Chapter 58
FRASER
You can go anywhere with police ID. It’s the ultimate access-all-areas pass, Fraser thinks, as he flashes his warrant card to the security officer and follows the signs to the main hall.
A man in overalls is sweeping the floor, and Fraser shows his badge again.
‘You’ll have to finish that later – I need this area cleared.
’ He suspects the guy doesn’t speak English, but the subtext of fuck off is universal, and the man takes his broom and makes a sharp exit.
Fraser surveys the stage. The rows of chairs.
He smiles – this is going to be beautiful – then he gets to work.
He doesn’t feel like a police officer any more.
He feels like a militant; like a vigilante who knows the truth and puts his neck on the line to make sure others know it too.
His nerve-endings are on fire, every muscle tense and ready. He opens his rucksack.
They’ve made twenty of them. Black plastic discs, no wider than a jam jar lid, containing bleach and citric acid in two crudely separated chambers.
A layer of tightly packed nails sits above them.
Fraser puts a glue dot on the top of the first, and touches it to the underside of a chair, holding it until it takes.
His heart hammers against his chest. He mustn’t press the device, not even the slightest bit, because that’s the trigger.
Quick, clean, silent. As soon as someone sits down, the circuit will close.
Bang.
Fraser pictures it like fireworks; a serious of explosions, a soundtrack of screams. The chaos, the fear.
There will be some innocents in this room, he knows that, but he doesn’t dwell on those. Fraser’s fellow soldiers had been innocent too. The white girls groomed by ‘community elders’ up in Yorkshire had been innocent. The little kids at the dance class slaughtered by an immigrant had been innocent.
Once Fraser has planted half the devices under chairs, he walks up the steps on to the stage.
It’s covered with a thin carpet, and he lifts it and places several black discs where they are most likely to be stepped on.
Tomorrow would have been better – more footfall, more impact – but Fraser is adaptable. Today will do.
There’s a sound from outside: the heavy front door opening as people start to arrive. Fraser steps carefully off the stage. He swings his rucksack on to his shoulder and leaves the hall.
The caretaker is sweeping the corridor. ‘You need other rooms?’ He gestures to the series of break-out areas either side of the long hallway. The doors are closed, but the cacophony of sound gives away which ones are in use. Shrill, excited voices; the calm hush of accompanying teachers.
‘No,’ Fraser says. ‘I’m done.’ He makes for the exit, stopping to let by a cluster of kids holding hands, their coats buttoned up over silver and gold costumes.
‘Thanks!’ says a woman with sensible shoes and a harassed expression. She’s holding a stuffed donkey.
‘No problem. I hope the dress rehearsal goes well.’
‘Seven schools, two hundred kids and a load of parents who can’t make the real thing . . .’ The teacher gives an exaggerated grimace. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
Fraser walks on. And as he leaves the Civic Centre and steps into the pale December light, his smile evaporates.
All this could have been avoided by upholding British culture, British values.
British traditions. But this multi-faith nativity crap?
Fraser’s expression hardens. These schools have made their choices.
Now they’ll live with the consequences.