by A. A. Dhand
‘Who?’ Harry redialled Saima.
‘The BNP. But this is a big play.’
‘What? You’re not making any sense.’
‘What time is it?’
Harry looked at his watch. ‘Seven.’
‘The Bradford Mela is about to start.’ Lucas closed his eyes and took a moment. ‘I don’t understand all of this,’ he whispered, ‘but I reckon there’s going to be a clash at the Mela tonight. I’ve been blamed for a racist murder of the most popular Asian man in Bradford.’ He inched closer to Harry, who was dialling Saima for a third time.
‘Damn it, pick up,’ Harry whispered.
‘A clash at the Mela means a repeat of two thousand and one. You remember two thousand and one, right?’
It was the year the Bradford riots had decimated the city. Harry recalled it vividly. He’d been on the streets and witnessed firsthand what a race riot looked like.
‘Bradford’s about to burn, Harry,’ said Lucas. ‘And I’m the fall guy.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
SAIMA VIRDEE WAS alone in the kitchen. She hated being alone. When Harry wasn’t there, the natural creaks of their home sounded more sinister and the mirrors seemed to reflect untrustworthy shadows.
Outside, she could hear sirens from ambulances and police cars. Their house was en route to Bradford Royal Infirmary and even though sirens were commonplace, the volume of them tonight was unprecedented.
Putting away the items on her thali was strangely calming. Even more so was having made the sacrifice on Eid, a demonstration of how much she loved Harry. Karva Chauth wasn’t an Islamic ritual but that’s what made it special. Saima was determined to fuse their lives and make a success of their relationship. On both sides of their families, nobody believed they would last. Theirs was a union forged amongst bloodshed, mostly their own. It made the equity in their marriage bottomless.
She knew the birth of their daughter would strengthen their bond but it would also open unhealed wounds. Their daughter would have no cousins to play with. No grandparents to spoil her. No family outside of Mum and Dad. The absence of family would be a tough welcome into the world.
Saima tried to shake the thoughts from her mind, but today of all days she couldn’t. It was the first time for centuries that Eid had fallen on the same day as Karva Chauth. Yet instead of celebrating, she was alone in the house while her husband battled to save his career.
A career she feared he wouldn’t hold on to for much longer. Because of his rage.
Harry didn’t deal with the rejection from his family half as well as he pretended to.
Saima touched the scar on the side of her face.
Was she any different?
It had been a painful separation.
She closed her eyes and saw her father’s snarling face. Then the heavy gold ring on his index finger accelerating towards her face. Saima shuddered and almost dropped the thali as the memory overtook her. She opened her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered and rubbed her bump protectively. Her daughter didn’t like her mother being tense. Saima’s stomach knotted thinking of the past. There was so much Harry didn’t know. So much she daren’t tell him. So much her friends at A & E had covered.
Because when it came to Saima, Harry’s need to protect her outweighed his ability to see reason. To take a step back. To think first.
Saima lit an incense stick, her third of the day, and left the kitchen.
She picked up the Sky remote and muted the sound while she flicked through the channels. Saima was halfway through the list when she heard a noise from the back yard. It sounded like breaking glass. Saima’s stomach tightened. Her daughter lashed out a kick and moved across her belly in protest. It momentarily took Saima’s breath away and she doubled over, gasping at a powerful cramp. She glanced at the sliding doors which led out to the garden. The blinds were closed but she had definitely heard something.
Saima put down the remote. She whispered to her daughter to calm, and rubbed her bump soothingly. After several moments of intense listening, Saima shuffled reluctantly towards the kitchen. She was still wearing her pink wedding outfit and the tassels rattled rhythmically.
The smell of incense became stronger as she entered the kitchen. The window blinds were closed in there too. She listened carefully, holding her breath involuntarily. And waited.
The lights in the kitchen were off, which meant if somebody were outside she would be able to see their silhouette.
‘You’re being silly,’ she whispered, slowly letting her breath out. In her stomach, her daughter agreed and jammed her heel into Saima’s ribs. She winced and gently pushed it away. There was a shift in her daughter’s position and another ripple across her waist.
Saima took a couple of deep breaths, then opened the blind quickly.
Nothing.
The garden was undisturbed.
Saima peered nervously to both sides and then towards the gate at the bottom. It was closed. No evidence anybody was there.
‘Stupid,’ she whispered and then suddenly let out a shrill cry as her mobile phone rang.
She swore in Urdu and hurried back to the living room.
It was Harry, but what he said didn’t calm her. A few moments into the conversation, she was more frightened than she had been since her father dragged her by her hair and threw her into the street.
Harry was speaking quickly and though he was trying to sound calm, he was anything but. He told her to drive to A & E. Immediately.
To stay there, amongst colleagues, until he collected her.
‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Harry, what’s happened? What’s going on?’
‘Saima, I don’t have time to explain. I’d just feel better if you were around people, especially given how close you are to giving birth. Please. Stay on the phone with me until you get to your car. Once you’re moving, I’ll hang up.’
Saima knew when not to press him. She grabbed her car keys and her hospital bag from the hallway and checked from the window that the front garden was clear.
She kept the phone to her ear, giving Harry a real-time update as she unlocked the door and stepped outside. She paused and nervously scanned right and then left. Satisfied there wasn’t an ambush, she hurried down the path to her car.
Saima opened the door of her Yaris and threw the bag on to the passenger seat. She got inside, locked the doors and started the car.
‘Jaan, I’m in,’ she said. ‘Leaving now. Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. I just want to focus on what I’m doing and not have my attention split worrying about you. Now go. Text me when you arrive.’
‘OK,’ she replied and hung up. Saima placed the phone on the passenger seat and put the car in gear. She stole a last glance at her house and was about to pull away when she remembered the incense burning in the kitchen. ‘Shit,’ she whispered. For a moment she convinced herself it would be fine. She had lit so many of them over the years, why would one cause the house to burn down now?
The distance to her front door seemed unfathomable. Her home suddenly felt hostile, a place to be wary of. Another pang of tension seized her stomach. She was gripping the steering wheel, wringing the rubber in frustration.
It would needle her. Increasingly. By the time Saima reached A & E she would be convinced her house was on fire.
She snatched the phone and started to redial Harry. But the call wouldn’t connect. Saima tried several times but she couldn’t get a signal. Suddenly the sirens sounding in the distance and her isolation in the car seemed overwhelming.
Saima hissed at her own dramatics and flung open the car door.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE TAXI DRIVER was on Leeds Road, dubbed ‘Curry Mile’ or ‘Neon Mile’ because of its tacky strobing restaurant signs. Usually it was the busiest area in Bradford with over two hundred restaurants. But tonight, a lot of the shops were closed, shutters pulled tight, signs switched off. The few that were open looked deserted
. Either everybody was at the Mela or they were keeping away.
Lucas shied away from the window, pulling his hoodie tight across his face as several police cars and ambulances tore down Leeds Road towards the city centre.
It took only a few minutes to reach the grounds of St Peter’s. Harry paid the fare and hurried after Lucas towards the entrance to the church.
‘Your wife safe?’ Lucas asked.
‘On her way to work.’
Harry was applying pressure to the wound in his side, which was still seeping blood. ‘With all the ambulances flying around she’ll probably get roped into working.’
Lucas paused outside the entrance. He hadn’t been back here for decades. It used to be his regular Sunday-morning ritual – until the streets replaced the church and anger banished faith. But now he was returning with an altogether different view of the world. There was room for Christianity and Islam in his life.
‘Want to tell me what we are doing here?’ Harry asked.
Lucas didn’t turn to face him. He was still staring at the front door.
Lucas sighed and spoke quietly, almost as if in a trance. ‘Today is turning into my own fucked-up episode of This is Your Life.’
‘You want me to do it?’ Harry asked, removing a bloodstained hand from his side and raising it to knock on the door.
‘Wait. Just need a minute.’
‘Come on, Lucas. You hear that?’
More police sirens screamed down Leeds Road.
Lucas ignored them. ‘She’s inside.’
‘Who? Somebody we can trust?’
Lucas knocked on the door, then took his fist away and cracked his knuckles.
‘Hope so. Haven’t seen her in . . . well . . . a long time.’
‘How do you know “she” is still here?’
Lucas didn’t reply instantly. He cracked his knuckles again. ‘She wrote to me. One letter every six months for fourteen years. Last one a week ago. Told me she knew I was coming out and she’d be here every evening for the first week in case I needed help.’
‘Mother?’
‘Sister.’
‘You have a sister?’
‘No, she is a Sister.’
The door opened suddenly and Lucas took a step back, bumping Harry off the step. Harry concealed his bloody hand over his wound.
A nun dressed in a black habit appeared in the doorway. She stared at Lucas, who was shuffling uncomfortably. She was slightly built with rosy cheeks which contrasted with the white veil across her hair.
‘I might not believe my eyes,’ she said quietly.
‘I . . . I . . . need . . . some help.’
She didn’t mince her words. ‘What kind of trouble this time?’
Lucas’s face was burning and the awkward silence compelled Harry to interrupt.
‘Lucas isn’t in trouble.’ He removed his badge and held it high. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Virdee. Lucas is an important colleague of mine working undercover. He has been since he came out. Trying . . . to . . . right a few wrongs. We need a place we can talk – away from prying eyes.’
Her expression didn’t change but her eyes darted between both men. ‘Is this true?’ she asked Lucas.
He nodded and uncomfortably dropped his eyes to the floor.
‘Then you had better come in.’ She pointed to the blood on Harry’s hands. ‘Looks like you’re in need of some assistance.’
The interior of the church was dimly lit. There were candles burning, and imposing stained-glass windows let in a little light from outside. All the window ledges held vases of white flowers.
Harry always found churches eerily unsettling and this one did nothing to change his opinion.
He was sitting on a pew, clutching his side, while Lucas and Sister Clarke spoke by the altar. Harry could hear their hushed voices but couldn’t make out the words. Behind them was a towering silver crucifix. Harry couldn’t look at it.
He was guilty of murder.
The cross felt hostile. Like a spy, intruding into his past. Judge. Jury. Executioner.
Harry tried to block images of what he’d done all those years before. Thinking them felt wrong here.
Harry avoided religious places, whatever the religion.
Murder was murder, even if it felt justified.
At the edge of his vision, he saw an embrace between Lucas and Sister Clarke before she disappeared behind the tabernacle. Lucas made his way over and sat next to Harry.
‘My aunt.’
‘Figured there might have been a family connection.’
‘She was entrusted with my guidance after my parents died. She believes she failed because of what I . . . became.’ Lucas pointed to the baptismal font to the left of the altar. ‘I was baptized there. How’re you doing?’
‘I’ll live,’ Harry replied but his breathing was more laboured than usual.
Lucas nodded towards Sister Clarke, who had reappeared with a tray. ‘Let her look at it. She’s good with stuff like this. Used to work as a missionary in war zones.’
‘Over here,’ the nun said, putting the tray down on a pew in front.
‘In here?’ Harry wobbled to his feet.
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it . . . I don’t know . . . improper?’ he asked, nodding towards the cross.
‘He’s seen worse,’ she replied abruptly.
Harry wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at humour or not. She was hard to read.
‘Take off your shirt.’
‘Easy, Sister, I’m a married man,’ he joked.
She wasn’t amused.
Harry dismissed the awkward silence and struggled with his shirt. He dropped it by his feet. ‘I did it while I was—’
‘I didn’t ask.’
Harry towered over her petite frame. Her eyes were momentarily drawn to the Maori tattoo wrapped around his arm. Then she placed cold hands on his skin and turned him so she could examine the injury.
‘Need to take out those splinters. Clean the wound.’
‘Appreciate it,’ Harry replied.
‘It’ll hurt.’
‘Do I get a lolly if I’m brave?’
This time, Sister Clarke did smile. Then told Harry to grit his teeth. ‘I don’t do screamers.’
Ten agonizing minutes later, Harry was sitting beside Lucas with a potent sharpness pulsating in his side. Sister Clarke had been efficient but far from subtle.
‘Put your mind someplace else,’ said Lucas. ‘I can see it all over your face.’
‘Antiseptic.’ Harry grimaced. ‘Didn’t need that.’
‘Some day you’re having.’
‘Tell me about it. What do you think is going on out there?’
‘Let’s start at the beginning. Shakeel Ahmed comes out of nowhere and takes a political seat.’
‘Not nowhere.’ Harry exhaled deeply. The cleaning of the wound had been more painful than the injury. ‘Although from what I’ve heard, it was a short campaign for such a landslide victory.’
‘I may not be part of the BNP machine,’ replied Lucas, ‘but I kept up with their progress. Didn’t have much of a plan when I came out – thought I might need to piggyback some favours. They were odds-on favourite to take Bradford West until Ahmed got the Asians to vote him in.’
‘Whatever keeps the BNP from power.’
‘Sure, but that must have pissed off a lot of people. I’m guessing that setting me up for his death – using the image of who I was fourteen years ago – will get the city rattled?’
‘Race has always unsettled this city.’
‘In two thousand and one, what caused the riot?’
‘It was nothing. A smokescreen of police heavy-handing a few Asians in Manningham.’
‘That’s all it takes in Bradford. Tonight is the Mela. It’s started?’
Harry checked his watch. ‘Yes.’
‘There’ll be thousands of Asians at the Mela. They’ll be giddy because it’s Eid but there will also be those in the park who are outra
ged by Ahmed’s death. The man must have had a following to get elected. He promised change. Regeneration. Ahmed was rich. Like silly-rich?’
‘Multi-millionaire,’ Harry replied. ‘A poor immigrant who hit the big time but he did put the work in.’
‘Not saying he didn’t. You get a small BNP scuffle at the Mela tonight and it’s going to spread like a virus. Imagine there’s a full-scale riot in Bradford – let’s say it’s the worst we’ve ever seen. Tomorrow, when the fires stop burning and the city is ruined, who gets the headlines? A few white BNP thugs or the Asians who destroyed their own city?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Lucas, that’s—’
‘Exactly what happened in two thousand and one. I was there, Harry. I helped. And I knew – we all knew – that we wouldn’t get the main headlines. How many Asians were jailed for those riots?’
‘Two hundred.’ Harry recalled the riots vividly. Hundreds of police officers had been injured. Three hundred people had been arrested, almost 90 per cent Asian. Jail sentences totalling 604 years had been handed out: unprecedented in English legal history.
‘I get it,’ Harry whispered. ‘Shakeel Ahmed promised this city change. Infrastructure. Jobs. You take him out – a hate crime on your release from prison – and we’ve got mayhem. We need to stop it. Lucas, if I take you in – I’ve got a few people I can trust—’
‘No chance. We fix this. You and I. There is nobody else.’
Harry sighed, checked his watch. ‘Seven p.m. Mela just started. There are six hundred officers around the city. At least let me phone my boss and warn him—’
‘No. You tell him you’ve got me and he’ll force you to bring me in.’
‘Lucas, you’re the only person who can stop this. If you’re in custody nobody can riot. Nobody can claim the police didn’t do their job and bring in the prime suspect. Once you’re in, the city has “justice”.’
‘That’s why they want me so badly. That’s why they’ve tapped their sources at the police. If you take me in, their plan is ruined, but so am I. Nobody will fight for me. Harry, you’re no good. Your credibility is in question and your boss . . . well, we’re not even sure about him.’