by RJ Mitchell
His day had been spent rehearsing his route to the shopping centre and exactly what he would do when he got there. All doubt, all guilt had been gradually erased from his mind. He was fully focused just like the brothers of the 9/11 attack must have been.
The voice in his head spoke. ‘What is that phrase they use? In the zone. That is it! And now I am in the zone, the killing zone. And death is my companion.’ Hassan allowed himself a smile at the realisation of the impact his work would surely have.
His mind flashed back to the training camp on the northwest frontier of Pakistan where he had been taught the techniques of the Jihadist. An impressionable teenager, meeting with the freedom fighters and teachers of al-Quaeda who had changed his whole way of looking at the world.
When one of the veterans of Afghanistan, Naif, or White Eye as he was known, had come to Glasgow and attended mosque Hassan had been captivated by his stories of the fight to the death being waged against the evil West. His growing awareness that there was far more to life than books and studies had hardened into a conviction.
It was at that point Hassan Ressan had been targeted by al-Quaeda, who had become aware of his brilliance as a medical student with a particular flare for chemistry, and one whose own perspective was becoming increasingly compliant with their own.
All that mattered were the words of the prophet and the Holy War against the infidel and now he was going to play his own part in taking that war onto Crusader shores. Yet he had enjoyed his four years in Glasgow. Perhaps, if he was completely honest with himself, he had secretly hoped that the day his training would be required would never dawn.
Today was that day.
He had been well trained; his teacher was the best, and he was a very good student. He knew how to assess a target in order to calculate the exact quantities of hexogen, a volatile explosive that would be required to be added to the equally unstable nytroglycerin to produce the desired carnage.
He remembered the words of his teachers as they explained the part oxidizers, desensitizers, plasticizers and freezing-point depressants had to play. Now Hassan believed himself to be every bit as skillful a bomb maker as those teachers four years back, and he had been very busy.
He placed his hand under his kameez and felt for the reassurance of the belt he had strapped around his middle which carried his deadly cargo, and he tasted the salt from a bead of sweat as it dropped onto his lip and entered his mouth.
‘Nerves. Always a good thing. My senses are heightened as they should be, Allah be praised!’ said the voice in his head.
Yet still the troubling images persisted. The kindness he had been shown by the family of the teenage female stab victim he had saved in A&E just ten days back; the warmth of the staff and the closeness that had evolved between them during his months in his post.
Another image seeped into his consciousness; the face of the nurse he knew that in another life he would have loved with all his heart. The voice in his head said her name over and over ‘Aisha, Aisha.’ With all the might of his willpower he quietened the voice and the seed of doubt that was beginning to gnaw through him.
What happened here today would send a message and set the tone for what was to come. Mentally he weighed up the cost of his actions and the carnage that would ensue from them and the other Improvised Explosive Devices he had already placed in key locations in the centre. But now was the time for payback for the thousands that had died in Afghanistan and Iraq since the infidels had invaded. Countless innocents slaughtered for what?
The Imam had been right; it was time for the Crusaders to feel the pain and fear of Jihad within their own borders, in the heart of their cities, in the souls of their very beings. It was his role to make that happen.
He walked on, for he knew exactly where the detonation point lay. The position at which he must stop and slip his hand under his kameez and press the button that would set off the lethally positioned IEDs which would cause carnage and chaos in equal measures throughout Braehead shopping centre. Then he would pull the rip chord to send him and everyone else within a 100 yard radius to oblivion.
The prospect of carnage was at its maximum today for it was, as Allah had surely ordained, the opening day of the Davis Cup Tie; being played in the same building as the shopping centre, within the sports arena. The location he sought was the seat he had purchased only five rows back from the court which would, in 30 minutes be graced by one of Great Britain’s most famous sportsmen: Murray Fury.
There, concealed in the crowds of people desperate to gain entry for the opening singles match featuring Scotland’s finest sporting son, he would be completely anonymous. With the event unpoliced and only guarded by stewards, his entry to courtside would be simple and his admission to eternity guaranteed.
Gaining entry to the courtside and detonating himself within feet of Fury and in full view of the TV cameras beaming the tie against Belarus around Europe would guarantee that this was a moment of supreme triumph. A triumph that would send a shockwave around the globe, thanks to the death of one of the most famous UK sportsmen and Britain’s finest tennis player.
As he arrived on the top floor and began his walk towards the arena doors he was aware that his senses were indeed heightened. Everything seemed to be viewed in high definition.
The scar running down the side of the track-suited male’s face grabbed Hassan’s attention as he passed by. His lingering look suggested that if their encounter had been away from the safety of the congested confines of Glasgow’s busiest shopping mall Hassan would have indeed been the victim he wished to be perceived as. But the man moved on with no more than an evil leer at the downtrodden Asian male who looked hopelessly out with his comfort zone in the bustling shopping centre.
A young woman pushed a double buggy towards him, apparently determined to make sure that he moved out the way or was run down by her self-propelled juggernaut. Aware that there was some instability in the cargo he carried and warned by the female’s harsh Glaswegian voice: “Get oota the fuckin’ way will ye? Ya half-wit!” Hassan sidestepped the child-bearing express train with a dexterity that belied his appearance.
Now the fast food centres situated just outside the arena entrance came within his view. Pizza Hut opposite and McDonald’s to his right and the sight of families enjoying lunch in a happy and safe environment sent a shiver of uncertainty, or was it guilt, through Hassan Ressan’s soul. But it was a fleeting moment, for it was immediately replaced by images of the charred bodies of the Pakistani family. Victims of a US drone strike he had witnessed, murdered and butchered at a family wedding on a day that should have been filled with the greatest of family joys. He kept walking.
Now the yellow-vested stewards were just thirty yards away checking tickets. Hassan looked at the female steward who was about to ask for his ticket. Red-faced with dyed blonde hair and stinking of a heavy scent that was almost as cheap and tacky as the rouge on her cheeks.
“Ticket please, sir?” she asked and he duly passed his ticket to her, taking care to keep his eyes averted and offering a courteous “Thank you,” into the bargain.
Then he was through and the doors to the courtside were just twenty yards on his left. He took a deep breath and walked on, silently reciting the Shahada over and over again: “Allah is the one true god.” And he was about to meet him.
He looked at the gold watch on his left wrist, the one mark of ostentation he had allowed himself. Hassan had an obsession with time and today it was ticking fast. He saw that it was 15.45: Fury would be on court in less than fifteen minutes. He allowed himself a small smile of anticipation, knowing that all the training he had received, all the hours of self sacrifice and the time spent concealed within Western society had all been for this moment of maximum impact.
He had drawn level with the toilets when to his surprise he heard a voice in his right ear.
“Awright Gupta! Into the fuckin’ toilets and get the fuckin’ Rolex off pronto mate!” He turned and saw the track sui
t, recognised the cruel scar running down the face of the male he had passed in the shopping centre moments earlier.
He felt a fist smash into his side and knock him sideways, the impact of his body propelling him through the door as it gave way. In the background another voice shouted.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
But none of that mattered anymore, for Hassan knew that his moment had come, perhaps prematurely, but he trusted in the skill with which he had crafted the explosive belt. He fingered the button then ripped the chord free.
As the device exploded he saw the look of fear and the light of the bomb blast envelope his attacker’s face. Hassan uttered his last word: “Kafir . . . ”
12
THE AFTERMATH of the explosion at Braehead and the carnage it caused had left everyone at City Centre office in a state of utter shock.
Thoroughgood thought back to 9/11. Sitting in the same police station with the radio blaring inanely in the background, until the implications of the information it relayed finally dripped into his subconscious.
He remembered the mad rush to get in front of a computer or a TV set to confirm that moment of awesome terror. Now here they were all over again. The scramble for phones and bickering that had broken out as everyone sought to contact their loved ones around Glasgow brought this horrific reality thudding home.
A moment of irony swept over Thoroughgood mixed, he supposed, with self pity. ‘No need for you to worry Gus, no one there for you to care about, no one for you to miss, no one to miss you, why didn’t you pull the trigger? Shitebag.’
Thoroughgood realised someone was missing. Where the hell was Hardie? The realisation dawned that Hardie had kids, and more importantly, a missus whom Hardie constantly moaned was a shopaholic who probably had shares in Braehead.
He tried calling his mate’s mobile, got the engaged tone then made for Tomachek’s office. He knew there was a television there where he would at least be able to watch the rolling Sky News.
He approached the door and heard a familiar voice coming from within. It was Hardie’s and he was clearly agitated.
“Listen Davie lad, where the fuck is your mother?” then a pause: “Gone shoppin’, aye son that’s a big help, but where has she gone shoppin’? Haven’t you heard about what's just happened at Braehead fifteen minutes ago son?”
Thoroughgood opened the door and saw his mate sitting in Tomachek’s swivel chair. Even from the other side of the room he could see the beads of sweat on Hardie’s brow.
“Listen to me you little bugger! I can’t get her, her mobile is just going to answer machine. Now one last time, could she be at Braehead?” demanded Hardie, now on his feet.
Within five minutes they were in the Mondeo and on the motorway out of Glasgow, heading for Braehead, foot to the floor with flashing blue light in full luminous glow on the grill helping to clear their way. Hardie and Thoroughgood were not the only people in a hurry to make it to the shopping centre. Sirens pierced the air and billowing smoke from the devastated shopping centre filled them with dread.
There was no way they were getting within a mile of the ruined shopping mall and they abandoned the car on a grass verge just off the slip road to the centre. Hardie had said nothing for over five minutes. Thoroughgood could see the tears engulfing his jaded brown eyes.
The moment the car came to a stop Hardie was out and off at a pace Thoroughgood had not seen for years. As they reached the main approaches the crowds of people became deep and anger and despair filled the air.
Warrant cards already in hand, they hit the outer cordon that had already been formed around the mall and barely slowed down as they offered a quick identification and continued to the entrance. The acrid smell of smoke was now beginning to mix with the sickly stench that they both knew emanated from the remains of charred human bodies. Hardie’s breath was coming in huge rasps and he was yanking at his tie in an effort to let more air into his heaving chest.Now they could see the first of the corpses being brought out on stretchers covered head to toe. Beyond the escalator that would take them up to the arena there were huge girders dangling down and wiring hanging loose.
They were about to hit the escalator when a uniform Police Inspector stepped forward and barred their way. Hardie was having none of it. “Listen Inspector, my wife is up there and neither you or anyone fuckin’ else is going to stop me looking for her.” For a moment the inspector hesitated but seeing the manic look in the DC’s eyes he stepped aside.
Hardie took the escalator steps two at a time and reached the top, his body shaking with exhaustion.
Thoroughgood could hear his mate talking to himself.
“Come on Betty, come on Betty girl you’re gonna be okay, I’m gonna find you, everything is gonna be ok.”
Thoroughgood realised that he had never heard his mate call his wife by her Christian name before.
They could see a Pizza Hut sign hanging drunkenly in the distance. Incongruously Thoroughgood observed an outsized tennis ball, obviously brought for Fury’s post match autograph session, sitting on top of a chair; a kid’s dream of meetingtheir hero ruined. Anger seared Thoroughgood’s soul. All that could be heard were groans and screams and shouted orders from the emergency services.
Thoroughgood spotted a senior medic and made his way over to him at the double. “Listen mate, Detective Sergeant Gus Thoroughgood. I know all hell has just broken loose but we are looking for a Betty Hardie, where are you are taking the injured?”
The medic gave a curt reply: “They’re all in the ice rink.”
Thoroughgood turned to his mate: “Come on.”
As they made their way to the ice rink they noticed that the stretchers being taken in were all carrying body-bagged corpses. At last Hardie spoke.
“Lockerbie must have been a picnic compared to this.”
They pushed through the doors, dodging medics rushing out. At last, straight ahead they saw a group swathed in blankets, bandaging and tin foil sheets. The screams of the victims who were still alive were all pervading.
The two detectives arrived at the injured zone and immediately identified themselves to the medics, aware that they might be about to confront Hardie’s worst nightmare.
The DC’s eyes were darting around every human form with any movement coming from it. He searched desperately for his wife’s straw-coloured hair, his despairing face awash with emotions that Thoroughgood recognised from his own torment. Then Hardie was off again, making his way from one injured person to another, until he had made his way through all of the survivors.
Thoroughgood remained with the medics, his glance turning to the rows of body bags over to his right. He saw Hardie begin to make his way back to him, in resignation and acceptance that any hope of seeing his wife in this life again was indeed over.
Thoroughgood could see his mate’s shoulders shaking uncontrollably and he began to move forward to offer Hardie a shred of comfort that he knew from agonised experience was an act of total futility. The irony that he was about to offer him that which he had extended to Thoroughgood in the depths of his own torment was not lost on the DS.
Then a voice perforated the wails of the dying. One word. “Kenny!”
Hardie sprinted straight past Thoroughgood who turned and saw a moment that would remain etched on his consciousness for as long as he drew breath.
In a second of supreme emotion that Thoroughgood had never thought his mate was capable of, Hardie had grabbed his Betty in both arms and was spinning her round and round in the air repeating one word: “Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’ . . .”
Tears rolled uncontrollably down Thoroughgood’s face.
Thoroughgood was clock-watching again, his mind repeating the events of just over five hours ago endlessly, as if on some Sky News loop. Despite repeated calls to Mr India’s restaurant they had not been able to contact Sushi, with the enigmatic waiter failing to reply to any calls. Nevertheless they had to exhaust all lines of enquiry and the even
ts at Braehead had made their need to speak with the waiter even more pressing. Sitting in Thoroughgood’s lounge their shocked silence, was all embracing.
Thoroughgood had tried to dissuade his mate from leaving his beloved Betty, who, although suffering a host of cuts and bruises, was relatively unscathed. But Hardie was now fuelled with a ravenous desire for revenge.
Sushi, he now believed, was their only hope of gaining any intelligence on the perpetrators of the carnage that had left 133 dead and 48 injured.
The text alert on Thoroughgood’s mobile grabbed their attention simultaneously. The DS checked the screen: “It’s Sushi, says he will be here in fifteen. Thank God for that!”
Hardie was first to articulate the fear that was filling both of their minds. “I know we don’t have any proof as yet and the scene is still being sifted over but ten to one, whatever Sushi wants to speak to us about has got to be wrapped up in this whole terrorist thing. I mean, we find a filofax with a list of what we suspect are shopping centres on it and hey presto, a bomb goes off in Braehead, 300 yards from where Murray bleedin’ Fury is about to open a Davis Cup Tie? Fuck me gently Gussy boy, I can’t help thinking if we had done more and done it a damn sight more quickly then this could have been avoided.”
Thoroughgood met his sidekick’s hypothesis with a metaphorical straight bat. “Look, Hardie, we got all that terrorist material and we made the powers that be aware of it. Tomachek passed it up the tree to the Intelligence Services and it was their business from then on. For fuck’s sake faither, aren’t you forgetting we are just a couple of bog-standard detectives following up a routine Misper' enquiry? Whose fault is it that it turned out to be your worst feckin’ Jihadist nightmare?”
Hardie was surprised by the anger in Thoroughgood’s pale, drawn, features and watched in silence as the DS moved over to the CD player and let out another curse, “Shit!”, as he attempted to prise open the CD holder with little success, much to Hardie’s amusement.
