by A. A. Dhand
‘Bah,’ replied Harry, and stared into his son’s eyes. They were identical to Saima’s. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Bah.’
‘Got it. Slap-up meal for two. Say, porridge with banana? Or shall we head out to that café where the cute brunette was giving you the eye last week? Think you’re in there, my son. Mum’ll freak if you bring a white girl home, but Dad’s got your back.’
Aaron tried to pluck hair from Harry’s chest, mesmerized.
‘Sorry,’ said Saima, coming into the bedroom. ‘You got in so late last night; go back to sleep.’
‘Nine o’clock prayers?’ said Harry, raising an eyebrow.
‘Ramadan starts tomorrow. Getting in the routine. Should have done it at sunrise, but Aaron woke up and wanted feeding.’
‘He took a step,’ said Harry, lifting Aaron high in the air.
‘What?’
‘Just now. Stood up over there and walked to the bed.’
‘And I missed it!’
‘Didn’t the all-powerful interrupt your prayers to tell you?’
‘Don’t be a shit! I can’t believe it, I tried for hours yesterday, he was so close!’
‘Training paid off.’
‘You’re sure you weren’t dreaming?’
Harry frowned and Saima took Aaron from him, standing him a few feet from the bed. ‘Come on,’ she said, patting his bottom. ‘Let’s see it.’
Aaron stared inquisitively at them, smiling stupidly. Then, hesitantly, he took three steps to the bed, where Saima threw her arms around him and kissed him like it was the first time.
‘Told you,’ said Harry.
Tears had formed at the corners of her eyes and she peppered Aaron with kisses, ignoring his struggles to break free. ‘Bismillah,’ she said, thanking God in Arabic and continuing her religious start to the day.
‘Why don’t you go back to bed?’ said Saima, putting Aaron into a playpen in their living room.
‘Got work to do,’ said Harry distractedly. Last night’s events had finally broken through and were flooding his mind. He was scribbling in a notepad, looking for patterns in the information he’d gathered so far.
‘You only slept for four hours,’ she said.
‘I’m fine, Saima,’ he said, with just enough bite that she stopped.
Harry underlined the word ‘taweez’ several times. He found it in his pocket.
Aaron started to whimper, so Harry reached for the TV remote. ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ got Aaron excitedly making circles with his hands.
‘That bloody bus,’ whispered Harry, before walking over to the bay window where he could see the paperboy delivering newspapers, his fluorescent yellow bag in stark contrast to the morning’s gloom.
‘Twenty-six minutes,’ whispered Harry to himself. ‘Beat that boy’s ass by three minutes. Never could catch me.’
As teenagers, he and Ronnie had competed to see who could finish their paper-round first, their father starting his stopwatch as soon as they stepped outside the corner shop.
‘Tea?’ shouted Saima from the kitchen.
Harry made his way through to her, taking Aaron with him. He handed his son a spoon to keep him occupied in his arms …
‘Indian or English?’ he asked.
‘Either.’
‘Indian. Might be the last decent cup I get for a month, once Ramadan starts.’
‘I’ll still make it if I’m fasting.’
‘No taste test, though,’ said Harry. ‘It’s never quite the same.’
‘You get up with me at three in the morning, it’s perfect then.’
‘I’ll pass.’
‘Toast?’
‘Just tea.’
‘You’ve got to eat something. You’re going out again today, I can see it in your face.’
Harry thought about Queensbury Tunnel and what might have happened there overnight.
‘You heard from Ronnie? How’s Mum and Dad?’ asked Saima gently.
Despite everything, she still referred to them as Mum and Dad.
Harry didn’t answer. He evaded a looping spoon to his face, taking it from Aaron and replacing it with a plastic one.
Saima put a pan of water on the stove, added cardamom seeds and threw in two tea bags. She placed a tava, an Indian frying pan, next to it and turned the gas on.
‘Before you start,’ said Harry, placing the taweez he had taken from Billy’s Peugeot on the counter. Saima didn’t look at him; she carried on spooning a lump of butter on to the tava, making it sizzle. She buttered both sides of a piece of a bread, added ajwain seeds to it and placed it in the centre of the pan.
She looked at Harry, then at the taweez.
Saima stared at it, puzzled.
‘You know what this is?’ he asked.
‘A taweez?’
‘I got it from someone I’m investigating.’
‘Give me Aaron,’ Saima said sharply, almost snatching their son from him.
‘Hey!’ said Harry, momentarily stunned.
‘What the hell are you doing, bringing something like that into this house?’ Her face flushed worriedly and she glared at the piece of string suspiciously.
‘Come on, you know I don’t believe in that crap.’
‘But I do, and it’s not right to take these things from people. You don’t know what it might do.’
Saima was cradling Aaron protectively, kissing his head.
Harry sighed. He hadn’t predicted this reaction. ‘I need to know what it says. What it … does.’
‘I’m not touching it.’
‘Saima, would you stop. It’s a piece of paper, not some sort of devil.’
‘You wouldn’t understand, you never do. These things can be dangerous.’
‘You know I don’t believe in black magic.’
Saima shook her head and carried Aaron into the living room. She put him in a high chair, strapped him in, and poured some Rice Krispies on to the tray to keep him occupied.
‘I don’t mock what you believe in,’ she said, coming back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
‘But I’ve seen you with these things before.’
‘I know what mine are for. They guard us, our family, give us strength.’
‘That might be what this is.’
‘Did you get it from somebody nice?’
Harry didn’t reply.
‘Did you get it from somebody dangerous?’
The look on his face said it all.
‘Get rid of it. Now.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I can’t. I need to know what it’s for.’
‘No way.’
The bread on the tava was starting to burn. Saima lowered the gas and flipped it over, sighing at the sight of burned toast.
‘Shit,’ she said, grabbing another piece of bread.
‘Christ, Saima, I need your help,’ said Harry, taking the bread from her and setting it down.
‘What for?’ she said, turning to face him, her face flushed, muscles in her jaw flexing. ‘You don’t believe in them – you just said so.’
‘I don’t. But it might tell me something about the guy I took it from.’
Harry scrunched the taweez in his hand and grabbed a plastic bag, placing it inside and wrapping it firmly. ‘I need you to take this to the old man around the corner.’
‘The peersaab?’
‘Ask him what it’s for.’
‘He might not know. Only the person who wrote it can really know its intentions.’
‘There can’t be many people in Bradford who are proficient in this … art,’ said Harry, finding the right word. ‘Even if he can’t read it, he might know who wrote it—’
‘You shouldn’t mock what you don’t understand,’ she said quietly. Turning away from Harry, she once again picked up the piece of bread and started to butter both sides furiously.
‘OK,’ he said, trying to get her back onside. ‘I shouldn’t have brought it here.’
‘No. You shouldn’t,’
she said, slapping the buttered piece of bread into the tava. ‘You’ve only seen the ones I’ve had written. What if it’s an ulta-taweez?’
‘Ulta?’
‘Opposite. Ones intended to harm.’
‘Look, Saima,’ Harry put the bag on the counter and stepped closer to his wife. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I don’t understand this shit.’
Saima was eyeing the bag suspiciously.
‘I need you to go see him. I won’t understand the language or the meaning.’ Harry put his hand on her shoulder. ‘It might help me nail the guy who killed Tara.’
Saima stiffened. ‘Did you get it from him? A suspect?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s definitely evil.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘I’ll go on one condition.’
‘Anything.’
‘I’m getting the peersaab to make me a taweez to undo whatever it is you brought here.’
‘Fine.’
‘I’m not finished.’ Saima turned the gas hob off and turned to him. ‘I’m going to get one written for you. I want you to wear it around your neck while you’re out there. To protect you.’
Harry sighed. ‘I’m not putting anything I don’t believe in around my neck.’ He saw Saima’s lip curl. ‘I’ll carry it, OK? In my pocket. Compromise?’
Saima nodded. She snatched the bag from the counter, pushed past Harry and waved towards the cooker. ‘Make your own breakfast,’ she said.
In the living room, Harry sat at the table, next to his son. There were cardamom seeds floating in his tea and ajwain seeds all over his toast. Harry tried his tea and frowned. ‘Crap,’ he said to Aaron. ‘Mum left in a huff and Dad’s no good in the kitchen.’
Aaron left the Rice Krispies and waved his hands excitedly at Harry.
‘OK, OK.’ Harry broke a small piece of toast, picked the seeds from it and tried to feed it to Aaron, who snatched at the food, wanting to feed himself.
‘Don’t like any help, do you?’ Harry whispered. ‘Stubborn, like your old man. Try and park that?’
Aaron looked suspiciously at the bread, then put it in his mouth.
Harry sipped the tea and turned his chair towards his son. ‘Two things: one – keep away from religious nuts. Your mother isn’t quite a nut, but she has her moments.’
Aaron was staring at Harry, sucking on the bread, his face serious.
‘Yeah, tell me about it.’ Harry broke another piece and put it in Aaron’s outstretched hand.
‘Two?’ Harry paused and leaned closer. ‘When you’re bigger? When you’re ready to leave?’
Tara’s empty house flashed into Harry’s mind.
‘Go far,’ he said.
The whisper in his mind from the night before was surfacing.
I’m missing something.
‘Bah?’ said Aaron.
‘Nope,’ said Harry, shaking his head at the Rice Krispie clutched in Aaron’s hand. He watched as his son put it down, chose another and held it out to him.
‘Bah?’
Harry stood up and looked at the notes he had written.
‘Something’s not right,’ he said, picking up the phone and calling the HMET office. Harry had an awkward conversation with a detective sergeant working Tara’s case. He dodged his questions, claimed he couldn’t talk.
What did they know that Harry didn’t?
Harry stared at the phone in disbelief; he’d been cut off.
Nobody fobbed Harry off like that, especially not a junior.
He tried calling back, but nobody picked up the phone. He dialled DI Palmer and was about to press call when he glanced down at the table of notes he had made earlier.
Harry put the phone down.
‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘Shit, how did I not see that?’
His palms hit the table.
Tara found 03:00 Mon.
Sarah called 03:30 Tues.
No press release had gone out.
How had Sarah known about Tara’s death?
With everything going on, Harry had missed it: there was no way Sarah could have known about the murder.
Unless she’d been there when it happened.
Saima arrived back ninety minutes later, walking into the living room and removing her headscarf. She didn’t wear one routinely, but it was mandatory when visiting the peersaab.
Harry was desperate to get to the New Beehive, to Sarah, but on seeing Saima’s face he knew he wouldn’t be leaving for a while.
‘Kitchen,’ she said quietly.
Harry lifted Aaron from the floor and put him in his play area.
When he got to the kitchen, Saima was pacing.
She shook her head. ‘Nasty thing. Nasty, nasty thing.’
Harry massaged his temple. ‘Go on.’
‘It’s about the dead.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a black-magic pendant, not a real taweez. This protects against the dead. Against ghosts and jinns. Whoever you took that from is haunted by the dead.’
‘Eh?’
Saima nodded. ‘It’s a … reverse taweez. It pushes the spirits of the dead on to others. It protects the one it was given to from their rage.’
‘The rage of the dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can taweezes even do that?’
‘It’s not a real one. The peersaab wasn’t impressed. He said it’s not what they are meant for. He hadn’t ever seen one like that. He was very upset, he’s spiritually cleansing his house now.’
‘Where is it? The taweez?’
‘Outside in the bin, where it belongs.’
Harry approached his wife, but she backed away.
She put her hand in her pocket and removed a piece of string, attached to a wrapped-up scroll, encased in a plastic green sleeve. ‘For you.’ Saima pulled her top down, exposing her neck. ‘This is mine and Aaron’s.’
Harry put it in his pocket. ‘I didn’t know what it was, Saima.’
‘I know.’
She allowed Harry to embrace her.
He hugged her tightly. ‘I love you, you know that?’
‘I don’t like this,’ she whispered.
Harry’s phone was ringing in the living room. ‘Come on,’ he said breaking away. ‘Everything’s fine.’
In the living room, Harry took his phone to the bay window, where reception was clearest. He couldn’t shake the burning question in his mind: had Sarah been there when Tara was murdered? Harry needed to get down to the New Beehive urgently; something was amiss.
‘Morning, Sarge,’ he said, answering the call.
Harry listened. Eyes widening, skin paling.
He lowered the phone, the voice on the other end still speaking, all thoughts about Sarah now banished.
Saima looked at him, unnerved by the expression on his face. ‘Harry, what’s wrong?’
He didn’t reply. Saima could see that his hand, still clutching the phone, was shaking.
‘Harry?’ repeated Saima more forcefully.
‘My father,’ he said, unable to look at her.
‘What? Is he OK?’
Harry shook his head, Nash’s words from the night before suddenly booming inside his mind.
Who knew about Tara and was it worth killing for?
His voice was no more than a whisper.
‘He’s just been arrested for murder.’
THIRTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY MIDDAY, EIGHT hours before everything would be made right, Sarah entered the city centre in her burka, hidden from the world.
The day she had been waiting for had arrived.
She’d found Harry’s note that morning.
Call me.
She suspected he’d found inconsistencies in her story, but she couldn’t go to him. She needed him to return; he was the final piece to this puzzle.
She entered the towering Bradford Cathedral, the oldest building in the city.
Once inside, she walked down the nave, imposing stained-glass windows on all sides. As a child, she had
been afraid of them; a small part of her still was – those harrowing images of life and death, bright and petrifying.
But the windows also reminded her that, amongst the darkness of civilization, human beings could be exceptional. Centuries ago, when these windows had been installed, simple men with simple tools had created something extraordinary.
Sarah looked to one window in particular, where two angels cloaked in white stood side by side.
Today the words across the top held new meaning.
I am he that liveth and was dead, and behold I am alive for evermore.
She continued into the darkness of the cathedral, past the peace chapel, which had been set up for prayer against the war on terror; an attempt to show cross-faith solidarity with the largest Muslim population in England.
In the front pew she found Percy, head down.
‘Hey,’ said Sarah, sitting beside him.
‘I was waiting for a pretty young girl to come and distract me. I suppose you’ll do.’
Sarah smiled and put her hand over her grandfather’s, squeezing it tightly. ‘Have I ever told you that I love you?’
‘Aye. You might have mentioned.’
‘You seem … calm?’
He nodded, looking up at the altar. ‘I am.’
She squeezed his hand a little tighter. ‘You don’t have to, you know? If you’re having doubts.’
‘No doubts.’
‘Why do you look so sad?’
He thought about the letter he had shown to Victor, the guilt over lying to his granddaughter causing a pain in his chest. ‘You know, I just wish things had turned out differently.’
‘Thought you said only hard work makes things happen.’
‘Good advice.’
‘It was. It is.’
Sarah removed her hand from his.
‘Don’t,’ he said, taking hold of it and putting it back. ‘Warms an old man’s heart.’
‘How’s Victor?’ Sarah checked her watch. ‘He will do his end, won’t he?’
‘It’s a certainty. I think, in a strange sort of way, he’s enjoying this.’
‘Enjoying it?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Not like that,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I told you about eighty-two, right?’
‘Falklands? Sure.’
‘Well, Old Man Victor always wondered why we survived that day when everyone else died. Haunts him sometimes. Then you came back.’
‘He thinks he survived for this?’