No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  Jacob stared at Brandon for an age. He saw Leila, he couldn’t help it, the beautiful, fine lines of her face and the small, turned up nose reminding him of Selma. She was his princess, a latter-day one who had turned adversity into triumph and risen above the harsh bullying of her youth to create her own version of a happy ending. Except that she wasn’t happy, not yet, and wouldn’t be until she’d completed her transformation into a prince. Whether that was enough, Jacob didn’t know, but if he was going to be part of it, he had to banish his thoughts of Leila, his daughter, and devote himself to Brandon, his son.

  If I’m going to be part of it. Jacob took the photograph of Selma and Leila from his pocket, the images worn and faded. It was time to let Leila go. Jacob knew that Brandon yearned for his love and respect, but first of all he needed his acceptance. But Jacob wasn’t sure he was ready to live with him. Apart from his false pride in regarding Brandon’s hospitality as charity, Jacob didn’t think he was prepared to return to society. Just like the Refuge’s itchy sheets had made him anxious to leave, so the elegant furnishings of Brandon’s apartment made him feel uncomfortable. Too many clean towels.

  Jacob needed time and space to think. He dropped the photo onto the table and picked up the bottle, and looked a final time at Brandon. He slipped out of the loft and back onto the cold, harsh, City streets.

  24

  He heard the latch of the door and woke up with a start. Brandon pushed himself up on his elbows and groaned. He struggled to open his eyes against the blaze of brilliant light that pierced his eyelids and ignited an inferno in his head. Why are the lights still on, and why such a headache? And then he remembered.

  He squinted and saw that his father wasn’t on the sofa, and even in his fragile state it didn’t take long to search the loft and discover that Jacob had gone. On reflection, Brandon wasn’t surprised. It was inevitable that he would feel stifled by the loft’s atmosphere and events of yesterday, and hopefully he would be back later. He picked up the tattered photo, discarded by Jacob on his way out, and he ran his fingers gently over the paper. I remember this, the beach, and a tear ran down his cheek.

  He knew that he wouldn’t sleep again, so Brandon shuffled into his den and looked at how the Far Eastern markets were doing, already well into their trading day. He played with a few numbers, but his heart wasn’t in it, and he flicked through the news channels. He watched a re-run of a statement from the Prime Minister, who referred to the atrocity as a ‘crime against humanity and civilised society’ and described the terrorists as having ‘a warped ideology.’ Brandon rolled his eyes at the language, which he’d never understood. Why did politicians insist on giving terrorists credibility and propaganda by saying their barbarous acts were inspired by an ideology? What was wrong with calling them what they were: murderers without a cause? It never occurred to Brandon that others might say something similar about his actions as a cyber-terrorist.

  Then a new update interrupted his musings.

  ‘Counter terrorism agencies now believe that the cyber-attack yesterday was not linked to the bombings, and that the timing and location were entirely coincidental. Sources close to the Government have revealed that the virus used in the attack may actually have impeded the bombing, as it prevented the terrorists from detonating their explosives remotely because of the loss of signal to the remote trigger. According to investigators, this explains why the perpetrators resorted to manually setting off the devices, as shown by those dramatic pictures of the chase across the station concourse yesterday. The cyber-attack is also reported to have prompted many people to leave the station in the minutes leading up to the bomb and, as a result, it is believed that the loss of life was significantly lower than it might otherwise have been, although that will be of no comfort to yesterday’s victims.’

  Brandon smiled at the conclusion, even though in his own mind he believed that his attack may have made things worse, if only because it hampered rescue efforts.

  ‘And in another twist to this story, there have been numerous reports of unexpectedly large donations to charities across the UK yesterday, which appear to have been made during the time when the banking system was subject to the Denial of Service attack. Some financial commentators have linked the donations to the spike in Bitcoin activity witnessed during the cyber-attack, with a growing body of evidence that the payments came from accounts at the Bank of England, although so far there has been no word from Threadneedle Street on these rumours. One financial security expert has now coined the phrase “the Robin Hood virus” to describe the infectious computer code used in yesterday’s cyber-attack, as it appears to have been responsible for a redistribution of wealth to the charities sector.’

  Brandon thought about the new name for his virus, which would no doubt stick in hacker folklore once the dust had settled. They were right, he had transferred money from the banks to the needy, not only the poor but also to the sick and vulnerable. It remained to be seen whether the funds were returned, or if they were considered proceeds of crime, but that would be up to the Bank of England and the Financial Conduct Authority. In any event, he decided that he liked Robin Hood virus better than Replicant.

  Brandon let out a huge sigh. He knew he wasn’t completely safe yet, as people cleverer than him and computers more far powerful than his would be combing through the detail of the attack, looking for errors, computer signatures or the tiniest clue that might lead them to Brandon’s door. But he felt better about it now, despite his lingering doubts about how the phone outage may have hindered the response to the bombing. He had committed numerous serious crimes, but at least his motivation shouldn’t be doubted.

  Brandon looked over his shoulder at the door, although he wasn’t anxious about discovery. He longed to hear a knock. From his father.

  ***

  Jacob wandered the familiar streets. It was dark and quiet, before the first early-risers and zombeciles arrived at their City desks. But he knew one person who would be working.

  He paused at the gates of the Honourable Artillery Company, unlike the last time when he’d hurried past. He would have to exorcise many of his demons if he was to make things work with Brandon and, although he knew he’d never erase the deep scars of his time in the Army, it was time to face the enemy head on.

  He strode through the Beech Street car park entrance and chuckled when he heard Whoopi’s shriek.

  ‘Oh, my good sweet Jesus. Jacob! I knew it, I said you’d come back here soon. Now let me take a good look at our returning hero.’

  Whoopi vacated her booth and rushed towards Jacob. She crushed him in a bear hug and he winced from the pain in his sore rib.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, how could I forget that?’

  ‘No need to apologise, Whoopi. I came to thank you for helping me the other night and getting me to the Refuge. I hadn’t forgotten, I was just occupied with other things.’

  ‘Yes, we know all about that,’ she said in a quieter, sombre tone. ‘It’s been all over the news. Wasn’t it terrible? And you were so brave, chasing that murderer across the station.’

  ‘It’s not bravery, it’s what anyone would have done. And I didn’t stop him. Many people died.’

  ‘But no one else did do it, Jacob, only you. From what I saw, everybody else ran away.’

  Jacob had no response, as what Whoopi said was true. But he still felt inadequate and awkward, no matter how often people called him a hero.

  ‘Anyway, I told them you would come, and we have a little surprise for you. You’ll see, just go straight to the entrance.’

  Puzzled by her comments, Jacob opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but her waving hands shooed him away. ‘Go on, away with you!’

  Whoopi watched Jacob until he turned the corner to enter the labyrinth beneath the Barbican, then picked up the phone in her booth.

  ‘Jacob’s on his way to you now. I told you he’d come back.’

  Phone in hand, for the first time since watching the terrorists arrive at
Rivington Street, Donovan allowed herself a smile. It’s time to end this, and she dialled the number.

  ***

  Jacob scratched his head at the sight in front of him. He had retraced his steps from a few days earlier, to the foot of Shakespeare Tower, but now found a makeshift sign taped to the door:

  JACOB, THIS WAY =>

  He had no idea who had put it there, although he suspected Whoopi had something to do with it following her earlier abstract comments. He opened the door a few inches and peeked through the gap, wondering if it was a prank, but then he saw another sign taped to the doors of one of the tower’s lifts:

  JACOB, USE THE LIFT

  He smiled. Not only had they known he was coming, but whoever had placed these signs on the doors also knew where he was going. The building staff must have known about his visits all along.

  Jacob called the lift and pressed the button for the top floor. He ascended all the way without stopping and everything was quiet when he stepped out. He walked up the two flights of stairs to the roof’s emergency exit but, on this occasion, there was no need for him to short-circuit it. The door was already wedged open and a third sign confronted him:

  JACOB, THANK YOU

  ENJOY THE VIEW

  He wasn’t sure what to make of this welcome. The last person he had seen was Whoopi, and yet the signs must only have been put in place, and the door opened, a few minutes before his arrival. He was surprised he hadn’t seen or heard anyone else. But why was he was getting the red-carpet treatment? Is it because of what happened at Liverpool Street?

  Jacob stepped onto the roof and then climbed up the steel ladder to the second level, skirted by railings. He gripped the top rail and savoured the tingling sensation of the metal on his fingers and palms, cold but reassuring, and looked towards the eastern horizon’s kaleidoscope. He witnessed the subtle changes in light and hue in reverent silence and, as always in this moment, considered the contrasts in his life. He grieved for the people who had lost their lives the day before and agonised that he hadn’t been able to save more. But he also rejoiced that, out of the darkness of that hour, he had found Brandon. He felt fresh hope, that life could be good again, a life reborn.

  Jacob knew that behind him to the west were the darkness, death and desolation of the previous day. So he didn’t turn, he stared into the distance at the majestic view of the sunrise as he felt the simple pleasure of the wind on his face. He waited until the last wisps of colour had disappeared and the sky was a clear, crisp blue, and then it was time to go back.

  He whispered his usual parting words. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘Not so fast, soldier.’ Jacob recognised the coarse, grating voice, and an icy numbness seized him.

  ‘Turn around, very slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them.’

  Jacob did as he was ordered and looked straight into the barrel of Michael’s gun, and then beyond it, his contemptible, sneering face.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ he said with malevolent glee. ‘I bet you didn’t think you’d see me again. Everyone assumed I’d make a run for it and the last place they’ll look for me is the City, so I thought I’d pay you a visit. Orla told me about your pointless little trips up here, so I figured it was just a matter of waiting for you to turn up. Thanks for not making me wait too long.’

  Jacob had recovered from the shock of seeing Michael. ‘Why would you bother? It’s not as though I stopped Paddy. You got what you wanted. You’ve murdered dozens of people and ruined the lives of many more. What have you got to gain from killing me, just one more person?’

  ‘Ah, but it’s not just one more person, is it? You’re a hero according to all the TV reports and newspapers, someone who fought for his country, including time fighting my people. You’re a marked man now, a dead man walking.’ Michael’s hatred for Jacob was evident from his curled lip and spitting words.

  ‘Yes, I read the reports, particularly the ones from those American newspapers who publish more than they should, like snippets that your stupid British intelligence have given them. So I know you were in the lock-up watching us and that you led the armed police to Liverpool Street. You know too much about me and what we did to let you live.’

  Jacob scanned the roof for an opportunity to escape, but there were no weapons of any kind and no way out. He was trapped, but he edged backwards and kept Michael talking.

  ‘But what do I know that everyone else doesn’t? You bombed Liverpool Street and Paddy died so that you could murder almost forty people.’

  Michael looked at Jacob with a puzzled expression and then a look of astonishment appeared on his face. ‘Oh my God, you don’t know, do you?’

  He started to laugh and Jacob felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Somehow, he had missed something and, judging from Michael’s reaction, it was big. What on earth was he laughing at? Jacob didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  ‘You fool, you actually think Paddy sacrificed himself to kill forty people?’

  Michael couldn’t contain his surprise and delight at the revelation that Jacob didn’t know the full details of their operation.

  ‘So, our hero doesn’t know, eh? Well, before you die, I’m going to let you in on it, and the full extent of your stupidity will be the last thing that goes through your head, other than a bullet that is.’

  Jacob reached the railing and stopped. Was this going to be the end, listening to Michael’s boasts before being executed in cold blood?

  ‘Today you are a hero, but in a couple of days’ time you will be the idiot who helped us to conceal our real weapon. You see, this wasn’t about the bombs, it wasn’t about killing people at the station.’ Michael paused and sneered at Jacob. ‘It was all about the yoghurts. Almost a thousand yoghurts, each containing two drops of a highly contagious, fatal bacterium. Just think of it, out there right now, infecting one of the most populated areas of Britain. That’s what we were doing in the lock-up, didn’t you see us? Surely you didn’t think we were only changing the labels.’

  Jacob closed his eyes and cast his mind back to the lock-up. The two men below him had been out of sight most of the time they were altering the yoghurts. He only saw the final product, not what they did, but Michael’s description explained the gloves and masks. How could he have been so stupid to think that terrorists were concerned about hygiene? He opened his eyes and his look of fear and resignation told Michael everything he needed to know.

  Michael turned the screw. ‘Its symptoms won’t be apparent yet, and when they are it will be too late for those infected. The powerful neurotoxins will overwhelm them all, by which time they will already have passed on the infection to their families and friends. You see, the bomb was a decoy, which had the added advantage of destroying the remaining evidence.’

  Jacob’s head was reeling at the vision Michael had painted and the abhorrence of mass murder being described as a decoy. More importantly, he knew he had only a few moments to act if he was to prevent an atrocity of even greater proportions.

  ‘So, that leaves me with just one final act. You will die and you won’t be remembered as a hero, but the man who was in the lock-up and failed to stop the bacterium.’ Michael’s voice was flint, no longer even a hint of mirth, as he assumed the role of executioner. ‘So, kneel before me.’

  Jacob put his left hand on his knee as if steadying himself to bend down. He raised his right foot and felt the heel of his boot rest against the lower steel rail behind him, and he put his right hand into his coat pocket. He prayed that Michael wouldn’t be able to resist a few further words, or a final insult. People were always less observant and slower to react when speaking.

  ‘Easy as that, no fight in you,’ he said. ‘I always knew you British soldiers—’

  Jacob exploded away from the railings and launched himself with full force at Michael. His right foot drove hard against the bottom rail, like a sprinter leaving the blocks, and propelled him forward and upward. The bottle in his hand swung round in a w
ide arc towards Michael’s head.

  A shot tore through the morning air and Jacob’s left shoulder erupted with searing pain, but he crunched into Michael before he could get a second shot away. The bottle glanced off Michael’s arm and then shattered when the two men hit the ground hard, Jacob on top.

  They wrestled, but it wasn’t an even contest. Jacob screamed in agony at the bolts of pain that engulfed his shoulder and chest, and Michael pushed him away. But despite his injuries, Jacob used all of his might to launch himself again at Michael, and his flailing right hand caught his enemy across the face with the severed neck of the bottle, still in his grasp. A shriek of pain and fury followed and Jacob saw Michael lunge for his pistol, on the ground three or four feet to his right. With one final, extraordinary effort, Jacob threw himself at Michael, and his weapon skittered away across the concrete.

  The two men toppled together through the railings, over the side of the upper tier, and landed in the narrow walkway next to the concrete wall below, the only thing saving them from a forty-storey plunge to the Barbican terraces. Michael saw his chance and shoved Jacob back towards a low opening in the wall, designed to allow window cleaners to scale down the side of the tower. Jacob registered too late that he was going through the gap, but his last desperate act was to grab Michael’s jacket sleeve with his right hand as he tried to stop back-pedalling. If he was going over, so was Michael.

  Their momentum took them both to the edge and Michael gave one last hard shove as Jacob’s heels hit the dwarf wall and his knees buckled at the low railing above it. His body arched backwards over the edge and Jacob felt a surge of panic at the sight of windows tapering almost to nothing below. His left hand found the railing and his legs locked around it, and he slewed to the side.

  The momentum of his tumble backwards and the vice-like grip of his right hand on Michael’s jacket brought the terrorist teetering over the edge, and for a split-second Jacob thought Michael had stopped. But he hadn’t. His toes thudded into the wall and Jacob’s weight pulled him over the edge head first. With a scream that pierced the morning air, Michael somersaulted over.