No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  Jacob felt a rush of excruciating pain through his injured shoulder and ribs, but his hand grasped the railing for dear life. His legs took most of his weight, although they were already starting to tremble as his muscles strained against their unnatural angle.

  But his real problem was Michael. Whether by luck or through a strong instinct for self-preservation at the moment Jacob had pulled him over the edge, Michael had somehow gripped Jacob’s wrist, so that Jacob was now bearing the weight of them both.

  Jacob clung onto the railing with his weakening left hand. He looked down at Michael and saw that he was trying to find a foothold on the window ledge below, but couldn’t quite reach. His frantic motions were making it harder for Jacob to hold on, and he knew he could continue for a couple of seconds at most.

  Then he heard a sound, above him. Someone else was on the roof. Maybe, just maybe, he was going to get out of this alive. His ears strained, his muscles spasmed and he called out as loudly as he could for help. Then he saw the face of a smiling, serene, beautiful woman, dark haired and slender, right above him. She put her hand over his, as he clasped the railing, and spoke to him in a voice as soft as cotton wool. Selma?

  ‘Jacob, let go. It’s time. You’ve done all you can. Give it up.’

  No, it couldn’t be Selma. She’d gone, and she’d never ask him to give up, not now that he’d found Brandon. And then Jacob stared into her eyes. Softness turned to stone and tenderness became brutality, and he saw the emptiness and inhumanity in Donovan’s soul.

  He was completely lucid; his mind was clear and he accepted what he had to do. He thought of his life. His childhood and his parents, they flickered in front of him, then old friends from school and in the Army, forgotten for years until now, rushed past. Selma and Leila. Whoopi. Orla and Maria. Selma and Leila again. Brandon.

  His life. Brandon.

  He looked down into Michael’s hateful, evil eyes, and saw the look of realisation dawn on him. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he screamed, the fear of inevitable and imminent death in his voice.

  ‘Time to go,’ Jacob said.

  Epilogue

  Orla’s phoned vibrated on her bedside table and she opened her eyes with a sigh. She hadn’t been sleeping well since returning to her flat, and even the slightest sound would wake her, no matter what time, day or night. Considering what had happened to her, it was hardly surprising that she was still on edge when alone in this place, especially with memories of Michael still fresh in her mind.

  She glanced at the clock; seven-thirty, not too early, and it was probably just Harry texting to let her know what time he’d be round later. She smiled, leaned over and picked up her mobile. But she raised her eyebrows when she saw the name next to the message.

  Are you OK? A tough few days? Brandon

  Why would Brandon be texting her now? They’d had no contact since bumping into each other the day before the bombing. Curious, she gave a guarded response:

  Fine thanks. Everyone tells me time is a great healer.

  Orla doubted her scars would heal any time soon. She hadn’t returned to the crèche or the Refuge yet, but she did need to get back to normality soon, although in retrospect she struggled to see how her previous life could be described as normal. Her phone buzzed again:

  Me too. That’s why I need to speak to you. It’s about Jacob. B

  Orla stared at the screen, unable to work out what Brandon meant. Was this yet another example of how little she knew about people in her past life? It was time to find out:

  What about Jacob?

  I’ll tell you in person. Can we meet for breakfast? B

  OK, I can’t sleep anyway. Where and when?

  When Orla arrived, Brandon was at the same table he had occupied during his Replicant test. Was that really only a week ago? It seemed a lifetime, and so much had happened since then.

  He half stood and waved, and Orla joined him at the table. She looked older than when he’d seen her outside the Refuge; drawn, pale and exhausted. It was no surprise after what she’d been through, but she managed a weak smile and gave her order to Gianluca.

  ‘Twice in a week. We’ll have to stop meeting like this or people will talk,’ Orla said with an attempt at humour. ‘Although to be honest that would be better than what they’re saying about me right now.’

  She was right. Social media had been awash with malicious and unfeeling comments about how Orla must have known that Michael was a terrorist or, if she hadn’t, questioning what sort of woman she was. Very few said anything about her work at the Refuge and her history of kindness and sacrifices for the homeless, as that wouldn’t be sensational enough to gain any attention for the authors, or ‘likes’. Instead, the trolls did what they always do. In their ignorance, they hid behind the anonymity of the internet and spread lies and half-truths without any regard for the consequences of their spite and cruelty.

  Tears rolled down Orla’s face and Brandon squeezed her hand. His words of comfort were inadequate, clichéd, but he felt he had to say something.

  ‘I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it will get better. You couldn’t have known about him, couldn’t have stopped him. If it hadn’t been you, it would have happened to someone else. Just thank God that you got away.’

  ‘Unlike Jenny.’ Orla wiped her tears away. ‘But at least Maria is pulling through, and hopefully she’ll be back at the Refuge in the next day or so. But it will take a long time for her psychological scars to heal, given how close she got to those bastards. Believe me, I know how that feels.’

  Brandon let the anger of Orla’s words subside before raising the subject he had come to discuss.

  ‘I’ve never met Maria, but Jacob mentioned her to me, as well as you of course, on the night of the bombing. He also told me all about Michael and what he did in the lock-up, but he obviously didn’t know about the bacterium or he would have mentioned that too.’

  Orla looked at Brandon, puzzled. ‘You saw him the night of the bombing, before he went to the tower the next morning?’

  Brandon nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘But how do you know Jacob? I thought you left the Refuge before he came to us.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you, before you heard it from anyone else. It’s bound to come out sooner or later.’ He braced himself and took a deep breath. ‘Jacob’s my father. I saw him that night for the first time in eight years.’

  Orla sat in stunned silence, a look of bewilderment on her face. Brandon saw her study his features and then her eyes opened wide and she slowly shook her head.

  ‘My God, I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I knew some of your history and Jacob’s, and now I can see the resemblance, but I never put two and two together. If I had, you could have been reunited so much earlier and maybe things would have turned out differently. I’m so sorry, Brandon.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m telling you, Orla. As you said, we weren’t at the Refuge at the same time and there was no reason to make the connection.’ He looked into her glistening eyes. ‘Anyway, I don’t think things would have turned out any better. Probably would have been worse, as I wasn’t ready to see him. Maybe it was fate, as our lives would have been different and then he wouldn’t have been in the lock-up or saved anyone at Liverpool Street. In a way, we should be happy that you never made the connection.’

  Orla appreciated Brandon’s effort to make her feel better, and she could see his point. Over the past couple of days, she had started to come to terms with it all, and she knew that Michael hadn’t been stupid enough to give her any clues about his activities. But that didn’t stop her replaying everything over and over again in her mind, and she doubted whether she’d ever fully forgive herself.

  Orla had also received similar pep talks from Harry, who had visited her every day since the bombing. Although it made her feel guilty and a little embarrassed, Harry’s attention had given her a boost when she needed it most, with hope for a brighter future. She could feel her optimis
m grow, little by little.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, and maybe we wouldn’t have found out about the bacterium in time either. Talking of which, don’t you find it amazing that most of the news reports have been more interested in how Jacob survived, and the gruesome details of Michael’s death, than the thousands of people saved from the neurotoxin?’

  ‘Nothing the media says surprises me anymore,’ Brandon said, and then he grinned. ‘But you must admit, my dad’s survival was incredible, especially when you consider that he only lived because Michael’s impaling slowed them both down. The media were bound to love him after that, so soon after the recording of him at Liverpool Street.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Orla, shivering at the memories of some of the more graphic images that had appeared in the press and on social media. ‘But they’ve hardly given him any credit for what he revealed about the bacteria in the yoghurts. Quite frankly it’s amazing he could say anything with his injuries, and as far as I’m aware it’s all he’s said so far. His will to save others must be so strong. But at least he appears to be off the critical list now.’

  ‘When he’s out of hospital, he’ll stay with me until he’s completely better, and I’ll try to keep the vultures away from my door.’

  Brandon shuddered at the thought of what the intrusive media might uncover about his history, once they knew Jacob was his father. He was surprised that they hadn’t found out already. But he knew that looking after him was the only proper choice. It was a chance he had to take.

  He held Orla’s gaze. ‘Look, Orla, everything I have is thanks to you. You believed in me, supported me and even gave what little you had to set up an account for me. Without you, I wouldn’t have this chance with my father, and I can never thank you enough.’

  Orla shook her head. ‘No, Brandon, you’ve earned this yourself. If I helped in any way, I’m glad, but you both deserve it and I hope it works out for you. You have exciting times ahead.’

  Brandon and Orla finished their breakfast, talking about old times and shared memories. They had endured severe hardships in their lives, but they had survived and now they both had the chance of a fresh start. At the door they had a long, tender hug. Neither of them felt at all confident about anything in their future, but they promised to stay in touch. They squeezed hands, then walked away in opposite directions.

  Orla’s phone pinged. She looked at it and stopped immediately. Her heart pounded at the bright purple screen with its simple message:

  THANK YOU

  She dismissed the message and her screen turned orange:

  LET’S CALL IT INTEREST ON THE MONEY YOU LENT ME

  Her trembling finger hovered over the ‘X’ button, then she closed the box. Her mobile banking app opened, with her bank account balance displayed on screen. Orla gasped.

  She span on the spot and glimpsed Brandon’s back, moments before he disappeared round the corner.

  NO

  REFUGE

  Acknowledgements

  I find myself writing something I never thought I would. It’s not that I don’t want to thank people for the help they’ve given me, it’s the realisation that this is the last act before I finish No Refuge. Once this is done, there really is nothing to stop me from pushing the button to publish it. I feel a bit like Brandon, wondering whether I am doing the right thing unleashing my work on an unsuspecting public, praying for no unintended consequences and hoping that it will be worth it in the end.

  When I set out to write No Refuge, I think anyone who knows me thought that I just needed to get it out of my system. They were probably right. The idea for this novel came to me as I walked across the concourse at Liverpool Street almost twenty years ago, so it has taken a long time to get this story into print. My demon, maybe? The central plot is the same as it was then, although the story I have told is not quite the one I originally imagined, partly because the world is so different now, but also because I changed course several times whilst writing it. This meandering was usually the result of conversations with family and friends, and some of the elements I introduced were ones I knew little about but which I hoped would fit in.

  It may seem an odd choice to many people, but I decided not to research these new subjects, as I wanted to avoid entangling myself in technical areas that I would probably never fully understand. As the saying goes, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. However, my self-imposed ignorance gave me an excuse to employ a little artistic licence in certain areas, for example to distort how Bitcoin works or to exaggerate the ability of hackers to commandeer your phone. This is fiction, after all, not a tutorial on the complexities of our technology-obsessed world.

  So, to the acknowledgements. First of all, I will thank everyone I know from the Emerald Isle, for forgiving me that I portrayed the terrorists as Irish. Some of the loveliest and most welcoming people I know are from Ireland, but it just seemed to work best with Jacob’s history to create the Brethren, a dissident organisation with its roots in the troubles. If there really is such an organisation, or if the characters are in any way similar to real people, that is entirely coincidental.

  Whilst on the subject of factual inaccuracies and coincidences, I should say that many of the places in No Refuge actually do exist. The majority of the street names and major places such as the Barbican and Liverpool Street are clearly real, but the businesses, shops, pubs, brands and the like are mostly made up, with one or two exceptions. The Refuge isn’t based on anywhere in particular, nor as far as I’m aware did St Michael’s church establish a homeless shelter (the actual church exists, but when I last checked it was occupied by an architectural ironmonger). In Rivington Street, there was once a comedy club near the railway arches, but it has since been demolished to make way for another social venue. That just goes to show that the gradual redevelopment and renovation of Shoreditch highlighted in the book is happening, whatever you think of it, just not exactly as I described.

  I owe a huge debt to my friend, Rob Kaczmarek, for offering to read my first draft at the end of 2017. At that time, I thought I’d nailed it after only a few months, but sadly that was not the case. I took Rob’s scholarly feedback on board, swallowed my pride and produced my second draft, and from there I started the long process of editing and re-editing my novel. I don’t know how many drafts I’ve discarded since then, but I think the end result is as close to the finished article it can be without starting again from scratch. That’s not something I have contemplated. As I write today, this version of No Refuge is quite different to the one Rob saw, so any technical errors, character inconsistencies, daft plots or typos are fully down to me. I don’t even have anyone else to blame for the cover artwork, as that is also all me. Literally. That’s me in the hoodie, although I doubt anyone recognises me after the heavy doctoring of the selfie. I sincerely hope not.

  Supporting me lovingly and putting up with my cursing have been my darling wife Elaine and our three beautiful girls. They will probably never realise how much their chatter around the dinner table influenced this book, which they may find surprising given it is a novel about terrorists. I’ve given up calling it a terrorist thriller, as I believe there is now more to it than that, with the twists and turns the book took during editing. Also, when you’ve read a passage dozens of times, it tends to lose its thrill. I hope you find it otherwise.

  My final acknowledgement is reserved for the characters, in particular the residents and helpers at the Refuge, and those like them all over the UK. This book may be fiction, but the world of homelessness is only too appallingly real, despite the efforts of many to get people like Jacob off the streets. I hope that in reading this book you feel compelled to help in some way, by volunteering like Orla or donating like Brandon. Please just don’t rob the Bank of England to do it.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for buying this book. Over half of the net royalties I receive from No Refuge will be donated to charities related to its characters, primarily those that help the h
omeless or members of our armed forces and their families. Like Brandon, I think this is the best way for me to support their cause. You may hold me to my promise to donate, from which I will seek No Refuge.