by Fin C Gray
‘This is the last place she ever lived. I don’t want to leave here.’
‘You’ll just have to get used to it,’ said Jenny, her voice hard. ‘This place is sold, and that’s that.’
‘Jenny’s right, son. We can’t break out of the contracts now. More importantly, Mum wouldn’t have wanted us to.’
‘You two have made up your minds. So that’s that,’ said Daniel. ‘Anything can be changed if you want it enough.’
There was a knock on the front door. ‘The cars are outside, Dad,’ said Jenny. Tom stood up.
‘C’mon, Dan. It’s time. We can talk about this later.’
‘You still stink of booze,’ said Daniel.
It looked like a picnic hamper, only coffin-shaped. It was what Alison had wanted: no frills, no fuss, simple wicker. At least, that’s what Tom remembered. From time to time, when they were young, they’d talked about what they wanted to happen after death in broad terms – when death was no more than a distant concept, when it was something they didn’t have to consider until they were old, until they would have come to terms with it.
It had never come up when she was ill. The whole subject of death had never come up. It was avoided, frankly. All he could remember was that there was to be no church, no religious service, no fuss. Thankfully, Alison, in her final weeks, had told Daniel the details of everything she wanted, everything apart from the type of coffin. God only knows how the poor boy was able to listen to her tell him those things. He had cried as he told his father everything she’d said and, of course, Tom had broken down too.
So it was to be a humanist funeral, and Alison’s body would lie in a woodland setting with no gravestone; the only marker for her grave would be a cherry tree that was to be planted directly after the burial. Cherry trees were Alison’s favourite, and she loved the blossom that appeared every May. When the time came, Tom would be buried there too and a second cherry tree would keep Alison’s company.
Tom listened to Angela, the celebrant, as she welcomed everyone to the service and explained the order of ceremony. After that, everything began to blur together, and the music and the eulogies passed over him as he descended deep into his darkest thoughts.
Had he brought this on himself and his darling wife and children? Hadn’t he fantasised about wealth and freedom, and imagined a life where he could do what he wanted? Who had heard these thoughts and taken him at his word? It was simply a notion – a fantasy. It had never been a pact or a deal, at least not one where the repayment of the debt had been explained or imagined. Why would he have agreed to lose so much for so little gain? Be careful what you wish for. Tom had been careless in his wishes. Everything was in his grasp, just as his hold was slipping on the world that was most important to him. One wish granted, but with a diabolical price tag. Worse than that, he could not escape the feeling that somehow this wasn’t a repayment. This was actually his coveted freedom being granted. Freedom to follow his nature and do what he liked, unbound. The irony was that the idea of it was far more appealing than the actuality.
He became aware of an elbow nudging his side. It was Daniel.
‘It’s time to carry her to the woodland burial area,’ he whispered. ‘This is the two minutes’ silence for the god botherers to pay their respects.’
Was the ceremony over? Had he missed everything?
It was cold in the chapel. It stood centrally in the conventional part of the cemetery, surrounded by monuments and headstones. It looked more like a community centre, but for the arched windows, and was commonly used for both religious and non-religious funerals. No stained glass, thankfully. Tom shivered in his seat.
Four of Tom’s friends had already taken their positions around the coffin, and Daniel took his place at the front. Jenny stood next to her brother, her face wet with tears. Tom squeezed her arm and took his place beside his son, and the undertakers helped the group put the coffin onto their shoulders. Music played, a song Daniel had chosen. It was ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay. The words crept into Tom’s ears, and he began to sob. She had been so slight at the end; it felt as if the coffin was empty. The rest of the congregation followed them, each carrying a white rose, and they slowly wound their way through the cemetery to the archway that led to the woodland burial site.
When they reached Alison’s grave, the sky seemed to darken. Light rain began to fall as the funeral directors showed everyone where to stand. Angela said a few words and directed the bearers to lower the coffin into the grave using the cords they had been given. As the last cord dropped down into the grave, the assembled party began throwing their roses on top of the casket. Angela handed a single red rose to Tom. He kissed it and dropped it on top of the white flowers that completely covered the wicker.
‘Goodbye, my darling,’ he said.
Jenny took one of his hands and Daniel the other, and they gently led him away from the graveside.
Chapter Twelve
Today, Friday
Benny brings a cup of tea and places it in front of Vince, who is still studying the monitors. Robert has been on the warpath since Vince came back from lunch.
‘Not much going on, Benny. Been no movement on either screen for twenty minutes or more. This guy has got to show up on one of the cameras one way or another. He can’t just disappear into thin air.’
Vince takes a sip of the tea without taking his eyes off the screen.
‘Want me to take over?’ says Benny, half-heartedly. ‘I know Robert wants the CCTV closely watched until we see this character.’
‘In a bit, Benny. And he wants our eyes glued to the screens, never mind close watching. If we miss this guy, there’ll be hell to pay. So if you take a stint, no tea, no piss, no fly fags. You’re already in the bad books.’
‘Don’t I know it?’ says Benny. ‘Alright if I have a quick fag now then, Vince? I’ll take over after that.’
Vince looks at his watch. ‘Sure, Benny, take a break. I’ll stay at this until four-thirty. You can take the hour after that. I want to take another scout around the basement, make sure all the door alarms are intact.’
‘We already done that, Vince, but fill your boots, if it makes you happy.’
Benny is already walking to the front doors, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
This is the most boring fucking day that Vince can ever remember. One unusual person seen in the building, no signs of any problem anywhere in the building, yet he has to watch the bloody screens when no other fucker seems to care, Robert included. Maybe he’ll just go through to the back and make himself a cuppa – see what Robert thinks of that. Good for the goose and all that. Vince can’t do that, though. He’s not going to let Robert talk to him like he does to Benny and Carlos. The only person he seems to like is fucking do-no-wrong Nadjib.
Buckingham Court’s lords and ladies swan back and forth on the screens looking oh-so pleased with themselves. Let them try a few days in his one-bedroom in Brixton. See how they like that. Then let them lock horns with his shyster landlord. That’d wipe the self-satisfied grins off their mushes. But hang on! Someone odd has just appeared on the screen showing the feed from the link corridor to the hotel. It isn’t the man that he saw on the earlier feed. This guy is much bigger, with no beard. No tattoo. Looks well out of place here, though. Wait a minute! Those manky sandals. Those skinny bare calves. That’s him! Has to be!
Vince abandons reception and runs to the revolving doors, pushing his way through, causing it to spin faster than it was meant to. He looks left then right, but there is no sign of the man. The Ministry of Defence building gives off its usual sense of foreboding, and he feels sure that the man will have headed away from there and towards Embankment tube, so he begins running in that direction. He arrives quite out of breath and looks despondently into the crowd of people rushing to and fro, many dragging bags on wheels behind them. There is no hope of finding him here, so he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials.
‘Good afternoon, Buckingham C
ourt. Robert speaking. How may I help?’
‘Robert, it’s Vince.’
‘Where the fuck are you, Vince? Two residents were at the desk waiting when I got back, and nobody on the desk. You were supposed to be watching the fucking monitors!’
‘I didn’t get the chance to tell you. I saw the guy leaving the building on the CCTV through the hotel. I gave chase but I lost him, I’m afraid.’
‘Bloody hell! OK, Vince. I rang the Old Bill at Charing Cross when you were out, but they gave me short shrift. Said if there was no evidence of any offence, there was nothing they could do. Basically told me that we’re paid to ensure the building is secure and that I should deal with it internally…’
‘Alright,’ says Vince, frowning. ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’
It seems this guy is long gone, so Vince goes to the little stall opposite the tube station and asks for a cup of coffee. Lighting a cigarette, he takes a long drag while he waits for it to be ready. The taxi rank has several black cabs waiting for customers. Vince sees the driver at the front of the queue is waving at him, and he goes over.
‘My word, Vincent Cooper! Ain’t seen you for donkeys. What you been up to, Vincey-boy?’ says the cab driver.
‘Alright, Alf. Long time no see, pal,’ Vince says, smiling. ‘Same old, same old. Apart from today, that is. Had a suspicious character in my building earlier and saw him leave a few minutes ago. Quite tall, big. Heavy dark trench coat and hat. Way overdressed for this hot weather. Shifty-looking. You didn’t see somebody like that running into the tube, did you?’
‘Nah, mate. Sorry. Been watching the entrance for any punters, but didn’t see anybody like that. Just the usual tourists and work slaves. What’s he been up to? Robbing the flats there?’
‘No, no, Alf, nothing like that. At least not as far as I know. Just didn’t look right, that’s all. I better be heading back, or I’ll have the boss on my case.’
‘OK, mate, well don’t be a stranger. See you at the Dog ’n’ Duck, Sunday? You’ve not been in for ages. Old Bert’s been asking after you.’
‘Yeah, maybe. I’ll see. Better go, mate!’
Vince throws his coffee cup into a bin and starts walking back to work. As he gets closer to the gardens on the river side of Buckingham Court, he notices a lone figure sitting on a bench near the entrance gates.
‘Bloody hell! That’s him.’ Vince pulls his phone from his pocket and begins to dial Robert, but cancels the call before it goes through. He decides to move closer to the man to try and see what he is doing. After all, the police will just brush them off again unless he can find out whether this character is up to no good or not. There is a gap in the fence just behind where the man is sitting. Vince knows this is the way the down-and-outs and drunks get into the gardens when the gates are locked after dusk. He positions himself behind some bushes where he can just about see the man, and, when he hears him speaking, a shudder of dread runs through him.
‘We will drink your blood… 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!’
Vince shudders as he watches the man stand up and throw his phone behind the bench. He crouches down to avoid being seen and watches him walk towards the park gates. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials ‘999’. As he tells the emergency operator what he has overheard, he can see the man crossing Northumberland Avenue towards Embankment tube.
‘Keep your distance,’ the operator says, calmly, ‘but try and keep him in sight if you can. I’ll alert local units and British Transport Police.’
Vince follows the man and sees him walk into the crowds that are milling on the pavement outside the station. He begins to run, hoping to keep him in sight, then realises that he is giving his commentary into dead air – his phone has lost its signal. The man is now waiting in line behind others swiping their passes to get through the turnstiles. Vince pulls at the arm of a uniformed London Transport official near the entrance and points at the man ahead of them.
‘That guy!’ He waves his finger wildly at the man and, in a suppressed shout, ‘Stop him! He’s a fucking terrorist.’
‘Calm down, sir. Please.’
Vince runs towards the man he has been following as he is about to pass through the turnstile, but the guard pulls him back.
‘What’s the problem, sir? What makes you suspect him?’
Vince relates what he has seen and heard in the gardens and watches the expression change on the guard’s face.
‘Come with me,’ the guard says pointing to a door by the ticket kiosks. ‘We have to act fast.’
Vince finds himself in a room full of TV monitors, and he can see hordes of people on the screens, making their way up and down escalators and moving around on platforms.
‘These screens here show the platforms of the lines that operate from this station.’ The guard waves his hand over a bank of monitors. ‘Keep your eyes on these screens and see if you can pick out the guy for me. He’s bound to be down on one of the platforms by now.’
Vince narrows his eyes and tries to make sense of the sea of black and white pixelated bodies in front of him.
‘I’m sorry, mate, it’s gonna be impossible to—’
Vince begins rapping excitedly on the screen that is labelled BAKERLOO LINE, NORTHBOUND. ‘That’s him! I think that’s him, anyway. I’m sure that’s the hat and coat he had on.’
The train is drawing into the station on that platform, and Vince can see that the man is getting on it.
‘OK,’ says the guard, picking up his radio.
Vince can hear him chattering frantically into the mouthpiece as he watches the train pulling out of the station.
‘Suspicious IC1 male heading north… Bakerloo Line… all-stations alert… Transport Police Terrorist Unit…’
Vince looks at his watch. ‘I have to get back to work,’ he says to the guard.
‘Just let me have your details first, sir. Thanks for alerting us to this. Let’s hope it all comes to nothing.’
‘Where’ve you been, Vince? I was nearly sending a search party out for you.’
Robert is standing in front of the porter’s desk, looking stony.
‘It’s a long story, Robert. Let’s go in the back and have a cuppa. I’ve got a lot to tell you. Benny can watch the desk for twenty minutes, can’t he?’
Vince tells Robert all he has seen and heard in the gardens and what happened later in the tube station.
‘The thing is, Robert, and I can’t quite put my finger on why, but there was something very familiar about that guy’s voice. He was saying these frightening words, but the sound of his voice kept reminding me of someone, someone I feel I know, but I just can’t get my brain to fathom it.’
‘How could you know his voice, Vince? I mean, we’ve all seen him on CCTV, and you’ve seen him up close, in the flesh. You’d surely put the voice and the face together and come up with the answer.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ says Vince, ‘that voice didn’t belong to his face, or at least the bits of his face I could see. It was almost like he was imitating somebody I know.’
‘I think your memory is playing tricks on you, that’s all.’
‘No. It’ll come to me. I know it will. I’m going to review all the CCTV footage, if it’s OK with you, Robert. I’m hoping something will click if I watch it again with the voice still in my head…’
Vince sits down in front of the consoles and rewinds the saved footage to four a.m. He watches the grainy figure come into the building via the access door of the hotel. The man, bearded and sinister, enters the service lift and Vince notices that the arrow is pointing down. So he went to the basement level. What could Buckingham Court have to do with someone who is planning a terrorist attack? None of this makes any sense. Vince had searched the basement himself. There had be
en nothing taken or disturbed, as far as he could see.
The time counter is now moving faster with Vince’s increased pressure on the button, and when it gets to 11.10 a.m., he sees the man on the video feed, so he lets it drop back to normal speed. That must’ve been when Mrs Heath pulled him away from the desk. The shady figure appears again, his back to the camera, leaving the same way as he had entered. He is only on camera for a few seconds, and there is nothing about the image that helps Vince connect the voice with the person. He increases the speed of the video again and watches various residents and members of staff moving back and forth, their lives speeded up. Then, at 12.51 p.m., he sees the man again, this time face on, and this time he doesn’t use the service lift. This time, he walks to the stairwell, right beside the porter’s desk, carrying a bulky parcel under his arm. Vince’s eyes widen. The man had walked in right under their noses – no, not his nose, bloody Robert’s nose when he was out for his sandwich – and there, he walks upstairs to the residents’ floors, as if he damn well owns the place.
Vince rewinds the short piece of footage again and again, staring into the eyes of the suspect, hoping they would reveal his identity. He keeps wishing those eyes would tell him who the voice belongs to. The hat and the beard cover most of his features, but surely the eyes would tell the truth. However much he rewinds and pauses, that revelation doesn’t come, and he gives up and continues to fast-forward. Nothing of interest shows up on the screen until he reaches the point of the film that he’d witnessed in real life, which caused him to run out into the street and pursue the man.
Here, the figure is again much larger-looking than the person he’s seen earlier on the security film, and, of course, this man has no beard, no tattoo. However, the scruffy jeans, sandals and bare shins are common to them both. Vince pauses the film again and looks long and hard into the image of the man’s face, and a slow look of realisation creeps over his own face.
