Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  Harry watched his mother, taking in every detail: her hair pulled into a tight ponytail and a few gold bangles on each arm. She was ageing rapidly, the moon reflecting grey off her scalp. Perhaps it wasn’t age. Perhaps it was trauma.

  Losing a son.

  Sitting on the park swing, Harry was invisible, hidden in the shadows. He had always been his mother’s favourite. Now he was considered impure.

  But she still loved him. He had seen it in her face the last time they had spoken, before Harry’s father had disowned him.

  Ranjit was standing awkwardly, hands in his pockets, with his usual emotionless face showing no empathy for his wife who had starved all day.

  His mother walked away from Harry’s father, keeping her back towards him. She raised the silver tray above her head, moving it in large circles, and worshipped the moon. She threw some rice, poured some water and then held out a mirror, looking at her husband’s reflection in it. Then she turned, approached her husband and offered him some water before taking a sip herself. With the fast broken, Harry’s parents waited for Ronnie and Mundeep to do the same.

  With the ceremony complete they went back into the shop. Ronnie was last in line. He paused. Glanced towards the park. Stared into the darkness.

  Just past the towering oak tree: two silhouettes.

  Ronnie stood still. For almost a minute. Then he finally disappeared into the store.

  Saima and Harry stood on the paved area next to the swings. The lamps in the park were broken so the only light came from the full moon. It shimmered on the cracked pavement slabs. Saima walked towards the moon, away from Harry, and began her ritual. She locked eyes with Harry’s reflection in the mirror and gave him a look so loving it took his breath away. For the briefest of moments, Harry forgot about everything. Where he was. Lucas Dwight. His job.

  Harry took a sip of water from the steel cup and handed it back to Saima. He pressed his index finger into some red dye on the tray called sindoor. Harry carefully transferred it to Saima’s forehead and made a bindi. It was the final step – a show of their marriage.

  With their ritual completed, Harry leaned forward and kissed her. Next year, when they did this, they would have a daughter.

  ‘Made your wish?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Are you supposed to?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘OK.’ Saima closed her eyes. ‘Done.’

  Harry nodded. ‘We’re good?’

  ‘Yes. It will get easier,’ she whispered and squeezed his hand. ‘Have faith.’

  ‘I do. On Eid, the holiest day for Muslims, instead of going out, my wife is standing in a derelict park, after fasting all day, giving thanks for the life of her husband. I don’t need any more faith than that.’

  Saima turned away so he couldn’t see her eyes well up.

  ‘Here.’ Harry put his hand in his pocket and removed a small red box.

  Saima beamed him a smile. ‘An Eid present?’

  He nodded and placed it in her outstretched hand.

  She opened it and a warm glow spread across her face. ‘Diamond earrings?’

  ‘It’s a dual gift. An Eid and an advance push present,’ he said, placing his hands on her tummy.

  ‘One carat, easy,’ she said enthusiastically.

  ‘Most women drop the odd hint. You’ve told me every day since that test turned positive.’

  She closed the box and wiped tears from her face. ‘Bloody hormones,’ she said and laughed.

  Harry’s phone beeped. He checked the message.

  Why do you do it to yourself?

  It was from Ronnie. Harry looked towards the store, at the upstairs window where he could see Ronnie’s silhouette. He didn’t reply and put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘The earrings are perfect,’ Saima said. ‘You can go and save the city now.’

  ‘I’m just trying to save myself.’

  Saima knew he wasn’t only talking about his job.

  ‘I’m sorry to cut short our evening, but I need this.’

  ‘Just be careful.’ She put his hand on her belly. ‘Because we need you. Promise me if I call you’ll come running.’

  ‘In spite of what’s happening, you and her’ – he rubbed her stomach – ‘are my priority. Nothing will stop me.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  A DENSE WHITE ghost had suddenly descended across Bradford and it took double the normal twenty minutes for Harry to reach Undercliffe Cemetery.

  He arrived after six, just as the moon had been swallowed by the mist. He had dropped Saima at home, ignored her request for him to change out of his best suit and promised he would call regularly.

  It was an important day for Saima. Normally she would have been surrounded by family: feasting, celebrating and creating memories. All the things she wouldn’t experience any more. Things Harry wouldn’t. And instead of making sure she never felt alone, Harry was out tracking shadows.

  It was the blueprint of his life. Doing penance for rash decisions.

  Harry was on edge. On the way he had passed more patrol cars than he ever had seen. There was a large police presence circling the streets. Harry had tried calling several of his colleagues, none of whom had answered. Either they were ignoring him or they were busy.

  The wrong kind of busy.

  Harry parked the BMW across from the main entrance of the cemetery. He was in a blind spot, between two fused streetlights, with only the mist for company.

  Undercliffe was predominantly an Asian neighbourhood, part of a twenty-five-acre estate, one of the largest English Heritage parks in England.

  The cemetery had once been the resting place for wealthy wool merchants in Bradford. An exclusive burial ground. It had become run-down in the nineties, ending up a derelict ruin until Bradford Council took over its upkeep. Nowadays anybody could be buried there. It mirrored the fortunes of the city – wealth and exclusivity had been eroded.

  Harry killed the engine and turned off the lights. A quiet, calming darkness surrounded him.

  There was a sudden tap on the driver-side window. Harry nearly jumped out of his seat. He turned to see Lucas Dwight staring in at him, his knuckles pressed against the glass. Harry saw the familiar tattoo of ‘Love’ and, underneath it, ‘Hate’. He hadn’t fancied his chances of finding Lucas but he’d had no other place to start.

  Harry released the locks and Lucas jumped in the back. The two men stared at each other in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Surprised?’ Lucas said finally.

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘At the house.’ Lucas pointed a finger at the mirror. ‘What the fuck happened?’

  ‘Not sure.’ Harry looked away, scanning the immediate area.

  ‘I’m here to clear my name. All kind of places and things I could have gone and done. You need to level with me.’

  Harry didn’t reply.

  ‘You know something and you’re not sharing. Not how this works, Harry. You in or am I walking?’

  ‘I got nothing concrete,’ Harry said. ‘My wallet – the one that was stolen on Lumb Lane – somehow ended up in my boss’s hands. Only one way it got there.’

  ‘No way those deadbeats got to your boss directly.’

  ‘Exactly. Which means it went up the chain of command until someone – on a street level – had access to my boss.’

  ‘He dirty?’

  ‘Not a chance.’ Harry put his eyes back on Lucas. ‘Most stand-up guy I know. He’s bled for this city and cleaned it up the hard way.’

  ‘You saying he never got his hands dirty?’

  ‘We all get our hands dirty. Just some more than others.’

  ‘You trust him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He wanted me to give you up. To him personally. Which . . . well, isn’t his style.’

  ‘He’s dirty. The fact he came to your home when he’s got bigger things to worry about?’ Lucas’s face creased in disbelief.

  Harry no
dded. ‘Nothing’s black and white. Of all people, you should know that.’

  Lucas took a deep breath and slouched down into the seat. ‘You and me? Are we good?’

  Harry nodded. ‘My wife vouched for you.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me she was Muslim.’

  ‘Why would I?’

  Lucas shrugged. ‘Seems like we might have shared a few of the same struggles.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Harry replied, rather more bitterly than he intended.

  ‘Plenty.’ Lucas leaned forward suddenly so his breath was warm on Harry’s neck. ‘In prison, there were two camps of Asians: the Muslims and the rest. I know that divide. Can’t say I understand it. I thought you were all the same.’

  Harry turned his face so he had Lucas in the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t do divides. Neither does Saima.’

  ‘Worked out well for me. She’s a good woman. I could see it.’

  ‘Your mate, is he in there?’ Harry asked, changing the topic.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. Something’s going down. There are patrols everywhere. This city’s got more blue flashing than a strip club.’

  ‘Any thoughts on why I’m being set up?’

  ‘You’re a decoy, but I’m not sure for what.’

  ‘Come on then,’ Lucas replied. ‘Let’s go and see what Daniel Levy knows about it.’

  Harry scanned the street quickly, then followed Lucas towards the gates, keeping only a few steps behind.

  Next to the gates was a low wall with iron railings barely five feet high. They climbed over.

  The cemetery was built on top of a hill that overlooked the centre of Bradford. A road snaked its way to the summit and on a clear day gave a view which stretched miles across the city. But today was different.

  It didn’t feel like a burial ground. It was a barren land, long forgotten and left to decay. The grass was wiry and unkempt, trying almost treacherously to trap a stray ankle.

  Harry kept Lucas at his shoulder. They didn’t need to be covert – nobody would see them coming in the fog.

  ‘This place is all wrong,’ Harry whispered, coming to a stop.

  Lucas was at his side and nodded. ‘Not how I remember it. Not at all. Used to be owned by a private developer.’

  ‘That deal ended a long time ago. Your mate – where’s he likely to be?’

  ‘He’s not my mate. He’ll be where the best tomb is; it gives the best shelter. At the top.’

  The cemetery was full of elaborate gravestones, some with sculptures above. Harry paused at a dirty white statue of clasped hands.

  ‘Means a husband and wife are buried together.’ Lucas grabbed Harry’s arm to lead him away, but Harry didn’t move. He stared to his right, at a towering stone column which rose so far into the air it disappeared into the mist. He pointed to it, almost mesmerized by how elaborate some of the monuments were.

  ‘And that one?’

  ‘Size of the column reflects how long they lived,’ Lucas whispered. ‘This guy lived a full life. Pretty rare in them days. Folk didn’t last long in the mills.’

  Harry turned to face him. ‘How do you know all this?’

  Lucas shrugged. ‘I used to sleep here. Got to know the caretaker, back in the days when this place was taken care of. You learn shit.’ He pulled Harry’s arm a little harder. ‘We need to go.’

  They walked quickly. Most of the shrines were detailed works of art – a phoenix representing resurrection and a serpent biting its own tail. The bigger they were, the more they put Harry on edge. It was a walk back in time, to when wealth and grandeur meant something in Bradford.

  ‘Why on earth would anyone deal here?’ he whispered.

  ‘Last place the cops will look. When business is done and you’re high and alone, there’s no better place to sleep. Nobody fucks with you in a graveyard.’ Lucas was breathing heavily and he slowed down to a crawl. ‘It’s just over there,’ he said, pointing into the mist. ‘There’s a huge column about twenty metres high. Biggest grave in this place.’

  ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some wool merchant’s – back in the day. Get off the road – we’re not far.’

  Harry followed Lucas on to the grass, walking across graves. He didn’t look at them, feeling uncomfortable at stepping on the dead.

  These were newer, humbler gravestones with shimmering fresh flowers scattered across several of them. They broke up the grey dullness, colourful bursts in a black and white world.

  Harry suddenly stopped. Lucas didn’t notice and disappeared ahead. Harry stared at a tiny headstone. It was a baby’s grave. Harry thought of the nightmares plaguing him.

  Saima screaming wildly in the hospital. Harry with his arms around her. In front, an empty baby’s cot.

  Karma.

  He’d taken a life and got away with it.

  A life for a life.

  The writing was a blur, but Harry saw the age.

  Three days old.

  His stomach turned over and Harry looked away, feeling short of breath.

  The grass was wet and treacherous. Harry slipped and cursed silently, catching up to Lucas. At the top of the cemetery Bradford was invisible below them.

  ‘Shame,’ whispered Lucas, ‘the view’s the only thing which makes coming here worthwhile.’

  Harry let Lucas have a moment, lost in some memory from the past. Then: ‘Ready?’ he asked, touching Lucas’s shoulder.

  He nodded. ‘Let’s see if Mr Levy is present.’

  ‘If he’s here, you make him think whatever you want. Fear is a great motivator. But you overstep the mark and I’ll put a stop to it.’

  ‘I’m not going to kill anyone. I know where to draw the line.’

  ‘For your sake, I hope so.’

  ‘A threat? Seriously?’

  ‘I’m still a copper.’

  ‘No, you’re suspended. Remember? You can’t make your own rules when it suits you. Just leave him to me. Levy knows what I’m capable of.’ Lucas’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. ‘More to the point, so do you.’

  Harry crept behind Lucas, keeping low and stepping where he did. They used the enormous gravestones as cover. Lucas pointed to a towering memorial which looked like a finger pointing to the heavens. It had a marble roof, supported by thick pillars.

  ‘Bingo,’ Lucas whispered.

  ‘In there?’

  Lucas nodded. ‘Don’t you see him?’

  Harry focused where Lucas was pointing and made out the shape of a curled-up body.

  Lucas moved silently, keeping on the grass. When they were only a few feet away, he stepped on to the road and dragged his feet purposefully. ‘Yo, Levy?’

  The body didn’t move. Harry and Lucas glanced at each other. They split up, one standing either side of the grave.

  ‘Daniel? It’s Lucas.’

  Still no response.

  ‘Fuck sake – you high, man?’

  Lucas reached down and rolled Daniel from his side on to his back. He recoiled as if he’d been stung.

  Harry’s breath caught in his chest.

  Dead at their feet, with his throat slit, was Daniel Levy.

  Next to him lay a weapon which looked very much like Lucas Dwight’s switchblade, still gleaming with blood.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE BLOOD WAS warm and salty on Martin Davis’s face. Each lashing of the zanjeer across Bashir’s back splattered more.

  Davis could feel Bashir becoming angrier with each blow. He wasn’t yelling in pain or screaming. He was grunting. Welcoming the bitterness of the blades, taking himself to a place where he would be able to unleash fury without remorse.

  Davis was too afraid to close his eyes, which compelled him to watch the macabre act.

  The blades and the blood were bad enough, but the raw anger was truly horrifying. And still Bashir hadn’t looked at Davis.

  Finally he stopped.

  Bashir’s arm ca
me to rest by his side, the zanjeer dangling impotently. Blood dripped steadily on to the floor.

  There were deep lacerations across Bashir’s back. Some were new, but most were old wounds which had easily reopened. He was breathing heavily. He stepped to the side, away from Davis, and then made his way behind him.

  Bashir was close: Davis could feel his breath on the back of his neck.

  And then the zanjeer was suddenly dumped into Davis’s lap. It was cold and heavy and streaked with blood.

  ‘No, please – I don’t know what this is about.’ Davis flinched away from the blades. ‘I didn’t kill Shakeel Ahmed!’

  Bashir pushed forward Davis’s head. Davis felt a blade on his neck but it didn’t cut him.

  Instead, Bashir sliced the back of Davis’s clothes and pulled them open roughly, exposing his skin. For a moment, Davis felt Bashir’s hands, warm and clammy, running down his back, stroking unblemished skin. It felt like the touch of a lover, yet was more sinister than anything Davis had experienced.

  Another stroke of Bashir’s palms. Massaging the skin.

  And then Davis’s hands were cut loose.

  Bashir walked in front of him and for the first time the men came face to face.

  Davis stared at an intense-looking Asian man. Easily late fifties, with emotionless eyes and sweat running down his brow. Bashir was heavy-set with a wildly hairy chest. His shoulders were powerful, broad with honed deltoids. With Zain, Bashir spoke his native language, but with Davis he was forced into English.

  ‘You know something,’ Bashir said dryly. He pointed to the zanjeer. ‘You or me. Choose.’

  Davis looked at him in disbelief. ‘What?’

  There was no response from Bashir.

  Davis suddenly realized why Bashir had sliced open the clothes on his back. ‘You want me to whip myself?’

  Blood was dripping from Bashir’s body on to the laminate flooring and pooling by his feet. ‘Yes. It helps memory.’

  Davis had witnessed how forcefully Bashir had whipped himself. He still had Bashir’s blood splattered across his face. But the alternative, of beating himself with the blades, seemed unthinkable.

  ‘Pick it up,’ Bashir said, greater impatience in his voice.