Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  Harry stared at her blankly. ‘Ronnie. I’m meeting Ronnie.’

  She couldn’t not react. ‘Why Ronnie? Why do you always need to meet Ronnie?’

  ‘Look, Saima, Ronnie is the only person who—’

  She held up her hand, clenched her jaw and turned around but not before letting Harry see she was hurt. Then she walked out of the room and slammed the door.

  EIGHT

  HARRY HATED LEAVING Saima the way he had. She would never understand his relationship with Ronnie. She saw him as a threat – a reminder of the old world.

  Harry put the emotion to one side as he approached Fulneck, a private school opened originally by Christian refugees in the eighteenth century, fleeing persecution from Catholics in Czechoslovakia. They had travelled to Germany, before arriving in England and settling on the Leeds–Bradford border. The school was set in the middle of a community which housed mostly elderly residents. It was where Harry and Ronnie had been privately educated. Ronnie was now chair of the Old Boys’ Association and seemed to spend much of his time helping out.

  Harry drove slowly through the stone-pillared entrances. Half-term meant the usual congestion that gridlocked the road snaking through the enormous grounds was absent. There were small cottages on his right, some with rose-baskets hanging by the windows. Others had milk bottles outside their doors, still waiting to be collected. It had the feel of a sleepy community from a forgotten fairy-tale.

  Harry left the car under a tree and walked towards the fields where Ronnie would be waiting. He loved the nostalgic atmosphere of the area: the cobblestone path leading into the school, the church steeple halfway down and the whole route lined with overbearing oak trees. There was an air of peacefulness.

  Simpler times.

  Simpler because they hadn’t been corrupted by the absurdity of life, by the complexity of having brown skin in a western land.

  He made his way up a steep path to the rugby pitches. Up ahead was a pavilion where Harry could make out the faint silhouette of his brother.

  Harry walked slowly across the frozen grass, seeing images of himself as a teenager snatching tries on each pitch he walked across.

  ‘Looking a little heavy these days, little brother,’ said Ronnie, sticking out his hand.

  ‘Ninety kilos, same as always.’ Harry jabbed his fingers into his older brother’s stomach before shaking his hand. The two men embraced, each patting the other firmly on the back. ‘You’re getting fat,’ said Harry.

  ‘It’s called the takeaway life. Two eleven-year-olds and a teenager do that to you.’

  ‘They also stop you from shaving?’

  Ronnie rubbed his chin. ‘No worse than yours.’

  ‘My stubble adds character. Yours just makes you look older. Aren’t you forty next month?’

  ‘Forget forty. Sometimes I feel fifty chasing Raj and Kiran around these pitches.’

  ‘She plays rugby?’

  ‘She likes to copy her twin brother.’ Ronnie shrugged. ‘Hey, whatever burns them out. I get tired running after them.’

  Harry looked around the fields. ‘You never were too quick on your feet.’

  Ronnie tapped his head. ‘I was quick enough up here not to let my feet be a problem. It’s about which ball you decide to deliver and which you decide to charge that separates the men from the boys.’

  Harry smiled. ‘You said the same thing to me twenty years ago – passing it on to Raj?’

  Ronnie nodded. ‘Good advice never goes out of fashion.’

  ‘What about Tara?’

  Ronnie shook his head. ‘Her temper becomes more like yours every day. I’m glad the twins don’t have her attitude. Yet.’ He shot Harry a knowing smile. ‘She wants to move out now – change the world. Got a damn answer for everything. Sound familiar?’

  Harry grinned and checked his phone to make sure Saima hadn’t texted. He hoped she wasn’t dwelling on his meeting with Ronnie.

  ‘What are you doing here on a Friday morning? It’s half-term.’

  ‘Kids go stir-crazy. We’ve got a friendly against Crawshaw – just keeps them busy. You know?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Plus, like you, this is the place I find most peace,’ Ronnie said. ‘Good times.’

  ‘The best. How’s . . .’ Harry stumbled over his words. ‘. . . the family?’

  Ronnie sighed. ‘The same.’ He paused and added, ‘OK.’

  ‘Mum?’

  Ronnie shrugged. ‘Fine,’ he said abruptly, clearly not wanting to say more.

  ‘I’m just asking, Ronnie. You don’t have to freak out.’

  ‘You know how Mum is. The same. Good days and bad. You’re about to become a father. Put your focus there.’

  ‘It’s human nature to care.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ asked Ronnie. ‘I take it this isn’t social.’

  ‘You rushed?’

  ‘No, but the kids will be here shortly and, to be honest, it’s not worth the headache with Mundeep for them to go home excited at having seen Uncle Harry.’

  ‘I’m still their—’

  ‘Not going there,’ Ronnie snapped. ‘Not the time or the place. You know the score – let’s just leave it alone. I need you gone before they get here, Hardeep. OK?’

  Mundeep, Ronnie’s wife, had taken up his parents’ position, or his father’s at least, and banned Harry from seeing his nephew and nieces for fear that his choices might influence their judgement, lead them to think it was acceptable to cross the religious divide and marry a Muslim.

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ Harry whispered, but loud enough for it to irritate Ronnie.

  ‘Sit down, Hardeep.’

  ‘It’s Harry.’

  ‘OK, Harry, sit down. Let me give you an insight into my life – last night in particular.’

  ‘Listen—’

  ‘Sit,’ Ronnie snapped again, pointing at the steps they were standing on. ‘Fucking humour me.’

  Harry took a seat.

  ‘So Dad is telling Raj a bedtime story last night,’ Ronnie said, perching on the step opposite Harry.

  ‘Bedtime story?’

  Ronnie acknowledged the improbability. ‘I know. Broken English and everything.’

  ‘He’s eleven, bit old for a bedtime—’

  ‘Just listen. You know the story of the three little pigs and the big bad wolf?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That isn’t the version Dad told Raj. He told him the tale of the three little Sikhs and the big bad Muslim.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, the big bad Muslim chases the three little Sikhs around each of their houses, saying he is going to huff and puff and blow them down unless they convert to Islam. In the end, the three little Sikhs trap the Muslim in the chimney and burn him to death.’

  ‘Jesus, Ronnie.’ Harry shook his head and looked away.

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as him telling Kiran about Rupinder,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rupinder – rather than Rapunzel – is the Sikh princess trapped in the tower by a Muslim king. Being orthodox Sikh, she grows her hair until it’s long enough for the Sikh prince to climb up it, into the tower and slay the evil Muslim king.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Harry said, putting his hand up. ‘Enough already. You let him tell this shit?’

  ‘You know how Dad is. I just leave it the hell alone. But my point is, when someone will go to those lengths to ensure his grandkids do not repeat what his son did, you are never going to win. It’s over, Harry. Done with. Leave it the fuck alone and get on with making your own family and your own future.’

  Harry hadn’t meant to get into this but it was still too raw for him to admit defeat. His mother still loved him. He knew it. He could feel it. But his father had witnessed the partition of India and the brutality which had resulted from it. The deaths of five million people. The shocking images of trains full of dead bodies being shipped across newly forged borders. Of women being converted to new
religions or being raped so they were ruined and cast aside by their families. Harry’s father had repeated the horror stories to Harry on a weekly basis and made him swear that he would never, ever marry outside of his Sikh faith and especially not a Muslim girl. Promises Harry had made. Promises he had meant to keep, until a chance encounter with a beautiful A & E sister had wrecked his world.

  Until a single date had destroyed the years of propaganda.

  ‘Prison taught me a lot of things,’ continued Ronnie. ‘Five years in the slammer makes you realize all types of people are good and bad. But Mundeep, Mum, Dad, the kids, they don’t know that world. They know the world as they see it, so whilst I will always give you my time, brother, it’s all you can have. My time. Nothing more. You in trouble?’

  Ronnie said it as though it was fact, rather than a question. His eyes narrowed, searching Harry’s face for deceit.

  Harry shook his head. He missed Ronnie. The guy had an IQ of 198 and could have done anything with his life if he hadn’t gone to jail. The reason he had been imprisoned bound the brothers together: a dark secret nobody knew.

  ‘Need your help,’ whispered Harry, trying to shake what they had spoken about from his mind. It seemed wrong to bring painful memories here. These fields were a shrine to the good old days. Rugby wins and fumbling with girls behind the pavilion. Misery had no place. ‘Lucas Dwight. He’s out. Causing trouble. Need to find him.’

  Ronnie hesitated and raised an eyebrow. ‘The Lucas Dwight?’ he said. ‘BNP guy?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Classified.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Ronnie asked. ‘The stuff I could sink you with and you’re playing me the “classified” card?’

  ‘Just messing with you.’ Harry smiled. ‘Implicated in a racist murder. Kind of critical.’

  ‘Shakeel Ahmed?’

  ‘How the fuck did you know?’

  ‘Radio,’ Ronnie replied. ‘Breaking news.’

  ‘Jesus. I thought you had somehow pulled it from my brain. Always quick off the mark – too bloody quick. You could have worked for NASA or something like that.’

  ‘Nah, I’ve got sixteen corner shops, four cash-and-carries, two takeaways and a crematorium. Who needs NASA, bruv?’

  ‘Couldn’t lend us a few quid, could you? Got myself suspended.’

  Ronnie didn’t act surprised. As though he already knew. As though it was a routine revelation.

  ‘What was it this time?’ asked Ronnie. He glanced cautiously at the bottom of the field, waiting for his kids to show.

  ‘Something of nothing,’ Harry said unconvincingly.

  ‘What happened?’

  Harry gave him the highlights.

  ‘You daft fuck,’ Ronnie said. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘Broke his jaw.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Pardeep.’

  ‘The arsehole whose daughter bolted because he forced her into a marriage to some freshie from India?’

  ‘Same guy.’

  ‘You think he’s worth losing your career over?’

  ‘Listen, I get it.’ Harry held up his hands. ‘I’ve had it in the arse from Saima already. It wasn’t worth it. I lost my cool – it happens. If someone had a go at Mundeep, would you take it?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t. I’d think it through – get it right.’

  ‘That’s the difference between you and me.’ Harry tried not to raise his voice. ‘I don’t have your brains in my locker.’

  Ronnie went over and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Listen, from an older brother who has always looked out for you, the choices you’ve made are going to hurt for ever. You have to find a better way to control your anger. Hasn’t the past taught you that?’ Ronnie’s voice trailed away and they both stood in silence, remembering their terrible secret.

  Flashes of blood. A pair of scissors.

  ‘Look,’ said Harry. ‘Thanks for listening – as always – but seriously, get those street voices who buy your black-market booze and fags to start talking. You’ve got reach in this city and finding Lucas Dwight might be the only way I can save my damn job. Sixteen corner shops is a lot of “chatter”. This is serious, Ronnie. You know how this city might react. We’ve got thousands of Asians at the Mela tonight and the BNP supporters are still here from yesterday’s elections. This goes toxic, it’s going to be bad for your businesses. I let you sell enough contraband to call this in as a priority.’

  The brothers had an understanding. Harry would alert Ronnie if the authorities suspected his underground cartel. In return, Ronnie filtered information about crime to Harry. That’s why his results were so good.

  Harry pointed in the distance. ‘Kids are coming. I better be going. Ask around, will you? You’ll hear about it before I do. Pick up the phone?’

  Ronnie nodded. ‘I’ll find out what I can.’ They shared an embrace. When they were growing up, Ronnie had been more like a father, watching Harry’s back, helping him with his studies and covering for him when Harry was out with yet another girl. His older brother was the one solid thing in his life. Ronnie could have maintained the same position as the rest of his family. He had chosen not to and Harry was immensely grateful.

  Saima didn’t understand their relationship. She didn’t trust Ronnie and she couldn’t forgive him for keeping Harry at arm’s length especially when, prior to his relationship with Saima, Harry had been inseparable from Ronnie’s kids.

  Cool Uncle Harry who could lift all three of them at the same time and carry them on his shoulders without tiring.

  Saima wasn’t aware that the real bond between the brothers was far darker than she could have imagined. That wasn’t a lie, just a sin of omission on Harry’s part.

  ‘I’ll call you, kid,’ Ronnie said. ‘If I hear anything.’

  Harry walked away, raising his hand, without looking at the approaching children.

  NINE

  BASHIR IQBAL’S TAXI was off duty. Not because his shift was over, but because he’d paid Clare, his usual prostitute, thirty quid for oral sex. It was Friday morning but in Bradford, the kerbcrawlers worked by day as well as night. It was a sign of how desperate the city’s fortunes had become.

  Bashir had popped a Viagra, but it wasn’t working. So he thought about the only thing guaranteed to make his blood surge to where he needed it.

  Murder. The one he had yet to commit. The one he had been waiting forty years to carry out.

  Casually, Bashir lit another cigarette and tried to enjoy the blow job. The gori was his usual girl.

  ‘Gori – what does that mean?’ she’d asked him once.

  ‘White girl,’ he’d replied, without clarifying whether it was derogatory or not.

  Bashir had specific tastes and Clare was the only one who indulged him. He wasn’t horny. He was fifty-nine years old and hadn’t been horny for years. He was angry – and if he didn’t get a release, he was apt to lose control.

  The darkness he’d buried for so long finally seemed destined to be unearthed.

  Shakeel was dead.

  And with his death came an opportunity.

  Bashir had been waiting patiently for decades. Shakeel had always stopped him from committing the one murder he coveted so badly, in case it compromised his role within the business.

  Now, the time was close. In fact, tonight would provide the perfect opportunity.

  Bashir grabbed the hooker’s head and forced her to quicken her rhythm. She resisted momentarily.

  The taxi was parked in a dark alleyway off Thornton Lane, the red-light district of Bradford, close to Manningham. Bashir’s car was parked facing the dead end, hidden in the shadows of two decaying factories, both eight storeys high. Bashir glanced in the rear-view mirror every few minutes to ensure they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  It was unlikely. Bashir had been parking here for years without incident. A lone taxi with its lights off wasn’t unusual on Thornton Lane. Bradford’s Asian taxi drivers
were the working girls’ most regular clients.

  Bashir removed a cut-throat razor from the pocket in the driver’s side door. His erection became firmer and his breathing quickened. Clare put a hand firmly on his thigh and tensed her body. Dirty fingernails. Chipped pink nail polish.

  Bashir opened the razor and admired the sharpness of the blade. It looked unused, which was far from accurate. He slid the blade slowly down Clare’s back, lightly caressing her skin. He arrived at her buttocks and pushed the blade softly into her wrinkling skin.

  Clare squeezed his leg and released a muted anxious gasp.

  Fear.

  That he’d go too far.

  Bashir grabbed the back of her head. He bunched her hair in his fist and forced her into an aggressive rhythm.

  Then, slowly, with deliberate malice, Bashir cut her, slicing the skin where the fold in her thigh met her buttock. Bashir made a wound next to many others. As a sudden burst of blood tarnished the silvery blade, Bashir climaxed powerfully.

  Finished with her fifteen-minute punt, Clare slipped a dressing over the wound, collected her bag from the back seat and left the vehicle silently.

  No words were exchanged during their encounters. Bashir would pull up by the kerb and she’d get into his taxi, knowing exactly what he needed and how much she would be paid. There was always a little extra for his specific tastes.

  Bashir zipped up his trousers, struggling to close them over his bulging stomach. His back felt damp against the seat, but it wasn’t sweat. Bashir was bleeding. He was always bleeding, but that was another story.

  He carefully removed a strand of Clare’s dirty blond hair from the passenger seat and watched her limp across the road, awaiting her next punt.

  Clare was forty-five and overweight. Her stomach escaped her mid-cut top and her thighs were covered in cellulite. Her best feature was her desperation. It was in her eyes. She was either a drug addict or an alcoholic. Bashir didn’t care which. He had known immediately that an extra twenty quid would break her resolve and buy him the freedom he required.

  He pulled the Toyota Corolla from the side street and turned the taxi radio back on. He could hear the animated sirens of police cars around him, more than usual. It was all to do with Shakeel’s murder. But the police wouldn’t get justice. That would be taken care of in-house.