo.

  I held my breath, waiting to see who else they’d persuaded to talk about me …

  Lucy? No she would never do that.

  … but the interviewer started summing up the case.

  ‘Dan Langley is yet another victim of the unequal Extradition Act. British courts were satisfied that Dan was duped by the real criminal, whom he knew as Angel, yet the Home Secretary allowed …’

  The screen switched to show a photo of a gorgeous couple. A pale boy with blond hair and beautiful eyes, and a girl with shiny dark hair and eyes, coffee-coloured skin, and a smile on her lips.

  It was the one Hugo’d taken of us in his bedroom, our heads on his pillow.

  I tuned back into the words.

  ‘After the break, Faces of Extradition will delve into the life of …’

  I needed to react, but none of my synapses were firing.

  My face was on the television.

  It wasn’t a blurred newspaper photograph, but a glossy close-up.

  Someone would recognise me.

  Move, Saffron.

  I ran upstairs, tore off my pyjamas, pulled on a dress, grabbed my rucksack, shoved my phone and purse in the front pocket and zipped it up. Clothes I could do without.

  The doorbell rang. I froze. Considered climbing out of the window.

  Don’t overreact.

  It rang a second time.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ shouted Polly.

  I stood still. Praying for it to be a chugger.

  ‘Saffron! It’s for you.’

  The most important thing was to stay calm. The photo had only just appeared on the telly – my visitor couldn’t have seen it.

  Breathe.

  I walked downstairs to the kitchen, knowing it could only be one person. I should have expected him after our stilted chat earlier.

  ‘He’s fit,’ whispered Polly as I passed her on the stairs.

  I didn’t respond. I needed to get rid of him – that was all I could think of.

  ‘Hi,’ said Liam, kissing me. ‘I was out running and thought I’d pop in.’

  My smile was as plastic as Barbie’s.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I know you said you were cooking, but I saw Freddie in the park, so I figured …’

  Say something, Saffron.

  ‘He’s gone to meet Elisa.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Even put on a clean shirt!’

  ‘Is that a pointed comment?’ Liam looked down at his sweaty Nike vest.

  ‘I could come round to yours later, if you like – when you’re clean.’

  ‘Or you could come with me now,’ he said, his hand round the back of my neck, about to kiss me again.

  I wriggled away. Everything was coming crashing down around me. Minutes counted.

  ‘I was about to have a bath. I’ll come in an hour.’

  I sounded completely wooden – he could tell something was up.

  I made myself lean across and kiss him.

  ‘Go away and wash!’

  That was better – more like me.

  ‘All right. Whatever you say.’

  He gave me an odd look, with his head tilted slightly over. What’s going on? it said.

  ‘Bye, then.’

  He opened the door and was gone.

  I raced back upstairs to get my bag. On the way back down Polly poked her head out.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine. That was my boyfriend, Liam. I’m going over to his.’

  ‘He looked nice. How long have you been —?’

  ‘I need to get going. I’ve …’ My mind was blank. I pushed past her.

  ‘OK. See you.’

  I went out of the kitchen door and walked, with my head down, towards Woodhouse Lane to catch a bus. There was only one thought in my head – get away from Leeds.

  ‘Saff!’

  It was Mack. He was standing on the other side of the road, talking to Liam.

  ‘You were on the telly!’ he shouted.

  Liam was in front of me in an instant, blocking my way, with Mack close behind him. I had nothing to say, so I waited for him to speak.

  ‘Mack says you’re —’

  ‘The Dronejacker,’ said Mack. ‘You need to get away, Saff. You were on the telly. My mum rang the cops. You need to go.’

  There was no time to try to persuade Liam that it was all a mistake. I’d already wasted ten – or more – minutes getting out of the house.

  ‘Let me go,’ I said. ‘It’s not what it seems, but until I can prove that I need —’

  Looking at Liam’s face was unbearable.

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  A car turned onto Brudenell Road and accelerated past us. It was the police. As soon as they got to the house, Polly would say I’d just left and they’d be on my tail.

  I pushed past Liam and ran.

  59

  I sprinted up Brudenell Road towards the park. Liam must have taken a moment to react, but was soon right behind me, his trainers thumping the pavement. I ran straight across Hyde Park Road without looking. A car swerved to avoid me – horn blaring. Liam had to wait to cross, giving me a badly needed few seconds’ lead.

  I ran across the grass. My chest was tight, my breathing heavy. If I could cut the corner and get to Woodhouse Lane, there was a chance I could dodge the traffic, lose them in the streets down by The Swan with Two Necks and make it to the taxi company that used a Portakabin as its HQ.

  ‘Saffron, wait!’ shouted Liam.

  I willed my legs to go faster, but as the main road came into view I could see a police car, blue lights flashing. I changed direction, but there were more lights flickering through the trees.

  I was trapped.

  I couldn’t think where the bomb was. Nine hours into its journey – did that mean it was in the sky? Or already landed?

  It didn’t matter. I couldn’t let it all be for nothing. It was where it was.

  As I turned round to face Liam, I shouted, ‘Keep away!’

  He stayed right where he was, maybe ten metres from me.

  Mack – his little legs whirring like a cartoon – caught up.

  ‘Saff!’

  He looked like he was going to run over to me, but Liam grabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Stay with me, mate.’

  I slipped the rucksack off my back and held it in front of my chest, keeping my eyes on Liam’s face, but not seeing him. If I’d had the phone in my hand, I could have called the number already, but it was in the zipped pocket – for safekeeping.

  Before I had a chance to do anything else, a circle of police – five, no six – appeared from nowhere.

  ‘Samiya, my name’s Mike,’ said a policeman in a blue shirt, walking slowly forward and stopping beside Liam. ‘I need you to put the bag down and put your hands in the air.’

  ‘Stay away!’ I shouted, keeping the bag where it was. ‘I’m not Samiya.’

  ‘All right,’ said Mike, before turning to Liam. ‘I need you to move back, please, sir.’

  ‘No,’ said Liam. ‘I’m staying here.’

  Mack stayed glued to Liam’s side. />
  ‘For your safety, if you and the boy could —’

  ‘I said no.’

  I took advantage of the moment, swung the rucksack so it was under my arm and unzipped the pocket.

  Mike didn’t like that one bit.

  ‘Put the bag down!’

  ‘Put it down, Saff!’ shouted Mack, a cry in his voice.

  The circle crept forward. I was aware of a hum in the background. The sound of passers-by stopping to watch, back-up teams, a journalist – alerted by Twitter …

  The sound of a situation developing.

  It had been fifteen minutes at most since my face had appeared on the telly. Too short a time for there to have been any verification. I was a suspect. No more. Nice policemen from Yorkshire wouldn’t do anything rash.

  ‘Please, Saffron,’ said Liam.

  ‘Saffron,’ said Mike, ‘do as I say and we can sort this out. Put the bag down.’

  The voice was commanding. It made me want to obey. But I couldn’t fail again. Who was I, if I gave up on the one thing that had defined me for so long?

  A movement to the left caught my eye. A policeman moved to make space for a man wearing a white shirt and one of those black bulletproof vests. He raised his rifle – an MP5 Carbine – to shoulder height and pointed it at me, then adjusted it slightly. I didn’t look behind, but sensed a second marksman had taken up position there.

  I’d never considered that I might die. Surely no one would shoot a teenage girl …?

  The fear was like something pressing on me. Heavy. Yet my thoughts were light, flighty, leaping about.

  Death was sometimes the price …

  One girl might have to sacrifice herself for the greater good. But not before she’d made her point …

  My fingers were so close to the trigger, but so were theirs.

  I needed to take control. But it was hard …

  What would they do if I took out my phone? Everyone knows a phone can be a detonator.

  I counted down in my head from five, building my courage.

  Five …

  Four …

  Three …

  Two …

  I reached into the pocket and grabbed the phone, dropping the bag.

  ‘Hands in the air!’ screamed the man.