by Liz Mistry
Emily Gilpin’s tattoo parlour had an intricate spray-painted sign outside. Mo rapped his knuckles on the door three times and entered without waiting for a reply. The waiting room walls were decorated with images in different shaped frames representing all sorts of tattoo designs from Celtic knots to floral displays and peace symbols, and from Indian gods and goddesses to birds of prey.
Gus made a mental note to suggest Dr Mahmood invest in some of this artwork for her rather twee waiting room. Maybe he’d buy one for her as a leaving present when she eventually signed him off as compos mentis. He grinned to himself. He reckoned it’d be a while before she thought he was anywhere near ready; in the meantime, one of these paintings would go a long way to making her waiting room less soulless. Thinking of her waiting room made him remember the demise of Nemo. He’d tried to appear nonchalant when he’d asked her about the massive dark fish with the trailing fronds coming out its head. Still, he sensed she’d picked up on his grief when she’d told him it had died. He knew it was only a fish; nevertheless, Nemo’s absence left a hole in his gut. He’d grown used to using his brief interactions with the fish as a way to prepare himself for his sessions with the psychiatrist. What would he do now?
Taking a deep breath, Gus forced himself back to the real world and continued to study the frames. Even when Emily came out from the tattoo room, Gus was reluctant to drag his eyes away from the artwork. No sooner had he finished absorbing one image when another one caught his eye. However, this was work. He grinned at the petite woman before him. And then frowned. He’d expected her to be covered from head to foot in tattoos; instead, she had only a few visible. Each one was delicate, the colours and highlights bright and intricate. They were completely unlike the one he was about to show her and served to emphasise how barbaric the killer was. He had a momentary pang he was going to somehow taint all the beauty around him in the studio.
However, Mo jumped to his rescue, thrusting out his arm to show her how good her most recently applied Celtic knot tattoo looked, and Gus’ uncertainty faded. He really needed any information she could give.
Emily led them into the inner room, where a chair and a bed stood with her tattoo equipment beside it. She pointed to the chair, and Gus sat down, looking around in wonder at the images that adorned these walls too. For the first time, he really appreciated how much of a craft it was, how skilled a good tattoo artist was. He’d always slagged Mo off for being addicted to tattooing; now, having seen the delicacy of the artworks in this room, he could begin to understand his friend’s compulsion.
It wasn’t until Emily said, ‘Roll your sleeve up,’ that he realised she’d been setting up the machine, whilst something was printing off her computer. Hadn’t Mo told her why he was there?
‘Oh, no. I’ve not come for a tattoo. I only need some information.’
Emily frowned. ‘You’re booked in for a tattoo on your upper arm.’
Gus glanced at Mo, who smiled in what Gus recognised as his false, ‘I’m innocent’ expression. Scowling at his friend, Gus said, ‘I’m sorry, I think Mo’s misled you. I really only want to ask you about some tattoos.’
Mo exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Emily. ‘What did I tell you? He’s a wuss. A big, fat scaredy-cat.’
Gus glowered at him. ‘No, I’m not, Mo. I just don’t want a tatt. Besides, you’ve got more than enough to go around.’
As Emily watched their interaction with a bemused smile on her face, Mo folded his arms over his chest and snorted, ‘Told you. Wuss!’ His tone was full of derision.
Gus blushed. He knew that Mo was partly right. The thought of hundreds of little needles pricking his flesh combined with the memory of the swastika tattoos on the victims made him wince. There was no way he was going to rush into some foolhardy tattoo because Mo was calling his bluff. ‘Look, it’s not something you rush into, okay?’
‘No, I know,’ said Mo, his tone triumphant. ‘That’s why I’ve done this.’ And he showed Gus the template of a small, three-inch square Bob Marley with his dreads made up of serpents. ‘It’s Greg’s painting in miniature. Thought you’d like it. Emily says she can do it really nice. Mostly in black with a bit of red, green and yellow shading for emphasis. You know, Rasta colours.’
Gus considered the small printed image Mo had sent to Emily. It was perfect. He must have taken a photo of Greg’s painting that held pride of place in Gus’ living room. Tracing the serpents Greg had drawn to replace Marley’s dreads, a lump formed in Gus’ throat, rendering him speechless.
When his silence continued, Mo jostled from foot to foot, biting his lip. ‘It’ll fit right there on your upper arm, Gus. A nice tribute to Greg, you know? Although, if you really don’t want to, that’s okay.’
He made to take the template back, but Gus pulled his hand away. His heart swelled in his chest as he glanced from the miniature copy of the painting to Mo’s expectant face. With a tight smile, he nodded once and rolled his right sleeve up until the top of his arm was exposed. ‘This is the perfect tattoo for me. You’re more perceptive than you look.’
Afterwards, armed with a tube of Bepanthen cream and plastic film wrapped around his throbbing bicep, Gus, Emily and Mo headed to the pub to talk about the swastika tattoos. Tossing the keys to Mo, Gus said, ‘You’re driving. I need a drink after that experience.’
Mo tossed them back with a laugh, ‘Alcohol thins the blood, so it’s not a good idea after you’ve been tattooed. Looks like Emily will be the only one drinking.’
Gus shook his head and then laughed. ‘Can’t believe I did this.’
With a rueful look, Mo nodded. ‘No, neither can I. Naila’s gonna kill me. She made me promise not to force you.’
Gus flung his arm round Mo’s neck, then instantly regretted it, as he had nudged the tattoo. ‘Ouch! You didn’t force me, Mo. Just used your gentle powers of persuasion.’
Settled in a quiet corner of the bar near the fire, Gus explained about the current case and made Emily promise secrecy. He showed the close-up photographs of the tattoo and explained where they were located on the body.
She flinched. ‘My God! That is pure torture. That must’ve killed.’ Then, she grimaced. ‘Oops, you know what I mean.’ She picked up the clearest photo. ‘It’s quite obvious this was done by an amateur. The ink is irregular and lacks the delicate touch of today’s machines. Whoever applied this tattoo exerted too much pressure, and,’ she frowned, ‘it looks like one of the old, two-coiled machines was used. Nowadays, we use electro-magnetic machines. However, at the beginning of the last century, they used two-coiled ones. The tatts they created were similar to this. Marginally better, in the right hands, than prison tatts. However, these,’ she tapped the photos, ‘would have caused a lot of pain in that area, even if a professional had applied them. In the hands of an amateur, those men must have screamed their lungs out.’
Chapter 6
20:30 City Hall, City Park
Light snow fell over Bradford’s Mirror Pool. Each flake was translucent, a mere shimmer in the white LED lights, making the scene other-worldly. The Alhambra and the old Odeon building loomed, shapely turrets and domes like statuesque guardians, defining the skyline on the opposite side of the road. City Hall, its scaffolding removed, dominated the near side.
Graeme Weston smiled. For him, today had been other-worldly. Never in his wildest imaginings had he expected this. It was like a dream come true. All his hard work – all their hard work – had finally paid off, and he was almost overwhelmed. The series of events leading to this point could not have panned out better if he’d tried. He’d been longing to take up the mantle for Bradford since he was a teenager, and now, with the resignation of Clive Clementon, the climate had never been more in their favour.
The Greens were superfluous, the Labour Party jam-packed full of Pakis and poofs, and the Tories totally discredited. Besides which, the city was in a mess. The Matchmaker fiasco last year had delivered a resounding blow to Bradford’s law and order. People
felt uneasy. Who could they trust, if their public figures were corrupt? That, combined with the recent gang murders, and the subsequent spotlight on the immigrants and the current spate of killings, had bled the city dry and brought drugs and prostitution to their midst. No wonder Bradford had voted for Brexit. In Bradford, the natives were restless. They were ready for a change, and he was ready to offer it. Hopefully, this by-election wouldn’t be followed by an early general election. Who the hell knew what nonsense would occur after Article 50 was triggered?
His team had made sure the media were there, and every supporter they could find had been dragged out, so a sizeable crowd in winter coats, scarves and gloves huddled at the bottom of City Hall steps. Its regularly changing turret light illuminated the banners and slogans held by his party’s supporters. He knew it would look great on the news and had high hopes of it hitting the national as well as local and regional outlets. The people of Bradford needed to hear his message loud and clear; he was there to fight for them. No more kowtowing to ‘the ethnics,’ ‘the deviants,’ ‘the immigrants’ and, of course, the PC wishy-washiness of Westminster.
The only slight cloud on the snowy horizon was he hadn’t told Christine yet. She wouldn’t be happy with him putting himself forward in the public eye. Not when they had Jacob to think about. He shrugged. They’d kept their secret this long, and he was sure they could keep it a bit longer. She didn’t fully support his political agenda, so he’d left her in the dark. He’d have to tell her sooner rather than later. However, before he could come clean, he’d have to confront her about that other matter. His lips tightened. She’d disappointed him, let him down again, and he was gutted.
As the crowd began to chant his name, he put all thoughts of Christine to the back of his mind and stepped forward, both arms raised, waving at the five-hundred-strong crowd who had gathered for this announcement. At the back of the throng, he could see the media cameras aimed at him. Raising his head, he smiled his best smile. The one he’d been practising in the privacy of his bathroom for weeks, the one that would become his campaign smile and would be plastered over every newspaper in the country. If Farage and Trump could do it, then so could he. Turning this way and that, he basked in the attention, soaking up the positive vibes, playing the crowd and making sure the photographers had plenty of material to work with. He was good at this, always had been, and he intended to take full advantage of this opportunity.
At last, he stopped waving, and taking the microphone from his campaign manager, Michael Hogg, he waited for silence. From the corner of his eye, he saw police cars driving onto the concrete park and officers alighting. Hmm, that could work in his favour. Public opinion of the police wasn’t very high at the moment, and if they made one mistake, a single misstep, it would work in his favour. Still smiling, he began to speak to his acolytes.
‘There has been a wave of unrest in this fine city for many years. Our culture has been diluted, our economy shattered, our jobs looted, and our houses taken over by huge litters of foreigners. We, the pure Bradford folk, have been the ones to suffer.’
A wave of cheering made him pause for a moment. Adrenaline surged through his system at such a positive response. This was what he was made for. This was what he deserved. As the police drew closer, he pulled an envelope from his pocket and waved it in the air.
‘This is my nomination to stand as Albion First’s parliamentary candidate for Bradford Central.’
Resounding roars met his words. He felt like Chamberlain brandishing the signed Munich Agreement. The only difference was he would not make any appeasement pacts. He would stand strong for what his party believed in, for the good of this country. Waving the envelope again, his smile in place, he lowered it, waiting for the cheers and clapping to subside before continuing. ‘This tsunami of rioting and deviance and violence must be avenged, and if Westminster won’t do it, nay, if Westminster can’t do it, then who will?’ He raised his hands in the same way he’d seen his hero Adolf do, and the crowd erupted in a chorus of ‘Weston, Weston, Weston!’
This felt so good. Bowing his head this way and that, he kept his arms raised, commanding their respect, their adulation. Everything was going exactly to plan. He grinned as the police edged even closer. His team had made sure the Pakis knew he was here and what he was doing. His supporters had wanted to incite anger in them, riling them up good and proper. Looked like they’d succeeded. A nod from Michael told him they’d been spotted converging on the park from the top end. Now, it was time for the carefully choreographed finale.
Grinning, he calmed the crowd, and as the first group of thugs approached, he raised his voice and said, ‘The time is now. No more concessions to Islam, no more mosques and temples in our city. No more deviant behaviour. No more job stealers, benefit thieves and filth. No more immigrants. We … are … Christian! We … are … British!’
As the crowd erupted in cheers, groups of angry Asians began to run towards City Hall. The police, on alert, moved to divert the youth. Graeme Weston quietly moved off the steps and, flanked by his bodyguards, sidled to the side car park where the Bradford Chronicle journalist, Jez Hopkins, waited, as arranged.
As the angry clash between his supporters and the Asians erupted, Weston grinned. It was all part of the plan. His supporters had been instructed to back away. Not to respond. To let the Pakis throw the first punch. Hopkins’ cameraman would record it all, and in the papers tomorrow morning would be vindication of his beliefs.
He glanced at Michael, who, face red with exertion, ran up to him. ‘Well?’
Hogg grinned. ‘Exactly as we’d planned. Two Pakis arrested, and our lot are backing off. The police focus is on them now, and that’s what will be reported.’
‘Brilliant! You’ve excelled yourself, Michael.’ And he thumped his second-in-command on the back, before turning to greet the waiting reporter. Extending his arms for a double-handed handshake, Graeme shook his head. ‘Freedom of speech in this country, and in this city, is seriously at risk. Those people don’t want to listen to what the majority say. They want to take over our city and make it into a mini Pakistan. Do you know what they call Bradford?’ He shook his head, his lips curled in disgust. ‘Bradistan, that’s what they call our beautiful city. This is unacceptable. We need to reclaim it before it’s too late.’
Chapter 7
21:30 Hawthorn Drive, Eccleshill
Coconut fragrance filled Christine Weston’s bathroom. She inhaled the intense aroma as she lit each of the candles dotted around the spacious en-suite. Steam floated around her, and the gentle gurgle of water flowing into her bath soothed her. With a languid motion, she swirled her hand through the liquid, dispersing the bath oil and creating a luxurious flurry of bubbles.
Turning the taps off, she pulled her hair up into an untidy knot and began to undress. As she peeled her knickers down her legs, the musky scent of sex teased her nostrils. Remembering what she’d been doing only an hour earlier, she purred deep in her throat like a smug cat with an excess of cream. As she moved, her muscles protested, reminding her of just how athletic they’d been. Her smile widened as she inhaled more deeply, the smell arousing her again. Naked now, she lowered herself into the bath, gasping with pleasure as the warmth engulfed her. Leaning her head back against the plastic cushion, she flopped her knees apart, savouring the sensation of lapping water against her genitals. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and lowered her hand beneath the foam. Allowing herself to relive the experience, she shuddered, once more, to orgasm.
Afterwards, still glowing in the aftermath, her heart rate returned to normal. She soaped her body to get rid of the evidence. Amazing how a bit of illicit sex can spice things up.
Later, snuggled in her towelling bathrobe, the belt drawn tightly around her slender waist, she applied moisturiser to her face and body. After a quick squirt of Tiffany eau de parfum, she left her room, pausing to glance in at her son, who, headphones on, was oblivious to her presence at his bedroom door. He’d been p
oorly again, and she was glad that now he seemed happy, nodding in time to whatever Ed Sheeran song he was currently into. His body looked disproportionate, all angles and gangly limbs, as he waited to grow into his new adolescent frame. Despite tugging his fringe down to try to cover them, a smattering of angry pimples was visible on his brow. Jacob had many obstacles in his life, yet he coped with them all, displaying a maturity lacking in many adults. She was tempted to walk over and ruffle his tousled chestnut hair and drop a kiss on his head, but he wouldn’t thank her for that, so she contented herself with one last glance.
She headed downstairs to wait for her husband to come back from whichever boring meeting he was at tonight. Switching lights on as she moved through the house, she entered the kitchen and opened the American-sized fridge. She took out the open bottle of white wine and retrieved the packet of Dairy Milk chocolate from where she’d hidden it behind the lettuce in the salad tray so Jacob wouldn’t snaffle it.
Wine glass in hand, she reached over the sink to close the blind, and glancing into the garden, she was startled to see movement in the darkness beyond. The wine glass slid from her fingers and shattered as she strained to see what had made her jump. The sound of something banging into the recycling bin made her jolt again, and she backed away from the window, one hand to her mouth, the other clutching the top of her robe closed around her throat, as if that would offer protection from whatever was outside. Her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, and then, with a relieved giggle, she saw the white tip of the fox’s tail as it strolled into the middle of the lawn. It paused, turning its head back towards the side gate before running into the gloom at the back of the garden.
Ever since they’d moved into this house, Christine had been nervous on her own. It was one of her husband’s property developer builds, and although she hadn’t told him, she’d never liked it. She found the heavy foliage and giant trees around the periphery of the large garden oppressive. She’d have much preferred a smaller, less melodramatic home with a garden that didn’t necessitate a monthly overhaul by a gardener who leered at her. However, such decisions were not hers to make. Her husband, keen to aspire to greater social class, placed great stock by such things. Instead, she’d diverted her anxieties into making the inner décor warm and welcoming for her son.