Scratch Deeper

by Chris Simms

  She crouched at his side and ran a hand through his hair. An arm wrapped round her waist as he tipped forward, causing her to lose her balance. She ended up on the floor with him, his head in her lap. Eventually his breathing calmed. As she stroked the side of his head, she was able to feel his pulse through a vein in his temple.

  His eyes were closed as he mumbled, ‘He was so young.’

  ‘Who was?’ she breathed, wishing she could turn off the harsh strip light glaring down on them. ‘Who was so young?’

  ‘The kid we killed.’

  Cigarette smoke swirled round the interior of the van. Gary spoke up from its rear. ‘The places they eat. Trays of lentil slop, dog meat on skewers, all that shite. That’s where to find them.’

  Lee glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘There are a couple on Woodhill Road. They stay open late.’

  Martin was drumming his fingers on the dash board. ‘You all hear that?’ he drawled. ‘We’re a-havin us a Paki hunt!’

  The van headed through a few sets of lights before turning on to a road lined with shops. A couple of jewellers, shutters drawn down. A sari-makers, rolls of brightly coloured material in the window. On the pavement outside a grocery store a man with a long beard and a little lace cap was reaching up with a hooked stick to lower the awning.

  As the van cruised past, Martin wound down the front passenger window. The sudden rush of air ripped into the haze of cigarette smoke as he slapped the side of the vehicle with his palm. ‘We’re coming for you, mullah-motherfucker!’

  Gary’s hand shot forward and he slapped the side of Martin’s head. ‘Shut it!’

  Martin brought his arm back inside. ‘He’s a fucking—’

  ‘Keep quiet. What if he rings the pigs? White van just went past my shop, some gobby dickhead shouting abuse . . .’

  ‘Sorry,’ Martin replied.

  Gary was now sitting forward, forearms resting on the back of the front seats. The road curved gently to the left. Up ahead were the bright signs of a couple of food places.

  ‘There’s two,’ said Lee, now sounding nervous.

  A couple of men emerged from one. The taller one was thin with a mop of dark hair. His companion was much shorter, hair shaved close. Hanging from his right hand was a white bag.

  ‘Slow,’ Gary hissed.

  Lee touched the brakes and dropped down a gear. Gary quickly checked the road behind. No traffic. All eyes were on the pair as they ambled along, deep in conversation. They reached the top of an alley and set off down it.

  ‘Where’ll that lead?’ Gary’s voice quivered with excitement.

  ‘Just a cut-through, probably. To the next road,’ Martin whispered.

  ‘Pull over,’ Gary commanded.

  The van came to a stop and Gary reached down to the floor. He handed the screwdriver to Martin and the hammer to Lee. ‘Let’s go take these fuckers out, yeah?’

  Martin deep-breathed as he reached for his door handle. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ll stay in the van,’ Lee suddenly announced, putting the hammer in his lap.

  Martin looked over his shoulder. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘No, serious. We can get away quicker if I do.’

  Martin swivelled the other way to look at Gary.

  ‘Fuck him,’ Gary said. ‘Could tell he was a shitter.’ He spoke into Lee’s ear. ‘You drive round to the next road. Wait for us at the other end of the alley. What will you do?’

  Lee kept looking straight ahead. ‘Drive round. Wait for you.’

  ‘Good lad. And remember, these are your tools. So make sure you’re there.’

  The rear doors opened and Gary jumped out. Slamming them shut behind him, he set off across the pavement, baseball bat held close to his side. Martin followed him through the pool of orange light cast by the street lamp above the end of the alley. Then they were into the shadows beyond.

  The two men were about twenty metres in front, heads bowed as they talked. Six-foot-high concrete panels ran along either side of the alley, giving it a canyon-like feel. Names, comments and pictures covered the stone-grey surfaces.

  At the halfway point, the alley jinked to the left, another street lamp lighting the way. Gary and Martin were now ten metres behind the pair. Some small noise caused the two men to look back: they saw a pair of white men charging at them, one with a baseball bat raised to shoulder level. The bag hit the ground, rice spilling from the top. The taller of the two was slower to get moving and, as he struggled to keep up with his shorter companion, he began to stumble.

  The baseball bat connected with the back of one thigh, driving the knee coming forward into the rear of the other. He sprawled forward. ‘Ranjit!’ he yelled. ‘Ranj—’

  The baseball bat came down again, this time across his back, cutting the word off.

  Gary watched the shorter man sprinting away before looking down. ‘Your rat mate’s left you.’

  The man on the ground was getting to his knees, one forearm raised. ‘Ranjit!’

  Martin stepped forward and swung a foot. The kick caught the man in the throat. He fell back against the concrete panels and started to make a croaking noise. ‘Speakey English, you fuck.’

  He coughed a couple of times then reached out and tried to stroke at Martin’s shoes. ‘Please,’ he rasped.

  Martin kicked the man’s hand away. ‘Get the fuck off me.’

  ‘Fucking embarrassing.’ Gary lifted the bat again, his eyes fixed on the whorl in the thick black hair at the top of the man’s head.

  A shadow – moving low and fast – entered the periphery of Gary’s vision. He felt a heavy impact and the next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, the street lamp shining down at him. The concrete fence shook and he saw Martin bouncing off it and falling over, screwdriver clattering to the ground. Gary realized he was winded: all he could do was silently open and close his mouth.

  Martin had got on to all fours when the silhouette reappeared, this time rising high into the air. It landed with both feet on the base of Martin’s spine. He went flat and still. The dark figure started to look round and Gary turned on his side and tried to curl into a ball. He felt a knee jam into his back and a hand slid under his chin. Leathery fingers started to force his chin up, exposing his throat. The blade of a knife glinted and still he couldn’t get in any air to scream.

  ‘Ranjit!’ The other one’s voice. ‘Ranjit!’ Rapid words were spoken. Gary couldn’t understand what was being said but he recognized the pleading note in the flow of the younger man’s words.

  For a moment the only sound was rapid breathing coming from just above him. Then the grip on Gary’s chin eased as the man’s weight shifted. An instant later it felt like one buttock, then the other, was punched. Finally his lungs were able to inflate and he started to bellow as red-hot pain lanced out from where he’d been stabbed.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Iona clicked her front door shut behind her. She could hear morning TV in the kitchen as she started for the stairs up to her room.

  ‘Iona? Is that you?’

  Curse it, she thought. I just wanted to grab a quick shower and get back to the office. She paused, one hand on the banister. ‘Yeah, hi, Jo. Good night, last night?’

  Her housemate appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing tartan pyjamas and suede slippers with fluffy tops. ‘Yes.’ Her eyes travelled up and down Iona. ‘You weren’t in the office all night, were you?’

  Iona glanced down at her crumpled work suit. ‘Oh, no. I . . . just finished late.’

  Jo cocked her head to the side, an impish look in her eyes. ‘So, where’ve you been?’

  Iona hooked a strand of hair over her ear. ‘Just sorting some stuff.’

  ‘Just sorting some stuff?’ Jo let out a deep and dirty laugh. ‘Yeah, it looks like you’ve been sorted. Anyone I know?’

  ‘Jo!’ Iona couldn’t keep from smiling. ‘You are such a potty-mouth.’

  ‘Come on, you can tell Aunty Jo.’ She beckoned. ‘I’ll make tea.’
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br />   Iona gestured to the stairs. ‘I’ve really got to be back in work.’

  She raised her lower lip. ‘Seriously? It’s Sunday morning – not even ten o’clock.’ She clicked a finger and pointed behind her. ‘The Labour Party conference, yeah? They’ve got camera crews down there right now.’

  Iona could hear the enthusiastic tones of the TV presenter. The one with the thinning hair and floppy hands whose show was a Sunday morning fixture on the BBC.

  ‘At least give me a clue,’ Jo said. ‘Work colleague? Blind date? Someone you just collared outside the kebab shop?’

  ‘I was at Jim’s.’

  ‘No!’ She widened her eyes and clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘No! Is that good? I thought he was history.’

  Iona’s hand wiggled at her side. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know? You can’t just start doing him again – well, you can. But . . . I can’t believe it. Jim? He’s a bit gorgeous, I have to admit—’

  ‘Jo, I slept on the sofa. We had a lot of stuff that needed to be discussed.’

  Her friend’s face was now serious. ‘OK, but do you reckon . . . you know . . . are you getting back with him?’

  Iona shrugged as she started up to her room. ‘One step at a time.’

  Once in her room, she turned her little telly on. They were filming, she realized, by the entry point she’d used to get into the secure zone. The camera was looking over the perimeter fence to the front of the Midland Hotel. It lingered on the Labour banner draped above the front entrance before panning down to street level.

  The road was heaving with people. Among them she could see numerous protestors and activists trying to hand leaflets to delegates as they made their way into the mouth of a fenced-off corridor leading to the security-check building.

  She saw people in wheelchairs chanting their cause, an elderly man holding up a placard that read, Nukiller Power – a crime against God. Next to him a group of children wearing T-shirts which bore the words, Kids Count. Two elderly women were struggling to lift a banner emblazoned with Christians against the Cuts.

  Patches of yellow were sprinkled about: police officers in high-visibility jackets. She studied her fellow officers, men and women quietly keeping an eye on things.

  You’re all targets, Iona thought, eyes fixed to the screen. All of you are targets.

  Her phone beeped as she was putting on her dressing gown, ready to nip down the corridor to the shower. An 0207 number; someone calling from London. ‘Hello, Consta— Detective Constable Khan speaking.’

  ‘Good morning, Detective. It’s Ayo here. I hope this isn’t too early?’

  ‘Not at all, Ayo,’ she replied, remembering that the other woman had promised to go over all the cases Reginald Appleton had been involved in during the two times he’d sat in session on Mauritius.

  ‘I’ve been through all the files. I would have called late last night, but it was the witching hour by the time I’d finished.’

  ‘You’ve been such a help, Ayo, really I—’

  ‘I wouldn’t thank me too much, Iona. The man’s name didn’t feature.’

  Iona felt her shoulders droop. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. No person with the surname Bhujun. I also took the precaution to check the name against Reginald’s UK rulings as a Law Lord. No joy there, either.’

  ‘You were able to check them all, including the ones linked to terror suspects?’

  ‘Yes. The name didn’t feature.’

  Iona tilted her head back and blew out air in exasperation. ‘Not to worry. It’s massively appreciated anyway.’

  ‘My pleasure. Do let me know if I can help any other way.’

  ‘Will do, thanks Ayo.’ After hanging up, she dropped the phone on her bed. Damn, damn, damn. Still, she thought, turning to the door, Jim would be in the CCTV control room by now, reviewing the footage outside the library to see where Vassen and his friend were headed. At least that line of enquiry was still very much alive.

  Navin Ramgoolan sat in his kitchen, stacks of leaflets arranged on the table before him.

  He thought about his young nephew, Vassen Bhujun. An enquiring mind. A young man blessed with intelligence. Intelligence that had been recognized – first with a grant for school and university on Mauritius and then with a scholarship to undertake his Masters degree in England. He could have had such a bright future. But not now. Now the cousin, Ranjit, had arrived, things could only end badly.

  There was something dark about Ranjit. Something dark and disturbing.

  Navin looked at his leaflets. The events of almost fifty years before had been a catastrophe for them all. A disaster on which humiliation and then injustice had been heaped. I, Navin thought, appreciate that humiliation as much as anyone. Twelve years I’ve lived here in Britain, battling for our rights to be recognized. But never have I broken the law. Never have I turned to crime. Why must I resort to something like this?

  He heard two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs. It was them. Their shadowy forms got closer and Navin cleared his throat in readiness to speak. ‘Vassen. It is . . .’ His words died. ‘What has happened to you?’

  His nephew moved awkwardly into the well-lit room. He was limping slightly and his lips were swollen. An angry graze stood out on his chin. ‘I was attacked, Uncle.’

  Putting his glasses on, Navin got out of his chair and approached the younger man for a closer look. ‘Who attacked you?’ He shot a suspicious glance at Ranjit, who was skulking in the doorway.

  ‘Two men. Locals, I think. They meant to really hurt me, Uncle. If Ranjit hadn’t been there to fight them off I think I would now be in hospital. Maybe worse.’

  Navin had placed his fingertips under Vassen’s chin, gently lifting his nephew’s head back for a better look. ‘Who were these men?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vassen answered, twisting his head away from his uncle’s probing fingers. ‘Thugs. That’s all.’

  ‘Where else are you hurt?’

  ‘My back. They hit me across it with a bat.’

  ‘Why did they attack you?’

  ‘Why?’ Vassen replied. ‘Who knows? Because our skin is a different colour to theirs. Because they had a bad day and needed to take it out on someone.’

  Navin cast a begrudging look in Ranjit’s direction. ‘And you? Are you injured?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, come in. Don’t stand there. Sit down. Have some breakfast.’ He removed a loaf of bread from a cupboard. ‘Thank you for helping Vassen.’

  Ranjit acknowledged the comment with a nod. ‘It was nothing.’ He sat down and gestured at the leaflets. ‘You are still going to do it?’

  Navin peered over the top of his spectacles at the stacks of leaflets. ‘Of course. It will be the best chance I ever get to bring attention to our cause.’

  ‘Even though it will bring such trouble down on you?’

  The old man picked up his security pass from the corner of the table. ‘What will be, will be.’ Sadness subdued his voice. ‘My membership of the party has not helped get justice for our people. They care about us no more than any of the other political parties. All of them are the same.’

  Ranjit looked hungrily at the pass as the old man ran its red lanyard through his fingers. Age had made the skin on his hands slack and wrinkled. ‘And is it tomorrow you’ll go?’

  Navin looked up. ‘Tomorrow? Yes.’ He sounded almost regretful. ‘When Blair and Brown are on stage. I will do it then, when the television coverage is best.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I must go,’ he announced, taking his brown overcoat off the peg by the back door and placing a flat cap on his head before letting himself out.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Jim had never seen so many people in the CCTV control room. Every desk before the two Barco screens dedicated to the convention centre and surrounding streets was occupied by an operator, their faces bathed by the giant screens’ glow.

  In the shadows behind them stood men in sui
ts – many with southern accents. Most had their arms crossed and a constant murmur flowed among them. Occasionally, someone would move off to the side to take a call on their mobile phone.

  The views on the bank of screens showed the ex-railway terminal from every angle. Other cameras were on the entry points, the operators constantly working the joysticks to scan the queues of people waiting to get in.

  A tall man with streaks of grey hair reached out and placed a hand on the shoulder of the operator sitting before him. ‘Can you go in on that camera? Twenty-two?’

  The operator nodded and he tapped a few keys. The view from camera twenty-two appeared on his desk monitor. ‘Zoom in on centre screen?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ The man pointed to the left-hand edge. A small group were gathered near a lamp post. ‘That lot.’ Above their heads a banner read, Extraordinary Rendition – We Demand the Truth. Their mouths were opening and closing in unison, some kind of chant. ‘Facial captures for each one.’

  The operator went in closer, froze the image and then expanded a square-shaped field with a perforated line over each person’s face. Another click on the keyboard brought up a command panel. The operator worked his cursor across the facial boxes, clicking on each one before selecting copy.

  Jim turned back to his own screen. The supervisor had looked suitably pissed-off when Jim had asked to see eleven-day-old footage from outside the library.

  ‘This can’t wait for a less busy time?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Colin,’ Jim replied, keeping his voice low. ‘If it could, believe me, I would not be here. I’m not asking for an operator to burn me any footage. Just dump me on a corner desk. I can do the searching myself.’

  The supervisor had led him to the far end and sat him down at a spare workstation. ‘Twenty minutes. Then the full day shift arrives and I’ll need this and every other seat in here.’

  ‘No problem; cheers, Colin.’