by Ed Grace
He wouldn’t tell them. They didn’t need to know.
Only he and Kelly would know of Sullivan’s involvement, and that would be how he’d keep it.
“Never mind,” Kelly said. “It was a bad idea, I—”
“No. No, it wasn’t.” Jameson wiped perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. “He’s perfect. Bring him in.”
Chapter Eleven
The bar on Benton Street was like any other bar.
As far as Sullivan was concerned, the bar could have been the crème de le crème of amazing bars, or the shittiest, most broken-down pub in all of England, it didn’t matter — so long as it served booze.
He sat on a stool and ordered a whiskey. The barmaid placed it in front of him and he drank it down in one, then ordered another.
Kelly had helped him to begin his fight against alcohol addiction. In the little time he had known her, sobriety had felt like a potential future. He hated people trying to help him, but when Kelly helped him, it didn’t feel like he was being helped.
But he didn’t give a shit about sobriety anymore. Not after that morning.
That’s the thing about addiction — never mind how sober you get, an alcoholic is still an alcoholic.
Oh, if his daughter saw him now, how little she would think of him.
He drank the whiskey down and grunted at the barmaid, “Another.”
The news played on the television above the bar, showing a reporter standing in front of the police tape Sullivan had crossed a few hours ago. The headlines were the same and they just kept repeating the same information over and over — only the numbers changed.
“Latest figures on the death toll are at 86, with 46 people in intensive care — more than twenty of which are believed to be children.”
“Fuck,” muttered Sullivan, taking the whiskey without a word of thanks and drinking it like it was water.
“Please, leave us alone,” came a Birmingham accent from behind him.
Sullivan turned around to see what was happening. A young family sat at the table, trying to eat their dinner in peace. A father, a mother, and two children young enough to be toddlers. A man with a shaved head stood over them, evidently taking a dislike to this family being Muslims.
“We had nothing to do with what has happened, we just wish to eat our meal without being disturbed,” the father said, but timidly.
The man with the shaved head turned to a table behind him, where two other blokes sat. They stood up and joined him.
“Ain’t you seen what’s happened on the news?” the man persisted.
“Please—”
“You seen it, and you have the nuts to show your face? You dirty fucking scum.”
“We have nothing to do with what happened—”
“Nothing to do with it? You fucking kidding me?”
Sullivan slid off his seat and walked toward them. “Hey, why don’t you—”
“Is there a Jay Sullivan?” said a voice from behind the bar. Sullivan turned around, annoyed that someone had just shouted his identity across the bar.
The barmaid stood, with a phone held beneath her chin.
“What?” Sullivan said.
“There’s a phone call for you.”
With a glance back at the skinhead, Sullivan traipsed back to the bar and took the phone.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Jay, is that you?”
It was Kelly.
“Yep.”
“I’m going to give you the name of a safe house, can you meet us there in half an hour?”
“You bringing me in?”
“Can you meet us there or not?”
“Fine.”
Kelly gave the address and they hung up.
Aware of the family and the racist group of lads still staring at him, he lifted his glass and drained the last drops of whiskey. He placed some cash on the bar then hobbled over to the family and the men standing over them.
“You defending these cunts, eh?” the man said. “Are you telling me—”
Sullivan struck his fist into the man’s face, sending him to the floor and knocking him clean out.
The man’s friends looked at Sullivan, stuck between shock and fury. Without hesitation, Sullivan strode toward them and smacked the first guy’s head against the wall. The man slid down the wall, landing in a slump; not quite unconscious, but not conscious either.
The final man took out a knife and charged at Sullivan. Sullivan took the guy’s wrist and twisted it until he dropped the knife into Sullivan’s palm. He placed the guy’s wrist onto the nearest table and slammed the knife into the middle of his hand.
The man screamed, staring at his hand attached to the wood, blood dribbling down his fingers.
Sullivan took out a wad of cash and handed it to the father.
“Dinner’s on me,” he said.
He nodded at the father, took some pills to cure the growing pain in his chest, and left.
Chapter Twelve
The safe room was an unused flat on the outskirts of Islington. It was an unremarkable building with unremarkable residents lurking around it. A perfect disguise — no one would ever notice a run-down, empty flat when all the other flats around it were the same.
Sullivan entered and immediately felt uncomfortable. Kelly sat at a table with a welcoming smile, but her partner seemed less eager, sitting back in his chair with his arms folded and a deadened expression on his face.
“This is Henry Jameson,” Kelly said. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
The low light made the whole situation feel seedier than it needed to be — but Sullivan knew what kind of person Jameson was. Sullivan could read him straight away. This was all about power. That was why Jameson made Kelly introduce him, refused to offer a hand to shake, and filled the room with shadows.
But Sullivan was not an easy man to intimidate. Those who entered a power struggle with Sullivan tended to not come out of it too well.
Sullivan took a seat and looked from Kelly to Jameson.
“Well, what do we know already?” he asked.
“That’s top secret,” Jameson said stiffly.
“I have a feeling that I’m not here to eat lollipops and candy-canes, so if you plan to use me, I need to know what’s up.”
Kelly opened an envelope and pushed a picture of a man toward him.
“This is Azeer Nadeem.”
“Before we start,” Jameson interjected, “I need you to understand — everything we are about to tell you is classified. You are sworn to secrecy, and anything you leak will result in charges being brought—”
“Charges? Your government is trying to kill me, and you are threatening me with charges? Just tell me the damn story.”
Kelly explained the situation, including Azeer’s prison sentence, the plan to record his conversations, and the intention of Kelly to translate what he says, all so they could find out when and where the next attacks would be.
Throughout the whole explanation, Jameson remained silent.
“Two more attacks in the next thirty days, huh?” Sullivan said. “You think they are bullshitting you?”
“As it stands, we are taking the threat very seriously,” Kelly answered.
“Why would he tell us there are going to be more attacks? Why not just do them?”
“He has a mole in the MI5. As far as he’s concerned, he’s impenetrable, so why not taunt us?”
“And you want to send me into prison to spy on him?”
“Exactly.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want to send me in so I can beat it out of him? I’d enjoy that.”
Jameson tutted and rolled his eyes.
“What?” Sullivan said. “MI5 doesn’t condone a little torture to get a terrorist to speak? Don’t tell me you’ve never at least dabbled in water boarding.”
“MI5 is—”
“An organisation hunting me and you don’t even know why.”
“We will not be torturing th
is information out of him, Mr Sullivan,” Jameson insisted. “We will be spying, covertly, and that is the limit of your mission. Truth be told, I don’t particularly like having you involved. You are our last resort.”
“If I’m being drafted in, I’d imagine I’m your only resort.”
“Precisely!”
“In which case, you’d better be a little nicer. Otherwise you’ll have no options at all.”
“When you two are quite done,” Kelly interrupted, “we still have more to discuss.”
Jameson stood and meandered to the window, where he remained with his back to them.
“What’s his deal?” Sullivan said to Kelly, knowing this would wind Jameson up. It was immature, sure, but he couldn’t help it.
“We have one major issue we need to cover before we send you in,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“People may know who you are. Your identity is known to high-ranking government officials, not to mention criminals linked to those you’ve killed, like terrorists, gangs, traffickers — the list goes on. This means that, for all we know, Azeer Nadeem could know who you are.”
“And?”
“And, if we just send you in as a prisoner, they might not buy it.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Henry?” Kelly prompted.
Ah, this was clearly his part of the plan. This should be good.
“We go public with your arrest,” Jameson said. “We alert the press, we go on the news, we tell everyone that we have finally captured a government assassin who committed treason and went against his own country. We celebrate that we have caught a serial murderer who absconded and killed his own people. We will make sure it is known that you are caught, so everyone thinks we got you.”
“But you have got me, haven’t you? This is what you wanted all along.”
“This is far from what I want.”
“Really? You mean you won’t even take just the slightest bit of pleasure showing off to the rest of your MI5 dicks that you caught a man on the UK’s most wanted list? Might this even mean another promotion?”
“Feel free to decline involvement, Mr Sullivan. I truly would not mind.”
Sullivan turned back to Kelly. “Where did you get this guy?”
“Jay, you need to understand something, and we need to make it really clear,” Kelly said.
“And what’s that?”
“We are the only people who will know the truth. We will be the only two people able to pull you out in thirty days, assuming this is all over.”
“Yes,” Jameson said, “so you best not get on our wrong side.”
Sullivan lifted an eyebrow, unsure whether or not that was a joke.
He wondered whether taking on this mission would make his daughter proud — then he realised that all Talia would see was a news report about the infamous Jay Sullivan finally being caught.
But he would explain the truth to her someday.
He hoped.
“So when do we begin?” Sullivan said.
“We have arranged to have you in front of a judge in two hours. You will admit guilt and be held in remand while you await sentencing, which will be arranged for after the thirty days are up so as not to interrupt the operation.”
“So we still have two hours?”
“Yes.”
“Brilliant.” He turned to Jameson and grinned. “Fancy a game of Scrabble?”
Chapter Thirteen
With Jameson on the phone to make the final arrangements, Kelly and Sullivan found themselves with a small amount of time to spare.
She led him into another room and shut the door. He was about to make an ill-timed quip about whether this was the best time for a quickie; then he saw the look on her face and kept his mouth shut.
“Jay…” she said, rushing forward and embracing him.
He took hold of her arms and moved her away from him.
“I’m scared, Jay,” she said.
“Scared? Of what?”
“We didn’t see this coming. So many people are dead, and we should have known. We should have known…”
She went to embrace him again, but he held her at an arm’s distance.
“And now I’m losing you. To prison. I’m scared — what if you don’t come back?”
“I’m not going to stay there, am I? It’s hardly the Ritz.”
“That’s not what I mean, Jay. What if it changes you?”
“Changes me?”
Did she really have no idea who she was sleeping with?
If she thought prison was going to change him, she was evidently unaware of all the things he’d done. If anything, prison was where he belonged. It would be where he would flourish, along with all the other murderers and scumbags.
“I just want you to come back as the same person, the man I fell in love with.”
Jay frowned and moved away from her.
“Jay?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with me. I told you to stop that.”
“I can’t just stop—”
“Don’t be so pathetic.”
“I am not—”
“Grow up, Kelly. This is not about us being star-crossed lovers, it’s about us stopping another attack. I don’t give a shit about whether this relationship survives. It’s not even a relationship. We are just sleeping together.”
Sullivan marched toward the door, took hold of the door handle, and paused.
Maybe that wasn’t fair.
But he had told her before — he had specifically said that this was not a relationship, that this was not love. Bad things happened to those who loved him, and if she felt even a little bit of feeling for him, then she was doomed.
He turned back to her, expecting to see her looking upset, but she did not look vulnerable; she looked pissed. Her arms were folded, her stance robust. She was too strong a woman to pander to his weaknesses.
“You’re a dick, Jay, you know that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m worried about you, and I’m not going to pretend I’m not,” she said. “Azeer Nadeem is a dangerous man. Prison isn’t a nice place.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
“But—”
“Trust me, I’ve faced worse.”
“Okay,” she said. She didn’t mean it.
“And you’ll be fine without me. You don’t need me fucking up your life, anyway. The mission is most important now. If we follow your plan, then we should be able to figure out when the next attack will be and stop it.”
“Yeah.”
“And I’ll be out before you know it.”
“Okay.”
He hesitated.
“I’m a bastard, Kelly. Please don’t start thinking that you love me. You don’t really.”
“Don’t tell me how I’m supposed to feel.”
“Just get a grip, yeah? Stop trying to see something that’s not there.”
She went to reply, then didn’t. She opened the door, then paused, looking back to Sullivan.
“You know what, you’re right,” she said. “You are a bastard. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She marched out the door, leaving Sullivan alone.
It wasn’t a nice thing to say, but really, pushing her away was the kindest thing he could ever do for her.
She’d understand some day.
Stoke-On-Trent, United Kingdom
SEVEN YEARS AGO
Chapter Fourteen
It was the first anniversary of Fahad’s death, and Zain was angry.
It wasn’t so much the death itself that fuelled his anger — that anger had always been there. This was new anger — anger that still had a fresh, unsettling rawness to it. An anger that he had not spent twelve months trying to repress.
This was anger at everyone around him.
His father didn’t understand. He’d just moan that all Zain did was charge aro
und the house, puffing his chest out, making dismissive comments to his brothers and sisters. He no longer wanted to play with his younger sister when she got her Lego out — something he so happily did a year ago.
They didn’t seem to understand that his friend’s murder had changed everything. His mother and father, whilst sympathetic, had begun to run out of the patience they originally had. It was no longer comments of “how are you feeling today” and “what can we do to help?” They had changed to comments such as “you need to start thinking about your own life” and “you are smart, don’t waste it.”
The resentment he felt made him want to sabotage his own life just to get back at them; to avoid having a future as a fuck you to his parents.
And so it was, at sixteen years old, Zain left school. His GCSE exams came and went, and he made a mild attempt at answering a few questions on a few exam papers, not particularly caring about the results.
The GCSEs were insignificant to him. What was the point in caring about exams in a world like this? GCSEs were a British thing, almost as much as racism or thug culture.
He despised all of those things.
“You must decide what you wish to do now,” his father insisted. “The local college is very good, as is the sixth form attached to your school. They will give you the best chance of going to university.”
University?
Hah!
Zain had no intention of going to university. What was the point of going to an institution full of white people wondering which quota he was filling by being there — the only difference between the academic and the xenophobic on the street was the level of education behind their racism; the more intelligent weren’t less racist, they were just more subtle about it. Did his father really expect him to go to university just to get a job and pay tax to a government who weren’t interested in helping someone unless they were rich and white? All you had to do was watch parliament debating on television and play a game of ‘spot the ethnic minority’ to realise how much British society was set up to keep him quiet, and keep him poor.
He’d bought a knife that came with a holder, one that he could tie around his calf, and he never went anywhere without it.
