by Sam Nash
“We can’t just do nothing, Connie. Lives are at stake.”
“This, I understand, but how can I help?”
“Can you get a message to Yelena? She would believe you about Alexi being a terrible threat. Then it is down to MI6 to alert MI5 or the bomb squad.”
Mary sent through Yelena’s details to Connie. She heaved a sigh of relief. The burden lay in their hands now. Whatever the outcome, blame could not fall her way. She tucked the brooch back into her bag, along with Connie’s donation, and double checked the fake passport. “Right then, Mary Sedgewell, looks like fleeing the country is all that is left to do. If you can hear me Grampy, wherever you may be, I am sorry to leave all your arrangements to Dan.”
A quick google search gave her the contact details of a local taxi firm, and within fifteen minutes, a black cab idled in the street outside Connie’s gates. Grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on her way out, Mary slammed the front door, and spoke to the driver through his window.
“Richmond Tube Station, please.” She climbed in the back, clutching her bag to her sore ribs. A wonderful sense of release infilled her, prompting a smile. Where could she go? The world lay at her feet. Connie had given her enough cash to fly anywhere that took her fancy. A clean slate. The neighbour had possession of Aristotle, her cat. Dan would take care of the material aspects of the marital breakup with Parth and the funeral arrangements for Grampy. All that remained of her life had withered and died.
I need to get used to responding to the name Ms Sedgewell. I am Mary Sedgewell. Mary was just creating a feasible back story for herself when her burner phone pinged again. The text read:
Have made contact with Yelena. It is up to her now. C.
Mary replied:
Shouldn’t you get away from there? You could get caught up in the blast?
Connie’s text pinged back:
Are you kidding? This story is huge, and I am at Ground Zero!
Mary shook her head in disbelief, paid the driver and then bought a zone one to six travel pass at the station. Taking a Tube Map from the leaflet dispenser, she worked out her convoluted route to Heathrow Airport, and jumped on board the train waiting at the terminal.
At the far end of the carriage, a man in jeans and a beanie hat, strummed a guitar, while several young women around him sang. One of the youths turned around, flicking her long mousey locks over her shoulder. Her blue t-shirt had Jesus washed away my sin, emblazoned on the front. Mary slid between the raised elbows of those clinging to the hand straps and leaned against the connecting carriage door with her faced lowered.
The lively rendition of George Michael’s Faith morphed into the introductory bars of Jesus to a child. The youthful ladies swayed together, adjusting their stance for the halting jerks of the train and la, la-ing through the sections of the lyric least known to them. As they reached the first stop, they abandoned George Michael in favour of the Monkey’s I’m a Believer. One of the women bashed a tambourine against her thigh and whipped the group up into a frenzy. She yelled above the clamour, “This is our station – quick, come on!”
Mary cringed. Slinking close to the shoulder of another alighting passenger, she stepped off the train. Out on the platform, Mary hurried along towards the exit. The melodic group hustled behind her in a muddle of lithe limbs and skittish banter. The singular man among them grabbed tambourine girl’s hand and dashed through the crowds, his guitar slung across his back on its strap.
“Hey, wait for us…” The gaggle closed in, skipping and whooping through the exit to the escalators.
If I can just get onto the Piccadilly Line heading for the airport unseen, I’m practically home and dry. As soon as the thought articulated in her mind, all was lost. Tambourine girl glanced back over her shoulder at her friends lagging behind. That was when her grin changed into a frown. She yanked her boyfriend’s arm to a sudden stop.
“You are Mary Arora.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Despite her young years, the girl was at least six inches taller than Mary.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble. If you’ll excuse me.” Mary side-stepped tambourine girl, but she was too quick, mirroring her actions and blocking her escape. The rest of their group crowded around, each of them gawping at Mary’s face, first like inquisitive cattle, then more like a malicious dog pack.
“Trouble?” Tambourine girl said, inches from Mary’s nose. “You’ve stirred up more trouble than the first Lutherans. The whole Christian world is angry with you.”
Another of the youths said, “What shall we do with her?”
“Pity no one tars and feathers anymore.” A short, spiteful girl added.
“We should take her with us to Parliament Square. Let her explain herself to Hugo Blom. It’s not for us to judge.” The masculine voice of sanity, from the chap with the guitar.
“Please…I really didn’t intend to upset anyone. It was a simple science experiment that got out of hand and I am sorry that it offended so many people of faith. I won’t be a bother to anyone again. I’m leaving the country.” Mary implored. Her hands clasped together in her plea looked precisely like those set to pray.
The lip of the tall youth curled. “Then you can explain all that to Hugo, and the thousands of Christians waiting for you.” Despite her springy appearance, Tambourine girl exerted quite a force, grabbing at Mary’s wrist and pulling her back towards the platform. “Someone text the crew at Knightsbridge and tell them to make their own way to Trafalgar Square. We’ll meet up at Westminster later.”
Surrounded by earnest and determined young women, Mary had no other choice but to comply, and hope for a chance of escape. If she used her electromagnetic pulse on the girls, it could cause irreparable damage. That too, would be reported to inflame the national situation further.
Hemmed in on all sides, they jostled and cajoled her onto the next tube train for the nine stops to Westminster. The carriage stank of urine and mould, slowly marinating in the warmth from body heat. There were no songs of joy for this leg of their journey. Instead, they wore the sour faces of the aggrieved. Freedom of speech deemed inapplicable in relation to their belief. Anyone daring to question its validity should be shunned for all eternity. Each successive glance from Tambourine Girl was infused with more and more hostility.
When at last Westminster appeared encircled in red on the underground station walls, Mary had the thought that each exit and passageway would have surveillance cameras watching her every move. If Yelena’s techie agent hadn’t picked her up her presence at Richmond Station, there was no doubt he would now. For a few seconds, she wondered whether it was worth shielding her face with her black shawl, but before she could unbuckle her satchel, a clammy hand grabbed her wrist once more.
They disembarked amid a rush of travellers, all scrambling towards the exits. From old stone and concrete into the modern refurbished steel and tubular conduits of Westminster Station. Mary dashed ahead, tugging her arm free of Tambourine Girl and running for the escalators. Her freedom was, however, short lived. Tambourine girl lurched, her long legs propelling her forwards at impossible speeds. With Mary secure in her clutches, she grappled her arm all the way up to the main entrance, with its spectacular close-up view of Big Ben.
Pausing outside a renowned coffee house chain, the group waited for nominated members to queue and purchase take-away refreshments, before crossing the road to Parliament Square. The police presence was strengthening, in anticipation of Hugo’s arrival, with his fifty-thousand strong congregation of pilgrims. A portable platform, mounted on the rear of a truck, manoeuvred into a central position adjacent to a statue of Mahatma Gandhi. A team of electrical technicians hung from ladders and scaffolds, connecting cameras, digital projectors and microphones to the array of speakers erected either side. Taped cordons protected the access roads and St. John’s Ambulance volunteers stood by with their first aid bags stocked and at the ready.
With the scene almost set, more Christians, plus a few c
urious worshippers of other faiths, flocked to the grassy area behind the Palace of Westminster. The youth group stuffed their faces with sandwiches and drank strange frothy concoctions from domed plastic cups.
In the growing noise, Mary almost missed the sound of her burner phone ringing inside her bag. She wrenched her arm free from the girl and quickly retrieved it from a pocket within.
“Hello…Connie?” Mary shoved a finger into her ear and pressed the burner phone tightly to the other.
“Not Connie… Yelena.”
Mary gasped. How could they have been so stupid? Of course, they would trace Connie’s call, encrypted lines were no match for Flynn, Yelena’s technical expert. With her number accessible, it would take minutes to analyse her calls to Mary’s burner phone. Locating her physical whereabouts from cell towers would be elementary.
“Mary? Can you hear me?” Yelena persisted in the absence of a reply.
“Yes, I hear you.”
“We have eyes on you right now, turn to your right. There is a camera not fifty-feet away.”
Mary turned right but hung her head in defeat. All the running, all the hiding, all for nought. Hugo, TV crews, thousands of Christians and the minister’s men were all closing in.
“The minister has issued orders to fire on sight. We can extract you, but it would most likely cause pandemonium and could incite violence. The faith wants answers. Sit tight, we are formulating a plan.” Yelena continued.
That is such bullshit. Yelena could send agents to collect me, right here, right now. They are deliberately feeding me to the wolves. “By extract, you mean lock me up, don’t you?” Mary’s voice dropped a weary octave. “You will put me in that military bunker inside GCHQ in Buckinghamshire.” The line went quiet. Yelena had no answer. “You want to chain me to a laboratory, use my abilities to manipulate foreign leaders, alter the course of diplomatic missions…kill key players.”
Static and a distinctive click played down the line. Yelena had muted the call. Another click and then, “It would not be so bad my friend. We shall see each other often. It is the only solution that prevents the minister from carrying out more lethal option.” Complete silence, from both ends.
Mary cleared her throat. “What about Alexi? Did you get the message about a bomb scare?”
“All Parliamentary buildings are routinely checked for explosives. An additional sweep following Connie’s message was made. There are no bombs. Sit tight, Mary. I’ll call again with an update as soon as I have it.”
The line went dead. Mary still had the phone pressed to her ear when a thin man in a tailored suit approached her. She noted the crisp white shirt, with starched collar and neat, equidistant cuffs peeking out from beneath his pin-striped sleeves. His straight countenance and neutral expression, incongruous in the heat of the early afternoon, when all those about him wilted in the sun.
Mary could not prevent herself from smiling. Who was he? There was nothing about him that could indicate his allegiance to a particular group, neither could she determine his age. He could be late thirties, or maybe as old as fifty. His clean-shaven face bore no wrinkles or scars, his hair a uniform mid-brown.
He returned her smile, and then materialised a stiff envelope from his suit jacket pocket. With a tiny dip of the head, he handed it to Mary, and said, “My lady.”
Mary frowned, flipping the envelope over and tucking her thumb beneath the corner flap. Inside was a glossy black condolence card, with a photograph of one white calla lily. She opened it and read the message, handwritten in glorious inked calligraphy. It said:
With deepest sympathy for your loss. Pip was a remarkable gentleman. Sincerely yours, Jenkins.
“You knew my grandfather?” Mary exclaimed, but when she looked up, the thin man had gone. She peered about her, straining to see between the gathering crowds but to no avail.
The growing throng grew restless, picking up on the distant singing emanating from the streets of Whitehall. Hugo’s pilgrims drew near. Clusters of friends, youth groups and church goers grabbed their belongings and pushed closer to the staging, reserving the best views. As soon as the hymn could be made out above the traffic noises and babble, those surrounding Mary joined in. Onward Christian Soldiers echoed in her ears and induced a shiver down her spine.
The police escort were the first to arrive at the square, halting the traffic ahead and directing the pilgrims to the corner of Great George’s Street. Hugo, religious dignitaries and the odd nun confined to wheelchairs, skirted the grassed area and gained entry beyond the cordon to the stage. Still the voices rang out, harmonising with all their might.
Mary edged further from her captors, slinking backwards to weave through those gathered. People stared at her in recognition as she passed, some touched her arm or shoulder then genuflected, while others scoffed. Tambourine Girl noticed her absence within seconds, chasing after her and dragging her back to the confines of her group.
Hugo climbed the steps to the platform, amid cheers and applause. He waved at his followers, before dashing back to assist an elderly cleric across the uneven stage to a seat at the back. More cheers, and the odd "God bless you, Hugo,” yelled from below him. The tail end of the pilgrims squashed onto every inch of Parliament square, then spilled onto the garden area behind Big Ben’s tower. Not an inch of grass was visible around St Margaret’s church as the last stragglers packed in to listen.
“Welcome one and all. God bless.” Hugo began, adjusting the microphone stand to accommodate his full height. “Thank you for turning out on this memorable day, to show that our faith will not be quashed.” Wild applause ensued. The screen behind Hugo flickered into life, broadcasting a panning shot of the crowds and eliciting further raucous squeals of delight. “Before we begin, I would like to ask the Archbishop of Canterbury to give us his blessing.
All past enmity put aside, Catholic priests stood shoulder to shoulder with Church of England, Anglican and Methodist ministers in a soul-searching prayer of unity. The congregation bowed their heads, some held hands, but all stood in silence to hear the carefully scripted Christian blessing, delivered by the Archbishop.
Mary glanced about her, overawed at the sheer numbers. Had she really sparked this galvanising of faith over a couple of YouTube videos? She listened respectfully to the biblical references and the pleas for protection and wisdom, uttered and sent into the ether. Fifty-thousand people chanted amen. Did an ethereal deity really listen to their prayers? Is a heavenly being from an invisible realm spying and judging everything we do or say?
The Archbishop made way for Hugo at the microphone. He too had prepared a speech that emphasised the word of God. Mary’s mind wandered back to her night in Hugo’s flat. She recalled the fluorescent strips of paper sticking out of his physics books and of the passages highlighted in his bible. Those very sentiments that had driven away the one person who had loved him without question. Drew accepted Hugo just as he was. He attached no rules or regulations to their relationship but offered him unconditional love.
The urge to read Hugo’s mind was uppermost in her own, but the distractions all around her made it hard to focus. She could guess his state of mind, having denied himself a loving partner to appease his religious deity. The conflicting emotions must be tremendous.
“And furthermore, we should be permitted to wear our Christian symbols with pride, not censured in the workplace as a result. I have started an online petition on the government website, calling for action in Parliament. Please show your support by signing up and encouraging others to do the same. We will not be silenced.” Hugo took a breath while the applause died down.
“I know that many of you are alarmed by the video I posted on the Internet. It alarmed me too.” Hugo paused and held a hand aloft to the murmurers and hecklers. “Nevertheless, we must acknowledge that there will always be those who trample over the beliefs of others. People such as Mary Arora, who care nothing for sacred texts, and get their kicks by belittling faith.” Boos and shouting
from the audience. “I gave her the opportunity to come and explain herself. I offered her a fair hearing, but it seems that she is both blasphemous and a coward.” The smattering of applause died quickly. Those surrounding Mary made no noise. Instead they shuffled silently away from her in all directions. The growing void around her attracted the attention of a cameraman.
Mary’s image, surrounded by parched earth and trampled grass, appeared on the screen behind Hugo. On the stage, Hugo’s mouth dropped open, and for a moment, they stared at one another. A pathway opened in front of her, each person’s movement, a ripple in the parting wave.
Flushed with embarrassed heat, Mary felt a tiny shove from behind. Propelled forwards, she began the slow progress through the congregation towards the platform stairs, every one of her steps broadcast on the screen. As she reached the platform side, one of the nuns in a wheelchair leaned across and grasped her hand. “Bless you, child.” The old women uttered and then released her.
Mary’s heart raced. She could feel her short rapid breaths making her dizzy as she climbed the stairs. Her mouth dried, and involuntary spasms in her leg muscles caused her to trip. Taking a moment to steady herself, she glanced across the colossal sea of heads, waiting, watching her move. People of all ages, all nationalities but of one faith, and she had offended most of them.
Hugo stood unmoved and irate at the microphone stand. Rather than welcome her to the stage, Mary got the distinct impression that he was annoyed by her presence. His ebullient demeanour of a few minutes ago was displaced by anger. He had not prepared for this eventuality. That was evidenced by his snarky command to someone offstage to find an additional mic.
Mary stood in the centre of the platform staring at the multitude of faces before her. She clasped her hands together to conceal the trembling. The audience waited patiently, while Hugo fussed with sound equipment.