by Fin C Gray
Tom released himself from her arms and turned round.
‘They’re starting treatment as soon as this? God, Ali, I thought it was just an assessment then. Of course, I’ll drive you.’
Hours of tests, poking, prodding, mammograms, MRIs, biopsies. It was nearly five o’clock, and it felt as if they’d been there forever. Poor Alison looked wrung out. Every test had her crying or wincing. As Tom sat holding Alison’s hand, the surgeon’s words knotted in a jumble in his brain, ‘aggressive tumours, lymph nodes, metastasis, mastectomy, chemotherapy, hair loss, vomiting, radiotherapy,’ all of them with meaning, but none that seemed to belong or apply to them.
‘Mrs McIntyre, Mr McIntyre…’
They both looked round, glad to be released from the surgeon’s gaze; he may as well have been wearing a black executioner’s cap. A pretty nurse with short blonde hair stood smiling at them.
‘My name’s Fiona, and I’m going to explain your treatment today. Follow me, will you?’ Her voice was a soft Scottish brogue, and she looked easy to trust.
‘I’m having treatment today?’ asked Alison.
The surgeon stood up and handed a folder to the nurse.
‘The sooner we start treating these tumours, the better chance of success we will have,’ he said.
Tom felt hopeless. This man exuded pessimism. Everything he’d said conveyed an implicit understanding that success was the least likely outcome of whatever treatment they might try. He was like some harbinger of doom. Tom was glad to escape his office and follow the smiling nurse. Alison gripped his arm and he felt her fear course through him.
Fiona led them through bright white corridors, pungent with hospital smells, to a small anteroom that led through to a much larger room, separated by a glass partition. Through the glass, other women sat on high-backed armchairs, with tubes running into their arms from bottles on stands. They all seemed interconnected, all linked by a common dread. Alison didn’t belong here. This was like being trapped in a horrible dream. If only there were a way to wake himself up from it.
Fiona explained all the side effects that were common with the chemotherapy drug that was about to be administered. Alison seemed to be resigned to it all until the nurse mentioned hair loss. That’s when she started to cry and burrow her face into Tom’s chest.
‘How likely is that?’ he asked Fiona, looking at the women behind the glass; most of them were wearing bandanas or ill-fitting wigs on their heads.
‘Ninety-nine percent, I’m afraid,’ she said, her smile gone. ‘This is a potent drug. But the hair always grows back, and this medication has a fantastic success rate with the sort of cancer Alison has.’
Tom closed his eyes and kissed Alison’s thick, lovely curls. He felt her push into him. Her hair still had the sweet smell of ripe apples from the shampoo she used. Inhaling deeply, he pulled her head against his chest.
‘It’ll only be temporary, darling,’ he said.
Alison slept for most of the long drive home. Tom tried to lose himself in the music he was playing, but the horror of the day just churned in his head. Yesterday’s bright future had crumbled into meaningless dust. He hadn’t even mentioned his windfall to Alison; it held no joy for him any more. He turned the radio off. Had he to pay this debt just for wanting something better for them all? This was too cruel. Take it all back. This was too high a price to pay. The debt was his, not hers. Fuck this.
Jenny was ten paces behind Daniel, sauntering into the yard as their parents’ car turned in through the gates. Daniel stopped and waited for them to get out.
‘Where’ve you been, Dad?’ His quizzical look turned to one of concern as he watched his mother pull herself out of the passenger side. ‘What’s up, Mum?’
‘Your Mum…’ Tom looked at Alison then back at his son, ‘… is not feeling very well. Let’s get her inside and make her a cuppa, OK?’
Daniel opened the back door and made straight for the kettle. Alison walked over to him, lethargically, and put her arm around him.
‘Thanks, Danny,’ she said, her voice cracked and weak. ‘Don’t worry about me. It’s just a bug. I’ll be fine.’
Daniel returned an unconvinced smile. ‘Go and sit down, Mum. I’ll bring the tea through. Do you want anything to eat?’
‘No, love, thanks. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave the tea. I just want to lie down.’
Chapter Six
Today, Friday
Daniel wakes up in the fold-down bed in the study around eleven a.m. His eyes scrunch against the sharp rods of sunlight pushing into the room. As he turns over, he feels the shove of the dagger’s jewelled handle against his bare ribs. Pulling it from beneath him, he looks at the thick, semi-congealed smears of dark blood on the wide blade. He reaches for the silk, still around his head, and cleans the dirty metal before returning the knife to the sheath, which remains nestled in his waistband. Then he wraps the stained silk around his body again and stands up. He listens at the door and, encouraged by the silence, pulls it open.
Daniel goes into the master bedroom and retrieves his prayer mat from the foot of the bed, averting his eyes from the bloody mess on his father’s bed. Sunshine fills the room, but he feels a chill from the open French window. He closes it, then takes the large brass key from the lock on the bedroom door and pulls it shut, before locking it from the other side. He places the mat into the main hallway and recites the Fajr prayer. The dark, shiny red of the hall resonates in his brain. Blood. There has been too much blood in his life already. He walks to the front door, takes the key and leaves, locking the door behind him. The stairs are the best option again. None of the nosy bastards on the desk will see him that way.
Moments later, he is on the street. He grins at the concrete behemoth of the Ministry of Defence building, with its row of armed military guards outside, and turns away from it to Embankment tube. There are lots of uniforms in the street and around the entrance to the station, but he pays them no heed. Passing his Oyster card over the reader, he pushes past the tourists with their wheeled bags, his eyes eagerly searching for the Northern Line escalator. A feeling of breathlessness overtakes him as he bounds onto the train, which is sounding warning beeps that the doors are closing. Fumbling for his inhaler, he studies the map above the seats and is relieved to see he is on the right train for King’s Cross.
As soon as he arrives there, he pulls out his phone and opens his texts. Scrolling down to JOHN LONDON, he opens the text thread and begins typing.
LAKKY: @ KINGS X. R WE ON?
He waits a few seconds, and a vibration accompanies the reply:
John london: yeah. U knw whr 2 come? Doors open. Its on table
Lakky: ok b thre soon.
John london: lve yr sim on table. Thrs a frsh 1 4 u in pack.
Lakky: yes i know.
Daniel follows the map on his phone to an address in Northdown Street. He presses the button for Flat C on the grubby panel next to the dull-blue door, which is adjacent to a halal butcher’s shop. A long entry buzzer sounds and he pushes the door, which opens with a click.
The hallway smells of stale food. Junk mail and discarded cartons litter the floor. Daniel walks up the sticky steps to the second floor and sees that the door of Flat C is slightly ajar. He looks all around the landing and, when he is satisfied he is alone, pushes the door open. The small dark vestibule of the flat is dingy and damp. A solitary bare bulb throws weak light into the windowless space, but it is enough to let Daniel see the brown paper package. It lies conspicuously on a white Formica table, the only piece of furniture in the hallway. He stops and listens for a few seconds, but can hear nothing, so he throws his SIM card on the table and snatches up the parcel, before running downstairs and out into the street. His heart is pounding and he suddenly feels conspicuous, which makes him wary. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed ahead of him, he marches quickly back to the tube station.
He sits on the train with the package on his lap. Later, what is inside will be wrapped around him, and t
he people on that train won’t be as lucky as these here now. The carriage is full, and he stands up to let an elderly lady sit down.
‘So considerate, dear,’ she says, taking the seat.
Daniel studies the others in the train. There are people with luggage, a skinny man chattering to himself, families with young children, twenty-somethings, elderly couples. A random slice of society going about its day. Who will he see on his chosen train – waiting to enter eternity without even knowing it? Some will join him and Waqar, and many others will get the destiny they deserve. Maybe some will thank him – glad to be released early from this terrible world. Among that group will be abusers, kiddy-fiddlers, liars, cheats, thieves and drunks. People like Tom will be there. Like Tom, they will perish and suffer. Like Tom, they will get what they deserve.
Soon, he is back at Embankment, heading the same way he had left, through the hotel to his father’s flat in the adjacent building. The key turns easily in the lock, and he walks into the silence of his father’s flat. Daniel heads directly to the study and throws off his coat, yanking at the silk around his body, discarding it on the floor. Picking up his rucksack from the bed, he pulls out a shirt and a large padded jacket and lays them flat on the bed. Now he opens the package with reverence. Inside, he finds a khaki vest with long cylindrical pouches of explosives all around it. There is a pocket detonator hanging from a long red wire. He places the straps over his bony shoulders, cautiously feeding the wire underneath the vest. Carefully, he clips the detonator into the right pocket of his jeans and covers the explosives belt with his thick twill shirt before taking a heavy woollen pullover from his rucksack and putting that on over the shirt. He walks into the bathroom and examines his reflection in the full-length mirror. These clothes make him look so much bigger.
He smiles and begins plaiting his long greasy brown hair. He piles the dark plaits in a neat pile on his head and presses them down with a thick woollen cap. In the mirrored cabinet, he finds a pair of scissors and uses them to snip away most of his long beard. One of Tom’s fancy airline toilet bags lies in one of the cupboards, and he fishes out the shaving kit from it. Removing the beard takes a long time, and he has to soap his face and go over it many times before it is completely gone. There are lots of small nicks all over his face. It’s been many months since he has shaved and he admires the snake, fully revealed for the first time since the tattooist finished it.
He is late for the Zuhr prayer and he knows that he will miss the unity of reciting it with the rest of the Muslim world in this time zone. This will be his last formal prayer on this earth. If he has the presence of mind, he will recite the Asr prayer in his head on his final walk towards eternity. Waqar had told him to say each salat as long as his body was whole. Reciting the prayers makes him feel close to Allah but closer still to his beloved Waqar. When he has finished the Zuhr, he rolls up his mat and lies beside it on the bed as he watches Waqar’s video again and again. This is his way of making his love a part of his final journey and keeping him strong in his mind as he fulfils his task.
Turning the camera on himself, he films his own message to Waqar, telling him that he is resolved to do what he has to, and that he now knows the peace that Waqar promised would come to him. Waqar will know this without him having to do this, but he wants to leave a record of his love for him on earth as Waqar had done for him. Let the world know that what he will do will be for love, as well as for Islam. When he is finished, he immediately deletes it. He has no need to explain himself to the world that he is leaving. It is a stupid idea and he reproaches himself for even considering it. He allows sleep to come to him, trusting that the peace he has found will remain with him.
It is 3.42 p.m. when he awakes, and he starts to worry that he will not be ready in time. The peak of the rush hour is the time prescribed to carry out his task. His tattoo must be hidden and he digs deep into his rucksack where he finds the paper bag containing make-up compacts, concealer sticks and foundation. He remembers for a second how embarrassed he felt buying these from the small Indian pharmacy, and the odd looks the young girl there had given him.
Returning to the bathroom, he opens a concealer stick and applies thick flesh-coloured cream to his face and neck. The snake begins to disappear and, as he spreads layers of foundation and pats on powder, he feels as if the chrysalis is beginning to crack open. When he has used nearly all the make-up, the tattoo is gone. Examining his reflection in the mirror, he sees a face that is not his. A waxwork version of his younger self stares back. Now he is almost ready. The pupation is almost complete.
Back in the study, he plugs earphones into his ears and puts on the thick padded jacket before taking a last look around. It’s going to be a bit warm for the August weather, but it won’t be for long. The discarded silk still lies on the floor, and he glances briefly at the backpack, which he has laid on the bed again. He pulls out a picture, a copy of the same photograph that still sits on the coffee table in the living room, and he kisses the image of his mother. He places the picture beside the prayer mat on the bed and stares at her face for several minutes. See you soon, Mum. Now, he kicks his bag into a corner and closes the door.
With slow, deliberate steps, he walks through the hall to the front door, dragging his hand across the glossy red smoothness of the polished plaster, and casts one last glance backwards to the large open arch of the dining room and the long-resented view beyond. He strokes the comical wooden cat that sits on the hall table beside a large vase of white lilies. It bears a silver collar engraved with I SAW THIS AND THOUGHT OF YOU. ALL MY LOVE, ALWAYS, T XXX.
This is the cat that Dad gave to her that Christmas. The Christmas before she died. He pauses as though checking himself. Forget it! Forget it all. That life is gone. Nothing else matters. Allahu Akbar. He lays the cat on its side before locking the door behind him and posting the keys through the letterbox.
Back on the street, the MOD building and its guards cause him no mirth now. He walks towards the gardens in front of his father’s building, his jaw firm, his eyes blank, and he sits down on a bench. Daniel looks at his watch and then up at the sky. The only other person he can see is an old tramp huddled on a bench on the opposite side of the lawn, scratching his crotch as he guzzles from a paper-clad bottle. Daniel takes out his phone and turns the camera on his face, pressing the record button. This final message to the world must be given outside with the sun on his face. In a soft, determined voice he begins.
‘The message I carry to the British and American governments, and all other oppressors of Islam, is that there is no God but Allah. We will chase you from every corner. We will drink your blood. We know there is no better blood than the blood of the oppressors of Islam. We will not leave you alone until we have quenched our thirst with your blood, and all the children of Islam will quench their thirst with your blood. We will not rest until you leave the Muslim countries. My actions now will show this. God is Great. Allahu Akbar!’
Without playing it back or checking it, he uploads the video to YouTube, then drops his phone behind the bench into a pile of dead foliage. He removes his Oyster card and puts it into his jacket pocket before discarding his wallet behind the bench. Taking a deep breath, he heads out of the gardens towards the station.
Chapter Seven
Then
Faceless polystyrene heads sporting many colours and styles of hair stared blankly from the shelves all around the room. Alison sat beside Tom on a small sofa at the far end of the showroom; she seemed to be concentrating on her shoes. Was she trying to stop her hands reaching to check her hair? There had been clumps of her curly brown locks in the shower that morning. As he put his arm around her shoulder, he saw a small tuft of hair fall to her lap. She quickly brushed it off her skirt and onto the floor.
‘We’re going to have to tell them,’ she said, her voice flat.
‘I know, darling. Daniel is already worried something is wrong. Can we try and put it off for a wee while? Fuck, maybe the chemo will st
op being so harsh on you.’
He went to touch her hair, but she pushed his hand away.
‘The doctor said hair loss was unlikely with this latest drug, didn’t he? Dr Ramage even said it was the least likely side effect. You’ve not even been nauseous… Can we not just wait?’
Alison’s face hardened, and a piercing flash of anger met his eyes. He looked away. How could he see her like this? He was making a bad situation worse for her. Get a grip of yourself, Tom.
‘You’re fooling yourself, Tom. We need to tell them. That’s it. The longer we leave it, the worse it will be.’
Tom looked at the faceless heads, looked back at Alison, looked at his shoes, looked at the walls and looked through the window into eternity before standing up. Why destroy the kids’ lives before they had to?
‘Stop it!’ he said, trying his best not to shout. ‘At least think about it! For fuck’s sake, don’t give in so easily!’
Why was he like this? She didn’t deserve to be spoken to like this. Not by him – not by anybody. She was doing her best not to cry; her mouth was starting to quiver.
‘Darling, I’m not giving in. Believe me,’ she said. ‘I’m just saying the kids need to know. When you can’t hide things… well, you have to admit… defeat—
‘Defeat?’
‘I didn’t mean defeat in the way you’re saying it. I’m just saying we need to tell them. God knows, we need to tell them before they guess. Yes?’
Tom sat down again, grasping for control, wishing to kill the conversation and move on to some other nothing kind of chat.
‘OK,’ he said firmly. Taking her hands, he said more softly, almost in a whisper, ‘OK. OK.’
