by Mark Dawson
But Milton had insisted and, eventually, Hicks had conceded.
He approached the entrance to the car park and slowed down to twenty. Milton had been clear. The girl was the priority. Hicks was to get her out of harm’s way. He looked across the cabin to Nadia sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, her face betraying the anxiety that she was so obviously feeling.
It was late and the car park for the Travelodge was almost empty. Hicks turned into a vacant space and rolled to a stop.
“Come on,” he said. “I’m exhausted. Let’s get inside.”
Chapter Sixty-One
THE BACK DOOR TO THE PUB was shielded from the street by one of the large industrial bins. Milton approached it and, after confirming that he couldn’t be seen from the pavement, he paused there and listened. He filtered out the buzz of the city, the steady hum of traffic passing by on Maida Vale, and focussed on the interior of the building beyond the door. Nothing. He thought he could hear the sound of a television from the open window above him, and, as he took a step back and looked up at it, he saw the flickering light playing against the thin sliver of whitewashed ceiling that he could see.
He tried the handle.
It was locked.
The door had a glass panel above the handle. Milton took the duct tape and covered the entire sheet with a lattice of interlocking strips. There was no glass visible when he was finished. A heavy glass ashtray had been left out on one of the tables; Milton collected it and used it to gently tap against the covered glass. He increased the force until he was rewarded with a cracking noise. He pushed at the corner of the panel with his fingers, pressing the weakened part until it broke away from the rest of the glass, the tape preventing all but the smallest pieces from falling to the floor inside. The opening was wide enough for Milton to reach through and turn the key from the inside.
He took out his pistol and opened the door. It opened into a small lobby. He closed the door behind him. There were no windows and it was dark. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom and then examined the space more carefully.
The lobby was around two metres wide and three metres long. There were three doors leading off it: two were normal, and looked plain. The third, to Milton’s left, was much more significant. He approached it. It was made of metal, fitting snugly into the frame. There was an eye-slit two-thirds of the way to the top, the handle looked sturdy and the hinge areas looked to have been reinforced. There was an intercom unit to the right of the frame.
Milton laid his fingers against the cold steel. Pasko had provided himself with a secure area on the upper floors of the building. There was no way that Milton was going to be able to open it.
He stood still and held his breath. He listened. He could hear the muffled sound of a TV from behind the heavy door, but nothing else.
He checked the remaining two doors. He crept forward, the pistol held in a loose two-handed grip. He paused when he reached the door to the right of the door through which he had entered, listening intently, his breath reduced to a shallow in and out. He still couldn’t hear anything. The door was slightly ajar, and Milton took his left hand off the pistol and reached down to give it a gentle push with the tips of his fingers.
The door opened and Milton stepped through into the main room of the pub. There was a standard lamp in the corner of the room and, as Milton watched, it switched itself off. Amber light from the streetlamp outside the windows leaked in through a gap in the curtains, and there was still enough brightness for Milton to be able to make out the details of the room. The chairs had been turned over and rested on the tables. The floor had been mopped, the dim light glittering against streaks of moisture that had still to dry.
Milton stood quietly in the doorway, confident that the room was empty but waiting until he was sure.
Milton backed up, stepped into the corridor again, and pushed the door almost closed, leaving it just slightly ajar once more.
He went to the third door. There was a key in the lock, but it, too, had been left ajar. He opened it fully. There was a small commercial kitchen inside. A sash window overlooked the street and there was plenty of light for Milton to look around. He saw a gas cooker and combi oven, a large dishwasher and racks of glasses and plates that had been left out to dry.
He had an idea.
He returned to the main room and crossed over to the standard lamp. It was connected to the power via a digital timer plug. Milton unplugged the plug from the socket. He took it, and the lamp, back into the kitchen.
He put the lamp down and laid his fingertips on the light bulb; it was still hot. There was a stack of dishcloths on the counter and he took one, wrapped it around the bulb and very carefully unscrewed it. He put the bulb on the counter, covered it with the cloth, and used the end of a knife to tap firmly against it until he heard the glass crack. He removed the cloth and examined his handiwork: the bulb was shattered, but the filament was still intact.
Milton screwed the bulb back into the lamp and connected the timer plug to the mains.
He took another four dishcloths and ran them under the tap until they were sopping wet. He pressed the damp cloths against the join where the sash window met the sill so that it was as airtight as he could make it.
He went to the refrigerator and unplugged it. Next, he turned to the cooker and disconnected the electronic ignition. He needed to reduce the chance of a premature detonation.
Finally, he opened all of the gas taps, listening as the hiss of the escaping gas grew louder with every new tap that he opened.
The kitchen was a small space, and, as far as he could make it, sealed. Some of the gas might leak out, but not too much. The pressure in the gas lines would be low, perhaps 0.3 psi, not much stronger than a child blowing bubbles through a straw. But there were six taps, including one larger central burner, and they were all open. Now he just had to judge how long it would take to fill the kitchen with enough gas so that the air would be combustible.
How long?
Three or four hours.
He looked at his watch.
Twelve thirty.
He crouched next to the timer plug and set it to come on at five in the morning.
He left the kitchen and locked the door. The bottom edge was flush to the floor. The gas was lighter than air and would rise to the top of the room; not much would be able to get out this way. He pocketed the key and paused in the lobby, listening intently. He could hear muffled conversation from upstairs, but the sound of the open gas taps inside the kitchen was inaudible.
Milton considered the situation for one final time.
He had watched the building for long enough to be as confident as he could be that it was empty save for Pasko and Florin.
He had heard nothing to suggest otherwise since he had been inside.
It was detached, with space between it and the neighbouring properties.
And it was late.
Milton went back to the car to wait.
Chapter Sixty-Two
PASKO WENT TO THE WINDOW AGAIN. He gazed out. It was ten minutes to five and he could see the faintest signs of the approaching dawn on the horizon. It was cool and fresh. Neither he nor Florin had been able to sleep, and now he was beginning to feel the start of a headache. The air was pleasant on his face. Florin had put on the television. There was a highlights show from the week’s Champions’ League, and he was staring at it dumbly. Pasko would normally have been happy to watch it, too, but he was distracted and frustrated.
The sound from the television stopped. Pasko turned to see that Florin had the remote in his hand.
“What is it?”
He was quiet for a moment, his head cocked as if he was listening for something. “I thought I heard something.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I heard something.”
They both paused to listen.
“It’s a phone,” Florin said.
“What?”
“It must be yours. I d
on’t have mine.”
“It’s not mine. What the fuck? Where is it?”
Florin frowned. He closed his eyes until he could place the location of the noise. “It’s coming from my jacket.”
He reached into his pockets, the two at the front and then the two inside, but found nothing. The phone was definitely inside. It kept ringing.
“Give it here,” Pasko snapped, snatching the jacket and spreading it out on the floor. He looked down at it and saw a line of three staples just above the bottom of the garment. He took a knife from the table and pressed the tip so that it pierced the material. Florin made as if to complain, but, before he could say anything, Pasko dragged the knife down and ripped the lining straight down the middle. He dropped the knife, took the lining in both hands, and tore it open.
The phone had been hidden between the lining and the rest of the jacket.
It kept ringing.
Pasko glared at his son as he pressed the button to answer the call and put it to his ear.
“Hello, Pasko.”
“Milton, where are you?”
“Come to the window.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m not going to shoot you.”
“I won’t take the chance.”
“Relax, Pasko. I’m just outside. I’ve been here all night. I saw you at the window. You’re wearing the same jacket you were wearing on the bridge. If I was going to shoot you, I could have done it ten times over by now.”
Pasko moved slowly to the window, unable to resist. He pressed himself flat against the wall, and then, very carefully, he glanced outside.
“That’s it,” Milton said. “I’m on the other side of the street. I’m waving.”
Pasko looked and saw him. Milton was standing beneath a streetlamp, his arm raised.
“You should have been more careful,” Milton said.
“Very inventive. But it won’t do you any good. There’s only one of you. Two if your friend is here, too. What do you propose to do? Are you going to force your way inside? It is impossible.”
“I’ve already been inside.”
“No, Milton, you have not.” He tried to find his usual bluster, but he felt a twist of anxiety in his gut as he said it.
“You’re behind a locked door. I saw it. I had a good look downstairs.”
“You should have stayed. I would have come and had a drink with you.”
“I didn’t have time for that. I was a little busy.”
“Really?”
“The kitchen is directly below you, isn’t it?”
Pasko frowned. He turned his head and looked back at Florin; his son was watching him, confusion on his face. “What?” he mouthed.
“You don’t need to answer, Pasko. I know it is. I could hear you moving about upstairs when I was in it.”
“Doing what?”
“I sealed the room and opened the gas taps. They’ve been on for four hours. I’m not an expert, Pasko, but that’s a small room and the pressure out of those gas lines was reasonable. I’m thinking that there’s enough gas in there now for it to make for a healthy explosion.”
Pasko put his hand over the phone. He stepped closer to Florin and hissed, “Go downstairs and check the kitchen.”
“Why?”
“See if anyone has been inside.”
Florin took Pasko’s pistol from the table and hurried out of the room. Pasko heard him clatter down the stairs.
“Still there, Pasko?”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? I suppose we’ll find out in a minute.”
“What do you want?”
“You’ve caused a lot of misery and unhappiness. I want you to pay for what you’ve done.”
Florin lumbered up the stairs again. Pasko covered the phone. “Well?”
Florin’s face was white. “The door’s locked and the key is gone. And I can smell gas.”
“Pasko,” Milton said. “Have you checked?”
“What do you want?” Pasko said. “You want me to apologise?”
“No. It’s too late for that. Let me explain something for you. I look at life like I’m running a ledger. You’ve got the things you’re proud of on one side, things you’re ashamed of on the other. For a long time, all I did was bad. Everything on the one side of the ledger. Like you, really. I’m trying to find some balance now.”
Pasko looked out of the window again. Milton was nowhere to be seen.
“Where are you?” he said.
There was no answer.
“I’m not scared of you, Milton!”
Milton spoke again. “Goodbye, Pasko.”
The line went dead.
Chapter Sixty-Three
MILTON CHECKED HIS WATCH.
Two minutes to five.
He walked away and headed south along Kilburn High Road.
The explosion was powerful. Milton turned. The pressure wave rushed out, picking up the large bin and tossing it into the street, shoving the parked cars across the road and blowing in the windows of the office block. A large cloud of grey smoke and debris billowed out of the freshly opened space, fragments of brick and debris from inside clattering down onto the street. The dust cloud rose up and wreathed the building, so thick that it was impossible to see inside.
Milton got into his car as alarms started to blare, a frantic cacophony as a dozen different sounds clamoured in a discordant harmony. The dust and smoke started to clear and, as he glanced back in his mirrors, Milton was able to see the extent of the damage. The naked filament would have combusted without the inert gas to protect it, and that, in turn, would have caused the gas in the air to ignite. The building had been torn in two. Half of it was still standing, albeit with severe damage, but the other half was simply not there anymore. There were small stretches of the walls on the ground floor that remained, but everything else had been reduced to a smoking pile of debris. Timbers had collapsed on top of one another, and piles of bricks were strewn all the way across the road. The seat of the explosion had been the kitchen. It was gone. The rooms above it—the rooms where Milton knew Pasko and Florin had been waiting—were gone, too.
Milton started the engine and, carefully and deliberately, pulled out into the empty road and drove away to the south. He was three minutes away when he heard the sirens of the first emergency vehicles.
He drove on.
Chapter Sixty-Four
THE WAITING ROOM was as quiet as it had been the last time Milton had visited the holding facility. He waited patiently, the sharp edges of the plastic chair digging into his ribs and aggravating the bruises that had developed following the fight with the Albanians two days earlier. He had gingerly examined his body in the mirror after he had showered this morning. The cuts from Florin’s knife were superficial and had not required stitches, but they had left lurid purple scores across his skin. His knuckles were bruised, and he had a prominent black eye from where he had been butted in the face. His brow had been cut, too, and a raised sickle, with crusted blood scabbed across the wound, reached down to just above his eyelid. The receptionist had looked at him with a wariness that she wasn’t able to suppress, and, for a moment, Milton thought that she was going to ask him to leave. Cynthia Whitchurch had stepped forward, telling the woman—who evidently recognised her—that Milton was her guest and that she would vouch for him. That had done the trick, and the woman had invited them—a little reluctantly, perhaps—to take their seats and wait for the doors to open.
Milton glanced over to his right. Whitchurch was sitting next to Nadia. She was taking down the details that she would need in order to represent her as a client in the application for asylum that they were going to make this afternoon. Nadia had already explained what had happened to her; she had started the story with the commencement of their journey in Eritrea, followed with the crossing to Lampedusa, described her abduction, and then what the Albanians had made her do.
Milton had counselled her not to mention any of the events
that had led to her freedom; instead, they had settled on a version of events that had seen her simply walk away from the brothel in which she had been held, with Samir sending Milton to collect her after the siblings had made contact once again. If Cynthia harboured any suspicion that she was being fed an abbreviated version of the truth, it wasn’t obvious. Milton doubted that she would dig too deep. Her motivation, written plainly on her face, was to secure the safety of her clients. Samir and Nadia were fortunate to have her.
The doors opened. “You can go through now,” the guard called out.
“Ready, Nadia?” Cynthia said.
“Just a moment, please.”
“Of course. I’ll see you inside when you’re ready.” Cynthia got to her feet and made her way over to the entrance.
Nadia paused, seemingly reluctant to follow.
Milton went to her. “It’s all right,” he said. “Your brother will be there in a minute. He’ll be glad to see you.”
She held his gaze for a moment, and Milton thought that he could see the pain and fear of the last few months in her deep brown eyes. She blinked and found a shy smile, and the moment passed.
“Thank you,” she said, placing her hands on his shoulders and laying a cool kiss on his cheek.
Milton found himself smiling.
She turned away from him and joined the lawyer at the door. Milton stayed a few steps away, reluctant to share in a moment that he thought best to be private. He could see through the door, though, and he noticed Samir as he came in through the doors at the other side of the visiting room. The young man stood in the doorway for a moment, the other inmates passing on either side of him, and then he saw his sister. He grinned, beaming out his happiness, and hurried ahead. Nadia went inside, too, and the siblings met in the middle of the room, embracing fiercely, their sobs loud enough for Milton to hear.
He watched them for a moment. They were so swept up in themselves that they did not notice him, and, as Samir showed his sister to the table that he and Milton had sat at just over a fortnight ago, Milton turned and made his way quietly towards the exit.
