The Burning Man

2

‘These are the Last Days! This is the End-Time!’ the wild-haired man roared as he pushed through the crowds traipsing through the hall of Heathrow Airport Terminal Three. He thrust badly scrawled leaflets into the hands of reluctant passers-by. Shavi requested one.

‘Why do you encourage the nuts?’ Laura sighed.

‘The next great prophet will not be the person you imagine,’ Shavi replied. ‘They never have been. Visionaries will rise up from the great mass of the people in unforeseen places. I like to investigate all possibilities.’ He gave his oddly peaceful smile. ‘Who would wish to say they walked past the wisest person in the land without a second glance?’

‘Yes, it’s true. You are completely barking.’

Church’s attention remained on the armed, black-flak-jacketed members of the Police Elite Firearms Unit who were patrolling the airport in response to what the media was describing as ‘a major terrorist attack’ in London’s West End the previous night.

Ruth slipped an arm through his. ‘There are seats on a flight to Oslo,’ she said. ‘Do you still want to do this? We’re so exposed here. No Blue Fire to keep us safe.’

‘It’s the quickest route. If we can just stay off the radar long enough-’

Her dark eyes were fixed firmly on his, and he realised she wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. ‘What do the words “Always Forever” mean?’ she asked.

‘What kind of question is that?’

‘They’re echoing around in my head. I think I’m starting to remember …’ Then, for no clear reason, she hugged him tightly. ‘I’m so glad we found each other again,’ she whispered.

As he held her, Church became aware of odd looks and sly glances, rising out of nowhere like the first wind of winter blowing through the crowd. A young boy was pointing at him, laughing with amazement. His mother’s expression was a dark reflection of her child’s, her eyes darting like an animal’s as she attempted to haul the boy away.

Laura grabbed his arm. ‘The balloon’s gone up.’ She nodded towards the large TV screens suspended over the terminal that had been showing BBC News 24 coverage of the deployment of more troops in the Middle East. It now featured grainy CCTV footage of four people breaking into Oxford Circus Tube Station. Around it were blown-up close-ups of himself, Ruth, Laura and Shavi, below which ran the legends ‘FIRST TERRORIST PICTURES’ and ‘SECURITY FORCES SEARCH FOR SUSPECTS’.

‘I don’t believe it. They’re trying to blame us for what happened?’ Ruth said.

‘Come on.’ Church urged the three of them into the crowd.

‘To the check-in desk?’ Laura asked.

Church felt responsible for the glimmer of fear in her eyes; he should have been smarter, faster. ‘It’s too late for that now. Get outside, find somewhere to lie low for a while.’

As they pushed past the cases and rucksacks, ripples of anxiety ran throughout the milling crowd. Overhead their faces looked down, frozen in the guilt of their horrific actions.

Soon space was opening up so they could run, but that made the situation even worse for it isolated and identified them, and brought even more pointing hands and shouts of alarm. When they were two hundred feet from the doors, ten members of the Elite Firearms Unit surged in, guns at the ready.

‘Split up,’ Church said. They scattered in different directions. The volume of travellers would have made it easy to fade into the background under normal circumstances, but the blue splashes of the armed police were moving in from all sides, their numbers swelling by the second. As Church hurried to the stairs to the upper floor he lost sight of Shavi and Ruth, but he saw Laura surrounded by four officers. She dodged, and when her way was blocked mouthed something clearly unpleasant. A gun butt came down hard on the back of her skull. Church wanted to rush to her aid, but knew there was nothing he could do.

On the upper floor, he slowed to a walk and tried to merge into the crowds, but he could see the CCTV cameras moving to follow his path. The police closed in on him not far from the open-plan bar. The crowds mysteriously evaporated and he was surrounded with seven guns trained on him.

‘Kneel,’ the police commander barked, ‘or we shoot.’

Beyond the circle of police, the faces of the airport users watched him, filled with equal measures of hatred and fear.