by Oisin McGann
Amina squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel her own chest tightening up. A wave of dizziness swept over her. If only they'd all just shut up!
'I think we should get off the train and start walking!' the man declared.
'We can't get off the—'
The speakers clicked again and the driver's voice came through:
'All right now, folks. Apologies again for the delay, but I'm happy to say we've been cleared to go through to the next station. There's been a bomb alert, but there's no need to panic – it's nowhere near us. They're going to be shutting the stations down to be on the safe side, but there will be a bus service laid on to get you to your destinations. We hope this hasn't caused too great an inconvenience and we look forward to having you travel with us again soon.'
It seemed to take for ever to get to the platform, and when it did, the passengers bulged and were spat from the opening doors, hurrying for the escalators in a hustle of movement that fell just short of a panicked sprint. Amina let herself be carried by the mob, over the tiled floor and past the framed advertisements offering holidays, recruitment services and expensive cosmetics. The grooved metal steps of the escalator glided up slowly, but some people pushed past, walking up them with frantic movements. Amina waited for her turn to slide through the ticket barrier and then rushed out onto the street with its foul, exhaustfilled air. She breathed it in like it was the countryside in spring. Around her, police officers armed with sub-machine guns watched with impassive faces as the people flooded out.
Amina took a few more breaths and then looked around for a bus to take her home.
Chi took a circuitous route of train and bus journeys back home, but after getting off the last bus, he made the mistake of walking down the main street, rather than taking the longer way through the park. That was how Gierek spotted him.
'Sandwith, you little rat!' a voice bellowed across the street.
Chi turned in alarm to see a burly skinhead charging through the traffic at him. Horns blared but the man with the army surplus clothes and the muscle-packed body ignored the oncoming cars, so intent was he on trying to get his hands on Chi Sandwith.
His quarry had already taken to his heels. Chi knew he couldn't outrun Gierek for long. The man was a survivalist and a fitness fanatic. He could pound right over Chi in a hundred-metre dash. But Chi was not unprepared.
When you lived life on the edge of society and you came in regular contact with the kind of information the government would kill to protect, you had to have some contingency plans. Chi would normally have anticipated having to escape from his house rather than flee to it, but it was a straightforward matter of adapting to the circumstances and reversing the route in question.
He was already breathing hard as he turned the corner and made for the park. Dodging around pedestrians who had no idea they were witnesses to a chase that could affect the course of their nation's history, he sprinted through the gate and over the grass towards the trees on the other side. Behind him, Gierek was wasting his breath shouting abuse at him, but it didn't seem to be slowing him down much. His face was flushed red and screwed up in rage. His meaty hands were curled into claws that promised unrestrained violence. Chi could hear the man's army boots beating a relentless rhythm that was steadily gaining on him.
Chi dug into his pocket and pulled out a padlock. He was into the trees now, dead and dried foliage crunching under his running feet as he pushed himself to keep up the pace until he reached the three-metre-high wall on the far side of the park.
Gierek's shouts drew closer, his boots running over the same soft ground now. Chi staggered to a halt at the wall, yanking open the gate in the low doorway he found there. He stepped through, bolting it shut behind him, fumbling with the padlock before finally snapping it closed just as Gierek crashed into it. The enraged man wrenched helplessly at the gate and then tried to reach through, snatching at Chi's clothes.
Chi gave him an apologetic smile and tapped his temple as he struggled to get his breath back.
'Brains over brawn, my friend. They win every time.'
And then, deciding that he was pushing his luck, he started running again.
11
It took Amina over two hours to get home. The bomb scares had thrown the city into chaos as all the people ejected from the Underground emptied onto the streets. It had already occurred to her that the whole thing might be a hoax.
She and her younger brother, Tariq, had gone through a phase of ringing up taxi companies in the evenings and sending cabs to imaginary addresses on their street. It was a laugh, watching the unfortunate cabbies drive up and down the street trying to find a house that didn't exist. After a while, she had started to feel ashamed of what they were doing and stopped it. Tariq and his mates had kept it up for a while longer.
The terrorists could well have done the same thing on a bigger scale to a city easily spurred into fear. With the way things were now, a single phone call warning of a bomb could bring the whole city to a standstill. Just one phone call.
Her father was making dinner when she got in; her mother was upstairs in the study, still working.
'Be ready in five minutes!' her dad called as she hung up her coat. 'You OK, love? You weren't on the trains, were you? Go and prise your mum from the telephone. I'm starting to think it's become welded to the side of her head. And call your brother down too.'
'Mum! Tariq!' Amina yelled up the stairs. 'Dinner!'
'I meant go up and tell them,' her dad sighed. 'I can shout just fine myself.'
Martin Mir was a tall man with the upright posture of a career soldier. Despite his trim physique, he had a chubby face that regularly split into an easy smile. It wasn't unusual to see him cooking. His wife couldn't cook if her children's lives depended on it (and some would say that it had once been a close thing) and he took pride in providing them with a good square meal. When Martin wasn't there, the housekeeper would do the cooking or the kids would feed themselves. Helena Jessop – she still worked under her maiden name – had little time for mundane chores such as feeding her family.
Since he had been posted to the Ministry of Defence, Amina's father had been travelling less and had started working civilian hours, so his children got to see a lot more of him. He and his wife were both in their fifties – they had started their family late in their lives – but neither showed any signs of slowing down.
Some families bonded by praying together, others by gathering round the dinner table; the Mir family watched the news. Taking their customary seats around the living room, they sat before the television, eating their dinner of lamb kebabs, falafel and spiced basmati rice off plates resting on their individualized lap-trays. Amina and Tariq shared the couch, leaving the two armchairs free for their parents.
Martin had timed the serving of dinner exactly so that they were sitting and ready as the seven o'clock news started. Helena appeared just as the headlines were being announced, expressing her appreciation of her husband's cooking by giving him one of her impish smiles as he gave her the tray and a napkin.
The coverage of the peace protests was overshadowed by the bomb scare on the Underground. This was just as well, as Amina was far more interested in the latter.
'Typical,' Martin commented, as he tore some lamb from a skewer with his teeth. 'It's always the bad stuff that makes the headlines. It was probably a false alarm too – to put the wind up all those protesters. Not that it's needed.' The screen showed a marching crowd waving banners. 'Look at them, it's daft! Some of 'em don't even know which direction to march in.'
'I don't see why they bother going on these marches anyway,' Amina snorted. 'It's not like it does anything.'
'No, that's not true,' Helena said, shaking her head. 'A protest march is a bit like swearing.'
Amina and Tariq glanced at each other and then gave their mother their full attention. She could swear better than anybody they knew, even their dad – and he was a career soldier.
'How is it like
swearing?' Tariq asked with a straight face.
At fifteen, he thought he knew all he needed to about the art of cursing, but he was willing to take advice from a master.
'It's important to know when to use foul language,' Helena declared. 'Swearing is an excellent way of emphasizing an expression, but if you do it constantly, it loses its effect. It's like shouting all the time – in the end, you'll just irritate people and they'll stop listening to you.'
She put down her knife and fork so she could gesture with her hands, as she did when she was on television.
'Sometimes, it's not enough to use rational debate when you're having an argument. There are times when you need to throw a bit of a tantrum . . . or swear to show how angry you're feeling. Because if the object of your anger is failing to listen to what you're saying, then they need to be shocked into realizing that.
'And if you save it up for the appropriate occasion, a swear word can have a great effect. But you have to use it right. And a protest march is like that. It's like the nation throwing a little tantrum. So sometimes, when the government doesn't seem to be listening, and the people are really, really pissed off, they have to give up rational argument and get out on the streets. They have to stand out there in their thousands, block the traffic, give their leaders the metaphorical finger and say "FUCK YOU!"'
Having made the accompanying gesture, she picked up her cutlery again, pausing before pointing at the television with her fork.
'But these people have gone about it all wrong, because they don't know what they really want. Half of them haven't a clue what's actually going on in Sinnostan and the ones that do can't agree on what to say about it.' She tucked into her food once more. 'This lamb is lovely, darling. What did you put in the marinade?'
The phone kept ringing. Tariq was awake and as dressed as he was likely to get on a Saturday morning, but he kept on reading his movie mag by the light of his bedside lamp. After waiting long enough to see if anyone else was going to get it, he grunted and emerged from his black-curtained room like a cave dweller, blinking in the light. He didn't know why he was bothering. It was hardly ever for him, and not one of his few friends would be awake this early on a Saturday. It was barely past eleven. In fact, the term 'Saturday morning' was not a term they were at all familiar with any more. The phone was all the way downstairs, in the hall.
'Hello?' he said.
'Hi, can I speak to Amina please?' The voice had the sweetest Edinburgh accent he had ever heard.
'Dani?' he asked, his face brightening up. 'Hi, it's Tariq.'
'How's it goin', Tariq? Is Amina there?'
'She's in the shower . . . hang on . . .'
He held the phone to his chest.
'Amina!' There was no answer. 'AMINA!' he roared again.
The bathroom door at the top of the stairs opened and some steam drifted out.
'What? I'm in the bathroom!'
'It's Dani!'
'Oh. Tell her I'll call her back in a few minutes.' The door closed again.
This presented the kind of opportunity Tariq had been waiting for, but now there was every chance he would lose his nerve. Dani was one of Amina's best friends and he had been eyeing her up for the last year or two. She was more of a character than most of Amina's crowd, more alternative, favouring fashions that suggested she studied as much witchcraft as the social science she was doing at uni. She and Mina had met at school, at an Amnesty International meeting back when Amina was into that whole anti-establishment student thing. But Dani still took her campaigning pretty seriously – Tariq had always found fanatical girls appealing.
The fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous didn't hurt either. Although she was a bit on the cuddly side, her natural sandy-blonde hair, laughing eyes and big, juicy lips gave her an unconventional beauty. He had chatted to her at Amina's last birthday party and thought he was in with a chance, despite the age gap of three years.
His heart started thumping so loudly he was worried Dani might hear it over the phone. He lifted the receiver from his chest.
'She'll be down in a minute,' he lied. 'So how's life?'
'Life's good,' Dani replied cautiously. 'Y'know . . . full of experiences. Just can't believe I can cram so much excitement into each day. How about you?'
'Great, great,' he said, nodding even though she couldn't see it. 'So . . . eh . . . eh . . . listen, you want to go out for a drink sometime?'
'Mmmm,' she said in that I-had-a-feeling-this-was-coming type of way. 'I'm . . . I'm flattered, Tariq, really. But I have a boyfriend, you know? You met him at the party?'
'Oh . . . I didn't know that was still on,' he said, the lead weight of embarrassment and failure settling in his stomach. Then he added lamely, 'Hey, you could bring him too!'
'Yeah. Thanks anyway,' she said in a voice intended to be kind, which just made him feel worse. 'Ehm . . . is Amina going to be long? I could call back.'
'No, seriously,' he persisted, with a recklessness born of having no more pride to lose. 'He could come along. I'd like to meet him; I don't have enough friends anyway. We might have a lot in common – we both like you; that's a good start. What's he into? Does he play any games?'
'You have things in common all right,' she chuckled – Tariq loved the way she could chuckle with a Scots accent. 'He doesn't take "no" for an answer either. And I am afraid, my dear, that you both love games more than you love me.'
'Really? What's his highest score on Tech-Shot Extreme?'
'He doesn't play it.'
'Dump the swine. Really, dump him. He obviously can't handle a real game and he's just, like, going out with you because your scrumptiousness helps prop up his fragile self-esteem. He'll end up snapping and . . . y'know, finding God or something. You should go out with me instead. I have a much more interesting set of inadequacies.'
'Is that right?' Dani asked, and he could almost hear her arch an eyebrow. 'And in what fascinating ways are you inadequate?'
'I live life in a . . . y'know, like, a virtual fantasy world because real life has little attraction for me,' he told her in a serious voice. 'I seek the shelter of darkness, away from prying eyes, so that, like, my sensitive nature won't be bruised by human contact.'
'My, aren't we articulate all of a sudden – now that we've been rejected by the bonny lassie?' Dani retorted, and there was a smile in her voice. He had won a smile, even if it was over the phone. 'And how can I save you from this virtual oblivion then?'
'Your intelligence, your wit and your kindness can be the shining light that will guide me out of the darkness,' he crooned. 'And your breasts will give me something to hold on to.'
Dani burst out laughing, pulling the phone away from her head to try and muffle the sound. Tariq bit his lip, knowing he had scored a point. She came back a moment later, trying to stop laughing.
'They're not handlebars, Tariq!'
He was in with a chance after all. Make them laugh and you were halfway there. Clenching his fist in victory, he was framing his next remark when the phone was grabbed from his hand.
'Hey!' he exclaimed.
'I said I'd call her back!' Amina said, prodding him in the arm and giving him her big-sister smile, then enunciating each word with a prod: 'Stop. Trying. To. Chat. Up. My. Friends. It's embarrassing. And you're soiling the phone with your dirty adolescent mind.' Then, into the phone, she added, 'Hi, Dani? Yeah, yeah, I know. I think I just saved you from a fate worse than death. You're in danger of becoming my little brother's next obsession. Yeah? He did, did he?'
She looked at him. He waved his middle finger in her face and folded his arms, waiting to have this out with her when she finished the call.
'Yeah,' she said, returning the gesture. 'He can be pretty funny when he wants. But then, it helps that he's funny-looking. Apparently he was born arse-first. And he's been trying to catch up with it ever since. So, were you talking to the girls? Are we going out tonight or what?'
Tariq gave his sister a half-hearted kick in the backs
ide and headed for his room. As he was climbing the stairs he could still hear her talking:
'He said what? God, they're all the same, aren't they? No, I'm in between at the moment. Getting a bit tired of boys, to be honest. They're such kids, y'know?'
Amina pencilled a number into the box and then rubbed it out again, massaging her temples and wishing her post-Saturday-night headache away. The paracetamol did not seem to be having any effect at all. This, combined with her bad mood, was having severely detrimental effects on her powers of sudoku. She and her friends had failed to get into the Lizard Club in Leicester Square again. It was the hottest place in town and they'd tried three times over the last few weeks with no luck. They had decided they were too cool for the place anyway, and had gone somewhere else. The rejection still stung though. How hip and gorgeous did you have to be?
'Journalists can learn a lot from Hitler,' Helena declared.
A few years ago, Amina would have risen to the bait. It was one of her mother's trademarks to make an outrageous statement in order to get your attention before qualifying it with some wellreasoned justification. Gone were the days when Amina would react in shock at her mother's apparent political incorrectness; now it was consigned to the same area of disdain reserved for any parent's attempts to be controversial, or worse yet . . . cool. This latest declaration had been prompted by an article in the paper in which a prominent neo-Nazi compared the flood of Sinnostani immigrants to the West with the Jewish 'infestation' of Germany before the Second World War. Not long ago, he would have been dismissed as a crackpot. Now he had just been elected a member of parliament in a by-election.
'Really?' Amina asked in response to her mother's declaration. 'Hitler bit of a newshound, was he?'
She winced at the trite remark. She hated being smart with her mother, but something about Helena always brought out the sarcasm in her. Perhaps it was the way Helena substituted lectures for proper mother – daughter chats. And being hungover didn't help.