When the pizza boxes were shredded and Collins had fought most of the men, Gregor called everyone to the middle of the room. He had stacked enough of the chairs to reach a height of about one and a half metres. The holdall that had contained the knives was perched on the top. Zipped up. Hari stood behind Kamran and Teeth. They could spread out more now. The shaded section of the room had increased to around seventy per cent, the temperature had eased back a few notches.
When he had everyone’s attention, Gregor unzipped the bag, produced a phone. Presumably, thought Hari, the one he was using in the van earlier. He turned it on, tapped the screen three times then propped it up against the back of the top chair. The screen was the size of a small book, the definition of the video he had paused was crystal clear. A ripple of excitement passed through the men. Hari felt faint. Gregor smiled. He relaxed. He knew what was coming. Everyone knew what was coming.
‘A short film,’ he said. He spoke slowly in measured, accented English. ‘The camera work is shaky. But you will understand I think. You will “get the picture”.’ He smiled again, apparently pleased with his words.
Hari braced as Gregor hit play.
The film began with CCTV images of a shopping centre, a wide shot. The time code in the top left corner said it was from last July. Hari guessed it was Africa. Kenya maybe. Busy, prosperous. He recognized some big chain store names. Then there was a commotion, people running and falling, and the screen switched to a different angle. Three masked men were running amok, stabbing and slashing as they went. The attack was indiscriminate. An elderly man and woman at a café table both had their throats cut; the man falling forward on to the table, the woman collapsing backwards off her seat. A shopworker who ran to their aid was stabbed in the stomach. A different camera. Two boys in football tops lay on top of each other, blood pooling from their necks. A different camera. Two men fought back with cutlery they had grabbed from a nearby table; both were slashed from chest to navel. Each attack, each murder, was greeted with cheers and applause in the room. Hari clapped too – it was something to do with still-shaking hands.
Next on the screen, a different location. A western street. It looked to Hari like it could be France but the film was grainy and shaky. Shopfronts and market stalls, shoppers and tourists. A heavy truck appeared on the roundabout at the bottom of the picture. It orbited three times then, accelerating, careered off the road towards the crowds. Few had time to react, to move, to run. A bowling ball through skittles. The camera didn’t see those who disappeared beneath the wheels, just those who were flung into the air. The camera operator could be heard cheering. In front of Hari, Kamran and Teeth cheered too.
When he was sure no one was looking at him, Hari shut his eyes. So he only heard the sounds of the last film. Only heard the screams of the synagogue congregation as they were attacked, the muffled cries, the shouts, the crying and finally the gunfire that finished it all. Hari felt his balance go, his legs start to give way. He knew he mustn’t faint but also knew he was going to anyway. He opened his eyes as he started to fall, then two arms slipped around him. It was Collins. She made it look like they were embracing.
‘Thanks,’ he said as they both sat against the wall.
‘We’re quits,’ she said.
Quits? he thought. We’re trading now?
He turned to remonstrate but she had leapt to her feet. Binici, Gregor and most of the others had too. They had a visitor. A squat, round-shouldered man with his black hair in a bun stood by the door in the remaining pool of sunlight. Dark glasses. Doughy face. Black suit trousers and white shirt. Hari watched the London Citizens greet him, one by one shaking his hand or nodding an acknowledgement. One of them, he assumed. Probably their boss. Had other things to do – until now. Binici introduced him as Amal Hussain.
The man peered into the room, looking for those he didn’t know. He ignored Collins. His eyes flicked between Binici and Hari.
‘We have a traitor here,’ he said.
61
HARI STUMBLED TO his feet, his guts churning and bile in his mouth. Hussain was patrolling, snarling. ‘Red alert, my friends. We have a red alert. We must look for traitors everywhere.’ He walked towards Hari, his eyes narrowing. ‘And you’re the one I don’t know anything about.’
‘I’m Hari Roy.’
‘Well, Hari Roy,’ said Hussain, stopping just a few centimetres away, ‘I’m looking for journalists. I know the people in this room. I don’t know you. So my guess is, it is you. You are the journalist.’ He spat the word with contempt. ‘A fucking IPS fucking journalist like that other fucking guy!’
Eyeball to eyeball. Hari’s back was against the wall. Kamran was to his right, Gregor on his left. The others stood behind them.
Deny, deny, deny. Confession means death. You’ve got a knife.
Hari tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. His tongue was sandpaper.
Hussain had more. ‘We found him, you know,’ he continued. ‘He was with us for quite a while. He was good, we thought. Committed, we thought. Howells, he said his name was. A citizen. A comrade. But mainly …’ Hussain pushed his fist into Hari’s chest, pinning him to the wall. ‘Mainly he was a fucking traitor. Kamran here found him sending messages to that Lawson bitch. Kamran slit her and slit Howells. Now he can slit you.’
Kamran stepped up on cue, a satisfied smile on his face.
So, it was Kamran.
Hussain fished in his pocket, pulled out an
