Critical Mass Ch 1 and 2 rewrite.

CHAPTER 1

   “We are almost ready Caliph. There will be a thirty-second delay between recording and transmission for us to alter your voice. May I approach?”

Fahim rubbed the back of his neck, and glanced away from the Caliph.

“What’s on your mind, Fahim?”

The Caliph sensed Fahim’s nervousness as he approached.

“You seem troubled my friend.”

“Innocents will die, Caliph. This is not our cause.”

An awkward silence descended on the room. The chatter and clatter of the video technicians stopped as pause enveloped everyone.

The Caliph breathed deeply; not a sigh, more of a valve for the anger rising in him.

“What is an innocent, Fahim, if not our future enemy?”

He reached out his hand and gently, reassuringly grasped Fahim’s shoulder.

“Our cause has faltered under the old ways. We have been splintered when we should be united. I bring new blood, new hope. We will proceed as planned.” He released his tender grip.

“I have known you since you suckled at your Mother’s breast. I have bathed you. Been a Father to you. I don’t wish to see you become a murderer,” said Fahim.

The Caliph impatiently checked his watch. His brow furrowed. He turned and took two steps away from Fahim, dismissively facing away from his friend and confidant. He lowered his head and, in a voice mellowed by disappointment, “I have no Father and I have no need for a substitution. You have been an important part of my past, Fahim, but if you don’t want to witness my future then I will grant your wish. Take him.”

Years of friendship and trust dulled Fahim’s reactions. He was still facing the Caliph’s back as the barbs of the Taser pierced his shirt and hooked into his skin, delivering its debilitating fifty-thousand volt charge. Two of the followers plasti-cuffed his wrists and dragged his writhing body across the grimy concrete floor of the office and into the warehouse.

   The Caliph turned to address the remaining followers.

“Terror bleeds from the mind, not from the wound. We will rip this country’s perceived veil of impregnable safety and security from its blind eyes. Those without the stomach for my destiny will join Fahim in his.”

One of the followers picked up the video camera and cued twenty seconds. The Caliph pulled his black keffiyeh over his mouth, nose and blonde locks leaving only his unblinking and piercing blue eyes to penetrate the deepest fears of those who would watch the transmission.

Throughout the message he placed no demands, only a promise of a new and devastating horror. He ended his delivery with a single word, ‘Dahama’, a word to trigger an imminent threat to a terrified population.

Daylight pierced the darkened room as the Caliph opened the door and bade farewell to his followers. “I leave you now to prepare for the Gateway to fall.”

Before the light was completely shut out by the closing door, the crew set to work preparing the video broadcast equipment. They had done this before. The short transmission contained the familiar hallmarks of previous videos produced by the extremists including the presence of the intimidating, masked figure clad in black combat clothing. He had delivered the message in a British accent, electronically altered while standing before the menacing black flag of their cause, proudly displayed in the background.

   The Caliph glanced indifferently at Fahim’s chained, subdued form, hanging by the wrists from the steel joist, as he walked past and headed out into the crisp Autumn morning. He stood for a moment and watched as the gentle breeze dislodged brittle copper-coloured leaves from the branches of a nearby ash tree, falling helplessly only to be crushed under foot. A fulfilled grin spread across his face as he joined the crowds of London commuters.

CHAPTER 2

   October School half-term brought many things, usually the first of the Christmas shopping and the children eating their bodyweight in crisps and sweets. Rarely did it bring a trip to the local accident and emergency unit and a broken wrist.

“Who’s my brave little soldier?”

“Mum, I’m seven, not three.”

“Okay, invincible warrior. Better?”

“’Spose I can live with that.”

‘Where did the years go? Yesterday you were my little baby and now you’re a cheeky little bugger’ she thought.

“Hurts like a bitch, Mum.”

“Josh! I don’t want to hear language like that. Where did you learn that?”

“Ben says it, loads, all the time, and way, way, worse.”

“Well I’ll be having words with your brother when we get home. I don’t want to hear that again, not until you’re at least my age.”

“But that’s ages, I’ll be older than Dad.”

‘Thanks for the reminder, now my own son makes me feel like a cradle snatcher’.

“Okay, sorry Mum. I have pocket money from Gramps, I can get you a double-shot stinky lattee before we buy me stuff for being brave”.

“A stinky Latte would be lovely and yes, you were my hero in hospital. I suppose I can let you off, but no more bad language.”

“Promise,” said Josh as he raised his hand to salute his Mum.

   “There’s a good space Mum, that big Van’s coming out, right by the doors. Yay.”

   Josh’s Mum aimed the Volvo at the space as the van pulled out and gunned the big car nose first towards the white lines. The van driver grimaced at the daring manoeuvre. The occupants of another waiting vehicle were more demonstrative with their hand signals. Josh’s Mum smiled at them and straightened the car up.

“Sick,” said Josh.

   With one coat arm on and the other flung over his shoulder, Josh stepped out of the car as his Mum held open the door.

“Let me zip that up, honey, it’s freezing,” said his Mum as she pulled up his hood and zipped up his bright orange padded jacket.

“Now I look like one of them traffic cone thingys”

“But a nice and toasty traffic cone”

“’Spose.”  

   Four more large vans were parked near the Barton Square entrance to the Trafford shopping centre. One by one, they moved away towards the ring road. The vans passed Josh and his Mum to reveal a line dogs. They were sat, motionless, with their owners facing the main entrance doors.

“Look at the size of those dogs Mum, they’re hoooge”.

She felt Josh’s grip on her hand tighten as he pulled himself behind her arm.

   Josh had never shown fear of dogs before. They had a dog at home, a small crossbreed called Spud: a Cavachon that he adored. His Aunt Susan had a big clumsy Rottweiler called George that he and Spud would cuddle up to when they visited. Josh loved dogs.

 “Let’s go Mum. I don’t like it”.

   Josh and his Mum watched as the dogs and their owners calmly walked through the main doors and stopped, forming a neat line facing the main concourse.

“C’mon Mum, let’s go somewhere else,” said Josh as he tugged his Mum’s arm back. She turned and crouched down, still holding his hand. She kissed his cold, trembling knuckles.

“They’re just dogs Josh, look at how well behaved they are. You like dogs”.

“Not these ones, they’re—”. Josh’s pleas were interrupted by the first spine-stiffening scream.