Baptism

by Max Kinnings

  Another one came down the opposite side of the train and she shot him in the head. It was almost too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel. That was an expression that Tommy came out with when he was playing video games. She only ever played Kill Fire with him once and even though she had played it hundreds of times more than he had, had practiced and improved, he beat her best score on his first attempt. And that’s what he kept saying every time he killed someone: “Like shooting fish in a barrel.” She loved Tommy. He had engineered all of this. He had the intelligence and understanding to realize that he had been chosen. A lot of people might have missed it, might have gone through their lives without realizing that they had a mission. She knew in her heart of hearts that, without Tommy, she would not have realized that she was special too, chosen to carry out God’s work. She was lucky. She was blessed.

  She and Tommy had spoken about this moment for so long and now here they were just as Tommy had said they would be. Tommy talked to God a lot and told her about their conversations.

  “God loves you, Belle,” Tommy told her. Of all the millions of people on earth that God had created, he was thinking of her. More than thinking, he loved her. She was special to him. And it was Tommy who had made her realize it. Tommy might have been at the other end of the train but she could feel him; he felt as close as if he was standing next to her.

  “Not long now.” He had said that to her so many times in the past few weeks. And it really wasn’t long now. There was no death. Not for her. She would be resurrected to eternal life and she would sit alongside God and Tommy and Jesus. She would sit alongside the disciples.

  Some more of them made their way down the side of the train and she shot at them. One of them ducked down beneath the window and she shot him through the carriage wall. Evidence of her inch-perfect aim was plain to see as part of the man’s skull, complete with hair, slapped against the window. Another one she shot as he climbed through the broken window through which she had allowed the skinny bloke to climb a few moments before. She let the other two make their way into the carriage as well, let them think they were going to be able to reach her. She even pretended to reload the gun and swore as though she was having problems, enticing them ever closer. She thought she might try and take them both out with one shot. That was a triple bonus score. But she settled on shooting them one by one. The first one wasn’t very satisfying. The shot hit him in the chest and he was thrown back against the seats, dead before he even hit them. But the second one was choice. Took his head clean off.

  Where was he, the skinny one who she had allowed into the carriage first? She knew he was crouched down behind the end of the row of seats. He’d probably lost his nerve and who could blame him after what the Pulverizer had done to the others? He must have known he was going to die. Brave of him really. She could respect that.

  She waited. When he made himself known—made a run at her or whatever he was going to do—she would let him get close. But where was he?

  She took a step forward and there he was, rearing up out of the water straight in front of her. He was too close, way too close and he had a big hunting knife in his hand with which he slashed at her. She could feel the air displacement from the blade against her cheek. Another inch closer and he would have taken her face off. They struggled; he might have been skinny but desperation made him strong. Another swipe with the hunting knife which nearly caught her throat and she managed to push him backward and maneuvered the Pulverizer into position.

  The bullet almost tore him in half. Only a short section of his midriff, just a few inches of flesh, remained after the dum-dum bullet had done its work. He dropped the knife into the water but with one final supreme effort, he managed to get his hands around her throat. His face looked up at hers as his intestines flopped into the water from his gaping abdomen. And then he did the strangest thing. As his fingers lost their strength and he began to collapse into the water, where he would drown in a soup of his own guts, he managed to fight against his impending death long enough to spit in her face. She wiped the spit away with the back of her hand and kicked him away from her. That had to be a triple score. If he was close enough to spit in her face, it had to be. But she didn’t like it that he had got that close. It was too close. It unnerved her.

  Belle reached into the side pocket of her jacket that was now below the level of the water in which she stood. She felt for a fresh magazine but there wasn’t one. Not to worry, there were plenty more. She waded through the water back to the rear cab. By the light of her torch, she could see that Simeon had tipped forward from where he had slumped after she’d shot him. Blood hung from his wounds in big clouds in the water. She considered kissing him again but decided against it. Feeding the Pulverizer was more important. And besides, he would be cold by now.

  Somewhere in the water was the bag that contained the ammunition. She tried feeling for objects with her feet. She felt something by the door, it wasn’t a bag, it was something small and hard—it was one of the Glock pistols but as she reached down into the water, she knocked it out of the open doorway.

  Never mind, there was another one around here somewhere and she had plenty more bullets—food—for the Pulverizer. She just had to find the bag. She stepped over Simeon’s body and explored the other side of the cab with her feet. Nothing. There was only one place that it could be—under Simeon. Rolling him over, she reached underneath his body and felt the reassuring touch of the canvas bag against her hand. She pulled it out of the water and opened it up. It wouldn’t matter that the bullets had got wet. She had applied wax sealant to them to ensure they were waterproof. She reached inside the bag. It was empty. Her fingers frantically scoured the bag’s interior and finally she turned it inside out. No magazines, no bullets.

  But Simeon had packed them . . .

  And there it was—Simeon had packed them.

  She felt sick. She held the torch between her teeth and went through his pockets. She knew they weren’t there. Just as she had loaded his gun with dud bullets, so he had disposed of her ammunition. But as she straightened up, God saw fit to throw her some small consolation. There on the driver’s console, now half in and half out of the water, was the other Glock. She stepped over Simeon and picked it up. A Glock would fire when wet; it would even fire under water. It held seventeen rounds. Being the one from which she had fired the two shots into Simeon, there would be fifteen rounds left. Hopefully that would be enough if there were any further attempts to attack her. There was also one bullet left in the Pulverizer. One of her holy bullets with the cross carved into the end. She wouldn’t tell Tommy about losing the other bullets. He would think she had been sloppy in her preparation and he would be right. She wouldn’t tell him but she needed to speak to him. The water was rising fast. She might not have another chance.

  She took the walkie-talkie from her top pocket and pressed the switch. When he answered it, he sounded different, almost like it wasn’t him.

  “Tommy? What’s the matter? You sound really weird.”

  “I’ve been shot. It hurts but I’m okay.”

  “How did it happen, Tommy?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. We must stand firm. They’ll keep coming for us right up to the last moment. But once the baptism is complete then we will have accomplished God’s work. Just remember that no one will ever forget the name of Belle Denning.”

  “I love you, Tommy. I’ll see you on the other side.”

  “I love you too, Belle, always and for ever.”

  2:11 PM

  Northern Line Train 037, first carriage

  His sister’s voice was so full of hope. It gave him strength when he heard her speak like that. The pain in his face had settled down into a series of stabbing jolts that kept time with his heartbeat. It felt as though someone was kicking him in the face with a sharp, pointed boot, a silver-capped cowboy boot perhaps. Over and over again, almost every second, and some kicks were worse than others. At times it felt as though t
he person doing the kicking had taken a running start. He needed the end to come quickly now to stop the pain. Sometimes the frequency changed. Instead of deep and thudding, it would be high-pitched and the cowboy boot would be replaced by a handful of needles jabbed mercilessly into his gums.

  But he knew this for what it was and he could take it. It was a test. If he could pass the test and carry out the baptism then all the angels in heaven would sing his name. He hadn’t come this far to fail. God was with him. God was with his sister too. Tommy could hear God in his sister’s voice. Belle was a prophet.

  “Bye, Tommy.”

  “It’s not good-bye, Belle. This is not the end but the beginning.”

  “I know, Tommy.”

  “Be strong, Belle.”

  “I will, Tommy, I will.”

  He took his finger off the switch on the walkie-talkie and let it drop into the water. He didn’t need it any more.

  His bond with Belle was more than just spiritual. They had great sex. They fitted together perfectly. Maybe it was something to do with being brother and sister, twins. They could go for hours but they would always come at the same time. And in a funny sort of way, today would be the same.

  2:19 PM

  Unmarked Police Car, Leicester Square

  Ed listened to Nick Calvert as he showed his ID to the police officers manning the perimeter of the evacuation zone on the edge of Leicester Square. As Calvert spoke, his voice was imbued with a frequency usually absent from it. In among the masculine low notes was a screech that betrayed his inner conflict. He and Ed hadn’t spoken as the car had made its way through the West End traffic. They didn’t need to. Ed knew that Calvert was torn about what they were doing. Nick Calvert was a career cop. He did everything by the book. You could never wish for a more reliable colleague in a negotiating cell. Ed was asking him to compromise his most cherished principles. If Ed could have carried out his mission without enlisting Calvert’s assistance then he would have done so but they both knew that it wasn’t possible. So here they were, entering one of the most heavily secured and policed locations on the planet, and doing it with an illegal cache of Semtex and a former IRA bomber in the car with them.

  With their credentials confirmed, the uniformed officer said, “Okay, you can park up. The negotiating cell’s on that artic over there.”

  “Thanks.”

  Calvert pressed the button to raise the window and it slid back into place with a faint hum. He drove on for a few yards before swinging the car around and cutting the engine.

  “Ed, we’re here. I’m presuming you’re not coming to the negotiating cell so I need to know what to tell them in there.”

  Ed could hear the fear and confusion in Calvert’s voice. Ed had no doubt that when he answered, his own voice would contain the same emotions. Calvert was the gatekeeper of his plan so he knew that he must maintain an air of self-confidence. It was crucial that Calvert felt that what he was doing was right and that Ed’s plan was the product of serious tactical considerations and not a panicky act of desperation. In reality, it was somewhere between the two.

  “Here’s what I think we should do, Nick. I’m going to stay here in the car with Conor and the professor. I think you should go to the negotiating cell and collect as much information as you can. What’s the intel from GCHQ on the communications going into and out of the train? That goes for passengers and terrorists. We need to know how high the water is; we need to know if there is any movement on the rapid intervention plan. And, finally, you need to get back here as fast as you can.”

  “What if I don’t agree to this, Ed?”

  It was a question that Ed was hoping Calvert wouldn’t ask but he had his response ready nonetheless.

  “If you don’t agree to it, Nick—and you’re perfectly entitled not to, all things considered—then there’s nothing else we can do. We just sit and wait.”

  “For them to die, right?” Ed remained silent. Calvert had answered his own question. “Oh, what the hell am I doing?” He muttered the words and Ed couldn’t read them. Was this Calvert backing out, throwing in the towel? He didn’t get a chance to decide before Calvert was out of his seat and slamming the door.

  Ed turned to Frank Moorcroft sitting next to him. “Frank, as briefly as possible, how long until the tunnel fills?”

  “It’d have to be very approximate because there’s no way of judging exactly how porous the masonry and earth around the site of the flooding is. But taking into account the flow of the River Lime, the level of the Thames, the water table, the amount of potential seepage . . .”

  “Please, Frank, give it your best shot.”

  Robbed of his potential variables, Frank fell silent for a moment before he said, “About twenty minutes, half an hour? But of course—”

  “Do you think it’s possible it might be more than that?”

  “It’s possible but unlikely.”

  “It’s more likely to be less?”

  “More likely, yes.”

  “How high do you think the water might be now, Frank? I know it’s painful that you can’t be exact in your answers but just give it your best shot. Whereabouts would it be on a man of average height—midriff, chest, shoulders?”

  “Chest? Possibly.”

  “And the explosives in the service tunnel, Frank, do you have any thoughts on the optimum location to place them in the event of an attempt to drain water from around the train?”

  “I have to say that this is most improper inasmuch as I am being asked to provide opinions on incomplete data—”

  “Frank, none of the responsibility for this is going to rest with you. You have my word on that. I want you to give me your opinion. That’s all. What I do with that subsequent information is my responsibility. Ultimately all I’m trying to do is save the lives of some—if not all—of the passengers on that train.”

  Frank’s reservations were eased a little by Ed’s pep talk but his verbosity was uncowed as he explained that, based on the location of the train, the ideal location for the attempted breach was approximately twenty yards from the rear of the train.

  Ed attempted clarification: “And that’s not so close to the train that we’re going to do the terrorists’ job for them and blow up the passengers?”

  “One would feel that it would be far enough away from them, taking into consideration that the main force of the blast would hopefully be taken by the stone and rock between the two tunnels. That would have to be the general idea anyway.”

  The driver’s door was snatched open.

  “There’s nothing from the train,” said Calvert as he climbed in and closed the door. “Serina Boise has been talking about ways of getting a line of communication to Denning. My guess is it’s not going to happen. Word from GCHQ is that the level of chatter from the train has dropped considerably in the past hour as batteries on phones and laptops have given out. From what they can make out, the water’s rising fast.”

  “Any talk of special forces going in?” asked Ed.

  “Scuba equipment is being sent for but, even if it can be got there in time and we can get a consensus from COBRA, it’s unlikely to make much difference. And, Ed, they’re looking for you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re the only one who’s spoken to Denning. They think if they can get him back on the line, it should be you at the other end of it.”

  “It’s not going to happen.”

  It needed saying again. It needed reinforcing within this cell that comprised Ed and his three conspirators, this post-negotiating cell, this unofficial covert intervention team. “If we don’t try and do something, then there’s nothing else that can be done. With that in mind, each of you needs to tell me now whether you’re prepared to help me or not.”

  The interior of the car fell silent. The upholstery creaked as the men shifted in their seats. Conor spoke first.

  “I’m in.” There it was again—Conor’s mysterious enthusiasm for the job at hand.

  �
�Well, I suppose, all things considered, I am too,” said the professor.

  “Fuck you, Ed Mallory.” Calvert’s sudden venting of frustration was accompanied by his hand slamming down on the steering wheel with such ferocity that it sent a tremor through the car. “Let’s do it.”

  2:33 PM

  Northern Line Train 037, first carriage

  “Don’t you think that London has suffered enough, after last time?”

  Denning watched him by the light of the torch hanging from the handrail in the ceiling of the carriage. George could see two of him; his head and shoulders and their reflection in the rising water. It was up to their shoulders now.

  “London is the most important city in the world,” said Denning. “It is a cultural and spiritual crossroads. It’s the perfect place to start a war.”

  “It didn’t happen before.”

  “It’s different this time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s me that’s doing it.”

  “Do you have any conception of how delusional you sound?”

  “I’m not the one who’s deluded, George.”

  “There is no God,” said George. “Religion was made by man. It was a primitive attempt to make sense of the world before science came along. It’s a superstitious relic from the past.”

  Denning said nothing, just smiled. Whatever George said, he couldn’t help but betray his animosity. If he had any chance of saving the people on the train and his children, he had to think clearly; he had to find a key to unlock Tommy’s mind. Faced with imminent death and physically immobilized—his leg ached within the chain that bound it to the pole—all he had was his voice and his mind.