where the sky met the earth.
In the distance, far to the east, storm clouds gathered on the horizon.
Luton
Thirty-four miles to the north, Danny Whelan swung the wheel of the truck in a tight arc across the car park then stamped heavily on the brakes. He crunched the gear lever into reverse, the warning signal beeping loudly, and backed the vehicle smartly towards the covered loading bay. He watched his wing mirror carefully, as one of the mosque staff waved him backwards. A loading bay! Jesus, how big was this place? Too bloody big, he decided. Still, he had a job to do.
The truck was where the bloke on the phone had said it would be an unmarked white Ford Cargo parked on the edge of an industrial estate near Kings Cross station. Danny had arrived by pushbike, unwilling to use the CCTV-saturated London transport network. The estate was deserted, the surrounding business units barred and shuttered, the morning sun still loitering beyond the horizon. He waited in the shadows for a minute or two, half expecting to see an enraged Sully pacing around the truck, waiting for Danny to show up and give him a beating. But there was no Sully, no one around at all, and Danny was relieved, if not a little surprised. After all, he’d stolen the job from under Sully’s nose and yet no one seemed to be bothered, not Sully, his mate at the agency nor the bloke on the phone. Strange. Danny dismissed the thought; who cared, as long as he got paid, right?
He locked his bike against a railing, found the keys behind the fuel tank and climbed into the cab, still thinking the whole deal was a bit suspect. His doubts were soon laid to rest when he saw the money, a fat wedge of fifty pound notes tucked inside an envelope in the glove box. Danny’s heart sank when he inspected the paperwork – a mosque? He was half tempted to take the money and piss off, but common sense got the better of him. If he played his cards right this could be the start of a regular gig and, besides, all he had to do was deliver a fridge to a mosque. As long as no-one found out, so what?
Danny didn’t really think about it on the journey north, humming away to the radio as the truck rumbled along the M1. It was only when he turned off the motorway and saw the distant gold dome dominating the skyline that his mood changed. The Luton Central Mosque was huge, almost as big as the one being built in the east end of London. Danny remembered complaining about that one, an afternoon of drunk-dialling Stratford council to voice his protest. Every leftie do-gooder he spoke to was full of praise for it, talking about serving the needs of a diverse community, the celebration of different faiths and all their other bullshit. What about my community? Danny had raged from inside the public phone booth, what about our needs? As usual he was threatened with prosecution, heard the tell tale clicks on the line as the conversation was recorded and the trace begun. Opinions weren’t allowed anymore; the Thought Police were always watching, always listening. Bastards.
He engaged the handbrake with another sharp hiss of compressed air and jumped down from the cab, slamming the door behind him. The loading bay was situated at the rear of the building, set deep in the shadow of the mosque walls. Danny’s eyes were drawn upwards to the roof. There, gleaming in the afternoon sun, the golden dome thrust upwards into the sky, visible for miles around as it rose above the surrounding suburbs. For a moment Danny just stood there, quietly impressed by the sheer scale of the construction. He vaguely remembered hearing something about it on the news, Bryce and his entourage of flunkeys padding around in their socks, waffling on about its importance in the community, blah-blah, bullshit, bullshit. He also remembered the Prime Minister’s female staff, forced to wait outside in the rain, polite smiles fixed on their faces while inside they seethed at the insult to their feminist sensibilities.
In the distance, far to the east, storm clouds gathered on the horizon.
Luton
Thirty-four miles to the north, Danny Whelan swung the wheel of the truck in a tight arc across the car park then stamped heavily on the brakes. He crunched the gear lever into reverse, the warning signal beeping loudly, and backed the vehicle smartly towards the covered loading bay. He watched his wing mirror carefully, as one of the mosque staff waved him backwards. A loading bay! Jesus, how big was this place? Too bloody big, he decided. Still, he had a job to do.
The truck was where the bloke on the phone had said it would be an unmarked white Ford Cargo parked on the edge of an industrial estate near Kings Cross station. Danny had arrived by pushbike, unwilling to use the CCTV-saturated London transport network. The estate was deserted, the surrounding business units barred and shuttered, the morning sun still loitering beyond the horizon. He waited in the shadows for a minute or two, half expecting to see an enraged Sully pacing around the truck, waiting for Danny to show up and give him a beating. But there was no Sully, no one around at all, and Danny was relieved, if not a little surprised. After all, he’d stolen the job from under Sully’s nose and yet no one seemed to be bothered, not Sully, his mate at the agency nor the bloke on the phone. Strange. Danny dismissed the thought; who cared, as long as he got paid, right?
He locked his bike against a railing, found the keys behind the fuel tank and climbed into the cab, still thinking the whole deal was a bit suspect. His doubts were soon laid to rest when he saw the money, a fat wedge of fifty pound notes tucked inside an envelope in the glove box. Danny’s heart sank when he inspected the paperwork – a mosque? He was half tempted to take the money and piss off, but common sense got the better of him. If he played his cards right this could be the start of a regular gig and, besides, all he had to do was deliver a fridge to a mosque. As long as no-one found out, so what?
Danny didn’t really think about it on the journey north, humming away to the radio as the truck rumbled along the M1. It was only when he turned off the motorway and saw the distant gold dome dominating the skyline that his mood changed. The Luton Central Mosque was huge, almost as big as the one being built in the east end of London. Danny remembered complaining about that one, an afternoon of drunk-dialling Stratford council to voice his protest. Every leftie do-gooder he spoke to was full of praise for it, talking about serving the needs of a diverse community, the celebration of different faiths and all their other bullshit. What about my community? Danny had raged from inside the public phone booth, what about our needs? As usual he was threatened with prosecution, heard the tell tale clicks on the line as the conversation was recorded and the trace begun. Opinions weren’t allowed anymore; the Thought Police were always watching, always listening. Bastards.
He engaged the handbrake with another sharp hiss of compressed air and jumped down from the cab, slamming the door behind him. The loading bay was situated at the rear of the building, set deep in the shadow of the mosque walls. Danny’s eyes were drawn upwards to the roof. There, gleaming in the afternoon sun, the golden dome thrust upwards into the sky, visible for miles around as it rose above the surrounding suburbs. For a moment Danny just stood there, quietly impressed by the sheer scale of the construction. He vaguely remembered hearing something about it on the news, Bryce and his entourage of flunkeys padding around in their socks, waffling on about its importance in the community, blah-blah, bullshit, bullshit. He also remembered the Prime Minister’s female staff, forced to wait outside in the rain, polite smiles fixed on their faces while inside they seethed at the insult to their feminist sensibilities.
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