No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  As it turned out, the door closed with a mere squeak, and afterwards Jacob wrapped the chain around the bars and levers with as much care as Maria had uncoiled it. He clicked the padlock closed, then cursed silently to himself. He had forgotten to ask Maria where she’d found the key ring, so he decided to leave the key in the lock. It wasn’t a bad idea anyway, as it would aid a quick getaway if needed.

  He inched his way along the walls, keeping to the shadows and carefully placing each step softly on the freshly swept floor. He stopped at the foot of the ladder and studied the man slumped in the chair. He was old, or at least he was frail, and it was clear from his haggard features and creased face that he wasn’t well. Why was he involved in setting up a new food business in his condition, and in this run-down lock-up beneath the arches of all places? It seemed an odd choice. It wasn’t exactly clean or hygienic.

  The next train rumbled overhead, and Jacob took his chance. He climbed the ladder, settled into a corner away from the hatch, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the inky darkness. It wasn’t as comfortable as the Refuge’s bed, although thankfully he found it no more painful to sit upright than to lie down. This will be just fine.

  He sat in the black, bottle in hand, and felt a faint breeze with each passing train. After the fire in his throat had subsided, the whisky started to work its magic, and he felt almost human again.

  ***

  Michael was in a quandary. After prising himself away from Jenny, he had spent the last half-hour rehearsing aloud his story for Orla. But the more he practised the words, the hollower they sounded, and he was convinced that she would see through his tale. She was smart and she wouldn’t be fooled as easily as James and Jenny. Why had he lied to her about why he had been late the night before? She would now realise that his explanation for his dirty clothes was untrue and, with her suspicions raised, she might refuse his request. This could get ugly.

  He paced back and forth, weighing up his options. Either he could find a way to coerce her, or he would have to come clean about his deceit and throw himself upon her mercy. He knew which route he preferred, but it was no good; he had hardly any leverage and almost no time to think of an alternative. With a shake of his head, he concluded that his best chance lay in a quality he barely possessed. Honesty. Well, up to a point.

  When Orla arrived home, she kicked off her shoes and flopped onto the sofa.

  ‘Phew, I’m whacked,’ she said. ‘Give me a few minutes and then I’ll fix dinner. Can you pop the kettle on please?’

  ‘Sure. How was your day?’

  ‘Busy, but it’s over now, thank goodness. How about you? Did you get to see that Bill chap?’

  ‘Yeah, all sorted.’ Michael thought back to his conversation with Bill and the cash he’d paid. ‘I can be pretty persuasive, and I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble from him.’

  ‘Really? Jacob said he was a pretty horrid character. Oh well, typical playground bully I suppose, only brave when someone can’t fight back.’

  Orla closed her eyes for a few seconds before looking up at Michael. ‘So, what happened to that job you had? I’m a bit surprised you’re home, as I thought you might have to go back to it tonight.’

  Michael took a deep breath. ‘Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. The thing is, you see... I have a confession to make.’

  Orla blanched at Michael’s words and sat up. She had sensed that Michael was up to something and here it was, about to be revealed. Wild thoughts suddenly overwhelmed her. Was he seeing someone, having an affair? Was he leaving? Did he have a clandestine life she didn’t know about?

  ‘I lied to you about the job. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t know what else to say.’ Michael recited the words he had practised. ‘I was helping an old friend who’s in a spot of bother, and I was embarrassed to tell you.’

  Michael saw the colour return to Orla’s face at the mention of helping a friend, and he was encouraged. Orla had always been a soft touch for a sob story and this was going to be easier than he’d thought. It would do no harm to stress the good cause he was supporting or to exaggerate his act of humility. Orla was bound to be more sympathetic to his final request if she thought he was genuinely sorry.

  ‘My friend, he needed help organising a charitable event, and I couldn’t turn him down. I spent most of yesterday and last night helping him clean up a store room, ahead of the event, and in fact I’m going back to help him again tonight with the final arrangements. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Oh Michael, why would I mind? And why didn’t you tell me the truth? Jesus, for a minute there, I thought you were going to tell me you were seeing someone else.’

  Michael laughed, more in relief that Orla had swallowed his story than that she’d dismissed thoughts of his infidelity. What did that matter now anyway, as he’d had his last time with Jenny? Buoyed by the unexpected ease with which his tale had been accepted, he decided it was time to move in for the kill.

  ‘The thing is, Orla, I need to ask you a favour, for my friend.’

  For the third time that day, Michael related the lie about his friend being let down last minute and needing help at Liverpool Street. When he’d finished, he smiled expectantly at Orla.

  Despite her initial relief at Michael’s revelation, Orla was suspicious. He had initially described the event as charitable, but it now appeared to be more commercial in nature, promoting a new product. Something wasn’t right. Why was it so last minute, and why had Michael hidden the nature of his involvement? Not that it mattered anyway, as she couldn’t do it. She had other priorities.

  ‘No, I can’t help Michael. You know I’ll be at the Refuge in the morning and, to be honest, I think my work there is a bit more charitable than your friend’s business. I’m sorry, that has to come first. You know how important the shelter is to me.’

  ‘And this is important to me.’ Michael’s voice rose, despite his effort to remain calm. ‘It’s one morning, only a couple of hours, and the Refuge will survive without you. Oh, come on, I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘Really, and how can you do that? You’re asking me to let the Refuge down last minute, and the other volunteers will have to cover for me. It’s not fair on them, or the people I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Fair? You already do a huge amount for them, for no money, and I’m asking for one favour. Is that fair?’ Michael knew that he sounded churlish, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘You seem to think more about this Jacob guy than you do of me.’

  He glared at Orla, all pretence of charity and charm gone, and they both fell silent. Michael wondered whether he should reveal that Maria had been drafted, possibly hinting that he could make life difficult for her should Orla not cooperate. But that was a dangerous tactic. Orla might tip off Maria if he told her she was involved, and they couldn’t afford to lose Maria at this stage. But what else could he do?

  A heavy silence settled over them, suffocating as it dragged on, but eventually Orla spoke. ‘Look Michael, I’m not happy about this, but maybe I can do it. I could call in at the Refuge first, work for an hour or so and still get to Liverpool Street by seven o’clock. I’ll tell Ginger that I’ve had a last-minute problem and he’ll understand. But this is a one-off, OK?’

  ‘Thanks Orla, that’s great,’ Michael said, triumphant that his plan was all coming together. For a moment he’d had his doubts, but as usual Orla had found a compromise to avoid conflict, only this time her sacrifice would cost her more than she imagined. ‘I’ll make it up to you, honest.’

  ‘Yes, you will. And you’ll start by making dinner, while I have a bath. And don’t get any ideas, I’m locking the door.’

  17

  Paddy awoke with a start to a loud rap on the door, followed by the bellow of a powerful voice. His head jerked up at the sudden din, and his wide eyes darted all around the lock-up, disorientated, until he found himself staring at Michael’s scornful face, just inches from his own.

  �
��C’mon, wake up sleepyhead, we have a delivery!’

  A tall, muscular man had followed Michael through the door. He was huge, and Paddy guessed he spent much of his time in the gym.

  ‘You’ve been asleep for ages. When I got back earlier you were dead to the world, but now it’s time to get to work. Our man here has come bearing gifts,’ Michael said, indicating the colossus at the door. ‘We’ll bring them in and then he’ll be on his way.’

  Up above the three men, roused by the sound of voices below, Jacob set his bottle to one side. He inched forward to the opening, careful to stay in the shadows and away from the edge to avoid disturbing any dust or debris. After a tedious couple of hours, at least it was something different to look at from the blackness of his secret hideaway.

  The first items off the van were two three-wheeled ice cream carts, each with a pair of bicycle-sized wheels at one end and a smaller supporting wheel at the other. A canopy above each cart was painted with vivid white and emerald stripes, clearly designed to stand out in a crowd, and the carts themselves were a gleaming white, with the words ‘Blarney Yoghurts’ written on the sides in large green letters. The top of each cart had two sliding lids that covered the food compartment. The carts were wheeled into the lock-up and positioned side-by-side against one wall, and half a dozen T-shirts in the same green colour were placed on top of them.

  The courier carried two portable air conditioning units into the lock-up and Michael shook his head. ‘Damn Paddy, I hoped you’d been joking about that. It’s going to be a chilly night in here.’

  Next into the lock-up was the main cargo; hundreds of snack-sized, miniature yoghurt pots arranged in trays and wrapped in polythene. The courier set the trolley to rest and started transferring the trays to the recently-cleaned worktops, obscured from Jacob’s view by a shelving unit. But then he stopped. He looked puzzled and turned to Paddy. ‘That’s odd. These don’t have any labels on them, only the flavour on the lids. Is that what you were expecting?’

  ‘Oh, that’s OK, we know what to do with them. I assume you have a few other boxes for us,’ Paddy said. ‘They will contain everything we need.’

  When the final boxes were brought in, Paddy opened them and inspected the contents. He nodded to the deliveryman. ‘Yes, that’s the lot.’

  ‘Good. OK, you know the drill, everything goes back in the van and nothing will be left here. Don’t forget the trolley and rubbish.’ The courier handed the keys of the van to Michael. ‘Right, that’s it, my ride is round the corner, so I’ll leave you to it. Good luck guys.’

  He shook hands with Michael and Paddy, and without a further word he disappeared into the night.

  Jacob receded into the shadows and sat back against the wall. He took a swig of whisky and considered the scene he had witnessed. Something about the manner of the men had reminded him of the Army, although he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it was their military efficiency, or maybe their Irish accents simply took him back to his time in Northern Ireland. Just as likely, he considered, as he peered into the yawning void of his hiding place, he was jumping at shadows, as he often did in the dark with a bottle in his hand.

  Once the deliveryman had departed, Paddy plugged in the two air conditioning units, one on either side of the lock-up, then sent Michael to buy dinner from the High Street. He felt refreshed after his sleep and rejuvenated by the arrival of the deadly consignment, the buzz of the imminent mission proving far more potent than any medicine.

  He closed the door behind Michael and unwrapped the first tray of yoghurts. He then removed from the boxes the various tools and equipment they would use to modify the snacks and laid them out on the worktop next to the latex gloves and masks. They had all they needed to transform them into Blarney Yoghurts, and he smiled at the name the Brethren had chosen.

  Paddy picked up his phone and sent a simple message:

  Everything arrived, all set for the morning.

  Paddy knew that he’d receive no acknowledgement. None was needed. With just seven words, he had confirmed that the strike would take place in only a few hours’ time. He may not live long enough to see how it all panned out afterwards, but he didn’t need to see it to know that London would never be the same again. This would change everything.

  He heard footsteps outside and put away his phone. Michael stepped through the door with a carrier bag in one hand and two cups of tea in the other. When the smell of the pie and chips reached him, Paddy realised how ravenous he was, and he took his meal to the back of the lock-up, away from the cooling atmosphere of the air conditioning units.

  ‘Good idea,’ Michael said, following his partner. He raised his eyebrows at the array of equipment laid out for their night’s work, but said nothing. He tucked into his chips and the two men ate in silence.

  ‘Right, let’s get to work,’ Paddy said after they’d finished their supper, and he beckoned Michael to the worktops.

  ‘The Brethren talked me through this and it sounds easy enough, but let’s go through it together. There are hundreds of these pots, so it’s going to be boring, but we can’t afford to be careless.’

  Paddy glanced at Michael, who was studying the items with a bemused expression, as if not knowing what to do. Paddy pre-empted his questions by grabbing a pair of the gloves and one of the masks.

  ‘There are a couple of things I need to show you, so I’ll start on the first tray. You can watch me and then we can split the rest between us.’

  Paddy demonstrated the process to Michael and explained each step in turn. Within a few minutes, he had completed the first row of yoghurts on the tray, their new labels and lids in place and the old tops discarded to one side. When he had finished, he looked at Michael. ‘Any questions?’

  Paddy watched his comrade shake his head then slowly lift his gaze. Michael’s bewilderment had gone and he stared at Paddy with undisguised glee.

  ‘Wow, this is amazing. I had no idea. When did you know about all this?’

  ‘Only when the Brethren described it to me a few days ago, and they told me to show you rather than tell you in advance. It’s clever isn’t it?’

  ‘You bet it is,’ Michael said with an air of satanic rapture. ‘Just imagine how you’d feel if you ate one of these… you enjoy a free snack, escape the blast, then you find out later from the news how close you were to death.’

  ‘And you’d been warned,’ Paddy said, holding up a yoghurt and reading the label aloud. ‘An explosion of flavour, a taste of Irish culture.’

  ‘Ha, that could really mess with your head afterwards.’ Michael laughed. ‘I guess it’s what they meant when they said they wanted to send a message to the people of London.’

  Paddy did some quick sums in his head. ‘Judging from that row, I think it will take us three or four hours to do all of these yoghurts, so if you don’t have any questions, we better get cracking. You’ll still have enough time to wire up the explosives, which we’ll do last as usual.’

  The two men set to work. They split the different flavours between them and, as each tray was finished, they stacked them on the shelves next to one of the air conditioning units to keep them cool.

  Jacob’s curiosity had been piqued by the increase in activity below. However, from his partially obstructed vantage point, he couldn’t see what the two men were doing, nor could he hear their conversation over the sound of the air conditioning units. But his interest waned when he saw the results of their labour, the growing stack of yoghurts now bearing bright green labels. He was impressed with their standards of hygiene, seeing their gloves and masks whenever they emerged into view, but there was little of interest to keep him away from his whisky. He grabbed his bottle, returned to his spot against the wall, and after a few more gulps he drifted off to sleep.

  After about an hour’s work, Michael and Paddy retreated to the back of the lock-up for a cigarette break. Michael wandered around the dingy space and his gaze fell upon the back door.

  ‘Hey, Paddy, have you used
this door at all? There’s a key in the padlock, and I don’t remember seeing it there before.’

  ‘No, not me.’ He joined Michael at the door. ‘No one’s been in here this afternoon, other than Maria. But she didn’t use this door. The key must have been in there all along.’

  ‘OK, if you’re sure. It must be my memory playing tricks. But we shouldn’t leave the keys lying around,’ Michael said. He took the key from the lock and slipped the key ring into his pocket. ‘No one’s going to need this door anyway.’

  ‘Right, back to work, no rest for the wicked,’ Paddy said, with a sly grin.

  ***

  They were nearly there and it felt good.

  Donovan had watched the delivery from her room. She’d seen the courier walk away, followed a short time later by Michael, but she maintained her vigil, one hand on the curtain, watching, waiting. She needed to be sure. Only when Paddy’s message arrived did she relax and breathe more freely, and she felt a huge burden fall from her shoulders when she stepped away from the window.

  She had been concerned about the operation for a while, especially when Michael had recruited that girl to help them out with the cleaning. But everything was back on track and, as it turned out, he had made the right decision, as that young woman was now part of a grander plan. She would die in the morning, after helping them deliver the lethal cargo, and no one else knew they were here.

  Donovan planned to stay until the two men left the lock-up in the morning and then her job would be done. She wouldn’t follow them to Liverpool Street, not because she feared being recognised or caught, but because she wanted to be as far away from those carts as possible when the bomb went off. That was the beauty of City Airport. She could be on a plane within minutes of leaving Shoreditch, and with a bit of luck she would see the pall of smoke from the air, carrying death and destruction on the City breeze. What a sight that will be.