ministries across the Thames sprang to life. God, was he not too old for all of it? He saw them sometimes, rarely more than often, the men and women who had taken the retirement carriage clock or the decanter and glasses set, and had handed in their swipe-card IDs for entry to the main doors of Vauxhall Bridge Cross.
All had gone out, at the end of a Friday afternoon, last day of the month, bowed with tiredness and clutching their gift of appreciation. Every one of those whom he met, on a pavement or by chance in a restaurant, seemed reborn. They were like those come-lately Christians, oozing confidence and brimming health.
'You know the best-kept secret inside that bloody place, Freddie? There's a life outside. Never knew it till I got there – outside. Haven't ever felt better. Don't mind me, Freddie, but you look a bit washed through.
When are you chucking it in, Freddie? My only regret, should have done it years back.' It frightened him, alone on the bed with the quiet of the building hugging him, that he should be gone from the place, yesterday's man, with work unfinished. 'That bloody place' was Freddie Gaunt's home… He was drifting towards a fitful sleep.. . And the enemies he hunted were his life-blood – but he could not guess where they were, could not identify them because they wore no damned uniform.
He did not know where his name was written down, what alias was used, and how many had access to it.
He travelled to work each day in his uncle's transit van, with his uncle's logo on the side, sitting with his tools and his uncle's sons. He was far from his immediate family: his parents, brothers and sisters lived in the port city of Karachi where his father and brothers broke up the steel hulls of unwanted ships for scrap metal. He had wanted more and his ambitions had led him to join his mother's brother in London. Ambition had not been fulfilled. At the age of twenty-three, he was not a laboratory scientist, not an engineer, not a scholar, but a plumber's mate. The resentment had flourished sufficiently to take him to a mosque in south London where an imam talked at Friday prayers about injustice. There was the injustice that permitted white society to walk over the aspirations of Muslim youth in his new homeland, the injustice shown to worshippers of Islam in Saudi, Afghanistan, Chechnya and Palestine. He no longer harboured resentment. Two years ago, less a month, he had been asked to stay behind as the faithful had slipped away from the prayers, and the imam had spoken to him in a hushed tone. Would he serve?
Would he wait until he was called? Did he have the strength of his faith? Was patience a virtue of his? He went now to a new mosque, in the west of the city, where an imam preached religion but did not speak of the war zones where Muslim brothers fought for the privilege of martyrdom.
He was brighter at work, did not complain about rising and dressing before the dawn's light lifted over the capital. Each morning and each evening he crossed the City of London on his way to and from work. Some days the crowded Transit van was stopped by the armed police officers at their road-blocks, but their route was always the same and they had become known. More often now they were waved through and drove away from the men with protective vests and machine-guns without being quizzed and the van's contents searched. The same applied at his place of work, where he wore an identification tag hung from a neck chain, and there also the security guards were familiar to them.
Five days a week, the van was parked in a designated bay deep in the basement of the great tower that was Canary Wharf. In those two years he had learned by heart the hidden ducts that carried the air-conditioning systems, water supplies and sewage outlets in the building that dominated the skyline and could be seen from many miles away. He thought it a symbol of the power that had denied him the opportunity to fulfil his ambitions. Each working day, he saw the surge in and out of the many thousands who had blocked him, and did not know of him. One day, he had been told, a man would seek him out, would speak to him: 'God will say, 'How many days did you stay on the earth?' 'He would answer, and the words were always in his mind: 'They will say, 'We stayed a day or part of a day.' 'It no longer troubled him that his response, from the Book, 23:112-113, gave him the answer of the unbelievers on the Day of Judgement.
He had been promised that one day the man would come, and he believed the promise.
His primary job was to drive the forklift vehicle that moved the flat-packs of self-assembly furniture from the lorries that came from the factory at Ostrava in the Czech Republic. His secondary job was to be first at the warehouse to unlock the side gates of the yard and the main building where the offices were, flush on the street, and in the evening he was the last to leave, and fastened and checked the doors, windows and main gate.
The forklift driver walked along the street, briskly because he was late on his schedule, and saw a man on the step outside the offices' door, hunched, low and in the shadow. Few matters concerning the warehouse surprised the driver. He worked for a company owned by Timo Rahman, and knew a little of the complexities of his employer's business. He understood that, in the affairs of Timo Rahman, men came without warning and without introduction to the warehouse, and that questions were not asked and explanations were not offered. He passed the man and, because the head was bowed, did not see the face. He went on to the corner, turned into the narrow driveway that separated the warehouse and offices from the next premises. He loosed the padlock on the yard gates.
Cursorily he checked the vans, then opened, with the keys entrusted to him, the back door of the offices.
Because he had been delayed that morning by the police cordon and was behind with his routine, he hurried to the toilets – men's and women's. His first task of each day was to wash them, clean the hand basins and sluice the floors. Then, he should have- The bell at the office door pealed. He left the toilets, his mop and bucket, and hurried past the unlit offices of Administration, Sales and Accounts, and unbolted – top and bottom – the street door. The man glanced over his shoulder, scanned the street, then pushed past him.
'I'm late, I'm sorry.'
The man who had waited on the doorstep shrugged.
The forklift driver babbled, 'I was delayed this morning…'
It was many months since he had been late opening the yard and offices. He thought the man had not slept that night – his eyes were baggy and lines cut his face at the side of them. The man leaned against the corridor wall and his shoulder was against a photograph of a dining-room table and chairs set after they had been assembled from a flat-pack.
'… I could not leave home. You know Hamburg, I suppose. Yes? I live at Wilhelmsburg. Police, so many police, there. I have to prove my residence to the police before I can leave, show my papers, but there is a long queue ahead of me. Not in my block, but the one next to it, a woman was killed.'
The head turned and tired eyes raked his face. As an Albanian he was trusted, and sometimes Timo
Rahman – when he came to the warehouse – would drop a hand on his shoulder and tighten it there. Then he glowed with pride. He thought, for what he did, he was well paid, but the wage given him allowed him to live only in a Wilhelmsburg tower block. The reaction of the man encouraged the forklift driver to go further with his explanation of lateness.
'My wife knows everything. She says the woman was murdered in her apartment by strangulation. It is not her husband – he was at work. It is not a thief. The people of the towers in Wilhelmsburg, they have nothing to steal. My wife made coffee for the police when they came yesterday. They said what they think.
She was killed, most probably, by a boyfriend she entertained in secrecy. They will go back in her history because always there is a trace of a friend, they told her. They are confident that, very soon, they will have the identity of the friend. It is good. A man who kills a woman close to her baby, he is a beast. He is con-temptible.' He apologized again for his lateness, and asked what he could do.
Did he have a number for the residence of Timo Rahman?
'I have, but I am instructed to call it only on matters of great importance.'
He should ring the number.
'What am I to say?' He felt a tremor of nervousness at the thought of ringing the residence of Timo Rahman before dawn. 'Would you not wait till the manager comes, in less than two hours?'
He should ring the number now. He should say that a Traveller has come.
'A Traveller, yes.' The man's eyes were locked on him. 'I will say to Timo Rahman that a Traveller has come.'
'Who is he?'
His wife, Alicia, mother of his children, stared back dumbly at him.
'What is his name?'
The children, the girls, had come to the bedroom door, had huddled there and had shaken in fear, and he had
