The streets around Victoria Park were choked with fans promenading towards the stadium. No cars allowed, held back and diverted by police officers in yellow fluorescent jackets. Just pedestrians and horses, the mounted division relishing home games for the peaceful exercise they almost invariably offered. Through the middle of the yellow streams of home fans was a demarcated ribbon of white, where Spurs supporters strutted their defiance in the enemy’s territory.
There was another, smaller patch of white among the yellow. The A1 Electricals’ van eased forward through a crowd reluctant to part for anything or anyone. Behind the wheel, Yousef prayed steadily, his lips barely moving, his mind racing. If he concentrated on the details, he didn’t have to confront the horror of what he was about to do. The paperwork had got him past the first checkpoint. A policeman stopping traffic heading for the stadium had glanced over the two fake faxes and Yousef’s equally false ID and waved him through without comment. Next came the acid test.
He checked the time. He was right on schedule. The Grayson Street stand loomed ahead of him, the tall wrought-iron gates with the club crest clearly visible. The entrance to the car park for staff and players was a dozen yards past the gates, the way blocked by a barrier and a cordon of security men. He pulled his baseball cap further down so it better obscured his features from above.
Yousef passed the gates, tapping his horn to clear a way through the supporters. The road was even more clogged than usual because the pavement was entirely occupied by the shrine to Robbie Bishop. His photo smiled out at Yousef again and again, the confident grin of a man who sees the world turning his way. He’d been so wrong, Yousef thought.
He swung the wheel round, pointing the van at the barrier. As he drew close, he was surrounded by security men. They looked identically menacing with their black-and-yellow Vics bomber jackets, black jeans and shaved heads. He lowered his window and smiled. ‘Emergency electrical repair,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem with the mains supply under the Vestey stand.’ He produced the faxes. ‘If it blows, there’ll be no power to corporate hospitality.’
The nearest security guard sneered. ‘Poor bastards won’t be able to find their prawn sandwiches in the dark. Gimme a minute, let me show these to the guy on the barrier.’ He took the paperwork and went over to the small cabin by the guard barrier. Yousef could see him showing the faxes to the man inside. He felt the sweat in his armpits and the small of his back.
‘That’s quite a display, innit?’ he said to the guard who had stepped up to take the first one’s place. ‘Poor sod.’
“No kidding,’ the guard said. ‘What kind of evil bastard would do a thing like that?’ He did a double take, as if only just realizing he was speaking to a young Asian male, the tabloid archetype of a contemporary bogeyman. ‘Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean…You know?’
‘I know. We’re not all like that,’ Yousef said, his toes literally curling with discomfort. Not because he was lying, but because he was lying so cravenly. Before they could get into it any further, the first guard came back with the paperwork.
‘You’ll need to let me take a look in the back of the van,’ he said.
Yousef turned off the engine, took out the keys and walked to the back of the van. He could feel his hands trembling, so he tried to put his body between the lock and the security man. He told himself that he had nothing to worry about, that it was all going to be OK. He swung the door open. The van was lined with cable holders and plastic boxes full of clips, fuses, screws and switches. Reels of various gauges of cable were piled together behind a fence of bungee cord, and Imran’s toolbox sat to one side, a long squat metal box covered in chipped blue paint.
‘You want to open the toolbox?’ the security guard said.
‘Sure.’ Yousef swallowed hard and unclipped the lid. He spread the first layer open to reveal an array of pliers, wire strippers and screwdrivers. ‘OK?’ He laid his hand on the tray, as if he was going to open it further. His bowels were clenching, his bladder bursting. If the bastard guard didn’t back off, the next thing he was going to see was a bomb.
The guard glanced over the tools. ‘Looks like an electrician’s kit to me. OK, mate,’ he said. ‘Park over at the far end.’ He pointed to the extreme edge of the parking area. ‘You’ll see a gate over there. The security bloke there knows you’re on your way. He’ll let you in. You follow the walkway round the corner and it’ll bring you to the staff entrance. They’ll show you where you need to be.’ He winked. ‘They might even let you see a bit of the game if you get the job done quick.’
Yousef did as he was told, hardly able to believe it was all so easy. Once past that first barrier, it was clear that he was accepted as someone with a valid reason to be there. Ten minutes later, head down to avoid the CCTV cameras, he was carrying Imran’s toolbox with its deadly cargo down a narrow service corridor under the middle tier of the giant cantilevered Vestey Stand. The stand, named after Albert Vestey, England and Bradfield Vics’ legendary striker of the inter-war years, contained the media centre up on the top tier as well as the corporate hospitality boxes. As they walked, the ebb and flow of the fans’ chanting and cheering accompanied their steps. Yousef was surprised by how loud it was. He’d thought it would be much quieter inside the stand, insulated by concrete and bodies. But here it was almost as strident as being one of the shouting spectators.
Yousef’s destination was a small room off the service corridor where the electricity junction boxes were housed. From here, the electrical supply to the media centre and the corporate boxes was controlled. Immediately above, separated by a tracery of girders and poured concrete, was the partition wall between two boxes, each of which held a maximum of a dozen spectators. Both of those were flanked by identical boxes. All four boxes, like the others that stretched out on either side of them, were full of people enjoying food and drink at someone else’s expense. The football, it often seemed, was incidental. What mattered was being there.
The guard who had accompanied Yousef from the staff entrance stopped in front of a grey door which featured a yellow plaque with a black lightning bolt on it. ‘Here we go, mate,’ he said, unlocking the door and opening up. He pointed to a house phone on the corridor wall a few feet away. ‘Call down on that when you’re done and I’ll come and lock up behind you.’ He pushed the door open, reached for the light switch then stood back, waving Yousef into the small space. ‘And if you’re done before full time, we’ll find you somewhere to perch for the rest of the match.’
Yousef felt sick, but he managed to smile and nod. The door closed behind him with a soft click. The room was dim and cramped. It smelled of dust and oil. The junction boxes covered the far wall. Cables festooned the walls, their surfaces silted with greasy dust. He didn’t think anyone was going to bother him here, not when there was a match going on a few hundred feet away. But to be on the safe side, he jammed the end of the toolbox against the door. If anyone tried to get in, he’d know about it.
Without warning, Yousef felt his throat tighten as tears welled up in his eyes. This was a terrible thing to be doing. It was the right thing, no doubt about that. The best way to achieve their goal. But he hated that he had to live in a world where things like this were necessary. Where violence became the only language that people listened
