Rwrite number 6 - or it might be 7! Still at it. Any feedback would be gratefully received - Thanks in advance.
CHAPTER 1
Today was Monday, had been for six hours. She always looked forward to Mondays with the same elation as an early period, but on this dawning of a new week, there was one, unparalleled reason to tolerate this Monday - it would be her last.
Her grip on the crumpled paper tightened; its course texture softened by her sweating palms. She was supposed to burn it… hours ago. ‘No trail for the infidels’ was the Caliph’s mantra.
At first glance, the list read like a hurriedly scribbled note you might find on the fridge door: things to grab from the supermarket:
Tortilla wraps,
Lettuce,
Crisps,
Apples,
9-volt battery,
3 core, 1 millimetre copper wire (insulated),
PCB,
Receiver,
Detonator,
50 grams of plastic explosive.
20mm Roofing tacks
She felt honoured to be entrusted with the final phase of their operation, but also excited - inappropriately excited. Inside, she was waving her arms around and bunny hopping on the spot. Outwardly, to those she would inspire, she had to mask her elation and force away the infantile smile that was starting to form.
“Lighter.” She said, her tone benign- not what she intended.
Frantic palms patted pockets. Fahim approached. His head slightly bowed. She wasn’t sure if that was a sign of respect or fear. ‘Irrelevant either way’ she thought.
He held out a scarred and battered Zippo and she grabbed his other wrist, turning it until his palm faced the warehouse ceiling.
She stood a good head and shoulders taller than him and as she pulled herself closer to him, it forced Fahim to raise his head and meet her gaze, and her smile.
A voice from behind dislocated her stare.
“Advocate we are almost ready. There will be a thirty-second delay between recording and transmission for us to alter your voice.
She nodded, and returned her attentions to Fahim’s now trembling hand. At no point did she feel any resistance to her irresistible grip.
“What’s on your mind, Fahim? You seem troubled my friend.”
He lowered his head again.
“Look at me Fahim. Do my eyes intrude your pretence?”
An awkward silence descended on the room. The chatter and clatter of the video technicians stopped as pause enveloped everyone.
“Uh, no. No I’m... There is no pretence, Advocate”.
She felt his quivering hand calm as he slowly raised his head to meet her unblinking eyes.
“Innocents will die. This is not our cause, I implore you to reconsider” he said.
The Advocate breathed deeply; not a sigh, more of a valve for the rising anger, but she remained composed – outwardly.
“What are innocents, Fahim, if not our future enemies? Those that will seek to avenge their fallen.”
She sensed a determination in Fahim; boldness she had not witnessed from him before. His eyes narrowed.
“I have known the Caliph since we were children. I have been like a brother to him. I don’t wish to see him… us become murderers.” He said.
She reached out her free hand, still holding the crumpled note between her thumb and palm and gently, reassuringly placed her fingers on Fahim’s shoulder.
“Our cause has faltered under the old ways. We have been splintered when we should be united. The Caliph and I bring new blood, new hope. We will proceed as planned.”
“Then I can no longer be party to this… this barbarism. They have no place in our time. These are not the teachings of Islam.”
The Advocate impatiently checked the wall clock, then ran her fingers down Fahim’s arm. It was a caressing, almost motherly gesture. She took the zippo from him and placed the crumpled note in his open palm.
As she flipped the lighter’s lid, she took a deep breath, inhaling the noxious aroma of fuel as she thumbed the flint wheel and lit the tapered edge of the note. Now she felt resistance, a futile struggle as she locked her grip on his wrist.
She let her other hand hover over the rapidly burning flames. The stabbing heat made her body tingle, a pulsating sensation that made her almost want to open her legs and fuck him right there. She settled for enveloping her hand around his, crushing the remaining fragile blackened paper debris and savouring the faintest pungence of their scorched hair and skin.
She released his hand and he shook it violently.
Now with her head bowed and in a voice calmly mellowed by disappointment, she spoke.
“The Caliph has no brother and has no need for a substitution. You have been an important part of his past, Fahim, but if you don’t want to witness his future then I will grant your wish. Take him.”
Years of friendship and trust dulled Fahim’s reactions. Her gaze absorbed him as the barbs of the Taser pierced his shirt and hooked into his skin, delivering its debilitating fifty thousand volt charge.
The Advocate could hear his groans, but stood, motionless with her back to him. She felt her stomach knotting and her eyes filling with tears. She was fond of Fahim, but betrayal, even when not fully forged, would sever that fondness.
The moment passed and she wiped her eyes as the followers’ plasti-cuffed Fahim’s wrists and dragged his twitching body through the office and into the warehouse.
The Advocate 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 of you without the stomach for our destiny will join Fahim in his.”
Piercing blue eyes scanned the four attentive followers for signs of further dissent. Only dutiful and purposeful eyes met hers.
One of them picked up the video camera and cued twenty seconds. She adjusted the black keffiyeh over her mouth, nose and long locks leaving only her unblinking, intense eyes to penetrate the deepest fears of those who would watch the transmission.
Throughout the message she placed no demands, only a promise of a new and devastating horror: three attacks that would cripple the country. Her impassive delivery ended with a single word, ‘Dahama’.
The short transmission contained the familiar hallmarks of previous videos produced by the extremists: the presence of the intimidating, masked figure clad in black combats, her face disguised by the black keffiyeh, her voice electronically altered whilst standing before the menacing black flag of their cause, proudly displayed in the background.
Daylight pierced the darkened room and grew as the Caliph’s Advocate opened the door and bade farewell to the followers. “I must 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.
As she walked through the warehouse, she glanced indifferently at Fahim’s chained, subdued form, hanging by the wrists from the steel joist. She felt nothing, only betrayal. ‘A good man has chosen the wrong path’, she thought as she discarded the combat jacket, pulled on her coat and headed out into the crisp autumn morning.
‘Wrong shoes’, she thought as she peered down at her suede pumps. ‘What was I thinking?’
She shivered with the early morning chill then looked up and down the tree-lined road.
A gentle breeze dislodged brittle copper-coloured leaves from the branches of nearby ash trees. They fell helplessly only to be crushed under foot. She smiled at the symbolism, pulled her raincoat collar up and joined the blindly ignorant crowds of London commuters.
CHAPTER 2
October School half term brought many things, usually a week off work for Mum, the first of the Christmas shopping and the children eating their bodyweight in Haribo and Galaxy. 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 sod’ she thought.
“Hurts like a bitch, Mum.”
“Josh! I don’t want to hear language like that”. Her eyes widened with shock at her son’s potty mouth. “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 that young man”. ‘Now my own son makes me feel like a bloody cradle snatcher’, she thought.
“Ok, sorry Mum. Did you know Dad is a god?”
“Eh? Are you trying to change the subject?
“Um, no. Well a bit. But he is though”.
“He’ll love that. Don’t tell him though. What makes you think he’s a god?”
“We’ve been doing about Gods at School. There are loads of them. They all have weird names but Muslims have a God with a really cool name. Theirs is called Allan - like Dad”.
Josh’s Mum chuckled. “Um, it’s Allah. It’s spelt with a letter ‘H’ not an ‘N’ at the end”.
“Oh, well that’s what Miss Williams wrote on the board. Are you sure Mum?”
“I’m positive. Miss Williams needs to work on her letters a little”.
“Shall I call Dad Allah instead of Allan then?”
“Lets just stick with Dad shall we? And maybe show a little more respect”
“To Dad?”
“And to Muslims”.
“Am I in trouble?”
“Yes. You’re going to have to buy me a coffee out of your pocket money when we get to the shops”.
“Deal,” 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, then gunned the big car nose first towards the white lines. The van driver grimaced at the outrageous manoeuvre. The occupants of another waiting vehicle were more demonstrative with their hand signals. Josh’s Mum smiled at them, straightened the car up and switched off the engine.
“Sick,” said Josh.
With one coat arm on and the other flung over his shoulder, Josh delicately stepped out of the car, cupping his encased wrist and forearm as his Mum held open the door.
“Let me zip that up, poppet, 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”
“You do indeed, only way smarter and much more handsome”.
“’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 of dogs; 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 Taz that he and Spud would cuddle up to when they visited. Josh loved dogs.
“Let’s go Mum. I don’t like it”.
Mother and child watched, transfixed, as the dogs and their owners calmly walked through the doors and stopped, forming a neat line facing the main concourse of Manchester’s Trafford shopping centre.
“C’mon Mum, let’s go somewhere else,” said Josh as he insistently 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”, his voice was trembling. “They’re—”. The sound of Josh’s pleas were drowned out by the first of the spine-chilling screams.
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