‘What do you want to do?’ I asked him as we walked the length of my garden.
‘I won’t come back here,’ he told me. ‘They’ll be watching this place. I won’t bring trouble on you again.’
‘Do you have money? A passport?’
‘At home,’ he said. ‘I can’t go there.’
‘Hashim, what will you do?’
He put a hand to his neck, where the nylon rope had burned a thick red welt into his skin, and shrugged. ‘I’ll go to the river,’ he said. ‘No second chances that way.’ He walked to the gate and pulled back the bolt.
I caught up with him. ‘The river?’ I thought of swirling, icy-black, merciless water. He wouldn’t last five minutes if he went into the river in December. ‘Hashim, do you really want to die?’
‘They won’t rest while I’m alive. If they can’t get me they’ll come for my family until I give myself up. I can’t watch someone else that I love die.’
His eyes closed briefly. When they opened again, they shone with the misery of a life built on secrets and shame. ‘Thank you, Lacey,’ he said. ‘Assalamu Alaikom.’
He turned from me, would be gone in less than a second. If he went in the river, he would die for sure. It would be over. I took hold of his arm and made him look at me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I told him. ‘But you’re right. There’s no other way. You have to die.’
21
EIGHT O’CLOCK THAT evening was the time we’d agreed upon. Still plenty of folk around, but most would be mushy with Christmas cheer. The chances of our being noticed by the wrong people were slim.
As a nearby church clock struck the hour, I left the flat via the back door and walked to the shed. I was wearing gym clothes; the officers at Scotland Yard watching me on CCTV would think I was going to the shed for exercise, as I’d already informed them I often did.
I closed the door, switched on the light and got my breath. The punchbag had gone. So had the duvet and pillow that Hashim had used. There was no trace of him, other than the black robes hanging from the hook where he’d almost hanged himself, and he wouldn’t be needing those any more. I pulled the burka over my head and let it fall to my feet. It was long on me. The headdress was next. I’d already researched how to wear and tie it.
I hadn’t expected the feeling of claustrophobia that would overwhelm me when my world was reduced to an inch of vision and the suffocating warmth of my own breath, but I’d no time to waste getting used to it. I left the shed, careful to avoid the lines of the camera, and then, much less elegantly than Hashim, I climbed the wall.
On the other side, I let my robes fall into place, pulled the eye-slit straight and set off through the snow. Now I was the woman in black.
I saw the men before they saw me. Two of them in a green saloon car parked close to the corner of the street, huddled in padded jackets, one of them with fluorescent triangles on the shoulder. That one I recognized now as Aamir’s younger brother; the other man I’d never seen before. They watched me make for the main road. I didn’t look their way, but walked as quickly as I could through brown slush and over patches of ice. The car engine started up as I passed them.
The other men watching my flat, those in the unmarked police car, had no interest in the heavily veiled Muslim woman who’d appeared from the back of the row of houses. They stayed where they were.
I crossed the Wandworth Road and saw a bus heading my way. That was the first bit of luck, because I really didn’t want to spend too long hanging about at a bus stop. In the shop window ahead of me I could see the green car waiting to pull out of my road. They’d want to be sure of where I was going before committing themselves. I reached the bus stop. The bus was twenty yards away. It arrived, I stepped on board and saw the green car pull out into the path of oncoming traffic. Horns sounded. Someone yelled out of a car window and the bus pulled away. I didn’t look back.
Two stops later I pressed the bell to get off. Not far now, but this was the tricky bit. On the street again, I moved as fast as I could. They believed themselves to be following a strong and agile young male, they’d expect him to be nimble. I hadn’t far to walk, but along pavements that alternated slush with ice, past tipsy crowds who saw no irony in wishing a Muslim woman a Merry Christmas, and with the ever-growing awareness of the hunters getting closer.
For a hundred yards or so, the traffic kept pace with me. Then it cleared, the saloon drew level and moved ahead. I was yards away from the entrance to Vauxhall Underground Station. The car pulled into the kerb and Aamir’s brother got out of the passenger side. They were expecting me to head down the steps into the station, to try to lose them on the Tube, and one of them was set to follow me on foot.
Smart thinking. But wrong. I turned a sharp left, picked up my skirts and ran.
The covered walkway of St George’s Wharf was free of snow and had been sprinkled with grit to stop the smooth stone tiles from icing over. I ran at speed past the pink stone columns, up the steps and further into the modern complex of shops, apartments and restaurants. I glanced back as I reached the riverside. Two of them, Aamir’s brother and an older man, were coming fast. I ran on along the south bank of the river towards Vauxhall Bridge, and down beneath the underpass. Out on the other side, I dived to the left. This was the crucial part. I had to be seen, but not by them. I had seconds.
Very close to the point where the bridge leaves the land to reach out over the water, there is a steel access-ladder that – if you’re brave enough – will take you up off the embankment, over the river wall and down on to the beach below. I pulled myself up and swung over, clambering down a couple of rungs before dropping on to wet sand. The tide was high and there wasn’t much beach left. Pulling my robes free, I ran left beneath the shadow of the bridge.
‘Thought you were never coming,’ said a voice from nowhere.
Without bothering to reply, I tugged off the headscarf and robes. Breathing heavily, I held back both arms and let Emma pull a black jacket up over my shoulders. I took the black woollen hat she was holding out and tucked my hair up inside. Emma, like me, was dressed entirely in black.
‘How far behind are they?’ she whispered, as I peered into the shopping trolley that, an hour earlier, she’d pushed down to the river using an old concrete ramp that runs down the side of the MI6 building. Nestled in the trolley was a lumpy, misshapen Father Christmas. I pulled off the Santa mask to see the punchbag from my shed. If all went to plan, it had taken its last pummelling from me.
‘Couple of seconds,’ I replied. ‘But they’ll carry on along the embankment until they realize they’ve lost me. Did you have any trouble?’
I sensed, rather than saw, her shake her head. ‘I staggered a bit, mumbled, “Penny for the Santa”, everybody thought I was pissed,’ she said. ‘You know London, nobody wants to get involved.’
Time was tight, so Emma held a torch and shielded the light from it with her body, while I got the punchbag ready. The buoyancy aid that would keep it afloat for a minute or two was already in place. I pulled off the Santa Claus costume and replaced it with the burka and veil, tying both securely in place. Then, between us, Emma and I carried it to the water’s edge. The tide had turned about an hour ago and was on its way out.
‘Go,’ I told Emma, and watched her jog out from under the bridge and disappear into the darkness. It would take her around ten minutes to find her way up the ramp and then back on to the bridge. Eight minutes had gone by when my phone received a text.