“One day this country will be subservient to us and then you’ll see what is right, Insha’allah.”
“But what if God doesn’t will it, Hamed? Have you thought about that?”
“Of course he does.”
“But what if you’re wrong? What if those men are wrong?”
“We’re not.”
A knock at the door and Hamed stares at her, a warning to stay put and let him answer. She stands at the kitchen door and listens as he leans out of a narrow gap.
“Your work last night went well.”
Bilal! She sighs in exasperation.
“Yes, all went as planned.”
“We’re meeting up as agreed. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“The streets will be filled with their blood, Insha’allah.”
Her stomach swims with nausea as she listens to their plans and her husband’s ready response.
“Insha’allah.”
“One hour. Berkeley Street.”
“Yes.”
The door closes and Hamed returns to the kitchen. Sitting back down at the table without a word, his hand trembles as he spoons in another cold mouthful of last night’s dinner. She remains quiet, her heart beating hard in her chest. Let him think she hadn’t heard. Upstairs the baby cries and Hamed pushes the empty tub across the table and stands.
“She’s hungry,” Nareen says as he leaves the room forcing down the tremble in her voice.
“Then go to her!” he replies with a snarl. “I’m going for a shower.” He catches her gaze as she stares at him and raises his eyebrows in question daring her to challenge him.
“There’s no hot water,” she replies ignoring his taunt although her anger is rising to a point where she won’t be able to hold her tongue. She turns back to the sink and pulls out a bowl for the child’s breakfast. “There’s no power.”
“Then how am I to wash?”
She reaches across to a large bottle of water, the last she’d been able to purchase from the corner shop the morning after the electricity went off, and hands it to him. He takes it with a surly ‘thanks’ and disappears up the stairs. Allysiah gurgles as he walks into their bedroom and Nareen listens with a growing sadness as he talks to the child. His conversation at the door with Bilal won’t leave her mind.
She can think of only one meaning to his statement that ‘the streets will be filled with their blood’. It was typical of the terrorists to attack innocent civilians in the streets. Every time one of the atrocities had been reported from Germany or France and even here, she’d felt an anger she could barely tolerate. That her own husband was planning to kill innocent people with his bare hands made her stomach churn. She sags against the sink in despair, her legs trembling.
She’d discovered Hamed’s involvement in their plot, theirs ‘Days of Fire’ after overhearing him talk to his friend in the living room one evening. His change of behaviour in the previous months had made her suspicious and she’d become wary, listening in to his conversations. The paper-thin walls of the house had made it easy to hear. At first, she’d thought the changes meant he was losing interest in her, had a girlfriend or was taking drugs, but when Hamed had started coming home spouting religious texts and criticising her for wearing clothes he thought were too revealing she’d realised just where his new-found dismissiveness and seething hatred had come from.
Unable to talk to his mother, she’d turned to her parents - the voices of sanity and reason - as her marriage began to disintegrate and her husband grew into an intolerant arsehole.
Expecting their first child, she’d endured his rants and then aggression. Allysiah was born and her loving husband seemed to return. He was calm and gentle, but after only a couple of weeks he’d become sneaky, secretive and intolerable again. Tolerance towards anyone that didn’t believe in his version of the ‘truth’ was non-existent.
At first, checking his phone and laptop had filled her with guilt but that was quickly overridden by a deep and abiding shame however and then terror as she discovered exactly what her husband was doing. The text messages were cryptic and often didn’t make sense, particularly those from unrecognised numbers, but there was enough to understand that he was mixing with dangerous people intent on wreaking havoc. His browsing history was even more illuminating and had made her tremble with rage then fear.
She’d cried for hours and struggled with her conscience when she’d discovered numerous videos of ISIS preachers spewing hate and their followers carrying out atrocities. She hadn’t been able to watch those beyond the first seconds. There were others too, of radicals preaching against the West, teaching their followers that the only truth was Islam and that all other cultures should be obliterated until the entire world was under its shackles. She was shocked to recognise Jasim as one of the most virulent among them encouraging men to take up the holy war against the infidel. He’d sat in her house not more than six months ago drinking her coffee, eating her cakes, laughing with her at Hamed’s terrible jokes. She’d felt betrayed as she watched him pouring out his hate against the country that had given her family refuge. Jasim was one of Hamed’s closest friends, one she really liked, a decent bloke who worked hard and loved his wife, but here he was talking about rising up against the kafir and burning the West to the ground. Her sleep had been fitful since then and she prevaricated between packing her bags and disappearing and reporting them both to the police. She’d been a coward, waited too long, and now they were killing people night after night.
Guilt overwhelms her as she remembers the night the blackout struck. He’d gloated about how God was helping them and slunk out in the night and snuck back in with the breaking dawn. Exhausted, he’d fallen asleep in their bed stinking of petrol and smoke. After the first night, he’d shouted in his dreams and then screamed but the next night was the same and now he was back again stinking of petrol and sweat. She should have reported him when she had the chance. It had been her duty to stop him and she’d shirked it. She shudders as she thinks of how many people must have died already. Their blood was on her hands too.
Allysiah calls out from the bedroom breaking into Nareen’s thoughts and she hurries to pick her up. She’ll feed the baby whilst Hamed is upstairs then talk to him—make him see sense or try to—one last time.
She offers the child a spoon of mashed banana as Hamed returns to the kitchen. Dressed all in black he pushes his fingers through his hair and smiles across at his daughter.
“Is that good?” he croons and strokes the child’s cheek. She babbles in return and slams her spoon onto the plastic tray of the highchair. “Be good for mummy,” he continues and catches Nareen’s eye. She grabs his hand.
“Don’t go.”
He stares at her for a moment then his eyes shift and he pulls his hand away.
“Hamed, for the love of all that is good in this world … for the love of your daughter, don’t go!” She stands as he turns away and walks to the door. “Stay with me. If you love me, stay with me.”
He stops and looks back and a flicker shifts across his eyes as she speaks. Walking to him she takes his hand and pulls it to her cheek. The smell of soap doesn’t disguise the stink of petrol.
“I know you love me, Hamed. Out there its chaos. There’s no food in the shops, there’s no electricity to cook with or heat the water. People are becoming dangerous and I’m frightened of what will happen, Hamed. Please … stay here. You need to be here to help protect our daughter.”
He glances across her shoulder to Allysiah then back to Nareen. He’s wavering. She smiles and slips her arm around his waist and lays her head on his chest aware of the rhythmic beats of his heart. He’s silent although his hand slips behind her back. She’s winning!
A knock at the door. He tenses.
“Don’t answer it.”
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t,” she urges as he turns. “Please, Hamed. I need you. Allysiah needs you.”
Rap! Rap! Rap!
/> She holds him tight but he grips her arms and pushes her away, digging his fingers into her forearms. Arms dropped to her sides, a heavy weight plummets through to her belly as he reaches for the door handle. Without thought, but with full force, she slaps his face. He turns to her stunned. His eyes find hers and flicker with hate. He springs forward. Fingers wrap around her throat and she’s up against the wall. She splutters. Long fingers press hard against her windpipe.
“Bitch!” he spits.
She chokes at the pressure.
Allysiah lets out a low wail. Hamed’s scowl drops and the pressure on Nareen’s windpipe eases. She can breathe again. He grabs his coat from the hook, leaves the house and closes the door without a backward glance.
Nareen strokes at the burning skin of her throat as a bedroom door opens. “Is everything alright?” Hamed’s mother. She looks down from the top of the stairs. “I heard shouting!”
“Yes, Mummy,” she lies. “Everything is alright.” Nothing is right. She should have done something. It’s not too late. She pushes from the wall and smiles up to her mother-in-law. “I have to go out, Mummy. Can I leave Allysiah with you for an hour or so?” Berkeley Street. That must be where they were going to meet. She has to do something. She can’t let him murder more people.
“Of course,” her mother-in-law replies with a happy lilt though she gives Nareen a worried frown.
Back to the kitchen Nareen lifts her daughter from the high chair.
“I love my little poppet, don’t I,” her mother-in-law croons stroking the child’s hair. “Here, give her to me.” She holds out her arms to the child with a smile. “Go and get yourself ready. We’ll have a fun time playing this morning won’t we.”
Relieved at her kindness, and her sensitivity, she leans to the older woman and kisses her cheek. If she knew what Hamed was doing it would destroy her.
“Thank you. I’ll try not to be long,” Nareen smiles and hands the child over.
“Be careful out there, Nareen.”
Strokes of grey hair sparkle in the sunlight flooding through the kitchen window as hugs the baby to her chest. “There are so many evil people in the world these days.”
“Yes, Mummy, there are.”
Chapter 6
A sickening lump swirls in Jessie’s belly as she runs down the road putting as much distance between herself and the police station as she can manage. Grey light fills the streets as morning breaks across the city. A Starbucks sign catches her attention and she determines to run to that point before slowing down. As she jogs, the rucksack knocking rhythmically against her back, a couple step into the road ahead. The woman looks ridiculously tiny next to the man and Jessie can’t decide whether he is just extremely broad and tall or the woman unusually petite. Running closer, she realises that he’s huge, and that he’s carrying something. Over his shoulder the long and curling white-blonde hair of a child spreads across his back. The sight of a couple walking along the street with a child at this time in the morning is unusual and Jessie can’t help but stare at them as she passes.
The man is broad-shouldered with a shock of white-blond hair. His face is tanned, his nose straight, his eyes a piercing blue rimmed by dark lashes. The child appears to be his clone though her features are petite like her mother’s. The woman catches Jessie’s eye as she passes and smiles, her face has an unusual grey pallor, darker around her nose and top lip. The stench of smoke is strong. Looking back, she realises the woman’s face is covered by a fine layer of soot and the child is barefoot. They must have been in one of the fires. As the distance between them grows, Jessie wants to turn back and offer help but realistically what can she do? Nothing! And anyway, the man looked as though he knew what he was doing. He had that aura of confidence about him—he’d take care of them.
“Shall we stop for a minute,” Jessie suggests to Alex as they approach the coffee shop.
“Yep,” Alex returns. “But just a minute though, Jess. We’ve got a hell of a way to go today and I don’t want to worry you, but the police could be on our tails.”
“Ugh,” she groans as her belly clenches. “You reckon?”
“Well, they wanted to arrest you on the spot.”
“Yeah, but they’re undermanned. I should say I’m the least of their worries.”
Anger brews close beneath the surface as she remembers the scene at the Police Station—how could they be so blinkered—so hidebound by rules? The country was at the mercy of a terrorist militia and they wanted to shoot the messenger! A cold sweat washes over her and she stares out at the skyline to the plumes of black smoke rising into the sky. Whatever she’d done in that basement had been justified. There had been no other option than to put those men out of action—permanently. She had no qualms about killing them. They were intent on killing innocent people. How many lives had she saved by killing two deluded and dangerous criminals? Hundreds, perhaps thousands. “Well, they’ll have to wait,” she responds. There was no way she’d let them take her in. “They’ll have to catch me first. We’ve got a head start and unless they’ve got cars that are fitted with emp protection then they’re not going anywhere fast.”
“Neither are we,” Alex’s reply is dour. “How far is Bramwell?”
“More than two hundred miles.”
“No way I’m walking that far. We’ll have to find some wheels.”
“Agreed,” she says with hands on hips, digging her nails into the flesh of her side as her chest tightens.
“Come on.” Alex catches his breath. “We’ve stopped long enough. That couple will be catching us up in a minute if we don’t get a move on.”
Jessie looks back at the family before turning once more to run; they could be refugees fleeing a warzone.
The road ahead is blocked by an overturned lorry smashed into the rows of cars parked either side and they take a right onto the next street. A scene of horror greets them. The air is thick with the acrid stench of smoke as it billows from the windows of a wide building with multiple storeys. The road is teeming with people. Something odd lays in the road and it takes Jessie a moment to realise that it is a tangle of bodies pooled with blood. A man sits moaning, his hands, raw with burns, rest on his knees.
On the far-side of the road a woman leans against the window of a shop, patches of red are visible through her hair, the skin is tinged black. A man, a bucket at his feet is squeezing out a cloth. She makes no effort to move as he places the cloth on her head. Small groups stare up at the building and a young woman, tightly curled black hair scraped back into a severe ponytail stands in pink leggings and a t-shirt proclaiming ‘Sweet dreams’. Two children, hair dishevelled, shivering in pyjamas, hug to her sides. Barefoot she clings to them, her eyes red with tears. As Jessie passes, the boy lets out a low wail and the woman kneels and pulls him to her.
Further along the road a large crowd has gathered. Turned away from the building they’re listening to a broad-chested man with greying temples and a sandy-coloured beard that moves rhythmically as he speaks. His brow is furrowed in anger.
“They’re burning us in our beds!” he shouts across to the crowd. “This fire,” he says jabbing his fingers at the building, “is deliberate. All across the city, since the blackout, buildings have been torched.” A disgruntled rumbling sounds across the group.
“George said he saw them,” a woman calls out. Heads turn as she continues to speak. “He said he saw a gang of men running out of Overton Court the night before last. He didn’t recognise them. They were all in black and stank of petrol. He said they were laughing as they ran and then the building started to burn.”
“Did he report it?”
“Yeah, he did. He ran to the fire station …”
The rest of her reply is lost to Jessie as the rumble of voices rises.
“Last night I watched the fires burn across the city. It’s no coincidence. The towns are burning too,” the man shouts out again. “It’s time to take a stand …”
“… burnt to the
ground …”
“… can’t get hold of her mum … at least fifty missing ...”
“… student flats—all burnt out …”
“It’s time we did something about it,” the bearded man calls across the noise. “Where are the police? Where are the army? Where are the firefighters?”
“Not here!” a voice shouts in reply.
“Exactly! They’re spread too thin. The blackout has put them out of action.”
“Bloody government cutbacks!”
“Shame!”
“Maybe they’re in another part of the city?”
“They’re not here. There’s no one to protect us!”
“You’re right,” he says looking around at the group. “There is no one to protect us.” He pauses and stares out across the growing crowd. “And if they can’t protect us, we’ll have to protect ourselves.”
A murmur of agreement spreads through the people.
“It’s the government’s fault—letting all the immigrants in.”
“It’s foreign policy.”
“It doesn’t matter why it’s happening,” he shouts back. “The truth is they’re here and they’re trying to kill us.”
A rumble of voices.
“If the police aren’t going to stop them, then we’ll have to.”
“Exactly!”
A scream. The crowd turns in confusion.
“Up there!” a woman shouts and stabs up to the sky with her hand. The pink roses of her nightdress move with her jabbing hand as her dressing gown gapes.
Jessie follows the woman’s pointing finger.
“No!”
Silence falls over the crowd and people move backwards from the building. A figure leans out of a top floor window. A collective murmur erupts as the figure swings its legs over the sill.
“Stop!”
Jessie stares as bare feet dangle against the concrete façade then push against the building. Unable to watch, Jessie turns and closes her eyes. The sight of someone flailing through the air from a fifteenth-storey window is not something she can stomach. She waits.
Nights of Fire: An EMP Survival Thriller (Blackout & Burn Book 2) Page 4
