Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  As George stirs, he claps his mouth open and closed several times, hangs out his dehydrated tongue and mumbles, “Head hurts!”

  “Same!” Hazma picks himself up slowly. “We’ve got to go.” He carefully opens the shed door, checks the coast is clear, and steps out. On reaching the fence he looks back to see a sheepish-looking dreadfully hungover George stepping tentatively from the shed. He’s a pathetic sight, especially in the apparel he’s wearing.

  Hazma looks him up and down in disbelief, “You’re supposed to wear something inconspicuous. We’ve got to blend in, so we don’t get spotted.”

  George’s choice of charity clothing has been discarded by the woman of the household; a large-sized lady. He now wears a colourful pair of maroon slacks and white fluffy mohair polo-neck pullover, beneath a double-breasted navy blue pin-striped blazer, with shiny brass buttons.

  With his head still spinning, George is confused by Hazma’s observation, and exclaims, “What?” looking down at himself.

  “Lose the jacket!” Hazma commands, whose clothes are far more conservative. “Come on!” George tosses the blazer back into the shed.

  Hazma vaults the fence, followed by a half-paced George, who feebly clambers himself up to momentarily lie balanced precariously, plank-like, lengthways along the top of the fence, before Fosbury flopping over… and dropping like a dead weight to the floor.

  •

  Chapter: 28

  Safe House

  After midnight, from the shadows of a dark secluded alleyway, Hazma peers around the corner across a scruffy dimly lit street on a very old run-down dilapidated London council estate, and focuses across the street on a seemingly derelict corner property, at the end of a long row of small terraced houses. The front door and all windows have been removed and bricked-up completely with breeze-blocks by the council, as they often do when social housing is in poor repair awaiting refurbishment. It also makes the buildings inaccessible to undesirables.

  Hazma looks both ways along the street; cars are parked nose to tail. Detecting no visible movement, he whispers, “Come on!”

  George follows closely behind as they sprint across the road before stopping outside the doorway of a house immediately adjoining the derelict corner property. Hazma raps on the door, in what sounds like a coded knock sequence. Within moments the door opens slowly, but only by inches as it’s secured inside by a rattling security chain. The wide bulging eyes and flat nose of a strange-looking, bald, bearded man of Middle-Eastern origin, and of similar age to Hazma, peers back through the gap, then on recognition his wide eyes open wider. “Hazma!” he exclaims in heavily accented English.

  “Let us in, Binda!” instructs Hazma in a hushed voice.

  Binda ignores the instruction, and pokes his long finger through the gap towards George. Looking him up and down with eyes that get freakier the more you look at them, and asks, “What’s that?”

  Hazma looks around, “What’s what?”

  “That!” Binda continues pointing at George, “What is it?”

  “Binda!” Hazma’s in no mood to fool around, “Just let us in!”

  But Binda hesitates, “Who is he?” and referring to George’s striking attire asks sarcastically, “What is he wearing? Is he a gay?”

  “He’s my friend, open the door!”

  Binda’s face shows caution as he comments dryly, “It’s not fancy dress, mate!”

  Extremely anxious now, Hazma looks around the street demanding aggressively, “Open the door, now!”

  The man pulls his head back and releases the chain; Hazma practically barges in, dragging George behind him. Binda slams the door closed and replaces the chain. Now in full view, he has a long frizzy beard and long bald head. Totally ignoring George, he opens his arms wide and beckons Hazma warmly, “Hazmaaa Saharrr, welcome home, my friend.”

  Both men embrace; George shuffles nervously, feeling awkward. Noticing his obvious discomfort, Hazma introduces them, “My good friends, Binda… meet George.”

  George offers his hand to shake, but Binda blanks him, totally ignoring his offer, then deliberately shoulders past George, with enough contact to unbalance him, and heads towards the kitchen, “Come, Hazma!”

  Hazma notices the barge and shrugs apologetically as both men follow Binda, listening to him talk as he walks, “Hazmaaa Saharrr, the famous one. You are a legend.” He stops at a cloakroom door at the end of the hall and turns to face Hazma. “Now you’ve escaped you are even more famous than when you were caught. It’s all over the news… We are proud of you, brother.” The men embrace for a second time, before Binda warns, “But we must be careful; you must stay in the safe house.”

  Hazma nods.

  Binda’s immediate dislike of George is obvious as he scowls at him contemptuously. George has seen eyes like his before, not as angry, but the same shape, and then recalls from the woods, Binda’s sticky-out eyes look like a bullfrog’s, though his don’t seem to blink, especially now as he stares straight at George snapping, “What about the gay?”

  “Let it go, Binda!” Hazma responds angrily. “He’s my friend, we escaped together. I trust him!”

  Binda tuts disapprovingly, prompting Hazma to look him in the eye and ask, “Is my word not enough for you?”

  Binda stares back, considers the question, and then replies emphatically, “Of course your word is good enough… for me, but I cannot speak for the doctor.” He turns, opening a small under-the-stairs door to a cloakroom, ducks his head and disappears inside, followed by Hazma.

  Initially, as George moves across and peers inside the closet, they appear to have both disappeared. Inside the cloakroom a line of long dark coats and cloaks hang from hooks along the back wall. George is confused at their disappearance, until two hands appear in front of him and part the garments, creating a gap for a face to pop through: Hazma’s. “Come, George…” he beckons, “it’s a hidden door.”

  Parting the coats wider reveals a disguised doorway, via the cloakroom, which leads into the adjacent terraced house next door, and though it looks derelict from outside, as George ducks his head through the gap, he steps across the threshold into a secret fully equipped terrorist cell’s safe house.

  On the ground floor, all internal partition walls have been demolished, to create one large open-plan meeting-cum-restroom. The bricked-up windows and doorways can be seen at both ends of the house. A small kitchen unit has been incorporated into the room and a flight of old wooden stairs leads up to the first floor.

  The décor is old and shabby, as are the furnishings: two old three-piece suites, two sets of chairs and tables that have PCs and laptops on them, and an old 1970s shelved wall-unit houses a large bulky TV, which pokes out from its largest cavity, surrounded by four small portable-sized televisions squeezed into smaller gaps. The walls are adorned with framed religious pictures, torn-out newspaper cuttings and photographs of people and places, maps, and hand-drawn diagrams. In the corner stands a very large grey two-door steel office cabinet.

  “You must be hungry,” states Binda. “I’ll get some food,” ducking out of the room, leaving them alone.

  Hazma beckons George to sit. “You are privileged, George. This is the command centre of our operation… Welcome to our safe house.”

  “Welcome?” George raises an eyebrow. “Was that a welcome… from your brother?”

  Hazma corrects him, “Binda’s not my real brother, he’s a brother in arms. He’s just doing his job; our operation is run with military precision. We can’t take chances. He doesn’t know you, so he’s guarded, that’s all.”

  George isn’t convinced as he sits back in the couch. He feels uncomfortable, nervous, and twists the tattooed cross on his right knuckle into the dragon in his palm, as the door to the safe house swings open.

  Binda enters carrying a tray of refreshments, shaking his head from side to side muttering to himself, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Ruparela will not be happy.”

  “Binda…” Hazma
exclaims, “I’ll speak to him in the morning.”

  Binda plonks the tray on the table, faces Hazma and states, “Until the doctor says it is okay… I’m not happy he’s here.”

  Hazma insists, “I’ll sort it… first thing tomorrow.”

  “I know you will!” he retorts. “I just phoned him,” and moves back to the adjoining door. “He’s delighted you are home, Hazma…” then nods at George, “but he’s not happy about the gay!” He grabs the door handle, “It’s late. Sleep, brother,” then steps through the gap slamming the door behind him.

  Hearing a deadbolt sliding across, locking the door from outside, immediately reminds George of the kitchenette cupboard… and prison. He looks at Hazma and questions, “Did we swop our cell for a bigger one?”

  •

  With the doors and windows bricked up, no hint of daylight penetrates the safe house. Only by checking the iPhone does Hazma know it’s 7.00am. He reads a text message, received during the night from Millie: George, Hazma, please contact me. I can help you. Millie. He switches on the main light, sits at the table and powers the TV.

  George stirs on the couch, awakened by noise from an early morning chat show. A male host and his studio guests, made up of general public, are arguing over the theme of domestic violence, which has unsurprisingly degenerated into a heated verbal melee. The uncontrolled irrational behaviour on display, especially from the host, narks George, prompting him to question firmly, “Why is everyone so aggressive? It winds me up! I’ve had enough of it, Haz! I want an easy life now; I just want to be left alone without having to battle with people like Pixie and your mate Binda… I see the anger in their eyes; they just love being angry!”

  Hazma shrugs dismissively, “There’s a lot of anger in the world.”

  “I’m sick of it! I see it in your eyes too… You’re always angry!”

  “I am what I am.”

  George keeps going, “And your mate is a freak… hanging around with him I can see why you’re angry.”

  “Stop whingeing, George,” retorts the Iraqi. “You moaned you had nowhere to go, so I brought you home with me. Don’t be ungrateful!”

  George realises he’s wasting his breath, and mutters to himself “I’ve gotta get out of—” but is cut short, as the deadbolt slides across. The adjoining door swings open. Binda enters carrying a machine gun, sneering at George, then stands back making room for his leader, whose toothy smile enters first, followed by his immaculate self. Everything about Ruparela is impressive, except for his eyes: that are dark and cold. The face smiles… his eyes don’t.

  Hazma rushes eagerly towards Ruparela’s outstretched arms. They embrace like father and son. The doctor rubs his palm gently across Hazma’s cropped head and greets him, “Welcome home… we have missed you.”

  Hazma looks touched, and replies, “I missed you too, Doctor.”

  While both men hug, George watches, prompting Binda to edge towards him, but Ruparela notices and holds up an arm to stop him. An awkward silent moment follows, as all four men stand looking at each other… Ruparela and Hazma are straight faced, Binda snarls, George just looks lost, until Ruparela speaks. “And this must be George… I saw your picture on the news.”

  Hazma explains nervously, “We were cellmates, we are friends, we escaped together and I trust him. He had nowhere to—”

  “Hazma calm down!” Ruparela holds out his hand towards George, who steps forward, accepts, and politely shakes.

  As they greet George wonders why this respected man’s pathetically limp handshake is so weak and lifeless. He can only imagine that although he’s smiling, this man must really be disinterested to meet him. But then remembers, what Mr David said, first impressions aren’t always what they seem.

  As Ruparela pulls his hand free, Hazma pipes up again, “George is a good man. I can—”

  “Please sit down, George,” offers Ruparela. George sits in a hard-backed chair. The doctor looks him up and down before commenting, “Very dapper… your clothes!”

  Prompting Binda to blurt like a buffoon, “He looks like a gay, ha, ha!” guffawing at his own joke. No one else laughs.

  “They were the only clothes we could find,” Hazma clarifies. “He’s a good man, Doctor. You can trust—”

  Ruparela holds his hand up, silencing him again, then calmly explains to George, “Hazma is like a son to me… him saying you can be trusted would normally suffice. But with your escape, the TV coverage, police sniffing around etcetera, etcetera… your presence here must be handled…” he looks at Hazma, “with extreme caution.” Turning back to George, he continues, “George, please… consider yourself our guest, but under these awkward circumstances, our guest with special conditions.”

  The doctor moves towards the door, beckoning Hazma to follow, and explains, “I must speak with Hazma in private now, and while we’re away, unfortunately, I must insist you are restrained until our return.”

  “But…” Hazma interrupts, “he’s—”

  Ruparela’s cutting expression silences Hazma, who bows his head subserviently.

  The doctor swivels on the soles of his patent leather shoes, instructing Binda, “Tie him up!” then leaves.

  Hazma scurries behind him, quietly reassuring George, “I won’t be long. I’ll speak to him.”

  George looks like a scared, little-boy-lost. He’s jumped from the frying pan into the fire, and preferred the frying pan. Only one thought flashes through his mind: I’ve gotta get out of here!

  Before Hazma ducks through the doorframe he reminds Binda, who’s eagerly tying George’s hands to the chair, “Treat my friend well!”

  Binda totally ignores him.

  •

  Once in the hallway, by the front door, Ruparela passes Hazma a flat bundle of neatly ironed clothing. Hazma knows exactly what to do and shakes it out, unravelling a woman’s traditional black burqa full-length cotton gown and matching niqab head and face cover. He dons the clothing over his own and follows Ruparela out through the front door.

  In contrast to last night, the street now shows plentiful signs of life as residents go about their business. They are predominantly of Middle-Eastern or South-Asian origin, and a few acknowledge the doctor as they pass; he’s a respected man in the local community, well known for his powerful connections. Hazma won’t be recognised wearing the veil; his only body parts on show, through the thin slotted hole, are the eyes and bridge of his nose. Keeping his head down anyway, he shuffles behind Ruparela, who adores respectful recognition from passers-by.

  Another well-groomed man stands alongside the doctor’s shiny Mercedes; a very large man with a muscular neck practically as wide as his head. On seeing Ruparela, he presses a key fob and the electric-sliding rear side door whirs itself open.

  “Thank you, Imran,” acknowledges the doctor as he steps inside. Hazma follows into the rear of the plush people-carrier that is luxuriously fitted throughout. A flip-down TV hangs mounted from the ceiling, above a central table that has two supple-leather bench seats facing each other across the table from either side. Ruparela sits facing forward, Hazma sits opposite him. Imran presses the key fob again and the door whines itself closed.

  Once the car is in motion, Ruparela uses a remote control to turn on the television, then wearing his customary grin nods towards the TV and asks, “Do you like my Mercedes?”

  Through the cotton headgear Hazma’s reply is slightly muffled, “Yes, Doctor… very nice.”

  Ruparela continues smiling as he speaks, while focusing on the TV news, “It’s wonderful you are home… Your timing could not be better.” then stops to point at the television, “Look!” Pictures of Hazma and George flash across the screen, another report on their escape. “You always make me proud.” He leans over, rests his elbows on the table and continues, “Your commitment is exemplary, exemplary. The dignity shown during the trial, diligent genius to escape, your courage etcetera, etcetera… you make us very proud, Hazma.”

  “Thank you, Doct
or.”

  “But your timing is perfect… A major offensive is planned, striking a substantial blow to the heart of this nation.”

  Through the eye slot, Hazma’s eyes widen.

  Ruparela cherishes explaining, “Our attack will create mayhem… devastating the UK’s political infrastructure.”

  He’s intrigued, “What target?”

  The cheesy smile grows wider, as Ruparela relaxes in his chair, “Patience, my son… I have a magnificent viewpoint to show you from.”

  •

  While Imran battles his way through busy traffic, Ruparela and Hazma watch the world pass by in comfort, as they spend the thirty-minute journey catching up, discussing Hazma’s trial, the ten-year sentence, and what it was like inside.

  Reaching Central London, they pass Buckingham Palace and follow The Mall alongside St James’s Park until Imran takes a right into Horse Guards Road, past Horse Guards Parade and the rear of Downing Street on the left, then Churchill’s war bunker before taking a left at the T-junction.

  “We’re nearly there,” Ruparela advises.

  As they wait at traffic lights, both men look out across Parliament Square, overlooked by Winston Churchill’s statue. The lights turn green, Imran accelerates towards Westminster Bridge. Hazma gazes up through a panoramic sunroof at Big Ben, and glances along the Palace of Westminster and Houses of Parliament. The River Thames comes into view, and the gigantic London Eye ferris wheel on its south bank.

  As the car crosses Westminster Bridge Ruparela asks, “Have you been on The Eye?”

  He shakes his shrouded head.

  “You will today!”

  Minutes later Imran pulls into the car park behind Jubilee Gardens, and fortunately finds a space wide enough to accommodate the vehicle. He presses a button in the front, automatically opening the rear sliding door for his passengers.

  Ruparela steps from the car, ordering Imran, “Two tickets.”