by Ian Black
George keeps quiet; hoping to force a reply, but Hazma ignores him, and moves to the door mumbling, “He’s right I shouldn’t have brought you here!”
George raises his voice, “I wish you hadn’t!”
Hazma steps through the threshold slamming the door behind him; leaving George alone, head down, despondent, as the lock slides across from outside.
•
In the adjoining house Binda stands alone deep in thought in the kitchen, waiting for a kettle to boil. As he drops a tea bag into a mug, Hazma’s voice from behind startles him, “Binda.”
Binda spins around and stands rigid, wearing a mixed expression of anger, embarrassment and confused hesitation, after what just happened.
Hazma immediately offers a hand towards his friend, and admits, “I made a mistake… bringing him here… I know that now.”
After a hesitant pause, Binda accepts, they clasp hands, but Hazma does make the point, “He’s a good man though, he shouldn’t be harmed, just because I got him involved.”
Binda’s expression gives nothing away now, so Hazma suggests, “Once our operation is complete, I’ll release him. He was a tramp living in the woods. I’ll take him to a forest miles away, it’ll be like releasing an animal back into the wild. He’ll be happy there… He’ll do us no harm.”
Binda returns his attention to the kettle, pours steaming water into the mug and replies coldly, “You can never release him.”
Hazma’s confused, “Why?”
Binda adds milk, squeezes the tea bag with a spoon, wallops in two dollops of sugar and explains, “Think about it… he knows who we are, what we do, where we are based…” He takes a sip of tea and states, “Ruparela won’t jeopardise our safety… for the sake of your tramp!”
Binda shuffles away taking his tea with him. The stark reality and inevitability of his words hit Hazma hard; a scenario he’s never considered. Feeling like he’s been punched in the stomach, he grasps hold of the work surface, leans forward and stares out through the kitchen window. His thousand-yard stare is back.
•
At about the same time, Millie and James are out shopping; stood on a bustling footpath waiting to cross a very busy Oxford Street, where it intersects Regent Street. A red bus trundles past, emblazoned with a large red slogan along the length of its midriff advertising VIRGIN MEDIA. Seeing a gap between the bus and a black cab James yanks Millie’s arm and drags her across; he still limps slightly, from the crash. The opposite pavement is packed too; pulsating with industrious shoppers and ambling tourists.
James has had his fill already and moans, “We’ve been in and out of women’s clothes shops for hours now… What exactly are you looking for?”
“I’ll know when I find it!” she replies dryly, pulling him into another store.
While Millie mooches, James finds the only available seat in the shop and gratefully takes the weight off his aching limb on a chair outside the changing rooms, and watches his girlfriend sifting along racks of clothing until she stops, on feeling her phone vibrating in the pocket of her jeans. She checks the message, then after a double-take and closer inspection her mouth visibly drops, in shock.
Seeing her concern James moves over, peers across her shoulder and asks, “What is it?” as she scrolls frantically over a spreadsheet filling the screen. He catches a glimpse of the Houses of Parliament.
Millie presses speed-dial, places the phone to her ear and asks, “Where are you, Larry?”
•
By early evening the safe house is full of terrorists, assembled for final briefing. Hazma stands staring through the crowd, to where George sits strapped to a chair in the corner, beside the grey steel cabinet. His head is shrouded completely in a black sack hood. The Iraqi also knows George’s mouth is taped beneath, because he applied the tape.
Staring at darkness, George’s hearing becomes more acute, listening intently to excited chatter from a steady stream of voices milling around the room, some in accented English, others in words he does not understand.
George racks his brain, struggling to understand why he’s sat alone in darkness, in punishment again; wondering what he’s done to deserve this. He remembers back to his childhood when Maurice crammed him into that cupboard. He spent hours incarcerated there, with his ears pricked up listening to muffled noises; hoping one would lead to a lifeline, a chance to get out. As thoughts flash through his mind he craves fresh-aired freedom, his den or the woods; happy times, carefree uncomplicated moments; not like now, sat in darkness, with his ears pricked up, listening to muffled noises… hoping for a lifeline.
Hazma knows he must stop staring across the room, it’s distracting his thoughts, wondering what George is wondering. He scans across the assembled faces of a dozen soldiers, all in their late teens or early twenties; young men who hold Hazma in high esteem. He’s a hero, and as they approach him humbly and chat, he repeatedly has to explain George’s presence in the corner, adding spice to the occasion for these gullible recruits.
They chat warmly, between themselves, exchanging stories of their journeys getting there from across the UK and abroad, and of their excitement and commitment to the task they collectively face. Although they appear to be a well-bonded group, like long lost friends, none of these men have ever met before. Recruited via splintered networks of cells, they are bonded by one common goal… death.
Ruparela holds court, and loves it; as always, immaculately attired as he mingles amongst his terrorists. The computer screens are all booted and on the wall-unit all five televisions are on, tuned to different channels. The double doors to the large grey cabinet yawn open; proudly displaying an arsenal of weaponry: Mortars, a rocket launcher, shells, machine guns, pistols, boxes of ammunition, bomb-making equipment, and several long sabre knives.
George listens intently to the rise and fall of overlapping conversations, interrupted occasionally by excited outbursts and laughter, until one excited voice shouts louder than the rest: Binda, “LOOK!”
The house falls silent; all turn to face the screens.
“Turn it up!” Ruparela commands.
Binda increases the volume to maximum. On one screen in bright red letters BREAKING NEWS flashes across the bottom. Everyone focuses on CNN reporter Millennium Jones, standing south bank of the Thames, river behind her, delivering a live as-it-happens report. The London Eye, Westminster Bridge and Big Ben all twinkle in the background, illuminated against a night-time sky. A plethora of lights: white, red, yellow and flashing blue.
She begins, “We bring you breaking news from London, England, of a foiled terrorist attempt to destroy the Houses of Parliament, and the entire British government.” A tumultuous roar of outrage and furious fist pumping erupts around the room. Amongst the furore Millie’s report is just about heard, “If successful, the plot may have wiped out all of Britain’s politicians… in one attack.”
Ruparela and Binda swivel their heads to Hazma, who looks as shocked as they are, but realises exactly what they’re thinking. “What?” he exclaims, raising his hands in the air, and with a disgusted expression protests innocently, “It wasn’t me!” The room becomes silent.
Until Millie continues, “After examining evidence, security forces are suggesting the planned attack may be the work of a militant Islamic group. A statement released by Downing Street hails another significant victory in the ongoing war on terror.”
Now all eyes focus on Hazma, whose heart sinks. Ruparela watches his eyes flash to the iPhone on the table, then to George.
Binda sees it too, “Did you leave him alone with the phone?”
Stone-faced Hazma bows his head… the response says it all.
In tandem Ruparela and Binda pace to where George sits, followed mob-handed by a motley crew, baying for blood.
Beneath the shroud George heard it all: Millie’s broadcast, the subsequent comments and movements towards him, and though he can’t see, he senses attention engulfing him.
The pack howls and
growls, his heart pumps frantically and face and underarms sweat profusely. Though his hands are tied behind he furiously attempts to wrestle his wrists around, within the restraints, to force the cross into the dragon. He hears emphatic breathing, his own through his nostrils, short sharp inhalations and exhalations; he braces… in anticipation.
The hood is yanked clean from his head. George’s eyes meet a wall of fury, ferocious anger and noise, flaming into him from faces of fuming men… dragons.
•
Chapter: 29
Receiving the Plaudits
The next afternoon, Larry’s elevated office is jam-packed full of jovial staff members who’ve climbed the steps to congregate and congratulate each other on last night’s first-on-the-scene scoop.
Larry’s a balding man who likes to let his hair down, which he’s doing now as he sits proudly swivelling side to side in his chair, revelling in watching Millie receiving the plaudits from her colleagues. They guzzle celebratory champagne and gorge on Krispy Kremes while bombarding Millie with compliments and questions.
One colleague asks, “Who was your source?”
Another enquires, “How did you make contact?”
“Listen guys…” Millie looks slightly embarrassed to admit, “I… I kind of stumbled onto it.”
“Nothing of the sort!” corrects Larry. “You nurtured a source that came good. Damn fine reporting. You made great news, Millie. And to top it all, you did MI5’s job, getting that email with Ruparela’s name all over it… Your involvement made that happen!” He grabs another donut.
Attention is drawn to the door, by a rapped knock from a uniformed courier stood top of the steps, holding a large pink candy-striped gift-box with a bright red ribbon tied in a bow around the lid.
The courier reads out loud from his paperwork, “Parcel here, for… intrepid reporter Millennium Jones!”
“That’s me!” squeals Millie, squeezing past her colleagues out onto the platform. With a giggle, she signs the courier’s receipt, accepts the beautifully presented box, and he departs down the steps.
“Who’s it from?” bawls Larry.
She reads from a handwritten gift-tag, “It says… Never forget what you did!”
“Who’s it from?” repeats Larry, stepping out onto the platform beside her.
Millie shrugs, “It doesn’t say.”
“Open it then!” encourages a colleague.
Balancing the base of the box on her forearm, Millie tugs gently at the ribbon releasing the bow, wondering out loud, “What is it?” Grinning in anticipation, she takes hold of the inch-high lid, lifts it clear and screams in surprise as a coiled Jack-in-the-box springs out from the package.
The others jump, startled, including Larry, and laugh collectively. As laughter dies down Millie peers over the top of the box, to inspect its contents. Initially, a look of confusion dawns across her face. She tilts her head to one side, seeming unsure what it is, but then, as the image processes, “AAAAAAHHHHHHH!” She screams again, in terror, drops the box and recoils with both hands across her face, appalled.
As the package falls, it tips, and the content drops from the box, lands, and bounces off top step.
Witnessing this, many others scream too; screams so shrill that employees working below in the open-plan office look up, and the disgusted uproar of noise grows louder as more people witness George’s dismembered head bumping its way down the stairs one step at a time… until it lands at the bottom with a thud.
Aghast Millie collapses into Larry arms, trembling, and though he’s fairly sure whose head it is, asks, “George?” She can’t answer, wailing uncontrollably. He passes her shuddering body to a colleague.
Descending the steps his mind registers, that in all his years as a reporter he’s seen many gruesome things, but none as unexpected or close up as this. On reaching the bottom he crouches over the head, examines it, sucks in and blows out a deep breath and exclaims, “You poor bastard!”
The neck at the front appears to have been sliced cleanly beneath the Adams Apple; but the rest has been hacked off; rough torn ragged remnants of skin hang from the back of the neck, while entrails of windpipe and artery hang straggling from the throat.
The face is battered; with streaks of dried blood from lacerations smeared across his skin. George’s eyelids are taped wide open revealing his horror-filled eyes, and several strips of grey duct tape are applied across his mouth, with the words PLAY VIDEO handwritten in marker pen on the duct tape.
Beneath the tape, something bulges from the mouth. With his fingernail, Larry carefully picks at a corner of the tape then peels it back, to reveal the white iPhone that Millie gave George crammed deep inside the throat, protruding from the mouth.
With tiny tentative tugs, Larry retrieves the blood-stained phone, and with his necktie attempts to clean it; then exclaims in disbelief under his breath, “It’s that phone!”
Upstairs, Millie has collapsed, in a state of frenzied shock.
Larry sits himself down in the closest chair, and prods the phones screen until a triangular prompt appears. Several more hardened colleagues huddle around him and watch over his shoulder as Larry presses play.
The video has been taken on this iPhone by someone inside the safe house. The opening scene is an extreme close-up onto a pair of penetrating pupils staring intensely into the lens. As it pans back Ruparela’s sinister face fills the screen, and his cold well-spoken voice speaks, “Tonight, CNN reported of a victory, in the war on terror… I’m compelled to ask… a victory for whom? No one was defeated. No shots were fired, no blood was shed or enemy captured. Our army and arsenal remain intact. Our blood rifles through our veins, pumped by passion in our hearts and it is with crystal clear focus and conviction that I remind the West this evening… we are very much alive!”
The man videoing moves backwards slowly, and as he does the expanse of the lens widens to reveal a crowd of men stood huddled behind Ruparela, like a team photograph… A death team; all wearing hoods or balaclavas and holding weaponry: machine guns, pistols, knives, sabres and a rocket launcher; proudly displayed as threatening trophies of terror.
Ruparela steps aside, revealing George sat behind him, bound to a hard-backed chair facing the camera, with gesticulating terrorists looming their doom over him from behind. George’s face is battered, his mouth taped closed and both eyelids taped open forcing him to watch. His petrified bloodshot eyes flicker frantically as Ruparela seethes, “The only damage we sustained… was to our pride… But pride heals; from adversity we grow stronger, wiser, more willing, cunning, more determined to succeed.” He prods a finger at the camera, “YOU MAY CLAIM TO HAVE WON ONE BATTLE…” punching his fist in the air, “BUT WE WILL WIN THE WAR!”
Rapturous cheers erupt around safe house.
Larry and his colleagues hold their breath, spellbound, and though they know what happens in the end… no one looks away.
As the cheering subsides, Ruparela explains, “The source of your shallow victory…” he points at George, “was this man… a man who quite incredibly chose to aid the very country that betrayed him… Great Britain, his own great nation, who imprisoned him for revenging his oppressors! For defending his creed against stronger attacking forces, he was cast out by his nation.” The doctor moves closer to George, and shows compassion, placing a palm on his head, and continues, “Understanding oppression, as we do… one of our own people listened to George, and understood what this long-suffering man endured. He was befriended by us, aided by us, people who supported his fight, empathised with his plight.” He holds his arms out questioningly and exclaims, “But after all our support and friendship… he repaid us… with betrayal!”
A balaclava-wearing terrorist stood behind George sways a long shimmering sabre in the air, slowly from side to side, as Ruparela emphasizes, “Betrayal… has a cost… This man must pay the price.”
The sword-bearer reaches around and positions his razor-sharp sabre blade beneath George’s Adam’s ap
ple. He flinches feeling cold steel touching his skin, as Ruparela explains, “When removing a man’s head, I find a single sabre blow from behind far too clinical… I prefer a more drawn-out affair with the head being sliced from the front upwards… It prolongs the traitor’s agony and gives him a front-row view!” Another terrorist leans around, picks at the tape on George’s cheek then rips it clean off. George winces, as the doctor addresses him, “George, these are the last moments of your life… Your last opportunity to speak… Please, explain, why… you betrayed us, to the country that betrayed you?”
Resigned now to his fate, George digs deep for courage… and finds it in abundance. He focuses on Ruparela’s eyes, and with trembling angry words states quietly, “Hazma taught me a word… to describe you.”
He raises an eyebrow, “What’s that?”
“Hypocrite!” snaps George, his voice growing louder and angrier, “Hazma taught me about religion… I know about Saint George… and I’ve met too many dragons… but you… you’re the worst!”
“I’m intrigued!”
“Dragons use force to get what they want… then stop! BUT YOU… you have everything; you’re clever, you’re a doctor, with love, respect, health, wealth, everything; but it’s not enough, you want more, and use religion to get it. More power, more killing; but how much do you need, how much death do you need? Tell me… WHEN DOES THE KILLING STOP?”
“Surprisingly articulate,” he replies. “I thought you were thick!”
“I learned from Hazma. He’s a better man than you, but your power makes him follow you blindly. You act in God’s name as if you’re a great man, BUT YOU’RE A SHAM!”
“SILENCE!” fumes Ruparela.
He continues, “Your brainwashed men do the dirty work, while you live in luxury, IN THE NAME OF ALLAH!”
“ENOUGH!” he yells, motioning a cut sign across his own throat.
