by Dc Alden
Roy glanced over his shoulder. The old couple were packing up to leave, the mums and their babies gone. The tattooed girl was standing outside, smoking a cigarette. Everything was still normal, business as usual. Just Roy and Frank, contemplating the End of Times. He turned back to Frank.
‘And you work for these people, right?’
Frank shook his head. ‘Not any more. I’d been sliding towards a nervous breakdown for some time when your brother was killed. He would’ve known he was in danger, yet still he tried to uncover the truth. I’d seen too much death, Roy. Jimmy’s was the final straw. I made a decision, went missing. I was lost in the dark. God showed me the light again.’ He saw the look on Roy’s face and said, ‘Sure, laugh that up if you like, but He saved me. He also crystallised my thinking. What we face now is a straight fight between good and evil. I’m going down swinging.’
He dug into his pocket, pushed a small USB key drive across the table.
‘That’s full of highly sensitive data from a black site here in the UK. There’s a bunch of stuff on there, names, dates, references to Messina, shipping manifests—we’re talking reams of classified information that The Committee won’t want anyone to see, even those of us in the loop. I want you to take it with you, Roy, make sense of it, tell your boy that the history they’ll teach him in their schools will all be a lie. That the people that rule them are nothing more than godless murderers. You need to make sure the next generation knows the truth.’
Tattoo girl breezed in from outside, the scent of cigarette smoke trailing in her wake. She smiled at Roy and disappeared behind the counter. He weighed the drive in his hand.
‘Why not go public with it? Blow the whole thing out of the water.’
Frank shook his head. ‘On the outside chance that someone might believe what I just told you, it would take months, even years, to verify the data. And even if someone did, somebody else higher up the chain would hear about it and squash it. Then they’d silence you permanently. But it won’t matter because the Transition will be underway long before then. No, it’s up to future generations to make a stand.’
Frank got to his feet. ‘I can’t stay. I’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest already and they’ll be coming for me.’ He scribbled a number on a napkin. ‘You can reach me there for the next twenty-four hours. After that, I’m gone. You need anything, clarification, whatever, call me. And if you do, be smart—use a payphone.’ He came around the table, placed his hand on Roy’s shoulder. ‘I’m guessing you’ve got a couple of months, six at the outside, before it starts. Get out, Roy. While you still can.’ He gave his shoulder a squeeze. ‘Good luck, son. God bless.’
The bell above the door chimed, a cold draught gusting around Roy’s legs. He stared at Frank’s empty chair and realised he’d been distracted by talk of conspiracies and biblical prophecies. It wasn’t Frank’s fault, Roy had pressed the guy, but in the process he’d lost focus, away from Jimmy. He should’ve asked about practical stuff, like personal effects, and wills and bank accounts. He imagined someone clearing out his brother’s locker, dumping it all into a rubbish bag, Jimmy’s life scattered on an Iraqi rubbish tip.
Roy cursed and pushed his chair back. Outside a cold rain was falling as his eyes searched the pavement, the empty road, the damp green sweep of the park beyond the iron railings.
There wasn’t a soul to be seen.
Frank Marshall had disappeared.
Chapter Sixteen
Roy trudged back across the park towards the Fitzroy.
The wind whipped his clothes and rain drummed his head, but it did little to clear his thoughts. He tried Frank’s phone again. It rang, unanswered again.
Get out, Frank had warned. Roy did the calculation, realised his assets would barely stretch to a decent set of camping gear. The flat was rented, and he had little savings. If he needed to run he could probably find somewhere cheap, but that would be it. There’d be no budget for supplies, for fuel or generators. As for gold, well, Frank was having a laugh there.
Even if he did have the resources, how would he convince Vicky to leave everything behind, drag Max out to the middle of nowhere? To wait out a crisis that may never come?
He felt for the USB key buried in his pocket as he trotted up the dank stairwell. Okay, so Jimmy was inquisitive, always asking questions, reading up on stuff. Roy imagined him at this Messina site, taking pictures, rifling through drawers, wondering what he’d gotten himself involved in. That part of Frank’s story was credible. As for the rest, well—
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
Derek’s rough bark startled Roy as he closed the front door. The Scot was in the hallway, his bloodshot eyes narrowed, dark shadows trapped in the hollows of his stubbled cheeks.
‘I was in the park. I had my son this morning.’
Roy tugged off his coat. Derek was in a foul mood. He was a mess too, his Celtic T-shirt spattered with food stains, his grey tracksuit bottoms the same, the nails untrimmed on his pale, bare feet.
And the blood.
Roy pointed. ‘I think you’ve cut your foot.’
Derek said nothing, ignoring the claret that squelched between his toes. A cigarette dangled between his lips and he screwed a flinty eye as he took a long, glowing drag. Ash tumbled to the carpet.
Roy forced a smile. ‘I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.’ He tried to squeeze past. The Scot blocked his path.
‘The fuck are you going? I’m talking.’
Compliance, that was the key, the only way to deal with his unstable squatter.
‘Sorry, Derek. I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’
‘You think I give a fuck about your problems? I’ve been ringing all fucking morning. Your phone goes straight to voicemail.’
Roy slapped his forehead. ‘Dammit, I forgot to tell you. I’ve got a new one.’ He pulled the BlackBerry from his pocket and held it up.
Derek stood immobile, blocking the hallway, bony hands dangling by his side. ‘You get a new phone and don’t tell me?’
‘I forgot.’
‘You forgot. You’re a stupid cunt, you know that, son? I’m sick of seeing your stupid face, and I’m sick of staring at the walls of this fucking shitebox too.’
Roy swallowed nervously. Derek’s cabin fever had got a lot worse. Roy had Googled the syndrome at work, disturbed by Derek’s deteriorating moods. He’d read about isolation and claustrophobia, about chronic restlessness and a distrust of others. And outright hostility. Derek was a ticking time bomb. Sammy had to get him out, one way or another, before he went off.
‘Look, you’ll probably be on your way any day now. Sammy should have some news soon.’
‘Don’t fucking baby me, son. And that prick doesn’t answer his fucking phone either. I’m tired of this shite.’
Jesus, he was really starting to lose it. ‘Can I make a suggestion, Derek? Don’t take this the wrong way but why don’t you, er, clean up a little?’
‘What?’
‘You know, for when we get the go ahead. Have a shower and a shave.’
He smiled, hoping he’d chosen his words carefully. Lately he’d imagined a surly, unkempt Derek, trailing behind him through the airside corridors, muttering under his whisky-fuelled breath and giving passers-by the evil eye. That was unthinkable.
‘Are you calling me a soap dodger?’
Derek flexed his fingers.
Roy took a subtle step back.
‘No, not at all. A lot of people will be watching us as we move through the airport. We’ve got to look the part, that’s all.’
Derek stared at Roy for a moment then grinned, baring his yellowed teeth.
‘Ya cheeky wee gobshite. Trying to teach me the game, are ya? Mugging me off, is that it?’
‘For Christ’s sake no,’ Roy protested. ‘Look, just have a think about it, eh?’ He squeezed past Derek. ‘I’ll put the TV on. I’ve rented a couple of movies that—’
He stopped dead in his tracks.
T
he living room had been trashed.
No, not just trashed. Completely and utterly wrecked, like a bomb had gone off. His disbelieving eyes roamed the empty walls, his pictures smashed and splintered. The curtains had been dragged from their tracks and pale foam bled from the wounds of his sofa. His flat-screen TV lay on its back, impaled with the tube of the vacuum cleaner. The floor at his feet was ankle deep in the detritus of domesticity; the DVD player in pieces, discs broken, ornaments and cutlery shattered, the architectural drawings shredded. A pile of Roy’s clothes, all soaking wet. Urine, he guessed. Even his bike had been vandalised and hurled on the heap, the wheels twisted, the spokes buckled. He caught a glint of brushed silver, his laptop, the screen viciously separated from the keyboard. He stared open-mouthed, unable to comprehend what his eyes were telling him.
Then he spotted something else, a shard of glass, a twisted gold metal frame. He dropped to his knees and scrabbled amongst the debris, found the photographs he treasured most, the family in Cornwall, Jimmy and Max. Or what was left of them. Along with the others they were torn to pieces, maliciously destroyed by the man who watched him from the doorway.
Roy rubbed a gentle thumb over Max’s toothless grin, the faded, headless bodies of his parents, distinguishable only by their dated clothes. He couldn’t find Jimmy at all.
Derek stepped into the room, another cigarette jammed in his fist. ‘This is what happens when I get ignored. When wee pricks forget to tell their guests about new phones.’
Roy knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should’ve just cleared up and bided his time until he could ring Sammy, then beg and plead with him until Derek was gone.
But he didn’t.
Instead he got to his feet, letting the shreds of his dead family flutter to the carpet.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Derek? What sort of mental case does something like this?’
The Scot took a pull on his cigarette, exhaling tiny circles of smoke with loud clicks of his jaw. ‘Be careful, son.’
‘Be careful? Really? You’ve trashed everything I own. Pissed on my clothes too, judging by the smell. And all because I forgot to tell you about a new phone?’
Derek sniggered, and the anger surged through Roy. He was going down, he knew that, so fuck it, he might as well go down in flames. He felt the red mist enveloping him, and embraced it for all it was worth.
‘Oh, you think it’s funny. After all I’ve done for you. Shopping, cooking, washing, cleaning, waiting on you hand and foot—I mean, short of wiping your arse, I’ve practically been a slave in my own home.’
‘What’s your point?’
Roy folded his arms and drummed his fingers on his chin. ‘Hmm, let me see. Oh yeah. My point is this—you, Derek what-ever-the-fuck-your-name-is—are a rude, dirty, ungrateful, self-centred, ignorant fucking pisshead. That’s right, and I can’t wait for the day you walk out that door for good because I am sick to death of you being here. You’re a fucking parasite.’
The venom in his own voice surprised Roy. And it felt really good.
Derek stared at him, his grey eyes unflinching. ‘Finished?’
‘The truth is, I hope somewhere down the line you get nicked, Derek. It’s what someone like you deserves. I hope you end up in some Third World prison, where you get arse raped every fucking day. I hope you sink slowly into a black pit of despair, and realise living is too much trouble. And one day, with any luck, they’ll find you hanging by your scrawny little neck in your cell. Because you are one nasty, horrible piece of human shit, Derek, and I hate your fucking guts.’
Roy was panting now, his anger spent, the red mist blown away by the cold wind of reality. He knew then he’d gone too far. An icy ball began to form in his stomach.
Derek smiled and said, ‘Well, I guess we know where we both stand.’
He flicked his cigarette with well-practised accuracy, the butt exploding in a shower of sparks in Roy’s face. The Scot closed the distance between them with the speed and agility of a seasoned street fighter, a bony fist crashing into Roy’s skull. He stumbled backwards, threw an instinctive punch. It cracked off Derek’s cheek but the Scot never flinched, his hands a blur of bone and knuckle. Roy went down hard and Derek kept coming. He straddled his chest, raining blow after blow, grunting with effort. Roy felt his lip burst, tasted blood. He tried to grab Derek’s arms but they were like pistons, pummelling him. A punch landed below his ribs and the air left his body with a loud oof! He rolled onto his side but Derek wasn’t finished. He stood up, rummaging through the debris, his hand finding a leg of the coffee table.
Roy saw it and suddenly he thought he might die.
He tried to crawl away, clutching his stomach, blood dripping from his mouth, his face. He felt a blow to the back of his head, a hollow crack that detonated a million pin pricks of light behind his eyes. His legs and arms buckled.
He heard Derek standing over him, the panting of his breath, the rasp of wood in the Scot’s hand. Any second now the makeshift club would be raised and the end would come.
Roy closed his eyes and the blackness was complete.
Yasin Goreja cursed his brother-in-law. Again.
He’d cursed him as he lay in bed that morning. He’d cursed him on the bus to Heathrow, cursed him for most of the day at work, and now he cursed him as he made his way home from the bus stop. Then Yasin cursed himself.
How stupid he’d been to trust Amir. Secretly he’d always been jealous of his wife’s younger brother, his designer clothes, his boastful inventory of done deals, the two-year-old Mercedes he drove between his many businesses. Amir holidayed in Florida twice a year. Yasin took his brood to his cousin’s caravan in Derbyshire. And he especially resented the thick roll of cash Amir always pulled from his pocket whenever he visited the house, peeling off a note or two for Yasin’s five girls and two boys. Yasin always felt insulted, shamed by his children’s squeals of delight, the fawning esteem his wife held for her sibling.
He’d hit her once, for her lack of respect. She’d remained silent of course, and Yasin had been plagued by guilt, a guilt that had faded far quicker than his wife’s blackened eye. And soon the jealousy had returned.
Yasin felt shackled by his inadequate salary, the cost of his growing family. Amir had dangled the carrot of a lucrative business venture. Against his better judgement, Yasin had taken the plunge. He cursed himself again.
Now Yasin was desperate. The money he’d sunk into the deal, the one that involved the calling cards and a fast food outlet, had disappeared. Twenty thousand pounds, squeezed from the equity of his meagre three-bedroom property, was gone. Amir had shrugged; solicitors’ fees and agents and a string of other debtors had swallowed up the money. Yasin had begged and pleaded. Then he threatened to involve the police. Amir had countered with his own threat, the exposure of Yasin’s fiscal irresponsibility. The damage to his status would be permanent, his standing in the community undermined, his name sullied at the local mosque. His family shamed.
It was enough to silence Yasin’s tongue.
But the bills kept mounting, and Yasin’s nights grew ever more sleepless—until the day he’d seen Roy Sullivan on CCTV taking pictures with his phone. He’d watched him for a week, building the case against him. He had no idea what the man was up to, nor did he care. All he saw was opportunity. The bank was calling him daily, the recent interest rate rise plunging him further into debt. Someone had to pay. It wouldn’t be Amir, of course—that bastard had taken his family away again, this time to Pakistan for a wedding. Lately Yasin had begun to suspect that there was never any deal in the first place. It was all a scam, retribution for striking Amir’s sister. What a fool he’d been.
And now his own plan was starting to backfire. Sullivan had not buckled like Yasin thought he would. Instead he’d gone absent from work, forcing Yasin to cover for him, fuelling his growing sense of impotence. He felt inside his coat for Sullivan’s iPhone. A few days ago he felt assured of its lucrative potential. Now
it burned like a hot coal in his pocket. Whatever mistakes he’d made in the past, none of them could compare to his recent stupidities.
He passed a parade of shops and cut down a narrow alleyway. He contemplated his own arrest and imprisonment, and the thought filled him with dread. He was well respected, a pillar of the community, his word trusted, his advice often sought. Now he ran the risk of being exposed as dishonest, a blackmailer and debtor. Yasin shook the vision from his mind, raindrops flicking from his beard. Once again he cursed his brother-in-law.
Ahead the alleyway was in shadow, the streetlights still lifeless despite the darkening sky. He saw someone approaching him, a hooded figure, but Yasin took no notice. The path narrowed, a lifeless lamppost forcing the gap. The man was approaching quickly, hands in his pockets, face obscured by a dark hood. Yasin made way.
He caught a sudden hand movement, felt the blow to his groin, a pain so sharp and so deep that it robbed the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, grabbing at the hand, at the serrated knife that glinted as it buried itself deep in his stomach. Yasin tried to scream and failed, the sound trapped in his throat as the blade rose again and again, slicing through his hands, his clothes. He fell forward, pulling at the man’s hood, his fingers slippery with blood. He felt the blade enter his side this time, and he dropped to his knees, gasping. He looked down, saw his coat and trousers soaked with blood.
‘Please stop,’ he rasped.
He felt his attacker’s hands snake beneath his armpits, dragging him over a drooping wire fence and onto the waste ground beyond. He had no strength left, unable to stop his body being rolled beneath a stand of twisted shrubs. He knew his life was about to end.
His attacker loomed over him and he was surprised to see it was a woman. She worked fast, rifling his pockets, burying him beneath a mound of split and filthy bin liners, his nostrils filled with the stench of rotting rubbish, his hands warmed by the ceaseless flow of blood.
Yasin Goreja wondered many things as the life ran out of his body; he wondered how his wife would cope, how his young children would survive, and how they would remember him. He was desperately sorry for what he’d done. He hoped that somehow, someday, they would forgive him.