Dark Clouds (36 page)

‘This isn’t somm’at that can be done overnight, you know,’ a mouthy train operating clerk told her.

‘Look – all I need is a printout of the waste trains you’re running through London on behalf of British Nuclear Fuels,’ she said reasonably.

‘Yeah – all right then ... I’ll do wha I can.’ The mouthy clerk said. ‘Only there’s one stuck on a siding in Kent, and I don’t know if it’s goin anywhere.’

‘Fine ... if you could perhaps let me have whatever you’ve got.’

‘Yeah ... all right, doll, but I’ll ave to clear it wiv my manager first. It’s procedure, see, an I can’t go an change all of tha jus cos you say so – even if you is the Ministry, or whaever.’

She would happily have slapped this guy if he had been in the same room. Instead, she took two aspirins and waved across the open-plan office at James. Her interest in him was growing as her suspicions about Dwaine and Sheryl escalated. They had shared a sandwich lunch together recently in the Embankment Gardens and she was pleased now when they came together at the water cooler.

‘We should maybe go and have a drink together later,’ she said impulsively.

James was certainly up for it. He thought Chrystal was well fit, and they now had a date. She went back to her desk feeling good, but when the printouts came through on the train times for nuclear waste movements in the UK, she didn’t look too closely at them. There were two sheets, numbered page 1 of 2 and page 2 of 2, so she assumed there weren’t any more. Normally, she would have called back to check precisely what information had been sent and if the data was complete.

She was thinking of James now though. If they were going to have a drink together, she wanted to make a good impression. She would get her junior colleague, Jane, to make the calls that would stop the trains. It was quite straightforward, but it had to go through the Atomic Energy Police office at Sellafield, and Jane knew what to do.

So Chrystal went to the ladies toilet, where she primped up her hair and re-did her lippy and eye makeup. Her period could be a problem. She would have to hold back on James if they kissed and there was a possibility of intimacy. That might not be a bad idea on their first outing together though.

She was excited when she returned to the office, and she didn’t see a third sheet that had come through for her on a secure fax line. It gave details of a nuclear waste train on a siding outside Dungeness in Kent. It was presently without a crew but a relief driver was expected, so it might be best if the MoD included this train on the list of those to be suspended. The mouthy clerk with the rail company had even written his own note on the fax apologising for the omission. It was appropriate to include it now though, he felt. But his belated offering was covered by several other fax messages, which had arrived while Chrystal was in the ladies toilet. 

It was a crucial piece of information that would stay overnight in the MoD fax tray.

*  *  *  *  *

Outside, thousands of Londoners are ending their working day in pubs, cafes and restaurants. There is talk of the impending curfew. ‘
A right bloody nuisance and no mistake,
’ is the general view. Life goes on however and love, as usual, is emotionally focused. ‘We might have to go home early,’ James says to Chrystal.

There is a teasing smile around his mouth, which she likes. She wants to take his hand and then embrace him. That will all follow, she hopes, and she doesn’t really care anymore about what might happen between her loser guy, Dwaine, and her cousin Sheryl. She’ll go ahead with James.

Meanwhile, in North London, Pele Kalim turns a prayer mat around on the floor and kneels to worship his god. He is a fit and strikingly handsome Pakistani in his mid thirties. Any young woman passing him in the street, and quite a few men, would catch and be instantly attracted to the power of his physical presence. Later, perhaps, some of his admirers might be daunted and dissuaded by the intense and serious way in which he regarded almost everything.

When he has finished paying his respects to Allah and Mohammed, he leaves the bedroom and goes downstairs. Shortly afterwards, the front door of the Edwardian semi-detached house opens and an older man appears. He is wearing a grey, knee length Muslim tunic with silk covered buttons and he has the air of a slightly distracted academic.

He embraces Pele like an honoured son, and when they have boiled a kettle and made camomile tea, they take their mugs into a respectable, middle class sitting room where they sit opposite each other in comfortable leather armchairs.

‘Are you sure about what you are about to do?’ the older man asks.

‘Yes – it is essential, Mahmoud. It is difficult to apply reason and logic in these situations. One can only go along with what is necessary … it is our god’s will.’

Mahmoud nods and sips at his herbal tea. He is an economics lecturer at one of London’s Polytechnic Universities. He is also Pele Kalim’s mentor in England. He likes his undemanding academic role at the Polyversity. But as a committed Muslim, he understands why great sacrifices have to be made for the cause of Islam – especially in decadent Western countries.

‘I don’t believe these people know where we’re coming from,’ he says to Pele. ‘So it is best that we enlighten them rather than collude for any longer with what they are doing.’

‘My only concern is how we divert the train in Hackney and take it up to Stoke Newington,’ Pele says. ‘Because we need to target the Hassidic Jews if we are to avenge the suffering of our Palestinian brothers.’

Mahmoud the mentor nods silently. This is a daring mission for the jihadists. If it succeeds, it could change the course of history. The stakes are huge.

‘I think Assam is confident about this,’ he says. ‘He has the experience, and I am sure he can do whatever is needed with the railway points. If necessary, he will lever them into position with a crowbar. You will, however, have to be firm with the driver and his assistant. Your authority is crucial, so you make your presence felt immediately. It is essential that you persuade these people to do exactly what is required.’

It is in Allah’s hands now. They are merely humble foot soldiers doing the best they can to honour his name and strike at the infidels.

‘If I am to be honoured with martyrdom,’ Pele says, ‘I want you to do something for me.’

‘Of course – ’

‘I have given my heart to a young woman whose brother has helped to finance what we are doing. I would like to speak with her, but I don’t think is feasible … so I want you to find her, Mahmoud, and give her my parting message.’

The mentor is nodding again. He’ll do whatever is required, even if he becomes irradiated with the explosion Pele is planning.

‘Take this,’ the activist says, passing his mentor a piece of paper with Sulima Sharif’s mobile number. ‘Maybe wait for a week or two. If it is necessary, you may have to travel to Geneva or Paris.’

‘That is not a problem,’ Mahmoud says.

There are tears in Pele Kalim’s eyes. He’s a strong and courageous man, but thoughts of what might have been with Sulima are distressing him.

‘Tell her I never stopped loving her,’ he says. ‘I wanted to be with her and for us to raise a family together … perhaps you could try to explain to her why this hasn’t happened.’

Mahmoud gets up and walks around to put a hand on the activist’s shoulder. There is nothing useful for him to say, but he agrees to do what Pele is requesting.

*  *  *  *  *

Eighty miles away, on the outskirts of Dungeness in Kent, a train with large metal canisters of nuclear waste stands in a railway siding. Two armed members of the Atomic Energy Police Force are parked beside it. ‘I don know wha’s ‘appened to these geezers,’ one of the guards says. ‘Only I’ve ‘ad it now. I was due ‘ome fuckin ours ago.’

Shortly afterwards, a taxi appears with a train driver and his assistant.

‘I’m sorry about this, lads,’ Arthur Hodge says. ‘There’s bin a complete fuckin cock-up, but it’s nothin to do with us, I assure you.’

His assistant, Anwar Singh, grins, and when they’ve produced their ID cards one of the Atomic Energy Police guards makes a call. It’s all got to be done properly, but when they’ve confirmed that Arthur Hodge and Anwar Singh are who they say they are, they’re ready to go.’

‘You know there’s bin an embargo on movin this stuff around?’ one of the cops says.

‘Yeah, we’d ‘eard,’ Arthur Hodge answers. ‘This lot’s only goin as far as Stratford though, and it’ll stay there until we’re cleared to continue on to Sellafield … anyway, that’s what our supervisor says, an he ought to know cause he deals wiv the paperwork.’

The locomotive engine is sluggish as it starts. ‘It’s not right you know, Anwar,’ Arthur says. ‘The servicin’s not what it was on these, and I’d say this one needs a proper overhaul.’

Anwar grins. He does this all the time with Arthur. It’s easier than arguing or getting into an endless discussion that invariably goes nowhere.

Arthur Hodge keeps shaking his head as they travel up towards London. He’s not happy with his engine, but he’s due to retire in the autumn.

‘We’re off to Spain,’ he tells Anwar. ‘Sun every day – an all we’ve got to worry about is whether or not we’ll get a deckchair on the beach at Bennydorm.’

Anwar has another twenty years to go before he can retire with a pension to Kerala. He secretly thinks it’s a much more interesting place than England or Bennydorm, and he has persuaded his wife, Amira, to let him put pictures of South India all over their Council house sitting room in Bethnal Green.

The train comes close to stopping on a number of occasions and Arthur’s getting worried when they get onto the North London line. ‘We’re gonna look a bit fuckin stupid, mate, if this breaks down,’ he tells Anwar. ‘We’ll ‘ave fuckin Greens rantin on at us, an they’ll ‘ave to send another engine out from Stratford.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Anwar assures him. ‘We’ll be fine.’

Arthur doesn’t think so. He wants to make a call to his supervisor, but there’s no charge left on the battery of his mobile and Anwar’s forgotten to bring his.

‘We’re stoppin at Dalston,’ he says as they pass through Highbury and Islington. ‘They’ll ave someone there an’ we’ll get them to sort us out.’

Anwar just wanted to go on to Stratford and from there to his home in Bethnal Green. Arthur Hodge is the man in charge though, so as they pass Canonbury, he tests the brakes. There’s a passenger train on the other side of the track at Dalston, and when they stop, Arthur Hodge is aware of someone running from behind the train and waving at them. He’s also just noticed a ‘STOP’ signal straight ahead, which is unusual.

The guy who’s waving is huge and he’s got a shiny bald head. Asian, Arthur’s thinking. But he’s wearing a rail company uniform, so he tells Anwar that it’s all right to open the cab door.

‘What’s with the stop sign, mate ... is there an emergency?’

‘Yes – there is,’ Pele Kalim answers. ‘We’ve got something on the track by Hackney Central, which the police are checking.’

He seems pleasant enough, and reliable, but he’s been joined by another Asian guy in a T-shirt, who is holding an unfamiliar metal object.

‘It’s a gun!’ Anwar yells while trying to push the cab door shut. But he’s too late. The guy in the T-shirt has joined them and he’s pointing his gun at Anwar.

‘One word or a gesture out of place and I’ll kill the two of you,’ he says. ‘You got that?’

They’re both nodding and Anwar places his hands on top of his head as Pele Kalim joins them in the cab.

 ‘You will take this train to London Fields,’ he says. ‘We need to pick up equipment, and when we have changed the track points, we’ll go to Stoke Newington.

‘But the engine at the rear asn’t bin activated,’ Arthur says, trembling. And it’s true; it’s a security precaution.

‘That’s all right,’ Pele tells him. ‘You can reverse the train.’

‘But wha if there’s somewha comin down?’ Arthur asks. ‘They might crash inno us ... an’ you know wha we’s carryin?’

Pele doesn’t want to argue with the ageing driver, whose face has turned partly blue. He isn’t in good shape physically and, if pushed, he might have a seizure.

‘Just do as I ask, and please don’t say anything else.’

‘Go on,’ Anwar urges. He’s reading Pele Kalim accurately.

‘Very good, sir,’ Arthur Hodge says, restarting the train. ‘I’ll do exactly as you request. Only I’ve got to tell you tha there’s somewhat wrong wiv the engine. Its bin playin up all the way from Dungeness ... an I think it could cut out any time.’

Pele Kalim keeps looking ahead. He’s not interested in Arthur’s thoughts. They’re moving and that’s all that matters. Some of the passengers on the platform opposite them are surprised to see a train with radiation trefoil markings on the canisters stopping at Dalston. It’s an unusual sight, and a girl snaps the occupants of the train cab before moving on to the potentially lethal nuclear waste canisters.

Chapter 28

It’s after midnight and we’re in Ingrid’s warehouse studio in Dalston. We’ve been to the Vietnamese Canteen, where we had our first proper date. Here, we met an engaging actor who kept us entertained with gossip about his former co-stars in a string of classic movies. We’re ready to go to Newcastle the next day so I can finally see Ingrid’s exhibition of paintings and we’ve got tickets for Athens at the weekend.

I’m looking forward to a change in my life. There had been police sirens earlier all around this part of Hackney, which we dismissed as being down to local excesses. Lads and girls with too much to drink getting in the way of cars and buses on the streets.

‘I am concerned about the curfew though, Rudi,’ Ingrid says.

‘It means you can’t throw me out until the morning.’

‘But seriously ... all of these riots on the streets – it’s not good.’

They’ll pass, I tell her, and London will revert to being everyone’s favourite place. Interesting, cool and tolerant. Just wait for it. There are however helicopters hovering nearby and we’re looking at their lights focusing down on the nearby Hackney Downs when the intercom buzzer goes.