One Way Out

by A. A. Dhand

  Upstairs Hashim had left the worshippers in several large prayer circles and a trusted team keeping watch over them all. It was a smart move, and Saima had wished she could join them. She was silently praying, having doubts about whether she was the right person to do this.

  Her phone began to ring, a Facetime request from Frost. She answered, hand shaking. Frost asked her if she was still OK to attempt this and when she confirmed she was, he handed the phone over to a man who identified himself as one of the CTU bomb experts, ‘Paul’. He spoke calmly and slowly, asking Saima first to switch off the torch on her phone and rely on the one Imam Hashim was holding.

  She put the phone on speaker and listened carefully to instructions, then stepped slowly inside the towering wooden box. Her heart was pounding; it felt louder than Paul’s voice coming from her phone.

  Mouth parched.

  Hands shaking.

  She closed her eyes, whispered another prayer, then inched her way in. Hashim’s torch was powerful, revealing six towering cylindrical shapes, filled with some kind of white substance. In the centre was a large, square contraption full of wires and lights with a keypad. A timer was counting down to the deadline of 6 a.m. It was that which was most disconcerting.

  Saima knew nothing about bombs, yet something told her this was a sophisticated device.

  Using her phone, she very slowly mapped out every inch of it, creeping ever closer. Her bladder suddenly felt heavy even though it was empty.

  She focused now on the white material inside the glass cylinders.

  ‘What am I looking at?’ she asked, trying not to panic.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, Saima,’ said Paul. No matter how experienced Paul claimed to be, she heard the change in his voice.

  ‘Paul, this only works if you tell me exactly what is going on.’ She didn’t really need him to confirm what she was looking at: the cylinder directly in front of her was full of glass and nails. It was nerves that made her ask. Something to fill the silence in the claustrophobic environment of the box.

  Paul asked her to focus on the computer-like device, which she did.

  Saima angled her phone towards it and confirmed that she could see three red wires, three blue and two yellow. They streamed from the device towards the cylindrical containers.

  Saima kept glancing at the one holding the glass and nails.

  Designed to injure as many people as possible.

  Since there was nobody down here, only she and Hashim would feel that pain.

  Her mind was wandering and she asked Paul to repeat what he just said. He did so. Saima crouched by the central device and tried to find a serial number or any markings of note. She found a ten-digit number and said it slowly and clearly, confirming it a second time. Paul asked her to wait. Her eyes once again found the glass and nails, though she tried not to.

  What kind of sick bastards did that?

  Paul returned and asked her to lift a small metal box next to the wiring and confirm whether she could see a way to take the lid off it. Saima didn’t move. She didn’t want to touch it.

  She closed her eyes and wiped sweat from her brow. The need to urinate was becoming critical.

  She could hear Paul’s voice but not the words. Head spinning. Vision blurry. She recognized the symptoms of an impending faint. Without realizing it, she had been holding her breath.

  Open your mouth.

  Breathe.

  She wiped a sweaty palm on her clothes, focused solely on the box and tried to lift it.

  When she spoke, her voice was shaky. ‘The top feels like it might come away. Do you want me to try?’

  ‘Please. Take your time. Softly. If it resists, leave it be, Saima.’

  ‘I need to put my phone down. Use both hands. Can I?’

  ‘Can Hashim hold your phone so we can watch you?’

  Saima saw the torchlight flicker as Hashim came carefully towards her. She saw his hand by the side of her face and handed him the phone, waiting until he had positioned it so Paul could see.

  Carefully, Saima applied the gentlest of pressure and lifted off the top of the small rectangular box. It came away easily, revealing a maze of messily arranged wires and several lights, blue, red and opaque.

  ‘Excellent,’ she heard Paul say.

  Feeling like they were making progress, Saima was about to replace the box when it started to beep, lights flickering.

  ‘Shit,’ she whispered, unclear what was happening. She nearly dropped the damn thing.

  The torch light wavered, Hashim’s hand suddenly unsteady.

  The noise and urgent flashing of lights from the device continued before stopping abruptly.

  Saima heard Paul’s voice, firm, alarmed.

  ‘Saima, stand absolutely still and do not move.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Abu-Nazir watched the news with indifference. The imam’s speech inside the Mehraj mosque had caused quite a reaction, #Hashim even knocking #prayforBradford off the top trending Twitter spot. For the moment, Abu-Nazir was not the most talked about Muslim person in the city. It wouldn’t last long. He had just uploaded a video on to YouTube, an old one but one that always got a reaction before being deleted. A video demanding a new caliphate in the West. This time he reckoned it would be viewed millions of times before it got removed.

  Timing was everything.

  A documentary filmed in 2012, featuring the current leader of the Far Right, Tyler Sudworth, and Abu-Nazir, had been viewed over a million times since the blast in City Park. The two men had come together after a high-profile altercation to try to find common ground. They had found none. Tyler Sudworth had been fierce in his criticism of Abu-Nazir, unable to comprehend why a white British national had crossed over to Islamic extremism. That was, however, Abu-Nazir’s USP.

  The documentary had been great exposure for Abu-Nazir, a primetime TV slot. Criticism of it had been widespread but by then the damage had been done.

  The news went live to a woman from the BBC, reporting that armed police were now positioned throughout the city, forces from across Yorkshire pooling their resources. Skirmishes had been reported and footage was shown of clashes between Far Right activists and Asian youths.

  Abu-Nazir smiled and turned the television off. He moved into the bedroom, checking on Amelia. She was still asleep, snoring lightly. He’d have to wake her soon.

  It was over four hours since the bomb had gone off and he’d heard nothing from the boy, Isaac. He’d known where to come in an emergency. They had discussed it many times.

  He doubted the boy would make it here now.

  Every war involved sacrifice.

  Even Isaac Wolfe.

  THIRTY

  Isaac wasn’t sitting on the chair in front of Harry any more. He was standing over him, gun down by his side.

  When he had moved to stand, just for the briefest of moments Harry had thought he might have seriously underestimated the boy.

  The kid’s eyes gave him away.

  He couldn’t pull the trigger.

  Isaac’s voice was shaky when he spoke. Bitter. Angry.

  ‘You’re mocking me, aren’t you?’ he spat.

  Shit. If he lost the kid now, he’d never gain his trust.

  ‘Just like the kids at school. Every girl I ever asked out on a date.’ His voice was rising, eyes wet with tears he was trying hard to blink away.

  This was bad. Very, very bad.

  ‘I’m not mocking you,’ said Harry gently. He kept his body relaxed, tone calm, even though his knees were smarting on the floor.

  ‘Yes you are!’ said Isaac, raising the gun and waving it carelessly at Harry.

  Great move, Harry. Give the kid a fucking loaded gun, then piss him off.

  Harry shook his head slowly. ‘You know that’s not what this is, Isaac.’

  ‘Then why give me the gun? To prove I’m too chicken to use it?’

  Harry shook his head and smiled. ‘On the contrary. To show you that if you wanted to, y
ou could. Right now. Right here.’

  Isaac’s eyes softened a little but the tremble in his hand remained.

  ‘That shit Abu-Nazir preaches – words are easy,’ Harry went on. ‘He’s like any other hate-preacher out there, a second-rate asshole who preys on people he thinks are sheep.’

  Isaac opened his mouth to object. Harry raised his hand, slowly.

  ‘You’re not a sheep. If you were, you would have pulled the trigger by now because that’s what sheep do. They follow. What I’m offering you, Isaac, is a chance to put that gun down, knowing you had all the power and yet decided to share it with me. We can leave this house together and find the people we need to end this. We could save hundreds, thousands of innocent people inside those mosques.’

  Harry calmly, steadily got to his feet. ‘Twelve hours from now, that is the stuff people will be talking about. The boy who rose against the hate to save Bradford.’

  Isaac smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘Sounds like a speech from one of those crappy nineties movies.’

  ‘It is,’ said Harry smiling. ‘Thing is, just because it isn’t delivered by a Hollywood golden boy, doesn’t mean you can’t believe it. Listen to the sound of those helicopters in the distance. Does it get any bigger than this? What greater stage could you ask for to play the hero?’

  Harry tapped his forehead. ‘Think about it. Everyone is expecting you to be one thing. Surprise them.’

  Isaac’s hand was starting to lower.

  ‘Heavy, isn’t it?’ said Harry.

  Isaac nodded.

  ‘Lower it then. I’m not taking it from you.’

  Isaac let his hand fall to his side. ‘What’s a police officer like you doing with a gun like this?’

  ‘I’m not your usual type of detective.’

  ‘You’re a criminal, you mean?’ said Isaac, raising an eyebrow.

  It was a question Harry had asked himself a thousand times.

  ‘No. I mean I get shit done.’

  ‘And you want me to turn on my friends and help you find them?’

  ‘What makes you call them friends?’

  Isaac grunted and shook his head. ‘They look after me. Look out for me.’

  ‘How so?’

  Isaac thought about it. ‘We … they … you know … teach me things. Help me be a better Muslim.’

  ‘Can I give you my honest opinion?’

  Isaac nodded.

  ‘The videos I’ve seen of you guys? You look lost. They’re not making you a better Muslim. They’re preying on your vulnerability.’

  Isaac made to protest but stopped himself.

  Harry moved slowly and picked up a sketch pad from the table.

  ‘I read somewhere that writers and artists always need to show you what’s going on, never tell you. I thought that was pretty good advice. Show, don’t tell. I made it my thing in life – showed my boss I work like a dog, never just telling her. I show my Muslim wife that I love her by buying her a new prayer mat every year when it’s Ramadan and waiting to eat with her when she’s fasting. And today, I showed you by giving you that gun that I’m not full of shit. Looking at the sketches in this book,’ said Harry, waving it at him, ‘you’re showing me that, deep inside, you want to be a hero.’

  Isaac smiled dismissively.

  ‘No? Play it out with me then,’ said Harry. ‘The bomb goes off and a thousand innocent Muslim people die. What do you think the fallout from that will be? It will shape the future landscape of our country and God knows what the retaliation will look like. We live in an unstable world. This will turn everything to shit. It’s the 9/11 of our times and we all know what happened there.’

  ‘There’s no way—’

  ‘Turn on the TV. Have a look.’ Harry was losing patience, painfully conscious of the time ticking by. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it and handed it to Isaac. ‘Have a look at Twitter and tell me I’m wrong.’

  Harry watched him, watched his eyes widen and his mouth drop.

  ‘What do we have to do?’ said Isaac.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Frost was alone in the command room.

  Of all the things Saima’s exploration of the bomb could have revealed, he had not considered this.

  A sleeper cell, clearly aligned to the Patriots, had run a diagnostic test on the bomb to ensure it had not been tampered with. A simple radio transmitter on the device was found to have a range of around a hundred metres. With the immediate area surrounding the mosque clear, only one option remained. The sleeper had to have been inside – a human sacrifice in case a special ops team entered the building intent on ending the siege. This was a failsafe that Frost could not counter remotely.

  If a diagnostics test failed, the sleeper would know the bomb had been compromised and could then detonate the device. Bomb-disposal experts had suggested it could be triggered with a simple, battery-operated remote, something they could not use technology to nullify. The Patriots had thought of everything. This blocked almost every move Frost could make.

  They had no way of knowing when the sleeper might run a test or what might cause the sleeper to activate the bomb. The Patriots had a wild card.

  His mind was a mess. He ran a sweaty hand across his face, glad to be alone, even if it was only for a few minutes. The military commanders had been informed of the development and were assessing their own protocols.

  Saima had removed herself from the basement and together with Hashim returned to the grand hall. He admired her courage. She hadn’t panicked when many would have.

  Strong woman. Determined.

  She needed to be. One thing was clear – the sleeper could have been anybody.

  Except her.

  That much he was certain of.

  Which meant his only ally in trying to figure out who the hostile party inside the mosque might be was Saima Virdee.

  He’d asked a lot of her already but there was no other choice.

  Frost dialled her number.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Aaron sat at the kitchen table eating his tea.

  He hadn’t stopped asking for Mummy and Daddy since he’d come inside. Joyti had been forced to tell him they were still at work. She had tried to call Harry but his phone had gone to voicemail and she didn’t trust herself to leave a message.

  He would call soon.

  Joyti watched Aaron neatly breaking off pieces of the chapatti she had made him and dipping them into a chickpea curry. Joyti had been surprised. She knew Saima cooked Asian food at home, yet seeing Aaron happily eating her curry had buoyed her dwindling spirits.

  Her thoughts constantly flitted from the little boy in front of her to his parents, out there amid the chaos.

  Why did Saima have to be inside the Mehraj mosque?

  What would happen to Harry if Saima didn’t make it through this?

  Her heart ached for her son. She would do anything to stop his pain.

  Ranjit didn’t know Saima was in danger. He had lain on the sofa, door pulled to, with his eyes closed, ever since he had come in from the garden. Even on an ordinary day her husband was usually slave to the news channels. The fact this was happening on their doorstep and he wasn’t interested told her one thing.

  Her risk had paid off.

  She left Aaron at the table and hovered by the living-room door.

  ‘Would you like some food?’ she asked Ranjit, stepping inside.

  When he didn’t reply, she touched his bare feet, squeezing them gently.

  ‘Close the door,’ he replied without moving. ‘Leave me alone.’

  She hesitated.

  She had known what she was doing when she sent Ranjit outside to face Aaron.

  Joyti clearly remembered the first time she had seen the little boy. The sight of Aaron had unlocked all the memories she had fought to bury.

  Hardeep as a child, running around their shop chasing customers.

  Hardeep as a child, sitting on her knee crying after a fall.

&n
bsp; Hardeep as a child, falling asleep in her arms when he had been suffering a raging fever.

  Memories she could not hold on to in the wake of Ranjit’s decision to disown their son.

  Joyti suspected the same thing had happened to her husband this afternoon.

  ‘Let me help you,’ she whispered.

  ‘You cannot,’ he replied. ‘Nobody can. Now please shut the door and leave me be.’

  Back in the kitchen, Joyti found Aaron licking his plate.

  ‘Do you do that at home?’ she asked, shaking her head.

  ‘Mummy shouts at me,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘It’s not nice.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘What else do you like?’

  ‘Ice cream. Grandma always gives me ice cream?’

  It wasn’t really a question. He knew he would get one. Joyti saw him once a week and in those few hours she spoiled him rotten.

  ‘I got to have bath soon,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  Joyti reached for another ice cream from the freezer.

  She knew it wasn’t right to let him have another but there were far graver things to worry about today.

  ‘Would you like Grandma to bathe you?’

  He nodded, biting greedily into the ice cream.

  ‘What about sleeping here? Do you want to sleep with Grandma?’

  Aaron thought about his answer, smiled and coyly shook his head.

  ‘I sleep in my bed. I got my Batman blanket and my Pooh bear. He … he … sleeps next to me.’

  Joyti nodded.

  ‘Come on, Hardeep,’ she whispered. ‘I need you.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Harry checked his phone.

  Eight missed calls, six from his mother, two from Saima.

  No voicemails.

  ‘Why don’t you think about where Abu-Nazir might be hiding? I’ll be a moment.’

  Harry closed the living-room door and stepped out into the hallway, the most distance he could put between himself and Isaac. Saima answered immediately.