by A. A. Dhand
He couldn’t remember.
Ranjit stared at the items on the dining table, blinking away tears.
Upstairs in Ranjit’s home slept a little boy with the same innocence as Charanjit. The same birthmark.
The same ability to warm the coldest souls.
He raised his hands and covered his face, letting the tears come, body shaking.
What kind of a man could not embrace a four-year-old child?
What kind of monster had he become?
He was tired, so very, very tired. Ranjit didn’t want to live this way any more. Was he a good Sikh or simply a bitter, twisted old man who had given priority to his ‘standing’ within the community rather than his role as a father?
Hatred was wrong in Sikhism. The scriptures said it, explicitly. And yet …
He didn’t deserve life.
He didn’t want it any more.
For over seven decades he had hidden the memory of Charanjit lying still and beautiful by the side of the road so deep in his soul that at times he had hoped it was nothing more than a vivid dream. He could no longer pretend.
Ranjit ran his hands through his hair, the oil Joyti had massaged into his scalp soothing. He lifted his sword from the table, his sacred kirpan, turned the blade towards his chest, then used both hands to steady it.
He didn’t want this life any more. Didn’t deserve it.
Whatever he was, man or monster, he was already dead inside. This was simply progression of that.
Hardeep may have betrayed him but Ranjit had inflicted that hurt on Joyti. She was a good woman, undeserving of the type of man he had become. Without him, she could live freely.
She loved their grandson, their daughter-in-law. Ranjit thought back to when he had met Saima, when she had cared for him in hospital. She had asked him for forgiveness for marrying his son. She had stretched out her hands, wanting to touch his feet and say she was sorry.
He pushed the tip of the sword against the skin of his naked chest, the steel cold.
‘If you touch my feet, with your hands, I will be forced to cut them off …’
How could he have said such a thing when she had saved his life?
He bowed his head, closed his eyes.
Monster.
She would never forgive him. He could not ask her to.
With hands shaking, Ranjit knew this was a sin but he had already committed so many.
Tomorrow, he would not awaken.
Finally, he would be at peace.
The sound of Joyti’s voice stopped him. He felt her body brushing against his shoulder as she came to his side.
‘Walk away, Joyti,’ he said quietly. ‘You do not need to see this.’
‘Open your eyes,’ she replied, the touch of her hand on his head.
‘I have seen all I ever want to see in this lifetime.’
‘Open them, Ranjit. Now.’
Her tone stopped him. He turned to look at her.
Ranjit dropped the blade.
SIXTY-SIX
Crunch time.
Harry still couldn’t be sure that Isaac was trustworthy. He might have gone along with him because he genuinely wanted to help capture Abu-Nazir and Amelia, or he might have had something else in mind altogether. At this point, Harry didn’t have much choice but to trust him. He was only one step away from having the leverage Tariq Islam needed.
What happened once he delivered all four leaders of the Almukhtaroon to Tariq?
Harry didn’t know.
Handing over his Rolex to Singh had not been easy. He’d made it abundantly clear to Singh that he intended to come back for it.
Singh secured his yellow turban to Harry’s head. It didn’t feel natural. He may have been born into a traditional Sikh family but wearing the turban felt alien.
Harry glanced at his reflection in a small, dirty mirror in the storeroom. His breath caught in his throat.
He’d always thought he looked like his mother, yet now, with the turban, he was struck by how much he looked like his father.
‘Here,’ said Singh, handing Harry a yellow high-visibility jacket. ‘Part of the programme.’
Harry slipped it on.
‘This better be how it’s done,’ he said, aware how easy it would be for Singh to set him up. They’d be dead men.
‘It is,’ said Singh flatly.
‘Spotters?’
‘Few and far between at this time.’
Singh grabbed Harry’s hand and placed it on the dog, telling the dog firmly that Harry was going to take him for a walk. He spoke to the dog as if he were a child on a naughty step.
He clipped a lead on Oscar and handed it to Harry.
‘Oscar needs to know you are in charge. There is a hierarchy with dogs. You’ve heard of the expression top dog?’
Harry nodded.
‘Dogs are subservient only if they know who is top dog. That needs to be you. No need to fuck around and yell at him. You speak firmly, if needed, but he shouldn’t need obvious command. As long as he feels you are in control and not afraid, you’ll have no issue. Got it?’
Harry nodded.
‘Don’t nod like a frightened schoolgirl.’
‘I got it,’ said Harry firmly. He pulled a little on the lead, feeling the weight and power of the dog.
‘It’s five hundred yards to the tower. They’ll be watching. You might hear some whistling. Four short, sharp blasts. If that happens, raise your left hand high, then lower it. Keep your fucking head down. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, trying his best not to show his nerves at having Oscar on a lead. He wasn’t a dog-lover. Didn’t mind them but didn’t trust them not to take a chunk out of his body. He’d been there several times on the job.
‘When you reach the tower, take the lead off Oscar, command him to go home and make your way to the fire escape. The code is 0666, sign of the devil.’
Singh smiled. It wasn’t a warm expression.
Harry didn’t find it funny.
They moved into the shop, the dog pulling, its weight considerable. Harry tightened his grip on the lead. Isaac jumped out of the way, clearly also not a dog-lover.
‘One thing,’ said Singh, putting a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder.
‘What?’ said Harry, turning to look at him.
‘Shit goes bad in there? Don’t come back here for help. Doors are locked until morning. Got it?’
Harry walked away. ‘Come on, Isaac. We’re done here.’
Five hundred yards to Saville Tower.
The night was still warm, meaning the youngsters from the estate were likely to be out wandering the streets.
They walked with intent, the dog on Harry’s right, Isaac on his left. Oscar seemed to know exactly where he was going, head high, pace brisk.
Harry had taken his crowbar from the car and stuffed it down the front of his trousers, the lip sticking out of his waistband but easily concealed by the high-vis jacket.
The houses they passed were in a sorry state. The rendered walls were decaying, slates missing from roofs, gardens unkempt and full of rubbish. As consistent was the area’s fierce allegiance to the flag of St George. There were also National Front banners: a fascist group from the eighties.
Harry spotted a used syringe lying in the gutter.
Nice place.
‘Kids up ahead,’ whispered Isaac.
‘Head down. We walk straight past them.’
‘They’ll see you’re not the corner-shop keeper,’ said Isaac urgently.
‘You give them too much credit. Singh and I are two brown men with turbans and stubble. We all look the same.’
They approached the group of teenagers, cigarettes in mouths, bottles of cider in hands, the smell of marijuana in the air.
Harry and Isaac passed them without incident. He wasn’t sure if it was the presence of the dog or if Singh strolling towards the tower was just a routine occurrence. Harry imagined it was a little of both.
He relaxed as they app
roached the building. It loomed in front of them.
As Singh had promised, Harry heard the whistle. Four sharp blasts. He raised his left hand high then lowered it.
‘You OK?’ he asked Isaac. The boy nodded, clearly uneasy. Harry stooped and unfastened Oscar’s lead, commanding him firmly, ‘Home.’
The dog immediately ran away leaving Harry and Isaac to hurry towards the metal staircase.
Harry punched in the code. 0666.
This better work.
He hit the green button and the metal gate clicked open.
‘Come on,’ said Harry, pulling Isaac in behind him.
They closed the gate and climbed the stairs, the sound of their feet echoing on the steel treads.
When they reached the first floor, Harry stopped, turned to Isaac and raised his finger to his lips. He slowed his ascent, gentler footsteps, taking them two at a time.
They were more than halfway up before they hit their first obstacle.
A young lad, maybe eighteen, pissed up and smelling strongly of marijuana, was sitting in their way, cider in hand, spliff burning on the step by his side.
‘Yo, Big Singhy. Late-night fix? Someone must need that shit baaaaaaad,’ he said, smiling at Harry, completely unaware he wasn’t Singh.
We all look the same.
‘Something like that,’ said Harry, pushing past the boy, who let them pass.
They arrived quickly and without incident at the top of the tower block. Harry could hardly believe his luck.
No incidents. No drama.
The gate at the top wasn’t locked. Harry nodded for Isaac to follow him and together they crept along the walkway. Harry glanced down at the estate. No one had come after them.
The door to flat 420 was unlocked.
A lapse or a trap?
They knew Isaac was coming.
Abu-Nazir was the most hunted man on the planet right now. He wasn’t leaving his door unlocked. Harry tried to calm the panic rising in his chest.
‘You go in first,’ he said to Isaac.
The boy looked afraid and didn’t move.
‘They’re expecting you.’ Harry pulled him close. ‘I’m right behind you.’
He nudged Isaac towards the door, pulling his crowbar from his jeans.
Harry followed him in, keeping close.
Two doors either side of him, both open.
Bedrooms. Empty, unlived in. Harry didn’t like this. Didn’t feel right.
He heard a television playing in the living room. Sky News. They were reporting, live from Bradford. And voices.
Harry grabbed Isaac and stopped him entering.
He pointed back the way they had come but Isaac didn’t listen. Before Harry could stop him, he opened the living-room door and disappeared inside.
‘Shit,’ cursed Harry and went after him.
Two men were sitting on a couple of shitty couches. Not a care in the world.
‘Isaac.’ A sickly-white man stood. Ginger hair, blond beard.
Abu-Nazir.
He was dressed in Western clothing, which made sense. No way he got inside Saville Tower dressed in traditional Islamic robes.
The other man got to his feet. In his hand was a stun gun.
The weapon was not the most alarming thing.
Tyler Sudworth. Founder of the Far Right group the Pure English Society. In a room with Abu-Nazir? What the fuck was going on? Where was Amelia Rose?
‘Come.’ Abu-Nazir held out his arms to Isaac.
Isaac stepped into the embrace.
Sudworth slapped Isaac on the back and raised the stun gun at Harry.
Harry’s eyes went wide but his feet wouldn’t move. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
‘No,’ said Isaac firmly and lowered Sudworth’s arm.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief.
Isaac took the weapon from Sudworth.
The boy turned to face him and simply said, ‘Harry Virdee, I’d like you to meet my father, Abu-Nazir.’
If Harry’s jaw could have hit the floor it would have.
How the hell had he not seen it?
And Tyler Sudworth?
‘You lose, Harry,’ said Isaac, shooting 50,000 volts into the detective’s body.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Joyti Virdee had Aaron in her arms, asleep.
Ranjit couldn’t help but stare at the birthmark on Aaron’s shoulder. Everything about the boy reminded him of Charanjit.
Joyti moved quickly, not allowing him to speak, lowering the sleeping boy into Ranjit’s lap, who was forced to cradle him, protectively.
Ranjit had started to recoil but as soon as Aaron’s warm body touched his skin, everything changed. He held his breath, afraid Aaron would wake up and start crying. He did no such thing.
Ranjit kissed the boy’s forehead, then his cheek, before turning his face to stop his tears from hitting the boy.
Joyti wrapped her arms around his body, her lips on his face, whispering in his ear, ‘Let it go, Ranjit. Let it go.’
He gritted his teeth, confused.
Ranjit Singh Virdee felt – alive.
Aaron was the very reincarnation of Charanjit.
Ranjit kissed his forehead again. He didn’t want to let Aaron go.
Joyti sat beside him, took his face in her hands. ‘Let it go,’ she said again, crying silently.
‘How do I do that?’
Joyti pointed to the five items on the table, touched the sword and said, ‘Embrace your faith.’
‘My faith got me here.’
‘Foolish man,’ she said bitterly.
He shook his head in disagreement.
‘Who laid the very first stone of our holiest site, the Golden Temple? Do you even remember?’ said Joyti.
Ranjit thought about his answer. ‘It was a Muslim saint, Sai Mian Mir.’ The story came back to Ranjit, whose eyes widened in realization.
‘Our holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib, contains the work of two Muslim saints, Sheikh Fareedji and Bhagat Kabir Ji. Partition does not change these indisputable facts, yet for so long you have focused all your pain on what happened with your family, and the wider implications of partition. Was it any easier for the Muslims making their way into the newly formed Pakistan? How many of their women laid their children to rest by the side of the road?’
This was a conversation Joyti had wanted to have with her husband for many years. Once Harry had married Saima, she had gone back to the roots of their faith. Historically, Sikhism and Islam were more closely linked than most people realized.
‘Do you remember who our very first guru, Guru Nanak’s best friend was? Who accompanied him on his travels across the world?’
Ranjit shook his head but Joyti saw in his face that he knew the answer.
‘Bhai Mardana Ji – a Muslim.’
Ranjit’s face started to crack and she saw him desperately trying not to break down. Her play was bold, the truth hurtful, the history unquestionable.
Truth was something Ranjit had been cowering from for years.
Everything Joyti said was true but the world had changed. It was true that Sikhism’s and Islam’s origins were not steeped in hatred but had been polluted by, first, the partition of India and, second, the current hysteria surrounding Islam. When Ranjit had arrived in this country, he had Muslim friends. They had worked together, eaten together and gone out together. The war in Kashmir, a disputed territory between Pakistan and India, had strained their relationships but they had all allowed themselves to become that way.
‘I’m lost, Joyti. I don’t know who I am any more.’
‘You are the man I married.’
‘I don’t know who he is.’
‘I do. A strong man who sacrificed for his family. Worked hard. Loyal. Disciplined. And now … lost.’
‘I want to go to sleep and never awaken.’
‘Look at the boy in your arms.’
‘I cannot take my eyes off him. I want to wake him up. I want him to hug me, cal
l me Grandad and put his hands on my face.’
‘You can have all of those things.’
He was crying again, wiping his eyes frequently.
‘She will not forgive me.’
‘Say her name, Ranjit.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘I just cannot,’ he said, starting to lose it.
Joyti took her grandson from him, allowing Ranjit to place his head in his hands. He cried hard and painfully.
‘I gave her nothing but hate. And I did hate her, Joyti, I … do.’
‘No. You hate yourself.’
He didn’t reply.
‘The community shame. Honour. What people would have said. All of that created the hate. Not Saima. Tell me I am wrong.’
Still crying, he relented. ‘You are right.’
‘Is it better to take your own life than finally show just how strong a man you can be? It will take everything you have to create a new chapter in our lives, with this little boy at its centre. That is what our faith will give you.’
He wiped his face, eyes red, spirit broken. ‘I don’t know how.’
Joyti pointed to the knife on the table. ‘If having a Muslim friend was good enough for the Guru, if a Muslim laid the first stone that made our holiest site, why can a Muslim not save your life, tonight?’
He stared at her.
‘That’s right,’ she said, kissing the side of Aaron’s face. ‘Our grandchild is half Muslim, half Sikh, but he is all ours. You can look on him as a true message, one steeped in history and legend. A boy to close a gap so large nobody thought it could be done. Why does he have the same birthmark as your brother had? Why does his face reduce your hate to nothing more than a memory?’
She saw the realization in his face.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Do you trust me?’
‘Always.’
‘Come with me.’
‘Where?’
‘Just come.’
She walked away and Ranjit followed her.
Upstairs Joyti laid Aaron on her bed and lay down next to him, leaving a large enough gap for Ranjit.
‘You have to choose. If you lie on this bed, you leave the hate and the past standing where it is. If you turn around and leave, then tomorrow morning, even if I do not find your body slumped at that table, you will forever be dead to me because right here, right now, a choice must be made.’