Embrace the butcher …
‘Tomorrow we greet five more citizens. Thursday we strike.’
There was a pause.
‘Strike what?’ said Collins.
So she didn’t know either.
‘If we’re making this great leap forward, citizen,’ Collins continued, ‘it would help if we knew where we are going.’
Hari opened his eyes. Binici, fully in the house’s shadow, was smiling and shaking his head. White collarless shirt, black baggy trousers. Collins, sitting in the last corner of the yard with sunshine, wore large-framed shades, a loose-fitting grey T-shirt and denim shorts.
‘Tomorrow, Sara, tomorrow. When the others get here. Then we can plan. Then your training will be for the benefit of all the cells. They are all watching, you know. Every citizen is waiting for us. As we waited for May twenty-two, they wait for us. When we move, they move. Hearts on fire, brains on ice.’
Hari stirred and they turned. He pulled the blanket higher. In truth, his throat and stomach were largely recovered but the blanket gave him some cover, a shield between him and the madness in front of him.
‘What sort of work is it?’ he croaked out.
‘Noble work,’ said Binici. ‘Historic work.’
‘Suicidal work?’ Under the blanket, Hari held his breath.
Binici removed his glasses, wiped them with a cloth, replaced them and blinked twice. ‘We are the vanguard. Our duty is to lead, not to conform. There are always dangers associated with storming the palaces of the ruling class. Of course there are. But we are smarter. We are prepared. This is progress, citizen, and progress can have a price.’
So yes, then, Hari thought.
Change the world …
From somewhere not far away, a screech of brakes and the percussive thumps of metal-on-metal collisions. Hari jumped, then instinctively turned his head to the street.
‘That’s close,’ he said.
Binici and Collins were on their feet. They waited. Suspicious.
‘Too close,’ said Collins.
They ran inside. From the hall they heard shouting – two, maybe three male voices – then screaming. From the bay window of the upstairs room they could see a white van had crashed into a number of parked cars and then stopped, blocking the road. The van door was open. A crowd was gathering, some had hands in front of their faces, others were making calls.
‘Someone’s under the wheels,’ she said.
‘Doesn’t involve us,’ said Binici.
Hari was silent. He could see that his car was one of those hit by the van. The rear passenger door had caved, its window smashed. The van had then buried itself in the Ford Galaxy beyond. He strained to see what was happening. Might this be a police operation? A rescue? Had the woman in the hospital passed on the note after all? Or was it just an accident, of no significance to anyone other than the injured and the owners of the damaged cars?
Collins, at his shoulder, realized what they were looking at.
‘That’s your car, Hari,’ she said.
‘I just realized that,’ he said.
Binici stiffened. ‘You’re parked up there?’
Hari nodded. ‘Left it there after the drop.’
‘That’s too much of a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Stay inside. We all stay inside.’ The wail of multiple sirens, approaching fast, stoked the leader’s nerves. ‘It’ll be ambulance, then police. This street will be full of them. Shut the windows. Close the curtains. The house must look empty. We are not here.’
As the emergency services arrived in Boxer Street, Hari, Collins and Binici sat in silence and near-darkness. The kitchen table held three glasses of water, which they sipped regularly. The door to the yard was locked, the blinds lowered. The air was heavy, the temperature unbearable. Hari wiped his face with his already-damp shirt. They listened to the engines, the hissing of brakes, the slamming of doors, the running, heavy steps, the squawking of the radios.
Hari glanced at the faces opposite him. Binici and Collins were interpreting and reacting to every sound from the street. Hari thought of a submarine film he’d seen, its crew terrified of the patrolling enemy ships and their depth charges. Eyes everywhere, twitching faces, danger in every reverberation.
For Binici and Collins, everything was a threat.
‘We are not here,’ Binici repeated in a whisper, ‘we make no sound.’
No talking on the bridge, thought Hari. He was sweating like the others but his hands, folded, out of sight, were trembling too. He was as terrified as he’d ever been. He was sure this was some kind of operation – Binici was right. It was just too much of a coincidence. Was he supposed to rush out, to run away and turn everyone in? Did they expect him to react first? He screwed his eyes tight. Find what you need. Know that I am here, he thought. Understand the danger.
Thirty minutes after the crash, the tangle of noise that was the accident’s aftermath subsided. In the quiet, Hari picked out new sounds. Doorbells. Door knocks. Door-to-door enquiries. Getting closer.
Binici emptied his glass, replaced it, wiped his mouth. He folded and unfolded his arms, pulled at his shirt where it was sticking to him. ‘We don’t answer,’ he whispered.
‘Then they’ll come back,’ said Collins.
‘We’ll be gone by then.’
She leant closer to Binici, hands flat on the table. ‘And what if they come
