City of Sinners

by Dhand, A. A.

  ‘Hey,’ said Harry. He wanted to embrace his brother, yet now, being here, it felt so awkward.

  A handshake at least?

  Ronnie didn’t move.

  Harry stared down the hill of the first tee, at the grass glistening with frost.

  ‘Ball’s going to slip and slide.’

  ‘Might give me a few extra yards on the drive.’

  Ronnie pulled a golf ball from his pocket and placed it on the tee he’d already stuck in the ground.

  ‘Hurts. Doesn’t it?’ said Ronnie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being here. Feeling how normal it is. Realizing what we threw away, how it could have been.’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘After two years’ radio silence, you’re either here to take me down – in which case, I think we ought to play a round together first – or you need my help. I’m hoping it’s the latter.’

  ‘Could be about Dad.’

  Ronnie smiled. ‘I knew she’d tell you. It isn’t about that. That’s just … what it is.’

  ‘You’re in luck: I need your help,’ said Harry.

  Ronnie waved his club at Harry. ‘I’m still here, little brother. Always will be when it comes to you. You know that.’

  The words stung.

  Harry felt small.

  ‘You’re just … here for me? No questions asked?’ said Harry.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ronnie. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Ronnie smiled.

  He moved past Harry, unzipped the golf bag, removed a plastic tee and another golf ball. He crouched, pushed the tee into the ground and placed the golf ball on it.

  ‘Christ,’ he said stretching. ‘Feels like old times. Feels, I don’t know, like we never fell out.’ He paused, looked at Harry and added, ‘No?’

  Harry stared at the ball by his feet. ‘You never change,’ he said.

  ‘Got to earn it, Harry.’ Ronnie pointed behind, where the school building rose steeply. ‘Taught you that, then. Twenty years later, with everything we’ve been through, that rule still applies.’

  ‘After you,’ said Harry.

  Ronnie nodded. ‘So, it’s like this. One shot. Really, we should be hitting the green from here. You get closest to the flag, I’ll help you. If I do, you answer one question of mine. With the truth.’

  Harry looked down the fairway. He visited a driving range every month with some of the guys from work. He didn’t play off a handicap and hadn’t played a round of golf in years but when it came to hitting a clean strike, he was sure of himself.

  ‘Got it,’ he said. ‘When we were younger, Ron, you let me go first. I always thought it was so you could see what you had to beat.’

  Ronnie squinted at Harry. ‘It was.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t. It was so, if you felt kind, you could botch your shot. Make me feel good.’

  Ronnie smiled. ‘How long did it take you to figure that out? Once you made detective?’

  ‘Something like that. Which is why, today, you’re going first.’

  Ronnie removed a white golf glove from his pocket and slipped it over his hand. ‘As you wish, little brother.’

  Ronnie lined himself up. He positioned the club, performed a few routine twitches, then stopped. He backed off, sat on the low stone wall and put the golf club down.

  ‘You want to know how many times I picked up the phone to call you, Harry?’

  When Harry didn’t reply, Ronnie continued. ‘Maybe twice a week. Sometimes more. Never could hit call.’

  Harry didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’m giving it all up.’

  Harry stared at Ronnie. Eyes narrowing. ‘You couldn’t.’

  There was something in the way Ronnie was looking at Harry which sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying,’ said Ronnie, getting back to his feet, ‘that people change.’

  Ronnie retook his position by the golf ball. This time there was little preparation. He lined it up, paused a few seconds, then took a measured swing. The golf ball flew straight and high. On its descent, it veered left and landed in a patch of rough, about ten yards off the fairway and about thirty yards from the green. Could have been worse.

  ‘About one fifty,’ said Ronnie. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You measured that swing,’ said Harry.

  ‘Sure, I did. I don’t need to hammer it on to the green and risk overshooting. I just need to whop your ass. And I reckon one fifty is enough.’

  Harry took the three-wood from Ronnie, the rubber grip warm from Ronnie’s hands.

  ‘Glove?’ asked Ronnie.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Same old Harry.’

  ‘Style over substance. You don’t change.’

  Harry lined up the shot. He removed the ball from the tee, adjusted it a little and replaced it. He looked down the fairway. Behind, Ronnie started a mock-commentary which made Harry smile; they’d always done that as children.

  ‘Cut it out,’ said Harry.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the same, though, would it?’

  Ronnie continued, his voice a whisper. As Harry lined up the shot, he felt overwhelmed with sadness and gritted his teeth.

  Ronnie fell silent. Harry focused, just the noise of the breeze in his ears, and swung. He heard the sweet sound of the golf ball ping off the tee which went soaring after the ball.

  ‘Shit,’ said Harry, dismayed as his shot veered sharply right and flew out of bounds. ‘Shit,’ he repeated.

  Ronnie whistled. ‘Shanked it.’

  ‘Shit three-wood,’ said Harry, dropping the club on the ground.

  ‘Nothing wrong with the club. You had your feet all wrong. Moved your head before you hit the ball. Looked like a damn ragdoll. Golf is about stillness.’

  ‘Get fucked,’ said Harry.

  ‘So, it looks like I get to ask you one question and only the truth will do.’

  Harry faced Ronnie, dismayed he wasn’t in the driving seat.

  Dismayed at just how comfortable this all felt, in spite of a two-year hiatus.

  Ronnie stepped closer to Harry and looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘My question is,’ he said solemnly, prodding Harry firmly in the chest, ‘what the fuck does a big brother have to do to get a hug around here?’

  SIXTY-SIX

  THE BROTHERS WERE the only people inside the Fulneck clubhouse, which closed at four o’clock but the caretaker had given Ronnie the keys and told him to drop them through the letterbox. Ronnie brought them over a couple of coffees and took a seat opposite Harry at the corner table.

  ‘You look like shit, kid.’

  ‘I feel like it,’ replied Harry, adding more milk to his coffee.

  ‘Home Secretary’s daughter?’

  ‘Yeah. As fucked up as it gets. He’s a serial killer who wants maximum exposure before I nail him.’

  ‘And you’re going to?’

  ‘Only a matter of time. He’s binge-killing.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the old man first. Get it out the way.’

  ‘Nothing to say about it.’

  ‘He had his op this morning. He’ll be in recovery now, Mandy’s there with Mum.’

  ‘Prognosis?’

  ‘Won’t know till later.’

  Harry couldn’t bury his anger at the way his father had spoken to his wife the day before.

  ‘You want to know a secret?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been visiting Tara’s grave every day. Straight after AA meetings. Remember them?’

  Harry scoffed.

  ‘Place hasn’t changed much. Similar crowd. Few new faces.’

  ‘How’s the wagon?’

  ‘Still on it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I … visit her grave. Sit next to her and try to show her that I’m changing. That … I’ve learned. That’s the thing with loss, you don’t realize until it’s too late.’

&nbs
p; Ronnie fell silent for a moment.

  ‘What do you need my help with?’ asked Ronnie.

  Harry didn’t want to talk about it. It felt good to just sit here with his brother, out of the way of the case. He stared out of the window across the greenery of Fulneck valley.

  I know what you did, Harry. The life you took.

  There wasn’t a day that went by when Harry didn’t question why he’d allowed Ronnie to take the blame for Michael King’s murder. Maybe things would have turned out differently if he hadn’t let it happen. He couldn’t remember the conversation which led to that decision being made. He couldn’t even remember switching clothes with Ronnie.

  ‘Kid?’ said Ronnie.

  Harry stopped reminiscing and told Ronnie what had happened with the murder victims and the cryptic notes. Finally, about the threat, Tell them your secret. You killed a man. You ruined a family.

  When he’d finished, he looked at Ronnie for a response.

  ‘Have you told anyone what happened, Ron?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  Ronnie took a deep breath.

  ‘Can’t believe I’m about to say this,’ said Ronnie shaking his head. ‘Especially with the old man at death’s door. I did what I did with Michael King because I’d got used to being both your brother and a father figure to you. He was a shit dad. Spent ninety per cent of his time in the shop obsessing over the pennies and the other ten per cent down the Temple. Community, honour, tradition. All that bullshit. He was never really a dad to us. Sure, we didn’t want for anything; we had food, clothes, a roof, education – but none of the big stuff. He didn’t know how to help us grow into men in this world we called home, a world he only knew as a choice.’

  Ronnie got up and stood by the window. Sleet began falling outside, a slow rhythmic patter on the roof of the clubhouse.

  ‘I did what I did because I’d got so used to protecting you that it was second nature. I was hard on you when we were young. Yeah?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Dad just dished out religion and tradition, so I tried to give you something else. That night, when Michael fucking King chose to try to rob our shop, it was instinct to take the blame and protect you. I never thought twice about it.’

  Somehow the brothers had never really spoken about this. It was too big.

  Ronnie continued. For years, he had blamed their father for that night because he should have been the one to be there to take responsibility and protect his boys. But Ranjit had been at the Temple.

  ‘I don’t regret it,’ said Ronnie. ‘Jail opened my eyes. It’s a shit world we live in. With shit rules.’

  ‘It’s always been shit, Ron,’ said Harry, still unsure where Ronnie was going with this.

  ‘I know,’ said Ronnie. ‘But what you don’t realize is, amongst all this shit we contend with, one rule always reigns supreme.’

  Ronnie retook his seat at the table, his face serious, his eyes focused on Harry like lasers.

  ‘Family first. I can’t say the whole family sticks to it, but I certainly do. You want to know if I ever told anyone the truth about that night?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘I told two people. The first was my business partner, but he’s no longer with us.’

  ‘We don’t know if he told anyone.’

  ‘He didn’t have anyone else to tell.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He was completely alone, Harry, which is why I trusted him.’

  ‘Who’s the other person?’

  For the first time, Ronnie looked uncertain.

  ‘Who did you tell?’ asked Harry, eyes narrowing at his brother.

  ‘I told Dad.’

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  ANOTHER NIGHT WITHOUT sleep was starting to affect Harry; his head felt leaden, fogginess clouding his thought-process.

  His father knew?

  ‘What did he say?’ whispered Harry. ‘That I was toxic? Ruined your life? That everything I touch turns to poison?’

  Ronnie had moved back to the window, standing by the side of it, as sleet continued to spatter against the pane. ‘No. He said nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘That’s right. For some reason, we never spoke about it again. Just … buried it.’

  ‘When did you tell him?’

  ‘Same week you left home. Mum was a mess. Dad equally so. We were arguing,’ said Ronnie, reliving the exchange and closing his eyes. ‘He shouted at Mum that you should have died in her womb.’

  Harry grimaced.

  ‘It was ugly. For some reason, I thought telling him that you had saved Mum from Michael King would help. Show him that you had defended the honour of our family. There you have it. I told two people. So, whatever game this killer is playing, he didn’t get the intel through me.’

  ‘Then how does he know?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘What about Mum or Mandy?’

  ‘They weren’t in the room when I told Dad.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Have you told anyone?’ asked Ronnie.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Harry.

  He received a text on his phone from Saima.

  Aaron’s not well. Doc at work’s written him a prescription. Can you pick it up? Please?

  ‘I’ve got to go, Ron,’ said Harry, standing up.

  ‘Everything with Dad has made me think, we need to sort things between us, Harry.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, sheepish.

  ‘I’ve got things to discuss with you. Stuff you need to hear.’

  ‘I’ll make time. Once we’ve got this guy, I’m all yours,’ said Harry, stepping past the table and embracing his brother.

  ‘Promise?’ said Ronnie.

  Harry held him tight. ‘I promise.’

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  HARRY PULLED INTO the car park at Bradford Royal Infirmary. A phone call from the car had brought him up to speed on developments at Trafalgar House.

  Nothing significant on the tip line yet, but with Gurpal’s name now public knowledge, intel was streaming in about possible sightings of him. Two in particular stood out – he’d been seen with an Asian girl the day before.

  Harry sat in his car, tired, head full of noise. His thoughts were scrambling: killer, Saima, Ronnie, Dad, Aaron, Mum. How had he not called his mother? She must have been sick with worry for her husband. But Saima had been there for her.

  Saima.

  He couldn’t take that on right now. Not while he still didn’t know which way was up.

  Harry made his way to A&E and collected the prescription for Aaron from Balraj, his long-time friend and Saima’s boss in A&E, who informed Harry that whilst his father’s surgery had gone well, his heart was struggling to recover and the next few hours would prove critical. Balraj didn’t sound hopeful, adding to the noise in Harry’s mind.

  Harry also learned the matron was desperate to see him but he had no time for that. He thanked Balraj for the update and headed towards the pharmacy.

  ‘Mr Virdee!’

  He turned to see the hospital matron, carrying a large bag, waving at him from down the hall. She beckoned him into a side room and made a point of closing the door fully.

  ‘We’ve been trying to contact your mother and your older brother – Ronnie, is it?’

  ‘That’s right. What’s this about?’

  The matron was taller than Harry with a pronounced jaw and broad shoulders. Harry had the distinct impression he was in trouble and he didn’t like the feeling one bit.

  She frowned. ‘It’s a little delicate. While I appreciate your father is in a very serious condition and, in times like this, religious symbols and icons can be of great help, I’m afraid,’ she said, removing a large parcel wrapped in a stiff orange cloth from the bag she was holding, ‘he cannot keep this here with him.’

  She unwrapped the parcel. Harry’s father’s kirpan.

  He didn’t move.

  The same dagger h
is father had charged at him with.

  He hadn’t seen it since the night he left.

  ‘It was in a bag in his locker. The ward sister found it whilst looking for a list of medications he usually takes. I’m really very sorry, Mr Virdee, but this is a serious health and safety violation. It cannot stay here.’

  Harry couldn’t believe it. The image of it flashing at his body etched on his mind as his mother threw herself in the way.

  ‘I … I … can’t take it,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I have to insist.’

  ‘My brother. He’ll be here later.’

  ‘That won’t work. I can’t have it here a moment longer. It’s more than my job is worth if, God forbid, something were to happen … If you’re unwilling to take it, I’ll be forced to submit it to the police for safekeeping.’

  Harry stepped away from her and opened the door. ‘Then I suggest you do just that,’ he said.

  Harry got to the hospital pharmacy at 17:32. The shutters were already down.

  Two minutes past their closing time.

  Harry rattled the shutters in anger.

  Nothing.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he said hunting for his temporary phone.

  No Internet on this brick. He couldn’t search for the nearest late-night pharmacy.

  Harry left in a hurry to get to the closest one and hoped it was still open.

  He arrived at Sahara Pharmacy on Duckworth Lane a few minutes later and joined the queue waiting to be served by an Asian woman wearing a headscarf.

  It was moving slowly, mostly old people, except for two young Asian girls in front of him. They were nervously whispering to each other. Eventually it was their turn to approach the counter.

  ‘Can I speak to a lady pharmacist?’ said one of the girls.

  The counter assistant shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, there’s only a male pharmacist,’ she said, pointing behind her towards an Asian man in a tunic and skullcap.

  ‘Can I speak with you instead?’ said the girl to the assistant.

  ‘What about?’

  The girl dropped her voice. ‘I need the morning-after pill,’ she whispered.

  The counter assistant’s reply was also discreet but Harry heard it. ‘I’m sorry, but only the pharmacist can help you with that.’