STITCHED
Peter Taylor
© Peter Taylor 2008
Peter Taylor has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2008 by Robert Hale Limited.
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For: my father Peter Henry Taylor
Every word is always for you because you couldn’t have done more for us than you did.
*
And: his wife Christina MacNiven Taylor
A wonderful, conscientious wife and mother
Only those closest to you know with what courage you have faced life.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
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Chapter One
Ali Hussein lowered his weary body into the chair, focused his eyes on the white tablecloth; his heart was beating in his chest as though it wanted to escape its confines and fly away for ever. No matter how much he had steeled himself against this moment, lived his life in half-expectation that it would come, his senses still reeled from its impact.
He forced himself to raise his eyes and stare at the man standing in front of him, the bearer of bad tidings. The policeman was dressed in a dark suit, his dark hair slicked back, his white shirt as pristine as the white tablecloth: no stains. He wished his daughter’s life could have been as stainless, as pure as that, instead of the tragic mess it had become, bringing shame to herself and her family.
He heard his voice but it seemed not to belong to him, its tone was a mixture of the anger, disbelief and the shame which was bubbling in the cauldron of his grieving soul.
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘With a needle in her arm?’
The policeman coughed, cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. She had injected a massive amount of heroin. I’m afraid it killed her.’
Anger rampaged through Ali’s brain. ‘You’re sure she did this herself?’
The policeman hesitated a moment, then said, ‘There have been other episodes, close things. This time. . . .’
The man’s voice, heavy with implication, drifted away into the silence. The point had been made. No need to stress it, to say it outright.
Ali’s eyes gazed at the far wall of the empty restaurant. A picture of his father’s home in Pakistan hung there, the humble beginning from which he – from which all his large family had worked their way to prominence, up from the bottom of the pile. And it was family loyalty that had helped them. If one fell the others picked him up. If one transgressed. . . .
Ali wiped away a tear. His daughter had broken the bond, run away, chosen to live amongst scum, amongst people with no code of conduct. If only she had swallowed her pride before it was too late, returned home to him, asked his forgiveness. If only. . . .
He banished those useless ponderings from his mind. He had not risen up by wasting thoughts on what could never be. His daughter had not returned and better he had killed her himself than to know the disgusting fate which had befallen her. Now, family honour demanded what he should have allowed a long time ago, revenge upon those who had cast his daughter down amongst devils. In his mind they had killed her as surely as if they had inserted that fatal needle themselves.
*
Charles Bridge put his feet out of the single bed on to the cold floor, leaned forward and noticed the ripple of fat around his belly. He vowed to start going to the gym. No good letting yourself go just because you’d reached forty, was it? His increased weight he put down to the prison food, not half as bad as some made out though hardly haute cuisine. He made a mental note to stir himself. You could get fat and fester in here if you let yourself, if you let time drift without making an effort. Then where would you be because there were plenty of nutcases here who would take advantage of your lethargy? He didn’t fancy a slashing or a face dowsed in hot water, sugar in it to make healing the scar difficult. No sir!
He noticed his pad mate reclining on the bed opposite, remembered Ravinda was coming to see him.
‘Go on, get out of here!’ he rasped. ‘I’ve got business to attend to.’
The thin-faced man, dressed only in a pair of shorts which did nothing for his skeletal frame, rose with a bullied man’s weary air of resignation. Without so much as a glance at Bridge he ambled out of the pad.
‘Bloody nonce!’ Bridge said aloud to the walls of the empty cell. Truth was he didn’t know whether Ralphy was a nonce. But it was always a possibility in this protected wing of the prison where paedophiles and homosexuals mixed with those who had other reasons for hiding from the normals in other wings. Being forced through circumstance to reside here amongst the dross was an anathema to Bridge. If he had his way he’d hang the lot of them, no second chances. How long could he stand it without going crazy?
A rap on the door interrupted his angry reverie. A fat Pakistani with a pockmarked face and eyes which seemed to move ceaselessly was standing on the threshold.
‘It’s OK, I’ve sent him out,’ Bridge grunted. ‘Get yourself in here, Ravinda.’
Ravinda slid into the cell, went to the barred window and, leaning his bulk against it, turned to face Bridge. ‘You give me something please, Mr Bridge, for what I tell you?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Bridge said. ‘Charlie, wacky baccy, crack. I’m overflowing in here.’
The Asian hung his head, mumbled into his chest. ‘You joke with me Mr Bridge.’
Bridge said, ‘Tobacco will have to do you. That’s if what you have is worth it.’
‘OK! OK!’ Ravinda said. His eyes were still flitting around everywhere, like a glutton’s surveying a prospective feast, except it was fear of being a morsel himself that was propelling them.
‘What I hear is that there are men who want to kill you.’
Bridge ran a hand through his dark, curly hair, blew out his cheeks, sniggered. ‘I’d be grey now, sonny, if I worried about all the men from my past who might want to kill me. They talk, but how many ever act?’
‘These are Pakistani men, Mr Bridge.’
Bridge frowned, pondered it. ‘I’ve done business with your kind but there was no trouble. Never socialized with any Pakistani men that I recall.’
‘You knew a girl from the Hussein family, yes?’
It took a moment for him to remember. ‘Yeah, man. She lived with me for a while. Got to like the heroin a bit too much. Had to kick her out.’
‘That girl is dead now and her father and her family blame you.�
�
Bridge shrugged. He was already living with these lowlifes because there were men after him amongst the prison population. This Hussein threat was a flea’s tickle.
‘They can’t do much to me in here even if they amounted to anything, which I doubt.’
‘They’re a rich family, Mr Bridge.’
‘So they’re rich. So am I. What difference?’
Ravinda shuffled his feet, looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s a big family. They will kill you themselves if they can, or they will pay to have you killed. It is a matter of honour for them.’
‘You trying to tell me they can get to me in here?’
‘When money talks, Mr Bridge, its voice carries far and men like to listen.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Bridge said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
A silence followed, Bridge weighing the import of what he had been told while Ravinda waited for his reward. Bridge was thinking that even in a protected wing it was not safe for him. Already he had been weighing his future here. This recent news was a push in a direction towards which his thoughts had already been moving. A six-year sentence had barely begun and the threat to his life had just multiplied. In any case, it was too large a wedge of his life to hand over to Her Majesty without a fight, wasn’t it? Preoccupied, he’d forgotten Ravinda was there until he coughed.
Bridge rose from the bed, opened his locker door, took out a packet of tobacco and three Mars bars and passed them to the Pakistani. ‘You hear anything else you let me know. Next time I might even give you some brown.’
Smiling, Ravinda edged his way past Bridge to the door. Bridge knew the smile wasn’t for him, nor a reflection of good nature; it was because he was happy with the trade-off and the prospect of maybe dribbling other pieces of information to Bridge for more reward.
When Ravinda had gone he lay down again, head on the hard pillow, cursed his luck, cursed the arms-dealer who’d failed to get rid of the gun he’d used to shoot a man in the legs. When the police had found the gun during a raid his DNA was all over it and they’d managed to tie him to the shooting. Four of his victim’s family were in this prison now and the court case had given them Bridge’s name, making him a marked man. Damn it all! One mistake in the distant past had caught him out when he’d thought himself untouchable, at the top of the hierarchy where others dirtied their hands for you and you sat back and watched the profits roll in.
The resentment was kicking in when his padmate reappeared at the door and, after ascertaining the visitor was gone, entered. His towel was over his shoulder and his hair, still wet from the shower, was plastered against the sides of his head so that his already prominent ears stuck out like an alien’s antennae.
‘Ralphy, Ralphy, however do you stick it?’ Bridge said, his eyes following the skinny man.
Ralph frowned, looked bemused. ‘Stick what, man?’
‘What do you think, Ralphy? Look around you. Ten years, off and on, this has been your home. Don’t you aspire to greater things me old son, those vistas of opportunity awaiting you without these walls?’
Ralph smirked. He got it. All those fancy words, but Bridge was just having a laugh. He knew neither of them was going anywhere for a long time. It was a bit like asking him to nip out for fish and chips, just a laugh.
‘We’re all the same in here, aren’t we?’ he said, grinning.
Bridge clenched his teeth, annoyed at Ralph’s phlegmatic approach. He wasn’t the same as the rest in here, wouldn’t settle for pathetic acceptance of incarceration. That Ralph should include him amongst the beaten-down masses was an affront. Yet, within himself lurked the fear that time might bring him down to their level, the level to which Ralph had sunk willingly.
‘You think I’m like all the other miserable sods around you, Ralphy?’ Bridge said.
Ralph detected the menace in the voice but misunderstood the question. ‘You ain’t a nonce, Charlie. Never said you was.’
Bridge’s anger flared, then dissipated. He realized the fool was trying to appease him, as though not being a nonce was some kind of distinction in here. Just showed you, didn’t it, how respect could soon wane if you didn’t nurture it, keep on top?
‘You think I’ll just sit back and do my time like a nice boy do you, Ralphy?’
Ralph sat down on his own bed, twisted the end of the towel nervously. Where was his padmate going with this? What did he want to hear now? Better be careful; he had a vile temper, Charlie Bridge, when he wasn’t suited.
‘That’s what everybody does, Charlie. You go crazy always thinking about what it’s like out there. Seen men go off it I have, just ’cos they can’t settle down and accept their sentence.’
‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime, eh?’ Bridge said.
Ralph nodded and smiled. They were back on the same wavelength. A bit of peace was all he asked. He lay down, picked up his Daily Mirror and started to read, just passing time.
Bridge watched him with contempt. No way was he going to sit back and do his time. Do the crime and everything is mine was his motto, a winner’s motto, not a loser’s like Ralph. It was time to act. Next visiting day he’d have words with his sister, get her on to it. She was a bright girl, Bella, running his businesses for him while he festered in here. She hadn’t let her university education go to her head, could mix it with the worst of them and come out on top. She’d think of something to get him out, probably already had.
Chapter Two
Alex Macdonald pulled in at the kerb, turned to his ten-year-old daughter. He waited until she was facing him before he spoke.
‘Did you have a good time, Ann?’
When she smiled at him he thought it made her face more beautiful. Her blond hair and blue eyes, the dimples coming alive in her cheeks, were from her mother. His dark, swarthy looks, the deep brown intensity of his eyes, were a sharp contrast. Where her deafness came from he didn’t know. Watching his only daughter struggle with her handicap had frustrated him as much as her but the passage of time had helped and he had to admit she was doing very well. He was proud of her courage, her loving nature.
‘I had a great time,’ she signed.
‘You swim like a fish,’ he said.
She signed back, ‘You swim like a whale . . . a beached whale.’
They both laughed. Then a momentary sadness assailed him as she turned away to open the car door. Breaking up with her mother had been so hard. Despite the divorce three years ago, he had never fallen out of love with Liz. Those last few years of study to complete his medical degree had put too much strain on them both. Ann had gone through difficulties at the same time. His wife had decided it would be better for all of them to separate for a while.
He followed his daughter down the garden path to the house that had once been his mother-in-law’s. This was the place his wife and child had come after the separation. The mother-in-law, a good woman like her progeny, was dead now.
Ann was hugging her mother as he followed her into the living-room. Liz raised her hand in greeting, pointed to the coffee table where cups and saucers were laid out next to the coffee pot.
‘Help yourself,’ Liz said cheerfully. ‘It’s freshly made.’
He poured himself a cup, grateful once again that their rows, their struggles had never ended in that cold animosity he’d seen in so many divorced couples. Liz still treated him like her best friend. Sometimes that hurt but it had meant Ann saw him regularly, minimized the effect of the split on her.
When Ann went out of the room, he said. ‘You’re doing a great, job, Liz. With Ann, I mean.’
She acknowledged the compliment with a smile that turned enigmatic. ‘What about you, Alex? Managing that house, are you? Not too big and remote all on your own out there?’
Alex detected the teasing note in her voice, felt himself flush. He’d inherited the rambling old farmhouse from his great-aunt a year ago. It was out on the Yorkshire moors and Liz thought it too far from civilization. He had to admit it had b
een lonely at first, but he had a live-in girlfriend now and that had helped. The way Liz had framed the question, that certain intonation, suggested she knew about the girlfriend and was fishing.
‘You know, don’t you?’
‘Know what?’ Liz’s eyes were wide with affected innocence.
‘There’s a woman living with me. You know that.’
‘Oh! A housekeeper, Alex. Good idea. You need one in that big house.’
Alex grimaced. She would go on teasing him until he said it outright. Best to get it over with.
‘She’s not a housekeeper. She’s a girlfriend. Don’t pretend you didn’t know. The jungle drums have been talking, haven’t they, all the way from the moors to Middlesbrough?’
She grinned wickedly. ‘Well, Eddie did mention something.’
Alex nodded. He’d expected as much. Eddie was an old army friend. They’d been in the same regiment and they’d both been wounded in Iraq in the first Gulf War during an ambush that still gave Alex nightmares, though nothing like the hellish trauma he’d suffered at the time. Liz had been an army nurse out there. Her solicitude had helped him and Eddie recover. When he’d recovered, he’d asked her to go on a date and things had progressed from there.
‘Sometimes my old pal has a big mouth,’ Alex grumbled. ‘It wasn’t his place to tell you.’
Liz tossed her mane of blond hair. ‘He’s my friend too, you know. He didn’t ignore me when we split up. He could have done. Instead he’s been there for me and Ann just like you have.’
Alex was silent a moment. All said and done, Eddie was his best friend and what Liz said was true. His loyalty to all of them, forged originally in the hell-hole of war and the ensuing mental trauma, was hardly in doubt.
In a lighter voice Alex said. ‘I’ll tell him he’s turning into an old woman when I see him.’
‘Well, then?’ Liz said.
‘Well then, what?’
‘You know. What’s she like, this lady of the manor?’
‘Come on,’ Alex groaned, ‘we’ve been divorced a while now. You don’t really want to know.’
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