by D C Alden
Ray gripped Danny by the arms, his grey eyes bright with excitement. ‘And you,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll be my secret weapon, the catalyst from which the violence will spring. You’ll be like a ghost – a different ID, different disguise, for every mission you undertake. A shooting here, a well-placed bomb there, each incident ramping up the tension, each side blaming the other.’
Ray grasped Danny’s hand in both of his and squeezed. ‘I can’t tell you how proud we all are of you, son. For Luton, for Downing Street. For what has gone before and for what will be. You’re doing God’s work, Danny Whelan. What we’re embarking on is a Crusade, and the Lord has looked down from on high and sent me a true Christian soldier.’
The rain pummelled the roof, the wind rattling the concertina doors, whistling through the cracks and gaps. Danny looked at the shockproof case, at the gun in his hand, at Joe’s cruel grin. Finally he looked at Ray. ‘But you don’t even go to church,’ he mumbled.
The big man chuckled for a moment, then let go of Danny’s hand. He looked confused. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
Danny began to shake his head. ‘Listen, you got it all wrong, Ray. I had nothing to do with Luton, or Downing Street.’
Ray laughed, waving a dismissive hand. ‘It’s alright, son, you can drop the bullshit. I told you from day one, you’re amongst friends here.’
‘You’re not listening to me, Ray.’
The older man took a step closer, his cold eyes searching Danny’s. ‘Yes I am. I hear what you’re saying, son. Trust takes a long time to nurture before it can really take root. You came here, to me, when your friends were arrested, when your support network crumbled in the wake of the bombs. You trusted me to keep you out of harm’s way, to feed you, put clothes on your back. I saw that as a test, Danny, a test of my own resolve, my own commitment to the cause. I’ve never once asked you about Luton or Downing Street, because I wasn’t privy to the details of those operations, played no part in their execution. Who was it, by the way? Who were the principals?’
‘The what?’
‘The key players. Who organised those jobs, funded them? Was it Kevin Brady from the Defence League? Sean Turner?’
‘Who?’
Ray looked away, stroking his face. ‘I had a feeling they’d be involved. Good boys, the both of them, committed, intelligent. Fucking shame about their arrests. Still, at least they’ve not been stitched with terrorist charges. Well, not yet anyway.’ He turned back to Danny. ‘They’d be proud of you, son, keeping your mouth shut like this, keeping up the pretence of ignorance, but you can relax now. It’s time to move on, continue the struggle that they started.’
Danny took another step back. ‘Ray,’ he said slowly, quietly, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was fitted up over Luton. I thought I was delivering a fridge, that’s all. I got paid too, a thousand quid. I never knew it was a bomb, Ray, not in a million years. If I’d known I’d have run a mile.’ Danny pointed over Ray’s shoulder, to the shockproof case. ‘What you’re asking, I can’t do it. I don’t care whether they’re Muslims or Jehovah’s bloody Witnesses, I’m not a murderer, Ray. I’m just a normal geezer.’
Ray stood completely immobile, his tanned face a mask of confusion. After a moment he began to shake his head. ‘No, that’s not right. I knew everything about you long before you even got here. I’ve had my people check you out, your background, your story. I’m not wrong, no way.’
‘You are!’ Danny insisted. ‘I thought that’s why you let me stay here, because I was innocent, because I was a member of the Movement. Because you hate the government like I do, for the lies, the bullshit, especially the stuff they’re saying about me.’ Danny took a step towards Ray, the emotion almost choking his words, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Don’t you understand? All I want is to stay here, Ray, just stay here and get my head down, keep out of the way. You and Tess, you’re the only friends I’ve got. I’ll do anything, you know that. Help around the estate, like I’ve been doing, shopping–’
‘Shut up!’ barked Ray, shaking off Danny’s outstretched hand. The rain had intensified, hammering the metal roof in noisy waves. All three men stood in silence, water dripping from their coats and forming oily pools on the ground. Ray stared at Danny for a long time.
‘No,’ he finally decided, poking a finger at Danny, ‘you did it. You’ve got contacts in the military. They found plans for the mosque hidden in your flat.’
‘It was all planted!’ Danny protested. ‘What the fuck do I know about architect drawings? Or making bombs? I’m nothing, Ray. A nobody.’
Ray didn’t say anything. He stared at his shoes, breathing heavily, like he’d just walked up a long flight of steps. Joe stood off to one side, the Mossberg now cradled in his arms. He was like a faithful pet, Danny realised, his cold eyes flicking between Ray and himself, between master and trespasser. Danny ignored him, hoping, willing Ray to believe his story.
Eventually Ray looked up. ‘Let me get this straight, Danny. You didn’t carry out the Luton operation?’
‘Operation?’ Danny scoffed. ‘Of course not.’
‘But you–’ Ray stopped himself.
‘I didn’t do it,’ Danny said quietly. He studied the man in front of him, saw the confusion and disappointment on his reddening face. Danny felt bad for Ray, as if somehow he’d betrayed him. ‘Looks like we’ve both made a mistake, Ray.’
‘Don’t be a fucking smart mouth!’ Ray hissed. He poked Danny hard in the chest, his finger stabbing the air in front of his face. ‘You don’t know anything.’
‘You’re right, I don’t,’ Danny admitted. He didn’t like the look on Ray’s face, nor the way Joe had changed his grip on the shotgun, the barrel slowly turning in his direction. Just keep your mouth shut, Danny. But the words were out before he had time to think.
‘I know Tess wouldn’t like you doing all this.’
Ray’s eyes flashed with anger. His arm snaked out before Danny could react and the open-handed slap caught him full on the cheek, sending him staggering against the car. The gun left his hand, skidding across the concrete. Ray moved in quickly, pulling Danny towards him, his fists bunching the coat beneath his chin. Danny could feel the strength in Ray’s arms, the hatred in his words.
‘Remember seven-seven, you little prick? Tess was there when that fucker detonated his bomb at Aldgate tube. Lost half her lower intestine, womb destroyed. Killed the baby she was carrying, a little boy. My boy. Don’t ever mention my wife’s name again.’ He shoved Danny hard against the car. ‘I could’ve turned you away, thrown you to the wolves, but no. I took you in, treated you like one of my own, all the time believing that you were a fighter, a true patriot.’
‘I am,’ Danny protested. ‘I just can’t do what you–’
‘We’re at war!’ Ray bellowed, his voice booming around the barn. Danny flinched as a crack of thunder split the air overhead, rattling the roof of the barn. ‘Don’t you get it, you ignorant fuck? I need people like the ones who did Luton and Downing Street, soldiers, willing to go the whole nine yards, to do what has to be done.’ He looked Danny up and down, his mouth twisting into a vicious sneer. ‘What I don’t need is white trash cowards like you, coming into my home, abusing my hospitality, taking the fucking piss.’
‘No!’ Danny pleaded. ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s not like that!’
Ray spun away, his hands covering his mouth. ‘Jesus Christ, what a mug I’ve been. A complete and utter mug. Why didn’t I see it? Why?’ he turned back to Danny. ‘The arse-kissing, the little boy lost routine. I thought that was all part of the act, some sort of test. But it wasn’t, was it? You really are innocent in all this.’
Danny pushed himself off the bonnet of the Vauxhall. He felt the toe of his boot make contact with the pistol, heard the scrape of metal on concrete. ‘That’s right, Ray. I swear I didn’t do anything. I just want to disappear, maybe to New Zealand like you said.’
Ray shook his head. ‘There is n
o New Zealand, Danny, never was. Container ships stopping in the English channel? Are you fucking nuts?’
Danny saw Joe take a step forward, his face devoid of emotion, his white-knuckled hands gripping the Mossberg. He spoke to Ray, but his dead eyes never left Danny.
‘Why don’t you let me take Danny for a walk, Ray? Let things cool down.’
Ray’s eyes flicked from Joe to Danny, then back again. ‘A walk? Yeah, good idea. Give me time to think things through.’
Joe arched an eyebrow. ‘We’ll have a wander down to the lower wood, check the traps, yeah?’
The woods, the hole in the ground...
‘The lower wood,’ Ray echoed. He was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed as if locked in some internal debate. Finally he let out a long sigh. ‘A shame,’ he muttered to himself, ‘a real fucking shame. Ok,’ he said to Joe, ‘you take Danny down there with you. You’ve got your radio?’
Joe shifted the shotgun over to his left hand and reached into the pocket of his combat jacket. In one swift movement, Danny knelt down, cocked the pistol and pulled the trigger. The back of Joe’s skull exploded in a puff of red mist and his body folded to the ground, the Mossberg clattering beside him. Ray screamed and charged forward and the pistol barked again. Ray hit Danny at full speed and their bodies crashed into the Vauxhall, Ray’s hands flailing at Danny’s face, strong fingers searching for his eyes, his mouth. Danny twisted his head violently and the pistol cracked a third time. Suddenly Ray’s hands went limp and Danny rolled across the dented hood of the car and out of Ray’s grip. He stumbled away, body shaking, ears ringing from the deafening gunshots. Thin wisps of cordite lingered in the air. Overhead, the storm rumbled on.
Ray slithered down the bonnet and flopped onto the cold floor. His hands shook violently and Danny saw a dark streak had followed him down the paintwork of the car. Ray swore, pushing himself up onto his knees and fumbling with the zip of his Barbour. He felt inside his coat, then winced, pulling his hand away and holding it up in the air. It was bright crimson.
‘Oh Jesus, look what you’ve done,’ he rasped, his eyes wide with fear.
Danny took a step towards him. ‘I know about the woods, Ray. About the hole in the ground. I seen it myself.’
‘That was a precaution,’ Ray gasped. ‘Just in case you fucked things up.’
‘Ray, I–’
The big man held out a bloody hand. ‘Help me up, son. C’mon.’
Danny shoved the pistol into the waistband of his jeans and went to Ray’s side, hefting him up under the armpits of his Barbour. As Ray straightened up, Danny saw his corduroy trousers were soaked with blood.
‘Oh God, oh God… Look what you… you’ve gone and done.’ Ray trembled violently, one hand clutching his bloodied belly, the other arm draped around Danny’s shoulders. ‘Get me to the house, son. Tess’ll know what to do.’
They shuffled awkwardly towards the sliding door, Danny struggling under Ray’s bulk. He glanced over his shoulder, where a dark trail of blood smeared across the floor behind them. So much blood. Ray stopped suddenly.
‘Take a – a breather,’ he gasped. ‘Hurts.’
Danny lowered him to the ground and dragged him towards the wall, resting his back against the cold cinderblock. His face was now deathly white, his skin beaded with perspiration. His jaw hung open, a thin stream of saliva dangling from his lip.
‘Wait there, Ray. I’m going to run to the house, call an ambulance.’
‘No,’ Ray croaked, his blood-soaked hand groping for Danny’s wrist. ‘No outsiders. There’s a doctor in the… in the village. Tess knows.’
Danny took two paces towards the barn door when Ray scraped sideways down the wall, his arms flopping uselessly beside him. He lay on the ground, his bloodshot eyes rolling in their sockets, his mouth moving faintly. Danny leaned in close, loosening his collar. It was the only first aid he knew. His fingers brushed Ray’s neck, the skin cold and damp.
‘Where’s Tess?’ Ray whispered. ‘Where’s my baby? Oh, there you are...’
Ray’s throat rattled, an unnatural sound that frightened Danny. Ray took another breath, more like a short gasp, then his eyes glazed over as the life ran out of him across the floor of the barn.
Danny scrambled away from the body and stood up, his hands and clothes smeared with blood. Two men dead, killed by Danny’s own hand. And Ray’s corpse bothered him. The man had been good to him, showered him with hospitality, given him the chance of a new life, yet the end result was always the same for Danny. Every time something in his life went right, fate was waiting around the corner to fuck it all up. Ray Carver – decent, respectable, wealthy. Danny’s saviour and benefactor – a complete lunatic. He should’ve seen this coming, but he was too blind, too stupid.
He snapped himself out of his self-pity and turned back to the Vauxhall. He flung open the door and peered inside. The ignition code was taped to the keypad. He started the vehicle up, extinguished the lights and pulled back the concertina door. He grabbed Joe’s body by the feet and dragged it out of the way, leaving a long dark streak of blood and brain matter across the floor. Five minutes later, he pulled the car around the front of the main house, steering towards the deep shadows beneath the cedars. On the seat next to him were all his personal possessions, stuffed into a rucksack. He headed around the side of the house, not bothering to take his boots off as he crossed the kitchen floor. He started with the fridge, grabbing cartons of orange juice and bottled water and stuffing them into a couple of Tess’s large shopping bags. Canned goods were next, his hands fumbling with tins of beans, spaghetti, macaroni–
‘Danny? What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Tess stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a pair of oven mitts tucked beneath her arm. It was only then that Danny noticed the joint in the oven, the smell of the roasting meat dispelling the acrid stench of cordite that had plugged his nostrils.
‘Tess, I–’
‘Bloody hell, Danny! Look at my floor!’ Tess marched across the kitchen, grabbing a roll of kitchen towel from the marble worktop. She started unravelling it across the trail of wet footprints. ‘You know better than to come in here with filthy shoes,’ she puffed, working away at the dirt on hands and knees. Then she stopped. She sat back on her haunches, her eyes taking in the shopping bags, the food spilling over the top, the open cupboards. Finally she stared at Danny. ‘What are you doing in here, anyway?’
Danny dragged the bulging bags from the counter and stood there, one in each hand. He’d never felt more ashamed, more guilty than he did right now. He must look like some sort of sneak thief, a criminal.
Tess got to her feet ‘What’s that on your clothes, Danny?’ She took a few paces towards him. ‘Is that blood on your face?’ Her eyes suddenly widened. ‘Where’s Ray?’
Danny bit his lip, unwilling to meet Tess’s gaze. ‘There’s been a terrible accident, Tess. It wasn’t my fault, I–’
Tess closed the space between them, gripping his arms with her chubby fingers. ‘What accident, Danny? Is Ray alright?’
Danny dropped his eyes, his voice shaking. ‘I didn’t want to hurt anyone–’
Tess shook him, her eyes watery, pleading. ‘Danny, what are you talking about? For God’s sake, where’s Ray?’
‘He’s in the barn, Tess. I’m sorry.’
She searched Danny’s face, her wide eyes blinking away the tears, her own face a mask of dread. She spun on her heels and headed for the kitchen door, wrenching it open. A cold wind funnelled through the house as she disappeared into the darkness, the familiar jingle of her bracelets drowned by the rain and the rumble of thunder.
Danny moved quickly, out to the waiting Vauxhall. He selected drive and floored the accelerator, raindrops lancing through the headlight beams, wipers thrashing the windscreen. As he neared the main gates he stamped on the brakes and leapt out, leaving the engine running as he ducked into the bushes and located the control box. He shivered as wet leaves dripped cold rain on his face and n
eck, as his blood-stained fingers fumbled in the dark. Then the gates hummed into life, swinging inwards, painfully slow.
Danny was about to climb back into the Vauxhall when he heard it. He froze, one foot inside the vehicle, his hand on the doorframe. Heart pounding, sick to his stomach, he clambered inside, slammed the door shut then roared out into the Hertfordshire night.
Behind him, Tess’s pitiful scream echoed across the dark estate.
Alton Grange
It was the rattling of the key in the security gate that woke Bryce.
He opened his eyes, the blistered paintwork on the ceiling above swimming into view. The room was still in shadow, the sky outside the barred windows a deep blue that paled to the east, the sun not yet risen above the surrounding woods. Denied a watch, bedside clock, radio or TV, Bryce had become used to measuring time in other ways. The sun was the simplest method, as it always had been for mankind, its predictable arc across the sky as accurate as a mechanical timepiece once you got used to its pattern. But the earth was now officially locked in a climatic cooling cycle and even Bryce, a prisoner inside this depressing wing, realised that the country was experiencing a particularly wet winter. However, in the absence of the sun there were other ways to mark time. The main gate, for example, the comings and goings, the guardhouse shift changes, the ebb and flow of vans and cars, staff and visitors; those were his timepieces. And, by any measurement, today’s wake-up call was earlier than usual.