‘Perfect,’ he said.
The whisky disappeared in one swallow. He called the cab.
68
11.50 p.m.
THE WAREHOUSE WAS finally quiet. Gregor, Hussain and Binici sat on three chairs near the door, gesticulating, whispering. Binici rocked on his chair – it was his turn to talk. Hussain and Gregor folded their arms – their turn to listen.
Hari had decided he wouldn’t sleep. He sat, shirtless, his chest still stinging, against the wall, legs pulled up in front of him. One leg bounced rapidly. Collins lay next to him, face into his side, her uncut arm flung across his waist. She was breathing deeply. He assumed she was asleep. He could smell her now. It was sharp and earthy. Sweat and sex. And maybe shampoo, or rose water. Maybe some of Binici after all. He didn’t care. He looked straight ahead and up, through the warehouse window. The only light came from whatever size moon was behind the clouds and the seeping glow reflected from the streets of Coventry. The darkest hour. The quietest hour.
He had no prayers to offer, no meditations on Krishna he could recall. His mother would have had some but he had never listened to her or them. His father had left. Whatever strength he had was his own. Maybe his grandmother’s. Whatever inspiration he needed came from his sisters and now, because of him, Millie and Amara would be there tomorrow. In his attempts to keep them safe he had only succeeded in putting them in the front line. Just in front of Amal Hussain. Just in front of his Böhler N690. And if the twins were there, then their grandmother would be there also.
Well done, Hari. A full house.
He thought of the IPS women. The last images. Mary Lawson, sprawled, bloodied, lifeless. Famie Madden, puzzled, elegant, in charge. Lawson had got him into this nightmare and he had hoped Madden would get him out. She had taken the bait certainly. He was convinced the police presence in Boxer Street had been down to her. But that seemed like weeks ago. He had told Madden that the attack was planned for Thursday but why would she take any notice of a student writing messages in lemon juice? Like he was a five-year-old playing at spies?
He adjusted his position, removed Collins’ arm from his waist. He felt his wounds crack open. Felt the blood run again. He made no attempt to staunch the flow. The adrenalin had long gone and the pain was intense but the cutting had saved his life. He had no doubt about that. The longer his chest stayed a bloodied mess, the longer he stayed alive. It was a badge of honour. An insignia. The knife had been his saviour and in every possible future scenario that he could imagine, it would have to be again.
Under the window, Hussain, Binici and Gregor broke up their meeting. Hari saw Gregor glance at him, or maybe Collins, and walk over. He closed his eyes, his body tensed. He felt the knife under his thigh. Collins slept on. He heard heavy footfall, then felt the soft give of the wall as Gregor settled against it.
‘Still bleeding,’ said Gregor.
Hari opened his eyes. He had sat to Hari’s left, propped up against the wall, legs straight in front, ankles crossed. He too was still shirtless. His bloodied torso was covered in tattoos.
‘We both are,’ said Hari, indicating Gregor’s own cuts. His lettering looked like angry slashes in his chest, the blood running in stripes down his stomach.
‘Strength. Discipline. Ferocity,’ said Gregor. ‘War is work, not mystery.’
Butcher and philosopher. What’s not to love?
Where Gregor’s skin was blood-free, Hari saw painted saints, angels, skulls, sailing ships and a black flag. All competing for space.
‘Nice art,’ Hari said.
Gregor smiled. ‘They are stories, Hari Roy.’
‘Your stories?’
‘Of course. Travelling thief, murderer, anarchist.’ He spoke without drama, pointing to the angels, skulls and the flag like an indifferent gallery guide. ‘And now this!’ He peered down at his chest. The newly cut, and still bleeding, left pectoral muscle. ‘ETB! This will be my favourite because I did it myself.’ He waved his arms in a circle. ‘We all did it together.’ Gregor turned to Hari. A twitch of a smile. ‘But still Hussain isn’t sure about you,’ he said. ‘I told him you were good but …’
‘Thanks.’
Gregor shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. The men will fight with you, I said.’
‘Thanks.’
A beat of a pause.
‘Hussain wants your girlfriend.’ He nodded at Collins.
So she was right after all.
‘She’s not available.’
‘Everything is available.’
Hari stared through the window. There would be no daylight for several hours, but the butcher was in the wings, waiting for his cue. It wouldn’t be long now.
‘I’m not her keeper,’ said Hari eventually. ‘I don’t own her. If she wants to go with Hussain, she will. If she doesn’t, she won’t.’
‘You should be careful,’ said Gregor.
‘Too late for that,’ said Hari. ‘We fight in nine hours. We are ready. Why would you upset that?’
Gregor nodded. ‘I have said this.’
‘Say it again if you need to.’
‘I will. You speak well, Hari. We will be friends, you and me. After everything. After it all.’
That seemed unlikely, but Hari nodded, offered his hand. They shook, Gregor left.
It was two minutes before Hari noticed the small dark shape on the floor, half a metre to his left. Gregor’s phone. Screen down, no lights. Switched off. A rush of blood rang in his ears. A rush of adrenalin killed the pain.
The thing I want more than anything has been gifted to me. And it’s all too easy.
This was a trap sprung by Hussain, he was sure of it. Hussain was the doubter and Gregor was the tempter. Hari forced his eyes to close, his leg to calm. Collins stirred, her arm stretching back over his waist.
Make the call,
