Lost causes

TWENTY-TWO

Edinburgh, Friday 21 May 2010

The man came into the room at the back of the Edinburgh bungalow, carrying a box designed to transport bottles which he’d just removed from a large American-style fridge in the kitchen. He laid it down gently on the table in the middle of the room and removed a series of metal flasks. The two younger Asian men in the room couldn’t take their eyes off them as they were lined up.

‘The time has come,’ said the older man. ‘You both know exactly what to do. We have been over it many times in the past few weeks. You know where your targets are, and you know what to say to the caretakers or anyone else who asks what you’re doing. You know what to do with these.’ He indicated the flasks. ‘You put on masks and gloves before opening them, and nothing must be spilled. Take great care not to contaminate yourselves with even the slightest drop. When you’ve finished your task, you drive south to the house in Northumberland to meet up with the others, and you’ll be given details of your flights. You will not be returning to your families but they will know you are with the army of the righteous and you will live on in their hearts. Are you ready, my brothers?’

‘I am,’ answered Anwar Khan.

Muhammad Patel nodded, his throat too dry to say anything.

‘You are both blessed. Your names will live for ever and your families will stand tall. The American imperialists and their British lapdogs will learn that their greed for oil will not stop us reclaiming what is rightfully ours. The tide of filth that covers this country will be swept away by the pure waters of Islam. Do your duty. Allah is great. Praise be to Allah.’

The two men echoed the sentiment and opened their tool bags to pack the flasks inside, taking care to wedge them upright and cushion them with plastic bubble wrap.

The older man embraced each youth in turn and saw them to the door. He watched as they got into the white van with the Scottish Water logo on the side and drove off. Then, as he turned to go back inside, a woman’s voice said, ‘Oh, dear. Not having problems with your water supply, are you, Mr Malik?’

He turned to see his next-door neighbour, Gillian McKay, looking anxiously over the small hedge. ‘No, no, Mrs McKay. My nephew works with the water company. He was in the area, just dropped in to say hello.’

‘Oh, good. Maybe you could ask him next time you see him about the amount of chlorine they put in the water. Sometimes I’d swear my tea tastes like the swimming baths.’

‘I’ll certainly do that, Mrs McKay. But you can’t be too careful with water, you know.’

Khan and Patel didn’t speak during the journey to the north of the city where they stopped outside a fifteen-storey block of flats, one of four towers standing in close proximity to each other like giant skittles in a concrete alley. Khan parked close to the entrance and reached behind him to grasp a clipboard. ‘Ready?’

‘Let’s go.’

The two men entered the graffiti-adorned ground floor of Inchmarin Court and paused for a moment as the lift doors opened to let a young woman with two small children get out and cross their path. Khan pretended to check his clipboard. Patel swallowed and smiled at the woman, who ignored him as she turned to berate the smallest of her children, lagging behind.

Khan pushed the call bell for the caretaker and waited with his ear close to the grille.

‘Who is it?’

‘Scottish Water, here to check your pressure.’

‘Naebody telt me anything aboot that.’

‘We’ve had complaints of low water pressure from tenants on the top three floors.’

‘They said bugger all tae me.’

‘Do you want it checked or not?’

‘Shit. Gimme a minute. I’ll be doon.’

An elderly man appeared a few minutes later, grossly overweight, wearing green corduroy trousers and carpet slippers, and carrying a large bunch of keys. He scratched at the grey stubble on his chin. ‘This way.’

Khan and Patel followed him into the pump room, where the main water tank for the building was situated. From here water was pumped electrically up to three further storage tanks located on the upper floors.

‘Great. No need for you to hang around, mate,’ said Khan. ‘It’s a Yale. We’ll see it’s closed before we go.’

‘Fair enough. Want me tae sign anythin’?’

‘No, it’s just a routine test. If there’s a problem they’ll send another team out.’

The caretaker shuffled off and Patel closed the door gently behind him. He stood for a moment with his back against it. ‘He’s seen us,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Khan. ‘We all look the same. Besides, we’ll be on a plane to Pakistan before anyone comes calling.’

He and Patel donned the plastic coveralls they extracted from their tool bags and put on gloves and masks before gingerly removing two of the flasks and putting them down on the floor beside the big water tank. They worked on undoing the lid clasps before sliding the cover back to expose the surface of the water. Patel jumped as one of the pumps started up in order to replenish water being used on an upper floor. It stopped again after about ten seconds.

‘Ready?’

Patel nodded.

The men picked up the flasks and undid the caps. Then, holding the rims very close to the surface of the water to avoid splashing, they tipped the cloudy straw-coloured liquid contents slowly into the tank.

‘Done,’ said Khan, replacing the cap on his flask and putting it down on the floor. ‘I’ll get the bag.’ He brought over a heavy-gauge plastic sack — of the type used for garden refuse — and both flasks were put into it, followed by their gloves, masks and coveralls. Khan sealed the end with a series of knots, and the men slid the lid of the tank back into place.

They put the sack in the back of the van and drove the two hundred metres or so to the next tower block to begin the same ritual. It took them just under an hour and a half to do all four buildings in their schedule. At a little after eight in the evening they started heading east along the shore of the Firth of Forth on the first leg of their journey south.

Rather than join the A1 they stuck to the minor coast road and, after a few miles, stopped in one of the sprawling beach car parks which at that time was empty, the day trippers having gone home and the lovers not yet arrived. Khan dumped the sacks in the refuse bins outside the closed public toilets while Patel scrubbed off the Scottish Water transfers from the van. Using satnav directions, they continued heading for Northumberland.

At four in the morning a police patrol car stopped on the road outside the four tower blocks in Edinburgh. ‘Notice anything strange?’ the driver asked his colleague.

The officer, looking for signs of activity, said not.

‘Lights in the windows,’ said the driver.

‘Jesus, you’re right. It’s like Hogmanay.’

‘What d’you suppose they’re up to?’

‘Could be planning a revolution.’

The driver opened his window and listened. ‘If they are, it’s a quiet, orderly one.’

‘Which suits us fine. Think I should call it in?’

‘Nothing illegal about switching on lights during the hours of darkness… Mind you, if the Greens have their way…’

The patrol car drove on.

‘God, I feel ill,’ complained Neil MacBride as he returned to the bedroom in the flat he shared with his wife Morag and their two children on the fourteenth floor of Inchmarin Court. He’d just made his third trip to the lavatory in the past half-hour.

‘Serves you right. How much did you have down the Doocot?’

‘Just my usual. God’s honest truth. Mind you, I had a pie…’

‘God, how often have I heard that? Ten pints then you have a bad pie…’

‘I tell you, I had three pints tops.’

‘Come to think of it, I’m not feeling that brilliant myself.’

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Neil, doubling up with stomach cramps. ‘Christ, I’ll have to go again.’

‘Maybe it was that chicken we had at tea time,’ Morag called after him.

‘Mummy, I’m not feeling well. I’ve got a sore tummy,’ said a small figure appearing at the door in pyjamas, clutching a teddy bear.

‘Me too,’ said another small voice from the bedroom next door.

It was a scene that was being played out in flats all over the four tower blocks. It was also being played out in five blocks of flats in Manchester, six in London and two in Liverpool.

At six a.m. Morag called the emergency out-of-hours service NHS 24. She couldn’t get through. Neither could callers in Manchester, London and Liverpool. The system was overwhelmed.

‘In point two miles, turn left,’ said the satnav voice. Khan slowed the vehicle, not that they were going very fast on the winding country road.

‘Turn left,’ said the voice.

‘Where?’ exclaimed Khan, straining to see through the darkness. The headlight beams were being diffused by drifting mist.

‘Recalculating.’

‘We must have missed it,’ said Patel. ‘I think there was a track

…’

Khan reversed the vehicle slowly

‘Turn left… Turn left.’

‘There,’ said Patel. ‘It’s a bit overgrown.’

Khan saw the opening and turned into it, shrubbery and branches scraping against the sides of the van. After a bone-jarring journey of a quarter of a mile over potholes that threatened to destroy the van’s suspension, they saw the shape of a farmhouse appear against the sky. It was in darkness.

‘Destination is on your left,’ the voice confirmed.

‘I thought someone would to be here to meet us,’ said Patel.

‘Looks like we’re first.’

They found a key under one of the curling stones that flanked the front door. The house was cold and dark but the sound of a fridge compressor turning on in the kitchen assured them there was power: they turned on the lights. When they opened the fridge door, they found there was food too.

They were joined an hour later by the two who’d carried out the Manchester operation and two hours after that by the two from Liverpool. The young men who’d driven up from London joined them at first light, and they all congratulated each other on a successful mission.

Khan and Patel, who’d managed to grab a few hours’ sleep, said they’d keep watch while the others got some rest.

‘We’re a good bit off the road here,’ said one of the London pair. ‘Mind you, I thought someone would be here to tell us what happens next.

‘Me too,’ said Patel.

‘They’ll be here today,’ said Khan.