Girl Zero

by A. A. Dhand

  ‘Now,’ said Ronnie, raising his voice but not quite masking his nerves.

  As Ranjit backed away, hissing spitefully, Joyti put her arms around him, apologizing for Harry’s behaviour. She pulled him back down the hallway and they disappeared out of sight.

  ‘Thanks,’ whispered Harry.

  ‘Shut up,’ replied Ronnie. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Ronnie, I’m here as a police officer and I need to speak with you and your wife.’

  The living room was covered in rustic oak panels, a traditional wood burner in the corner, two big Chesterfield couches and a large, relatively recent picture on the wall of Ronnie with his family. For a few seconds, Harry’s eyes didn’t move from the sight of Ronnie’s twins. He hadn’t seen them in four years. They were thirteen years old now and had grown so much. Knowing they were in the house made Harry feel bitter that he couldn’t see them, even if only a fleeting glimpse. He pushed aside memories of teaching them how to play cricket, Raj always wanting to bat whilst his sister, Kirin, tried to bowl him out. His eyes moved from them to Tara, standing behind her parents, next to Harry’s mum and dad.

  They look like your eyes, Harry; full of pain.

  He forced himself to look away.

  The incense burning on the mantelpiece reminded Harry of his own home; Saima also used it to ward away evil.

  Harry was sitting opposite Ronnie and Mandy, next to the large bay window which looked out on to the driveway.

  ‘It’s Diwali,’ said Mundeep. She placed her hands on the coffee table between them, sequins from her yellow sari tapping the wood. ‘Really, Hardeep, you had to come today?’

  She wouldn’t call him Harry any more.

  ‘Mandy—’

  ‘Mundeep,’ she said, correcting him.

  ‘Sorry. I … I wish I weren’t here.’

  Mundeep had changed since Harry had last seen her. Her face had become thinner and she looked tired, with dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘This better be important, Hardeep,’ said Ronnie. In his wife’s presence, even Ronnie wouldn’t call him Harry.

  Harry sighed, searching for the right opening.

  This is the worst thing I’ve ever had to say.

  It sounded so clichéd.

  This is the hardest thing I’ve had to do.

  Worse.

  Candles on the windowsill flickered, making the shadows around them tremble. Harry had wanted the burden of breaking the worst possible news so it wouldn’t be delivered in the formulaic terms dictated by protocol. Now that he found himself sitting with them, in a house where he wasn’t welcome, Harry could think of no alternative to the official death-notification routine he had hoped to avoid.

  He looked Ronnie square in the eyes. ‘Tara’s body was found this morning and we believe she was murdered.’

  Silence.

  The terrible, familiar stunned silence.

  Ronnie searched Harry’s face and found nothing but sickening honesty.

  Then, as always, the cracking of the mother’s face as she realized it was real.

  Mundeep’s lips creased, her eyes narrowed and she drew a long, shuddering breath before releasing a heart-rending wail.

  FIVE

  RIZ KHAN WAS standing in the penthouse apartment of the Gatehaus building. Unable to work, he could only look out over the centre of Bradford. In the distance, the newly opened Westfield shopping centre was reaching the lethargic end of a typically grey Monday evening. Riz rested his head against the floor-to-ceiling window, welcoming its icy touch on his clammy forehead.

  What the fuck had happened?

  Push the Virdee girl aside. No drama. No attention.

  His instructions couldn’t have been clearer.

  But now he’d had a call from one of his pet officers. Thanks to Ali, they’d just launched a murder investigation.

  Fucking Ali. Riz had never liked him. How could you trust a guy who wore two hoods? He should cut him out for this. What use was money to a loner like Ali, anyway? He couldn’t even pay Bradford’s hookers to fuck him with a face like that.

  Unable to quieten the drumming in his mind, he closed his eyes and tapped his head against the window in time with the beat, leaving several grey strands of hair on the pane.

  Only forty-eight hours to go before Riz was due to orchestrate the sale of a girl that he and his men had worked very hard to acquire.

  Billy and Ali were the only ones who knew her location. Now they would have to go to ground. This was the first time a deal had reached seven figures – nothing could be allowed to jeopardize it.

  Riz hit his forehead against the glass a little harder. He’d make it happen. Forty-eight hours and then the boss would oversee a swift handover, after which Riz would disappear someplace warm, this time with enough money to maybe never return.

  Riz stepped away from the window, opened his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich. The forty-year-old whisky, a gift from the boss a year ago, came in at two thousand pounds and had been a fortieth birthday present. That and a weekend of debauchery in London, where the boss had an apartment overlooking the River Thames.

  London was a rare treat, an opportunity to escape the darkness of Bradford, where poverty and destitution gave way to a very specific type of opportunism. Riz poured a generous measure of whisky into a crystal glass, picked up the articles he had printed that morning and sat down in his leather chair, overlooking the misery of a city where streets didn’t have residents, they had owners.

  He sipped the whisky and stared at the news items from the Telegraph and Argus website. They were all about detective Harry Virdee. Christ, how hadn’t they known Tara’s uncle was a cop?

  False name.

  False identity.

  False age.

  She’d played them.

  But why?

  Forty-eight hours before they completed and they had no clue how deep this thing ran.

  If the boss got wind of this, he’d pull out.

  Not an option.

  Riz sipped more whisky, holding it in his mouth, allowing it to soak into his gums as he leafed through the articles. He paused at a black-and-white image of DI Virdee on the steps of Bradford Crown Court. He examined the photo more closely, staring at the detective’s face.

  What could he possibly achieve in such a short time frame?

  The intercom buzzed. Riz stared at a video-link monitor before pressing the button to open the outer door of the main building. A few minutes later, the door to the apartment was unlocked and his business partner, Billy Musa, strode inside, dressed in a sombre black shalwar kameez, heavy footsteps stomping towards the desk. He threw himself into a chair, looking like he had aged ten years since Riz had seen him the day before.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said, staring intensely at Riz. ‘Fuck!’

  Riz took another crystal glass from his top drawer and slid it across the mahogany desk, nodding at the bottle of Glenfiddich. Billy snatched it, poured a clumsy measure into the glass and drank it like it was cheap wine. ‘Yeah,’ replied Riz. ‘That about sums it up.’

  Billy slammed the empty glass on the desk and leaned back. ‘I called Ali. He ain’t answering.’

  Riz nodded and took a sip of whisky. ‘What did you tell him on Friday?’

  ‘What we agreed. Scare her. Make her disappear.’

  ‘Disappear?’

  ‘He knew what I meant – and it wasn’t sticking a knife in her chest.’

  ‘The problem with having a pit bull is being able to control it.’

  Billy rolled his eyes. ‘He knows we hand over on Wednesday night. He knows the stakes.’

  ‘So why?’

  ‘Maybe she caught him off guard?’

  ‘Nobody is catching Ali off guard.’

  Billy snatched the bottle of whisky again.

  ‘Hey,’ said Riz, shaking his head and pointing at the bottle, ‘you’re driving. Don’t be careless today of all days.’

  Billy put it back. ‘You
got a spliff? I’ve a bastard headache.’

  Riz pointed to a cabinet to the side of the desk. ‘Second drawer.’ He got off his chair, walked to a set of French doors and opened them to reveal a panoramic view of the city. Outside, the darkness was broken up by car headlights, bumper-to-bumper on Leeds Road.

  ‘Bad, bad, headache,’ said Billy, arriving by his side and lighting the spliff. ‘Think we should call it off?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Boss knows we fucked up, you think he’ll just let us walk away?’ Riz replied.

  ‘So what do we do? Move the girl?’

  ‘She’s where she is because there’s no cameras in a two-mile radius. Anyway, we move her, he’ll know there’s a problem.’

  ‘Damned if we do. Damned if we don’t,’ said Billy, inhaling deeply on the spliff.

  ‘You think this guy Virdee is gonna give us a problem?’ Riz asked, taking the joint from Billy.

  ‘No. Unless …’ they looked at each other ‘… she was working with him,’ Billy finished.

  ‘Unlikely. Who uses their niece as bait?’

  ‘Someone we don’t wanna come up against.’

  ‘Shit, Billy, how did you not see this? You’ve been chasing that bit of skirt for months,’ Riz said bitterly.

  Billy sighed, took the joint back for another drag. ‘She … she … I don’t know.’

  ‘Here’s the real concern. Who was she working for?’

  ‘You sure we shouldn’t shut it down?’

  ‘Million quid’s a lot,’ replied Riz. ‘And we’d still be left with the headache of telling the boss a year’s worth of work is down the pan. Who knows what that’ll bring.’

  ‘He needs the girl. He’s … got used to it.’

  Billy took Riz’s glass of whisky from him. ‘We’ve done nothing that can’t be undone,’ he said.

  ‘True,’ said Riz. ‘But …’ He paused, weighing the options in his mind as he stared out over Bradford, peak-hour traffic snaking as far as the eye could see.

  ‘But?’

  ‘We give them Ali. Then this all goes away.’

  ‘Assuming he did it,’ said Billy, turning to put the empty glass back on the desk.

  ‘Course he did,’ said Riz, shaking his head at the offer of a refill. ‘You say you don’t know where he lives?’

  Billy sat in Riz’s chair, dejected. ‘You know how he is.’

  ‘He won’t pick up his phone? Sounds like he’s running.’

  ‘Not his style.’

  ‘Style? That guy’s got no style. He freaks me out.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s useful.’ Billy watched Riz stub out the joint on the metal railing across the French doors. ‘Ali does the things we can’t. Things we won’t.’

  Riz shook his head. ‘The farmhouse,’ he said, closing the doors. ‘We all good there?’

  ‘Perfect. I was there this morning. I’ll head over again tomorrow for the final check …’ Billy looked like he wanted to say something else.

  ‘No choice but to complete.’ Riz stood firm. ‘What if Virdee comes our way?’

  Billy took a moment to consider, then said, ‘Get me his details. I’ll pass them to Ali – just in case.’ He stared out at the city beyond the windows. ‘If Virdee becomes a problem, if he gets close? We’ll do what we always do: give him to the streets – feed him to Bradford and let the city do what it does best.’

  SIX

  AN HOUR LATER, Harry paused outside his front door. He could still hear Mandy’s screams in his ears, raw and inconsolable.

  Harry had been relieved when the family liaison officer had arrived, against his instructions. He’d been only too willing to leave her to break the news to his mother – he wasn’t strong enough for that exchange. The momentary guilt at shirking the responsibility was quickly replaced with bitterness at not being able to share in their grief.

  Harry looked down at the bag of candles in his hand.

  Aaron’s first Diwali.

  How to light them now?

  How to explain to Saima why he was late, why he hadn’t called?

  He had left the fireworks in his car. He wouldn’t be lighting them tonight; this would be a sombre celebration. In the distance, he heard the crackle of happier people’s fireworks in the night sky.

  Harry focused on the door. His home was his world, safe and insulated from the memories of his past.

  He found the key, waited a beat, before letting himself inside.

  For the first time since he had moved in, Harry didn’t touch his mother’s slippers where they rested on the table by the front door. Tonight he’d done it for real. He could still smell coconut oil from his mother’s hair on his skin and feel her embrace against his body.

  In the hallway, Saima had lit a small red tea-light on each stair. Harry put his keys on the hallway table and stared at an Islamic painting above it which said ‘welcome’ – the first sign of Saima’s Muslim world fusing with Harry’s.

  The heaviness in his chest increased. He removed his coat, then his shoes, and carried the bag into the living room.

  Saima was sitting on the sofa holding Aaron, dressed in the elegant blue Indian suit with sparkling diamantés that Harry had bought for her. It was customary to wear new clothes on Diwali. His son was wearing a red and white traditional sherwani, waving his hands at the television where nineties Bollywood songs were playing.

  Saima drove Harry mad with that shit.

  ‘Look – it’s Dada,’ she said, pointing at Harry and not quite masking her annoyance with a smile. ‘He’s late. He didn’t call. We had to decorate the house by ourselves, didn’t we?’

  Aaron flailed his arms at the sight of Harry, letting out a squeal of delight before shyly turning away. He had fair skin, a chubby round body, and Saima’s hypnotic green eyes.

  ‘Boo to Daddy,’ said Saima, giving Harry a thumbs down and frowning. She pointed to the plastic bag in his hand: ‘Our family candles?’

  He nodded, and Saima saw the pain etched behind his smile. The kind she had seen before – the day Harry had left his family for her.

  She stood up and walked quickly to him, putting Aaron into his arms.

  Harry handed her the bag and lifted Aaron high, making him squeal. He brought him close and hugged him tightly – needily – before repeatedly kissing his chubby face and inhaling the pure scent of his skin.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked, placing her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Fine,’ he whispered without looking at her.

  ‘You aren’t. What is it?’

  ‘Not now.’ He lifted Aaron high again, eliciting more gurgles of delight from his son. ‘Let’s light our candles,’ Harry kept his voice soft and deceiving, focusing on Aaron, ‘make some wishes and for the next …’ he glanced at his watch, ‘ninety minutes, pretend my day never happened.’

  The living room was dark, lit only by streetlights shining through the window. In a cloudless sky, the crescent shape of the first new moon of winter was right above their home.

  Harry was sitting at his dining table with his son on his lap, three red candles on a glass plate in front of him. Saima struck a match and lit hers.

  ‘Don’t forget your wish,’ said Harry.

  ‘Are you supposed to make one?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Why not, let’s invent it. We’ll make our own traditions.’

  She smiled, searching his face momentarily.

  ‘Made it,’ she said and handed him her match.

  Harry held it carefully away from Aaron and lit his own candle with the same flame Saima had used, making a familiar wish: Acceptance. Reconciliation.

  With the match burning quickly, Saima moved closer and took Aaron’s hand. With all of their fingers touching it, they lit Aaron’s candle, each kissing him on opposite cheeks.

  ‘Shall we wish for him?’ asked Saima.

  ‘Confer a wish? Don’t think that’s allowed.’

  ‘You make it then.’

  Harry turned his son around so they were face to fa
ce. ‘What shall we wish for? Something special, seeing as it’s your first Diwali?’

  Aaron blew a spit-bubble and wriggled to break free.

  Harry made the wish, that much like the candle burning in front of him, Aaron would one day light up the darkness that Harry had grown accustomed to since his family had disowned him. ‘Done,’ he whispered.

  Saima smiled and touched his arm. ‘I bought you a Diwali gift.’ She reached under the table and removed a small silver parcel with a gold ribbon.

  Harry handed her Aaron, who had started to rub his eyes.

  ‘Guess first?’ she suggested, trying to sound cheery.

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said flatly.

  Harry unwrapped the parcel and opened the box. He trailed his finger over a pendant of a candle within an Islamic crescent moon and a star; the perfect symbol to describe their shared celebration of Diwali and for the first time all evening his eyes softened.

  ‘It’s engraved,’ whispered Saima. ‘On the back.’

  Harry took it from the box and turned it over to see ‘Harry’, ‘Saima’ and then ‘Aaron’ etched neatly on the back of the candle. He grasped it tightly in his hand, clenched his jaw to stop his bottom lip from trembling and smiled at his wife.

  Harry was bathing Aaron. He always treasured this time alone with his son, but tonight his thoughts wouldn’t settle.

  He could hear Saima, verbally checking off her nightly to-do list: check that Aaron’s room temperature was just right, that the blackout blind over the window was secure, and finally that his cot was pristine – all the usual jobs.

  Harry was on his knees, watching Aaron attempt his daily escape from the bath seat, but his thoughts were of Tara.

  The image of her alone on a cold slab in the mortuary was derailing his concentration.

  Leaning forward, he put his arms along the side of the bath and rested his head on them, focusing on Aaron splashing his hands in the water.

  When Tara was Aaron’s age he used to help Ronnie and Mandy out all the time; the first baby in the Virdee household for three decades had been fussed over by everybody. Memories flooded his mind, and for a moment he closed his eyes and saw Tara giggling as she played with the bubbles in the bath.