Taking two packets of headache pills he grabs some liquid paracetamol and a stick of deodorant. The door to the pharmacy where the prescription drugs sit has no door and the shelves are lined with trays full of bags ready to dispense. Beyond is a locked door. A sudden wave of remorse fills him. He shouldn’t have broken the door—now anyone could come in and take what they wanted. He wasn’t bothered about the bottles of shampoo or moisturising cream—it was the hard drugs that were the problem—the methodone and medicine that could kill if it got into the wrong hands and what were the chances that it would land up in the wrong hands! Almost one hundred percent.
“Jessie! Uri!” he calls. “We need to shift this lot.”
It takes them twenty minutes to load up the car with the drugs from the pharmacy’s shelf and then they make the final part of their journey to find Bin Sayeed.
Chapter 23
Aaron covers his ears as the woman screams again. The walls in the apartment block were paper thin and listening to her begging for the man to stop was unbearable. At least when the electricity was on he could turn up the television or put his headphones on and drown out her pain with music or a game.
Since they’d turned up life was different. Now, when he went downstairs, he’d run past the floor they were on. The men were menacing and would make fun of him if they saw him. Going to and from school had become a torture as they taunted him. It was worse when he was with his mother. They’d make foul comments to her. One had even grabbed her and, in his broken English, told her to cover her hair or he’d rape her in front of her kid. After that he wouldn’t let her go out without him and now he carried a knife in his backpack and another in his pocket. He kept one under his pillow. His mother had become fearful too and even said she may wear a headscarf just so they’d leave her alone. That had sickened Aaron and made him hate them even more.
The woman screams again and a bang sounds against the window—something thrown—maybe her. He’d seen her once—when she’d started coming around to see him. She was pretty, tall and slim, with skin like honey, dark hair like his mother’s but her eyes were a rich topaz. He couldn’t place where she came from. She spoke with an accent though.
His mother walks back from the kitchen just as another scream sounds. Their eyes lock and he recognises the frustration in her eyes—it was the same frustration he felt, and guilt. Enormous guilt. They should do something.
“Here,” she says passing him a plate. “It’s the last of the bread.”
“The last?” he asks although the question is rhetorical—he knows there’s barely any food left in the cupboards. There are a few tins, but his mother liked to shop for fresh meat and vegetables to make their meals - cooking from scratch she called it - and when the blackout had struck there was very little in the cupboards. They had rice and pasta but no way of cooking it. “What’ll we do then?”
“I’ll find some more. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We won’t go hungry.”
He takes the plate and lifts the sandwich. Jam. The bread is stale around the edges and she’s given him the thick crust—typical of his mum to give him the bigger portion. ‘You’re a growing boy,’ she would say as she piled the food on his plate, her own sparse by comparison. After his dad had bailed on them, there had been weeks when they’d had to eat more jam sandwiches than he could stand, that and platefuls of porridge.
“Eat up,” she urges watching him take the first mouthful.
The woman screams again and Aaron’s eyes lock with his mother’s. He can’t stand it for another second.
“Mum, I-”
“No, Aaron. It’s not our business.”
“How can you say that? He’ll kill her-”
“They’re dangerous, Aaron. If we do anything they’ll …” she trails off.
“Kill us?”
She nods.
“I can’t listen to her screams, Mum. We have to do something to help.”
“I tried once.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I went down there one day—when they’d gone out. I talked to her. It was before, when the beatings weren’t as bad-”
“They’ve always been bad.”
“Yes, but before … they weren’t so … regular.”
“I called the authorities and asked what I should do. They gave me the number of a women’s shelter. I gave it to her. I wish I hadn’t bothered though—the abuse she shouted at me!”
“She didn’t want your help?”
“I think she was too afraid to take it.”
A door slams.
“They’re going out.”
“Maybe. Eat your sandwich.”
Aaron nods and takes another bite.
“Where’s yours?” he asks with a mouth full.
“Don’t worry about me,” she replies and turns back to the kitchen. The bread tastes like cardboard but his loss of appetite has nothing to do with the staleness of the bread. He leans back against the sofa and slides his hand between the armrest and the cushion. His fingers touch the blade of the hunting knife. He’d bought it from Cal, it had taken all his savings, but it was worth it. When he went out next he’d take it with him. The last time he’d gone out he’d only taken the pen knife but things were different now. He swallows the last of the bread and takes a swig from the bottle of water.
“Sip it slowly, Aaron. There’s no mains water and we’ve only got the bottled water left.”
“Yes, mum.”
Another door bangs on the floor below and then someone takes the stairwell. Silence. The woman must be on her own—safe for a little while.
“Why don’t you go down and see if she’s ok, Mum? I think they’ve gone out.”
His mother leans back from the counter top and stares at him through the doorway. “It … it’s not our business …” She stops, takes a breath. “Right. Right. OK. I’ll go down.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Five minutes later Aaron stands at the top of the stairwell. Two flights of stairs lead down to the next floor. Apartment 16B. That’s where he lives.
“Let’s go then,” his mother whispers.
“No one can hear us,” he whispers back.
“Don’t believe that. They have their spies everywhere. There’s no one I trust in this block any more.”
She’s right. Even his friend Ali was running errands for them now. Aaron knew that he’d been forced into being a runner for them, but he’d changed. Now he was repeating their stupid extremist ideas and talking about killing kafirs. After he’d listen to him rant, Aaron had started to avoid him and bug his mum to move. She said the council lists were long, and she’d already put in for a transfer, but they might have to move up north though, and he’d have to go to a new school. It couldn’t come quick enough for Aaron. Perhaps up north they weren’t so organised.
Jasmin leans against the back of the sofa as the knock comes at the door again. The pain in her stomach and back is intense. She waits for it to pass. The knock comes again, light but insistent, too light to be one of them.
Taking a breath, she forces herself to the door and peers out through the spyhole. The woman from upstairs again—and with her kid this time. The boy hangs back as the mother knocks again. Through the door she can hear the murmur of their talk but not clearly enough to understand. The boy urges her to knock again. This time the tapping is stronger. Jasmin recognises the anxious, jerking movements as the woman looks left then right. She’s afraid. Just ignore her, she’ll go away. He’ll kill you if he finds out you answered the door. He’ll kill you anyway.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
She reaches for the lock, twists it to open, heart hammering against her ribs, and pulls the door ajar.
“What do you want?”
“To help you!” is the whispered reply.
She opens the door a little further. The woman sucks her breath between her teeth and Jasmin feels suddenly self-conscious. Did she look that bad? The boy stares unable to keep his eyes from her face. She must
look that bad.
“I can’t let you in.”
“Come with us,” the boy urges.
Tears spring to Jasmin’s eyes. He can’t be more than fourteen years old, just a little younger than her own brother.
“I can’t.”
“Please! I know he’ll kill you if you stay. I hear him beating you. Please come now. We can take you to somewhere he won’t find you.”
“He’s right,” the mother continues.
He’s gone for the evening. You can do it. “He’ll kill you if he finds you here.”
“Then hurry!” the boy urges, his voice a broken whisper.
Leave him, Jasmin. Leave him and tell the police about his plans. Another pain shoots through her belly and Jasmin relents and opens the door wide enough for them to slip through.
“Get dressed as quickly as you can,” the woman urges as she steps into the living room. Jasmin nods though her hands tremble and her legs feel as though they’ll give way at any moment.
“She looks bad,” the boy whispers to his mother.
“Shh!”
“Go with her. Help her,” the boy urges as Jasmin opens her bedroom door.
“I will. Stay here whilst I help her get dressed.”
“Please, hurry,” the woman urges as Jasmin pulls at the drawer of the bedside table.
She remains silent as she takes out her underwear with trembling hands then sits on the bed as her stomach cramps and nausea waves through her belly.
“Do you need help?” the woman asks as Jasmin remains still on the edge of the bed.
“No,” she replies. Her head feels light, her heart as though it will burst. Perhaps she should stay. He would be so angry with her. What if he found out about the woman and the boy? It would be her fault if they got hurt.
“Tell her to hurry, mum!”
He could kill them. He’d definitely punish her. “I … I’m sorry. You should leave.”
“No! Tell her she can’t stay. Tell her he-”
Footsteps sound in the corridor and the boy runs into the room and tugs at his mother’s sleeve. “Mum, listen,” he whispers.
“I hear it!” she whispers back and looks down at Jasmin with terrified eyes as the front door opens.
“Hide!”
Chapter 24
The car pulls to a stop. Further along the road, standing beyond the row of old terraced housing with their ugly shopfronts, is a group of apartment blocks. Bin Sayeed’s is among them. The car reverses and Uri parks it between two others, unobtrusive, although given the cars parked at various angles, and the van knocked through the shop front, it’s perhaps overkill on Uri’s part.
Already alert as she steps out of the car, the thrum of motorbike engines peaks Jessie’s curiosity. It fills the air then booms as numerous bikes ride beneath the underpass Uri had taken them through only minutes before.
“Sounds like bikers,” Bill says stepping next to Jessie. “From that noise I’d say at least five—listen to them open up their pipes as they go under that bridge—beautiful.”
“Once this is over, Bill, you can get a Harley and go cruising with the boys.” A figure in the distance catches her attention. Dressed in black from head to foot, it turns from the path to Bin Sayeed’s apartment block. “But right now, we need to get Bin Sayeed.”
“You think I don’t know that, Jessie?”
“I know you do—it’s just-”
“Then steady on—keep things calm. Revenge is a dish best served cold and we need to keep our wits about us.”
“Sure.”
“Good. Now,” he continues as the noise of engines increases, “we go in separately—nothing more suspicious than a group of armed men and women striding with purpose up to a goddamned terrorist.”
“I will go around the back—take the back streets and enter from the end of the street,” Uri offers.
“Agreed.”
“Jessie, keep that hat low—the bruise on your face will attract attention so, if you can look a little more …” he falters and looks her up and down. She was a woman at the peak of her fitness, a trained fighter ready to kill and she looked like she’d done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. “If you could try to look a little less aggressive …. Perhaps … more womanly-”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying nothing. We’ve got to blend in. That’s all”
Uri snorts. Bill sucks at his lips muting a laugh. Uri was right—there was little chance of them doing that. “Alright, Uri. OK, so we’ve got to look … less obvious.”
“Hey, I can be feminine-”
Uri grunts and Bill holds back a smile.
Jessie frowns at them both. “I am!” Silence for a moment as she scans them for a reaction. “This is not worth the effort,” she huffs. “From this second on I’m just an ordinary girl in a baseball cap with a rucksack walking down the street.”
“Sure,” Uri replies. “Who also happens to be trained killer looking for terrorists to slaughter.”
“Well, that’s a bit over the top, Uri, and a bit-”
“Honest.”
“Well, yes, it’s true but a bit blunt.”
“Right,” Jessie says. “Here I go. Just a girl walking down the road with a rucksack.”
“Full of crossbow bolts, knives and guns.”
“Uri! Shut it, mate.”
“Sorry.”
The sound of engines ebbs. They must have taken a turning. Shame, Bill had wanted to see the bikes ride past and was intrigued to find out who had got them all running. It was certainly someone with a bit of mechanical savvy. Bill crosses the road and takes the passageway between a row of buildings as Jessie heads straight towards the tower block where Bin Sayeed is holed up. Uri disappears the other way.
Ten minutes later they meet again in the building’s lobby.
“Fifth floor, flat 16B?”
“Yes.”
Bill looks around. Concrete steps lead upwards whilst a dark corridor leads to the open doors of a lift. The lift’s car is obviously stuck between floors and there are scratch marks and gouges at the edges of the metal doors.
“Whoever was in here when the blackout struck has had a lucky escape. If they’d been between floors they could still be trapped in there.”
“Sure,” Jessie replies, unconcerned as she follows Bill to the first riser.
“What’s the odds that there are people across the country trapped in lifts right now?” He grimaces at the thought.
“No idea,” she replies, as scratching echoes.
Taking the first steps up the concrete risers, he’s alert for the sound of banging doors and feet. The scratching comes again followed by a bark. Bill ignores the noise. Nothing of note sounds until they reach the third floor and then a door bangs in the stairwell above and deep voices echo. Looking up, Bill catches sight of two men, both dark-haired, dressed completely in black. They speak in Arabic, the echo making their words indecipherable. Bill understands a little of the language but not enough to figure out what they’re saying at speed. Feet patter on the steps; they’re running down.
Bill pushes at the door leading into the third floor and ushers the others through closing the door as the two men walk past and make their way down the next flight of stairs. Once out of sight, he leads the way to the next landing. His heart beats rhythmically, steady though he can feel the adrenaline pumping through his body. All is quiet as they reach the fourth floor. He’d expected there to be more people or at least some bodyguards. Fifth landing reached. He pushes the door open. The corridor is dingy and broken by another set of doors. Those in front of him number ‘12A’ through to ‘14B’. Bin Sayeed’s flat must be beyond the doors.
Through the doors.
‘15A’ … ‘15B’ … ‘16A’ and finally, ‘16B’.
“Ready?” Bill asks, knife in hand. Uri nods, his gun already drawn. Jessie has her crossbow loaded.
“Try the handle first,” she suggests as Bill raises his foot to kick at the d
oor.
She’s right. If they can enter without making a noise that would be preferable. He reaches for the handle. Footsteps and voices reverberate in the stairwell. He listens to their movement then, reassured that they’re moving down the stairs, pulls the door handle down. The latch clicks and he pushes the door open slowly. Unseen voices, low, guttural, and laughing, fill the space beyond the hallway. Without speaking, he steps into the flat and makes his way to the end of the corridor with its half-open door. The men – he counts two voices - are in the next room. The next seconds, whilst Bill has the advantage of surprise, are crucial. He squeezes the handle of his knife, turns to give the nod to Jessie and Uri then kicks the door open.
The sight that greets him is mundane. Two men sit at a small table next to the window as lace curtains flap in the breeze of the open window. One has a cigarette half drawn to his mouth. The other, a bottle at his lips. Both turn to him with widening eyes. Within the next seconds they stand, chairs thrown back, bottle dropped and knife drawn. Uri pushes past and leaps to the other side of the room, gun trained on the man with the knife. Jessie steps beside Bill, crossbow loaded and sights trained on the man reaching towards the floor. As he jerks back up, gun in hand, a streak of silver flashes and a bolt slices into his forehead. He staggers back, dead before he slumps against the fallen chair. The other man drops the knife to the table, raises his hands in submission, and jabbers at them in broken English.
“Which one is Bin Sayeed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, how do we find out?”
“Ask.”
Cigarette smoke curls around the remaining man’s arm. It irritates Bill’s eyes. “Put it out,” he snaps. The man nods his head, reaches for the table and stabs the cigarette out in the glass ashtray sat at its centre.
Footsteps and voices sound in the corridor, loud through the still open front door. “This one,” he hears a woman say.
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