“My wife is setting up a mobile hairdressers and beautician service. It’s for disabled people and the elderly, a really good business idea don’t you think?” Jack said.
The assistant smiled and handed Jack the bag containing his purchases, two litres of Hydrogen Peroxide and a litre of Acetone.
“That’s really sweet, she has enough there for a good while mind,” the assistant at Americana Cosmetics smiled.
Jack left the store in Pentonville, placed his purchase in the boot of his X6 BMW, alongside several other bags of similar stock. He drove from Pentonville to central London and parked as close as he could to Covent Garden.
It took him ten minutes to walk to Lush from the car park. He looked in the window first of the small beauty supplies store. He walked in with a big smile.
“Hi, I’d like to take two litres of Hydrogen Peroxide and a litre of Acetone please?”
The young girl behind the counter, with the name badge ‘Mary-Anne’, was surprised at the volume of the order. She noticed her customers slightly dishevelled state, sweat beaded brow and oily looking silver hair. This did not alarm her given she had just served a six foot three transvestite with a distinct five ‘o’ clock shadow.
“It would have to be four bottles for the peroxide and two for the acetone, we don’t stock the industrial sizes,” Mary-Anne said.
“That’s fine. I’m under orders. My wife is setting up a mobile hairdressers and beautician service. It’s for disabled people and the elderly, a really good business idea don’t you think?” Jack said.
“What a good idea, my nana is pretty much housebound and struggles to get her hair done. Does your wife have a business card?”
Jack paused with a fixed smile, “Next on the list is business cards, tell you what scribble your e-mail down and I’ll ask her to drop you a note with the website once its set up.”
Mary-Anne duly did and Jack put the note in his top pocket, smiled firmly, and tapped the pocket to signal it was for safe keeping.
“It should be up in a day or two,” Jack said.
Mary-Anne bagged up his purchase, Jack paid cash and left.
Jack walked through Covent Garden. The bustle of tourists and lively street entertainers temporarily drowned out the rolling instructions which gripped his mind. He stopped and smiled at a man dressed as a dog inside a dog basket. Jack laughed when he barked for the pound a young boy gave him, momentarily relieved from his torment. He made his way out onto Charing Cross Road back towards his car at the Newport Place Car Park. Jack drove his car across central London and over Westminster Bridge. He now knew he had enough chemicals to make an explosive device.
Having never made a bomb before he was entirely reliant on the instructions he received from his various visitors. He preferred the young woman who was more kindly and soft spoken. Her apologies were comforting though her requirements were no less demanding than the others. They provided him with key search terms, web addresses, user names and passwords. Jack had access to the darkest corners of the internet, the most secret places where extremists’ and the disaffected plotted chaos.
“I can’t find his home address, how will I know where to go?” Jack said as he queued in traffic across the Bridge. He looked at St Thomas’ hospital to his right and was reminded where he had first been exposed to an event that had descended him into the jaws of insanity.
“I’ve still got to get the other items, the plastic barrel, wires, batteries. More fertiliser? Okay I’ll get more. I’m telling you though I won’t be able to assemble it, I’m not handy like that, I can’t even wire a plug,” onlookers would assume Jack was on his hands free phone.
Jack arrived back at his large detached home in Purley, South of London about two hours later, following four trips to separate DIY stores. Two large chains and two independents. They had told him it was critical his purchases did not suggest any pattern of buying that could hint at terrorist intent. Since 11/7 all stores around London had been issued with memorandums and guidance of what to look for. Jack being white middle class helped him in his mission.
Jack drove the X6 onto the drive of his six bedded detached house in West Purley. He pulled directly into his garage through the automatically raised garage door. Once inside he opened the boot and began to empty the contents and set them out on the Garage floor.
After an hour of slowly laying out the essential ingredients for his device Jack took a break. They suggested he should eat having noticed his strength was weakening. Over the next twelve hours his energy would need to be right if he was to succeed.
Jack stopped at the telephone and took messages, maybe Oliver had called him back.
Beep. You have four new messages.
“Jack, its Sue, where are you, I’ve spoken to the GP again and he thinks you should go see him today, you’re mobile is going straight to voicemail.”
Beep.
“Hi Dad, its Emily, the gurgling is your grandson, he is eating his first biscuit. I hope you and mum can sort things out Dad, you’re jobs too stressful, pack it in it’s not worth it. Look after yourself, ring me. Love you.”
Beep.
“Hello Jack, Doctor Gupta calling, I know you are having a tough time so give me a call and I’m sure I can help you. Don’t be on your own with your worries. Ring the surgery when you get this.”
Beep.
“Hi Jack, Oliver Harris calling you back, sorry for ignoring the messages. I’ve had big second thoughts and I’ve decided to put the research on hold. Sorry if this messes you about. Maybe catch up some time.”
Beep. No more messages.
“It has messed me about somewhat,” Jack muttered.
He walked to the kitchen and made a sandwich.
“What? Okay,” Jack pulled out his mobile and sent his wife a text saying he was feeling a little better. No contact would arouse concern and could thwart his plans.
“What are my plans?” he wondered aloud. One thing at a time, eat your sandwich and then go finish your bomb.