2084 The End of Days (10 page)

“Irene DuPré.”

Lex choked and spluttered.

“I-rene - Lex here – so-orry ah ain’t called in. Ah got a real, uh, bad bout ah flu.”

Lex coughed violently.

“Kosloff – as far as ah’m concerned, you’ve got the fuckin’ man flu!”

Lex was taken completely aback. Irene was not going to be pulling any punches.

“No-o-o-o, I-rene, ah –“

“What did your doctor say then, Kosloff?”

“Ah – ah – ah ain’t been out a bed in th-ree days, boss.”

“Bullshit, Lex! Ah know exactly what you’re problem is, Kosloff, but ah ain’t prepared to say it over the phone and you get me hauled up for discrimination. But when you get back here we are going to thrash this out at you’re appraisal. Got that?”

“Ye-es...”

“Now you either get back into Control fit and rarin’ to go next week or you better get an official doctor’s note sent in here Monday. Else consider yourself under suspension. Catch ma drift, Lex?”

Lex did not get to answer as Irene crashed him off at her end before he could respond. He felt sick. In fact he did not just feel sick – he rushed to the bathroom and threw up violently in the toilet bowl. Lex told himself that this was the worst week of his whole life. As he ran his head under the cold faucet to try and knock some sense back into his battered brain he told himself that things just could not get any worse. As he turned the running faucet off he thought he could hear the doorbell ringing. Lex thought to himself, God couldn’t possibly throw anything else at him, could he?

Chapter 7

Earthdate: 17:10 Saturday February 8, 2081 GMT

T
he five men had arrived just after two o’clock on the Isle of Skye by
means of a plush upmarket Mercedes 7-seater air-car. Dick Threlfall, the English owner of the Ardvasar Hotel, had stood with nervy expectation outside the large flaky-white painted old building set 50 yards back from the rocky seaweed-strewn shore, watching as the large vehicle slowly came into view. The air-car had gracefully whizzed through the misty sodden air over the silver sands of Morar, past the fishing port of Mallaig and directly across the white-headed choppy grey waves of the Sound of Sleat, which separated Skye from the mainland.

Dick was extremely grateful to see the men arriving because business had been really slack this winter. In fact, if business did not start picking up he was on the point of trying to sell up and return back to his home county of Yorkshire. He had helped them unpack the mountain of expensive climbing gear in the boot of the air-car. They had everything needed for winter climbing in the arduous and treacherous Cuillin Mountains about 20 miles north of the Point of Sleat from where the hotel was situated. Rucksacks, electrically-heated mountain gear, ropes, ice-picks and crampons. Absolutely everything, Dick thought, they must have spent a fortune on it all and everything looked brand new. He was glad he had charged them over the odds because they were the only guests staying at the Ardvasar tonight and Dick badly needed their flash cash. The man who had made the booking went especially out of his way to introduce himself and his four climbing companions and they all shook hands vigorously with Dick.

“Good day to you Mr Threlfall. My name is Mahmoud El Kharroubi, UK correspondent for Al Jazirah. These are my four friends also staying at your – eh – beautiful hotel. They are Mr Khan al Ahmed - Mr Mossab Mohammad - Mr Akbar Ali Mohammad - and Mr Hassan Ben Ali.”

It was now ten past five and four of the men sat in the snug by the
restaurant bar. Dick and his Slovak bar tender Oliç, a student at Sabhal Mór
Ostaig Gaelic University a mile up the road from Ardvasar, began to bring out their evening meals from the kitchen. Dick looked around the otherwise empty restaurant for the fifth man.

“I’m sorry gentleman – but is your friend, um, Mr Kharroubi not joining you just now.”

Khan, who was pretty unimpressed with his surroundings, although he did not show it to Threlfall, flashed a huge laser-white smile at the hotelier.

“Mr Mahmoud El Kharroubi is just outside having a cigarette – I know, dirty habit these days – and Mr Mahmoud El Kharroubi is also making a call on his mobile, Mr Threlfall. I believe that he was having some difficulty with a signal within your lovely establishment. If you leave his meal on the table please, I will call Mr Mahmoud El Kharroubi inside in a minute.”

Dick and Oliç laid the meals down and the hotel owner thought to himself that there would not be much chance of forgetting these dark-skinned men and their oft-mentioned names. Before Khan went outside to call El Kharroubi back in he scanned his eyes around the restaurant where they sat. Lovely establishment, Khan had thought to himself. By Allah, he thought, it was more like being caught in some sort of a time warp. The painted ceilings were low and oppressive. The once-white paint was now brown interspersed with heavy dark oaken beams. The walls were covered with a heavy dark red wallpaper that added to the claustrophobia of the deserted restaurant. The small tables were made of heavy dark stained wood, matched by the tiny stools surrounding them. In the snug where the Group were placed, a mainly yellow tartan covered seat stretched along the wall facing the bar and continued to the small dark wooden bar. Threlfall added a few more stools to allow the five men to sit with each other, eat and talk together. Tacky prints of Scottish uniformed soldiers of bygone eras and the odd cheap picture of Bonnie Prince Charlie were dimly lit by low energy light bulbs with burnt-brown shades. The carpet was a dark blue and black tartan which looked as though it had been trodden on for decades and was heavily ingrained with dirt. Hassan Ben Ali, who had started eating his Mallaig fish and chips, which they had all ordered, saw Khan looking about and spoke out.

“In the name of Allah, what made Mahmoud pick this dump?”

Khan shrugged and replied indifferently.

“Look, Hassan, we don’t need a five-star hotel. What we need is something just like this. It is quiet, so we will stand out and be remembered and it needs to be as far from London as we can make it –“

Hassan grumbled back.

“Yeah, well I’m the one stuck in a small dingy single room on the back of the ground floor. It is freezing, damp and smells horribly musty. Allah save me, I’d rather spend the night in an Israeli prison cell.”

“Okay, let me call Mahmoud back in for his fish and chips and I’ll to speak to the owner later about moving you.”

Hassan went back to his meal along with the silent Mohammad brothers and Khan went outside to call Mahmoud. The Jordanian journalist had just finished stubbing his cigarette out on the now darkened road separating the hotel from the rough grassy patch sloping down to the rocky shoreline, which could only just be made out in the diminishing light. Khan looked across the Sound and he could see the twinkling lights of little Mallaig hemmed in by dark foreboding mountains on three sides. Khan waved El Kharroubi over, signalling with an imaginary knife and fork motion that his meal was ready. Mahmoud strode across the darkening deserted road to the low restaurant doorway and Khan addressed him.

“Did you speak with the Palestinian, Mahmoud?”

“Yes, he is in place. I have also confirmed the go-ahead with Brother Suleiman –“

El Kharroubi put his hand on Khan’s shoulder and guided the Kuwaiti into the restaurant. They joined Hassan and the Mohammads and everyone ate in silence. Although, the restaurant was empty apart from their table, next door in the bar room it was filled with raucous, drunken locals who had, according to Dick Threlfall, been watching a now-finished Scottish football match on 3DTV. The manager had called it the Old Firm game but that meant nothing to the Group. Suddenly, their silent eating was disturbed as two drunks staggered in from the adjoining corridor which linked the restaurant, toilets and bar. The taller fat local, known as Aldo, wore a blue football top and the smaller skinny local, known as Paddy, had ginger hair and wore a top with green and white hoops. The larger drunkard Aldo spoke to the Group first.

“Haw! Haw! What’s this then, Paddy?“

The five men looked up startled by the two drunks precariously holding each other up with their arms extended. Aldo, the fat drunk in the blue top with an enormous beer-belly hanging over his belt slurred again in an almost unintelligible Scottish accent.

“Any chance o’ wan o’ yer chips?”

Khan, who was sitting closest to the inebriates, spread his palm out towards his plate and replied.

“Please, my friends. Do help yourself. I have had too much to eat anyway.”

Aldo and Paddy lunged towards the table, grabbed a few chips from Khan’s plate and guzzled them down noisily with rude beer-sodden burps in between. Paddy ventured to engage the Group in conversation.

“Ah take it ye huv aw met the manager Dick? We call him Richard at Home and Dick at Work.”

The two pals guffawed generously to each other as the other five men sat bemused. Paddy continued with his one-sided conversation.

”By the way, ah hope ye don’t mind me askin’? Ah thought ah detected a wee bit o’ an accent there. No offence an’ that - but are you guys aw Pakis?”

Khan continued to be the mildly irritated spokesman for the Group.

“No, actually - we are all Arabs, my friends –“

Aldo’s face immediately became illuminated with drunken jocularity.

“Arabs - haw, Paddy boy, these guys are aw Dundee United supporters. Haw, haw, haw!”

Paddy made a mock sneering gesture into nowhere specifically.

“Tangerine bastards – sorry, man, we don’t mean anything by you guys. Mean tae say – ah’m a fuckin’ Celtic man masel’ and big Aldo here supports the Teddy Berrs. But we’re ra best o’ friends an’ that, y’know? We are aw fur Wurld Peace. Issat right, Aldo?”

“Too true, wee Paddy boy, Wurld Peace – that’s oor goal!”

The Group all glanced sideways at each other in bewilderment. They had no idea what Aldo and Paddy were talking about. Mahmoud made an almost imperceptible sideways gesture with his black brooding hawkish eyes for Khan to get rid of them. Khan pulled something from his pocket and handed it over to Paddy and the eyes of the two drunks lit up immediately at the £50 note.

“Allah has blessed us with a little spare cash today. Take it and buy your friends through there a drink on us, okay?”

“Brilliant, man - a fifty spot - what aboot that, Aldo?”

Aldo and Paddy pumped Khan’s hands and waved goodbye to the others in the Group. They staggered off in each other’s grasp shouting for world peace and laughing at their good fortune. Dick Threlfall slunk out from behind the bar and moved towards the Group. He looked down at the plates and all were empty except for Khan’s. Threlfall broke the momentary silence.

“Please accept my apologies for the state of the locals. Have you all finished, gentlemen? Did you enjoy your meals?”

Khan could not face any more from the plate after Aldo and Padd
y’s grubby hands had been all over it. He answered for the Group, lying about the food.

“We are all finished, thank you very much - the fish was delicious.”

Threlfall started gathering up the plates and then stopped momentarily as a thought had just crossed his mind.

“Oh! By the way gentlemen - I’ve just listened to the weather forecast for tomorrow, Sunday – and a blizzard is meant to hit Skye. It will be very tricky climbing in the Cuillins.”

Mahmoud El Kharroubi raised his arms to heaven and put on a false smile.

“Allah be praised! You have just given us our alibi, Mr Threlfall.”

“Alibi?”

“I don’t really mean alibi, Mr Threlfall. I mean excuse – an excuse for not going up those blasted mountains. What we will do instead is sit in your wonderful lounge all day tomorrow and drink coffee and play cards. Maybe you will join us?”

Threlfall thought it peculiar that these men had travelled all this way bringing the best of kit and were put off their climb so easily. Instead they intended staying in and spending money in his hotel and that was fine by him.

“I’d be delighted, gentlemen.”

Khan groaned inside at the thought of being stuck in a snowstorm in this dingy hole, but he bit his lip, then spoke.

“One last thing Mr Threlfall – Dick - my friend Hassan Ben Ali is uncomfortable in the single room you have placed him in. We would be happy to pay for a third double room if you could move him, please?”

Threlfall could not believe his luck. More money!

“Certainly - I will have you moved to a good sized double on the first floor, Mr Ben Ali. I’ll put you in room 101.”

*

Earthdate: 19:25 Saturday February 8, 2081 GMT

Jill unlocked the door of her flat in Kew and pushed it open. She picked up what little mail there was and entered. Mostly flyers for local junk food shops and quotes for air-car insurance that she did not require. There was one letter and she knew immediately it was Khan’s business account bank statement from the London branch of the Royal Bank of Kuwait. No-one nowadays wanted paper statements with everything available online. However, Khan said he was old fashioned when it came to money. Jill threw the mail on the breakfast bar along with her keys and bag and flopped down wearily on her sofa. Saturday had been a good day off and Jill was also looking forward to tomorrow’s day of rest.

In the morning she had taken her sports gear and went to nearby Kew Gardens to run with the local Kew Crew Jogging Club to burn off a few calories. After showering and changing back at her flat she caught the train into London’s Hyde Park and met Ruthie Venters. Khan had bought two tickets weeks ago before the trial separation for an open-air concert. It was the revival World Tour of the late-20
th
century rock group Queen’s “We Will Rock You!” Khan had left the tickets and told Jill just to use them with a friend. She asked Ruthie as a thank you for saving her on the Dinky Budge story and Ruthie was delighted to go along with her. Initially, Hyde Park was pretty chilly in the open air, but with the large open-air heaters and the crowd’s banging enthusiasm, the girls were soon warmed up. After the concert they went to a nearby McDonalds and giggled like two teenagers when they ordered two Happy Meals and giant chocolate shakes. They even had the audacity to take the free kiddie toy - a plastic model of the spacecraft Oceanus. It had been a great day but Jill was just glad to be home again. She had already promised herself a long lie in bed on Sunday morning. Jill caught a glance across at the breakfast bar and saw Khan’s bank statement poking over the edge of the counter. She had never opened his private mail before but the envelope niggled at her. Jill thought, if I just sneaked a quick look there might be the odd meal out or a clandestine hotel booking that would confirm that Khan had been as unfaithful as she had been accusing him of being. She couldn’t, she scolded herself. Then she jumped up and grabbed up the white windowed-envelope marked the Royal Bank of Kuwait. The clear window was addressed:-

Mr K Al Ahmed

Flat 7/2

45 Kew Gardens Path

Kew

Greater London

6SW 10XX

Jill lifted her keys and used one to roughly zip open the letter and she pulled out the statement. She scanned over the statement and the transactions certainly looked like any that a normal property dealer might transact. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then her eye caught the very last transaction on the second page, which read:-