The sweating man was silent. His eyes darted around the room, his head moving left and right. Appraising his options.
The leader knew it. ‘Thinking of running?’
The sweating man shook his head. ‘Thinking this is madness.’
‘How so?’ Almost a whisper. His left hand palmed the knife.
Finally, the sweating man had had enough. ‘Because you’re fucking deranged, that’s why. You were raised to see conspiracy, so you always see bloody conspiracy. Well get this, smartass. There isn’t one! There really isn’t! There are no traitors here, just revolutionaries waiting to be told what to do.’
He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. The leader stood too, arms at his side. His chair didn’t move. The sweating man was eight inches taller than the leader, who looked surprised by the advantage.
The sweating man leant in, their faces just a few centimetres apart. ‘But you never tell us anything,’ he said. ‘All we get is secrets and silence. You think I’m a collaborator, or a traitor or something ridiculous. You have no evidence, you just have your bullshit theories. So I’ll take my chances, thank you very much.’ He strode to the door, reached the foot of the stairs in two strides. He turned. ‘I know you’ll remind me about how you have my parents’ address, how you know where they live, blah blah blah.’ He wiped his face with his T-shirt. ‘More bullshit.’ He leapt up the stairs.
The leader stood still, listening to the sounds of a man packing, fast. The fingers of his left hand felt for the blade again, tugging it free. He tucked it in his waistband, covering the handle with his shirt. He wiped a handkerchief over his face, then moved to the foot of the stairs and waited.
The breeze had gone, the house was airless.
The packing didn’t take long. The sweating man appeared with a rucksack inside two minutes. The sight of the leader leaning against the balustrade caused him to pause briefly on the top step.
‘You know, this could have worked,’ he said, climbing down. ‘When you talked about how we had learnt from jihadists. How they had shown that small groups, organized, working together, could change history. We were listening to that.’ He had one hand on the banister, one on his rucksack strap. ‘How revolution could start with just a truck and a few knives. We got that. But nothing happened. We failed. It was all fucking noise and posturing.’
There was no eye contact. The leader had kicked off his shoes and was staring at the floor. The sweating man passed him and walked the four metres of the hall, not hearing the leader fall into step behind him. He reached for the latch. As the sweating man pulled at the door, the leader reached for his ponytail and yanked hard. There was a brief, strangled shout of alarm as his head snapped back. The point of the knife entered with the blade flat, cutting edge to the right. With one left-to-right jerk he severed the larynx and most of the muscle groups. The leader stepped sideways, the man fell to the floor.
He studied his dying colleague, crouched by his side. The man’s legs were in spasm, shaking violently. His face stared at the ceiling, life draining fast. The leader leant into his eye-line. He told him where and when the attack was planned.
‘It’ll be when we bring the war home,’ he said. ‘The day we ignite the fight against the fascists. And it started right here.’ He wiped one side of the blade on the man’s shorts. ‘Embrace the butcher,’ he whispered. He wiped the other side on the man’s T-shirt. ‘Embrace the butcher.’
36
Tuesday, 12 June, 7.35 a.m.
FAMIE’S PHONE WOKE them both. She pulled it from under the blanket. The screen said it was Sam. ‘Yeah Sam,’ she said, ‘what have you got for me?’
‘You sound like I just woke you.’
‘That’s because you just woke me. Me and Sophe, burning the midnight oil here. What’s up?’
‘I’m coming over. Thought you’d appreciate a ten-minute warning.’
Famie sat up fast. ‘Ten minutes? Are you crazy? No one’s ready in ten minutes.’
Sophie walked past her, waved, and disappeared into the shower.
‘Most people anyway. Why are you coming over, Sam? Is everything OK?’
‘The press have gone, Famie. Your flat is paparazzi-free. I just drove past.’ He was on speakerphone and shouting. ‘I can drive you over if you want anything, or to move back.’
The thought of her own bed and rooms with windows that actually opened was tempting. ‘OK, see you in at least twenty.’ She hung up.
Twenty minutes later they met in the Travelodge car park, slung their bags into his boot.
‘Did you check out?’ he said.
‘Not yet,’ said Famie, ‘but we have our stuff in case.’
‘In case what?’
‘Just in case.’
Famie rode in the front, Sophie behind Sam. The radio played news, turned down to a slight rumble. They all wore sunglasses, and Famie’s baseball cap was back. Sam cracked the driver’s window open.
‘Do we smell or something?’ said Sophie.
Sam laughed, Famie smiled.
‘Course we do. It’s the gin,’ she said.
‘It sure is,’ said Sam. ‘Seeping through every pore. It’s the smell of some serious journalism happening. What time’s your meeting with DC Hunter?’
‘Eleven thirty. Hackney Police Station. We’re going to them, thought it would be safer.’
The traffic had thinned out, the lights in their favour. They’d be at Famie’s flat in ten minutes.
‘What are you going to tell them?’ said Sam, his eyes flicking between Sophie in the mirror and Famie next to him.
‘That I met Amal,’ said Sophie. ‘That I went out with Seth.’
An exchange of glances between Sophie and Famie.
‘And the laptop? The photos?’ said Sam. He sounded
