Читать книгу No One Is Sacrosanct - David Balaam - Страница 9

2008

Euston Station in London is one of the capital’s busiest, serving the Midlands, the North and Scotland. Around thirty million journeys are made to and from it each year, but it is particularly the arrivals that interest Fazal. His expert eyes scan the solo traveler - the young solo traveler. These young preadolescence children, of either sex, have usually left home to seek a new life in London. They could have been abused by a family member; run-away from a children’s home; been bullied at school, or for some of the older age group, eleven or twelve, just wanted to see London. Fazal was an expert at spotting the vulnerable. They would stand in the middle of the concourse staring vacantly up at the Underground board, wondering which direction to take. Some have an address of a hostel or even a relative, but all stop at some point to check their next move. That’s when Fazal strikes. “Where is it you are looking for, young man? I know London well.”

The young boy sat in the back of the black cab, spell-bound at the sights he was seeing; Piccadilly Circus, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square. So many tall buildings, it felt he was in another world. Fazal parked the black cab and took the boy to MacDonald’s in Leicester Square. “Are you enjoying London, so far?”

The boy nodded with a mouthful of Big Mac.

“So,” Fazal started, “what is your name, boy”

“Alfie Brooks.” He managed, sucking on a banana milkshake.

“And where are you from, young Alfie?”

“Bridlington. Do you know it?” he asked in a mild Yorkshire accent.

Fazal nodded. “Of course,” he lied. There was hardly anywhere outside of London Fazal knew of, apart from the obvious large towns and cities. “So, how did you manage to come all that way to London by yourself?” Fazal assumed it had been a long journey just by previous experience. He had found lost children from as far away as Glasgow, Newcastle and Leeds.

“I saved some money I had for my tenth birthday and took a train to York, and then found a train to London.”

So, he is ten years old and ran away from home. But why? “Why would you want to leave home, Alfie, your parents must be worried about you.”

Alfie stopped eating and looked blank, staring out of the panoramic window at the evening twilight and the throng of shoppers and commuters. “Ma married a man I don’t like.” He finally said. He looked back at Fazal and half-smiled. “My Pa died and Ma married my uncle last year. He . . .”

“He what, Alfie? Beat you?” Alfie sunk his head and nodded. Fazal inwardly smiled a joyous smile. Hook, line and sinker. Another one for the offering.

“Don’t you worry, Alfie. I am sure you are going to be safe here, much safer.”

***

Charlene Brooks sat patiently in the small police station waiting room. She had been there two hours waiting to see someone about her boy.

“Sorry to have kept you, Mrs Brooks. Please come this way,” said the duty sergeant. Charlene sat again, now in a smaller office with no windows but crammed with filing cabinets and a computer on the desk. “Hello,” said a voice from behind. “I’m DS Mike King,” he said, closing the door and squeezing into the desk chair. “Tell me more about your son, Mrs Brooks. How long has he been missing?”

***

Fazal woke with a start. There was ringing in his ears and it was still dark outside. He mumbled a curse in his native tongue and picked up his mobile. “Faz, is that you,” a rushed voice asked.

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be, and why are you calling me at four-thirty in the morning, Kamil?”

“Did you receive a package in transit yesterday?”

“Yes, I told you I did,” he answered casually. “Why?”

“Listen to the news and call me back.” And the line went dead.

“What is all the mystery?” He asked himself. First, he checked on the boy. He was sleeping soundly in the spare room. Faz closed the door quietly and went back to his bedroom and turned on the radio, which immediately filled the room with Asian pop music. He fumbled with the volume and turned it to almost off. The time was now 4.55am. The quickest way to hear the news at that time of the day would be Radio 4. Not knowing exactly where it was on the dial he turned the dial slowly, listing for anything that sounded BBC. ‘And now the weather’ Fazal stopped tuning and listened. He was after all a cab driver and the weather could determine if he was going to have a good day or a bad day. ‘Heavy showers in the South and South East, occasionally thundery . . .’

“Excellent,” he said to the radio, “a good day then.”

He listened to the news for five minutes and was about to switch off when he heard what Kamil was talking about.

‘The police are anxious to hear from anyone who knows the whereabouts of ten-year-old Alfie Brooks. Alfie went missing three days ago, and it is believed he may have bought a ticket to London from York. He is about five foot , with mousey hair and blue eyes. He is probably wearing a grey sweater, black trousers and white trainers. He may also have a dark green rucksack. Anyone who has any information, please contact your local police station or call 101.’

Fazal sat frozen. OK, it’s no different from any other time. It was bound to come out sooner or later, depending on how soon he was missed. Sometimes it could take weeks for the papers to pick it up nationally. Usually, the local police make enquiries in the neighborhood, then widen the search. If nothing happens after a week then it gets put out to the media at large. True, his one seems to have gone national quicker than usual, but he had everything under control.

Fazal dug the ‘safe’ phone out of the dresser drawer and dialed Kamil. “OK, I get it, the news . . .”

“Don’t talk, Fazal!” the unfamiliar voice stated assertively. “Just listen.”

“Who is this? Where is Kamil?”

“Shut up, you fucking idiot,” Fazal said nothing, getting the message.

“Good, now listen. Where is the package?”

“With me.”

“You need to dispose of it. It has become too dangerous to keep. Do you understand?”

“But why . . . I can deliver as usual this morning . . .”

“Quiet! You took him on a guided tour of London then for a meal at MacDonald’s, did you not?”

Fazal hesitated. Damn Kamil. “Yes, but . . .”

“No excuses. Hundreds of people would have seen him, and when prompted by the images on TV, they will start remembering where they saw him and who he was with. Now, do as you are told and confirm to Kamil afterwards.” Before Fazal had time to answer, or try and change his mind, whoever he was, the line went dead.

Fazal sat on his bed staring at the wall. He knew the consequences if he did not carry out the order. These ‘faceless’ men knew everything - it would be foolish to run. How did he get it so wrong this time? Over the past two years, he had started as a courier - using his cab to transport anyone he was asked to, without question. Gradually he was ‘promoted’ to identifying suitable targets at railways stations and coach stations. When he had detained a ‘target’ someone else would come and persuade the youth to go with them. Fazal never knew where they were taken or what happened to them - but he guessed. Some sleazy flat in Kensington or Chelsea. He knew these places from dropping off clients in search of ‘rent boys’. Alfie would have ended up there in a few years, after serving other ‘duties’.

“Where are we going?” the boy asked, from the back of the Ford Fiesta, Fazal’s off-duty vehicle. Fazal said nothing, concentrating on the route ahead. After crossing the Rotherhithe Tunnel he doubled back via the Blackwell Tunnel taking small side roads to avoid CCTV’s. He drove around for two hours, so the boy became disorientated with where he had come from and where he was going. In the shadow of Charlton Football Stadium, he found the address Alfie had shown him when he first met him at Euston Station. It was a relation of his, some cousin or distant relative Alfie had found in his mum’s address book. Fazal parked two hundred yards away, having surveyed the road, and was sure no one was watching the house. “So, Alfie, just walk down this road and you will find the address on this piece of paper you gave me.”

Alfie took the address. “You can come and say hello as well.”

“No, Alfie, I can’t. Just remember what we talked about, OK. Now go.” Fazal reached over and opened the door and drove off as soon as Alfie was out of the car.