A few agonising minutes passed, my subtle vigil ever constant, before the youngster handed me my receipt. I thanked him and started my walk back towards Terminal One.
To the outside world I was just another inconvenienced passenger on his way to nowhere, but I most definitely had a destination in mind. The question now was how to get there? Since my car was no longer available to me, I would have to rely on public transport. Thankfully, the Heathrow Express was still running normally and in fifteen minutes I was on my way into central London.
Cash flow still played on my mind. Did I have the gollywog with me? If I’d left it at home then I was done for. Once the other passengers were settled into their seats, I checked inside my overnight bag. To my relief I found the fat envelope tucked within my paperwork, right where it was supposed to be. I slid it safely into the breast pocket of my jacket.
The golliwog fell into my lap one Sunday afternoon a little over a year ago. We had buried Bebe about a month earlier and Katharine was pressuring me to clear out the now unoccupied house. With the estate agents tempting her with offers, Katharine was keen to liquidise the asset so we could move ourselves. However, I was finding it impossible to leave the old place behind.
On a number of occasions I had attempted to bag up her old clothes, but they smelled so much of her, it was as though she were still alive. Try as I might, I just couldn’t bring myself to throw any of her things away. To do that would be like killing her once and for all.
In the end Katharine forced me into it. She arranged for her parents to have Amelie and then the two of us spent the weekend erasing my childhood home; piece by piece; memory by memory. It had been the hardest weekend of my life. Up to that point.
It happened during a break, when Katharine was downstairs making a cup of tea. I was emptying Bebe’s battered old dresser when I found that, for some reason, I couldn’t open the bottom drawer. It was only by lifting the entire piece of furniture to one side that I was able to determine what the problem was: a bundle of clothes stashed away so tightly they had slipped into the recess behind and wedged the drawer shut. I picked them up. As I did so, an old Robertson’s golliwog, which had been deliberately wrapped up, dropped to the floor.
The figurine was hollow, the kind that jam makers commonly used in the fifties as freestanding promotions in corner shops and grocers. But it didn’t feel right. There was something flapping around inside. Prising the cap from the bottom, I looked inside and found what I later discovered to be just over four thousand pounds in loose twenty-pound notes.
At first I was going to show it to Katharine. Then I remembered that last day in the hospital and the instructions that Bebe had been so specific about.
The gollywog was for my benefit. No one else’s. She had been very clear on that point. That money was for me alone. So I stashed the black doll away from prying eyes and returned a few weeks later to retrieve it. I transferred the money to an envelope and left it in the one place where I knew Katharine would never look: amongst my work documents. With the exception of one withdrawal, that was where it had remained ever since.
For months afterwards I tried to think of ways in which to spend it, but they all seemed like a waste. I knew Bebe wanted me to do something important with the money, and I owed it to her to make sure it was something special. I just never knew what that special something was. Four grand is a lot, but at the time it wasn’t enough to make a difference to my life. It could make the greatest possible difference now, though.
As the train cleared a tunnel, revealing London on that sharp autumn morning, I began to make plans. First of all, I needed to ditch all of my personal possessions. Credit cards, passport, driver’s licence, anything that could give me away was useless now. Once they were gone, and without a criminal record to be traced back to, I would have no identity, no background and no history. So long as I stayed out of the authorities’ reach, I could do whatever I wanted without fear of retribution. After all, no one would ever suspect a corpse. It was beautiful.
In time I could rebuild a life. Get myself a new name and face to go with it. However, before I could start on any of that, I needed to bury Felix Shill. Kill him off, once and for all. And there was only one place that I could do that.
9.35am, Monday, March 9th, 1987
He could hear a low moan coming from the overturned car, but Felix ignored it. He had to get away. Besides, right at that moment he was having problems of his own. With a shaking hand, he massaged the pain on his brow and then checked his palm. There were no traces of blood but, following its recent collision with the car windscreen, he could feel an ugly lump starting to develop. Then, unexpectedly, his left leg gave way. He collapsed onto the freshly ploughed field and looked up at the stolen Metro lying on its side in front of him.
How the hell did that happen?
It was all a blur. One look at the crumpled car though, and he knew just how close they had come.
A suspicious cracking noise came from the engine block and thick, white smoke began to seep from the edge of the bonnet. All around, the stench of burnt rubber and petrol hung in the air.
The moaning grew louder until Paul’s head emerged from the passenger side window. Felix glanced up at his friend and saw blood pouring down his face and into his eyes, blinding him completely. With his arms trapped, Paul was thrashing from side to side trying to break free. It looked horrific, as though a grotesque pupa were struggling to emerge from a twisted cocoon. A second later, having worked himself loose, he fell from the car. Paul screamed as he hit the frosty ground. Felix staggered across to help him up.
‘Holy shit, mate. You OK?’
Paul could only shake his head and spit at the ground. Felix pulled him away from the wreck.
‘This is bad, Paul,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here now, I’m dead if I get caught this time. They’ll fucking expel me for joyriding.’
Still doubled over, Paul nodded. ‘OK, OK, just give me a second to catch my breath, would you?’
Felix stood nervously alongside his friend waiting for him to recover. They might have been surrounded by several acres of open farmland, but that didn’t stop him feeling like a cornered rodent.
‘This is not happening,’ he kept repeating, ‘really, this cannot be happening.’
Paul regained some of his strength. ‘Would you shut the fuck up,’ he gasped, ‘you sound like a fucking girl.’
‘Bollocks. This is all your fault anyway, I told you to slow down for that corner.’
‘Listen, you cunt - and I’m not warning you now – you’d better just fuck off.’
Felix started to limp away. He clambered through the hole that the car had torn into the hedgerow and stood on the edge of the road.
Which way was safest? His eyes darted from one direction to the other. They were in the middle of nowhere, miles from anywhere, just as they had planned.
Then a tractor appeared to his left. Whether or not the farmer was responding to the accident was unclear, but from his raised vantage point the old man could clearly see the aftermath.
Instinctively, Felix turned back into the field but he had only taken a couple of steps when he noticed Paul lying on the ground. At the sight of his friend’s unconscious body he stopped.
‘Aw well, that’s it,’ he said, falling to his knees. ‘It’s game over now.’
3
‘All the latest on the Goswell Road tragedy in today’s special early issue,’ the newspaper vendor bawled out, before turning to answer my question.
‘The nearest station’s Barbican, mate,’ he said, ‘and I reckon that’s probably the safest place to be right now.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’ I asked, picking up a copy of the day’s edition from the pile in front of him.
‘Well, they’re hardly gonna bomb the same place twice, now, are they?’ And he dropped me a knowing wink, as though he’d just shared the secret of alchemy.
Maybe he was right, eye of the storm, and all that. I nodded
my appreciation and stepped to one side. It was still rush hour in Paddington Station and, with a strong cup of tea in one hand, I leaned against a nearby wall with the intention of reading the paper away from the hustle and bustle. However, before I’d even had a chance to read the main headline the vendor piped up again.
‘He’s really in it this time, isn’t he?’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Prime Minister; they reckon this whole thing’s gonna cost him his job. He’s not gonna be able to talk his way out of it this time.’
‘What do you mean? Why is it his fault?’
The vendor pointed to the paper.
‘Apparently he knew that this terrorist attack was going to happen all along. SO13 warned him about it months ago but he ain’t done a bloody thing, he’s just sat on his arse and waited for something to happen, like he normally does. Course he’s been making all the right noises...’
‘Really?’ I said, paying more attention to the front page.
‘Yeah, it says in there that the only statement that number ten’s released is,’ and the vendor suddenly affected a clipped Oxfordshire accent, ‘“aggressive, but full of utterly ambiguous rhetoric. It is clear,” the editor argues, “that the government has absolutely no idea how the attack was carried out or what they can do to prevent another one occurring in the immediate future.”’
I let out a laugh but it was clear from the look on the man’s face that his theatrics were not intended for humorous relief.
‘It’s all in there,’ he said, pointing at the newspaper with more determination. ‘Turn to page seven and read what SO13 have to say.’
When I read through the article it wasn’t the statement from the anti-terrorism unit of the Metropolitan Police that impressed me most. A few paragraphs from the bottom, I discovered what I’d really been hoping for. It wasn’t much, just one line, but it confirmed what the television reporter had said: the plane had indeed been full when it crashed.
‘Holy shit,’ I said.
‘I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you?’ The vendor sounded so proud, it was as though he had written the words himself. ‘He’s really been left out in the cold this time. He won’t get out of this one for sure.’
‘Yeah, I’d say that was pretty definite.’
‘He’s had it, mate, had it. Anyway, listen, if you’re planning to spend the weekend in the city then I’d watch your back. They’re saying that this is just the start. The whole of London’s on high alert. It’s that bad, they’ve even called the army in.’
‘Really? Well, thanks, I’ll make sure I keep ‘em peeled.’
He winked again and then I left him to holler at the passers-by.
*
Travelling on the underground network was the usual frenzy, but as I headed east along the Hammersmith and City line, I could see that many of the passengers were unsettled. Whenever they entered the train there was an anxious inspection of the carriage. Rather than scout for empty seats, they appeared to be more concerned about who they were travelling with.
Twenty minutes later the train pulled into the Barbican station and there was a sudden surge of activity throughout the carriage. I stepped down onto the platform and was carried along by the current until it flushed out onto the street. Although some people turned right, the majority headed in the opposite direction, towards the inky stain that hung in the sky.
I walked with them and soon we came to a busy crossroads. The street opposite had been closed to vehicles, but it was there the streams converged. Right away I knew I’d found Goswell Road.
I crossed over and joined the procession. Shoulder to shoulder we marched past the television broadcasting vans and, as we drew closer to the end of the street, I felt a sense of excitement growing all around me. The last time I’d witnessed such a collective charge of anticipation had been on the way to a football match. I half expected to see someone selling programmes.
Just when I was starting to enjoy the experience, we rounded a corner and the crash site loomed into view. It stopped me dead in my tracks.
From the newspaper I’d learned that the 737 had landed in a small car park, just off the main road. Upon impact, the fuel stored in the plane’s wings had ignited and, in effect, turned into napalm, scorching everything within several hundred metres, but it was Turnpike House, a high-rise block of council tenements, that had taken the brunt of the force. Now, from where I was standing, it looked like a huge ball of acid had dropped from the sky, leaving behind nothing but a smouldering black slab of concrete. With its plastic windows melted, the building stood out against the morning sky – a giant honeycombed gravestone.
I barged my way to the front of the crowd and leaned against the barrier that stretched across the road. There was a lot of activity going on at the foot of the building but it was impossible to watch it because a screen blocked the entire view of the street ahead. Its plastic sheeting flapped in the wind, occasionally offering a tantalising glimpse of what lay behind. Just in case anyone became too inquisitive, several policemen stood on guard.
I have no idea how long I stood there. My body had been through so much in such a short a space of time that I’d exhausted its reserves of shock and now I was totally immersed in awe. I hadn’t expected it to be so monstrous, so macabre, and yet so utterly magnificent. So engrossed was I, that I completely forgot my reason for being there. I glanced at the police cordon. There was no easy way past them. What I needed was a diversion.
Suddenly I felt an arm pull at my shoulder. It wrenched me back to the present. My first thought was that I’d been discovered, but when I turned around I saw it was just someone struggling to see. An idea occurred to me.
‘Get the fuck off,’ I said, shrugging off the man’s hand.
At first he was stunned by my aggression and shrank away. Then he started to receive encouragement from his colleagues. I felt a sharp tap on the back.
‘What the hell’s your problem?’ he said. From his uneven voice I could tell he was no brawler. Good news. No point picking a fight with someone who was good at it.
Turning to face him again I said, ‘I tell you what my problem is, shall I? You lot. You’re fucking sad, pal.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yeah, really. Just look at yourselves, clamouring to get a peek at the damage, you’re like a bunch of jackals. Y’know, I actually hope you do get to see something, something really twisted and nasty. Maybe that’ll knock some sense into you, wake you up a bit. Fickle bunch of bastards.’
‘And like you’re any better?’ someone piped up.
My plan was working. I was starting to attract the attention of others standing around me. I bellowed my reply.
‘Infinitely better, pal. You see, I have a right to be here, do you understand that? A right.’
‘Yeah? And just what bloody right do you have that the rest of us don’t?’ The man behind me asked, prodding me in the chest. It was a popular question.
‘I’ll tell you, shall I–’ but as I drew my next breath I stopped myself. As much as I wanted to, there was no way I could tell them the truth. Instead, I clenched my jaw and looked down at the floor, exaggerating my frustration.
‘Yes, quite,’ the man jeered, and soon everyone was joining in. The crowd was almost there. They just needed a little nudge more.
I waited patiently as he received congratulations from his cohorts and then, when he turned back to face me, I felt a surge of anger. I slammed my forehead into the bridge of his nose. The crack of the gristle breaking rang through my skull.
What the hell was I doing?
Raising my head, I saw him topple backwards, his cupped hands rising to catch the blood which was already pouring from his face.
He should’ve dropped, but the dense crowd buoyed him straight back upright. It was almost comical, the way that he was raised before me. There was a moment’s silence, as the events were collectively registered. Then a fist flew towards me.
I reacted quickly
to the first blow and managed to duck out of its way. It was when I turned to see who threw the punch when another landed squarely in the centre of my back. Soon the attacks were coming at me from all angles. I crouched to the ground for protection. This was definitely not what I had in mind. I wanted a diversion, not a riot!
The edge of the blockade was just a few feet away and I managed to push my way through. As soon as I emerged, a policeman rushed over. He held out a hand and was about to help me to my feet when we heard a woman’s scream. The section of the crowd that I’d just escaped from was now erupting and I could see a young girl in real danger of being trampled underfoot. The policeman left me to fight his way through the horde. His colleagues joined him, forming a human shield that I was grateful for. The crowd was baying for my blood.
To my dismay, I saw that my plan had worked. The cordon was now unattended, but I knew that my window of opportunity would be small. If I didn’t move soon then I was sure to be arrested. Without glancing back, I walked swiftly across the short space of open road and slid behind the plastic sheeting.
On the other side, support vehicles were parked seemingly at random. I quickly wove a path through them before slipping into an empty doorway. Turnpike House was directly in front of me now, a large white canopy covering its lower left-hand section. It was here that the activity seemed to be focussed.
I glanced back in the direction of the street. Of all the stupid things to do! I’m not a violent man by nature. So where had that reaction come from? That was what worried me the most.
I pushed my concerns to one side. No time to worry about that now. I needed to move on. Do what I came to do. If I stayed where I was then it would only be a matter of time before I attracted attention, and soon the police would be looking for me. So, with my mobile phone pressed against my ear, I struck up an imaginary conversation and walked over to the quieter right-hand side of the building.
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 4
