by A. A. Dhand
Dangling the taweez from her fingertips, she made her approach.
When she was a foot or two away she took off the goggles. Then she gripped the knife hard, knelt in front of Billy and put the torch under her veiled face.
Eleven years.
She turned it on.
The sudden glare made Billy scream. He turned away, raising his bound hands to his face, eyes closed, gasping.
Sarah remained deathly still; her burka made her look like the grim reaper.
Billy turned his face, looking through splayed fingers at the hooded figure, too afraid to speak. Sarah set the torch down on the ground, positioning it so she could see him, then held out his taweez, swinging it in front of his eyes like a noose.
Billy’s thoughts immediately went to the children who plagued his dreams; they rose from freshly dug graves, fingers sharp as razors, baying for his blood. A bony hand reached up into the darkness.
The dead had risen.
With her face uncovered, Billy stared at her speechless.
Sarah.
‘You’ve been dreaming about me,’ she said. She was close enough that her voice reached him despite the rain. She pushed the tip of the knife into Billy’s chest. He closed his eyes, shaking his head and whispering what sounded like a prayer.
‘Look at me,’ she said. And when he refused, Sarah leaned forward, her lips almost touching his face, and let out a blood-curdling scream that echoed around the tunnel, so loud that even the rain could not compete. She didn’t stop until her breath gave way.
Billy started crying, shaking his head, terrified.
‘You … you … you … are … a …’
‘A spirit?’ said Sarah.
‘I … I …’
She slapped him with the blade, slicing his cheek. Billy yelled, blood running down his face.
Sarah hesitated, waiting to see if Ronnie would intervene.
‘I’m here to take you, Billy,’ she said. ‘They’ve sent me.’ ‘Who?’
‘You know who. It’s time for you to pay.’
He shook his head, cowering away. ‘I … I’m … sorr—’
Sarah sliced the other side of his face, the sight of his blood encouraging her.
‘Don’t say that,’ she hissed.
Billy couldn’t even scream this time.
‘You’ll like it down there,’ she said, pointing to the ground. ‘Where you’re going? It’s hot – you like it hot, right?’
Billy sobbed, loud wails of regret.
Sarah revelled in every shudder of his body. ‘You want to save yourself?’
He nodded, desperate. ‘Anything. I’ll do anything.’
Sarah checked over her shoulder.
‘I know,’ she replied. ‘When does Faisal come to collect Olivia?’
‘The boss? What … what day is it?’
‘Wednesday. Five p.m.’
‘In three hours, eight o’clock.’
He wasn’t lying to her.
‘Who else will be there?’
‘Ali and Riz.’
Sarah looked at the blade of the knife, dull in the torchlight.
‘I’m not dead,’ she said. ‘You know that, right?’
Billy didn’t answer her, his head drooped heavy on his neck.
‘Look at me,’ she said. ‘I escaped.’
Billy’s eyes widened in the dark.
‘I worked hard to get back. I’ve come to rid Bradford of scum like you.’
Billy opened his mouth to say something but Sarah lunged at him, expertly slicing his carotid artery. Watching as his life eked away, her hand went instinctively to her wrist, to her tattoo. GZ.
She whispered one final message, the rain still loud in the tunnel, Billy fighting for one last breath.
‘Don’t worry about your pal Ronnie either,’ she said. ‘Just like the rest of you, he can’t see Girl Zero coming right for him.’
FORTY-SEVEN
HARRY CHARGED THROUGH his front door.
In the living room, he found Saima with Mandy and his mother, Joyti.
Aaron was on his grandmother’s lap.
It was an occasion he had longed for, that he had pictured a thousand times. But the timing could not have been worse.
Three cups of untouched tea stood on the coffee table by a plate of chocolate digestives. Harry could tell Saima had been crying. It looked like the past thirty minutes of their married life might have been the hardest for her.
‘Bah,’ Aaron said, waving his hands at Harry and trying to wriggle free from Joyti’s hands.
‘Beta.’ His mother held Aaron close and stood to greet her son. Harry was so overwhelmed, he forgot to stoop and touch his mother’s feet. Queensbury Tunnel was far from his mind, though the tension did not leave his shoulders.
‘Let’s talk in the kitchen, Hardeep.’ Joyti put her hands to her son’s chest.
Harry looked at Saima, then Mandy, clearly uncomfortable about leaving them alone.
‘We’ll be fine,’ said Saima unconvincingly, forcing a fake smile. ‘I know you will,’ said Harry firmly, his eyes on Mundeep. She didn’t meet his gaze.
‘Do you want me to take Aaron?’ asked Saima.
Joyti shook her head, smiling. ‘Allow me the seconds God has given me.’
Harry left the kitchen door ajar behind him. Four years ago, when he got married, Mundeep had made her feelings towards Saima clear.
I can’t allow you to be close to Tara and the twins because it will look as though I accept your marriage. I don’t and I never will.
He would never forget her words.
‘It is my own cursed kismet,’ his mother said in Punjabi.
‘Mum,’ he said, suddenly acutely aware of everything else he had going on. ‘I really—’
‘I see my son twice in two days after four years of nothing and both times, my heart is broken,’ she carried on, ignoring his protests. ‘The night you left was my darkest – until today when the police told me they have arrested your father! They came to our home, Hardeep – they are going through everything!’
Harry took Aaron from her and hugged his mother, kissing her forehead. ‘I know,’ he whispered, unable to find any comforting words.
‘Help your father,’ Joyti sobbed, her voice muffled by Harry’s body. ‘Get him out of that jail, Hardeep. Please, I beg you.’
In the living room the silence was unbearable. Mundeep had moved to the window where Harry usually stood and was looking out across the street.
‘Your tea?’ Saima spoke softly from the sofa. Each second felt like minutes.
‘I’m fine,’ replied Mundeep, without turning around.
Saima wondered whether Mundeep wouldn’t drink it because she had made it. Harry had told her about the poisonous sermons they had all heard repeatedly from his father. Accepting food or drink from an Islamic household was considered unclean.
‘I … I’m so sorry for your loss,’ said Saima.
Mundeep didn’t reply.
From the kitchen, Saima could hear voices, but she couldn’t make out the words.
‘Harry told me a lot about Tara. She sounded—’
‘Please don’t,’ said Mundeep, her voice flat.
Saima looked down at her hands and took a breath. ‘A mother cannot console another mother?’ she said, getting to her feet, determined not to feel like an imposter in her own home. She cut the gap between them, mustering enough courage to whisper her next sentence: ‘What did I ever do to deserve your silence?’
She heard Mundeep’s breathing quicken, saw her body stiffen.
‘I … know I cannot ever change your perception of me,’ said Saima, stepping closer still, ‘but here? Now? I’m just a mother offering sympathy.’
‘I don’t want your sympathy.’
‘Why?’
‘What is it like?’ said Mundeep sharply, suddenly turning to face Saima.
‘What is what like?’ she replied, taking a step back.
Mundeep swallowed the lump in
her throat.
‘Living with the man I once loved.’
Saima’s eyes narrowed.
Was she …?
‘Despite all this, he is still your brother-in-law,’ she said, her voice composed. ‘You can still love him.’
Mundeep looked back across the street, shaking her head.
Saima moved closer, staring intently at the side of Mundeep’s face until she turned to looked at her.
And when she did, in that single moment, Saima Virdee understood everything.
Joyti was holding Harry’s hands as if every moment she could touch him was precious, pleading with him to get his father out of jail. Aaron was by her feet, pulling himself up using the bottom of her coat.
‘Ma, he’s fine.’
But Joyti’s understanding of detention in police custody had been formed by television dramas; she was convinced her husband was holed up in some maximum-security prison with inmates who’d jump at the chance to get the guy wearing the turban.
‘Ma, stop. They may still release him today.’
‘No, Hardeep. No more “maybe”. You must get him out right away,’ she said in broken English. ‘Terrible people are in jail!’
‘He’s not in danger. Trust me.’
Harry wanted to tell her that he had seen his father, reassure her that all was well. But too many questions would follow. He couldn’t risk it tonight, not with Tara’s killer still out there and time running short.
‘Trust me,’ he said again.
‘You have friends down there?’ she said, switching back to Punjabi. ‘You must do, you’re well respected. I’ve seen your name in the paper many times.’
He smiled in spite of himself.
‘I know, Ma, but it’s not that simple.’
‘Why not? He has done nothing! Why did they take him?’
‘Ma, stop,’ he snapped, embracing her tightly again while Aaron held up his arms to be hugged too. ‘I told my friends to look after him. I’m the boss, Mum, everybody is scared of me.’
‘You told your friends this?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, but I really have to go now.’
She relaxed in his arms and finally let herself cry.
‘I am so sorry for what has happened with us.’
‘I chose this life.’
‘It is my duty to honour your father. I cannot disobey him.’
‘I know.’
‘But I miss you,’ she said, crying harder. ‘I miss my Hardeep.’
Harry hugged her tighter.
‘I miss you too, Ma.’
His watch beeped. Six p.m.
‘I loved him because he was everything Ronnie is not,’ said Mundeep, once again staring absently out of the bay window at the gloomy street outside.
‘I married a weak man,’ she continued, her voice shaky. ‘I didn’t know he’d been in prison until after we were married, and I was pregnant within a month. There was no way I could leave after that.’
Mundeep turned to face Saima, arms folded across her chest, trying not to cry.
‘The only thing that made me happy was spending time with Harry,’ said Mundeep, seeing the look of horror creep into Saima’s face. ‘He made me laugh. He looked after me. And then he met you and just like that,’ she said, clicking her fingers, ‘I lost the only bit of comfort that I had in that godforsaken house.’
Saima opened her mouth to speak but Mundeep raised her hand, cutting her off. ‘I don’t hate you because you’re Muslim,’ she said, shaking her head, letting a tear fall. ‘I hate you because you took him from me.’
The kitchen door opened and Joyti carried Aaron back into the room. Harry was close behind.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked accusingly as Mundeep dropped her gaze to the floor and hurriedly wiped tears from her face.
‘Nothing,’ Saima said with a forced smile. ‘Nothing,’ she repeated.
Harry didn’t buy it.
‘We need to go,’ said Joyti, giving Aaron a last cuddle.
‘Yes,’ said Mundeep, stepping awkwardly past Saima. She paused in front of Harry, just for a moment, before taking her mother-inlaw’s arm and leading her towards the door.
‘You didn’t drink your tea,’ Saima called after them.
‘Try it,’ Harry said to his mother. ‘Give your daughter-in-law a memory she can cherish.’
Joyti walked towards Saima, reached out and cradled her face in her hands.
‘Not only today are you my daughter,’ said Joyti, pulling her close and kissing her, ‘you have always been so. Forgive an old woman her sins. I will answer for them when I die, but my hands are bound.’ Joyti raised them in front of Saima. ‘They still are. We choose our husbands and stand by them, whether we like it or not.’
‘I know,’ whispered Saima. ‘I know.’
‘It is your eyes that got my boy. Green like emeralds. He always liked girls with pretty eyes.’
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ whispered Saima pleadingly.
‘I am a stranger only by my presence. In your heart, I can never be so.’
‘Thank you,’ said Saima, embracing her.
‘Your tea?’ said Joyti, breaking away and picking up her mug. She sipped it, smiled and looked at Saima.
‘With both my daughters-in-law in the same room for maybe the only time, let me say no finer tea has ever passed my lips.’
FORTY-EIGHT
THE SUN HAD set over Bradford; light had given way to dark.
For the second consecutive night, Percy had closed the New Beehive early. He sat in silence with an untouched pint. He might never stand behind his bar again. The letter in his hands was from his doctor, confirming lung cancer. Terminal. The doctor gave him six months.
Victor was now the only other person who knew.
Percy raised the pint to his lips but put it down again without taking a sip. He didn’t feel like drinking it any more. Instead, he plucked his favourite old beer mat from the wall – a faded red Tetley’s – and put it in his inside pocket, patting his chest.
He ran wrinkled hands across the smooth surface of the bar. Images of the past rushed out of the darkness: the pub alive with people, laughter, women. He hadn’t recognized the broken little girl inside a woman’s body when Sarah had come home. He hadn’t recognized her dead eyes.
One final look at the old place.
Percy turned off the lights.
He picked up a heavy rucksack from the floor and made his way to the front door, leaving his solitary, untouched pint on the bar.
‘Cheers, my darling,’ he said into the darkness. ‘That one’s for you.’
Twenty minutes later, Percy got out of a taxi somewhere on the outskirts of Bradford.
He walked towards Victor’s haulage office, the night breeze fresh across his face. The weight of his bag was heavy on his back: lock-cutters, a bottle of rum and an old packet of Capstan Full Strength, one cigarette remaining.
At the entrance, Percy cut the padlock and slipped inside the depot.
He knew it well; he’d worked here before he’d taken over at the New Beehive Inn. Six acres crammed with machinery, ghostly in the night-time quiet. Percy hurried through to the office where he could see the lights were on.
He found Victor sitting at his desk with a bottle of Navy rum and two glasses.
Percy smiled as he closed the door, pulling his own bottle from his bag. ‘Great minds.’
‘Always were. We’ve got a few minutes, haven’t we?’
‘Aye. You ready?’
Victor laughed. ‘Ha – I’ve been waiting decades to repay you for eighty-two. Must say, I never thought it would be something like this.’
‘You always said you owed me. Not any more.’
‘If I’d known then that this is what repayment would look like, I might have thought it better to fall like the rest of ‘em.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ said Percy.
‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ replied Victor, almost throwing his Bible on to the ta
ble from where he had been resting it in his lap.
Percy pointed to it. ‘Does that help?’
‘Old Testament maybe,’ said Victor, smiling. ‘An eye for an eye and all that?’
‘We’re giving this city its honour back,’ said Percy.
Victor opened the bottle of rum and poured two measures. ‘Let’s drink to that.’
‘Aye,’ said Percy, lifting a glass.
The two men clinked glasses.
‘To the repaying of a debt,’ said Victor, his glass still hovering above the table.
Percy shook his head. ‘Can’t toast our final drink to that, old boy. It wasn’t a debt, saving your life, it was my bloody duty and an honour.’
Victor’s eyes glossed over. ‘Pah! You always were good with words.’
‘To Bradford?’ offered Percy.
‘Aye. We can drink to that.’
Percy savoured the rum, while Victor simply swallowed it back.
‘What to do with this?’ said Victor, pulling an enormous file from the shelf next to his desk.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Percy, putting his hand on it. ‘Hell of a lot of work you put into this, Victor. I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘There’s no need, fella. Hell of a trauma your girl’s been through. Can’t say I believed it at first, but’ – Victor raised his palms – ‘it’s all there.’
Victor’s help had been vital in identifying Ronnie Virdee. Initial research had suggested that Bradford’s drug trade was now being routed through the city’s hundreds of convenience stores, a shift away from restaurants. Victor had established haulage contracts with all the city’s cash-and-carrys, including Ronnie Virdee’s, and a painstaking process of elimination had finally resulted in finding proof that Ronnie was Bradford’s biggest drug lord. All the details of his investigations were contained in the file.
With his identity confirmed, Sarah had then set about trying to get close to Ronnie via his daughter. Having followed Tara Virdee to the Candy Club, Sarah befriended her. She hadn’t needed to turn the girl against her father; Tara was already angry.
‘Right,’ Percy said, placing his glass on the desk and checking his watch. ‘I’ve been in here long enough for it to look like a robbery on the CCTV.’