Turbulence (33 page)

“But I had no idea how bad things really were, how much danger I was in. I figured that out the day I met you and Aman. And Jai. I realised that while he was alive, while people like him were alive, people like us could never make the world better, never make a difference — because Jai and his thugs were so much stronger. I had to stop him. I tried holding his parents hostage, hoping he would quit — but that’s not something he does. I didn’t want the Mathurs to die, but I was so scared I lost control of the mob. That’s why I had to bring all of you here. I wanted to get every superhero in the world together, get them to attack Jai. To kill him.”

“Was that it?” Uzma asks. Her family stands around her, and she’s never seen them so completely dumbstruck before. “You wanted to control all of us, didn’t you?” she says. “You used Aman and me to bring the rest here with your lies about visions, and you wanted to have this whole superpowered gang
to use as your attack dogs.”

“Yes,” Namrata says, and covers her mouth with her hand again. “With all of you, Vir and Aman and the rest, I could get anything I wanted, not just bigger and better news stories. And my powers are growing, you know. I have so much more control over the people in my crowds. Now it’s not just who gets mad at whom — I can control how angry they get now, whether they attack with a plan or in a frenzy, and whether they remember later. My god, I don’t believe you’re making me tell you. And I don’t believe you had all this time and you still haven’t figured it out.”

Aman struggles to rise. He gets a hand on a chair and pulls himself up on his knees.

“Uzma,” he croaks, “tell her to —”

“Too slow,” Namrata says. “Sorry, Mark, I don’t know you, and you’re cute, but —”

Beside Uzma, Yusuf suddenly yells, enraged, and tackles Mark to the ground. Uzma clenches her fists and concentrates, trying to fight the rage welling up inside her. Her parents, Meg and Hanif also fall on the floor, clawing at Mark, pounding ineffectively at whoever’s nearer him. Mark’s scream of terror is cut off as Uzma leaps at him as well, her face red with uncontrollable fury.

Aman feels it too, and goes online quickly. A few seconds later, he’s back to normal. He struggles to his feet, to find Namrata seated on the table, dangling her legs, watching calmly as Mark manages to push his way out of the scrum and runs for the door. Yusuf blocks his path and they’re all on him again, tearing at his flesh.

“You really are immune, aren’t you, Aman?” Namrata says. “Never figured that one out. You and Tia — good thing for me she’s not here, huh?”

“Stop it,” Aman says.

“Not much use if you say it, Aman. Now if Uzma had been smart enough to say it — that would have been something. You’ve worked it out now, haven’t you? Say it and I’ll let the Irish boy live.”

“Everyone has to do what Uzma tells them to,” Aman says.

“And you lived with her for so long and never knew,” Namrata says dreamily as Mark makes a dash for the open kitchen, and the others scramble after him. “Of course, maybe her powers just grew, like ours did. And what a power, huh? I’ve got her mad, but I’m still obeying her — I can’t stop explaining things, and the last thing I want to do now is talk. You have no idea how much it hurts to keep her angry — I just want good things to happen to her, I’d do anything to make her happy. I love her so much. Everyone does, right? I bet you do whatever she wants.”

“Let her go,” Aman says. “Stop making her do this. Let them all go.”

“Can’t, sorry. She could stop me with a single word.”

Aman advances towards her, but she’s quicker than he is. She keeps the table between them, never losing sight of the fight that rages in the kitchen.

“Pity I can’t control you,” she says. “Listen closely now. This is your last chance. You know the world would be a better place without the superthugs. Just people like you and me, changing society, leading revolutions, cleaning the world.”

“Killing people.”

“I know my power’s horrible, but I didn’t choose it. We can
still work this out, Aman. We all go to the bridge, Uzma tells Jai and all the others to fight until they’re all dead. Hell, she could tell them to kill themselves and they’d probably do it. We’d be safer. The world would be safer. Come on!”

Aman jumps onto the table and lunges at her, but she’s already halfway across the room.

In the kitchen, the Abidis, Meg and Yusuf stop battering Mark to a pulp and stand and stare at Aman. He’s horrified as their faces go vacant, and then slowly flood with rage. Uzma’s mother picks up a big carving knife. They advance slowly towards him.

“Got to go now, I have an interview. Nice knowing you,” Namrata says cheerily. She pulls Uzma’s arm, leading her away from the rest. Aman looks at Uzma beseechingly, hoping that the power of love or something similar will break Namrata’s hold on her. But Uzma merely looks dazed as Namrata guides her out through the door.

As the door shuts, Mark emerges from behind the kitchen counter. His clothes are tattered and bloodstained and one of his eyes is a messy, bloody lump, but he seems unaware of any damage. He joins the others as they rush at Aman.

Hanif gets there first, his large, expressive eyes shining with fury and pain. Aman knocks him out with the Team Togetherness trophy and feels not one iota of regret. He cannot bring himself to strike Meg, though, and so he pushes her to one side, ducks and rolls, narrowly avoiding Uzma’s mother’s slashing knife, which slices through at least an inch of wood as it strikes the table.

Yusuf lunges at Aman next, and falls over a chair. Aman sees an opportunity for a well-timed groin kick but pauses, this
man might be his brother-in-law if he survives today. Taking advantage of Aman’s hesitation, Uzma’s father hits his back with a chair, WWE style, and Aman screams in pain. As Aman falls, Mark charges with rhino-like ferocity, trips over Aman and cannons into Uzma’s parents and the table. There’s a thundering crash, and they all go down in a heap.

Aman leaps up and runs across the room, avoiding a flailing Yusuf. But before he can even begin to breathe, Meg kicks his ankle, hard, and slaps his face, hard. Throwing aside centuries of civilised Sen upbringing, Aman grabs her and pushes her at Yusuf, but the force of his charge carries him along, and they all fall in a heap on Uzma’s suitcase.

A flash of steel. Mrs Abidi’s knife glitters above Aman. She brings it down in a silvery arc, missing his head by a hair’s breadth as he pushes Yusuf and Meg aside. The knife quivers, embedded in the suitcase. Muttering an apology, he kicks her and she falls, twisting her ankle.

Aman begins to rise to his feet, but then dives aside as Mark throws himself across the living room. He jumps to his feet, his head spinning wildly, and picks up the suitcase, using it as a shield as Uzma’s father, not looking too professorial, lashes out wildly, using a tall iron lampstand as a kendo stick. The suitcase splits open, spilling its contents. A few clothes fall out, and then a black and silver briefcase tumbles to the floor.

Aman throws the empty suitcase at Uzma’s father, dives, and grabs the briefcase. Ignoring Yusuf and Meg, who appear to be biting his legs, he taps in the combination.

The armour responds magnificently: it unfolds over his body, plates sliding smoothly over his torn skin and clothes, black metal covering his head an instant, just before Uzma’s
father swings the lampstand down in what would have been a skull-splitting blow. Aman doesn’t even feel it. He lifts his legs. The final plates slide into place over his feet, dislodging Yusuf and Meg. Hanif, who has recovered enough to crawl across the floor, picks up the knife and stabs Aman’s foot. The blade slides off the armour with a spark and sticks into the wooden floor. Behind him, Mark roars a challenge.

The armour takes over. Aman doesn’t have to make the slightest effort as he turns, blocks Mark’s punch with a contemptuous palm, twists hard, cracking Mark’s wrist and then jabs with his other arm, sending him flying into the kitchen counter. Aman’s limbs flow smoothly, guided into a cobra stance. Hanif stumbles towards him and Aman picks him up, neck and hip, and tosses him on his shoulder, head down. Hanif is set up for a neck-snapping pile-driver, but Aman screams a silent
No!
and the armour pauses mid-slam, and instead lays Hanif out on the floor. Hanif stays down.

Whether it’s because Namrata has moved out of range or because they’re all simply too tired to continue, the spell breaks. Aman surveys the carnage around him. The flat is completely trashed, and so are its inhabitants. Mr Abidi, the last man standing, drops his lampstand.

He looks at Aman, his face bewildered, and mutters, “What the hell happened?”

“I’m really sorry,” Aman says. “I have to go save Uzma now.”

He steps towards the door, but his armour has no intention of wasting time waiting for a lift. Aman finds himself running towards the balcony. He yells out in alarm, but it’s too late — he smashes through a glass door, over the balcony railing, and is
suspended in mid-air for a gut-churning second before he falls and lands, perfectly poised, on the street. The road cracks with the impact. Aman can only watch helplessly and feel his legs pump, his arms swing and his heart race as he starts running as fast as a speeding car towards the River Thames.

Ten minutes to noon. The Millennium Bridge spans the Thames like an alien artefact, the frozen jet-stream of a spaceship freshly escaped from the Tate Modern. The clouds have cleared, the Thames is blue and sparkling. The South Bank is free of its usual hordes of sun-worshippers, culture-seekers and tourists; the few stragglers that remain are being herded away by policemen.

The airwaves have been flooded with warnings for the last hour, instructing people sternly to stay away from the Thames, not all these messages are Aman’s doing. The area is swarming with men and women in uniform. All of London’s police and counter-terrorism departments have sent their finest.

Met Police Officers in bright-orange jackets chase away journalists, summoning up all the gravitas they can muster as they point out the dual risk of a rogue supervillain and an alleged mind-controller able to affect anyone within an area
equal to at least the size of a Mumbai cricket stadium.

The Ministry of Defence Police have taken over the bridge. They chatter into radios as they brandish their Heckler & Koches. Two MDP Eurocopters circle the sky above the bridge, taking turns to swoop down low over the Thames, churning up the water, filling the air with the sound of whirring rotors. Two MDP launches lurk under Southwark Bridge to the east, two more under Blackfriars Bridge to the west.

Tactical Support Group detectives and Special Ops officers from Counter-Terrorism Command, SO15, have brought in the heavy artillery. Carefully positioned Armed Response Vehicles bulging with grim-eyed marksmen patrol slowly on both banks of the Thames, and striped police BMWs whizz up and down the streets behind the riverside buildings, their sirens a mournful chorus rising up amidst brooding structures. SO13 anti-terrorist squads conduct sweeps of the giant office blocks and other buildings lining the Thames. London is armed and ready.

To the north of the Millennium Bridge, straight up ahead, Vir hovers above the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, just behind the golden ball on top of the dome, hoping the policemen in the helicopter don’t spot him.

His satellite phone beeps, it’s Tia, she speaks quickly.

“Aman just called. He’s on his way. Namrata is the mob mastermind. She’s got Uzma. Uzma’s power is that people obey whatever she says. They all just found out. Aman thinks Namrata’s going to try to get Uzma to ask Jai to kill himself. End of recap.”

Vir blinks and swallows.

“What?”

“That’s all he said. He was out of breath. Said he was running
and couldn’t stop. So, the new plan is, we have to save Uzma,” Tia says, her voice shaking a little.

“All right. We’ll move on Namrata first, get Uzma safe, and then attack Jai. Let the others know,” Vir says.

“Can’t do that. If you go near Namrata, she’s going to get you. Her plan was to get everyone to take Jai out for her. Stay where you are, Vir. At least we don’t have to worry about protecting Namrata. The little bitch. I’m going to tear her head off.”

“All right. Let the others know.”

“What should we do? What’s the new plan?”

Vir feels like punching the golden ball in front of him, but wisely doesn’t, he has enough to deal with.

“Let’s not bother with a plan,” he says. “We’ll figure it out as we go along.”

Five minutes to noon. Jai arrives, strolling calmly along the street from the Globe Theatre. Several armour-vested officers line up in front of him. He stops, looks at them, and grins.

“Hi,” he says. “Look, let’s make this simple. Shoot me, all of you.”

They surround him, guns pointing at his head, but no one shoots.

“Come on,” Jai says. “I have an appointment.”

A chief constable steps forward and begins to inform Jai why he’s being arrested. Jai listens for a few seconds, and then grabs the man’s rifle.

“Observe closely,” he says. He points the rifle at himself, the barrel a few millimetres from his open right eye, and pulls the trigger. The gun chatters, flashes light, everyone flinches, but Jai is unharmed. He tosses the gun away, rubs his eye once and looks around at the baffled policemen, smiling again.

He leaps over the heads of the ring of policemen, lands on an armoured vehicle, crunching it like a drinks can. And he’s off again, touching down lightly in front of the steps leading up to the south end of the Millennium Bridge, vaulting, somersaulting, landing lightly on the bridge.

He points at the wall of the Tate Modern, at the Parisian graffiti master JR’s painting of a young black man holding a video camera as if it were a gun. The greyscaled man’s expression is hostile, his weapon seems to be pointing straight at Jai.

“You’re about as much of a danger to me as he is,” Jai tells the assembled officers, and watches their faces fall. “Now listen closely.”

More heavily armed policemen gather around Jai as he speaks. Their feet drag, their shoulders stoop; they listen half-heartedly, as if they are not really awake. Jai stands like a statue of a world-conquering emperor, his powerful voice rings out down the South Bank.