Streets of Darkness (D.I. Harry Virdee)

by A. A. Dhand

  She shook her head and Bashir wiped tears from her face. She jerked her head away.

  ‘In my village in Pakistan, no police then. No court. Only “panchayats”. Village elders. Wise people.’

  ‘I beg you,’ Mavis whispered, ‘forgive him and leave us alone.’

  Bashir grunted. ‘Forgive?’ He shook his head. ‘No forgiving.’

  He was speaking to Mavis but his eyes were fixed solidly on Simpson, who was teetering on the brink of consciousness.

  ‘Panchayats make decision. Remove my family land. Bring shame on my family. Shame in my community is very serious.’ Bashir panted, almost growled, as he spoke. His face darkened and he wrapped the chain across his hands. ‘The girl – the one you raped – she is here. In Bradford.’

  Now Simpson finally raised his head and looked at the fury raging in Bashir’s eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Panchayats make decision. Make right what happened. My family? My mother died of shame. My father few months later. You know why?’

  Simpson was lost for words.

  ‘Ruksa.’ Bashir almost hissed her name. ‘The woman you spoiled. She is here. In my home.’ He stood up, towering above Simpson, with his end game in sight. He raised the zanjeer high above his head and looked more terrifying than anybody Simpson had ever seen.

  ‘She became my wife.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  GLASS ABOVE HARRY’S head shattered and fell like sand to the floor. The piercing crack from the gunshot was deafening, as though someone had punched him in the head.

  The world became mute. In the darkness, Harry experienced an overwhelming sensation of helplessness.

  They were trapped in the corridor, with no way of knowing where the gunshot had come from. Lucas grabbed Harry and was pulling him back when the lights suddenly came on. In front of them, filling the doorway, was a six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound hulk. His arms were crossed, his sleeves rolled up. Even his forearms were enormous. The light above the doorway bounced off his shaven head.

  Harry spotted the tattoo of the British bulldog on Reed’s neck.

  Colin Reed.

  Reed stared at them with narrow, emotionless eyes, and then spoke, but the ringing was still echoing in Harry’s head. Harry massaged his ears urgently and spotted the pistol in Reed’s hand.

  Reed walked slowly towards them, massive Doc Martens crunching on glass. Harry’s hearing started to return, the whine from the bullet still in the background.

  ‘Move,’ said Reed coldly. Lucas made as if to charge him. Harry saw the move and grabbed his arm.

  ‘Try it,’ Reed said. ‘It’ll make it quick.’

  ‘Come on,’ Harry whispered into Lucas’s ear. ‘This isn’t the time.’

  They backed away down the corridor towards a door at the far end. It opened as they approached and they walked into a makeshift office. There was an old table in the corner with a desktop fan moving humid air around. Several laptops were receiving harrowing images from the rioting in the city.

  There were two men in the room, both armed. They trained their pistols on Harry and Lucas.

  ‘Over there,’ Reed said, pushing Lucas roughly towards the back wall. Lucas turned and swiftly cracked a vicious right hook into Reed’s jaw. It was so quick Reed didn’t have time to react. But the strike had no impact. Reed’s neck was as thick as a python: layers of muscle simply absorbed the blow. His expression never changed. ‘You want to try that again, Junior?’

  Lucas dipped his left shoulder and threw his trademark liver punch. This time Reed caught the blow in his oversized hand. He pulled Lucas towards him and brutally head-butted his face, shattering Lucas’s nose.

  Lucas was thrown like a matchstick and collapsed three feet away, clutching his face and writhing on the floor in agony.

  Reed turned to Harry. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Where’s my wife?’ Harry replied, holding his ground.

  ‘No idea.’ Reed pointed the gun at him. ‘Over there – next to Sleeping Beauty.’

  Harry didn’t move. ‘What kind of sick fuck takes a pregnant woman?’

  ‘What kind of arsehole puts his wife in harm’s way when he’s been told to back off?’

  Harry pointed towards Lucas. ‘I brought you what you asked. Now give me back my wife.’

  ‘This wasn’t our arrangement.’ Reed nodded to the men standing behind Harry. ‘Keep packing it up. We’re done.’

  The men moved swiftly, powering down their laptops and unplugging hard drives.

  ‘Car’s out front,’ Reed continued. ‘I’ll finish up here.’

  Harry turned his face to get a good look at the men. As soon as his focus was removed from Reed, he suffered the consequences. Reed lashed out a thunderous blow and hit Harry in the chest. He collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.

  Reed’s accomplices grabbed their equipment and hurried out of the room, closing the door.

  Harry rolled on to his side. He tried to calm the panic in his chest and take shorter breaths but Reed had struck him hard enough to crack ribs.

  Saima. She’s here. She has to be.

  Get up, Harry. Find a way.

  Lucas was on his knees, clutching his nose, which was still haemorrhaging blood.

  Reed took out his phone and made a call, ordering two more graves to be dug.

  Two more.

  More.

  Was he talking about Saima?

  Harry got on to his hands and knees and found his breath. He searched the room desperately for a weapon but it was useless. ‘Why?’ he asked finally. ‘Why the obsession with Lucas? Why this . . . this destruction in the city?’

  ‘None of your damn business,’ Reed replied.

  ‘None of my business? None of my business? You turned my whole fucking world upside down.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’ Reed turned, took a huge stride forward, and kicked Lucas. The Doc Marten shattered the side of Lucas’s face. There was a nauseating crunch of bone and his head smashed into the wall, hard enough to crack the plaster. His limp body crumpled to the floor. ‘This prick’, Reed said, pointing to Lucas, ‘was all I needed. Not you fucking things up. Involving your wife. Complicating my night.’

  Harry stared at Lucas’s body. Blood pooled from his head around his neck.

  Then, without warning, Reed fired two shots into the back of Lucas’s skull. Bone and brain fragments splattered across the wall.

  More ringing in Harry’s ears. Visions of twenty years ago.

  You’re next.

  Don’t die easily, Harry. Go down fighting. At least make him earn it.

  With the echo from the bullets still resounding in the room, Harry lunged forward from his knees and threw his arms around Reed’s legs in a forceful rugby tackle.

  Reed was too muscular to be brought down and instead cracked the pistol down into Harry’s neck.

  The pain was intense but Harry couldn’t relent. If he lost this tussle, it was over. He removed his right hand from Reed’s legs and grabbed his testicles.

  Reed yelled, first in surprise, and then in pain. He pointed the gun towards Harry, who raised his other hand to grab it.

  Harry, still on his knees, was at a huge disadvantage as Reed bore the weapon down whilst trying to fire. But Harry had wedged his finger behind the trigger so Reed couldn’t pull it. Instead Reed hammered the gun into Harry’s face.

  Harry responded by using a trick he’d learned on the rugby pitch: a move any second row would have been proud of. He yanked Reed’s testicles and twisted.

  Reed groaned and collapsed to one knee but didn’t let go of the gun. Harry got quickly to his feet and punched Reed repeatedly in the face but the blows weren’t enough. He daren’t let go of the gun with his other hand and Reed’s mammoth neck was like rubber, absorbing everything Harry threw at it.

  Reed recoiled, preparing another head-butt. Harry saw it coming and was forced to let go of the pistol to move out of the way as Reed brought his head forward with everything he had. Harry scramb
led out of the way, moving behind Reed and wrapping his arm around Reed’s neck. He trapped him in a powerful sleeper-hold, choking the bastard.

  Reed had an energy Harry had never encountered before. He got to his feet, lifting Harry off the floor. Harry hung on to Reed’s back. Now his feet were off the floor, he transferred his weight to the sleeper-hold, squeezing, trying to bring the big man down. Harry clasped his left hand to his right wrist, locking the choke-hold.

  Reed was like a man possessed. He dropped the gun and grabbed Harry’s wrists.

  Harry closed his eyes and didn’t wilt but Reed was so much stronger.

  Saima.

  You have to win this fight.

  Harry resisted Reed’s urgent attempts to prise his hands apart. Reed thundered backwards, smashing Harry’s body into the wall. Still Harry didn’t let go. He kept squeezing, constricting the oxygen, and it was working. Harry heard the welcome sound of Reed gasping.

  Another charge at the wall and again Harry was slammed forcefully into it.

  And now Reed was on his knees.

  Fading.

  Harry felt the ground beneath him and used it to strengthen his grip, bending his legs and using his weight to apply further pressure. ‘Where’s my wife, you bastard?’

  It would do no good to kill Reed – he needed Saima’s location.

  Reed stopped struggling. He leaned forward, taking Harry with him.

  ‘That’s right – give in, you sick fuck,’ Harry hissed.

  But Reed had removed a knife from his inside pocket. Harry didn’t see it – he just felt the sharp stab of it pierce his left shoulder.

  Harry cried out and let go of Reed, who twisted the knife further into his flesh. Harry collapsed to the floor.

  Reed was up quickly. In three enormous strides he made it to the gun, picked it up and pointed it towards Harry. His eyes were raging with an anger Harry didn’t understand.

  ‘Why?’ Harry croaked again as he pulled the knife out of his shoulder. He pointed the blood-soaked blade towards Reed. ‘Why?’

  Reed massaged his neck. ‘Power!’ he spat. ‘Power.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Please . . . my wife . . .’

  Reed cocked the pistol. ‘Fuck your wife. You were warned to leave this alone. You should have listened.’

  Harry put his hands in the air, ignoring the agony in his shoulder. ‘Just . . . tell me she’ll be OK,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘Give me that much at least.’

  I know I have to pay for what I did twenty years ago, but spare her – her karma isn’t mine.

  But there was no reply.

  Just the ear-splitting crack of another bullet.

  FORTY-FIVE

  ‘IN OUR VILLAGE – in our traditions – if you spoil woman’s decency, you are forced to return it,’ Bashir said bitterly. He still had the zanjeer poised and was aiming it at Simpson’s head.

  ‘Please – I had no idea, I was young and foolish,’ Simpson pleaded.

  Bashir swore in Urdu and kicked Simpson again. ‘All my life I am suffering what you did. Her face. Her body. Knowing you ruined her. I lost everything. We moved. Many times. Until I found you.’

  ‘You’ve been in Bradford all this time?’ Simpson asked incredulously.

  Bashir nodded. He lowered the zanjeer but kept it pointed at Simpson. ‘My honour is linked to your death. I wait many years for tonight.’ Bashir was struggling to carry out his revenge. He looked at Mavis out of the corner of his eyes. They were both at his mercy. He twisted the chain anxiously in his hands.

  It was the woman he was having problems with.

  He couldn’t leave her alive.

  Simpson continued begging for forgiveness.

  ‘You can be the better man,’ Mavis said, trying to get Bashir’s attention. She had either resigned herself to her fate or wasn’t afraid. ‘It was a long time ago and he was wrong,’ she continued quickly, ‘but he’s done so much good since then. Find it in your heart, Bashir, forgive him. Please.’

  Bashir’s face was blank. He continued to twist the zanjeer.

  One blow was all it would take.

  ‘Look at me, Bashir, please,’ she continued.

  Bashir struggled with the urge to break down. I can’t go through with it, he thought. After all these years – the waiting, the watching – he felt . . . empty.

  What’s wrong with me? I’ve waited my whole life for this.

  He’d never killed anyone innocent before, and it was hard.

  What was the woman’s crime? Her marriage to Simpson? Wasn’t she in fact just like Bashir? An innocent party, now forced to endure a darkness she wasn’t responsible for?

  ‘I know you don’t believe me, but he’s lived with the guilt of that day since it happened. I know it, Bashir. George has spent years talking to me about forgiveness and how to absolve sins. Why do you think we ended up in Bradford? In the largest Asian community in England? It’s atonement, Bashir – that’s what my husband has been doing since he arrived here.’

  ‘I have to . . .’ Bashir looked away from her. ‘No turning back now.’ But his voice was suddenly unsure.

  Empty.

  The rage had gone.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ she said urgently. ‘Please, untie me. I can’t hurt you, can I?’

  Bashir didn’t feel in control of his actions. He grabbed a knife from the chain and cut Mavis’s arms free.

  It was her face: full of compassion – something alien to Bashir. He had spent his life working for Shakeel, torturing scumbags. Bashir had never taken an innocent life, nor dished out any injustice without reason.

  Now she knew the truth about her husband, was there any greater pain he could inflict?

  The wounds on Mavis’s legs were still bleeding, but instead of tending to them, she stood up and reached out, taking Bashir’s face in her hands.

  Bashir started to shake. He was still clutching the zanjeer.

  I can’t do it.

  ‘It takes far more strength to forgive somebody and walk away,’ she said, almost reading his thoughts. ‘You’re not weak. Neither you nor George are the same person you were forty years ago.’

  Bashir dropped the zanjeer.

  Mavis inched forward, amazed at her own nerve, and put her arms around Bashir.

  He sat alone in his car.

  Bashir had left them clutching each other, grateful they were still alive. The empty feeling in the pit of his stomach was painful. He’d been preoccupied with revenge for so long, he didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t even sure that he would leave Bradford. There seemed little need to escape now.

  Bashir had dreamed of returning to Pakistan and farming the land he was raised upon. Restoring some balance to his life. For the first time since he could remember, Bashir thought about his wife, about her mental frailty, and wondered if tonight was a chance for them both. Whether he might take her with him.

  He had focused on his hate for so long, he hadn’t considered Ruksa. He thought of her now: alone, depressed. Broken.

  All the anger and malice Bashir had carried was suddenly absent.

  Above, helicopters continued to swirl across the city and there was a potent smell of burning in the air.

  This city is doomed, Bashir thought.

  Also, for the first time since he could remember, his back was painful. He could feel the sores and the dried blood.

  He removed his passport from his pocket, flipped to page twenty-one and stared at the Pakistani visa. It was time to go home. But he wouldn’t go alone.

  Bashir started the car and drove away from Simpson’s house, relieved that he’d never return.

  FORTY-SIX

  HARRY DIDN’T FEEL the pain of a bullet. Didn’t feel anything at all.

  Must be dead.

  Ronnie Virdee was standing behind Colin Reed, having fired a shot into the ground. ‘Put down the gun, Colin.’

  Reed turned his face but remained unmoved. ‘Not going to happen.’

  ‘Colin—’

&
nbsp; ‘No, Ronnie, just turn around and leave this alone.’

  ‘Are you crazy? What the fuck has come over you? I told you—’

  ‘I know what you told me,’ Reed spat. ‘I was there when you said it, remember?’

  Harry was perplexed. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Ronnie?’

  Reed sneered. ‘We’re business partners.’

  Harry thought he’d heard it wrong. He searched Ronnie’s face for confusion. He found none.

  ‘Colin, I need you to put the gun down,’ Ronnie said calmly. ‘Let’s work this through.’

  ‘There is no way to work it through,’ Reed replied. ‘Tough decisions had to be made and I made them. Like you taught me.’

  ‘Jesus. My brother? His wife?’ Ronnie waved the phone at Harry, who realized he must have received his text.

  ‘Ronnie,’ Reed said slowly, ‘look around you. Bradford is on fire. We planned this for over a year and you think I’m going to let your brother get in the way? I warned him. Jesus, even you warned him to stay away. He’s got only himself to blame.’

  ‘Colin . . . he’s my brother—’

  ‘And that’s the problem. You can’t see what needs to be done. You’re weak when it comes to him – always have been.’

  ‘Hey!’ Harry snapped. ‘You mind telling me what the fuck is going on? Where’s my wife? Ronnie, you knew about this?’

  Ronnie shook his head. ‘Don’t be stupid. Where’s Saima, Colin? You lifted a pregnant woman? Have you lost your goddamn mind?’

  Reed still had the gun trained on Harry. His finger on the trigger. He kept his eyes on Harry but turned his head, hissing at Ronnie: ‘What were the stakes tonight? Huh? You remember? If we got made – if this shit didn’t go down exactly as planned? You know what would happen. You? Me? Our families? Hell, anyone we ever cared about? Cut into dog food. And you think I’m going to give a flying fuck about one man who put us at risk?’

  ‘You should have told me! Jesus, Colin.’

  ‘Plausible deniability – isn’t that what you said? Make it happen and—’

  ‘This wasn’t on the blueprint!’