Adrenal7n Read online

  ADRENAL7N

  by Russ Watts

  Text copyright © 2017 Russ Watts

  All Rights Reserved

  For Andy. Thanks for showing me the best places to go.

  My liver will never fully recover.

  “While we exist death is not present, and when death is present we no longer exist.”

  Epicurus.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  THE END

  PART ONE: RELENTLESS

  CHAPTER 1

  Bashar stared up at the glass and steel, and sighed. Like so many others the monolith had spat him out through its giant doors into the dirty streets of London. Again he had been shunned, rejected, and he found himself turning away thinking once more about what he could do to turn things around. He walked quickly through the early morning drizzle. The sun was shining and yet the rain still managed to fall from a seemingly blue sky. It was a typical English spring April day. Traffic crawled past him down Fleet Street, unaware of the cyclist up ahead who was sprawled underneath a courier van. The distant sirens belonging to the ambulance told Bashar it was too far away to help the poor man trapped under the van’s wheels. Like everyone else he kept on walking, yet stealing discreet glances at the bloody victim from his peripheral vision. A small boy cried as his mother shoved him into a pushchair and Bashar winced as the mother pinched her son’s cheek. There was nothing cute or kindly in the way she did it. It was more of a warning and the boy quietened down. Both he and Bashar knew what came next if he didn’t stop crying. Two policemen had arrived on the scene of the accident. One was directing traffic down a side street whilst the other attended to the cyclist. The look on the policeman’s face told Bashar that it wouldn’t be long before Heaven gained another angel.

  “It wasn’t my fault. He came right out in front of me.”

  Bashar could hear the van driver protesting his innocence. It was always someone else’s fault. He left the policeman to it and dodged between the men in suits walking toward him, many on their mobile phones or striding with a purpose that was meant to suggest they were very important and in a rush, and of course in far more need of the limited space on the pavement than him. He clutched his shoulder bag tightly, the warm raindrops clinging to the brown leather. His certificates were tucked inside printed on crisp white paper, safe and dry. They seemed about as useful as the tie he wore. The interview had gone fine and Bashar had almost let himself believe he stood a chance. When they began talking about his personal circumstances though, after the obligatory questions about his academic qualifications and experience, then he saw the eyes cloud over. He usually got one of two responses when they learned he was from Syria. It was often the blank look, like the one he had received today, which he knew meant they weren’t interested in hiring him. Why would they want to take a risk on someone like him, an immigrant? It was a dirty word, one he had learned to delete from his vocabulary very quickly. The other look he got was mistrust, eyebrows raised and scepticism hiding behind the eyes. Their mouths spouted pointless questions about what Syria was like, how terrible it was what was happening and how horrible it must be to leave your family, and, oh, the terrible things he must have seen. The questions were all a ruse. Bashar knew they were designed to make the interviewer feel better about themselves so they didn’t feel guilty when they turned him down.

  Dirty grey water splashed over his black shoes that were no longer polished and shiny but streaked with dirt and scuffed at the edges. Bashar looked up to see a woman wearing a red apron brushing water away from her doorway. She met Bashar’s eyes and frowned. He thought about admonishing her, but knew better. There was that familiar look of contempt again. The woman resumed brushing the rainwater away from her shop and Bashar resumed his brisk walk down Fleet Street away from another failed job interview. He had nothing else lined up for today and was in no rush to go back to his cramped flat in Ealing, so he decided he would take a walk through the city. The early morning commuters would soon dissipate, although he knew that didn’t necessarily mean the streets would get any quieter or calmer. It seemed as if London was always busy, day and night, whether it was excited tourists or people rushing to and from work. The buildings he walked past were tall and grey, their impressive stonework a relic of old London, before the modern glass skyscrapers went up.

  He passed an old man on a stepladder attending to a hanging basket outside a florists, pulling off dead flower heads and tucking the fresh stalks firmly into the soil. Two young boys walking past shoved the ladder so that it rocked back and forth, threatening to send the man sprawling onto the pavement. The old man shouted at them but the boys in school uniform simply responded with obscenities. From the traffic jam in the road Bashar saw a woman open her door and step out from a sleek black car. The woman wore lots of gold jewellery and had brown hair down to her shoulders. Her dress was pure white cotton with small red polka dots and her shapely long legs suggested she spent a lot of time in the gym. She was young and pretty, and Bashar thought she was more than likely out to shop. She wasn’t dressed for work and the ring shining on her finger suggested she didn’t need to. Bashar caught her eye as she stepped into the road and she blanked him, pretending their eyes hadn’t met. Instead she leant over her car door and looked down the road at the van in the middle of the road. It was parked on top of the immobile cyclist and going nowhere.

  “What the fuck is the problem?” she shouted to the policeman. “Move that wanker out of the road. I haven’t got time for this shit.”

  Bashar watched the woman get back into the car, slam her door shut and honk the horn. He left them to it, trudging on as the rain eased to just a few spots before realising he was now on The Strand. He felt frustrated and helpless. He wanted to work and he knew he was capable, but getting a foot in the door was proving to be impossible. He had downgraded his ambitions and begun applying for roles that were far lower than what he was capable of. He had been a successful accountant back in Aleppo but now he was a virtual nobody. His flat in Ealing had been provided for him by the Government after he’d arrived and the suit he wore was almost the full extent of his wardrobe. He had no possessions to speak of and back then his wife was trapped in Libya waiting for him to give her the call. He had told Nurtaj to stay and wait until he had managed to find a job. He didn’t want them bouncing around homes, living off scraps. He wanted to provide for his wife, the same as he had always done. He had never thought he would be living off handouts, but that he would be able to resume his life and bring Nurtaj over quickly. It was not as easy as he thought it would be. At least he was safe here. The civil war had taken their home and forced them into Libya. He knew his wife wasn’t safe anymore and he had made arrangements for her to come over anyway. It was better having her close where he could protect her than worry about what was going on thousands of miles away. Was it better to live in a cold, damp flat in a safe country or stay at home and risk being shot? Nurtaj was due to arrive into Manchester in ten hours. She would stay with a family friend and then come down to London the next day. Despite the terrible job interview Bashar was looking forward to it. It had been too long since he had seen his wife. Phone calls were no substitute for the real thing.

  Bas
har had left his home country with nothing but tarnished memories, a photograph of his wife, and a plastic bag of belongings. There was a pervading atmosphere of death now that hung over Syria. England had its problems, but it was a relative paradise compared to the state he had left his own country in. His house was destroyed, his parents killed, and his only brother missing. Nurtaj’s parents refused to leave and he had no idea if they were still alive. He didn’t hold much hope, but one day he intended to go back and find them. This move was only temporary. A few years perhaps until things got sorted out and then it was back to the warmth of his own land, instead of living in someone else’s.

  He felt a chill run over him as he knocked shoulders with a woman walking in the opposite direction. She turned briefly to look at him and he caught sight of a pair of bold amber eyes hidden underneath a black hood. The woman appeared to be wearing a large black raincoat, but Bashar noticed it was more of a cape. It was tucked around her and all he saw besides those striking eyes was a lock of fiery red hair. The woman pulled her hood around her and kept walking. Bashar noticed she bumped into a few people and didn’t seem to care who or what she hit. There was something unusual about her. It wasn’t uncommon to bump into a stranger on the streets of London but she had an aura about her, something unpleasant that made Bashar want to keep walking far away from her. As he crossed over the street he decided he would head through Covent Garden to Piccadilly Circus. By the time he got there it would surely be crowded with tourists, but they were better than the businessmen. The tourists at least wanted to be there. The people rushing to work gave the impression that they wanted to be well away from the city. Bashar had a thirst though. He had been talking for the best part of an hour and the interview had left him with a growing headache. He needed to recharge and clear his head. He didn’t want to let the failure of the interview get him down this time and decided to head into a café for a cup of tea. He could pass a few minutes and let some of the streets thin out. He wanted to take the opportunity to think about what he could do next to ensure he and Nurtaj didn’t have to live for too long in the small flat in Ealing.

  Spotting a coffee shop opposite Charing Cross station he cast a glance at the sky. The rain had petered out to almost nothing and the blue sky was doing its best to make him feel better about the day ahead.

  As he reached the coffee shop he heard a faint scream and turned around. Traffic was still crawling along The Strand and hordes of people were rushing in and out of the tube station. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the scream and nobody had stopped. It was probably just children. There were quite a few teenagers around and then he remembered it was school holidays. The scream was nothing more than the sound of schoolgirls enjoying their day out in the city. Bashar shrugged it off and entered the coffee shop.

  It was warm inside, a little too warm considering the rising temperature outside, but it was still a welcome refuge from the chaos outside. The décor was comfortable and bland, just what he wanted. The numerous chairs and tables were mostly empty and the buzz was pleasant. The walls had been painted a lukewarm green and furnished with black and white framed photographs of London. The counter was attended by a young girl and cluttered with a selection of biscuits, cakes and sweat treats. The black board on the wall behind her offered a dizzying array of coffees and special offers. The dim lighting was unnecessary given the good weather and natural sunlight that fell through the huge windows at the front of the café, yet the place had a relaxed feel and was a calm oasis amidst the storm of the city. As the door closed behind Bashar the cacophony and chaos of the busy streets outside faded, and he approached the counter.

  Bashar waited patiently as an elderly couple ahead of him ordered their drinks and tried to decide if they wanted a cheese scone or slice of cake to accompany their morning tea. Bashar noticed the shop was quiet. Near the door were two young girls, already laden down with shopping bags. They were deep in conversation and Bashar heard only snatches. It seemed trivial, something about a boy at school they liked, the sort of thing young girls all over the world were talking about at the same time. One girl had long brown hair curling around her shoulders and a scarf around her neck, while the other had died blue hair which was tied up on top of her head. Both were dark skinned and Bashar couldn’t help but be reminded of his wife. She had looked similar to them a few years ago and had probably spent a few hours herself talking about boys and shopping.

  Sitting down at a small table opposite them was a bald man with just a short crop of grey hair above his ears. His blue eyes were fascinated by the newspaper he had placed in front of him and he had a holdall on the floor beside him. The man wore a smart blue shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, and Bashar assumed he was a workman of some sort. He was engrossed in the newspaper and Bashar wondered what had gripped the man so much: the football results, the financial section or the celebrity gossip. Since moving to England Bashar had discovered that the English had a fondness for all three, not necessarily in that order. Much of the news seemed insignificant compared to which footballer was dating which reality TV star and Bashar paid little attention unless there was more news about the war in Syria.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Bashar had almost forgotten about ordering and turned to look at the attendant. The young girl was short and had nice features. Her smile was genuine and Bashar ordered a cup of black tea. As he paid he noticed that the blonde hair that nestled perfectly around the girl’s face wasn’t quite enough to detract from the large mole beneath her left ear. He took his change and the cup of tea, and sat down at a booth near the back of the shop, discarding his suit jacket and loosening his tie. The elderly couple were carefully slicing their chosen cake into two and had two forks poised to dive in. Bashar smiled as he sipped the scalding hot cup of tea. One day soon, maybe at the weekend, he would bring Nurtaj here and do the same. The cake appeared to be rich and chocolatey, and undoubtedly full of sugar. Yet as he watched the couple share it, he knew the last thing they were thinking about was calories. It was a shared moment, something they had probably done for fifty years together. Perhaps they came to this very same coffee shop every week, or perhaps they were just visiting London for the day. Bashar lost himself in thought and sipped his tea. His feet ached and his mind kept going back to the job interview. There was nothing more he could have done. It was simply the way it was. He was fighting the tide, something he had done a lot recently, but he wasn’t about to give up. He began to think about a change of tack and how he might be able to find a menial job, just to get some money coming in. It was going to be hard to adjust but doing nothing was not an option he wanted to consider. Life was tough right now, but he had to be thankful for what he had. His wife had it tougher and he worried about her every single day. He woke up every morning wondering if today was going to be the day when he got the call his wife had been killed in an airstrike or taken hostage. Every day he wished he could go and get her, but it wasn’t that simple. Every day she would wake to the sound of gunfire and crying children while he woke to the sound of the tube trains pulling out of the depot near his flat. He had it easy compared to Nurtaj, he knew that. He often wondered if they had made the right decision, but he had to trust the path they had chosen. Being without her was difficult, but he was going to make it work. Only ten more hours and she would be in England. Finally, he would be able to relax. Tomorrow she would be by his side and he vowed to never leave her again.

  As Bashar sat in the comfy soft armchair he thought of his wife, of his past in Syria and future in London, of the girls chatting loudly by the door, the workman with his head in the paper and the elderly couple holding hands; he remembered the dead cyclist from earlier and the glare from the woman with amber eyes, and how she had made him feel. There was a lot to process as he drank his black tea. In fact, Bashar was so preoccupied with the morning’s events that he hardly noticed when the screams started again.

  CHAPTER 2

  Bashar looked up and was surprised to find he couldn�
�t see out of the coffee shop windows. They were fogged up, although for a moment he could not figure out why. As he looked closer he realised that the fog was outside. It must have snuck up on them quickly and quietly much like an assassin and spread from the Thames over the city like a grey soup. Bashar tried to find the buildings opposite, or the tube station, but he couldn’t even see the cars on the road. It was as if the fog had sucked up the entire city within seconds and the only thing left in the world was a small coffee shop with Bashar and the other diners.

  Leaving his cup and briefcase, Bashar walked over to the door. He looked up and down the road, but there was no end to it. The fog was like a curtain over London that had snuffed out the lights as if they were just candles. It was almost a physical being, as if Bashar could reach out and touch it. It wasn’t as if fog was uncommon in spring, but to have it this thick was distinctly unusual. It usually gave advance warning of its appearance whereas this fog had appeared almost instantly, as if summoned. It was curious and Bashar felt a chill run over him again. It was the same feeling he had experienced when the woman with amber eyes had looked at him earlier. Bashar knew that a fog this thick that hid all the lights and traffic outside was unnatural. He couldn’t even see people walking on the pavement. They had to be there, only a few feet away, and yet there was nothing, nobody. Bashar then realised the sound had stopped too. Not everything, but certainly the normal sounds associated with the city were gone. All he heard was the quiet rumble of engines and distant screams. There was shouting too and occasionally the sound of glass breaking or a bang. Something very odd was happening. Bashar looked at the girls who were still deep in conversation. They didn’t seem to have noticed anything had changed and Bashar looked to the workman.

  “What the bloody hell is going on?” The man rubbed a hand over his bald head and looked to Bashar. “You ever seen it like this before, mate?”