Deano’s part in the whole thing was what really got him. He had to send out a message, loud and clear, and it had to be a substantial one. One that would ensure none of his boys would double-cross him ever again. That’s why he was taking his time – toying with the little fucker. Making sure word got out on the streets, so everybody would know exactly what Deano’s punishment was. A clear and strong message was what was needed and Franco would enjoy administering it. Fingers tapping on the steering wheel, he growled into his phone. ‘Bring that little fucker to me. It’s nearly time to end him, but I want to make him sweat before I make the pigs squeal.’

  Collapsing into gales of laughter, he exchanged his tapping for a couple of hard palm slaps on the wheel. ‘You get what I did there? Fucking pigs squeal – get it? The pigs’ll fucking squeal all right when I dangle that little scrote by the legs into their sty, especially after we’ve used the tools on him, yeah? Squeal with fucking joy, they will. Better than that pig swill Sowerby feeds them any day.’

  Big Zee’s laughter over the phone bolstered him and he was content to let Anika Parekh’s reprieve drift to the back of his mind. She’d get her due – dead right she would and then he’d dip his wick. That piss pot of a Paki screw of hers wouldn’t so much as blink either. Probably be relieved to get rid of her. Common as muck she were, not like Councillor Yousaf Mirza’s missus – the one he dangled on his arm at every social function going. No, she were class, that one. Bit prim for Franco’s liking, mind, but pure class nonetheless. He wouldn’t mind dipping his wick there either. Cupping his erection, he let his mind wander. The Mirzas were always plastered over the papers, with their ‘business enterprise’ this and ‘charitable works’ that.

  Fuck, you wouldn’t think he was rolling in the green stuff though, would you? Not with the way his slut was living on the side in that crummy terraced house next door to her minger of a piggy piggy oink oink sister. Maybe he’d make that his next aim. Once he’d done Anika Parekh, he’d fuck Yousaf’s wife till she was halfway back to Pakistan.

  Franco interrupted Big Zee’s laughter. ‘Bring him to The Wreck – and don’t bother about being gentle. Time to ratchet things up.’

  ‘Okay … I’ll get on it. Eh, boss …?’

  What the fuck now? ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You sent Tyke to do a job somewhere?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘It’s just, I can’t find him. He’s not picking up his phone. D’you know where he is?’

  ‘Christ’s sake, Zee. If the little prick in’t turned up that’s not my problem, is it? He’s probably screwing around or wasted somewhere. Now just get my job done and stop bothering with Tyke, got it?’

  Sliding the car into gear, Franco revved the engine a few times making a mum with a pushchair crossing the road jump before yanking the buggy back onto the kerb.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, bitch,’ he yelled out of his open window and revved away up the road. At this time in the afternoon, The Wreck would be quiet. Nobody hung around there when it began to get dark – nobody except Franco and his boys. He’d make use of that.

  It still niggled him that Deano had overstepped the mark with his baby mama. What the fuck had she seen in him? Deformed little short arse. Was it worth it? Spreading her legs for him? Fucking bitch.

  Parking up by The Wreck, Franco pulled up, got out of the car and slammed the door hard. The sound reverberated round the near silent backyard and was answered by the dogs that roamed freely in the grounds of the junk shop. Franco was well aware that this outfit was a money laundering one – and the presence of the dogs told him that business was good. He’d plans for that too. A bit of poisoned meat, a night-time shimmy over the fence and the business wouldn’t be in quite such a good position … economically that was. He’d bide his time though, keep an eye out and wait till he knew their regular payment dates.

  The streetlights along the back alley separating the shops from the kids’ playground were strategically broken, casting a shadow over the area where he’d now parked his vehicle. He liked the gloom. It made him feel cocooned … secure. He lit up a spliff and inhaled deeply. He needed to calm down – thinking of that cow with Deano always boiled his piss. But a quick way out for the tosser wasn’t good enough. Franco was determined to exact every ounce of pain and torture he could. No point in teaching others a lesson if you went about it half-heartedly. No, you’ve got to approach these things with an eye on the end game. And Franco’s end game was to make an example of the tosser – one that would never be forgotten, one that would elevate his position in Bradford to the top of the pile.

  Lights blinked on and off twice at the top of the alley. Big Zee had arrived. He reached in to duplicate the signal and listened to the faint bang as the car doors slammed shut followed by low murmurs and scuffling feet as the trio walked towards him. As they walked under one of the remaining lights, their silhouettes were illuminated – Big Zee dwarfing the man that walked beside him.

  Franco smiled. Deano had tried to bulk himself up by poking his elbows out at an angle from his skinny frame. Good – that meant he was running scared. Exactly what Franco wanted, and the turd had nowhere to hide.

  Taking a last draw of his spliff, Franco tossed it into the weeds that curtained the bottom of the fence separating them from the playground beyond. ‘Glad you could make it, my man.’ He purposefully kept his voice jovial. Lull them into a false sense of security and then BAM, hit ’em where it hurts. He extended his arm and gripped Deano’s in a gangsta-style hug, pulling him towards him and bumping shoulders.

  Deano’s mouth split into a grin as Franco released him. His shoulders relaxed and his arms hung loose as he opened his mouth. Before he could utter a sound, Franco drew back his arm, balled his fist and propelled it with force into Deano’s stomach.

  Deano’s response was immediate. He folded over, hacking and dribbling from his mouth. Trails of vomit-spiked saliva drifted to the uneven ground.

  In a conversational tone, Franco said, ‘You see, Deano, much as I like you, you gotta take your punishment like a man, eh?’

  Deano glanced up, eyes narrowed, still hacking, holding his belly.

  Franco studied him. Fear lurked at the back of the other man’s eyes and Franco was aware that Deano was trying to work out exactly what Franco knew. ‘Been a naughty boy, have you?’

  Deano glanced round as if hoping that someone would appear from the shadows to protect him. Franco enjoyed toying with him – making him suffer, pushing his advantage. His pulse spiked and a jag of electricity wired him. ‘Something you want to tell me, Deano boy?’

  The lad tried to straighten, but it seemed the effort was too much for him because he remained in a half-upright position clutching his belly with one hand whilst using the back of the other hand to wipe his mouth. ‘You lost me, man.’

  Forcing his lips up, Franco delivered his ‘empty smile’. The one he reserved to strike fear into his opponents. The one he’d been told petrified everyone, friend or foe alike. The one that said they’d ‘reached the end of the road’.

  Inhaling, Deano’s body tensed and Franco’s grin widened. This was fun – so much fun. Almost enough to make him forget about Anika Parekh and her annoying sister altogether.

  ‘You said you’d sort out Nikki Parekh. But have you?’

  The flicker in Deano’s eyes combined with a slight relaxation of his shoulders made Franco want to grab him by the shoulders, slam him against his car and kick the shit out of him.

  Deano raised a hand and tried a smile. ‘Got it under control. Give me till the weekend and it’ll be sorted.’

  Franco backed off, enjoying the fear in the other man’s eyes. He opened his car door, looking like he was about to step inside. Instead, he spun on his heel, using the impetus to once more propel a heavy fist into Deano’s gut.

  Shrieking, Deano, retched and fell to his knees right into a mucky puddle.

  ‘This weekend. Get. It. Sorted.’ Franco nodded to Big Zee who shoved his arms under Deano’s armpits and yanked him upright. With Deano a dead weight, he dragged him, legs trailing behind, back to their car.

  Franco watched them. All of a sudden, he was hungry. He grinned; bacon sarnie – that’s what he needed right now, a bacon butty.

  Chapter 37

  The old man was still there behind her, so close she could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck. The checkout man scanned Charlie’s two items and in a disinterested tone told her how much she owed. Before she could get the cash out of her purse though, the perv reached forward, his hand covered in liver spots and wrinkled holding a twenty-pound note. His accent all weird. ‘Here, I will pay.’

  The checkout guy wakened up now as he looked from the perv to Charlie, suspicion in his eyes. ‘You know this man?’

  Charlie was on the point of shaking her head, grabbing her stuff and hotfooting it out of the shop and back to school, when something struck her. The accent … the accent and something about the way he held his head. She turned around till she was facing him fully and stared at the old man. Her heart skipped a beat as he held her gaze and then, seemingly realising she’d recognised him, he nodded once. Without looking at the cashier, she said, ‘It’s okay, he’s my grandad.’

  Shrugging, the lad took the note and doled out the change whilst Charlie and the perv took turns glancing surreptitiously at each other. Realising she was holding up the queue, Charlie turned and slowing her pace to accommodate the old man, walked towards the exit. ‘You know I thought you were a perv, don’t you?’

  ‘A perv?’ The old man frowned. ‘I’m not sure I understand that word, but I take it you’re relieved that I’m not one of those.’

  Charlie threw back her head and laughed. This was the first time since she’d found out about her dad that she was able to crack so much as a smile. It was good. It seemed to lift the tension that had settled on her shoulders and chase away the headache that throbbed just beneath the surface. Her mum would be mad when she found out that Charlie’s grandad had made contact. She’d explicitly told Charlie to steer clear of him should he come to the house. Well, this wasn’t the house and Charlie wasn’t a kid. What did her mother know? She’d stopped Charlie from knowing about her dad for all these years and Charlie was determined she wouldn’t do the same with her grandad.

  A sleek black limo pulled up beside them and the driver got out, circling the car and opening the back door. Charlie’s grandad gestured for her to enter. She hesitated. What if she’d got this wrong? She wasn’t her mother’s daughter for nothing. She couldn’t just get into a car with some stranger because she thought he was her grandad. ‘I need proof. I need you to show me something that proves who you are.’

  The old man’s lips twitched as if he was pleased with her. ‘You have your father’s sense of self-preservation.’

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. Was he just a little smarmy? A little condescending? ‘Actually, it’s just as well I don’t, else I’d maybe end up murdered just like him.’

  Fuck, Charlie, what are you playing at? She didn’t know where the words came from, she just knew that she needed to keep a little distance between herself and this old man. Like her mother, she used words as her weapon of choice … although she was well aware that her mother wasn’t averse to using more than words should the need arise. Well, she too could do that … no problem. The old man blanched and he cast a hand over his face as if her words had wounded him. Well, maybe they had, Charlie didn’t care. Why should she be the only one hurting? ‘Well, do you have proof?’

  He slid into the seat, rubbing his thigh. When he’d settled, he rummaged in the breast pocket of his jacket and extracted a photograph that was folded in two. He handed it to Charlie, who grabbed it and opened it eagerly. There were four people in the photograph. She recognised the man before her and an older woman – his wife? Her focus turned to the younger man who stood at the end of the quartet gazing into the middle distance as if daydreaming.

  Although he wasn’t smiling, she recognised him from the picture she’d coveted so often in her mum’s drawer. That was her dad. His lips were finely sculpted, the defined cheekbones and the short hair. He was a little younger than in the photo her mum had, but it was definitely the same man. Her eyes slid along to the other young woman – his sister? Her aunt? She raised her eyes to meet her grandad’s and found he was studying her intently. She didn’t flinch. ‘Who are the women?’

  He exhaled and then reached out to take the photo from her. With a gnarled finger he pointed first to the older woman. ‘That is my wife, your grandmother – your Jida.’

  Charlie studied the woman. She was slight, but her eyes smiled. Charlie decided that she looked nice. ‘Jida?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the Arabic for grandmother. Grandfather is Naqil, perhaps you will call me that?’

  This was all a bit too much for Charlie to take in at once, so she pursed her lips and didn’t answer, instead pointing to the second woman. ‘Who’s that?’

  Her grandad paused. His finger swept over the young woman’s face and it took so long for him to reply that Charlie thought perhaps he was going to ignore her question. At last, he raised his eyes and with a tense smile, he spoke. ‘Ah, that, Charlie, is your father’s wife Tabana.’

  For a second Charlie thought she’d misheard. She thought he’d said that the woman in the picture with the extra-long black hair and perfect eyebrows was her dad’s wife. She shook her head and, frowning, took a step back. The tension that had lifted just minutes earlier barrelled back over her like wicked waves in a storm – a tsunami drenching her, pushing her underneath, making her think she couldn’t swim, that she could only drown.

  And that thing happened, the thing she dreaded, but this time it was hitting her with no warning, slamming into her chest, making her heart pound right up to her ears. She raised her arms and folded her head into her chest, careless of her dropped purchases. She couldn’t catch her breath, it was hurting. This time she was going to die. She knew it. She was going to die, all alone without her mum, her brother or her sister. Without Marcus. All alone, with her mum thinking she hated her. All alone with this liar – this liar that was saying things about her dad that just couldn’t be true.

  Arms were round her shoulders – the driver, helping her into the back seat beside the old man, her grandad. The old man was mumbling words that made no sense as he slouched in the back seat, face ashen. Then … ‘Is she all right?’

  At last the lights going off around Charlie’s head stopped moving, stopped flashing. Their intensity calmed. The pressure in her chest eased, the pounding slowed and air, sweet and pure flooded her lungs as she slowed her breathing.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  It was her grandad’s voice, worried, rasping as if he too was about to have a panic attack. She managed a nod. Then realising the car was now moving, she pulled herself forward using the front passenger seat. ‘Stop, let me out. Where do you think you’re taking me?’

  The driver ignored her and the old man leaned over and patted her knee. ‘It’s okay, Charlie. You are safe. Don’t worry. We are going to my hotel where we can have tea and talk about you coming home with me … to Palestine, so you can meet your grandmother.’

  Charlie glared at him. ‘You’ve no right to take me away from the car park. None at all. I don’t want to talk to you. You are a liar.’

  He closed his eyes for a second, inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose. ‘I have not lied to you, Charlie. I have no need to lie. This must all be very shocking for you, but you must understand that it is also shocking for me. Until recently, I thought my son was living his life happily here with your mother. I thought he had abdicated his responsibilities in Ramallah and left his wife. Now, I discover he had not. Now, I discover I have a granddaughter. Now, I discover that because he was going to leave your mother, she killed him.’

  Charlie started. Was this man for real? Did he really think her mum would kill her dad? One look at his face told Charlie that he was perfectly serious. God! She was stuck in a moving vehicle with a deluded old man. What sort of mess had she got herself into this time? And she called Haqib stupid? How messed up was this?

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. My mum’s a police officer. She’s not a murderer. You’re deluded. She leaned forward again and began banging on the partition that had just seconds before swished up to a closed position. ‘Let me out!’

  ‘He can’t hear you. He doesn’t want to hear you. He will do exactly what I want him to do.’

  Charlie’s cheeks flushed hot. Electric jolts were trammelling up and down her spine. Her security was threatened. She was vulnerable and her mum had always taught her that if she felt vulnerable then she needed to extricate herself from the situation by whatever means available to her. Charlie racked her brains. Come on, come on! Could she do something? What? She had it … the only weapon at her disposal. ‘If you ever want me to call you Naqil, then you will let me go … now!’

  Her words floated in the air-conditioned car. At first, she thought she’d failed. Seconds passed, each one seemed to last an hour. By her sides, her fingers clenched into her palms, cutting them. She welcomed the pain, it gave her some relief. When his shoulders slumped, she released a silent breath and kept her eyes trained on him. He tapped the partition with his walking stick and the driver sent it whirring downwards. ‘Stop the car and unlock the doors.’

 

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