42

“DETECTIVE SERGEANT Thoroughgood, I believe,” said Tariq with a venomous smile.

“I guess you must be the Imam Tariq,” replied the DS breathing heavily. “Can’t say it’s a pleasure.”

“You have been causing me problems for a while now, but at last I get to apply the full stop on them. Doing it personally will be so much more satisfying. Don’t you think, kafir?”

In the background Thoroughgood could hear voices and more gunfire coming from the Kirklee end of the tunnel. Hope grew afresh within him. “Sounds to me, Imam, that you have a whole lot of problems coming your way. Don’t fancy your chances of putting a full stop on them.”

“They will be taken care of,” replied the cleric and Thoroughgood saw a group of Tariq’s minions hurrying towards the tunnel.

“There is no escape for you or the Velvet bitch. Tomorrow, I will showcase your execution alongside hers. The hero policeman minus his head and his world turned to shit. Who do you think you are, Thoroughgood? Bruce Willis?” Tariq laughed long and loud.

His revolver remained levelled at Thoroughgood’s head as sparks and splinters started to shoot all around them from the staircase, which was starting to disintegrate above. A huge chunk of burning wood detached itself from the staircase and shattered into the soil yards away but Tariq’s focus remained on the DS.

Thoroughgood tried to stall for time. “Why? What is all this for? The suicide bombing in Braehead? The murder of innocents? You can’t tell me that a religion known for its kindness and compassion can endorse the carnage you’ve wreaked on your adopted city? That this is how Islam repays those that welcome and show hospitality to its followers?”

“You know not what you talk about, dog. You will not turn my mind from its purpose with worthless empty words. For the thousands of innocents who have died in Afghanistan and Iraq because of your Crusades there has to be vengeance. Sheikh Osama has warned the West that they would pay the price for their wars with the blood of their own people. I have taken the Jihad to your shores and now I have the device that will turn this city into a mausoleum for the masses and allow me to take my place in Paradise.”

“So it’s true you have a dirty bomb?” demanded Thoroughgood.

“You will find out soon enough, my pathetic little

policeman,” replied Tariq.

“Where in the Koran does it say that butchering innocents is the way to heaven? You’re the fuckin’ cleric so why don’t you quote me chapter and verse,” raged Thoroughgood, his self-control deserting him.

Tariq flashed a malevolent smile. “Before I kill you, Detective Sergeant, I want to let you know what you will be missing. In 12 hours time we have a celebration planned that will cause a level of destruction that will make 7/7 and perhaps even 9/11 seem petty.”

“The Nikah,” stated Thoroughgood.

“Very good, Detective Sergeant. But where it will be held, you will never know.” said Tariq.

Thoroughgood’s mind went into overdrive. Standing a hundred metres underground with his surroundings burning down all around him and Tariq pointing a pistol at his head, he felt like he was already in a highly personalised version of hell.

The gunfire in the tunnel was intensifying and with it screams of agony. Thoroughgood tried to focus his mind on the matter in hand. It dawned on him. “Ibrox. You are going to blow up the Old Firm game, you crazy bastard.”

Tariq inclined his head. “What does it matter where the joyous event is held? But before I kill you, I want something from you. Give me Saladin’s dagger,” he demanded.

Thoroughgood smiled, aware that the gunfire was creeping closer. “Oh yeah, the dagger! The one that signifies its owner will unite Islam, the one that you have tried to have me killed for and that you hope will elevate you above bin Laden, you delusional bastard. Do you think I am stupid enough to run about with it on my person?”

Tariq’s smile was venomous. “But of course you are, Detective Sergeant. My information comes from a most reliable source and one that has recently become very close to you.”

Thoroughgood could not help a look of surprise breaking over his face. “Aisha?” he said.

Tariq grinned. “Your pretty little nurse? Funny how that chance meeting in the hospital has led to an arrangement that has proved so convenient to me. Do you think that Aisha would have given herself to an infidel pig like you for any other reason than to serve the true faith and protect our Jihad?

“Her father was a traitor who realised too late that he had betrayed all that was right. The revelation of the hawaladar’s identity was tantamount to sacrilege. It was right that he paid for that with his life.”

Thoroughgood was left incredulous. “And Aisha was happy about you butchering her father, you madman?”

“Aisha has become an important instrument of the Jihad. Sadly, she too must pay the price for her sins. Now give me the dagger, Thoroughgood. The time for your death is upon you. Try and meet it like a man.”

“What have you done with her, you murdering son of a bitch?” demanded Thoroughgood.

“It is of no importance to you. Now give me Saladin’s dagger.” Tariq ordered, his patience coming to an end.

Thoroughgood flicked a resigned smile and pulled the blade from his trouser belt, holding it in front of him and examining it with apparent reverence. “So this is the legitimisation of your reign of terror? A crazed perception that you will unite Islam and become a successor to Saladin? Jesus H Christ, you want it all don’t you?”

“Your words are hollow, kafir. Give me the blade before I kill you,” ordered Tariq holding out his free hand.

“My pleasure,” said Thoroughgood and smashed the blade upwards into Tariq’s hand. Thoroughgood threw himself at the Imam, knocking him over.

As they hit the ground the DS grabbed Tariq’s pistol-holding hand and repeatedly smashed it into the ground. Their free hands were locked in a deadly battle for the dagger.

The revolver eventually broke from Tariq’s grip and scudded across the trackbed. Both men put everything into gaining control of the dagger.

Being on top, Thoroughgood had the benefit of his body weight pressing down on the Imam but Tariq was the bigger man. The cleric’s hate seemed to give him extra strength. The dagger began to inch closer to Thoroughgood’s face forcing him backwards and upwards.

“Now I gut you, kafir pig,” spat the Imam and he surged upwards in a powerful movement that knocked Thoroughgood off him, slamming the cop down on his back and wrenching the blade from his grip.

Tariq advanced on Thoroughgood who attempted to slide back across the ground but he was soon brought to shuddering halt when his back hit the solid concrete of the platform side.

“Nowhere to go, policeman. Now at last, after all this time, Saladin’s blade is once more to be used for its true purpose. Time to take your place in hell,” the Imam spat and lunged at Thoroughgood, the blade glinting in the flames that raged around them.

Thoroughgood spotted metal glinting on the track bed and in a movement given extra speed by his desperation ripped an iron linchpin from the debris on the ground. As Tariq loomed over him he rammed the wicked two pronged railway remnant into the Imam’s eyes.

Tariq staggered backward screaming and holding his face. The force Thoroughgood had exerted had rammed the twin two-inch pins deep into his face and the Imam toppled onto his knees, dropping Saladin’s blade on the ground.

Thoroughgood grabbed the ceremonial dagger and screamed, “Go to hell you murdering bastard!” but before he could administer the coup de grâce with the Imam’s cherished blade, Tariq’s throat gave a final gurgle and the cleric pitched forward and lay face down on the soil, motionless.

Thoroughgood staggered back. He sat on the edge of the platform and placed the bejewelled dagger down staring through it unseeingly. Although Tariq was dead his plans for Armageddon to hit Glasgow were very much alive. And what of Aisha?

He pulled his mobile from his pocket but he had no reception and felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. Whatever she had been guilty of he had no doubt that Tariq had used every means in his power to coerce her. Almost certainly he would have used the life of her father as a means to get her to do his bidding.

A voice spoke his name and he looked up to see the dishevelled figure of Vanessa standing three feet away. “You made it Gus. You got him,” she said.

Thoroughgood looked into her face and felt tears roll down his cheeks, his emotions in turmoil. “I may have got him but this is far from over, Vanessa, believe me. Are you okay?”

She smiled a smile that made all the grime, ripped clothing and her stress-worn face fade into insignificance. She took his face in her hands. “I owe you my life, Gus.” For the second time that night she kissed him.

This time there was no rushing their parting.

The morning dawned, cold and grey, and Aisha knew she had to get over to Thoroughgood’s place and make everything all right with him.

Her mind was in meltdown, her grief raw with the death of her father and the shock that it had been murder. She had been wrong to betray Thoroughgood to Tariq but what could she have done with her father’s life on the line?

Thoroughgood, the man she had tried to lure into a death trap, had turned out to be the type of man she had hoped fate would bring her. His haunted melancholy and sadness was similar to her father’s after her mother had been taken by cancer five years back. With Thoroughgood there was also desperation, anger and a vulnerability she found amazingly appealing.

She knew that he was still cut up over the death of Celine. She knew he had contemplated, if not actually attempted, suicide. The evidence of the revolver and the bible on his mantle-piece proof that he was far from fully healed from the agonies inflicted by her murder.

Aisha found herself increasingly wanting to be there for him. To be the one to make his hurt go away and aid his mental healing. Was she falling in love with him? She didn’t know, Aisha had never loved anyone but her father.

Riven by guilt over her father’s murder, knowing that he had been right about Tariq months back when he had branded him ‘a killer and a religious despot’, Aisha knew that she too was vulnerable to heightened emotions.

As she descended the stair of her tenement flat an ongoing worry niggled her. ‘How can I compete with a ghost if he is still in love with Celine?’ But she knew she had to try, had to make things good between them.

As she came out of the tenement door she saw little Jimmy from across the landing sitting astride his bike and smiled at him. “Be careful, Jimmy, no cycling on the road. Your mum letting you go to the paper shop on your bike?”

“It’s my first time cycling there Auntie Aisha. You goin’ to the hospital?” the ginger-haired 10 year-old asked.

Aisha smiled. “Something like that Jimmy. You take care.” As she watched him cycling down Oban Drive’s steep hill she couldn’t help thinking about the possibility of having her own kids. But first she had to make Thoroughgood believe in her.

She opened the Fiesta door and sat in the driver’s seat, fastening the seat belt and smiling sadly to herself as she inserted the key in the ignition and turned it.

The explosion ripped through the car and instantly shredded the vehicle. It was suddenly nothing but a hollow melting metallic shell.

At the bottom of the street Jimmy heard the blast and felt the heat sear the back of his neck, the air trembling. He turned and saw wide-eyed that where the car Auntie Aisha had been sitting in moments before there was now nothing but flames.

He screamed.