Bombmaker

by Claire McFall

  “Why are you telling me?”

  Samuel sighed, reached up to cup my jaw with his hand. My nostrils filled with the scent of his leather jacket and something musky, muted. I waited, but he wasn’t going to answer. Instead he stroked my cheek with his thumb, then turned away and started the car. Eyes on the road, he pulled away from the curb. I continued to stare at him, my heart pounding.

  “Samuel, if you go to Wales, take me with you.” I hadn’t meant to speak, but as Samuel accelerated up through the gears, taking us out of this moment, back to reality, panic had risen in my chest until it just spilled out.

  He breathed out heavily through his nose then shook his head infinitesimally, eyes on the road. “No, Lizzie.”

  No? Blackness threatened to swallow me up as my throat constricted. I wanted to reach out for him, grab hold and refuse to let go. Instead, I thrust my hands under my legs and dug my fingers into the scratchy material of the passenger seat. I turned to stare ahead, trying to stay in control.

  “Are you taking me back to Alexander?”

  He smiled at the windscreen.

  “Do you have anywhere else to go?”

  No.

  “Samuel, am I going to be… safe?”

  No.

  It was crystal clear on his face.

  “Samuel.” I said his name as a plea. Then I caught sight of an old-fashioned red telephone box. A thought flashed through my head. “Samuel—”

  “I don’t know Lizzie—” he began to answer, but I wasn’t interested in my question any more.

  “No, Samuel. Stop. Stop!”

  He pulled over, and the engine whined as it idled. I stared at the phone box, my brain whirling in circles.

  “I do have someone I can call,” I said at last.

  “Who?” his face darkened in suspicion and… jealousy?

  “Mark,” I breathed.

  Was I kidding? Mark, the boy I’d only met a handful of times? Mark, who I barely knew? But the idea had taken hold and I was struggling to push it aside. He’d offered to help me, hadn’t he? He said he could get me out, protect me. I squashed down the memory of what he said I might have to do for that protection.

  But three long weeks had gone by. Would his offer still stand? I could at least call him. What was the worst he could say? No… or yes.

  “Lizzie, no.” Samuel shook his head.

  “Why not?” I frowned at him.

  “Because…” he paused, searching for a reason. “How well do you even know this boy?”

  Boy… but the way Samuel said it I knew he meant child. I bristled at the word. Mark was older than me. My hackles rose and I found myself defending him, despite my own doubts.

  “I’d be safe with Mark. He’s nice. I can trust him, I know I can.”

  Something about the word ‘trust’ sent Samuel’s mouth twisting into a grimace.

  “What, and he’s just going to let you move in, is he?” he barked, raising one eyebrow belligerently.

  “For a while,” I said, the heat draining from my voice.

  “And then what?”

  I stared into his cynicism, desperately holding on to my plan, unwilling to admit to the trump card I held. The one I didn’t want to play. But Samuel was thinking about leaving. Leaving me alone with Alexander. He was forcing my hand. Please, please let me not have to betray him.

  Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.

  “Then… I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.” I stalled. Samuel snorted, unimpressed. “Am I better going back to Alexander? What happens if tonight’s the night he decides he’s had enough?”

  “He won’t,” Samuel shook his head dismissively.

  “How do you know?” I demanded.

  “Lizzie—”

  “No, Samuel,” I snapped at him, my eyes fierce. Then I bit my lip. “Can you lend me some coins for the phone?”

  He stared at me for the longest time, his eyes dark, the corners of his lips turned down, then he reached into his jeans pocket and thrust a handful of change into my waiting palm.

  “Thank you,” I said, then I got out and shut the door on his disapproval.

  In the phone booth I hesitated. I could feel Samuel’s unhappy eyes on me. I wasn’t sure what his problem was – ten minutes ago he’d been telling me to leave the country – but I felt bad, like I was disappointing him.

  “Sorry Samuel,” I whispered. Then I fired his money into the slot and closed my eyes, trying to conjure up the scrap of paper with Mark’s number on it. With nimble fingers I tapped out the digits as I saw them.

  The ringer trilled sharply in my ear, going on for so long I was about to give up, but just as I went to pull the receiver from my ear, the noise cut out and a breathless voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Mark?”

  “Lizzie!” He sounded surprised, but pleased. I smiled into the mouthpiece.

  “Yeah. Hi.”

  I waited for him to say something, but then I realised that he was waiting for me to take the lead. Heaving in a deep breath, I forged ahead. Nothing like getting right down to it.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you a favour…?”

  Blanket silence.

  “Remember what we talked about?” I peeked at Samuel, still watching me broodingly from the car. An uncomfortable weight settled in my chest.

  “Go on.” He sounded wary.

  “I—” I tried to breathe, had to turn my back on Samuel before I could continue. “Things have changed and… I… I want out. Could… could I come and stay with you for a little while? At your flat?”

  “Now? As in, today? Er…” His hesitation brought me up short. I realised I was asking a virtual stranger for board and breakfast.

  What was I thinking?

  “Look, Mark. Never mind. I’m sorry to have asked. Sorry to have bothered you. I’ll see you around.”

  I went to hang up.

  “No, wait!” His voice was loud enough to reach me even though my hand was halfway to the hook. I cradled it back into the crook of my neck. “Lizzie? Lizzie, you there?”

  Pause.

  “I’m here.”

  “Oh. Great.” He blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I was just startled. Come over. Of course you can stay. Jesus, you’re really going to do it? Wow. I’ll put in a call with—”

  “NO!” I heard a sharp intake of breath as my yelp echoed down the phone. I tried to lower my voice down to a normal level. “Can we just keep this between you and me? For now,” I added, a plea in my voice.

  “Okay,” he sounded full of uncertainty, but I heard him swallow it down. A forced laugh buzzed in my ear. “I should warn you, I don’t have much room.”

  “You got a sofa?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I got a sofa. It’ll break your back, though.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not a princess with a pea. You’re in Bethnal Green, right?”

  “Hackney.” He gave me his address. “Where are you? Do you need me to come and get you?”

  “No,” I looked through the glass door of the booth to the darkened interior of Samuel’s car. “I’ve got a ride.”

  I knew if I wanted to be safe it would be better to make my own way there, to leave Samuel here and just walk; because if Samuel knew where I was, then Alexander was only a step away from finding out. But I wasn’t ready to cut my ties, not just yet. I got back in the car. Samuel took one look at my face, sighed heavily, and put the car in gear.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  I repeated Mark’s address.

  We drove there in silence, my guilt a third person in the car. Samuel cut across town like an old-fashioned London cabbie, ignoring the signs, constructing a route from the maps in his head. I didn’t recognise any of the streets, not even when we stopped in what must have been Mark’s road. It was a lot like the shabby street in Stepney where Alexander had his empire: huge townhouses dissected into flats. The building Samuel parked beside looked in better shape than most, but the paint was peeling
on the large front door and the cream sandstone brickwork was black with city smog.

  “This is it,” he said, looking up at the building and away from me.

  “Right,” I replied, but I didn’t move. There was a lump in my throat. Was this goodbye? It felt like it; but if it was, I didn’t know what to say.

  Thanks for the memories? Thanks for teaching me how to make bombs? Thanks for not letting your brother kill me?

  “What will you tell Alexander?” I asked.

  Samuel shrugged. “I’ll make something up.”

  He still didn’t look at me, but stared down at the steering wheel. I shifted in my seat, wanting to leave but not wanting to.

  “Samuel—”

  “You should go,” he said. A pain stabbed at me. Suddenly chilled, I shivered. Samuel caught the movement. “Here.” Reaching into the backseat he grabbed my jacket – which had laid there since the night he’d rescued me – and thrust it at me. Knowing it wouldn’t do much to warm me, I pulled it on anyway and stuck my hands in my jacket pockets. My left hand curled around something I’d forgotten all about. I drew it out, stared at it then up at him. A spark of something that felt like hope ignited in me. “Can I keep this?”

  I held up the phone he’d given me; the one that called him, only him.

  He thought about it.

  “Yeah. Yeah, you can keep that.”

  “Will it still work?”

  “It’ll still call me.”

  I smiled, relieved. That was what I wanted.

  I tried again to say something, something like goodbye.

  “Samuel—”

  “Go on,” he gestured with his head. “Go. Now. Before I change my mind.”

  He grabbed the gearstick, forced the car into first.

  I blinked, startled to realise there were tears in my eyes. Eager to escape the car before he saw them, I squeezed his hand for the briefest moment, his knuckles hot in my icy palm, then I threw myself out of the car. He almost didn’t give me time to shut the door before he’d pulled away.

  Alone on the street, I contemplated Mark’s building. But I wasn’t really looking at the symmetrical spattering of sash windows; I was lost in my own head. I’d just done it: I’d just walked out of Alexander’s clutches. So why didn’t I feel relief? Joy? The heady giddiness of freedom?

  Because I had no money, no visa, and a vivid black tattoo scrawled across my face. Had I just made the biggest mistake of my life? Unsure of the answer, I forced myself up the stone steps and jabbed my finger on Mark’s buzzer.

  “Hello?” He answered so quickly I knew he’d been waiting for me.

  “Mark? It’s me.”

  The intercom buzzed at me as the door came loose in my hand. I swung it open, then took one last, fleeting look at the street before I disappeared inside. The hallway was cavernous and damp, and smelled slightly of mould. I started up a stone staircase, running my fingers gingerly along a grand banister that was chipped and peeling. None of the doors I passed had names on them. They were firmly closed and imposing. I felt trepidation plunge into my stomach. Was this a really bad idea?

  As I reached the second floor I heard a soft click and a whoosh as a door was drawn back. Mark’s head peeked out, smiling nervously at me.

  “Hey,” he waved.

  I returned his wave half-heartedly. Was there still time to call Samuel before he made it back to Stepney and told Alexander I’d… disappeared?

  Probably not.

  “Hi Mark. Thanks for, y’know.” I squirmed on his doorstep, embarrassed.

  “No problem.” We faced each other, both smiling a little awkwardly. Mark swung his arms back and forth twice, then crossed them, tucking his hands into his armpits like he didn’t know what else to do with them. We were still on the doorstep. I raised my eyebrows, my smile twisting for the first time with any real amusement. Wasn’t he going to invite me in?

  He cottoned on a second later.

  “So… er… come inside.”

  I moved forward and went to remove my jacket, but stopped halfway. His flat was even colder than the hall, possibly even colder than outside. It was bright, though; large windows letting in plenty of light to bounce around on walls painted a warm shade of cream. From where I stood in the tiny hallway I could see all the rooms. Dead ahead was a living room, a tired-looking couch just visible through the half-open door. To my left a tiny kitchen, a sink full of bubbles not quite hiding the mountain of dishes. I suppressed a smirk, willing to bet that on the other side of the only closed door I’d find a half-made bed and overflowing laundry basket.

  “It’s nice,” I said lamely, catching sight of his expectant face.

  “It’s not much,” he said. “But it’s a start.” He looked at my empty hands. “No stuff?”

  I gestured to the clothes I was wearing.

  “This is pretty much what I have.”

  There was a very small wardrobe full of outfits back at Alexander’s, but other than that I owned almost nothing.

  Mark led me into his living room, which I was relieved to find was slightly warmer thanks to the several large, fat candles burning around the room.

  “Candles?” I asked. I hoped he wasn’t trying to set a mood.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he grinned impishly. “The pilot light’s gone out on the heating, and until I can get it going again we’re on old-fashioned flame.”

  “Oh.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “I can probably look at that. If you want.” I didn’t want to offend his manly sensibilities, but the night-time temperature had been dipping more and more as the summer died away.

  Pride, it seemed, was not Mark’s sin.

  “That’d be great!”

  It took me all of five minutes on my back under his boiler to kick the heating into gear. Immediately the pipes started to creak and groan in every room as heat began to flush through the system.

  “You’re amazing!” Mark admitted with delight, pressing his hands to the side of the radiator. “Man, that feels good.”

  “How long have you been without heating?” I asked.

  “About a week.” He was both shamefaced and amused. “I mean, my dad could have come round and fixed it in a second, but, y’know, the whole point of moving out was to be more independent.”

  “But it’s okay to have a girl do it for you?”

  “Yeah, well. We’ll call it rent.”

  “Right!” I laughed.

  But the incident had broken the ice and I felt much more comfortable as we shared the sofa to watch Mark’s tiny television. We watched the EBC News – neither of us commenting on the long feature about the work being done to restore the damage to the wall. Then there was a rerun of a detective show made in the days before budget cuts hacked at the production values of British programming. There were explosions and car smashes galore. It was horribly wasteful, glorious escapism. The kind of thing I hadn’t done in, well, almost as long as I could remember.

  Late afternoon, as the light began to dim, Mark made us pasta. The twirls were a little underdone, and I was pretty sure the sauce came from a jar, but I couldn’t have told you the last time a person cooked for me. He served the food with a large glass of red wine, swiftly followed by another, then another, so that by the time it was properly dark I was feeling exceptionally comfortable, and giggly, and just a tiny bit sick. Mark seemed to be handling the alcohol a little better than I was, but his cheeks were flushed and he was grinning an awful lot.

  “Okay, I really have to go to bed,” he said, standing up and swaying slightly. “I have to go to work in the morning.”

  “Oh.” I pouted. It hadn’t occurred to me that it was a Sunday and normal people would have to get up early the next day and face the dawn rush hour. Working for Alexander wasn’t exactly nine to five.

  “I’ll try to come home early,” he promised. “Maybe I can take a half day.”

  “You won’t tell anyone about me, will you?” I whispered.

  He shook his head, smiled at me re
assuringly. “I promise.”

  “And you’re sure it’s okay if I stay?” I asked for about the tenth time.

  “Yes!” he said emphatically. Then he looked around himself, a confused expression on his face. “What was I doing?”

  I giggled. Maybe he wasn’t handling the alcohol better than me after all.

  “Going to bed,” I reminded him.

  “Right!” he nodded his head, then traipsed out of the room.

  He was back a moment later, shirtless, and carrying a huge purple blanket in his arms. A pillow was clenched in his teeth.

  “For you,” he said, dumping his bundle on the sofa.

  “Thanks,” I said, trying not to look at the naked expanse of flesh he was displaying. It was hard to miss, though. He wasn’t like Alexander, all bulk and overworked muscles. He was thin, but solid-looking, and pale, like his torso had never seen the sun.

  “Goodnight,” he chirruped. I dragged my eyes away from the light trail of hair leading from his belly button to meet his gaze. He smirked at me smugly, and I felt heat in my cheeks, although that could have been the wine.

  “Night,” I mumbled.

  He shut the door to give me some privacy and I arranged the blanket across the sofa. I shrugged out of my jeans, but left the rest of my clothes on in place of pyjamas. I pounded the pillow into a plumper shape and lay down. I was immediately uncomfortable. The cushions were lumpy, a spring digging into my hip, and the way I had the pillow resting on the arm of the sofa was hurting my neck. I grimaced and twisted round. Alexander’s king-size bed was a lot more comfortable – even Samuel’s leather sofa was better than this – but at least I was safe, no noose around my neck.

  Despite my discomfort, I smiled. Mark was really great for letting me stay. I mean, I was practically a stranger. Worse than that, I was a Celt, a marked Celt. If he was to believe the news reports running almost nightly on EBC, I should be dangerous, untrustworthy, devious. Certainly not someone you should welcome into your home. I wondered idly if he was sleeping with a knife under his pillow. Then I wondered what he hoped to get out of his generosity. In Alexander’s world, my world, nothing was free. Trouble was, I didn’t have anything to offer.

  Well, I had one thing.