Their homespun theories ranged from devices hidden in shoes, surface-to-air missiles and even suicide bombers. One article warned of future attacks the terrorists were promising to mete out. Their message was very clear: “this was just the beginning”. According to one journalist, we could expect transit vans loaded with explosive fertiliser, ‘dirty’ chemical bombs, and the possibility of a small nuclear device being detonated in one of the larger cities.
When I read that last part I threw the paper down in disgust. That kind of scaremongering would help no one, especially someone with my condition.
I covered my eyes and suddenly the faces of my old life came floating to the surface. My wife. Daughter. Friends. If only they knew.
But they would never know. I would make sure of that. As far as they were concerned I was a goner, and their memories of me would always be of a man taken in his prime. In a few years’ time, when their bodies started to fail and they became a burden to the people around them, they would look back on their own story and think about Felix Shill. They would tongue their false teeth, fumble with the TV remote in their arthritic hands and, as they strained to hold on to the contents of their bladder, reflect on how Felix Shill had been one of the lucky ones, to have checked out at the top of his game. Well, OK, maybe not at the top, but not too far into the descent.
I took some comfort from that, until another face came floating up through the haze. It was Amelie. The beautiful, pure, innocent face of my daughter. I couldn’t bear to see her. I couldn’t bear to think about her. I ground my knuckles into my eyelids until she was drowned by a burst of colour.
However, when the phosphenes faded, the dark side of my consciousness kicked in, replacing the face of my angel with a more disturbing image: that of Carl’s body lying inert on the ground. I snapped them open again.
Carl!
Jesus, with everything that had just happened I’d clean forgotten about him. How the hell? I snatched the paper back up and scoured through for any news of his condition, but there was nothing. I clung to the desperate hope that this was a sign he was OK, but in reality I knew it probably meant that the incident had yet to be reported. This paper would have already been printing when his body was found. What I needed was a later edition, or better still an Internet connection.
I looked outside. The grilles covering the shop fronts were slowly beginning to rise, as though they themselves were awakening from sleep. In a short while the Internet cafes would be open and I could check the local news sites. In the meantime I needed to get out of this hellhole. The music was driving me insane and the coffee had done little to the ease the furry taste my mouth. I took off in search of a newsagent and some kind of mouth livener.
*
‘There’s no local edition on Saturday, pal,’ the Asian newsagent said, laying down the newspaper he was reading.
‘Right, do you know where the nearest Inter–’
But I couldn’t finish the sentence. My throat seized up when I looked down at the page that the man had been reading. It was upside down, but I recognised the image immediately. It was a still CCTV picture taken from the departure gate at Heathrow. It showed the flustered attendant at the desk standing with her back turned towards a dark, huddle figure. He was holding on to the wall and bent over so that his sunken head was all but omitted from the picture, but there was no mistaking the form.
It was me!
Without saying another word, I picked up a copy and scrabbled in my pocket for change. Then, with the pages already open, I rushed out into the street to read the details. The weekend shoppers jostled and nudged past me so that the only peaceful place I could find was next to a railing separating pedestrians from the noisy traffic.
“Is this the man responsible for the explosion?” the header asked.
In what appeared to be nothing more than a wild hunch, this particular broadsheet had studied the small amount of security camera footage that the police had released and practised some real investigative journalism. There was very little for them to go on, as there was no positive identification on the figure and the airline was still insisting that the pre-flight headcounts matched. But I knew that these guys would not let that put them off. There was undoubtedly other footage of me leaving the terminal, footage that the police would already be busily sifting through. It was only a matter of time before they pieced together the events.
How long did I have before the authorities caught up with me? A day? Maybe two? Every minute I remained in London I increased my chances of being caught. But I couldn’t leave. Not yet. There was still something important to do. One more person left to see.
I was gripped by a newfound sense of urgency. I checked my Breguet. Half a day more, that’s all I needed. Then I could leave London and my old life behind for good. Then I could...
What then?
I stared at the picture and thought about that until someone snatched the newspaper out of my hands.
6.10pm, Monday, September 28, 2003
Katharine’s voice was more disappointed than angry. ‘But you promised that you would be there to pick her up.’
‘I know I did, and I am picking her up,’ Felix said. ‘I’ll just be a little late, that’s all. It’s not my fault that the traffic was so bad.’
‘No, but it always is, you know that. Why didn’t you leave earlier?’
Felix sighed and dodged the question.
‘Look, I’m almost there. Two minutes tops.’ Without indicating he pulled out to overtake the slow-moving car ahead.
‘Right, well make sure that you are. We’ll talk about this when you get back.’
Katharine hung up.
Felix shook his head and took his frustrations out on the equally slow-moving car that he now found himself stuck behind.
Leave the office early? If only! No matter how many times he told Katherine, she still didn’t understand that it was not that simple. AIM didn’t look favorably on that kind of practice, at all. In his eyes, 5 pm was when the day began. That was “When the wheat stayed on to do a proper day’s work, while the chaff went home to their families and other soap operas.”
Felix despised soap operas.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into the equestrian centre. Amelie was waiting, looking out from one of the windows in the reception area. As soon as she saw the headlights, she dropped down from the chair she was kneeling on and bolted into the car park.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Felix greeted her when she opened the door. He leaned across and kissed the soft, smooth hair of his daughter’s head as she fumbled with the seat belt. He caught the strong scent of horse sweat.
‘Sorry I’m late. Did you have a good lesson?’
‘Yes,’ Amelie half-heartedly replied before falling silent.
Felix thought nothing more of it and turned the car back towards the exit. She was probably annoyed with him for not turning up on time. Just like her mother.
They were no more than a half a mile away when Amelie started to cry.
‘Hey, hey, hey, what’s all this?’ Felix asked, slowing the car down. Amelie leaned forward and covered her face with her still-gloved hands.
‘Toby’s dead,’ she blubbed.
Toby was the name of her favorite pony, the one she had ridden since joining the equestrian club.
‘Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry.’ Felix pulled over and put his arms around her.
After a few minutes, she pushed back and looked up at him.
‘Daddy, will Toby go to heaven?’
‘I don’t see any reason why not,’ Felix replied as honestly as he could. ‘He was a very good pony after all, wasn’t he?’
Amelie nodded, and blinked tears onto her protruding lower lip.
‘Daddy, will Toby see Grandma Bebe?’
The question took Felix aback. It took him a moment to answer.
‘I expect so, yes,’ he said, stroking the back of her plaited hair.
Amelie started to cry again.
‘What’
s wrong?’ Felix asked. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not sweetheart, honestly.’
‘Yes, you are, I know you are. You’re doing that thing that Mummy says you do whenever you’re lying.’
‘Wh- what thing?’
10
I looked at the man lying at my feet. I was angry at having been surprised, but relieved to find that the person responsible for tearing away my newspaper had been grasping out in search of support, and not my collar.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ I said, the traces of fear still quivering in my voice. ‘You scared the shit out of me.’
The young man ignored me and reached out instead for a little black book, which had fallen from his grasp. Once it was back in hand, he looked up angrily, his thick-rimmed glasses hanging askew.
‘Do you mind?’ he said, and I noticed that the book, which he was now holding to his breast, was in fact a bible.
Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, I held out my hand.
‘Are you alright?’
He snorted and scrabbled to his feet. Then he turned and addressed the masses.
‘Smite me if you will,’ he yelled, rising onto the tips of his toes, ‘but I stand firm. “The Lord trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence His soul hateth.”’ Then he crouched down, flipped over a nearby milk crate and mounted it.
Perched on top of the makeshift pulpit, dressed in what appeared to be his grandfather’s tweed jacket and green corduroys, his lanky figure rocked unsteadily forward and back. Using one arm to wave the bible and the other to cast out across the sea of people, he looked like the school geek learning to surf. I didn’t need to see his feet to know that he was wearing socks and sandals.
‘Listen to me sinners, be not blinded by the trinkets that ye crave. The love of God is reward enough. “Be content with such things as ye have,” he told us.’
No one batted an eyelid at the young preacher’s words, and would have been totally apathetic to his presence had he not set the crate down right next to a pedestrian crossing so that it blocked a large part of the pavement. It was clearly a deliberate strategy on his part, because it meant that whenever the passing traffic had right of way, the preacher held a captive – albeit temporary – congregation.
‘The love of money is the root of all evil, and His word is the light of truth,’ he called out, but it was too late. The lights were already red and the invisible force holding the people back was removed, allowing them to pour across the road.
Exasperated, the preacher watched as his flock wandered away from him. After a few moments, he became resigned to his situation and stood patiently waiting for the beeps to die down. Only when the amber lights flashed did he continue his sermon.
‘Then Jesus said to them, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; a man's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.” Take heed – I say take heed – for wealth is worthless in the day of wrath. But righteousness – God’s righteousness – delivers man from death. And make no mistake: the Day of Judgment is approaching.’
The crowd slowly swelled around him.
‘It is foretold by Luke that, “when you see Jerusalem surrounded by armies, then recognize that her desolation is at hand. Then let those who are in the midst of the city depart, and let not those who are in the country enter the city; because these are the days of vengeance, in order that all things which are written may be fulfilled.”’
All at once he found himself totally surrounded. Resting a hand on someone’s shoulder he aimed a recriminating finger down at a young mother and pushchair, and cried.
‘“And woe to those who nurse babes.”’
Whether or not it was this last comment, or whether the people were just too many in number, it was hard to say, but the young preacher now found he was being buffeted by the jostling horde all around him. Showing remarkable resilience, he ploughed on,
‘The coming of the Lord is at hand, for the form of this world is passing away, and when he arrives, Jesus will bring forth Judgment Day, as predicted in the book of Mark. ‘“Truly, I say to you…”’ He was pushed to one side and his voice lifted as the air was squeezed from his body.
‘“Truly, I say… this generation will not pass away before all these things take place.” You are the last cycle on this earth. The final step in this era. The end of days is upon–’
But the lights were red once more. Glad of the relief, the crowd surged forward with even more eagerness and on their way past crashed into the preacher, knocking him from the podium again. He fell backwards towards me, but this time I was ready and caught him before he was unceremoniously reacquainted with the pavement. I lifted him back onto his heels.
‘Th-thank you,’ he faltered and was about to say something else when a deep voice cut in.
‘Is everything alright here, sir?’
When I looked over my shoulder my heart leapt to see a policemen standing within two feet of me. For a second I imagined he was talking to me, in which case he couldn’t have failed to see my obvious panic, but to my relief I saw that his attention was fixed on the preacher. I hadn’t registered on his radar. Even so, I turned my face away, in case he saw the cut above my eye and became inquisitive.
‘I am perfectly well, thank you very much,’ the preacher replied. ‘This is nothing that cannot be overcome.’
‘Of course not, sir,’ the policeman continued, ‘but if I might make a suggestion, perhaps you ought to think about conducting your address from a more convenient location. One that is less of a hazard to both yourself and your fellow pedestrians.’
The preacher balked. ‘I have the right to stand wherever I choose.’
‘Of course you do, sir, and the irony of this location is not lost on me, I can assure you of that.’ The policeman must have indicated his meaning because the preacher turned and looked at the pub on the other side of the road.
‘The World’s End?’ he said haughtily. ‘My message has nothing to do with that den of sin, I can assure you.’
‘I rather think you’re missing the point,’ the policemen said. I could sense he was smirking. ‘However, I think it would be best for everyone involved if you moved somewhere – how should we say – a little less appropriate. Both you and your friend.’
I stopped moving. So he had noticed me. Careful not to show my face, I turned to the preacher.
‘Maybe the officer’s right,’ I said, trying to sound familiar. ‘Why don’t we take a break, go for a cup of tea or something, eh? We can start again when things have calmed down a bit.’
The preacher was wondering what the hell he had done to deserve such loyalty. At first he was pleased at my show of charity, but then his expression became confused. It was only a matter of time before he suspected my motives.
‘Do I–?’ he started to say. But before he could finish, a miracle of truly biblical proportions occurred.
Without a second thought, the words, ‘Be patient and you will finally win, for a soft tongue can break hard bones,’ fell out of my mouth.
The preacher was astonished.
‘Proverbs 28:13,’ he said with delight.
‘Quite so, brother.’
‘A cup of tea?’ he said with a renewed gush of enthusiasm. ‘Most definitely, after all, it won’t hurt, will it?’
The policeman scoffed. ‘It’s only a cup of tea, sir. I shouldn’t expect it to hurt at all.’
The preacher seemed impervious to the policeman’s conceit and excitedly gathered his belongings together around an old leather briefcase. I waited for him to finish and then, after failing to stop myself casting one last guilty glimpse over my shoulder, I took him by the elbow and led him over the pedestrian crossing.
My intention was to ditch him once I was on the other side, but as we were making our way across, I could see in the reflection of a shop window that the policeman was watching our movements. No, I was stuck with him. For now.
The closest place I could see that might sell chai was a ramshackle food stop, virtually next door to the club I had lost myself in the night before. With its corrugated stainless steel and bright lights, it looked as though someone had backed a fairground truck into the line of buildings, unhitched it and then cemented around the edges. It did have one thing going for it, though: there wasn’t an iced caffé latte or cinnamon macchiato in sight.
‘So you’re a Christian?’ the preacher asked, trying to find my gaze.
‘Well, I’m buying the tea if that’s what you mean.’
From the lack of furniture it was clearly not a place that people were meant to idle away their time in. This was no Sunday morning, jazz-tinged retreat. However, tucked away in the corner sat an aluminium table and a cluster of chairs, presumably for employees to eke out the lulls. I nudged my companion.
‘Here, grab those seats before someone else does.’
The preacher did as I requested. I ordered two cups and then joined him, positioning my chair so that I could look out into the street.
The policeman was still at the crossing, but for the moment his attention was drawn elsewhere. I continued to watch him until the preacher’s determined looks became impossible to ignore.
‘What?’ I asked rudely. ‘What is it?’
‘I see that you are well versed in the Lord’s word, Mr…?’
‘Hmm? Oh yeah, it’s Felix.’
‘Always a pleasure to meet a fellow Christian, Felix. I’m Duncan.’ He leaned across the table and attempted a gawky embrace, which I shouldered to one side.
Unperturbed, he asked, ‘So, is this your parish?’
‘No, not quite.’
I concentrated on my lookout for a few moments, but I could feel that he was studying me with expectant eyes, like a dog waiting at your side during mealtimes. Eventually I felt obliged to throw him a scrap.
Felix Shill Deserves to Die Page 22
