The Angel

by Mark Dawson

  ‘There’s a paved back garden, maybe thirty feet by ten feet. The one next door has a dog, so there might be noise. There’s a gate at the back to get into the alley. It’s unlocked. You’ve got two wheelie bins, then a stretch of concrete, then maybe ten feet with a couple of bikes and an old washing machine before you reach some kind of lean-to attached to the back of the house. There’s a door and a window. There’s a light above the door.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That’s the way to get in.’

  ‘Can you get a look at the lock?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Pope saw the glare of headlights jerking up and down as a car negotiated the speed bumps in the road in the direction from which he had just arrived. He took a quarter turn so that he could look back and made to fumble with his lace again. The car was a Volvo Estate. Stone’s intelligence suggested that Hussain drove a green Volvo Estate. It was too dark to make out the colour, and the car was too far away to read the plate, but as Pope watched, it slowed and drew up outside number 30.

  ‘Target might be coming home,’ he said.

  ‘I’m coming out.’

  ‘Stay on your side of the street. I’ll meet you.’

  Kelleher tapped the pressel switch on her radio two times: universal code for ‘copy that.’

  ‘Control to Twelve. Bring the car back to the house.’

  ‘We’re doing it now?’

  ‘Maybe. Eyes open.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  Pope stood and crossed, joining Kelleher as she emerged from the mouth of the alley. He took her hand and walked back to the house as if they were a couple.

  The Volvo had reversed into a space outside the house.

  They were twenty feet away when the car’s lights were extinguished. Pope reached his spare hand into the pocket of his jacket and felt the fibres of his woollen balaclava.

  They were fifteen feet away when both front doors opened, and two people stepped out. He could feel the bulge of his Sig in its shoulder holster beneath his left shoulder.

  The passenger was a woman, her identity hidden beneath her dark burqa. The man, though, was instantly recognisable. He was burly, with a bald head and a long beard that reached down to his sternum. He wore a traditional dishdasha, had an eyepatch over his right eye, and he walked with a pronounced limp. Hussain had given two conflicting explanations for the injuries. In one interview, he said that he had lost his eye and his leg while working on a humanitarian demining project in Jalalabad, Pakistan. In another, he said it happened while he was preparing explosives for the Pakistani military in Lahore.

  They had a positive ID.

  Ten feet. Kelleher squeezed his hand. He readied himself. They would both draw down on the targets, Pope would get in close and shove the barrel of the Sig against Hussain’s head and then he would hustle him off the street and into the back of the car. He would get in next to him, Kelleher would ride up front. Fifteen seconds, maximum.

  It was going to be easier than he had expected.

  Hussain limped across the pavement to the front door, the key in his hand. His wife waited behind him.

  Pope felt the buzz of adrenaline, the expectation of sudden violent action.

  Snow’s voice crackled in his ear. ‘There’s another car coming.’

  Pope saw it, too. Lights bumped up and down as the car negotiated the speed bumps that had been laid to deter joyriders using the grid of streets as a racetrack. The street lamps were defective at that part of the street, but as the car drew nearer, moonlight fell across it, and he saw that it bore the markings of the local police.

  He gripped Kelleher’s hand tighter, and the two of them stepped around Hussain and his wife and continued on.

  He clicked the pressel three times: ‘Abort.’

  The police car slowed right down. There were two officers inside it, and Pope glanced across as the driver looked back at them.

  ‘I’m going around,’ Snow said. ‘I’ll meet you where I dropped you off.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Aqil Malik stood at the open graveside as his brother’s body was taken out of the casket and lowered into the ground, arranged on his right-hand side in such a fashion that his head was facing Mecca. It was important that this be done correctly. They had already had the anguish of not being able to bury Aamir quickly, as ordained by the scripture. The authorities had not released the body, probing and prodding it, until they had all the evidence they needed. It was an abomination. They had no respect. No understanding. Aamir had had nothing to do with what had happened, but they had not listened.

  The male members of the family stood around, grim faced. The women were waiting for them at home. It was a dank afternoon, and rain pattered against the umbrella that Aqil’s elder brother, Yasin, held over both of their heads.

  The imam finished his short prayer. ‘Indeed to Allah we belong, and to Him we will return.’

  He stood back, and Aqil’s father dropped the first three fistfuls of wet earth over his son’s body. He recited the Surah: ‘“We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.”’

  Aqil felt his throat tightening, and a tear began to roll down his cheek, mixing with the rain.

  Yasin stepped forward, stooped down to collect the mud, and scattered it over the body while reciting the same verse.

  The mosque had taken care of all the necessary requirements. Aamir’s body had been washed and bathed and draped in the plain white kafan sheets as a part of the takfeen. They had taken him home for an afternoon, laying his casket out in the living room so that family members could pay their respects.

  Their mother had wanted to close the lid. The bullet that had killed him had been fired at close range, the muzzle of the gun pressed against his crown so that a little circle of hair had been charred away. The exit wound was just above his jawline, below his left cheek. It was a purple bruise with a blackened hole in the centre. Their father had insisted that the casket be left open. He wanted people to see what the security services had done to his boy.

  Not many people had come.

  Even fewer had come to the Janazah prayer at the mosque.

  Aqil had overheard his father and mother talking about it. Their friends had apologised, saying that it was too dangerous to come to the house. They had been given a police guard after the windows had been put in for the second time, and now their mail was being checked after white powder – later found to be flour – had been posted to them. And then there was the dog shit through the letterbox, the vitriol and the threats.

  Aqil had closed his Twitter and Facebook accounts after the trolls had found them. They had threatened to kill him and his brother and rape his sister and his mother. One had even set up a fake account in Aamir’s name, complete with a head and shoulders shot that had been copied from one of his social media accounts. The fake Aamir had posted that there was no Paradise, that he was in Hell, and that Aqil would be next.

  The community didn’t want to bring any of that down on themselves.

  It was his turn now. He stepped forward to the lip of the grave, sank his hands into the wet muck and brought out a small pile in his cupped hands.

  ‘“We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.”’

  His twin had been a simple boy. There was a suggestion that Aqil had taken more from their mother when they were in the womb together, more nutrition or something, and that Aamir had suffered because of it. Aqil didn’t know how much of that was true, but it had been something that he had hated to be told. As they grew older, the evidence mounted. He was the bigger of the two. He was brighter, did better at school, had more friends. Aamir was more vulnerable, easily led, impressionable. Aqil had been concerned when Yasin had started taking him to the mosque more and more often. Yasin had never tried to persuade him to come, which made him suspicious, but Aamir was eighteen and could do whatever he wanted. Neither Yasin nor Aa
mir had ever brought his increasing piety up in front of their parents, and if the latter had noticed, they had said nothing.

  Aqil knew the mosque was rotten. He had stopped going. He knew, too, that Yasin had grown close to Alam Hussain. Their father would have objected if he had known. The imam was persuasive and full of poison. His view of Islam was radical and more aggressive than the peaceful teachings of the man he had replaced. Aqil wished that he had said something. Perhaps it would have been different. He could have stopped it.

  He had been furious when Yasin had explained what had happened. Yasin swore that he didn’t know about the planned attack, but he had refused to condemn it. Aqil didn’t believe it. Yasin wasn’t telling him everything. Aqil’s first reaction had been fury. He had struck his brother and would have struck him again if their father had not pulled them apart. He had been very close to telling the police officers who interviewed them what his brother had told him, and what he suspected.

  But then the abuse had started. The dog shit had been pushed through the letter box. The bricks had been thrown through the windows. His mother had been assaulted in the street. The threatening phone calls came all through the night. The abuse had flooded his inbox. It was a tide, an avalanche, and it was getting worse and worse and worse.

  Yasin had begged him to be quiet, and he had. What would have happened if he had spoken out? Yasin would have been arrested. The opprobrium wouldn’t have stopped.

  ‘Come on, bruv,’ Yasin said.

  Aqil turned and followed Yasin away from the graveside. The protestors had been gathered at the gates of the graveyard for an hour before they had arrived. There had been twenty of them then, but as they walked through the drizzle back to their cars, he could see that there were more now. The path led down a slope to the ornate iron gates. Beyond them, and behind a cordon of police in their fluorescent yellow hi-vis jackets, an angry scrum of perhaps a hundred men and women had gathered. There were skinheads there, right at the front, shouting out that they were terrorists and they should all be sent home. But, behind them, there were ordinary-looking men and women with angry red faces, joining in the chants and bellowing their indignation.

  ‘Bastards,’ Yasin swore under his breath.

  ‘Ignore them,’ their father commanded sternly. ‘They want us to react. Don’t give them the satisfaction.’

  The funeral director had provided a black BMW for the immediate family. They got inside. The driver was pale faced, but as the cortege moved off, he put the car into gear and joined the slow-moving queue. The police opened the gates, and the cordon split into two halves, each holding back the protestors so that they could drive out onto the road beyond. The noise rose as they approached, a furious baying that was barely muffled inside the car. Aqil stared ahead, his jaw clenched tightly, his fists bunched up in his lap. He heard the abuse, the racism, saw the spit as it slid down the windows and then, as the cordon broke, saw the two skinheads surge forward and pound their fists against the glass.

  The driver swore, his hands shaking as he pressed down on the accelerator and raced clear.

  The mourning, or hidaad, would last for three days. The family had gathered in the hall of the only community centre that would take their booking. Several had turned them down when they realised what the booking was for, so their father had pretended that this was to be a birthday party. The caretaker would have realised that he had been lied to as soon as the cars with their police escort drew into the car park, but by then it was too late.

  Aqil stood at the edge of the room and watched. There were very few mourners, and those who had attended looked lost in the space of the hall. His brother did not deserve this. He did not deserve to be shunned. He did not deserve to be dead.

  Yasin saw him and came across. He took him to one side.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I know. Me too.’

  ‘Where is everyone? All the others?’

  ‘Scared,’ Yasin said.

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘No,’ his brother said. His voice was as hard and as cold as iron. He took out his phone and opened the app for Twitter. ‘Seen this?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Look at it.’

  Yasin handed it over. Aqil had seen something similar on his own feed; he didn’t need to see it again. There had been hundreds of updates, each tagging his account so that he could see what had been said about him and his family. There were obscene photographs – a mocked-up picture of Aamir’s body seemed to have gone viral – together with dozens of death threats against him and the promise that his mother and sister would be raped.

  ‘I know you don’t agree with what Aamir did,’ Yasin said carefully, ‘but when you see this, it becomes easier to understand. You know what I mean?’

  There was a short while of silence.

  ‘Have you thought about it?’

  Aqil looked down. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘And?’

  Aqil tried to compose himself. He had been tortured by it all morning. Yasin had been on at him ever since the abuse had started.

  They would be blamed.

  It was their fault.

  What had they done?

  His efforts built to a head last night. They had no choice, he said.

  They had to do it.

  They had to go.

  What Yasin was suggesting was frightening. The first time he had brought it up, Aqil had told him that he was crazy and that there was no way he would ever agree to it. He didn’t hate his country. He was born here. He had friends here. People he had grown up with. He had school, college, the prospect of a job, the chance to make money, something to look forward to. A stake in the future.

  But then the abuse had increased, and he thought about what his brother was proposing some more. He thought about the Twitter messages, the threats and the hatred, and he started to think that maybe Yasin was right, after all.

  How would he get a job with the stain on his family name?

  Who would employ the twin brother of a terrorist?

  He had no friends. They had deserted him. Where were they now, when he needed them most? They were gone.

  He thought about the newspaper reporters who had slept in their cars outside the house. They had raked through his past, running pictures of both of them, accusing them of things that they hadn’t done, accusing them of thinking things that they didn’t think. They’d discovered their father’s affair from twenty years ago, suggested his business was a front, said their mother was a benefits cheat, that she hadn’t been as badly damaged by the hospital’s negligence as they had said.

  They wrote in twenty-point type, on a million tabloid newspapers, that the Maliks were traitors who hated their country.

  And so he allowed himself to be browbeaten. He’d finally said yes when they spoke last night, but he had woken up this morning to find himself unsure again. He had looked at the streets as the convoy had driven to the cemetery, all the familiar places, and he had been buffeted by doubt. This was his home. Even the insipid Mancunian rain was a trigger for his memories. He had decided to tell Yasin that he had changed his mind, but then there was the funeral and the protestors with their yells and their fists hammering on the roof and the loathing that burned in their eyes.

  Aqil angled himself so that he was facing Yasin and spoke quietly. ‘When do we do it?’

  Yasin looked at him, and when he spoke, Aqil thought he could hear a little fear in his voice. ‘Sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  He almost seemed angry. Aqil knew why: he was suggesting something that would take him away from the family, and although Yasin believed it to be the right thing to do, he hated himself for the pain he was going to cause. ‘Don’t just say yes because you’re upset. This isn’t a joke. This is serious. We won’t be able to come home.’

  ‘I know that!’

  ‘Easy,’ Yasin said, his palm upraised. ‘Keep your voice
down.’

  Akil hissed, ‘I’m not stupid. I’m sure.’ He meant it.

  Yasin nodded his head. ‘I’ll need your passport. I’m going to get the tickets this afternoon.’

  ‘When will we leave?’

  ‘Soon. The next few days. I don’t see any point in waiting, do you?’

  Chapter Thirty

  They reconvened in the car, and Snow drove them to an arcade of shops half a mile away. They parked outside the Zuhayp Café.

  ‘We’re not going to be able to put in any surveillance,’ Pope said. ‘There’s nowhere obvious on the street, and if those police patrols are any good, they’ll see us if we try and watch from the car.’

  ‘So we go tonight?’

  ‘We’ll wait until one.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Thirty minutes.’

  ‘Breeching where?’

  ‘The back. Nine?’

  Kelleher took out her phone. She had taken a close-up picture of the lock on the door at the back of the house. She rested the phone on her knee and unzipped the bag of kit that was on the back seat between her and Pope. She took out the pick gun, selected the correct bit and slotted it into place.

  ‘Getting in won’t be difficult,’ she said, hefting the gun. ‘What about the layout inside?’

  ‘My guess is that you’ll have a room off the hallway at the front of the house, and the kitchen behind it. Flight of stairs up to the first floor, two bedrooms. It’s most likely that Hussain will be upstairs, but he has a bad leg. I wouldn’t rule out the chance that he has a bedroom on the ground floor.’

  ‘Options?’

  ‘Twelve – you stay in the car. Park on Greame Street, and be ready to move on my signal. If you see the patrol car, I want to know about it.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘Nine – you breach the door. I’ll go in first; you come in after me. Standard clearing after that. Ground floor, then up the stairs. We keep the lights off, and keep both of them quiet.’ He reached into the bag for a roll of gaffer tape. ‘We’ll tape their mouths shut before we get him out. Back through the garden, into the alley, Twelve meets us on Cowesby Street, we get away and head straight for Scotland. Any questions?’