“Nareen,” he says tentatively, wary of her grief. “The trolleys-”
“Yes,” she replies without shifting her gaze from the road ahead. “It won’t be dignified, but he must be heavy,” she continues, matter-of-fact as she echoes his thoughts.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. He must be a burden for you. I’m sorry.”
“Please! There’s no need to keep saying that you’re sorry.”
“Sorry!” Her brows lift and she nearly smiles as she says sorry yet again for having said sorry.
The body reminds him of a guy in a wheelbarrow as he trundles the trolley up the slip road. Its legs and arms dangle over the sides, its head lolling into the corner. The makeshift shroud had slipped away from his head a few times before Nareen had tucked it firmly down. He’d cringed as she’d pushed the fabric between the body’s skull and the metal frame and marvelled at the gentleness of her touch, her resilience. She must be going through hell, yet she was calm, serene almost.
“Nearly there!” Harry encourages as he makes it to the top of slip road. In the distance the hospital stands as a dark block rising above the low buildings and numerous trees in that part of the city. Behind it four tower blocks stand as dark columns. There are none of the pluming chimneys of smoke that rise against the sky behind them. To their right is the river than runs to the sea and before that, where the land hasn’t yet been taken back by the relentless tides, retail parks. His belly growls as they pass. Only the day before yesterday he’d stopped off between jobs for a burger and a flat white at the MacDonald’s next to the petrol station. Mental note for Harry: check out the restaurants for food. If the supermarkets were empty, they were the next place to look. Although, and he smiles as he realises, there is a warehouse on the next industrial estate, a depot for Nisa. That would be the best place to get food. He looks about suddenly suspicious. What the hell, Harry! No one can read your mind, and, if there is food there, it’s for us all.
“How far do you think it is?”
“Two miles,” he replies and strains at the trolley, thankful that a sheet covers the man’s head. Wheels rattle over a pothole and the body jars against the thick metal wire. Harry cringes. This had to be the most bizarre – and gruesome - thing he has ever done.
The sun has passed its highest point as they walk the last stretch of road before they reach the hospital’s entrance. Here the roads are lined with houses, a welcome contrast to the industrial estates and retail parks that dotted either side of the dual carriageway behind them.
There are people here too. It’s not unusual to see people along this road, he’d passed down the road often enough on his way to and from work, but it was unusual to see them grouped together and standing around. And, he notices with concern, some of them appear to be armed. He looks back at the straggle of injured people following his lead. They had nothing to protect themselves and he couldn’t take on a gang of armed men alone and hope to come out of it on top. Maz grumbles behind him, suddenly alert. “Take it easy,” he warns as they draw closer. One of the groups moves onto the path and watches their approach. They jostle among themselves. There’s something primal about the gang as they spread out along the path and spill onto the road. Their eyes are angry and defiant.
“Who are you?” a dark-haired boy calls as Harry walks within earshot. The boy holds a crowbar in his hands, fingers white with the intensity of his grip. He can’t be more than fifteen. A wave of pity washes over Harry as he notices the boy’s hands tremble.
“Just passing through,” Harry replies. “Going to the hospital.”
“You come from over there?”
“Yeah,” Harry returns.
“People say that terrorists are burning everything down and killing people in the streets.”
“We’ll kill them first!” another lad shouts.
“Is that why you’re here ... with those?” Harry nods to the crowbar in his hands.
“Yeah.”
“It’s true,” Maz interrupts.
“What’s in the trolley?”
“A terrorist,” Maz replies.
“Shut up, Maz.”
The boy looks with disgust at the covered body and takes a step back.
“What you doing with it?”
“He’s my husband-.”
“You’re a terrorist?” The boy’s eyes shift from the body to Nareen and back to Harry.
Another group of what look like older men, steps into the road and begins to walk towards them.
“No, I-”
“She’s not.”
“She looks like one.”
“Now, hold on!”
“Terrorists!” a voice shouts.
The older men begin to run.
A shriek splits the air behind Harry.
“No!” he shouts. “Listen, we’re not—she’s not ... a terrorist.”
“Please! We just want to get these people to the hospital,” Jenny pleads.
“Burn it down more like!”
“No!”
“These people are injured—they need help.”
“I’m not one of them!” Nareen shouts.
“Prove it!”
The group has doubled in size. The older men push to the front. They glare at Harry.
“Who’s a terrorist?”
“No one is.”
“She is!”
“No! For heaven’s sake! She’s not—she helped us. She warned us about the attack. If it hadn’t been for her, these people,” Harry says turning to the straggling group behind him, “would be dead—not trying to get to hospital for treatment.”
“What about him then?” the boy asks prodding at the body in the trolley.
“Hands off!” Harry warns. “He’s dead. He’s no threat to us now.”
“Then why you taking him to the hospital?” He prods at the body again.
“Hey!” Harry says stepping forward. “I said hands off!” he stares at the boy until he backs away. “Because we’re not barbarians. This woman’s husband died. I couldn’t leave her in the street with his body and no way of ... of disposing of it.”
“He doesn’t deserve it,” the boy grunts.
“You’re right, he doesn’t,” Harry agrees. “But Nareen helped save a lot of lives today and she doesn’t deserve this either.”
The boy nods and takes another step back. Tension eases. Harry takes a chance and pushes the trolley forward. He grips the handle. Show no fear.
“Let him through.”
The group moves aside and Harry gives the trolley a hard push forward.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To Michael, riding through the town felt different somehow. The morning had started well enough—the sun had risen as usual and warmed him as it shone in through the bedroom window. Guilt had ridden him as he’d woken and become conscious of his surroundings. He was in Bramwell—the house he’d found tucked into the forest, hidden away and laden with provisions, the house that belonged to someone else. The feeling was momentary, gave way to elation, and he’d stretched in the sun’s warmth whilst looking out of the window to the canopy of trees not more than twenty feet away. A squirrel scurried halfway up the tree, looked around then disappeared among the branches, and the birds sang a chorus that seemed to fill the window. It was a slice of heaven—Michael’s slice of heaven.
Later, he’d lit the Aga and made himself a cup of tea in one of their mugs—white and printed with the insignia of the armed forces. It was chipped but he didn’t care—tea tasted the same whether it was in a chipped mug or not. He’d eaten until his belly was full and even washed his face, pits and bits with warm water. Life was good—he could live like this quite happily, forever.
However, curiosity had got the better of him and here he was cycling through the town. He’d checked in at his own house. All was in order but the cars that had been stuck outside yesterday were still there. He could hear the rev of engines here and there, but mostly it was quiet. Odd that—how noisy
the town really was—you didn’t realise it until the racket stopped—a kind of selective deafness he guessed, perhaps some sort of survival mechanism, a defence against your eardrums being pounded day in and day out by the infernal racket of cars and lorries. The sun warms the back of his neck as he pedals a little harder, maintaining his speed up the hill. The sound of an engine vibrates in the distance spoiling his peace. He pedals harder.
A flash of red catches his attention. At the mini-roundabout ahead a car stops. Michael watches with interest as a figure steps out of the passenger’s side. It was an odd thing to do, just stop there and get out of the car, but perhaps the driver’s not local and needs some directions? With no other traffic it’s not as if he’s holding anything up.
As he continues to pedal, the figure gets back into the car, does a rapid U-turn and disappears back up the road. Michael continues his labours up the hill. His chest heaves with effort. Just a little further across the roundabout then its downhill again.
Tyres screech.
The red car bursts out of the petrol station forecourt and swings back onto the road. Michael’s tyres bump across the painted circle at the centre of the roundabout. The car’s engine seems to squeal. Michaels stares at the approaching car for a second, processing the scene.
It was heading straight for him!
Pulling at the handlebars he forces his thighs to move the pedals.
It’s not going to stop!
Move it, Mikey!
He powers forward and steers the bike to the left. Can’t they see him?
As his bike moves so does the car—back into his path.
What the hell!
The car is only feet away. He pushes at the pedals with every ounce of his strength. The car clips his wheel. Thrown to the ground, his shoulder smashes against the tarmac and the unforgiving frame of the bike bites into his leg. He cries out in pain. The car’s tyres screech and it slows down.
Were they going to stop? To say sorry? To help him?
The car reverses at speed.
Heart pounding, Michael realises it isn’t going to stop. He grabs at the bike, pushing it off his leg and stands. The pain is immense as he hobbles away, desperate to get some distance between him and the car as it rushes him again. Behind him is the low wall of a corner house overhung by a palm tree. Michael had never understood it, had even mocked Brian for planting it there, now it could perhaps save him from being crushed to death. He runs, slaps his hand on the wall and vaults over, rolling behind the thick trunk of the palm tree. The car slams into the wall. Bricks and debris strike his calves and ankles as he staggers along the side of the house. The pain makes him shout and he leans against the wall as he runs down the path.
Looking back at the car, two figures sit in the front, a third in the backseat. They’re ... laughing! A deep frown crosses Michael’s brow as he stares at the cackling driver. He’s never seen the men before in his life, but one in the front look like Bilal, the Turk who runs the pizza shop on King Street, the other looks like a bloke he went to school with—weasel-faced with dark hair set against the palest skin. The one on the back seat has much darker skin, his face in shadow beneath a baseball cap. Michael’s heart beats hard in his chest as terror runs through him. They were playing with him—like a cat with a mouse before the final kill.
The car’s engine revs and pulls away from the wall. As the car reverses they seem to argue. He catches his breath. Will they come at him again? He wants to edge away but keep them in his sights too. He waits then sighs with relief as the car does a three-point turn and drives away down the road. As Michael hobbles to the front of the house he watches it take a left into the police station carpark and disappear. Odd! Why would you deliberately try to run someone down then report yourself to the police? They’d have no luck anyway; there was never anyone in there. Limping, he moves away from his place against the wall, wheels his bike across the road and down to the police station.
Keeping close to the garden walls of the houses edging the street, he makes his way to the Police Station’s entrance. The smell of petrol is strong. The car has pulled up to the station’s door, its boot open. The taller of the three men moves first and reaches into the boot. When he stands, he holds a petrol can—the same green, squat type that Michael’s stepdad uses to fill up at the petrol station when he wants to mow the lawn. Stupid old git was forever mowing his damned lawn and Michael had been sent countless times as a teenager to the fill not just one, but two, jerry cans with two-stroke.
A man with a grey jacket and black, curling hair leans into the boot and pulls out a metal rod. Michael squints. No, it’s not a rod—a crowbar. One has petrol, the other a crow bar and they’d tried to run him over! The hairs on Michael’s neck prickle. The boot slams shut.
The backseat passenger holds the petrol can and crouches as he unscrews the lid. He strides to the station’s entrance and tips the can up. Liquid sloshes over the concrete slabs and splashes onto the pebbles. He trips on the edge of the slab. Petrol spatters his thighs and dark spots spread over his jeans, a wet patch grows at his knees. He mutters in a language Michael can’t understand—harsh and guttural, then stands back and reaches into his pocket.
The other men stand and watch.
Taking out a box of matches he lights one, cupping his hands around the flame to protect it from the light breeze. He throws the match at the door but instead it drops from his fingers and lands on his leg. His knee bursts into flame. Michael’s instinct is to run and help but he stops himself with a jolt and steps back behind the shrub.
The shorter man, his dark beard unfashionably long and wispy, dances around his friend as flames spread along the fabric of his trousers. The other grabs a blanket from the boot and wafts it at the man. For a moment the flames lick higher. The burning man whimpers and then he’s on the ground being rolled over. Within seconds the silent drama is over and the burning man pats at his smouldering jeans with the blanket.
“Idiot!” the man hisses in a whisper.
“Shut up!”
“Be quiet and get up.”
“Finish the job.”
The two men make no effort to help and walk instead to the building that shares the grounds with the Police Station. Impressive, built of stone in the early nineteenth century, it was once a children’s home and then the local library and had been extended to include the local offices of the county council, but upstairs, accessed through the servants’ staircase, are flats, or as the more pretentious owners call them, apartments. Young professionals live side-by-side the retired and the unemployable, who live in luxury at the council’s expense, barely tolerated by the other residents.
The man with the smouldering jeans throws the blanket towards the car, picks up the can of petrol, and walks after his friends to the entrance.
Be locked!
The door opens and the men disappear inside. At the top of the building, beneath the cream stone, a curtain twitches and a man’s face peers out. Grahame Medley—he’d recognise that old codger’s face anywhere. The man scowls down at Michael then disappears with a flick of the curtain. What was he doing there? He was sure he lived down Pasture Road. As he mulls over the question, he reappears with a woman’s face behind his shoulder. The dirty old bugger! Michael smirks and then waves and jabs at the door. Grahame frowns, turns to say something to the woman, then flicks Michael the V and disappears.
“Ungrateful sod!”
The heavy entrance door re-opens and Michael ducks behind the boot of the car as the smouldering man reappears and strides back to the Police Station. Michael edges around the car staying out of view. In one hand the man holds a length of twisted paper, in the other a lighter. He flicks at the lighter with his thumb and holds it beneath the paper as he squats. Flames singe its edges. He holds it up allowing the fire to burn bright. The paper blackens as Michael makes his move. He jumps up and sprints to the man, slamming his fist, thumb tucked inside clenched hand, just the way his dad had taught him, into the ma
n’s jaw. The hard and angular joints of his fingers dig into cheekbone. The petrol can arcs through the air and sprays its liquid. Fuel spatters Michael’s jeans as the man is thrown against the doors and slides unconscious to the steps.
Job done!
With a final look at the slumped man, Michael turns to the apartments. The other men were inside and their intent was clear—to burn the place down. He had to stop them or warn the residents if he could. A voice, high pitched and angry, shouts behind him as he walks through the door of the building’s main entrance. He ignores it and mounts the wide staircase to his left, confident that the men are on one of the floors above. A scream from outside pierces the quiet of the building. Michael takes the steps two at a time to reach the window on the first landing. It looks over the gravelled drive below and the entrance to the police station is just visible. Smoke billows around the car and the man writhes on the concrete slabs of the station’s steps as flames leap up his trousers. He kicks his heels at the ground as though pushing himself away from the flames then pats at his legs. Flames leap to his arms. Michael watches in horrified silence as the fire spreads along his sleeves and up to his neck. Within seconds it engulfs his head. Screwing his eyes tight, blacking out the scene, Michael turns away from the window. There was nothing he could do; the man would just have to burn.
As he climbs higher, the smell of petrol is intense. He takes the stairs with a soft tread two at a time. On the next landing both men are engrossed in their work, wetting the carpets that line the landing, spraying petrol from plastic water bottles. The fuel sprays in arcs through the sports tops and drips down the walls.
“Hey!” Michael calls. He has to stop them and interrupting the spraying and dousing was the only way he knew how. They turn in unison and petrol squirts towards him. For a second the flow of petrol wilts then, with a crunch of plastic, one of them points his bottle at Michael and squeezes. Its flow arcs across the landing and down the stairs then sprays across his jeans.
The taller man mutters to the other, guttural noises that catch at the back of his throat. His hand moves towards his jacket pocket. Michael reaches for the bannister and powers himself up the stairs. Within two seconds he’s on the landing. The man’s hand is deep in his pocket as Michael reaches him. The hand jerks out of his pocket and holds a lighter to the ceiling. He catches at it with his thumb and smirks–a silent taunt. Ignoring the gesture, Michael lunges forward and grabs his wrist. The man jerks his arm and both men stumble along the hallway then crash against the wall, pinning the other man under their weight. Cold liquid soaks through the cotton of Michael’s jacket to his skin as the squeezy bottle is squashed. The petrol fumes are intense.
Blackout & Burn: A Complete EMP Thriller Series Page 27
