One Way Out

by A. A. Dhand

  ‘Please,’ he said, nodding towards his crotch.

  Isaac scooped several cubes of ice which had fallen from the bag to the floor and threw them into Azeez’s lap, who sighed in satisfaction.

  ‘Well, look at you two.’ Harry’s voice interrupted them.

  Isaac flinched as Harry entered the cell, grabbed him by his hair and dragged him to his feet.

  ‘Slippery little bastard, aren’t you? Getting out of your binding.’ He threw Isaac out of the cell. ‘Stay put or you know what you’ve got coming.’

  Harry turned back to Azeez, who had his eyes closed. He seemed hardly conscious of what was going on around him.

  Harry kicked at the bag of ice. ‘Shall I take that with me?’ he said.

  Azeez opened his eyes. He looked far worse than Harry would have expected. Desperate.

  It was enough.

  ‘Well?’ he asked when they were out of earshot.

  ‘Saville Tower, Dewsbury,’ Isaac said confidently.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what Azeez said.’ Isaac held his gaze.

  ‘There’s no way,’ replied Harry.

  ‘That’s what he said. Come to think of it, I’ve heard that location mentioned before.’

  ‘Everyone knows Saville Tower. I’m not buying it. The bastard is lying. Sending us to our deaths.’

  Isaac shook his head. ‘He gave me a number. Said we can call Abu-Nazir once we’re free to check he’s still there.’

  Harry punched the number into his phone. ‘You remembered it in one go?

  ‘077 is standard. Next six are a mixture of mine and my mother’s dates of birth and the last two are the year I left school. Easy.’

  Harry was impressed.

  ‘It’s how smart people remember information; align it with something personal. There’s books written on it.’

  ‘All right, all right. Don’t get too clever.’

  He wanted to trust Isaac but something here didn’t add up, he could feel it.

  ‘Saville Tower makes no sense. Even the Yorkshire police officers don’t go without armed backup. I don’t get it. A notorious Far Right tower block – the one location Abu-Nazir would stick out like a whore in a nunnery.’

  Isaac shrugged. ‘I don’t get it either.’

  Harry went to his car and removed the burner phone Tariq had given him earlier. He handed it to Isaac.

  ‘I need you to confirm he’s there,’ said Harry.

  ‘You don’t think me calling him is going to be suspicious?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘You’re alone. Scared. You need a secure location until all of this dies down.’

  The cheap handset didn’t have a speaker function. Harry dialled the number Isaac had told him before handing it over, staying close and trying to listen, but he couldn’t even hear the dial tone. He made Isaac hold the phone away from his ear so he could listen.

  The call connected. The timer started to count down.

  ‘It’s Isaac. I need help.’

  ‘Where are you?’ came the muffled reply.

  Harry had listened to Abu-Nazir’s videos on YouTube but truthfully it could have been anyone on the other end of the line.

  ‘Near the football stadium. I … need to get out of Bradford. Everyone is looking for me.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Azeez?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Saville Tower. Call when you arrive.’

  The line went dead.

  Isaac handed the phone back to Harry.

  Abu-Nazir hadn’t given a location in the tower, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d have eyes watching. If Isaac did arrive, his identification would be confirmed before the number of a flat was given.

  It’s exactly what Harry would have done.

  Saville Tower? Harry kicked the wall in frustration. Something wasn’t right.

  But it was all he had.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Pots and pans.

  The worst job in the kitchen but one Saima was happy to do now.

  For the past hour she and Imam Hashim had been working together to check the worshippers in the mosque, desperately trying to find the sleeper cell, neither with any real notion of what to look for.

  Everyone had to contribute to the night’s efforts and she was happy to play her part. It brought some welcome respite from the searching. But her mind wouldn’t ease.

  There were several women with Saima, all of them strangers. They cleaned in silence, everyone’s minds clearly elsewhere. Saima wiped sweat from her brow. At home, Harry did the washing-up. Said it gave him time to think calmly about his day. She’d never argued – having a dishwasher husband was more than most of her friends could say.

  Friends.

  Her mind wandered again.

  Before marrying Harry, she’d had a lot of friends. They’d grown up together, taken Koranic lessons, dodged the vicious auntie at the mosque.

  After she’d married Harry, the shame had been too much for her friends and family. It had seemed easier to let everyone go.

  Now, apart from her sister, Saima had mostly white friends who had no clue about everything she and Harry had been through. She wondered if Nadia had called their mother and told her what Saima had said about being sorry. Guilt was something Saima had got used to carrying but her current predicament had made it feel heavier than ever. If this siege ended badly, she wanted her conscience clear. She wanted her parents to know she had tried.

  Saima said goodbye to two women who had finished their cleaning, leaving just her and one other. She hurried up. The last thing she wanted was to be left alone here. She squeezed some more washing-up liquid on to her scourer, turned the hot water on and kept scrubbing.

  God only knew what Harry was doing in Bradford. He’d sacrificed so much to be with her. She worried he’d be cracking skulls trying to bring this standoff to an end, to get her out of here alive. There had been a time when she’d known nothing of Harry’s willingness to bend the rules, of his complex relationship with his brother Ronnie, of what Ronnie did.

  Maybe ignorance really was bliss.

  Her stomach was tied in knots. All she wanted was for Harry to be safe. With Aaron.

  Distracted, her hand found its way directly underneath the hot tap. ‘Shit!’ she cursed, retracting it. Skin red raw. Heat spreading up her wrist.

  The lone woman left with her called out, asking if she was all right.

  Saima didn’t reply, instead turning off the hot water, turning the cold on and pushing her hand under it: standard scalding protocol. At times like this she was glad to be a nurse.

  Fifteen minutes was protocol but she wasn’t standing down here that long. Five would have to do. She timed herself: 22.25.

  The woman came over to see if she was all right.

  Saima didn’t recognize her.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said the woman. She was wearing a burka but with her face uncovered. Wisps of black hair escaped her headscarf. Her complexion was so fair it made Saima think she might be a convert.

  Saima nodded. ‘Took my eye off the hot water. Just a minor scald,’ she said. ‘I’m Saima.’

  ‘Maria.’

  ‘Are you all done?’

  ‘Thankfully.’

  Maria started on Saima’s remaining two pans.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ Saima said.

  ‘Can’t leave you. Imam said not to stay alone.’

  Saima was pleased. The enormous kitchen was now a ghostly space, all shadows and secrets. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Shit day, isn’t it?’

  ‘And the rest. Do you have family outside?’

  ‘Yes. They’re freaking out.’ Maria’s smile was kind as she scrubbed.

  Saima adjusted her hand under the tap. ‘Kids?’

  ‘Not yet. You?’

  Saima couldn’t stand the iciness of the water any longer and withdrew her numb hand. ‘A four-year-old boy, Aaron.’

  ‘Preciou
s,’ said Maria, turning the tap off. She grabbed a towel from the side and started drying her hands, the sleeves of her burka inching up.

  Saima frowned, noticing something unusual on Maria’s wrist. She stared at her a little harder. Burka. Hair covered. No visible jewellery. Saima focused again at her wrist. Maria noticed where she was looking.

  ‘Can you pass me that towel, please?’ said Saima.

  Maria didn’t move, a momentary thing, nothing more.

  ‘Sure,’ she then said, handing it to Saima.

  Saima took the towel, drying her hands. She was thinking fast. ‘Couldn’t do me a favour, could you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Maria, watching Saima intently.

  ‘Could you grab one of those bigger dishcloths and wrap it around my hand like a makeshift bandage? The heat from this burn is going to needle me all night.’

  A pause.

  ‘I work in A&E. I don’t want the skin to break and scar.’

  Saima had to know if she’d been mistaken.

  ‘Sure,’ Maria replied, grabbing the dishcloth.

  Saima raised her hand and turned her palm up.

  As Maria started to dress it, Saima manoeuvred her hand so that Maria’s wrist turned with hers, her sleeve moving up just enough.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ snapped Maria, forcefully shrugging Saima’s hand away.

  A whole sleeve of tattoos.

  Forbidden in Islam.

  Sometimes girls got a small one somewhere discreet, on the hip or back, but Saima couldn’t think of anyone she knew who had a full sleeve.

  ‘Sorry! I love tattoos but I’ve never had the courage to get one,’ said Saima.

  Maria pulled her sleeve firmly back over her wrist.

  ‘Don’t worry about the bandage,’ said Saima, turning to leave. She needed to get to Imam Hashim, needed to tell him she’d potentially found their sleeper cell. ‘It won’t stay on long anyway.’

  She felt a firm grip on her arm.

  ‘Very clever, Saima Virdee.’

  How did she know her surname?

  ‘But you should have left this well alone.’

  FIFTY-NINE

  This is Gemma Wiles reporting live for BBC news from the Mehraj mosque in Bradford. Darkness has been banished by several large floodlights erected around the perimeter of the mosque. The police presence here is, as you would expect, considerable, and within the last ninety minutes it has greatly expanded. Our sources tell us this is in preparation for an influx of Islamic worshippers from the other hundred and four mosques within the city, who have not officially evacuated their places of worship but intend to amass here, in Forster Square retail park, to hold a midnight vigil in a show of solidarity with the people trapped inside the Mehraj mosque. We understand senior police officials are in urgent talks with the mosques, concerned that such a large gathering could stretch police resources beyond their limit as well as provide a clear target for Far Right supporters. Social media appears rife with examples of clashes between the Far Right and Bradford’s Asian population, which, as yet, have not ignited something larger. With no leaders of Almukhtaroon in custody and a growing feel of despair inside the city, Bradford has a difficult night ahead …

  SIXTY

  Harry kept away from the city centre, taking the route through Clayton towards Wibsey. From there he’d go via Cleckheaton towards Dewsbury. He had left Azeez bound and secured in the stadium’s prison cell. Ben would be there all night but he didn’t want him involved.

  Harry’s injured left hand was throbbing, the bite the nurse had inflicted on him starting to sing. The wound hadn’t clotted yet, blood still fresh. Damn thing was too deep and needed stitches. He’d retied the bandage, pulling it tighter.

  This side of Bradford seemed calm, a world away from the chaos of City Park. No flashing lights. No helicopters, armed police or tactical units. Just … Bradford.

  ‘Are you OK, Harry? You don’t look good.’ Isaac fidgeted nervously.

  ‘We’re going to attempt to lift Abu-Nazir and hopefully Amelia from Saville Tower. If I felt OK about that, I’d be a fool.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go. Call in the real police?’

  Harry snorted. ‘Real police? What the hell do you think I am?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I do know you don’t act like a policeman.’

  ‘I get the job done. That’s why they asked me to round you lot up.’

  Harry regretted the slip of the tongue immediately.

  ‘Us lot?’ said Isaac, contempt in his voice.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Yes you did.’

  ‘Really? That’s what you’re going to take issue with right now?’

  ‘“You lot.” That’s everything that’s wrong with how the world sees Muslims.’

  ‘Fuck off. I married one.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop you lumping us all together, though, does it?’

  Harry pulled the car over, tyres screeching, and grabbed hold of Isaac.

  ‘What the fuck do you know about how I see the world? You think I enjoy putting my life on the line knowing that if it goes south, my son might wake up tomorrow without a mother or a father?’

  Harry shoved him roughly into the passenger door.

  ‘I’m doing this so a thousand innocent Muslims don’t get incinerated, one of them my wife. I’m doing this because if that bomb goes off we’d see a new generation of nutters, all inspired to seek revenge. Do me a fucking favour and park your sanctimonious, everyone’s-against-the-Muslims crap.’

  Harry pulled the car back on to the road, his blood pumping.

  None of this was about Isaac. It was Saima. He had no idea what was happening inside the Mehraj mosque. Harry hadn’t called her, afraid it would derail his focus.

  And Aaron. Was his boy OK in that house? He couldn’t let himself think about it. It was too much to contemplate.

  Abu-Nazir and Amelia. They were his best shot at ending this. Christ, he hoped the bitch was there with him.

  The atmosphere in the car was thick.

  He pulled the car over again and switched off the engine. Both of them sat in silence.

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ said Harry.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Isaac whispered.

  ‘We’re about to enter the most dangerous estate in the north of England. This isn’t the time for us to fall out.’

  Isaac nodded.

  Harry restarted the car and continued on their route, the atmosphere still strained.

  He needed a plan. They could not just rock up at the tower.

  He wished he could call in Ronnie’s men. What Harry could have done with that kind of backup! But they’d never do anything without his brother’s say-so. And he still couldn’t get through to him.

  They entered Dewsbury in silence, Saville Tower visible ahead. Harry drove past, circled around and stopped fifty yards from the entrance to the cul-de-sac.

  One way in.

  One way out.

  ‘What now?’ said Isaac.

  Harry switched on the burner phone Tariq had given him and handed it to Isaac. ‘Call Abu-Nazir. Ask him which flat he is in.’

  The conversation was short. Isaac confirmed he was a mile away and Abu-Nazir simply said, ‘Flat 420,’ and hung up.

  Only two words spoken – impossible to say whether it had been Abu-Nazir or not. Harry pulled out his own phone, the battery dying, and Googled Saville Tower and flat 420.

  It was on the top floor, meaning it afforded a sweeping view of the area.

  ‘Stay here,’ said Harry, dismayed. He removed the keys from the ignition.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Isaac.

  ‘For a walk.’

  Outside, the day’s heat continued to radiate from the tarmac as Harry walked on the road past the entrance. Saville Tower loomed large.

  Harry loitered on the far side of the pavement, casually looking over at the entrance, searching for ideas.

  He had once been invol
ved in an armed raid on Saville Tower after a body had been thrown from the top floor. The operation hadn’t gone well – more lives had been lost and the IPCC investigation was still ongoing.

  The raid had, however, thrown up something Harry had since forgotten.

  S.S. Singh Convenience.

  How did an Asian-owned corner shop exist in the most Far Right block in the north?

  The lights were still on. The closing time on the fascia was listed as 00.00.

  Bingo.

  SIXTY-ONE

  One hour to go before the other hundred and four mosques in Bradford emptied for a planned midnight vigil near the Mehraj mosque. The game of tactical chess was on a knife edge. Frost could not stop the approximately ten thousand worshippers from convening in Forster Square, and he didn’t have the manpower or resources to control such a crowd. For now, it was in the hands of police and community-liaison teams, while here, on the second floor, Frost was in a secure room with a military escort outside. With him were Tariq Islam and Commander Allen, everyone focused on a laptop computer screen.

  This was it: the special ops’ attempt to use the sewer systems to gain access to the basement of the Mehraj mosque. The robot had not revealed anything suspicious about the access route. Neither had two police dogs. Frost wasn’t overly reassured by the canines. Water in the tunnels was what reduced the operation’s probability of success. But they were ready to give it a go.

  Two teams of six men were deployed. One team would enter the basement, the other would remain on standby in the tunnels.

  Frost watched the computer monitor showing the dark, confusing footage of the special ops team navigating the murky sewage tunnels underneath the city. His eyes were focused on them but his mind was running wild. It was 23.10. In fifty minutes’ time, Bradford would have the sort of march on its hands that could result in chaos. His officers were strategically placed to ensure a smooth passage and stop a growing Far Right element from intervening.

  He hated what was happening, but conceded it was a smart move by the Islamic community. A worldwide audience would see them unified and peacefully supporting their fellow worshippers, trapped in the worst of all nightmares. However, if the Far Right got to them, the police would lose control.