Duplicity Read online

  About the Author

  Fin C Gray was born in central Scotland but has spent his time between London and New York for the last twenty years. Now semi-retired, he invests in theatre and film. An avid traveller, Fin enjoys making trips abroad learning about cultures and customs. He is a graduate of the Manchester Metropolitan University where he was awarded an MA in Creative Writing with Merit in 2017. This book was the result of this degree. He is now working on his second novel and hopes to write full-time in the future.

  For more information about his writing, please visit fincgray.com.

  Duplicity

  Fin C Gray

  Duplicity

  Olympia Publishers

  London

  www.olympiapublishers.com

  OLYMPIA EBOOK EDITION

  Copyright © Fin C Gray 2019

  The right of Fin C Gray to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2019

  Olympia Publishers

  60 Cannon Street

  London

  EC4N 6NP

  Dedication

  For Anne, who always wanted this for me but never saw it, and for Michael who has supported and encouraged me throughout.

  Acknowledgements

  There are so many people to thank for making this possible. Firstly, I must thank Michael Melnick who offered so much encouragement and belief in me. Without him, this would not have been possible.

  My class from Manchester Metropolitan University were a beacon of support throughout the creation of Duplicity, offering advice and continual encouragement. Heartfelt thanks to Helen Steadman, Dot Devey-Smith, Sue Smith, Bee Lewis, Nicola Lennon, Jane Masumy, Eleanor Moore, Zoë Feeney, Marita Karin Over, Susana Aikin and Kate Woodward. Your guidance and support came second to none.

  Special thanks to Bee Lewis, not only for slapping me when I needed it but also for providing me with the title that had eluded me up until she handed it to me and saved me banging my head any further.

  Derek Brown. Thank you for your friendship, your insight and your unequivocal critiquing both of this and other works I have subjected you to.

  Without the many people who shared their knowledge of the Muslim faith and customs, the people I met in India and on the Pakistan border, the generosity of people on Facebook and Instagram who accepted and responded to my messages and constant questions, I wouldn’t have been able to complete this novel. Thank you all.

  Love seeketh not itself to please,

  Nor for itself hath any care,

  But for another gives its ease,

  And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.

  ‘The Clod and the Pebble’, Songs of Innocence

  William Blake.

  Prologue

  Today, Friday

  A mosaic of bodies… strangers… women, men, schoolchildren, teachers, businesspeople, lovers, friends. Excited chatter, stony faces, daydreamers, smartphone zombies. The buzz of humans is drowned out by the train rumbling through the tunnel. A voice clatters through the speakers, urging the crowds not to push and shove, promising that another train will be right behind this one. A tinny sound, like his old transistor radio with the volume turned up to max. For a second, he is a child again.

  He sees commuters pressed against one another behind the carriage windows, suggesting this won’t be the train for him. Bodies disembark, quickly replaced by the lucky ones closest to the platform edge, pushing and shoving, squeezing themselves in. Maybe they know. He won’t miss this. He moves forward, now two rows of people from the platform edge. If the next train is full, these bodies in front of him might be lucky too. New travellers are already filling the space behind him, pressing against his back.

  As the next train shudders to a stop, the announcer bellows out the same message as before. His voice sounds angry. Maybe it’s just a wish to be heard above the noise of the train. Passengers spill out through the open doors, casting dark glances at those on the platform getting in their way.

  He joins the push into the nearest carriage and manages to get inside this time. He feels sweat trickling down his neck and hopes the tattoo he has worked so hard to cover up stays hidden. A dishevelled old man sits mumbling to himself, the seats either side of him unoccupied. As he takes the seat next to the man, an acrid smell of urine and sweat hangs like a fog around the man. Despite the crowded carriage, there is space all around him.

  His love had promised him he would see his mother again. He had promised that they would be together again for eternity. This short journey is going to be the end of what has seemed like an endless path. This pointless life is finally going to have meaning, purpose. Are you watching, my love? He smiles and closes his eyes, blocks out the faces in the carriage, imagines the face of his love. But instead, the ugly, hateful image of his father fills his brain. His smile dissipates, and his eyes snap open again.

  ‘This is Charing Cross. Change here for the Northern Line and National Rail Services. Exit here for Trafalgar Square, the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. This is a Bakerloo Line to Harrow and Wealdstone. The next station is Piccadilly Circus.’

  The recorded voice sounds soft, almost reassuring, feminine, the antithesis of the platform announcer’s voice. He looks at the people sitting opposite him. Some are reading papers, but most are studying the screens on their phones. One young man is staring at him, his eyes the same deep-brown as his beloved’s. He fights back a long-suppressed desire rising inside him. The man is Indian, maybe Bangladeshi. He closes his eyes again and tries to remember the dark features of the men in the camp. The faces in his head alternate between his love’s and that of the man sitting opposite him. Is the one he loves testing him?

  He looks beyond the young man to the map. Two more stops. Just two more stops. Two more stops and his life will have meaning. His life will have purpose. There can be no going back. The final rush hour. He fingers the detonator in his pocket, traces the button, feels its rough indentation. The train stops. The doors open. Piccadilly Circus. One more stop. His heart beats faster. Destiny, moments away. Now, he feels the man’s eyes on him again. When he returns his gaze, a different expression has seized his dark face. The imagined desire now replaced with one of recoil, fear – his eyes are wide and bulging, his pupils seem to consume all colour. The doors close.

  He fingers the grooves of the vest beneath his clothes. A tight band of panic constricts his chest, and he breathes in deeply, fighting an intense nausea swelling inside him. He feels sweat pouring down his face and can’t stop himself wiping it away. Streaks of make-up are visible on his palm.

  ‘Long… deep… breaths.’ That’s how his love told him to push back any fear. ‘When the moment draws close, take breaths from your soul,’ his love said. ‘Let Allah wash through your body and prepare you for your jou
rney. Chant His name as you reach into your soul. Allahu Akbar. God is great. Let all doubts pass with each mention of His name. See nothing but Him. Think of nothing but Him.’

  The man’s eyes flit from his face to his waist again and again. His horror is visceral. Could it be the tattoo? Is it showing through the make-up? He looks down. A red wire is protruding from his pocket, the detonator button now visible. The man is now standing. He’s shouting. His accent is foreign. Thick and rhotic – Middle Eastern, perhaps. Other faceless people leap up and start a frantic push down the carriage, scrambling away from him like frightened animals. The homeless man stays where he is, the wire clearly of no interest to him. He pushes it back out of sight nonetheless.

  The recorded announcer is telling the passengers that the next station is Oxford Circus. Shouts and screams battle with the rumble of the train; panic is spreading like an epidemic. Someone tries to open the connecting doors. People push towards either end of the carriage, leaving him and the tramp in their own small space.

  He stands up, his right hand in the detonator pocket. Somebody shouts, ‘Don’t! Please!’

  As the train begins to slow down, he hears the sound of a child crying, piercing the jabber of noise pounding his brain. He looks to his right and sees a tall, blond-haired man moving swiftly towards him, focusing directly on him.

  With his left hand, he pulls the knife from his waistband. Traces of dried blood still mark the top of the hilt. For a second, he remembers the semi-naked body covered in blood – and jabs at the air between him and the blond-haired man, who pulls back, both hands raised.

  ‘Easy, easy,’ the blond man says, inching forward again.

  He points the dagger at the blond man’s face then makes a slicing motion with it in front of his own neck. The man reaches for the emergency-stop lever, but he lurches towards him and stabs the man in the groin. Roaring with pain and clutching his wound, the blond man falls to his knees.

  The train is drawing to a halt, and the female voice announces, ‘The next station is Oxford Circus. Change here for the Central Line and Victoria Line. This is a Bakerloo Line…’

  He reaches back into his right pocket, feeling for the detonator. The train is silent. The babbling has ceased. A sense of tranquillity sweeps over him. Someone has managed to open the connecting door, and the crowds pressing against the back of his carriage are pushing through, jostling one another, but he can hear no sound. His inner peace is complete. He looks to his right and sees the homeless man sitting there, impassively. He smiles at the tramp and sees the first light of the platform breaking through the dark of the tunnel. It is time. His thumb rests on the button in his pocket.

  Without warning, the noise returns – the jabbering crowd releasing their terror again. He inhales deeply and, as the train screeches and grinds to a standstill, he looks upwards and bellows, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ He presses down hard on the button in his pocket. The carriage doors open and the announcer’s voice starts up again.

  Incredulous, he watches the crowd of panicking people spill out into the mass of commuters. The tramp sits motionless, oblivious. Like him, this old man will be glad to be set free of this terrible world. He presses the button again. Again. Again. Nothing.

  Commuters are pushing their way into the carriage, but freeze and turn around when their eyes make contact with his. He runs towards the open door, a spike of panic penetrating his chest. The platform is swarming with people pushing away from him in both directions. Two transport police officers are visible further back, forcing their way through the crowds, yelling at people to get out of the way.

  The passage through to the Victoria Line platform is in front of him, so he runs, following those commuters trying to escape him, still frantically pushing the detonator button. This platform is awash with people too, many seemingly unaware of the danger he poses. The train comes rumbling through the darkness at the far end of the tunnel just as he trips over a bag someone is dragging behind them. He falls against three or four panicking women and sees them smash against the rails as his knees crack against the platform edge. His finger is still on the button as his body falls onto the tracks.

  Chapter One

  Then

  Daniel wasn’t set to go home yet. Jenny would be there already, and Mum wouldn’t be back for at least an hour. He ducked down as he passed the house. No way was he going to let Jenny tag along and spoil this for him. Dad would kill him if he knew – and if Jenny knew, Dad would know too. There was nothing surer than that.

  ‘Don’t ever let me catch you going to that lorry park, son. Right? I’ll whack your arse if I ever hear that you’ve gone there.’

  When he’d asked Dad what was wrong with the lorry park, all he’d said was, ‘Just do what I tell you, OK?’ What could be so bad about it? OK, it was dusty, and his school uniform would get all dirty, but he could shake it off in their backyard, in the wind. Nobody would know. The dust blew over the road onto their house nearly every day, anyway. It could just have got on his blazer from the wind, couldn’t it, if anyone asked? If Mum asked. Probably there was a lot more of it in the actual park, mind, so he’d more than likely have to shake it off.

  Mum and Dad seemed to love moaning about the park. Dad even spoke to Black Jash, the owner of the café, about it and got angry with him. He was shouting a lot, something about it being the café’s responsibility and that he should pay to get it tarmacked. Black Jash had shouted back at Dad. He’d got very red in the face. Daniel hoped that Black Jash would get the lorry park tarred over. Because then the tar lorries would come. Nothing smelled better than hot tar, and Daniel loved to step on it while it was still sticky. Not sticky enough to dirty up his shoes, mind. That had happened once when he was much smaller, and Mum had been mad at him. She said she couldn’t afford any new shoes and that he’d have to go to school in bare feet. She was joking, but he had believed her.

  Better than the tar itself were the big black lorries that poured the thick, black, lumpy stuff out. What a roar they made. And the roar would turn into a grindy, scrapy noise when the back started to rise and the tail-gate opened up. Oh, how he would love to pull the lever that tipped the tar out of the back. He’d jump out of the lorry as it tipped and watch the tar spill out the back, like some big metal robot mouth throwing up black sick.

  And then there’d be road rollers. Rollers, with their hissing and banging, were probably even better than the tar lorries. Yeah, he’d rather have a go on a road roller than a tar lorry, any day. He could pull the thing that made the smoke whistle out of the chimney at the side of the cab and watch the roller flatten out the mounds of tar as flat and black as liquorice toffee.

  Daniel lurked at the entrance to the lorry park, glancing in every direction, making sure nobody was around who might tell his Dad he was going in. A massive green artic was pulling up to where he was standing, sending clouds of gritty dust into the air, making a fog of the sunshine. He looked down at his blazer, and spluttered and frowned at the coating of grey now dulling the deep-maroon cloth. Oh, damn! He hadn’t even set a foot in the place, and already grime covered his clothes. The lorry driver blared his horn and waved down at him. Daniel waved back, forgetting all about the dust.

  As the green lorry pulled away, throwing clouds of dust in its wake, Daniel took a tentative step onto the forbidden ground, wondering how many trucks he might be able to count and which towns they might have come from. The best ones were the lorries that had foreign words on the side. They almost always had unusual loads, and he liked to imagine them rolling onto ferries heading to far away countries. The green lorry had the word POLSKA printed on the back. Tomorrow, he’d ask his teacher what that word meant. All the other words on the back were very long and too hard to read and remember.

  Kevin, Daniel’s best friend from school, had told him his father was a lorry driver and that he took his lorry on the ferry from Stranraer to Ireland twice every week. Kevin lived in Newton, five miles away, so his Dad never parked his truck here. New
ton had its very own lorry park, and Kevin’s dad didn’t even mind him going into it and checking out all the different sorts that were parked there. Mind, the Newton lorry park had tarmac on, so it had to be the dust that bothered Mum and Dad so much.

  As Daniel walked further into the park, all he could see were flurries of dust being whipped up by the wind. Not a single lorry in sight. Where could they all be? There were always loads of them on a Tuesday. He walked over to the café. Well, everyone called it a pub, but it sold fish and chips, so that made it a café too, didn’t it? And kids were allowed to go in it – not like the big pub opposite the school. The man there shouted at any kids who even stuck their head round the door. Outside, there was a blackboard sign tied to the door. Chalked in shaky writing were the words: CLOSED DUE TO POWER CUT SORRY. Daniel frowned and kicked a discarded paper cup at it. Just his luck. Now he’d have to go home and do his homework. Damn.

  Kicking up his own clouds of dust, he headed towards the entrance again and grinned widely as a gigantic red truck pulled into the park. The driver was smiling back at him from his cab. Daniel waved, and the driver waved back and winked. The lorry drove all the way to the back of the park and turned around, before slowly reversing and stopping. Daniel stood where he was, listening to the faint rumble of the engine, and waited for the air to clear. After a few minutes, he saw the headlights of the lorry flash on and off.

  He looked behind himself, pleased that nobody was around to see him there, then slowly started walking towards the red rumbling shape at the back of the park. The sun was bright behind the lorry, and he squinted, trying to see if the driver was still in his cab. He’d be in so much trouble if Dad found out, but this was more exciting than anything he could imagine. Maybe he’d get a chance to look inside this lorry. Maybe even sit in the driver’s seat and hold the massive steering wheel. The biggest wheel he’d ever had a go on was Johnny Rae’s tractor, and even he’d warned him not to tell anyone afterwards. It wasn’t as if he was actually driving it or anything. Grown-ups just didn’t make sense sometimes.