‘The Fighting Cock, The Sparrow …’ Sajid began counting them off, one by one on his fingers.
‘Yeah, I know. But I’m a creature of habit and Gordon and Nancy need all the trade they can get.’
Apart from Nikki and Sajid there were only five others in the entire bar. Old Stevie who propped up the corner most nights and the regular Monday night dominoes tournament in a table in the snug. As Nikki positioned a beer mat before each of them, Gordon ambled over, a tea towel draped over one shoulder, his rotund belly preceding the rest of him by a good couple of feet and two pint glasses of Cannonball, one in each hand. Nikki often wondered how he maintained balance. Gordon was a man of few words and most of them were unintelligible grunts which seemed to signify anything from, ‘hallo’ to ‘goodbye’ to ‘nice to see you’ to ‘fuck off, you’re barred’. His wife Nancy was his opposite in every respect. Almost as short as Nikki, and skinnier, she could and would, given half a chance, talk the proverbial hind leg off any four-legged creature that deigned to enter her domain. Her saving grace was that she was an expert reader of human nature and seemed able to gauge exactly what each of her customers wanted, whether it was a sympathetic ear, a babble of meaningless tittle-tattle or a serious confab over one of her rare whiskies, reserved only for her favourite customers. Nikki had partaken of said whisky a fair few times in the past.
With a grunt, which Nikki took to mean ‘enjoy your drinks’, Gordon placed both glasses on the mats, took a packet of salt and vinegar crisps out of his pocket and tossed it on the table, before beating a slow and rolling retreat.
Sajid took a long sip, wiped the froth off his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. ‘Can’t stay long. Langley’s got a surprise lined up. It’s our anniversary. A year.’
Nikki’s lips twitched. He looked so damn proud of himself, which was more than he’d looked at the crime scene. ‘Yeah, well, you could’ve fooled me earlier, Saj. Poor Langley, he must be a saint to put up with the huge wedge you drive between the two of you in public.’
Sajid picked up his glass and had another sip. ‘Well, truth is he is getting pissed off with me. Says I’m ashamed of him.’ He looked at Nikki a slight frown marring his forehead. ‘I’m not ashamed of him, no way. It’s just like … complicated.’
Complicated family life was nothing new to Nikki, but she really felt for Sajid. He was clearly in love with Langley – they’d been living together for a year now, but he still kept their relationship secret, in case his family found out. Every so often, the strain of that reared its ugly head. She nudged Saj’s arm. ‘God! Surprised he managed to put up with you for so long. You should be the one treating him.’
‘Ha bloody ha.’ He took another swig of his beer. ‘Langley’s spitting. Springer and her sidekick Bashir caught that skeleton case we were called out to earlier. Turns out it’s a murder, skeleton had its head smashed in. Lang says Springer’s being an arse already.’
Nikki snorted. She’d had run-ins with ‘The Spaniel’ before and always tried to give her a wide berth. Thankfully, cold cases and current investigations rarely overlapped. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me? The woman’s a bitch.’
‘Yeah, well, they found a passport on the body, so it looks like it’ll be all tied up soon.’
‘Lucky Spaniel. She’ll be wagging her tail at that, won’t she? She doesn’t like to get her hands dirty, that one.’
Stuffing a handful of crisps in his mouth, Sajid studied her. ‘So, you gonna tell me what all that was with Deano?’
Nikki sighed. She trusted Saj. They’d worked together for years now, since before he’d met Langley, and they’d been through a lot together, but this thing with Deano and by extension, Franco, was personal. Of course, Sajid knew about the E on the streets and it was a pretty fair assumption that Franco and his cronies were behind it. Sajid was aware that Nikki had evicted both Franco and Deano from Listerhills the previous year and, if the details were a bit sketchy, he wasn’t going to complain. He probably thought she was just cleaning drugs off the streets.
However, her reasons for keeping schtum about the whole Franco and Deano thing were nothing to do with her job – no, it was personal. This was about her family and she kept family matters close to her chest. Now though, she couldn’t decide whether to trust him with Haqib’s involvement. Maybe that was pushing his loyalty a step too far. By rights, she should have taken Haqib in for carrying the amount of shit he had, but then Charlie had been the one in possession, not Haqib. ‘Got a load of Es and they link back to Deano. Needed to make him aware we didn’t want his shit here. I’ll get a couple of uniforms on him tomorrow, hassle him a bit, make it hard for him to deal.’
‘Franco back too?’
Nikki drained her glass, plonked it down and rolled her shoulders. ‘Yep, looks that way.’
Sajid studied his half-full glass for a few seconds, then, ‘You gonna tell me where the Es came from?’
‘Got a lead. Some local lads, but they ran before I got them. At least they’re off the streets, eh?’ She knew her partner didn’t believe her, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that she didn’t make him complicit in anything dodgy.
Draining his glass, Sajid stood up. ‘When you’re ready to give me the full story, I’ll be here.’
‘Aw piss off, Saj. Go and get wined, dined and laid. It won’t make you any prettier, but it’ll make you better company tomorrow.’
Sajid grinned and with a wave to Gordon and Nancy, he was off.
Nikki stayed where she was, using the time to text Marcus. With everything that had gone on, she needed to touch base with him. He was looking after the kids and she should really have told him she’d be a bit later. Truth was, she was reluctant to go home. Marcus had proposed yet again and just as she’d done every other time, Nikki had refused. Why couldn’t he understand that they were fine the way they were. Their relationship worked. If they moved in together … got married … whatever, it would all go tits up. Nobody knew that better than Nikki.
When Nancy came over ten minutes later, Nikki put out the feelers about the Es. Despite its quietness tonight, when the weekend rolled round, The Mannville Arms perked up with both university and college students as well as locals. Nancy was one of the many eagle-eyed landlords that the Bradford police approached to keep their eyes open for possible dealing. The latest batch of MDMA, or Es as the kids called them, were particularly potent and Nikki wanted everyone on alert.
Chapter 6
How many years have they been blind? The thing is, they all think they’re so smart – so damn smart – but they’re not.
Every one of them I killed deserved it. Time and again they proved that they’re not only stupid, but weak too. At first, I wanted them to prove their superior intellect – show me how they were better than me. Show me they deserved what I was denied, that it was more than just privilege. That they’d earned it through hard work and dedication. Then, I wanted them to pay for the way they’d let themselves down. Taken opportunities and then just fucked it all up. One by one, despite my best efforts they failed and at some point – maybe after the fourth or fifth – I realised that this was something in which I excelled. I’d found my forte – my calling, if you will.
I’m not inhuman though, not at all. Despite my social experiment I gave them something before the end. Some little salve as they realised what the end was going to be. Each of them got their last chance – each of them bared their soul and made their last wish. Whether their last request was ever granted though is a different matter. That’s how it is. That’s life.
The police finding the remains has made me a little anxious. Need to soothe myself. I run my hands along the shelf. Which one shall I choose? November 2003? No not that one. That one I’ll save for when I’ve got more time. No, I’ll opt for this one. With the tip of my finger I remove the DVD case and insert it in the player. I settle down with my glass of Glenmorangie on my sofa. I have half an hour. This will be enough time for Day One, more than enough.
The date is 6th March 2008.
Day One and this is the first recording.
The scene is set – a backdrop of fabric, spotlight shining across the stage. Props at the ready. Each knife sharpened – metal glistening as the light bounces over them. A single chair centre stage. A figure waits in the wings, shadowed and grim. My voice rings out over the tape. ‘Bring the captive through,’ I say. ‘Bring the captive through.’
I love listening to my voice narrating as if I am a mere bystander and not an active part of it all. Everything up until that point is enjoyable – of course it is – but it’s doing my David Attenborough bit that really makes my blood fizz. Homing in on small details, analysing the scenes – that’s what I love best. And if I’m right, this one is a particularly well-produced cinematic performance. Here we go …
We see the figure, dressed in black – oh, how spooky! Arms under the captive’s arms, he is dragged through and flopped with all due finesse onto the chair.
In this wide-angled shot, we see the figure exit stage right, returning within seconds. Rope is wrapped round the captive’s arms, legs and chest. Things are hotting up now.
Note how the captive barely reacts – no resistance. No awareness of his surroundings. No understanding of the basic premise of this experiment. His privilege sets him above us mere mortals. His sense of worth lends him an arrogance, an entitlement denied the hordes that flock here. Tonight, as on previous nights, his true worth, his true character, will be ascertained and he will ultimately get his just desserts.
Sound-over – clapping hands and gleeful chuckle.
Now to wake him up – bring him out of his stupor.
The figure slaps our captive – once … twice … three times across the face. Our captive groans, his eyes flicker – open briefly then close, keeping his audience on tenterhooks.
The figure, hooded drape trailing the floor, leaves in silence, returning within seconds carrying a bowl. With an agile twist of the hands, the bowl’s contents are thrown over the captive, eliciting a frenzied jolting movement. It has the desired effect. The ice-cold water wakes the specimen up, makes him focus and … ah – he speaks, in the bewildered tones of a baby deserted by its mama.
‘Wh – what the f …? Where am I?’
Zooming in for the close-up we can see his pupils are dilated – pulse increasing, thrashing around. We’ve got ourselves a lively one. Wonder if he’s as clever as he is lively. Time will tell. We’ll soon see. Now for the main event. Ha ha! Fingers crossed he lives up to expectation.
The figure speaks. ‘Have you earned your place here? Your position? Have you earned it? Or is it all about Daddy’s wealth – privilege – entitlement?’
Do tell. Indeed, do tell.
The captive glances round the space – sees the table and the knife. Begins to struggle against his constraints and, at last, he speaks.
‘What are you doing? Let me go. What the fuck you doing?’
The figure’s response is low but if we strain, we can hear it ‘Ascertaining your worth. I thought that was clear. That’s the purpose of this. Why should you be here with all your privilege and not Joe Bloggs from down the road in Holmewood or Tyresal.’
‘You’re fucking mad – mental. Let me go. Right now – just let me fucking go.’
Note the heightened colour on his face, the flush of rouge over his cheeks as he struggles. His fingers fisted, held tight. Observe the whitening across his knuckles. This one’s a fighter.
Let’s see if he also has a modicum of intelligence.
‘We have rules. Easy rules. Rules an imbecile can follow. I expect you to comply. Will you?’
Alas, our captive continues to struggle, displaying an abject inability to correctly analyse the situation. His head shakes rapidly from side to side; his upper body, though trapped, strains against the rope. With the sad desperation of a failing man, he makes a vain attempt to wrench his tied hands apart. In his increased state of tension, the pitch of his voice rises, higher and higher to a shriek of desperation.
‘Fuck off. Let me go. Fuck off or I’ll kill you.’
Note the figure’s placatory response – soothing, yet with the promise of a reprimand implicit in the delivery. ‘Really? That’s the most intelligent thing you can say?’
Watch closely, for things are going to pick up speed now and you don’t want to miss anything. See how the figure picks up the item from the floor. Did you notice it lying there? Never mind, it was easy to miss in the muted lighting. But wait for this bit.
As the camera pans out, the figure approaches the captive. The long slender metal, glinting beneath the subdued stage lights.
Still, the captive is oblivious to the threat that approaches him so slowly. The figure slaps the bar against the palm of one hand causing the captive to glance up. With lightning speed, the figure strikes, jabbing the cattle prod onto the captive’s thigh.
The captive jerks back and screams.
‘Are you ready to listen to the rules?’ The figure raises the prod, waves it in sight of the captive. The specimen’s eyes water, a single stream of liquid rolls down his right cheek. He nods.
Bravo! Specimen is under control.
Sound-over – clapping and cheering.
Watch now as we find out the rules of play.
‘That’s more like it. Rule one – you must answer every question. Rule two – you may not pass on any question. Rule three – if you get five questions in a row right, you will be released. You will have earned your freedom. Rule four – for each incorrect answer you will be punished. Rule five – your fate is in your own hands. When you have had enough and don’t want to play anymore then we will move onto your last request. Do you understand?’
Ha! Now we see the typical response of a captive in denial. See how he shakes his head.
No matter. That will change. For now, enjoy his simple mistakes.
‘No, no – ’course I don’t. I don’t get it, not at all. Let me go. Let me go.’
You see what he’s done, don’t you? His rookie mistake? Now for the consequences.
‘Wrong answer number one.’
Watch the concentration as the figure picks up a knife, studies it. Runs his finger along the blade and then approaches the captive. It’s all about care and precision …
I hear a sound outside the door and quickly turn off the DVD. Never mind. There will be plenty of time later. Plenty of time.
Chapter 7
‘Oy, Deano, get your arse over here, right now, ya tosser.’
Deano’s heart sank as the Ferrari pulled up to the kerb outside Chicken Cottage. Last thing he needed right now, when he didn’t know if Kayleigh was all right, was to have a convo with her old man. He burped, took a last swig from his Vimto and tossed the can into the gutter, before stuffing the last of his burger into his mouth and throwing the polystyrene food container after the can. Wiping his hands down the front of his joggers, he approached the car. Shoulders hunched, big-man glower on his face, he ignored the passenger and spoke over his head to the driver. In situations like this, the only thing you could do was brazen it out. He’d find out soon enough if Franco knew. ‘Y’aright there, Franco?’
Franco – tall but skinny, cap on backwards, pockmarked face and ice-cold eyes – cast a sideways look at Deano. He shook his head and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel twice. As if on some sort of preordained order, the prick, Big Zee, thrust the passenger door open, crashing it into Deano’s legs and jumped out, quickly repositioning himself in the back seat, beside another one of Franco’s goons. Deano wanted to slam his fist into the idiot’s sneering face, but contented himself with hoiking a gob of phlegm into the gutter. It was pushing it for Franco to come back to Listerhills. Thing was he didn’t get it – too arrogant. Didn’t he realise Parekh would never let him get away with supplying to her nephew?
‘Get in.’ Franco’s words were an order and Deano had no option but to obey. He was in too deep and Franco knew it … but did he know about him and Kayleigh? With a quick glance along the road, Deano wished that Nikki hadn’t disappeared off with that big Paki dick. He slid into the front seat, next to Franco and tried to angle himself to the side, out of arm’s reach of Big Zee and his sidekick in the back. Deano had been in too many similar situations in the past not to be aware of what was coming. How many times had he been the one to move to the back seat, ready to slip a chain round the neck of the idiot Franco was grilling in the front seat if he didn’t deliver the goods?
‘Little bird told me you were talking to that Parekh bint?’
Fuck, word travelled fast! Deano laughed, tried to look nonchalant, hoping his face wasn’t giving owt away. He was caught with his balls between a rapidly closing vice. On the one hand, Parekh had made her threat clear and Deano couldn’t risk Franco finding out about him skimming. No way did he want to end up as pig food on one of them farms in the Dales. He’d seen too many end up there. On the other, Parekh was no pushover. She’d made her intentions clear. The only option open to him was to strike some sort of deal with her. What the hell was he going to do? ‘Yes, frigid bitch. She needs a good seeing to, to loosen her up a bit.’
He sensed Big Zee leaning forward at the ready and, from the corner of his eye, he saw Franco glance into the rear-view mirror. His hands grew damp with sweat and relief swept over him as his next words gushed from his mouth. ‘She wants me to keep an eye on my stepdad. Tosser’s been beating up my mum. Had her in hospital twice. I told her I’d deal with the fucker.’
‘That all?’ Franco’s eyes honed right in to his soul, red hot like a soldering iron.
Deano ignored the sounds from the back of the car – the rattle of metal, the squeak of leather as Big Zee edged forward. Deano could feel the big man’s breath on the side of his face, and the smell of his aftershave made him want to choke. He shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s all. Cow think’s that cos she’s a copper she’s got the right to sort everyone out. Don’t worry, my man, I’ll keep her sweet. I’ll keep her out of your hair.’
Gaze razoring Deano’s face, Franco leaned towards him, encroaching on his space and then, slapping the steering wheel, he laughed and jerked his head to one side – presumably the signal for Big Zee to step down. ‘You better, D. We don’t need some half-caste whore messing up our plans now, do we? This estate’s gonna be mine this time and you’re gonna help me.’
As Deano watched the streaming rain splatter down the windscreen, every fibre of his being screamed a warning. Franco could give the order and anything could happen inside the car without anyone outside noticing. Even if they did, chances were they’d ignore it. Franco was just that little bit too unpredictable, that little bit too dangerous for folk to risk annoying him. No one here ever volunteered a witness statement! ‘We did all right in Oldham, didn’t we? Ousted them Pakis and took control. Listerhills will be a doddle. Don’t worry, I’m on it. I’ve got my ears to the ground. Like you say – get the kids with us and the rest follows on. Parekh won’t fuck things up this time.’
Franco lifted his hand and angled it palm upwards, finger moving in a ‘gimme it’ gesture to Big Zee and Tyke in the back seat. A bit of rummaging and then a package wrapped in a plastic bag was given to Franco who passed it to Deano. ‘Here, go do your job then.’
Taking the package, Deano stuffed it up the front of his hoodie. No point in advertising what he had to everyone. There was always some tosser waiting to grab your stash, and that wouldn’t go down well with Franco. The man expected returns on his produce and Deano would have to make sure he paid up. ‘Usual rate?’
‘Yeah, keep the cost down, get ’em hooked, then, BOOM!’ Franco laughed like he’d cracked the finest joke ever – head back, furry yellow rabbit teeth on show. ‘Right, piss off then. I’ll be in touch.’
Deano slid out of the car, his legs shaking, and watched as Franco squealed off down the road towards town. Fuck! That had been a close one. All he’d wanted was a lousy Chicken Cottage and what did he end up with? Fucking Nikita Parekh on his case and then Franco. He glanced round. Who the hell had told Franco about his meeting with Parekh? Shit, he’d have to be extra careful now. Seemed like Franco had eyes everywhere.
Huddled over against the rain, Deano retraced his steps back to his house, wondering as he went how long he could keep his secrets hidden from Franco. He suspected it wouldn’t be for much longer. Shit, why did he have to do the dirty on the toughest drug boss in the north? As he neared his mum’s house, he slowed down. There was nothing else for it, he’d have to go to Parekh – cut some sort of deal. What with Franco involving Parekh’s nephew, Deano hoped she’d be only too willing to back him against the psycho. He shuddered, his back prickled as if a million pairs of eyes were scouring it. How the hell could he get to her without Franco finding out?
Chapter 8
Sun speckled the walls through the blinds in Nikki’s bedroom and sent little specks of shimmer like a kaleidoscope over the carpet. The room wasn’t spacious, mainly because one corner was stacked with large cardboard boxes, each with a year scrawled in black marker pen on the front, dating from 2000 onwards. A bed, bedside table, wardrobe, chest of drawers and a chair took up most of the remaining space.
The radio blared some funky feel-good song from the Nineties. Nikki didn’t know the title or the name of the band, but she didn’t care. Having the house to herself for once, meant she could prance around and get rid of some of the pent-up energy that had built in her recently. Sajid had suggested she go jogging with him, but she’d made it clear that she’d rather go trekking through Bradford’s rat-infested sewers covered in cheese than do that. He’d laughed, finding it funny that her aversion to any member of the rodent family was compounded by the ongoing battle with her youngest child Sunni who, with his tenth birthday approaching, was adamant that a hamster was all he wanted. Nikki shuddered. The mere thought of their ratty tails and clawy-like feet and gnawy teeth brought her out in hives. Their pittery-pattery scritchy-scratchiness, their scurrying, all made her skin crawl. Sunni was going to be disappointed. Poor kid, he never asked for anything, but this was just too much for her to cope with.
The track changed and, breathless, Nikki flopped on the end of the bed wondering if she maybe should take Sajid up on his offer after all. The only thing was Marcus wouldn’t like it. He was already jealous of Sajid and the last thing she needed to do right now was fuel his stupidity. Of course, she could just tell him Saj was gay, but then that would seal up that escape clause and even after eleven years in some semblance of a relationship with Marcus, she couldn’t quite bring herself to fully commit to him. What is wrong with me? Maybe I should go jogging with Saj. Maybe that would be enough to knock Marcus over the edge and into ex-boyfriend territory, and the best thing was she wouldn’t even have to do a thing. Aw, Nikita, what are you thinking? Marcus was great – the perfect boyfriend: good with the kids, reliable and shit hot in bed. Still, it was too intense for her, too much to handle.
