by Greg Elswood
He was here, it was actually happening, and all he had to do was choose the right moment. For cyber mayhem.
***
Pitch black.
The moment Michael closed the door, all light was extinguished from the lock-up, and to Jacob it felt darker and more suffocating than the deepest coal mine. He forced himself to wait until his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light, even though every second was a lost opportunity to stop an atrocity of devastating proportions. Slowly, a gossamer-thin filament of light appeared under the lock-up’s door, giving Jacob a tiny beacon to reach the exit, and with it a flicker of hope that he could stop the terrorists.
On his hands and knees, he inched forward and felt for the opening, then climbed down the ladder. From hours of studying the activity below, he had memorised the position of the tables and shelves, and with only the feeble light below the door to guide him, with arms outstretched he navigated his way across the space. Almost there, he collided with one of the shelf units and pain shot through his injured chest, but then his hands touched the switch on the wall. He shielded his eyes as the lights blinked awake.
Jacob hurried to the back door. Relieved that he’d had the presence of mind to leave the keys in the padlock the previous evening, he should be out of the lock-up in no time. But expectation turned to frustration when he saw the empty lock, and then to despair when the keys were nowhere to be seen. He yanked at the padlock but it wouldn’t release, and he rattled the bars as hard as he could.
‘Get me out of here!’ he shouted. ‘Can anyone hear me out there?’
Jacob kicked the doors then shoulder-charged them with as much force as his injured chest allowed, and raised a din for several minutes, but the doors were unyielding and no one responded on the other side. This narrow side road was too distant from the High Street to be heard over the morning traffic, and Jacob imagined it would be deserted this time of the morning.
Jacob searched the lock-up for tools, anything that might enable him to break the chain, open the doors or remove them from their hinges. He tried using an old wrench to prise the steel bars away from the doors so that he could slide off the chains, but they held firm. It was no good, the back doors were too strong, even after all those years of neglect.
He darted to the front doors to see if they were any easier to open, but as soon as he got there he realised they were solid, locked and bolted from the outside. He punched them in anger. Even if he could raise someone’s attention, they would still have the same problem; the doors seemed unbreakable. He slumped back against them, panting from his exertions, and tried to contain his rising panic. His hope of raising the alarm was ebbing away.
He looked upwards. Then it hit him. There might be a way out, just maybe.
He ran for the ladder and scrambled up, dismissing the pain in his ribs. What a fool he had been, the answer had been there all along. The railway track. Jacob recalled the faint breeze he had felt every time a train passed overhead, and he tore at the boxes piled in the corner. He uncovered two holes in the wall about two feet apart, each of them scarcely large enough for a small child to squeeze through, yet alone Jacob.
There was only one thing for it. He drove his boot at the edges of the holes, each kick jarring his ankles and knees. After a few furious blows Jacob was breathing hard and sweat broke out on his forehead, but he could feel some of the bricks starting to loosen and he kept going. A couple broke away. He sensed the weakness caused by years of decay and vibration from the trains, and he knew he was almost there. He aimed a final venomous kick at the wall and the remaining section between the two holes caved in.
Jacob peered through the new opening and, through the billowing dust, he spotted a faint glow of light to his left. With renewed hope, he squeezed through the gap.
He emerged into a narrow space between two tall brick walls. Judging from the countless cobwebs and vile odour of rats and excrement, this ancient passage hadn’t been used for decades, and even to a man used to living on the streets, the smell was putrid and festering. But Jacob had no time for such sensibilities and he headed for the glimmer.
The light emanated from a hole above one side of the passageway, where the top of the wall had collapsed and sections of brickwork littered the floor. The passage was still passable, but when he looked up Jacob saw that the avalanche provided the perfect escape route. He pushed as much of the rubble against the wall as he could, and although bricks slipped from under him, he clambered up the rubble and surfaced between the two railway tracks. He gulped the cool breeze, the Shoreditch air providing blessed relief from the fetid atmosphere below.
Jacob looked both ways and dashed across to the side of the elevated track, hunting for a way down to the ground. Sheer drops of over twenty feet stretched in both directions. With no time to lose, he turned south, in the direction of Liverpool Street, and jogged as fast as the uneven ground would allow. He looked over the edge at regular intervals, and on reaching a spot where the track crossed a road below, Jacob saw a pitched roof above a single-storey building, erected against the side of the viaduct. Jacob could see no other way down and he was running out of time, so had to give it a go. He straddled the wall, gripped the top bricks and lowered himself as far down the wall as he could. He clung on and looked down at the roof below, braced himself, then let go.
Jacob’s ankles buckled on impact. The angle of the roof and his momentum pitched him backwards, head first down the roof. He dug his fingers into the tiles but, although he slowed, he could not prevent himself from tumbling over the guttering and onto the tarmac below. He landed on his side, his right hip and leg taking the brunt of the impact with a sickening thud.
He lay still and groaned. He made no attempt to raise himself just yet, while he tried to assess the damage, although a voice inside implored him to get going again.
He heard a door slam and a blurred figure appeared in front of him. ‘My God, mate, are you OK?’
Jacob felt a hand on his shoulder and he rolled over. His vision cleared and he saw a young, shaven-headed man looking down at him. ‘Call the police,’ Jacob said between gritted teeth.
‘Police? I don’t think so, you need an ambulance mate.’
‘No, the police. There’s going to be a bomb, at Liverpool Street.’
‘What? You’re talking gibberish. You must have bumped your head when you fell. Just lie there and I’ll get an ambulance for you.’
Jacob summoned all his strength and grabbed the man by his jacket collar. ‘No, the police, there’s a bomb, I saw it.’
‘Look, you’re babbling nonsense.’ The man shook his head. ‘Let me help you up, mate, and then you can calm down. We don’t need the cops around here.’
Jacob’s head span again as he got up, and he clung to the man until he was leaning against the wall. ‘Thanks, but we really need the police.’
‘No way, sorry, you’ll have to call them yourself.’
Jacob studied the man’s expression and saw that he wasn’t going to help, no matter how much he asked. His steadfast refusal was etched in his face and Jacob wondered what he was hiding. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to let Jacob use his phone, and he’d have to find another way. In a fitter and stronger condition, he’d have been able to force him, but in his current state he had no chance.
He steadied himself and stepped away from the wall. Everything hurt, and the pain in his knee was agonising, but to his amazement, other than the rib he had already injured, nothing else appeared to be broken. Jacob lurched forward and broke into a limping half-jog along the deserted backstreet, longing to find someone with a phone or an open shop or office from which to raise the alarm.
At Curtain Road there were no open businesses or stores. The street resembled a long gallery, with layers of graffiti scribbled on boarded-up buildings earmarked for demolition or redevelopment. He couldn’t have chosen a more derelict street. However, the sight of the criss-crossed girders of Broadgate Tower on the horizon renewed Jacob’s spirits,
as it meant he was edging closer to Liverpool Street, and he increased his pace.
He called and waved to two cyclists as they approached, then stepped into the road to try to stop them, but they swerved round him and shouted insults in return. Exhausted, breathless, Jacob bent over with his hands on his knees. Then he saw it: his salvation. He raced over to the woman and grabbed the Boris Bike out of her grasp.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ The woman flailed for the bicycle but Jacob batted away her hands.
‘Get away from me,’ Jacob said through clenched teeth and glowered at the woman. She took a step back in fear as she realised she had more to lose than a bike she didn’t own. The thought struck Jacob at the same time.
‘Give me your phone.’ Jacob stepped towards the woman and held out his hand. ‘Now!’
The woman flinched and sprang back, ashen-faced, then span on the spot and fled. He knew it was pointless chasing her, as by the time he’d caught the woman, taken her phone and forced its code out of her, he could have reached his destination. He turned and threw his leg over the saddle. Intense pain shot all the way up his right side, but he pedalled as hard as he could. He would be there in a few minutes.
At the busy crossing on Great Eastern Street, Jacob barely noticed the traffic lights and he careered across the yellow box on the tarmac. Horns blared and curses filled the air, yet miraculously he managed to weave through the traffic. He heard a squeal of brakes and the sound of shattering glass, but he didn’t look back.
Jacob disobeyed the no entry signs and rode against the flow of oncoming traffic. He flung his weight to the right, mounted the payment and turned into Luke Street, again ignoring the no entry sign and profanities aimed his way. Seconds later he slid to a halt outside the Refuge, dropped the bike on the street outside and charged through the entrance.
‘Call the police, quick,’ he shouted to an elderly woman he didn’t recognise at the reception desk.
‘What—’ was all she managed to say. She recoiled and pushed back her chair, her face contorted with fear at this startling, violent apparition.
‘The police, now. There’s a bomb, at Liverpool Street. We must stop them.’
The sudden commotion brought Ginger out of his office. He rushed forward. ‘Jacob, whatever is the matter? What’s this about a bomb?’
‘Call the police, tell them there’s a bomb at Liverpool Street. It could go off any minute.’ Then, as if he hadn’t already provided enough motivation, he said, ‘And they’ve got Maria. She’s with those bastards.’
Ginger blanched, but he picked up the phone and dialled 999. He stared back at Jacob with a look of fear and anguish, then shivered when a further devastating realisation struck him.
‘My God, I think they’ve got Orla too. She left a few minutes ago.’
Jacob reeled at the revelation, but his years of combat experience and training sent him into overdrive, and he recalled information he wasn’t even aware he’d absorbed.
‘Tell them about Orla and Maria, and ask for Harry Saunders,’ he said as he backed towards the door. ‘Tell Harry to meet me at the station, he’ll recognise me. And tell them it’s in the yoghurts, they must get everyone away from the yoghurts.’
Ginger was talking to the police operator, relaying the messages whilst trying to listen to Jacob. ‘What’s that about yoghurts? Jacob?’
But Jacob had gone. He jumped onto the bike and he rode, hard. Deep inside, he had known he would be there at the end as soon as he’d seen the explosives at the lock-up. All he could think of now was saving Orla and Maria; not the mass of faceless, nameless innocents on their way to Liverpool Street, but these two women. For Selma and Leila, he must save them.
Endorphins surged through his veins, numbing his pain and suffering. Jacob knew it was temporary and that he’d pay for it later.
If he survived.
Deliverance
The station stirred as the first trains of the day spilled their bleary-eyed travellers onto the platforms beneath the vast gothic cathedral of iron and glass.
Morning worshippers made their daily pilgrimage to the City altar, in search of fortune and glory, and today these early-risers would be well rewarded. With their lives. They wandered across the concourse ahead of the morning rush, blissfully unaware of the approaching evil, and only later in the day would they discover that, in the very places they now trod, others would pay the ultimate sacrifice for their devotion.
The commuters stepped out into the cool, crisp, early morning sunshine. There was no sign of the storm clouds that gathered around Liverpool Street, the two weather fronts that hurtled towards them on a collision course, or the raging tempest that would follow. It seemed just like any other day.
19
They arrived with plenty of time to spare, courtesy of lighter-than-expected traffic. Michael sat at a red light on Bishopsgate, waiting to turn into Primrose Street rather than the opposite way into their original target of Spitalfields, and he smiled at the irony that strike days were intended to make travel harder, yet had in practice eased their journey to much bigger prey. He couldn’t remember ever being thankful for the trade unions, until today.
The van crossed the tracks and circled Broadgate before Michael pulled up at the pedestrian crossing in Eldon Street, where James stood on the pavement waiting for them. He beamed at Maria when she stepped from the van, and then helped Paddy unload the carts.
‘You guys get everything out, and I’ll go find the man with the list. We need to be ticked off,’ Michael said, and he went in search of Bill.
He spotted the security guard waiting by the rusting steel girders for his second cash instalment. He was alone, although Michael had no doubt that his colleagues would be close by and would appear at the first sign of trouble. But he had no intention of causing Bill any problems right now. He would be in enough hot water later when his bosses found out what he’d done, which would wipe the irritating smirk off his face.
‘Here’s what I promised you,’ Michael said and he pressed five fifties into Bill’s palm. ‘Once we’ve unloaded, we’ll wheel the carts into the station, but if we need anything else we’ll give you a shout. I have to pop away at some point, so if you can keep an eye on my friends, that would be appreciated. If they’re looked after, there will be a little extra in it for you. Understood?’
Bill leaned out to look past Michael and his eyes moved up and down Maria. ‘Yeah, that’ll be fine, I’ll keep a close eye on them.’
‘Thanks, in that case I’ll see you later,’ Michael said and he turned away. He had no intention of paying any more money to Bill, he just wanted to keep him on side while they were in the station. Once he had ‘popped away’, he would detonate the bombs, leaving Bill to face the music. Or die.
When he returned to the group, the carts had been unloaded and Paddy was handing out green T-shirts to James and Maria.
‘Corporate uniform,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a couple of sizes here so hopefully they’ll fit well enough.’
Michael was impressed. The Brethren had thought of everything, down to the tiniest detail. When Maria and James slipped on their new shirts, he saw the now-familiar motif of Blarney Yoghurts on both sides, and realised how well the bright colours would stand out in the crowd. Nice touch, very professional. Couldn’t be better.
‘Hey Michael, over here,’ a voice said from behind him. He turned and saw Jenny coming down the stairs from Broadgate Circle. When she reached him, she stood on tiptoes and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek.
‘Michael?’ Maria said. ‘I thought your name was Martin.’
Michael cursed himself for such a foolish mistake. He should have remembered that Maria knew him by a different name. He didn’t know why he’d bothered, as neither name was his real one, but his spur-of-the-moment decision to enlist Maria had come back to haunt him again. But at least this would be the last time.
‘Sorry Maria, that’s my fault, I should have told you earlier. We were using f
alse names because the promotion was so top secret. My real name is Michael, and Peter is really Paddy.’
Paddy glared at Michael.
‘Oh, OK,’ Maria said, and looked down at her hands. Michael could see that her earlier excitement had evaporated, but whether that was because she mistrusted him following the revelation about his name or because she had seen the kiss from Jenny, he couldn’t tell. Not that he cared. Her day wasn’t turning out as she had hoped, but then he’d always known it wasn’t going to end well for her.
Orla walked past her employer’s offices and kicked herself. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? She’d need to make this journey numerous times today and it was only now, when she passed the entrance to her workplace, that she realised she could have brought a change of clothes with her and then gone straight to the crèche after this stunt for Michael. Wise after the event. Orla shook her head at the thought and wondered what else she might have missed. She dragged herself towards Liverpool Street.
From the top of the stairs leading down to the station, she saw a group of people in green T-shirts below her and she stopped abruptly, confused by what she was seeing. She had expected to see Michael down there, but whatever were Jenny and Maria doing here? Something wasn’t right, and she vowed to find out what Michael was up to.
Michael saw Orla coming and could tell from her stony expression that she wasn’t pleased. He had expected this to be a challenging moment and had prepared himself, although he was still surprised by her vehemence when she launched her salvo without any preamble.
‘What the hell’s going on, Michael? You didn’t tell me that Maria and Jenny were coming. Why all the secrets?’
Michael figured that another bout of contrition would help calm Orla, and he put his hands up in a gesture of submission.
‘Hey, hey, Orla, slow down. It was all a bit rushed, I told you that. I know I should have said something about the others, but it slipped my mind. I’m sorry, honestly I am.’
