Chapter 61
FRASER
Fraser has been in tight spots before, but this may well be the tightest. As he’d left the Civic Centre earlier, he’d caught the eye of a police community support officer who’d looked away a beat too fast. When the PCSO had reached for his radio, Fraser had ducked back into the Civic Centre, intending to leave by the rear entrance instead.
But the back door had been locked, and, as the building filled up with people, Fraser had begun to get twitchy.
Blowing himself up had not been part of the plan.
He was seconds from brazening it out – walking through the corridors as though he belonged there, past the crowds of children in paper crowns and tinsel halos – when the atmosphere had shifted. A sudden hush. Then a clamour of voices. Someone crying.
When Fraser had heard a police radio, he’d realized he was fucked.
Now he’s crouched in a cleaning cupboard on the second floor. The silent streets and the strains of sirens tell him the town centre is in lockdown, and, even now, responders could be in the Civic Centre. Police officers. Bomb disposal experts. A search team.
Fraser clenches his jaw. He will not go down like this. He will not be hauled unceremoniously from a cupboard like some drugged-up scrote. Fraser is a New Dawn hero, a chapter leader, a revolutionary. If he goes down, he goes down fighting.
He eases the cupboard door open. Just a crack.
The corridor is empty. He slides out and stands for a moment, listening.
Fraser has a plan, of sorts. From scoping the building – on the pretext of booking it as a back-up wedding venue – he knows there’s another floor, closed off to the public.
From there, a metal spiral staircase leads to the roof.
The buildings in this street are packed closely together; 1960s brutalist boxes with flat roofs and service gantries.
If Fraser can get to the roof, he can get away.
A noise comes from somewhere close by and he freezes, one hand on the cupboard door. He’s concerned about firearms officers, primed to shoot first and ask questions later. If Carrie has talked, counter-terrorism could know everything and could already have positioned snipers on adjacent roofs.
Another sound. A girl’s voice, calling out.
Fraser smiles. A sniper needs a clean shot. No obstructions. No innocent victims in the way. He slips back into the shadows and waits. When the girl runs past, he steps out, fast and controlled. He clamps a hand across her mouth.
‘Do exactly as I say,’ he murmurs softly. ‘Or this will end very badly – for both of us.’