by Rob Sinclair
‘What did you say your name was, mate?’ the man said in a thick cockney accent.
‘Emre Arslan.’
‘Who did you speak to earlier?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t get a name.’
The man huffed. ‘Come over to the control room, I’ll see if we can figure this out.’
Aydin’s eyes flicked over to the other side of the open space; he spotted the two men out of the corner of his eye and quickly averted his gaze, looking down and away. He followed the man the short distance to the plain-looking door and sighed in relief as they stepped inside and out of sight of the concourse.
Sure enough, they were in the control room, a small, windowless box room with one side taken over by a desk that had a clutter of CCTV monitors above and around it. This was exactly where Aydin wanted to be.
‘Just give me a minute,’ the man said, pulling his radio off his jacket and up to his face.
‘Is there a problem?’ Aydin asked.
‘Well I’m not sure who you spoke to. I’ll see if I can find out. The problem is I’ve not seen a phone down there at all today.’
‘Someone’s already taken it?’ Aydin said, in such a way that made it clear he would be blaming the staff in the station if that was the case.
‘Who knows.’
He turned away from Aydin and pressed on his radio and began a conversation with whoever was on the other end. Aydin turned to the monitors, his eyes darting over them quickly until he found the right one. There they were. The men who’d been following him for hours now. They were still on the concourse, past the turnstiles. They’d paid for tickets but they were still contemplating what to do next now that their mark was out of sight. The angle of the CCTV camera meant he couldn’t see their faces clearly and Aydin flicked his eyes over the other cameras to see if there was a better shot. There wasn’t.
The man turned back round again.
‘What did you say your name was again? Emre?
‘Emre Arslan.’
‘Got it. Thought you’d said Arsenal. Glad you didn’t.’
Aydin smiled in acknowledgement of the quip and the man resumed his conversation. Aydin turned back to the screens. The men were splitting up, each of them heading towards a different platform. The next second he’d lost them both. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to find them again. He focused in on a screen showing one of the staircases leading down to the platform. He spotted one of the men. Now the angle of the camera showed the man’s face clearly.
Aydin froze when he realised he was staring into the eyes of his brother. Hidashar. Number eleven.
SIXTEEN
‘Sorry, mate, but no one seems to know anything about this.’
Aydin was back to thinking on his feet. Should he run or try to confront his brother and whoever his accomplice was? He even contemplated whether to cry foul to the man in the control room – shout out that the man on the CCTV screen was carrying a weapon. As soon as this guy saw the face his terrorist alarm bells would surely blare. There’d be waves of police hurtling for the station within seconds.
Yes, that would put Hidashar in one hell of a sticky situation, but it wouldn’t get Aydin any answers. He needed answers.
‘Seriously?’ Aydin said, now sounding less amenable. ‘I was here this morning, this is ridiculous.’
The guy didn’t take too kindly to Aydin’s change of tone. His face creased up and his cheeks flushed.
‘Sorry, pal, but there’s no phone down there, and no one here has spoken to you about this today. Are you sure you’ve got the right station?’
Aydin looked again at the screen. After roaming the platform and coming away empty-handed, Hidashar was now heading back up the stairs. Aydin made up his mind.
‘Of course it was here! I pass through here every day to work.’
The man just shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to say. Perhaps you can show me the spot where you think it was? Sometimes items that are dropped onto the tracks just get swept away you know.’
‘But it was someone here who told me to come back later in the day, because it was too busy this morning. So you’re saying because of that I’ve now lost it for good. That’s a six hundred pound iPhone!’
Another shrug. ‘It was you who dropped it.’
Aydin saw that Hidashar had now regrouped with his friend and the two of them were heading back towards the turnstiles. It was time to go.
‘Thanks for nothing,’ Aydin said with just enough bitterness, then he turned and opened the control room door and stomped out.
Looking ahead beyond the turnstiles he could just see the back of Hidashar as he turned right on the street outside. Aydin followed at a safe distance behind, never getting to within fifty yards of the two men. He would confront them, but he needed to wait for a suitable location.
When darkness fell soon after, the two men were still ahead of him, and Aydin decided it was time to put an end to the charade. But it soon became apparent that his well-laid plan turned out to be not so well-laid. The problem with darkness was that it had both advantages and disadvantages for all. It was easier for stalkers to remain unseen, yet it was also easier for prey to escape into the shadows. Which was exactly what happened. Aydin realised he simply had no idea where they’d gone.
But had he lost them by accident, or had they known all along that Aydin was there?
With no sight of them, Aydin decided it wasn’t worth the risk of continuing on ahead. He had no intention of walking into a trap. Instead, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps. It hadn’t escaped his attention that for the last half a mile or so they’d been worming into the dark bowels of England’s capital city. He wanted to get back to the more busy streets with their overhead bulbs as quickly as he could and figure out a plan from there. He was on unfamiliar territory, and although he still felt he knew the area well – at least he knew areas like it – he was anxious as to what would unfold.
As he passed by a pitch-black alley he shivered. He had the eerie feeling that there were still eyes on him. An unseen presence somewhere in the shadows all around.
This was it, he realised. But he wasn’t running.
When he got to the head of the next alley, behind a row of mostly derelict shops, he turned and stopped behind an industrial bin. He was within striking distance of the edge of the alley, should the men make an appearance from there. He drew his gun, and held the barrel with both hands, pointed at chest height. He’d use the weapon if he had to, though his preference, if the men did appear, was to take them down without the need to fire shots. He didn’t want the police on his case, and he didn’t want to kill his brother without first getting some answers.
After five minutes with no hint of life other than the sound of his own shallow breaths and the calm pumping of blood in his ears, Aydin heard footsteps from out in the street. Soft footsteps. Just one set. He primed himself. But before he got sight of the person the footsteps belonged to, another set joined the mix – again from out in the street. The second set were louder, more deliberate. Aydin’s brain worked through permutations of who was out there.
Then a sound behind him. A soft thunk. Something banging in the breeze perhaps. He had no choice but to look. No sooner had he turned his head than a long shadow loomed in the corner of his eye. He swivelled back to the street and saw the legs of a man appearing in the head of the alley. The footsteps were soft because he was wearing trainers. He was tall, and young, casually dressed. It wasn’t Hidashar, nor his accomplice. Not sensing Aydin’s presence at all, the young man walked right past, not faltering in his step.
There was no sound of the second set of footsteps now. All was silent.
Until the sound from behind him came again. Closer this time. Aydin spun round, but kept himself pressed up against the metal bin. In the darkness he could see virtually nothing in front of him, but he sensed the movement, as though the gloom of the alley was coming to life, and he glided to his left, ducked and hauled himself f
orward. He crashed into the figure there. The man held Aydin’s weight and for a few seconds they were both upright, grappling.
The gun was still in Aydin’s hand. He swung it around and crashed it where he knew the man’s head was. The guy’s strength faltered and Aydin smacked him two more times before his grasp failed. As the man fell there was a whooshing sound and Aydin felt a sharp slice across his calf. He winced in pain and stepped away as the man’s body thudded onto the ground.
Then an arm came around Aydin’s neck from behind, squeezing hard and pulling him off his feet. The guy was big. Aydin knew it had to be his brother. The jerking motion caused him to drop the gun and it clattered away. His heels dragged across the ground as the hold was pulled tighter. He couldn’t breathe, his windpipe crushed under the pressure of his attacker’s muscled arm.
Hidashar had always been freakishly strong, and Aydin scrabbled to get his feet back onto firm ground, at the same time pulling on Hidahsar’s arm to try and release the pressure on his neck. He had to find his feet, otherwise he had no chance of shaking Hidashar off.
Rather than thrashing, Aydin relaxed his body, and Hidashar seemed to take that as a sign that Aydin was either complying or dying. He let up just enough and Aydin planted his feet on the ground. Not a second later he moved quickly and stepped backward, snaking his right foot behind Hidashar. Then he pushed his body weight down and lurched back, making himself fall to the ground. His left foot was up in the air, momentum sending him backward. Hidashar was certainly stronger, taller and heavier than Aydin, but there was nothing he could do about simple physics. With Aydin’s weight moving down and back, it was enough to send Hidashar’s mass toppling over the outstretched leg. Then Hidashar had a simple choice. Stay holding onto Aydin’s neck, and risk his skull smacking onto the tarmac below, or let go and cushion his fall.
He chose the more sensible option and freed Aydin’s neck. They landed in a tangled heap on the ground but Aydin was quicker to manoeuvre into the dominant position. He grabbed the gun as he moved, twisting on top of Hidashar and pinning his arms. He drew the gun up and pushed the barrel against his brother’s eyeball.
Then Aydin froze.
From where they were positioned, just a couple of yards into the alley, there was a thin beam of light creeping over. One side of Hidashar’s face was lit up clearly. Aydin had expected some resolve in his brother, but what he hadn’t expected was to see him smiling.
A sickly feeling washed right through him.
SEVENTEEN
Aydin was sitting with his bare back against the cold stone wall. He was still out of breath from the sparring. Sparring? Brawling was a better word for what they made the boys do. His body was covered in sweat, and he was beginning to feel the onset of a chill now that he was out of the sun and his body was resting in the cool interior. Across the bare room from him, Hidashar was sitting in an almost identical position. At two weeks short of sixteen years old he was already a man mountain. It was several years ago that Aydin had first met Hidashar. Even then, the way he remembered it was Hidashar being over six feet tall and heavily muscled, while Aydin was a puny nine-year-old less than five feet tall. But perhaps that wasn’t the way it really was.
Hidashar too was covered in sweat, though as well as the obvious size mismatch between them, there was one other big difference in their appearances: Aydin was covered in blood, Hidashar was not.
Aydin had a cut somewhere in his hairline, and thick blood was running down his face and dripping onto his torso. Both his knees were badly grazed, his back, too, from having been dragged across the dusty ground. His knuckles were raw, his lip split and his left eye was quickly swelling shut.
‘And now you know why they made you number thirteen,’ Hidashar mocked. ‘Last place. The runt of the litter.’
Aydin didn’t say anything in response, just fixed his one good eye on his brother. Aydin was used to Hidashar mouthing off, used to his bravado. It was, he guessed, one of the reasons why, despite his obvious physical prowess, they were only two numbers apart. Quite simply, despite his talents, Hidashar remained a hot-head, and he was almost hopelessly arrogant. At the Farm the boys had already been taught so much, both physical and mental training. Yet the elders had never tried to take away Hidashar’s natural fiery temperament. If anything it was their natural traits that the elders looked to exploit the most.
Regardless, at the still tender age of not quite sixteen, Hidashar was quite simply a brute of a human being. Yet he was far from stupid. He was deviously cunning.
‘You’re smart, Talatashar,’ Hidashar said, before letting out an amused grunt. ‘Smarter than me. But you think too much. Your brain’s too busy, analysing every possible move. You miss the obvious. It’s why I find it so easy to beat you. It’s why you’re so easily fooled.’
As Aydin stared down at the smiling face of his old friend, his old foe, those words haunted him.
‘Same old Talatashar,’ Hidashar said.
He didn’t have to explain what he meant. You’re so easily fooled. A disturbing thought blared in Aydin’s mind. They knew why he was there, in London – they’d followed him from his mother’s home after all. Hours earlier he’d been so confident that he was the one in control, leading the two men on a merry-go-round at his own convenience, before turning the tables and trailing them. But now he realised they’d played him the whole time. Aydin still didn’t know who the other man was, the one down on the ground in the shadows. Perhaps it was Arab’ah – number four – who he knew was in London too. Most likely though it was just some grunt. But Hidashar certainly knew Aydin. He knew him as well as anyone else.
He knew this was how Aydin would react to being followed.
The sickly feeling was growing and sticking painfully in his throat. He hoped he was wrong, but there was an unshakeable feeling that he wasn’t. As if realising Aydin’s moment of clarity, the look of power in Hidashar’s eyes grew, even though he was about to have his brains blown out.
That’s what he and his brothers were, though, Aydin realised. Not individuals, but a collective. It didn’t matter to Hidashar if he died, only that his orders were carried out and that the group succeeded.
Aydin’s finger twitched on the trigger . . .
Then he sensed movement in the shadows. The man with the knife, making another attack.
Without hesitation Aydin lifted the gun and fired two shots. He knew he hit the target because of the sound the bullets made as they sank into flesh, and the cry of pain that escaped the man’s lips. Whether or not Aydin had killed him, he didn’t know, and he had a more immediate problem: Hidashar was coming back at him.
Perhaps feeling a moment of safety, with the gun away from his face, Hidashar bucked and lifted Aydin’s body up, just enough to free his hands. He whipped one up to tackle the arm holding the gun. With the other he pummelled Aydin’s side. Aydin tried to bring the gun back in line to fire but Hidashar’s strength was more than enough to hold him off.
Aydin fired anyway, hoping that the noise, so close to Hidashar’s ears, would be enough to disorientate and cause him to stutter. He was partly right. Hidashar’s strength did waver, but a second later he switched tactic. He released Aydin’s gun hand and used his tree-trunk legs and the muscles in his core and his arms to twist them both around as he tried to shove Aydin off him. Aydin could let go of the gun and fight the move, but he didn’t. He wanted the weapon in his grasp, but it meant he could do nothing as Hidashar hauled him over onto his back and then slid away.
Hidashar leapt up and dashed into the darkness of the alley. Aydin arced his head back, looking after him, and fired off two more shots into the black. The clanking and banging of the bullets told him he’d missed.
He wanted to chase after his brother, to finish him off, but he couldn’t. Instead he jumped to his feet and raced for the road. He ran as fast as he could as the nightmarish thoughts took over in his mind, but at full pace it wasn’t long before his lungs were burning and his legs ached fr
om lactate build-up. He had to slow to a jog, only adding to his aggravation. As he headed along he thought of the mistakes he’d already made since he arrived in England, not least the four shots he’d just fired in central London; but there was one mistake that he feared might haunt him for the rest of his life . . .
It took him fifteen minutes to retrace his steps back to Adlington Road. As soon as he turned onto the street he realised to his horror that those agonising thoughts weren’t just hocus-pocus. Up ahead, outside the flats, were the blinking blue lights of an ambulance. Two police cars too. Together with the illumination of the streetlights it was enough to make out the scene quite clearly. Aydin could see the blue-and-white tape marking a cordon on the street, snaking upwards to the first floor of the flats. He slowed down to a casual walk, not wanting to alert the police at the scene to his presence.
As he cautiously approached he saw several onlookers gathered at the cordon, eagerly peering beyond the tape for a glimpse of the macabre. The door to his mother’s home was open slightly, but not enough to get a meaningful glimpse of what was within.
Aydin’s head was a mess. He stood by the cordon, not sure what he should do, what he could do now that he was there. He wanted to go up, even though he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do to help.
He didn’t know how long he stood there. Maybe only a minute, maybe ten. He heard the chatter of the people all around, but his brain didn’t really take any of it in. Then the door opened fully as a uniformed officer left the home. The policeman stepped out into the corridor and looked at the crowd below. He hung his head and gave a sorry shake before replacing his helmet and walking away. Beyond where the policeman had stood, Aydin caught a glimpse into the hallway. He saw the paramedic, dragging the gurney towards the entrance. Behind him, Aydin saw the far wall of the lounge. The bookcase, the pictures of him, his mother, Nilay. Speckled and smeared with red splashes of blood.