Fade To Black

By Zoë Beck

Videographer Niall Stuart is not certain the Islamist men he witnesses kill someone in a public park are the only ones responsible for their crime. As he begins a documentary about the murder, he finds a much bigger picture, and it's a lot more than he bargained for--civil unrest about England's involvement in the Middle East, troubling facets o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Auguste Crime
• Release date: Feb 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685770006

Book preview

WEDNESDAY

1

People don’t walk through London with machetes.

Unless Niall counted the two men passing him just then. He’d already wrapped up taking pictures of the spot where the Effra River had once emptied into the Thames when he saw one of those men glance back at him. The man’s gaze lingered a split second too long, his eyes offering an invitation. At least, that was what Niall thought. Perhaps the man wanted to challenge him, defy him, like Hey, look what we can do without anyone trying to stop us in this city that bans all rubbish bins anywhere near government buildings out of fear that someone might plant a bomb in them. As if bins were the only places people left explosive bombs.

Niall had preparations to make for his shoot next week. He needed to decide what he was going to record, which camera angles would work best, and which scenes would make the most sense. Then, he needed to visit the grocery store and head home. But he nevertheless began trailing the two men, their machetes making him both vaguely uneasy and a little curious. Besides, an underground river was hardly going to up and disappear on him.

They strode down the southern bank of the Thames and under the railroad bridge before turning left and walking a short distance along the edge of a park. They seemed to be in no particular hurry. They passed other pedestrians, but nobody paid them the slightest attention. Everyone was focused on their own thoughts, their own lives.

Actors, Niall decided, on their way to an audition or a film shoot. But why would actors be carrying their own props? They were part of a small acting troupe, perhaps. Or showoffs with something to prove. Or maybe it was a dare, like the ones for bachelor parties, just with a less silly theme, something with weapons? There had to be a reason. Should he call the police? He wondered. Or should he wait a bit? After all, they weren’t bothering anyone and didn’t seem that dangerous, despite the machetes. In any case, they were carrying the weapons confidently, as if they weren’t dangerous. Maybe they weren’t. Niall snapped off surreptitious photos. Nobody would believe him later if he didn’t have proof.

They looked like brothers from behind: same height, similar build, both in jeans and sneakers. As far as Niall could tell, they both had short black hair, dark brown skin, and neatly trimmed beards. One of them wore a green t-shirt, the other a blue one. Nothing else distinguished them, at least, not from behind at this distance.

They turned into the park before coming to a halt. They were chatting, as they had been doing off and on the whole time, occasionally laughing. They even looked back at him once to make sure he was still there, which did not seem to bother them at all.

Niall was still holding his phone, ready to call the emergency number at any moment, but nothing happened. The machete men just stood there cheerfully, as if waiting on someone. Niall guessed they were somewhat younger than him, though not by much. Mid- or late-twenties, both physically fit. The one in the blue shirt was quite attractive: an open face with large, watchful eyes. With his thinner lips and more closely set eyes, the one in the green shirt looked more secretive.

Two joggers were wheezing their way through the park while a young woman pushed a stroller alongside another woman of about the same age. A boy, twentyish, strode past Niall and cut across the grass.

Since nobody else seemed worried about the machetes, Niall decided they had to be fakes. The men were probably meeting in the park for some kind of role-playing game, and their friends would show up any minute with more toy weapons, perhaps even in costume. All of it would, no doubt, be harmless. Good thing he had waited to call the police, he considered, since he would’ve just made a fool of himself. Niall snapped more pictures of the men before turning and walking off.

He had almost reached the edge of the park when he heard someone start screaming, followed by voices yelling all at once. Niall spun himself back around. The machete men were threatening someone: the boy who had passed him so resolutely. His hands were thrown up, as if in surrender, and he kept crying out, Leave me alone.

Although he was much taller than the other two and as fit as they were, he seemed off-balance, vulnerable. He was alone against the two of them, and they were armed. They were using their machetes to keep him at bay: one in the front, the other behind, their knees slightly flexed as if about to jump. With their arms spread out and their weapons as extensions, they looked as if they might embrace each other.

The joggers had come to a stop close to Niall, and they were also watching the three men.

Niall still gripped his phone, but instead of calling the police, he tapped the camera symbol.

Call the police, he said to the joggers.

They both reached for their phones.

What for? one of them asked, as his companion dialed, you’re already holding yours.

I’m recording, Niall said.

Jerk, the other one snapped.

The man in the blue shirt lunged, aiming for the boy’s throat, but he ended up striking his upraised left arm. With a howl of pain, the boy fell back a step and doubled over, trying to press the bloody gash on his upper arm closed with his right hand. The man in the green shirt was also recording with his phone, and Niall heard him urge his friend, one more time. You’re not done yet. It was as if he were supervising a motorcycle repair job.

I’ve got this, the one in blue replied before kicking the injured boy in the back of the knees so he crumpled into the grass. Between sobs, the boy cursed his attackers, then the man in blue bent down and started stabbing.

The one in green cheered him on, yeah, that’s right. You’re doing great!

I know. The other one said, sounding annoyed. Even after the victim’s agonized screams broke off, the attacker continued stabbing, though with less enthusiasm than before.

It takes a while, the one with the phone remarked.

I know, the other man repeated, his movements growing sluggish until he was just jabbing the body with the tip of his sword. His friend circled the two of them, recording. The attacker finally gave up and lazily slashed his machete through the air, blood dribbling from the blade and down his hands. His shirt was covered in blood splatters, and on his face, beads of sweat mingled with the boy’s blood.

The man in green lowered his phone, nodded encouragingly at his friend, and slapped him on the shoulder before glancing over at Niall, the joggers, and the other people who had gathered around them. Spectators. Fascination with someone else’s death was always stronger than fear of one’s own.

We have an audience, the man in green commented.

The murderer followed his gaze and straightened up to his full height. Good.

2

Hey, the man in green shouted at one of the joggers.

Hey! What are you doing with your phone?

The man who had just called the police dropped his phone before raising his arms. Nothing.

The man in green picked up his machete and walked toward him. Nothing? You fucking kidding me? Did you call somebody?

The jogger wet himself, and his companion groaned, either in horror or shame. Instead of helping his friend, he took three steps back.

Calling is shit. Show a little respect, okay? He stopped right in front of the jogger. You’re supposed to watch what we’re doing, got it?

The jogger whimpered.

Niall said: He didn’t do anything. I was watching. He kept his camera trained on the man with the machete, but he was starting to feel dizzy.

You! the man in green shot back. You were paying attention, huh? He lowered his machete. Did you record everything?

Niall nodded.

All of it?

Yes.

Good. Wait a second, don’t go anywhere. He pulled something out of his pocket, a piece of cloth he then unfolded. Niall saw a black rectangle, white Arabic letters in the upper half and a white circle underneath with even more letters. The flag of the Islamic State. The man walked back over to his friend and the corpse, positioned himself in front of them, and waved the cloth back and forth.

Did you get that? Did you?

Niall nodded, frightened. Despite his first impulse to run, he could not help wanting to see what happened next.

Come over here, the one with the flag ordered.

Niall obeyed. He was not one bit better than the others who had chosen to hang around, but he also sensed something else: a feeling of obligation. He had recorded everything, so now it was his duty to distract these two men from the joggers, from the other people who had joined them, and from the women with the stroller who were still there though they should have taken the child to safety. Niall focused on his fear, knowing he needed to channel it the same way actors use stage fright.

You’re fighting for the Islamic State? he asked.

Yes! the other man responded proudly, continuing to wave his flag energetically.

The man in blue pushed past him, leaving a bloody handprint on his shirt. He walked straight up to Niall and stared into the small phone camera. Niall struggled to stay calm, battling his flight instinct as best he could. He had seen predators through his lens before, recording them as they slaughtered their prey, but he had never been this close to one. He spread his feet further apart to project the illusion of stability and grasped the phone with both hands. He could not stop trembling, though.

We’ve killed a soldier. The man pointed his bloody machete at the body in the grass, and Niall’s gaze and camera tracked the gesture. The boy on the ground had very short, neatly clipped, light brown hair and was in his early twenties, at most. In any case, he was younger than Niall and the two men. He wore civilian clothes. Nothing about him showed that he was in the military, except perhaps his haircut, but that could have meant anything. Just as their beards didn’t necessarily carry any specific meaning.

We killed a British soldier because we’re at war.

What war? You mean jihad?

We’re at war against everyone who doesn’t acknowledge the Islamic State.

Are you jihadists? Niall’s hands were steadier now, but his voice cracked a little.

The green one raised his right pointer finger and grinned into the camera as the blue one replied: We’re killing your soldiers because you’ve killed ours. We’re taking your women because you’ve taken ours. We’re turning your children into orphans because you’ve done that to ours. He shifted slightly, throwing a quick glance at his friend, who nodded back.

The blue one continued: We support the establishment of an Islamic caliphate and follow the orders of Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi. We want to fight for him, and we demand the liberation of all Palestinians. You occupied Palestine and then allowed the Jews to settle there. They invaded our land and have killed women, children, and civilians, so we’re killing your soldiers. This man, he gestured at the body with the point of his machete, killed our women, children, and civilians, which is why it’s okay for us to kill him. It’s our duty.

Did you know him?

He was a soldier.

How do you know that?

He was a soldier, the blue one repeated, taking a step toward Niall.

Niall lowered his camera.

The man with the bloody machete declared: Everyone needs to see this. Upload it.

What?

On YouTube, the one in green added.

Okay, Niall replied, swallowing hard once or twice as pressure built inside his ears.

Keep recording, the one in blue ordered.

Niall pointed his phone back toward the men.

The one in green paced back and forth in front of the body and waved his machete at the jogger. The man was surrounded by a group of concerned onlookers.

I have to keep them talking, Niall thought. That way they won’t focus on the others. He was still considering what to ask when the one in green shouted something.

Takbīr!

Allāhu akbar! the man in blue responded.

Niall quickly cut in: Where are you from? London, right?

The man in blue hesitated. Niall studied his face on the small display, too scared to risk looking at him directly. He seemed perfectly normal, calm, relaxed. He had dark skin and black hair, possibly Arabic. Then again, maybe he wasn’t. He spoke with an unmistakable South London accent.

Palestine, the man in blue finally said. We were occupied and oppressed by you Brits. You stole our land.

You’re both from Palestine? Niall could hear police sirens in the distance. Your friend, too?

We demand the establishment of an Islamic caliphate in our homeland.

He’s from Palestine?

Turkey, the one in green called.

Turkey?

If the Turkish government continues controlling the waters of the Euphrates and oppressing our brothers in the Islamic State, we’ll have to liberate Istanbul! He waved the black flag and stood beside his friend.

We’re at war against unbelievers. Against all infidels, the Palestinian explained. The man in green handed him the flag, then walked back to the body and nudged it with his toe.

Come here, the Turk called to Niall. I want to show you something. Hurry up, and don’t stop recording.

Niall shuffled forward cautiously, making sure the Palestinian did not close the gap between them. He took care to keep both men in his frame, though there was no real need to worry about them going anywhere. The Palestinian stopped beside his friend and lifted the flag with both hands, like his comrade had done earlier. Blood-smeared fingers gripped the black fabric with white symbols. He continued to clutch the crimson-stained machete in his one hand, so it looked as if the flag were tied to it. The archaic triumph of a man who had just killed for his faith, for his country, for himself, he marched up and down beside the body, personifying victory, power, superiority. It was an awe-inspiring image, a horrifying echo of every war since the beginning of time.

The man in green positioned himself close to the dead boy’s head, legs apart. He clenched the machete tightly in both hands, swung it back, and swept it down on the corpse’s neck. Blood sprayed in all directions. He struck over and over again, shouting to his God with every blow.

Niall forced himself to hold his phone steady so the scene stayed in the frame, but he could not bring himself to watch. He tried to imagine himself miles away but was unable to block out the screams from behind him. More and more people were coming, clustering into small, tight groups, staring in horror and disbelief, hands over their mouths. Some of them were vomiting, and one man had passed out.

Niall shut his eyes for one long heartbeat, and when he opened them again, the man in green had finished decapitating the boy. He pushed the boy’s head a short distance from his body with his foot, as if it were a soccer ball, before bending down and picking it up.

Did you get that? he called to Niall. That’s what we’ll do to all enemies of the Islamic State. He then turned to his friend: Police.

Niall thought this would finally be the point they would make a run for it, but he was wrong. They stood their ground, watching, though they did set the boy’s head back on the ground.

Niall saved the video sequence, his hands clammy and cold. The touchscreen on his phone could barely register the commands he was trying to enter. His hands trembled so much he kept clicking the wrong things. He had to keep rubbing his thumbs on his pants, repeating commands, undoing his mistakes.

The police drove up in a small army of vans, cruisers, and rescue vehicles. As a group of uniforms tried to press the bystanders back, Niall stood rooted beside the Palestinian, though he had begun recording the special forces officers in full protective gear: black uniforms, helmets and guns. One of them yelled: All weapons on the ground. Hands where we can see them.

The two men tossed the machetes at their feet and raised their arms out from their sides.

We’re at war. We’ve killed a soldier, the Palestinian called.

The police drew closer and surrounded them. Everyone’s hands up!

Niall finally realized that many of the police officers were pointing their guns at him. He lifted his hands, still holding his phone.

Hey, I’m not part of this, he shouted, looking around. Tell them I’m not with you!

The Palestinian refused to make eye contact. The Turk shrugged with a grin, then glanced down and reached into his right back pocket, the way someone does when he wants to get his phone after a message has just come in. He pulled out his phone.

Weapon! someone cried.

Shots.

Niall saw the Turk collapse, two large, dark spots spreading across his shirt. The man in blue screamed and ran to his friend, but the officers were quicker. They converged on him and threw him to the ground. Somebody knocked Niall down as well, sat on top of him, and bound his arms and legs.

I had nothing to do with this, he wheezed, but there was no reply.

Paramedics ran to the man who had been shot. Niall could not

tell if he was dead or if they were trying to save him. They were all ignoring the boy, both his body and his head.

The man sitting on top of him stood up. Once back on his feet, he kicked Niall in the ribs. Two other officers grabbed him under his shoulders and yanked him off the ground. He saw that his face had landed only centimeters away from a pile of dog shit, but his phone had not been so lucky.

My phone, he implored.

Ours now, somebody in black declared. Just like you are.

3

They shoved him through the back door of the police van. He fell to the floor, where they left him. All he could see were the boots on the feet of his guarding officers. He tried asking more than once where they were going, but they said nothing. They just kicked him until he shut up.

The drive took about an hour. From the floor of the van, he was unable to make out much through the bars on the back window. Although he did not think they had crossed the Thames, it felt like they were heading east. Greenwich and beyond.

The officers remained silent, but he could hear the driver and front-seat passenger murmuring indistinctly. Niall felt a stab of pain each time he inhaled. He tried to shift his position, so he could breathe better, right before a boot struck him in the back.

Oops, someone said, possibly the same person who had kicked him earlier. Somebody else snickered. That was all Niall heard for the rest of the drive.

Once they reached their destination, a couple of officers grabbed him under his arms, hauled him out of the van, and dropped him on the pavement, his head cracking hard against the concrete. At that point, the kicking resumed, each officer delivering a swift blow as they walked past. One stopped walking long enough to kick him several times, until someone called out, That’s enough.

Niall still couldn’t see more than booted feet at the end of black pantlegs. He tried to lift his head, but someone slammed it back down. They left him lying there for a while before he was picked up and dragged into the prison. The officers handed him over to the prison personnel like a sack of garbage.

In the block for pre-trial prisoners, neither the guards nor the doctor said more than the barest minimum to him: Get undressed. Open your mouth. Bend over. Cough.

How did you get hurt? the doctor asked.

Niall told him. The doctor did not reply, simply took pictures. Niall kept repeating himself. I had nothing to do with it. I just happened to be there. Nobody cared what he said. They were only interested in Niall’s blood, urine, hair.

He said, I want to make a call. Don’t I get an attorney? What about my rights?

No one even looked at him.

After being given a prison uniform, he was taken to a solitary cell. As the door closed, he shouted: Carl Davis. He’s my uncle. You have to talk to him. You can’t just keep me here without telling someone. Carl Davis, he works for the Ministry of Health. Please!

The door slammed shut before he got the last word out. Niall pounded and kicked it, yelling for someone to talk to, then pleading for help, finally settling for profanity. He eventually gave up, exhausted. His head buzzed, his ribs ached from the beating, and his backside felt sore where the doctor had poked around. His voice completely gone, he dragged himself to the cot, stretched out on the blanket, turned to his side and stared at the wall. Then he stood back up, went to the sink, let the water run over his hands, and washed his face. The scrapes he had gotten from falling down smarted, but the bleeding had stopped.

He rinsed his mouth, then finally went back to his position on the cot and stared at the wall some more, too afraid to close his eyes. He did not want to see the boy being beheaded again, but the severed head kept surfacing in his mind.

Niall tried to think about something else. About how his uncle would surely get him out. His Uncle Carl had a solution for practically everything. He was an older, conservative man, stuffy and a little pompous but very congenial and, above all, helpful. He knew his way around bureaucracies, being a civil servant himself, and was acquainted with hierarchical structures from his years in the military.

Carl was not actually his real uncle. He was a cousin of Niall’s mother, but as a child, Niall had always called him Uncle Carl.

Niall needed to somehow get to a phone. He was in Great Britain after all, not South America. Citizens have rights here, don’t they? He thought. He kept telling himself that everything would be alright.

He wasn’t convinced of that for much longer. In Niall’s mind, the head kept rolling across the field and he couldn’t stop thinking about how much it resembled a kicked soccer ball. Getting back up, Niall started hammering on the door again, refusing to stop until someone came. Suddenly, the door opened and Niall was shoved backward by a pair of hands, then thrown to the floor. He landed on his side. He tried to protect his head with his arms and pulled his knees up to his chest as somebody drove the end of a truncheon into his shoulder.

If you don’t stop, we’ll stick you in a very different cell, asshole, a voice growled. As the footsteps moved off, Niall risked lifting his head and looking. He saw two men in uniform with no distinguishing markings. He lowered his head back down and decided to stay put on the cell floor, curling up even tighter into a fetal position.

For the first time, he wondered: What if I never get out of here?

Hours later, somebody finally brought him something to eat. Whatever it was, it only bore the loosest possible resemblance to food. Niall asked once more if he could place a phone call. Again, he received no answer.

Although he was exhausted and cold from being on the floor, he was unable to fall asleep on the cot after eating. He had no sense of where he was. Was he still in London? How late was it? When would it get dark? He heard roaring and whistling in his ears. Were the sounds coming from outside or inside his body? He knew he had not been locked up for all that long yet.

Keeping him awake were the images that kept appearing before his eyes. The Palestinian, blood dripping from his hands and down the machete blade. The Turk, as he sliced and hacked off the boy’s head, before proudly hoisting it as a trophy for the camera.

Why had they not killed him instead? Or one of the joggers? Why the boy? The Palestinian in the blue shirt had called him a soldier. Maybe they had met him earlier? Or followed him? Perhaps they had arranged to meet up with him. The boy had walked past Niall with purpose. There was no way he had known he was going to his death.

Had he really been a soldier? A young man walking unsuspectingly through a park-—murdered because a couple of fanatics wanted to prove something to the world. Why had they not killed Niall? He couldn’t help but wonder again. It was possible that they had been about to, that they would have killed him if the boy had not come along.

And now what? He thought. Niall was sitting there because the police thought he was a terrorist since he had been there for the attack and recorded