by A. A. Dhand
Tears were dripping down Karen Steele’s face, leaving pale streaks on her burning cheeks before hitting Lucas’s hand.
‘It’s not knowing.’ Lucas eased his grip across her mouth. ‘Every time you get a cough? A cold? Shit, even a nick whilst shaving, you think, is this the start?’ He removed his hand and placed it on her shoulder. ‘This body of yours? It starts to betray you. Your blood starts to give way to something else. And it’s always inside of you. Invading. Killing. A virus that breaks you down. And there is nothing you can do. No amount of praying or eating healthy or yoga. You will die. And it will be terrible.’
Steele’s body trembled. Blood continued to swirl around the syringe with each quiver of her leg.
‘People find out and they treat you differently,’ Lucas continued, urging Steele to reconsider her silence. ‘They say they won’t but they can’t help it. You’re infected.’
Harry was motionless in front of her, staring into her eyes. He never wavered. Never glanced at the syringe. ‘Two minutes.’
‘You fulfilled your part of the deal when you gave this man my blood.’ Lucas raised his voice, pleading because he knew Harry wouldn’t hesitate. There was poison in his eyes, a terrible rage in his very essence. Behind a motionless façade, Harry was starting to crack.
‘Give yourself a fifty-fifty,’ Lucas said. ‘Give him up and we’ll stop. Until Harry hits that syringe, the only thing you have lost is a night’s sleep. Ask yourself – one night or a thousand?’
Lucas got off the bed. ‘Minute left. Choose carefully.’
He grabbed his hoodie and walked towards the door, pausing halfway there, by Harry’s side. The two men didn’t acknowledge each other but the message was clear.
Are you sure, Harry? Really sure about this?
Then Lucas left. And with him went Karen Steele’s chance of reasoning.
Because no matter how unlikely, Lucas was the only one capable of mercy. In front of her, Harry got to his feet.
‘Please—’ she whispered.
‘Thirty seconds.’ Harry raised his hand in preparation.
Steele sobbed hysterically. She yelled for Lucas to help her, begging him. She felt sick; she needed some air. ‘Please . . . I can’t breathe.’
‘Five seconds.’ Harry moved quickly and wrapped his hand around the syringe. ‘Damn you for making me do this!’ he hissed. ‘You have only yourself to blame. I gave you a choice.’ He put his thumb on the plunger. ‘Three . . . two . . . one—’
‘No! Stop! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!’
‘Give me a name!’
‘Colin! Colin Reed!’
Lucas stormed into the room. ‘Pull it out, Harry! Now!’
Harry retracted the syringe carefully. He waved it in front of her face. ‘Blood never touched you.’ He handed it to Lucas and then backed away. Behind him Steele was broken in the chair, wailing and rocking back and forth.
Harry turned to Lucas. ‘It’s done with.’ He pointed at the needle. ‘Get rid of it.’
Lucas resheathed it and placed it inside his pocket.
‘I want to go to a hospital,’ Steele sobbed.
‘Where do we find Reed?’ Harry asked.
‘A hospital,’ she repeated.
‘You’ll get what you need. The faster you talk, the quicker you get it.’
‘I don’t know where he lives.’
‘Fuck sake,’ Harry said, ‘back to this?’
‘I don’t! He was really weird about stuff like that. He always came here to see me.’
‘You better give me something. Lucas, give me back the syringe.’
‘No!’ said Steele. ‘I . . . I . . . know where he works. He always works nights. I can tell you that.’
‘Go on.’
‘A warehouse – behind Toller Lane.’
‘Warehouse?’
‘Yes. It has big blue shutters across it. Some packaging company? Blade Packaging maybe? They sell spare car parts. Or something like that.’
‘How do we know he still works there?’
‘He does! I saw him there when I took him the blood.’
‘What does he look like?’ Harry asked.
‘He’s white, around six-five and bald. He has a tattoo of a British Bulldog on his neck.’
Lucas grabbed Harry’s arm. ‘We’ve got what we need.’
‘Please untie me,’ Steele begged.
‘No,’ Harry replied and then turned to Lucas. ‘Make her comfortable. Can’t have her calling this guy or the authorities. She stays here. Gag her. We’ll send a patrol over later to pick her up.’
‘What? But you said—’ she began.
Lucas grabbed one of Steele’s shirts from the floor and tore off a sleeve. He wrapped it around her mouth. She didn’t even try to fight. ‘You don’t need a hospital. It never got near you and it was a clean needle.’
‘Before we leave, I want to make a deal with you,’ Harry said.
Steele mumbled through the gag.
‘I know, I know, listen. I did what I had to because my wife and child’s lives are on the line. You forced my hand. I’m going to make you an offer and leave. Give you time to think it through. If I were to report you for what you’ve done – gather the evidence, so to speak – you’d be looking at prison. Complicit in framing Lucas and ultimately playing a part in the death of Shakeel Ahmed and the abduction of a pregnant woman.’
Steele dropped her head onto her chest.
‘I understand you had a debt to pay and, well, things haven’t exactly been easy for you. But you keep your mouth shut about what happened here tonight and I’ll forget everything you told me. But you burn me – and I’ll fuck all over you. Believe me.’
Downstairs, Lucas was by the back door.
‘Did what I had to,’ Harry said unashamedly. ‘You’re free to go, Lucas. A deal is a deal.’
‘Would you have gone through with it?’
Harry didn’t answer. Truth was he didn’t really know. ‘Colin Reed – you heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going down to this warehouse. Sounds like the kind of place you might take a hostage. Drop you off someplace on the way?’
Lucas glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall: 22.00. ‘Two hours. Then no matter what happens, I’m gone.’
‘I’m not asking you to stay.’
‘I don’t want this to end badly, Harry. If we can’t find your wife – you’re going to want to trade me in.’
‘I am, which is why you leaving removes that possibility. If it comes to a choice between you and my wife – there is no choice.’
It had the makings of a really complicated two hours. But Lucas wanted to be free. Not looking over his damn shoulder for ever. ‘You weren’t a match for me this morning, Harry, and nothing’s changed. So, if and when we arrive someplace bad, I won’t hesitate. You understand? I’m nobody’s bait.’
‘I get it.’ Harry stepped past Lucas and opened the back door. ‘Come on. Clock’s ticking.’
FORTY
THERE WERE VOICES arguing. Saima could make out two. The pain in her womb had become one continuous throb: an unending spasm which was squeezing her insides. She could taste dirty water in her mouth and felt blood trickling down the side of her face.
‘I didn’t sign up for this!’
‘Are you crazy? Colin will kill you. Get her out of the alley, back in the warehouse.’
Colin.
A name.
‘Look at her? You think this is right? I’m not killing a baby.’
The men flicked from Urdu to English. Mixed accents. Saima imagined they might be immigrants who’d been in Yorkshire a few years.
And then a scuffle. Voices raised.
She turned her head and saw one of the men approaching her with a knife, silver-bright in the darkness.
He was almost upon her when he was taken to ground.
They were struggling, right beside her. Two men thrashing on the floor. They careered into her and the impac
t sent another ripple of agony through her body.
‘Run!’ the man was screaming. He cursed at her in Urdu, urging her to get to the street. ‘They’re going to kill you!’
Saima scratched at the floor, desperately trying to find the energy to escape. She snatched at a large piece of jagged rock by her side and struggled to her feet, dragging her spoiled wedding dress. She could feel blood leaking down her thighs.
Behind her, the men continued to fight. There was a blood-curdling scream and then the men went silent. Saima turned to see their shadows – one on top of the other.
She couldn’t make out who had won.
There was movement: a silhouette getting to his feet. Turning towards her. Starting to run.
Saima charged towards the street, ignoring every warning in her body not to do so. Her legs were leaden and her stomach felt detached.
She wasn’t going to make it.
The street was agonizingly close.
Saima squeezed the rock in her hand tightly. It was the size of a cricket ball. She slowed down.
It was time to fight. As Harry would.
Saima doubled over and leaned to the left.
The footsteps came closer.
She didn’t move. Gripped the rock firmly. Prayed, gathering her courage.
Then he was upon her. Rough hand on her shoulder.
She uncoiled quickly, like a snake attacking its prey, and smashed the rock into his temple. Saima hit him with everything she had.
There was a sickening crack of bone, a shocked yell of pain and the man crumpled to his knees.
Saima raised the rock high above her head, screamed in rage, and hit him again. Harder.
And again. Harder still.
She kept going, screaming all the while.
Saima could feel blood, warm and urgent, running across her hands, but still she didn’t stop – there was such anger exploding through her body, as if her own blood were on fire.
And then the man was motionless. On the floor. The side of his face had caved inwards.
Saima dropped the rock. She turned around and limped to the street.
Towards the sirens.
She emerged from the side street like a ghoul. Covered in blood: some her own, most of it her captor’s. Her hair was strewn chaotically across her face and blood was running down her thighs like water.
Saima walked brazenly into the middle of the road and forced an approaching vehicle to stop. The headlights hit her like sunshine. She was on Toller Lane, only half a mile from the hospital.
The driver jumped out of the car and she could hear the voice, angry to start with, then horrified.
Another car pulled over.
Saima couldn’t focus. Everything was becoming dark and hazy and she hadn’t the energy to resist. She felt as if she were dying.
She thought the driver might have been a woman but it was too late. Saima was slumping towards the road.
FORTY-ONE
LISTER PARK COVERED more than a square mile. George Simpson was having a logistical nightmare trying to contain the anarchy.
Both entrances on Keighley Road and North Park Road had been blocked by officers. He stood outside a police van, looking up at a black sky. In his head, it seemed as if a dark cloak of evil had been thrown over Bradford. There was a zip of lightning and a booming crack of thunder. It felt like the end of the world.
Somehow the BNP had infiltrated the park. Most of the thousand-strong crowd were teenagers, roped into the adrenaline rush of a fracas. Simpson had received word that known fascists were running amok, orchestrating chaos. The speed of the pandemonium was startling.
It felt a long way from orderly.
The police had blocked off the events area in the park, trapping thousands of Asians inside. They were equally as boisterous, venting their fury at being boxed in.
Three hundred officers, all decked out in riot gear, were trying to force the BNP back. Taking small, measured steps. Bottles were being hurled at them, stones, cans of beer, and metal ball-bearings fired from pellet guns.
And then the first petrol bomb sailed through the air.
A threat of intent, flame wavering in the gusts, sailing towards his officers. The bomb hit the floor and detonated. An electrical current of anger swept the park. It wasn’t now a case of trying to hold anyone back, more how to stop the whole thing exploding.
Petrol bombs were now landing in threes and fours, pushing the crowd at the Mela into a grand-mal seizure. The Asians charged towards the activists.
Police lines fractured.
Hell erupted.
Bashir arrived in Baildon, and parked outside the residence he’d watched for many years. It was five miles from the city centre, a predominantly white, middle-class area of Bradford.
He dimmed his headlights and sat in almost complete darkness, tucked away at the side of the road. He’d seen the fierce battles raging in the town centre, and was stunned at the destruction which had already taken place.
Yet again the BNP had underestimated the unity existing in the cauldron of Bradford. Faces that had never met now united, the colour of their skin binding them closer than blood.
On a night when the moon was choked by the clouds, Bradford was bright orange with flames. Smoke bellowing from the infernos took the city back a hundred years to when the mills had been operating. And while Bradford was suffering its own nightmare, here a prominent figure was about to feel the force of his own karma.
Bashir looked at the bag on the passenger seat. He could almost feel the zanjeer. Alive. Waiting. This visit was a long time coming. Perhaps too long. Bashir reclined his seat, closed his eyes and started to build his anger.
From a place forty years in the making.
Simpson was on the phone to the Assistant Chief Constable, shouting that he needed more reinforcements. He didn’t know where the rioters were coming from, but Lister Park was about to burst. Ripples of anarchy fluxed through the ground, resulting in fierce clashes to the east and west. The police dogs were having most success, causing offenders to run instead of charge.
Simpson was taking casualties. By the ten. He looked around the events area. The realization was stark and hit him like a sledgehammer.
This is being orchestrated.
‘Sir! Sir! It looks like we might have quashed this. They’re leaving the park in their hundreds!’ one of his officers shouted.
Simpson knew it was fantasy.
This was a long way from over.
He picked up his radio and took stock of what was happening around the park. Another ambulance pulled up near the makeshift police base. Simpson saw two of his officers, blood pouring down their faces, stumbling towards it.
A few minutes later, as the heavens reopened, George Simpson was shouting at his men to mobilize and head towards City Hall.
Bradford was under siege.
Colin Reed was in his office, watching the mayhem on CCTV monitors. He had got one of his hackers to tap into the city’s mainframe.
Bradford was on fire. Riots were raging in Manningham, Lister Park and Centenary Square. It looked random.
Exactly as they’d planned it would.
Reed had placed sections of his men in the park. Some white. Some Asian. They had infiltrated the peaceful BNP march and engineered a clash. And the rest? The rest was Bradford.
And Bradford had fallen.
It was going as planned. They’d been plotting this for months. A chance to take one of the largest cities in the UK.
The riot was nothing more than a distraction. Reed was eliminating his competition. One location at a time. His men were burning them to the ground and it appeared to be part of the anarchy close by.
Now all he needed was Lucas Dwight.
Without him, his plan might fail. Word might leak that this wasn’t anything to do with race or the BNP. And people higher up the food chain – people he didn’t want to awaken – might realize they had been played.
Three depots were caught
up in a crazy night of violence.
There was a fourth location.
The most important.
He was looking at the location on-screen. Shakeel Ahmed’s flagship restaurant, next to the iconic National Media Museum. Bang in the centre of Bradford. Reed watched eagerly as his men, dressed in black, disappeared into the building.
Reed tapped the desk nervously.
Five minutes later, his men reappeared. And then they were gone. Dispersed into the night.
Reed peered closely at the screen. He had to wait a few minutes before the windows of the restaurant blew out.
Colin Reed’s work was done.
Almost.
He looked at his watch: 10 p.m. He sighed and switched off the monitor.
Saima Virdee.
Whether Harry arrived to rescue his wife or not, her fate had been sealed the moment Colin Reed had been forced to kidnap her.
Martin Davis couldn’t breathe. The building was on fire. Escape was impossible. He had woken up on the floor, handcuffed to the desk, in Shakeel Ahmed’s office.
Davis needed to do something. He was going to die otherwise.
He leaned back and put his weight into pulling the handcuffs against the leg of the desk. Smoke crept under the doorframe and stole towards him like an assassin.
Davis pulled with everything he had. He put his feet against the wood and applied as much force as he could, tearing skin clean from his wrist.
The urgency and sheer force cracked the leg. The handcuffs slipped away.
Davis went tumbling over, but was quickly on his feet. He rushed to the phone. Dead.
He could feel the intensity of the fire behind the door and he wasn’t going to open it.
Smoke had now seized the room. Davis dropped to his knees and put his jacket – the part Bashir hadn’t cut into – across his face.
Useless.
He keeled over, fighting to breathe. There was no air left and the heat was suddenly upon him. The office door wilted and the flames burst inside, eating up the floor and everything before it.
The last thing Martin Davis saw before he died was the canvas painting of Mecca, high above him on the wall, its corners starting to curl.