by A. A. Dhand
Zain searched Bashir’s face for approval but there was none. There was no reaction at all.
‘Do you think that would be a final fitting act for this table?’
Bashir took a moment, sizing up whether Zain was serious or just grandstanding in his new role. ‘I think you shouldn’t spill foul blood on that table,’ he replied.
Zain smiled and removed his feet from it. He moved his chair closer to the desk. ‘Do you know who killed my father, Bashirji?’
‘No.’
‘I do. Well, I know how to find out. But I’m going to require your help. Your expertise.’
Bashir shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m just a driver. You need a lift?’
Zain smiled. He picked up the pen again. More rotation through his fingers. ‘I don’t think so. I know exactly who you are. And what you used to do for my father.’
Bashir didn’t reply. He was like a statue in the chair, trying to analyse Zain and see if the kid was serious. He knew Shakeel had little faith in the boy. Privately educated. Wrapped in cotton wool. Cleanly shaven, Jacuzzi baths and designer clothing.
‘I’m just old man,’ Bashir replied, switching from Urdu to broken English, something he did to appear simple and far from threatening.
Zain leaned forward and pointed the pen at him. ‘Are you telling me that you don’t wish to find out who killed my father? Your closest friend?’
Bashir remained silent. He didn’t like Zain. He was a boy in a man’s chair.
‘May I be honest?’ Zain asked.
Bashir nodded.
‘I know your story. I know why you are here. My father told me – only a few months ago, as it happens. He told me that if I ever needed to trust somebody, then it should be you. I think he was afraid that getting into politics might make him a target for, well, something like what has happened. He told me about many things, even . . . even about Ruksa.’
Now Bashir’s demeanour did change. His face tensed and he stood up, towering over Zain, who shrank into his chair. Bashir’s expression twisted into a snarl and he leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk.
‘What?’ he asked, real malice in his voice. There was an anger which Zain had never seen before and didn’t know how to handle.
‘Look—’
Zain didn’t finish. Bashir yanked his delicate frame out of the chair, grabbing his neck with both hands. Zain tried to scream but his voice was strangled in his throat. Bashir dragged him across the desk, sending its contents flying across the floor.
‘In thirty years, not even your father spoke her name.’ Bashir had reverted to Urdu. He pulled Zain closer to his face. ‘If you know who I am and what I do, then realize this, Zain,’ he said, spitting on his face, ‘when somebody’s tongue becomes offensive to me, I bite it from their mouth. When somebody’s eyes look at me with ill intent, I remove them.’
Bashir’s face had darkened like a fruit turned rotten. Zain was desperately trying to talk. Bashir kept him close for a few more life-threatening seconds and then threw him angrily back into the chair.
Bashir retook his seat. ‘What is it that you want?’ he asked peaceably, yet still smouldering that Zain knew secrets he had no business knowing.
‘I want revenge.’
‘No, really. What is it that you want?’ Bashir was tiring of Zain’s infantile posturing. Too much chatter. He was also massaging his neck and looked like he might start crying. The altercation had caused wounds on Bashir’s back to open. He could feel the stickiness of blood soiling his clothes.
Zain stopped massaging his throat. ‘I . . . I . . . want—’
‘Respect? Power? For Allah’s sake, just tell me once, clearly, what little Zain Ahmed wants?’
‘I want to be feared!’ Zain shouted and slammed his hand on the table, hard enough that Bashir almost felt the sting. ‘I want people to respect me, like they did my father. I want to keep this organization powerful and make sure that I build, not dismantle.’
‘And why should I help you do that?’
Zain took a moment and tried to compose himself. He was blinking excessively and his hands were shaking. ‘My father has some items which belong to you? Some land in Pakistan he promised you, and some money. Call this your final act?’
‘Those items are mine. Already mine. Owed to me.’
‘Yes, but I need you to carry out one more job – and for God’s sake, I am asking you to avenge the man who was your closest friend. Don’t you want that?’
‘I don’t know who killed him. And yes, I would like revenge for your father, but I have other things on my mind.’
‘I know.’ Zain paused and then held up both hands respectfully. ‘He told me. What you plan to do. He told me the only reason you hadn’t done it yet was because of him. Now he’s not here, I know the time must be soon.’
Sooner than you think, thought Bashir.
‘Please,’ Zain said. ‘My father would want you to help. Why else would he have told me these . . . these . . . secrets? He said you were the only person I would be able to trust if anything happened to him and that I should call on your services.’
‘So tell me, Zain, what do you want me to do?’
‘I might not be street dirty, but I’m not stupid. I know who can tell us what happened to my father.’
‘Go on.’
‘I want you to bring me Martin Davis, the BNP leader.’
Bashir laughed. ‘Stupid fool,’ he spat and looked away.
‘There is talk that Lucas Dwight, the ex-leader of the BNP, did this to my father and he is now in hiding. Martin Davis is in Bradford, at the Midland Hotel. We have “friends” there. Watching.’
Bashir was surprised, almost impressed that Zain was making a play.
‘All you have to do is bring him to me and he will know where Lucas Dwight is and what happened. He is the only man to gain from my father’s murder.’
‘No,’ replied Bashir. ‘There is one more who has gained greatly from his death.’
Bashir and Zain shared an awkward silence.
‘I would never have done this,’ Zain said eventually.
‘I know. You don’t have it within you.’
Zain ignored the jibe. Just what he was and was not capable of would soon become clear. ‘I want the leader of the BNP. What I do once I have him is my concern.’
‘And then?’
‘Then you are free. You can go and seek out those you want, then disappear to Pakistan, back to the land you are owed. I will make it happen – just like my father promised. You have my kasam.’
Kasam: a sacred promise.
‘You want to engineer a reputation so your father’s business does not crumble?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want revenge?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not an easy thing what you are asking. To take this man.’
‘Like I said, we have people in play at the Midland Hotel,’ Zain replied. ‘They are just waiting for you. But time is tight. Can I count on you?’
‘I leave after this. Your father was holding a lot of money in an account in Pakistan for me. And there are land registry papers he has which need assigning to me. I want them immediately.’
‘No. I will release the land to you now; the money when I have Martin Davis here.’ Zain took a folder from the desk, opened it and pushed the papers towards Bashir.
‘Do we have a deal?’
‘I need to be on a plane first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what about . . . your plans?’
Bashir thought about the house. About the blood. About a recurrent nightmare which had plagued him for decades. ‘I will bring you Martin Davis. I will get him to talk because you won’t know how. Then tonight – I will finish my business.’ Bashir stood up to leave. He turned his back on Zain and then paused. ‘I need only one ticket for tomorrow. You will make sure my wife is taken care of here. Give me your kasam on that
as well.’
‘You have it.’
‘Say it.’
‘You have my kasam. I will take care of your wife.’
Bashir made his way towards the door, opened it and again paused. He didn’t like that Zain knew his secrets. Especially about Ruksa. He turned around and walked back to the desk. ‘Just so you know – if you cross me on this—’
‘I gave you my kasam.’
‘I need to be clear,’ said Bashir. He pushed his hand under his shirt, and when he removed it, it was covered in blood. Bashir grabbed Zain’s hand, who tried to pull away but gave up once he felt the iron strength in Bashir’s grip.
‘Now we have understanding,’ said Bashir and smeared his blood across Zain’s palm. ‘Now we are bound.’
THIRTEEN
‘JUST TURN AROUND and walk away,’ Lucas said. ‘I’m not your man. Someone is setting me up.’
Harry was within striking distance. The two men sized each other up, neither willing to engage first.
‘Doesn’t work that way,’ Harry replied. ‘I’m bringing you in, like it or not.’
‘At least tell me what I’m supposed to have done, who I’m supposed to have murdered? Does it sound like I know what you’re talking about?’
Lucas had changed. Gone was the anger burning behind his eyes. He looked calm, arrogant in his dismissal of Harry. He was painfully thin. The wrinkles on his face made him look much older than Harry even though he was a year younger. His clothes were filthy and he looked more like a homeless tramp than a feared fugitive.
‘We can talk it through down the station,’ Harry replied. ‘Now drop your hands and turn around.’
‘Someone tried to kill me. And now you show up? Coincidental, isn’t it? Doesn’t it seem like a set-up to you? Are you that naïve, detective? Because I don’t think you are.’ Lucas wasn’t shouting but there was an edge to his voice and a spark of the old anger in his eyes.
‘I’m not going to ask you again,’ Harry said. ‘You are under arrest.’
‘Don’t.’ Lucas put out his hand and altered his stance as Harry stepped forward. ‘It will end badly for you. You’re top-heavy and too slow. I’ll see your shot coming. I’ll land three before you regroup.’
Lucas’s physical demise may have mirrored Bradford’s, but the belief he wouldn’t be beaten was also learned from the same streets.
‘Listen to me. Back the fuck off.’
His attitude puzzled Harry. The old Lucas Dwight would have jumped at the chance for a private tussle with Harry, but Lucas was reluctant.
Frightened. He’s frightened. You’re twice his size, fit, healthy. He’s bluffing. Isn’t he?
‘I’m not the same man I used to be,’ continued Lucas. ‘Fourteen years in prison is a long time not to change.’
‘Whether you are or not, you’re under arrest. If you are innocent, you’ll get your chance in court.’
‘No. A dealer tried to kill me. Gave me a spiked heroin batch. I want to know why, especially now you’re here trying to detain me. I don’t trust the law.’
Harry lunged at Lucas, tired of his bullshit. He threw the first punch, missed and then absorbed what felt like a knife wound to his lower abdomen. The energy drained from Harry’s legs. It felt as though his feet had opened up and were leaking his life force across the gymnasium floor; his lungs felt compressed and he crumpled to the floor, gasping desperately.
Lucas stepped out of the way. ‘Liver punch,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Impossible to get up from in two minutes, never mind ten seconds.’ Lucas listened for the first desperate wheeze from Harry, then sat down on the floor, cross-legged.
‘It’ll take a minute.’ Lucas raised his hand, urging Harry to calm down. ‘Relax, you’re not dying. It just feels like that.’
The pain crippling Harry’s side was intense. With one single body blow, he had been reduced to a wreck. Instead of taking Lucas’s advice, Harry was getting angrier. He tried to get up but there was no power in his legs.
‘Don’t listen, do you?’ Lucas said calmly. ‘You, my friend, are going nowhere.’
Several minutes had passed without either man moving. Harry’s liver felt as if it had ruptured and Lucas continued to stare at him, waiting for Harry to decide whether he wanted another crack.
‘I’m man enough to admit when I’m beaten,’ said Harry.
‘I’m glad we—’
‘And that time hasn’t arrived.’ Harry struggled on to his side.
Lucas shook his head. ‘You’ve got some anger inside you, haven’t you?’
‘I’m not leaving this place without you. You’re a racist nutcase whose blood was found at Shakeel Ahmed’s residence this morning. Care to explain that?’ he whispered while massaging some feeling back into his side.
‘Shakeel Ahmed? The guy running for Bradford West?’
‘So you know him?’
‘Of him. This place is covered in posters and flyers of the guy’s campaign. I’m not blind, detective. He’s dead?’
Harry nodded.
‘I’m sorry to hear that but it’s of no interest to me.’
‘I would hypothesize that, with your background, hating the man who beat the BNP is of interest to you.’
‘No. The guy you think I am left a long time ago.’
‘Yet you’re still fighting with the police.’
‘Hey, you came at me, brother.’
Brother? Did Lucas Dwight just call him brother?
‘You’re resisting arrest.’ Harry felt the pain subside a little. He was gradually trying to get to his feet, gritting his teeth at the throb in his side.
‘It’s convenient, don’t you think?’
‘What?’ Harry was on his knees now, squarely in front of Lucas.
‘That four days after I’m released, I supposedly murder this guy and leave my DNA for you to find?’
‘You were careless. A junkie on a killing spree. You’re not exactly Einstein.’
‘A few hours ago I was lying in the middle of that ring.’ Lucas pointed at it. ‘Seconds away from dying.’
‘You seem fine now.’
‘It was luck. If I’d taken the proper hit, I’d be dead.’
‘I’m not buying it. I took you down in two thousand and one, remember? What was it you were on? A Paki-bashing spree? Isn’t that what you called it?’
‘Like I said, that man’s been dead a long time,’ Lucas said uncomfortably. ‘If a decade in jail doesn’t redefine you, something is wrong. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Harry struggled to his feet. The pain in his liver was sharp but his legs felt sturdier. One thing was for certain, he wasn’t about to out-box Lucas Dwight. ‘That was a great punch.’
‘Took me five years in that ring to perfect it.’ Lucas got to his feet and resumed the same stance. ‘Dip the left shoulder, fake an uppercut and hammer a liver punch into the side. Impossible to recover from.’
Harry nodded. ‘No argument there.’
‘You can leave now, detective, I’m not coming with you.’
‘When I get outside, I’m calling this in.’
‘I won’t be here when they arrive. Don’t waste their time.’
Harry glanced at the padlock on the floor. There was only one way out. If he sealed the outer door, Lucas was trapped.
‘Don’t bother. Next I’ll drop you with a kidney punch. You won’t get up for a week. Do I even sound or look like the man you put away?’
‘You’re a racist, drug-abusing prick who probably got so high last night, you can’t even remember what you did. Come on, where were you last night before you supposedly overdosed in here?’
For the first time, Lucas was unsure. ‘I . . . I can’t remember. I—’
‘No alibi. Previous history of violence towards ethnics and a strong affiliation with the BNP. I’d say that’s—’
‘I’m not the same man!’ Lucas shouted. ‘Can’t you see that? Fourteen years ago, I’d have spread your teeth across this place. Do I even sound
the same as that guy? Is this how I used to speak? Can you not see I’ve educated myself in prison? That tap I gave you was to put you down so I could make you see reason.’
‘You can’t reason with me. There is nothing to convince me you are not involved in Shakeel Ahmed’s murder. Nothing. Just because you’ve read a few books and done some courses in prison, that doesn’t change who you are. Inside.’
Lucas dropped his eyes to the floor. ‘And if I were to prove I’ve changed? Would you entertain the possibility?’
‘What could you conceivably do to show me you’re different?’
‘Answer my question!’ Lucas snapped, raising his voice and pointing at Harry. ‘If I showed you how wrong you are, would you entertain it?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yes. I would. But I’m talking adopt-an-ethnic kind of shit.’
‘Do you believe based solely on our conversation so far that I am a different man to the one you put away fourteen years ago?’
Harry mulled over the question. ‘It is possible.’
‘And do you also believe that, based on our current situation, if I wanted to hurt you – I mean really hurt you, whether it’s using this knife or just my fists – that I could? That leaving this gymnasium is in my control?’
Harry wasn’t about to confess he was a beaten man. He’d underestimated Lucas, that was for sure. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s completely within your control. You’ll still have to get past me.’
Lucas shook his head and gave Harry a patronizing stare. ‘Really? You were down for what? Four minutes? I could have beaten you. Stabbed you. Walked away.’
‘Fine,’ Harry replied tiredly. ‘You had your chance.’
‘You’ve still got one hand on your liver.’
‘What exactly do you want, Lucas?’
‘Are you carrying cuffs?’
Harry nodded.
‘I want you to secure yourself to that ring-post and give me the key.’
‘Do I look fucking stupid?’
‘Far from it. You’ve got your detective hat on and all the clues are pointing towards me.’
‘And the point in doing what you ask?’
‘So I can show you something.’
‘Feel free.’
‘No. I don’t trust you not to take advantage.’