The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [102]
“You can owe me.”
25
LUTON
The old motel is boarded up with plywood on the barred windows and padlocks on the doors. The Courier waits for the young men to arrive, watching from a distance. One of them will be late—Taj. He’s older and more level-headed than the others, but he lacks conviction.
The one called Rafiq has shown promise. He killed when he was asked. Held his nerve. Pulled the trigger. He has been quiet since then, looking at himself in the mirror as though expecting to see some visible change in himself like the notch between his eyes grown deeper.
Two of the young men have arrived. They are arguing and joking, throwing fake punches and kicking at a soft-drink can in the gutter. How many others are there like them—white, black, Asian, rich, poor, educated, uneducated—praying in Madrasahs, surfing the internet, dreaming of Jihad?
Syd is the youngest. He runs his fingers over the contours of the dark-colored BMW parked at the rear of the motel screened by an overgrown hedge.
“This would be such a sweet ride, you know. I reckon Jenny Cruikshank would go out with me if I had a ride like this.”
“Jenny Cruikshank still won’t do the business,” laughs Rafiq, “not even in a BMW. She’s a prick-tease, man.”
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
Rafiq laughs even harder, his cheeks etched with tiny acne scars like needle marks. “Don’t let the Courier catch you leaving your prints on that thing.”
Syd bunches his sleeve in his fist and begins wiping the car.
Built on either side of a tarmac courtyard, the red-brick motel has two stories with an open walkway along the upper floor. The Courier lets himself into the dining room, which is stripped of furnishings except for a dozen chairs and a tea-urn. There are boxes of donated clothes and blankets—some for disposal, some for sale.
Rafiq and Syd are in Room 12, setting up a digital camera. Folding a magazine, Rafiq jams the pages under one leg of the tripod, which is shorter than the others. Syd sits cross-legged on the floor wearing cargo pants, trainers and an Arsenal strip.
“Should the light be blinking?” he asks.
“It’s still charging.”
“You got the lens cap on.”
Rafiq checks, then glares at Syd.
“You’re a funny prick.”
Syd giggles and adjusts the shemagh on his forehead. His round face is made rounder by an attempted beard that sprouts from his cheeks like alfalfa in wet cotton wool. His father calls it bum fluff. Says it out loud to embarrass Syd when girls come into the shop. He hates his father then. Hates his braying laugh. Hates how everything is a competition.
“We should have crossed swords in the background.”
“We don’t have any swords.”
“Well, I should be holding a gun. We’re supposed to look like soldiers.”
“You got khaki trousers.”
“Can you see them? Maybe I should stand up.”
“You’re fine.”
“It still looks kind of lame.”
Rafiq seems to make a decision. He goes to his rucksack and removes a cloth-covered object, placing it carefully on the table. Unwrapping it with great ceremony, he steps back. The pistol has a black rubber grip and snub-nosed barrel that soaks up the light.
Syd whistles through his teeth and reaches for it. Rafiq slaps his hand away.
“I just want to touch it.”
“Be careful.”
Syd’s fingers close around the grip. He picks it up and feels the weight, marveling at how balanced it feels. Swinging it left, he aims it at a blank TV screen.
“Is it loaded?”
“You got to treat every gun like it’s loaded, that’s what the Courier says.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The Courier gave it to me.”
“Am I going to get one?”
“You don’t ask him shit like that.”
Syd closes one eye and looks down the barrel. “Why we need guns for, anyway? We’re just gonna blow shit up.”
“Insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Problems.”
Syd glances at the camera. “Can I hold it—just while we’re filming?”
Rafiq takes his time deciding and nods. Syd sits on the floor, crossing his arms with the pistol braced against his chest.
“Do I look like a soldier?”
“You look good.”
“One day of fighting…”
“… is worth eighty of praying.”
He looks