by Ed Grace
One of his friends bagged a job in Stoke-On-Trent working for a solicitor’s firm. This friend offered to let Zain stay on his sofa, and Zain did not hesitate. He left home, listening to his father and mother’s objections, but once he was free of them and on the train, he found silence. He was free. He was liberated.
He and his friend had a good time — at first.
Then, a few weeks after moving, his friend came home from work with his shirt untucked and his blazer over his shoulder, after what must have been a long, hard day, and lost his patience.
“Just fucking look at this place, Zain!” he ranted. “There’s fucking beer cans all over the floor, empty plates from a week ago, the place fucking stinks — when are you going to get a job?”
And there it was. The conditional terms of what had appeared to be an unconditional offer. They were no longer two friends sharing a flat. The dynamic changed. It was like he was being lectured by his father again.
He lost another friendship and, once again, had no place in the world. No family to return to, no home to call his own.
He stormed out of the flat, hearing his friend say, “Zain, man, I’m sorry, it’s just been a shit day.”
He ignored it.
He walked through town with his hood up and hands in his pockets. People crossed the street to avoid him. People glanced, then made sure they didn’t make eye contact. Checked their pockets for their keys and phone, clutched their child’s hand.
The white people, that is.
Stoke was a multicultural place, and he passed many people who weren’t white and didn’t seem to give a shit.
He liked that he intimidated the white people. It meant they knew he was not someone to be fucked with.
He approached a group of white lads hanging around on the street corner. Zain hesitated. Did he need to pass them? Was there any other way around?
No. Screw that.
I ain’t going nowhere.
He wasn’t a scared little boy anymore. At least, not on the outside. Now, he was a man. He had his knife, and if anyone dared to start shit, he would fuck them up. He’d gut them all if he had to, then he’d grin at the judge as they handed down a sentence harsher than they would give any of those fuckers, and he would laugh in their face. No one can tell him what to do.
No one.
He took a deep breath, flexed his fingers, paying attention to the feel of his knife strapped to his leg.
He sped up. Glared at them. Eyeballing each of them.
One of them turned to look at him.
This was it.
Got to get ready.
Here we go.
Then the man turned away. Looked back at his friends, and continued laughing. No one else looked at him. They were oblivious. They didn’t give a shit.
Zain walked past them, keeping his head turned so he could see if they charged at him over his shoulder.
But they didn’t.
He carried on walking, and realised how tense his body had become. He breathed out and felt his whole body relax.
His arms were shaking.
What was happening to him?
He turned the corner. A mosque came into view.
He’d go there. He always found comfort in his mosque in Southend. There would always be an imam willing to listen.
Not that he had anything he particularly wanted to say, he just wanted someone willing to listen to whatever came out once he began ranting.
So he entered.
Walked through the doorway, not knowing that this decision was going to change his entire life.
Not knowing that he was about to meet a powerful man by the name of Azeer Nadeem.
London, United Kingdom
NOW
Chapter Fifteen
Kelly and Jameson stood alone in their office, ignoring the hustle and bustle occurring outside. People were still rushing back and forth, tapping frantically at their keyboards, carrying out their jobs.
None of them had any idea that their best hope lay in an alcoholic ex-assassin.
They watched the news report together and, as they did, Kelly tried to ignore the sick feeling that rose through her stomach.
“The government has announced the capture of one of the most notorious and elusive men on their most-wanted list, a man by the name of Jay Sullivan,” said the news reporter.
They cut to a video of Sullivan, his hands in handcuffs, being led out of a van and into a courthouse.
“This was the scene earlier as he entered London Crown Court, where he pleaded guilty to treason and six counts of murder of British officials. The judge declared that he would be held at HMP Brenthall while he awaits sentencing.”
They showed a mugshot of Sullivan — one Kelly had taken and leaked to the press before Sullivan was driven to court.
“The government have as yet been unwilling to comment on the accusation that they used Jay Sullivan as a hitman, both in the UK and abroad, up until seven years ago. Our sources, however, suggest that he was used in covert operations until he turned against his own government, and murdered some of his superiors.”
They showed the van driving into HMP Brenthall and the doors shutting behind it.
“These are images from moments ago when Jay Sullivan arrived at HMP Brenthall. Prison officials have said that he will be denied a cell mate and given close watch due to the risks they believe he poses to others.”
The television returned to the news reporter.
“It is unclear how the government used to use a man like this — but it is clear the dangers he poses to the British public. For now, at least, the public can feel safe knowing that one of the country’s most dangerous men is behind bars, and is unlikely to ever be let out.”
The news report finished. Kelly turned off the television and wandered to the window, looking at the busy street below. She put her hands in her pockets, and avoided looking at Jameson.
Jameson wasn’t looking at her either. He was standing, his arms folded, in deep contemplation.
Kelly considered Sullivan. The news report had brought a sense of reality to their relationship — if that’s what it was, what with Sullivan being so desperate to insist that they were not in a relationship, and nor would they ever be — and she began to wonder… how well did she actually know Jay Sullivan?
He said he’d absconded for the right reasons, and they hadn’t discussed the matter further. She knew what the Falcons were like, and she had little respect for their operations. But had her feelings toward him clouded her judgement?
Did she really trust him enough to carry out this mission?
Was it right that they were putting all of their hope into the competency of a man who must surely hold a deep grudge against his own government?
She covered her face. Huffed. Bit her lip.
She wished she’d thought this through.
“What is it?” Jameson said, seeing the look on her face.
“I — it’s just…” She hesitated. “I just hope we know what we’re doing.”
Jameson nodded.
“Me too, Kelly. Me too.”
Chapter Sixteen
The van was hot and Sullivan was sweating through his shirt. He told himself it was okay, he could just get his suit dry-cleaned — then remembered that he couldn’t. In fact, he wouldn’t see this suit again for a while.
Even if he were allowed to wear his own clothes, a luxury not usually given to new prison entrants, he would have to wear the kind of clothes inmates would wear. Something like … a tracksuit.
His face screwed up in disgust. What a horrid thought.
There were no windows in the van, so he couldn’t be sure where he was — but they were starting to slow down. Sullivan assumed that they were now entering the prison.
The van continued at a slow pace, then came to a stop. A moment passed and the backdoors opened. Three prison officers waited for him. A woman, short and overweight, in uniform — white shirt, black trousers, and a belt with keys an
d radio — and two men who seemed to trail behind her. Sullivan had expected a larger entourage to greet him, but thousands of prison officers’ jobs had been cut in the last few years and this was what they’d been reduced to. He couldn’t help but feel bad for them — if he wished to start something, they stood no chance. He wondered just how safe this meant life was going to be inside.
“Come on,” the woman barked, and led him off the van. He followed her through a corridor to a desk, where they paused, the two male officers remaining behind him.
“Your name is Jay Sullivan, correct?” she asked, her voice consistently monotone, like she was reciting words she’d learnt so long ago she’d forgotten their meaning.
He nodded.
“You have been found guilty of murder and are to wait here for sentencing, which is scheduled for the twenty-eighth of next month. Do you understand this charge?”
He nodded.
“Do you smoke?”
He shook his head.
“Do you have an addiction to drugs, including spice, cannabis, or any other?”
He shook his head.
“Do you have any mental health issues?”
He shook his head.
“Have you or do you feel like you are going to self-harm, commit suicide, or harm others?”
He shook his head.
“Sign here.”
She placed three pieces of paper in front of him. He signed them without reading them.
He placed the pen down and she said, “Follow me,” then led him to a holding cell. She held the door open and he walked in, then listened to the sound of the heavy door being shut and locked behind him.
He imagined he’d have to get used to that sound.
He stood in the cell for a few minutes, reminding himself why he was doing this.
I could murder a whiskey, he thought.
Half an hour later, the cell door was open, and a prison officer stood there, a man this time.
“Come with me,” he said. He was tall, bald, and looked too old for this.
Sullivan followed him through to a small, private room, where another male officer awaited them, holding a box.
“Put any possessions or items you have in this box,” the man told him.
“I don’t have any,” Sullivan replied.
“The suit,” the man prompted.
Ah, the suit.
He wished he could say a longer goodbye to it. He told himself it was only going to be thirty days; just one month, then he could have it back.
He removed his tie. Took off his blazer. Undid his shoelaces and handed them over. Removed the shirt. The trousers.
The man placed them carelessly in the box, not caring about how much he was creasing it.
“Remove your underwear,” the man instructed.
Sullivan glared at him.
“Trust me, I don’t want to see it any more than you want to show it,” the man said.
“Fuck’s sake,” Sullivan muttered under his breath, and dropped his underwear to his ankles.
“Bend over.”
This was ridiculous. Sullivan did not appreciate someone telling him what to do — in fact, it infuriated him — and it was only made worse by the humiliation of having a man shine a light into his arsehole.
Forever one for the inopportune moments for humour, Sullivan looked over his shoulder at the man inspecting his crevasse and asked, “Any chance you’re going to buy me a beer after this?”
“You can’t have beer in prison,” the man replied, his voice monotone and his face blank.
“Fuck,” Sullivan said. He feared hearing such a thing.
“Sit on the boss chair,” the prison officer instructed him.
Sullivan assumed he meant the only chair in the room. It was a solid chair made up of squares and rectangles, and was plugged into the wall.
He sat on it. After a moment, the check was done, and he was allowed to stand.
“Put these on.”
They handed him prison uniform, and he decided this was the most humiliating part of all. He snatched them off the prison officer and reluctantly put them on. They were baggy and stank of damp.
He was taken into another room, where he was asked the same questions again, and had to continually insist that he was not an addict, nor was he about to harm himself.
He was given a card. On it was his picture, his prison number, his name, and date of birth.
Finally, he was led through another corridor, and told to wait outside an office.
After a few minutes, the door opened, and his name was called.
He walked inside.
Chapter Seventeen
“Is it normal for you to meet all new inmates?” Sullivan asked.
The prison governor, Jason Patricks, smiled back at him. He was a short man with poorly combed hair and an ill-fitted suit, coming across as patronising as he did arrogant, yet still managed to carry an air of authority with him.
“Not usually,” he said. “But there are some inmates I wish to meet. The high-profile ones. The ones I believe are most likely to cause us issues.”
“And that’s me, is it?”
“Well, you tell me.”
Sullivan hated this kind of conversation. It was like they were measuring dicks. What’s more, Sullivan did not like people trying to get one up on him, or condescending to him, or treating him like an idiot.
But he was going to have to take it. He needed to show that he wasn’t going to be any trouble, even if his instinct was to leap over the table and break the guy’s arm.
“You are guilty of multiple counts of murder. You are yet to be sentenced, but you must know you’re in here for life — meaning you would lose nothing by trying to escape. This makes you a dangerous man. Are you a dangerous man, Mr Sullivan?”
Sullivan grinned. “You have no idea.”
“I have also noticed that we have been instructed to place you in a particular cell. Cell 35 on E wing. Considering your charges, I would like to put you on a category A part of the prison, and E wing is category B. This seems a little strange.”
Sullivan let a moment of silence linger before asking, “Is there meant to be a question in there?”
“Just a warning. Should you give me any reason to move you to a more appropriate location, then I will be quite within my rights. Do you understand?”
Oh, did Sullivan’s blood boil.
‘Do you understand?’
His rage sang a symphony in his mind, but he had to avoid lashing out. He had been placed in that cell to monitor the man in the cell next to it. If he was moved, even temporarily, he could miss out on vital intel.
“Fine,” he grunted.
“Excuse me?”
“I said fine.”
“Wonderful. Now I know that we have an understanding, I will have my officer take you to your cell on E wing. All the best, Mr Sullivan.”
Sullivan wanted to break the guy’s nose.
“Sure.”
Sullivan stood to leave, then paused, noticing something on the wall. It was a picture of Patricks shaking the hand of a familiar man. The man was younger, slightly less grumpy, and a little thinner, but it was unmistakably Henry Jameson. They appeared to know each other.
The prison officer collected him and gave him a welcome box for him to carry. Inside it was a blanket for his bed, a chocolate bar, and some kind of pamphlet about prison life and rules. He was led through a few corridors until they emerged into a courtyard full of prisoners, some moseying around, some sitting and talking, some exercising.
A few prison officers rushed past them, and Sullivan noticed a fight had broken out.
“I’ll be right back,” the officer told Sullivan; it seemed he would have to wait to be shown to his cell.
As he waited, he took in the horrid location that was now his home, gazing at the faces of the people who he never wanted to mix with, never mind live with.
As he did, he felt a pair of eyes on him.
He paused
. Turned around.
There he was.
Sat on a bench with his cronies gathered around him. Leader of his gang. Murderer of many.
Azeer Nadeem.
He was short, but had muscle. He looked like he could handle himself but, by the look of his disciples around him, he looked like he’d never need to.
Sullivan held his glare.
It intensified, neither wanting to break it.
“I’ll be seeing you,” Sullivan said, knowing only he could hear it.
“Come on,” said the prison officer, appearing at Sullivan’s side, the scrap evidently dealt with.
He held the stare a moment longer, then broke it, following the officer to the cell on E wing that would be his home for the next thirty days.
Thirty long, arduous days.
He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to stay there permanently.
Stoke-On-Trent, United Kingdom
SIX YEARS AGO
Chapter Eighteen
Zain sat at the back of the room, listening to Azeer speak, finding his pen absentmindedly doodling. Before long, the cover of his pamphlet was covered in drawings of guns, bombs, tanks and warplanes.
Azeer didn’t talk much in the mosque. No one ever shunned him or said anything disparaging, yet he always seemed to be isolated from everyone else; there was an air of disapproval toward him.
But when Azeer taught his religious study group on a Saturday afternoon, he finally had the audience he deserved — a group of eager eight to twelve-year olds, all dropped off by equally eager parents, wishing for them to learn about what Azeer had to say.
So when Azeer had asked Zain to help out in his classes, Zain had been more than enthusiastic.
There was something enchanting about Azeer, something that a lot of people didn’t see — but those that did see it were all the better for it. When he spoke, his audience was captivated. When he delivered his messages, he did so with such clarity and charisma that you couldn’t help but listen.