by Fin C Gray
Daniel tried his best to get the target’s head in focus through his sight. When the guttural order came, he pulled his trigger and felt the stock crash into his clavicle. The explosive chaos of the other rifles firing made him flinch, and his ears felt punched and filled with wire wool.
All day, it had been aim, fire, reload, repeat. Daniel’s head throbbed with the echoing thrash of gunfire and the dehydration. Only twice had they been allowed to put down their weapons and have some water. He felt he had shed half his body weight in sweat and fully expected to see a pool of it at his feet. All he saw was bone-dry sand and the shuffling feet of his companions. Waqar was off doing something else, but he didn’t know what, or where. More and more often, he wouldn’t see Waqar for days, and when he did, he was too exhausted to tell him much. And to be honest, Daniel was too exhausted to ask him. None of this was making sense. He longed for home, green fields and normality.
The sun was behind them when the captain told them to hand in the rifles and go back to the camp for the evening. That didn’t mean rest for Daniel or any of the others training for their destinies there. It meant a short break for some food and then hours in a stuffy room watching hours and hours of videos showing Western atrocities against Muslims, just in case there were any lingering doubts about the cause of, and the need for, jihad. Before evening prayers, there would be lectures and talks about the nature of their training, with a constant reminder of the rewards they could expect for their labours.
At night, Daniel always searched for Waqar. He felt safer when he could sleep near him, even within sight of him. But Waqar did not always return at night, and those were the times that he slept in short fitful bursts. This night, after three nights of being away, Waqar was in the sleeping hut, sitting alone on his mat. Daniel almost ran to him.
‘I’ve missed you,’ said Daniel, sitting down on the mat beside his friend. Waqar looked tired and sad.
‘The days have been long,’ he said. ‘I’ve thought about you a lot, Dani.’
‘Why are they making me learn how to shoot, Waqar? When they interviewed me all those times, I told them time and again that I wanted to be a suicide bomber — like you said you wanted to be, like you told me to say. I don’t want to fight in a war, like a soldier.’
‘We have to learn everything, Dani. I already knew how to shoot. That is why I am not doing that with you. You need to know everything that may help you succeed in your task. You won’t have to make the bomb that you will use when your time comes. More than likely, that won’t be your job. But you will have to learn how to do it so that, if whoever is supporting your mission gets captured or killed, you don’t have to abandon the task that is yours. We must all be multi-skilled for this war that we have all agreed to wage.’
‘Why was I made to kill that American?’
‘Because you needed to prove that you are capable of taking life. If you had shirked from that task, then you would have been useless to the jihad. Not only are you being trained here, but you are also answering the tests, showing you are capable. It is important that you follow every instruction to the letter, Dani. You are being watched, even when you think you are not.’
‘OK. What is it that you’ve been doing these last few days?’
‘My time is near. I have been going over every detail of my mission. I will leave here on Friday. We must say goodbye soon.’
Daniel felt his heart pounding in his chest. His throat tightened, and his eyes started to well with tears. Waqar took his hand.
‘Stop, Dani. Control yourself. You knew this was coming. Don’t let anyone see your weakness.’
‘It’s so soon,’ Daniel said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I thought we had many more weeks, months even. I hate being here on my own. I don’t know how I’ll cope when you are gone.’
‘Dani, you’ll cope. You’ll cope because you know it’s the only way to make sure that we will be together. That will help you continue here. It will help you complete the task – whatever it might be – that is given to you.’
Others started coming into the room, and Daniel moved to the mat next to Waqar’s. When the lights went out, he lay looking over at his friend’s shape. As the hours ticked by, he kept his eyes on Waqar, wishing he could join him on his mat and hold him until morning. Occasionally, he whispered his name in the hope that he might still be awake, or have awakened, but Waqar never responded. It was hard to believe that he could fall asleep so readily when he knew what lay ahead of him in such a short time. Maybe he was pretending to be asleep as he had done so often himself.
Thursday started with the usual call to prayer. Daniel had been awake for many hours and was waiting for the familiar tinny warble from the speakers that could be heard echoing from places far away from where he lay. The coldness in the hut had been bitter overnight. Daniel had wanted to roll closer to Waqar and hold him for warmth, if nothing else. It felt even colder as Daniel and Waqar walked together, carrying their prayer mats. On the way, one of the camp elders approached Waqar and spoke to him in hushed tones, in Urdu, looking at Daniel often during the conversation. A growing unease tightened in Daniel’s stomach as he tried to make sense of the words without success.
When the man had gone, they were almost at the makeshift mosque, and Daniel pulled Waqar’s sleeve.
‘Was that about me?’
‘We must go in and pray, Dani. I will tell you after we are finished. Don’t worry.’
Waqar pulled the door open and ushered in Daniel. The place had the smell of thick, bitter sweat. This was no different than any other day, but the smell seemed more cloying and oppressive, in spite of the chill, and the prayers seemed to take much longer. The room seemed more claustrophobic. Everyone had already washed at the well, but nothing could take away this smell. The smell he kept telling himself he had become used to.
When they were kneeling, Daniel could hardly concentrate on the words of the Fajr and ached for it to stop so he could find out what Waqar had heard about him. Waqar was engrossed in the worship, oblivious to Daniel’s attempts to make eye contact. One day left and so little time. This whole thing was like being on a runaway train, with no prospect of getting off even just to catch his breath. What would the next weeks, months, or however long he had left be like? On his own. Alone. No one to talk to.
The prayers took no longer than any other day, but had seemed to extend into hours in Daniel’s mind. His knees ached, his head ached. His back felt as if it had been permanently buckled. As they left the mosque, Daniel moved close to Waqar.
‘Tell me, please.’
‘The commander wants to see us after you have finished instruction for the day,’ said Waqar. ‘I’ll meet you outside the hut when you are finished. I have no training today, as you know.’
‘What does he want? Why does he want to see us together? What—?’
‘Don’t worry, Dani. It will be nothing bad. I guess he will want to tell you what your mission will be. He knows you are not fluent in our language, and his English is not perfect either. I am most likely to be there to help you both understand.’
‘Maybe he wants us to work together. Maybe I can come to Paris with you.’ Daniel started to feel excited, hopeful again.
‘No, my friend. That will not happen. I leave tomorrow. There would be no time for you to learn the mission. It has taken me weeks.’
‘But you can explain everything to me on the journey. There is time. And you won’t be doing it the second you arrive there, will you?’
‘No, Dani. Stop hoping for that. It won’t happen. Of this, I am sure.’
The few seconds of hope were gone almost before they had a chance to form fully, evaporating into the unforgiving air. Daniel felt the familiar blackness reclaiming him, and his shoulders dropped along with his spirits.
‘I wish I could escape the training today,’ he said, eyes fixed on Waqar’s. ‘Then we could spend this last whole day together. The very last day that we will spend together on this earth.’
; ‘These days don’t matter. This is part of your test, and you will bear it because you know what it will bring. You cannot measure time on earth against eternity. That is what we will have.’
August, the second Friday of the month. Daniel’s day of destiny. Now it was fixed. In eight months, on the anniversary of the bombing of some mosque in Afghanistan where the imam and his son had been killed. That had been a Friday too. Daniel would carry out his mission in London. He was to let the British feel the pain of their misdeeds abroad. Best of all, he was to travel back to the UK in a few weeks and lay low until the time came. At least he wouldn’t be stuck in this circle of hell for all that time without Waqar. Just a few more training days and he would travel to Turkey, then to Greece. From there, he would travel by road and rail back to Britain. Now he couldn’t wait for his life to be over so that eternity could begin.
‘I will not see you tomorrow,’ said Waqar. ‘I start my journey before dawn, and I will not sleep in the hut tonight. We must say goodbye soon, my love.’
Daniel felt an echo of warmth course through him. He couldn’t even respond. ‘My love.’ Had Waqar said that? The sadness his friend’s departure would have provoked had been rubbed out by those two words. Daniel could feel a smile blossoming into a grin on his face.
‘What makes you smile so?’ asked Waqar.
‘In four-and-a-half years, I have never heard you say those words. You have made me so happy, Waqar. Today we will part, but I have never felt happier. Thank you, my love.’
Waqar laughed. ‘Did I never? I’m sorry. I felt you knew it, and it did not need to be said out loud. Better to be late than never. Yes?’
‘We can tell each other every day in Jannah. Once, here in this terrible world, will be enough for me, Waqar. You said it once, and that will keep me alive until my time comes. I will smile every time I think of this moment.’
‘I will give you more reason, in that case, and I say it again, my love. And I will say it again when we say goodbye.’
Waqar looked all around himself and pulled Daniel’s arm until they were out of sight behind the sleeping hut. Everyone else had gone in to eat the evening meal. He pulled Daniel close to him and pressed his body against his, kissing him hard on the mouth, pushing his tongue inside. Daniel gripped Waqar’s neck and pushed his groin against his. This awful day had become incredible, and this moment was as close to heaven as he had ever been. He could feel the strength and purpose this intimate truth had given him. It had all happened in an instant, but in moments, truths are revealed. Waqar was his and nothing could change that now. Waqar was his and an eternity of love would be theirs.
Daniel lay awake, not because he was miserable or terrified, but because he was playing back that last conversation, that amazing kiss with Waqar, in his mind, again and again. He closed his eyes tight, trying to remember every detail, every smell, every nuance. As he was reliving the kiss in his mind, he felt warm lips on his. Then a whisper.
‘I leave now, Dani. Goodbye, my love, until soon.’
And he was gone, like a shadow blending into the others, disappearing. ‘Goodbye, my love. Goodbye, Waqar.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Today, Friday
Tom is awakened by a chime from Big Ben. How many have there been? He hears three more tolls of the bell breaking through the hum of traffic on Embankment. He tries to open his eyes, but meets some resistance as they screw up in protest at the sour dryness in his mouth. What? What time is it? The peal of the bells has made the pounding in his head triple in intensity. Four o’clock? Jesus. He yawns deeply, forcing his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth and, as he stretches himself, he slowly becomes aware of a cold, thick wetness on his bare chest and a tight stinging sensation across his throat.
Tentatively, he brings his hands to his upper body and feels a mass of matted fur where his chest hair should be. What the fuck? Now his eyes snap open, and he sits upright and watches a bloody pile of fur and entrails slide off his torso and onto the bed.
‘What?’ His scream is hoarse and broken. His arms stiffen, and his hands tighten into claws. ‘No!’
Tom pushes the congealed mess from his body and throws himself onto the floor, vomiting acidic pink foam in spasms onto the carpet. Retching again and again, unable to prevent the last traces of moisture forcing its way up from his near-empty stomach, he wonders if this is real. The pounding in his head feels real enough, and the burning in his throat is far from dreamlike. There is no way to make sense of what is happening to him as he grabs his glass of water from the bedside table and gulps it all down. An intense metallic stench of stale blood and warm meat hangs in the air. He draws himself upright, only to confront himself with more of what he does not want to see; on the pillow next to his, a pair of dead green eyes stare back from a severed head.
‘Oh, no. No. Please, no. Rufus!’
Tom forces back another dry retch pushing its way up his gullet and presses his blood-soaked hands to his eyes. He refuses to see the bloody sight again. His legs begin to buckle and, lurching for the bedroom door, he falls hard against it, grabbing for the handle. The handle turns, but the door stays closed, so he stands up and twists the knob, pulling as hard as he can. The door is stuck. Did he lock it? He begins to remember turning the key as he went to bed. There is no sign of the key on the floor. Where can it be? He pulls again, kicks the door and begins punching it with all the strength he can summon. Someone has locked the door from the other side. They did this to Rufus then locked him in. Why? Now the memory of Daniel enters his throbbing brain again.
‘Daniel! Daniel. Why?’
Tom looks down at his chest and sees the streaks of blood again. Daniel, why have you done this? Why have you locked me in here? Why are you punishing me like this? What have I ever done? He skirts around the end of the bed, staring away from the mess all over it, and pulls at the handle of the French windows. They open effortlessly, and Tom rushes onto the balcony.
Children run around in front of their parents, enjoying the last few minutes of evening sunshine, while impatient joggers rush past them. Traffic honks and motorcyclists coax their way around cars that are bumpering against one another on Embankment. Save me from this, please! Horns blare and the day is typical in every way; this is Friday; this is Central London.
Tom screams, ‘Help me! For fuck’s sake, help me! Please!’ He doesn’t know why. The world below is oblivious to him, and he can shout and scream as much as he likes without a soul paying him any heed. Maybe the French windows to the dining room or living room are open; he rushes to each and pushes them hard. They are locked tight. There is no trace of his son in either room. Peering through the dining room windows into the dark hallway, he can see the wooden cat lying on its side. Why, Daniel?
He walks back to the open bedroom window, his shoulders hunched, tears streaming through the dried blood on his cheeks. Help me. Will somebody please help me? What have I done? The phone! He rushes inside, trying his utmost to block out everything else in the room and grabs the handset from its cradle, jabbing frantically at the buttons. Fucking contacts list, where are you? He finds it, scrolls down to PORTERS’ DESK and pushes the call button hard. After a few rings, it answers.
‘Good evening, Buckingham Court, Vincent speaking. How may I help?’
‘Vince? Vince? Flat 67 here. Tom McInt—’
Tom can’t prevent himself from bursting into tears. He can hear muffled talk on the other end of the line.
‘Good evening, Mr McIntyre. How are you, si—?’
Tom’s voice is thick with tears and snot. ‘Vince, get up here now! Use the spare key for the front door. Let yourself in. I’m locked in the bedroom and something… Look, just come, will you?’
‘How’s that, sir? How have you managed th—’
‘Shut the fuck up, Vince, and get up here NOW!’
Tom waits, facing the door, unable to look back inside the room. After a few minutes, he hears noise from outside the bedroom door and then Vince�
��s voice calling.
‘I’m here, sir. Gimme a second. I’ll have you out in a jiffy.’
‘I’ve no idea where the bedroom door key is, Vince. Can you force the door?’
‘It’s here on the floor, Mr McIntyre. Don’t worry.’
Tom hears the key being put into the lock. There’s a click, and the door opens slowly.
Vince looks him up and down, clearly trying to hide his disgust. The smell of stale blood and vomit is pervasive. Tom can only stand there, arms hanging limply at his side. It feels surreal to be standing there in his underwear with Vince gaping at him. Vince is looking past him at the bed. He looks horrified.
‘What on earth’s been going on, sir?’ he says.
Tom feels reality grip him again and he grabs Vince’s lapels. ‘Vince, Vince. Have you seen my son?’
‘Young Danny, sir? Erm… not to speak to, as such. Has he been here, in your flat?’
‘I think it was him who locked me in and did this to Rufus.’
He pushes past Vince and runs towards the study. He puts his hand on the doorknob and pauses, turning to look round at Vince who is right behind him.
‘Oh, God. Vince, what am I going to find?’
‘I really don’t think he’s in there, sir. I’ll take a look, if you like.’
Tom stands aside, and Vince pushes the heavy door open and goes inside. The light is still on. Tom can see the backpack in the corner and the dirty mound of silk on the bed. There’s a picture of Alison on the bed too. Vince comes back into the hallway and says, ‘He’s not here, sir.’
Tom lets out a loud sigh of relief. ‘Thank God.’
‘Let’s get you cleaned up, Mr McIntyre. Then I think you better come downstairs with me. I’d like you to look at something on the CCTV.’
