by R. D. Ronald
‘You ever hear anything from Bilaney or the police then, Deck?’ John asked, lying prostrate on the sofa opposite.
‘Nothing. There was no one around and it was done professional. Besides, he wouldn’t dare say anything anyway.’
‘He might not, but his brother is well pissed,’ Tony said. ‘He’s been making all kinds of promises to get back at you.’
‘Yeah?’ Decker asked sitting up straighter in the chair. The blonde kissed the inflamed skin around his healing tattoo and giggled. He pushed her away.
‘You not heard?’ Tony asked. ‘His brother Alex runs heroin over a few estates with some of his friends. Last I’d heard he was just a snot-nosed kid. Guess he came up. Bit like you, Deck.’
‘You’re not worried are you?’ John asked goadingly in Decker’s direction.
‘Course not. Maybe he just needs some of what his brother got to put him in his place.’
The blonde giggled again and put her arm back around his neck. The boys thought it was pretty funny too and laughed along. Decker reckoned he’d saved face. It wouldn’t do to show any weakness. Now he had his spot at their table there was no way he was going to give it up.
An electronic chirping from his pocket alerted Decker that someone was calling him. The ring tone on his cell phone was a classical number, to show he was cultured. He didn’t know what it was but recognised the tune from a bread commercial that had been on the TV when he was a kid.
‘Speak,’ he said after flipping the phone open.
‘Decker, you have to come now.’
‘What? Who’s this?’
‘It’s me, Becky. There’s a bunch of guys outside say if you don’t come out they’re gonna burn the house down. They have cans of petrol here, Decker. I’m really scared. Should I phone the police?’
His head was spinning from the cannabis, alcohol and sudden alarming news. Becky was his older sister. It must be Alex Bilaney and his crew. He had to confront them. If Becky phoned the police they’d only come back again later, but next time she might not get a warning. Had someone told them he would be there, or was this a ruse to scare him, or lure him out?
‘Don’t phone the cops, Becky. I’m on my way.’
‘Hurry then, please, Decker. The twins are upstairs.’
‘Decker, what’s going on?’ John asked as he hung up the call. All three had perked up at the prospect of trouble.
He was out of the door and halfway down the stairs before he realised the others were following. He shouted an explanation over his shoulder. Tony’s old blue and white Dodge Charger sat by the kerb outside. A bleep as the door locks released, and they all jumped inside. Tony turned the key and the engine immediately roared into life. The tyres squealed in protest as he wheel-spun out into a line of oncoming traffic.
Becky lived about a mile away, and Tony rocketed along the narrow suburban streets at breakneck speed. Decker was panicking at the prospect of someone hurting his sister, and worse still his niece and nephew, but looking around the car the other three seemed thrilled at the potential onset of violence.
Tony spun into Becky’s street, and what Decker saw made his heart feel like it was being wrenched from his chest. Her garden was within sight at the bottom of the small cul-de-sac. A small grey saloon was parked at an angle across the path and three figures were standing on her lawn, one of them holding a burning lump of wood.
This was far from being a nice middle-class suburb – public drunkenness, domestic and casual violence never registered as something the locals needed to call the police about – but even here someone would surely have reported this by now. Whatever he was going to do it would have to be quick.
Tony’s Charger bucked and lurched as it mounted the kerb then slid to a halt on the grass. Before the car stopped Decker was already out and running up the path. Shouts of encouragement rang out from behind him as a barrage of taunts and threats were fired from in front. His head was foggy. He had to shut them all out, try to focus.
A piece of wood lay in the overgrown front garden, part of an old window frame, a straight cut line with a ridge and patches of white paint clinging stubbornly to the edge. Decker bent and snatched up the makeshift weapon. Flailing blindly he screamed threats of his own, although what he shouted he couldn’t exactly be sure. Looks of uncertainty now shrouded two of his adversaries. They stepped back, no longer vociferous with their taunts. The third man, the one holding the burning stick, stepped forwards.
Whoops and cheers came from his friends behind, drunk on their revelry of narcotics and battle lust. Decker swung and Alex held up his makeshift torch to deflect the blow. A shower of sparks and burning flakes of wood rained over them. More cheers came from behind, shouts of ‘Do it, Decker! Do it!’
Alex swung the burning club at him. Decker stepped back as the flames combed his face with a sound like the billowing sail on a ship, the smell of burnt hair. He swung out in retaliation, catching Alex off balance. The piece of wood struck Alex across the side of his head. If there was a sound on impact then Decker couldn’t remember it afterwards, but he did remember the judder of vibrations up his arms as the heavy wood thudded against Alex’s skull.
Alex spun sideways and crashed down into the long grass. Three flecks of white paint lay on his scalp, and for a second looked like flower petals, as if he’d fallen asleep in a meadow.
Decker looked blearily around the garden, still clutching the window frame. The grey car carrying Alex’s friends pulled away and began accelerating up the street. John, Brian and Tony were frantically climbing into the Charger. They were shouting something at him. Decker just blinked, then a moment later they drove away. Decker wasn’t sure at first why they had left him.
He turned and saw Becky, crying in the doorway of her house. What was he doing here? Turning back he saw flashing blue lights at the end of the road, and realised the ringing in his ears was the sound of approaching sirens.
Central café, although not particularly central to anything, was a place where Tazeem occasionally liked to go and relax. Tazeem greeted the owner, an Algerian man he knew called Bassam, and took a seat at a table near the rear of the shop. The interior was painted in pale yellows and browns with domed arches along the walls and arched doorframes. Large ceramic tiles covered the floor and the furniture was wicker, the tables topped with thick, round glass.
Tazeem ordered mint tea. He knew Ermina never arrived on time, so had delayed his own arrival to avoid, or at least minimize, his inevitable wait. He was on his second glass when she made her entrance.
‘Hey, cousin,’ Ermina said as she dropped into the chair opposite.
‘Would you like to order something?’
‘No, I have other plans for lunch. So what do you want to see me about?’
She looked calm but her demeanour was prone to rapid change if things didn’t go her way. Tazeem knew this. He had to be cautious, or risk her walking out.
‘I just thought it would be nice for us to catch up. We rarely spend time, just the two of us these days.’
‘Hmm, I guess so,’ Ermina said, reached across the table and took a sip of his mint tea. She wrinkled her nose, put the glass back down and fished in her bag for cigarettes.
‘So what are your plans for lunch?’
‘I’m meeting Sadiq. I don’t know where we’re going, though.’ A smile hinted at the corners of her mouth as she lit up, the tip of her Marlboro Light glowing orange. She had obviously guessed this might be the reason for their meeting.
‘You seem to be spending a lot of time with Sadiq these days.’
‘Is that just an observation or should I expect it to be followed up with questions?’
‘Look, Ermina …’ he began, carefully.
‘No, you look, Tazeem. Sadiq knows how to treat a lady, and he isn’t shy of putting his hand into his pocket.’
‘It’s not his pocket I’m worried about,’ Tazeem said, and immediately knew he’d made a mistake.
Ermina tutted, rolled
her eyes and folded her cigarette-holding arm across her chest.
‘You know the kind of lifestyle he leads. I’m worried about the image you may get from hanging around with him.’
‘Sadiq looks after me. That was what you said you would do, ever since we were kids. You don’t run your own business or have any investments. A few hours here and there working in shops and you expect to look after your mother and me as well? Tazeem, you’re a joke,’ she said bitterly. ‘Even your dopey friend Latif is doing OK for himself.’
‘Sadiq doesn’t run any businesses either,’ he protested weakly.
‘No, but when a chance comes along he isn’t afraid to take it. He steps up,’ Ermina said, gesturing flamboyantly with her cigarette as she stood up.
She turned on her heel and stalked out of the cafe, almost knocking a plate from a timid waiter’s hand. He nodded and smiled as he put down the plate and quickly retreated to the kitchen.
Tazeem slid a hand into his pocket and withdrew the lottery card. The Lucky Leprechaun: three matching Leprechaun symbols guarantees a cash payout of 250k, promised the shiny yellow lettering that danced along the top of the card. The idiot faces of three cartoon leprechauns grinned mockingly back at him.
Tazeem’s mother and Ermina’s father were brother and sister. Ermina’s mother died in childbirth and Tazeem’s father had also died when he was very young. As a result, Tazeem was encouraged to look out for Ermina as if she was his sister. Their remaining parents were old now, and Tazeem felt the pressure of being head of a household despite never having agreed to it. He knew he had been shy of providing from time to time, but he had never anticipated that might cause Ermina to look to a man like Sadiq for comfort or financial security. His hand lingered a moment longer on the card before he slipped it back into his pocket.
The doorbell rang and Tazeem – or ‘Paavan Patel’, his newly created identity – walked along the narrow hallway to open it. He had managed to forge or otherwise obtain a fake lease for the vacant flat he was in, a driver’s licence and a birth certificate, which he used to open a bank account. Even with all the documents he still felt uneasy claiming the prize from the winning ticket.
‘Mr Patel?’ a bronzed, smiling face asked as he opened the front door to a succession of blinding flashes from a camera.
‘Yes,’ Tazeem confirmed, ‘are the pictures necessary?’
‘Just a few shots,’ the grinning man continued. Tazeem turned and walked back into the house, signalling for the bronzed man and the photographer to follow. The less people witnessing this the better, and next door’s curtain had already begun to twitch.
The syrupy man settled onto an armchair, and began to talk as he flicked through papers that needed signing.
‘Tazeem Hamid,’ a voice bellowed along the hallway.
Shit, they must have left the front door open, Tazeem thought.
‘This is the police.’
Three officers burst into the room. The lottery employees looked at each other as if they’d slipped through a crack into another dimension.
‘This is Mr Patel,’ the now nervously smiling face grinned uncertainly at the policemen.
Tazeem took out his freshly acquired identification and presented it to one of the officers.
The officer squinted at the driving licence then laughed as he tossed it onto the floor. ‘You’re having a laugh. If this was any fresher the ink would still be wet,’ he said, and twisted Tazeem’s arm behind him, encircling his left wrist with handcuffs.
‘A witness at the shop saw you in possession of a load of scratch cards, Tazeem.’
‘I work there, they must have seen me sorting out cards at the shop. I never gamble. I just found this one.’
‘Exhibit A,’ the officer almost sang as he pulled out the Taweez locket that hung on the silver chain around Tazeem’s neck.
He yanked on it and the chain snapped. Being careful not to touch the locket itself, he closely inspected the edges. Sure enough, tiny foil shavings remained in the groove from the last time Tazeem had used it to scratch the cards.
3
The lingering civil unrest following the explosion, the finger-pointing and political backlash, possibly contributed to Tatiana falling through the cracks of an already flimsy social care system. The newspaper headlines were dominated by what had been labelled ‘The Daisy-Cutter Assassination Attempt’ because of the type of device used in the blast.
After three months, when her visible wounds had healed, Tatiana grew tired of her solitary existence in the hospital. One afternoon she slipped out and didn’t return. Back at the rented accommodation she had previously called home, she found the family’s belongings rotting in boxes by the side of the road. Anything valuable had been taken, and the house was being prepared for another family to move in. No one had told her so, but Tatiana knew in her heart that her parents and brother were dead. She’d looked in every ward during her recovery, but held out no hope of finding them recovering under the white linen sheets of a hospital bed.
Tatiana felt a sudden tug at her sleeve. She spun around, startled, and recognised the face of the grey-haired woman who had worked at the factory with her mother. The woman’s eyes swam with sympathy and confusion. Tatiana watched as her mouth soundlessly formed words, but she could hear nothing. The woman’s lips fell still and she stared blankly at Tatiana, her forehead creased with concern as she waited for a response. Tatiana shook free of the woman’s grip and ran.
This was the same treatment she had received in hospital. As she’d carried no identification and appeared unable, or perhaps unwilling, to answer questions, priority had eventually switched to the other victims of the blast. Tatiana felt she had been forgotten.
With only a handful of coins in her pocket, Tatiana took a bus into the city. The future hadn’t crossed her mind while in the hospital. She’d been numbed from pain, grief and confusion, but the growling in her stomach proved a nagging reminder that she had to adapt to a new way of life, and adapt fast.
The city was dark and wet when Tatiana stepped down out off the bus. It was surreal to see cars passing by over the wet tarmac without hearing the familiar swish of tyres. Tatiana turned away from the kerb and was enveloped by the aroma of fried chicken from a nearby takeaway
She walked up to the serving hatch and looked over the menu. Without taking the remaining coins from her pocket, Tatiana knew she didn’t have enough for even the cheapest item listed.
The man in the serving hatch had waxy skin and black hair, a thick tuft of which also sprouted from each of his nostrils. He began waving his arms to attract her attention. Tatiana guessed he must have been talking to her as she looked forlornly at the prices. The man gestured at the menu behind him, pointed at her and gave an exaggerated shrug. Tatiana withdrew her coins and held them out to show him. He stole a quick glance up the street and then beckoned for her to come around behind the counter. Tatiana ducked into the alleyway and saw a door open up a little way ahead.
Maybe he’s looking for staff, she tried to reassure herself as she walked toward the door; a chance to earn some money and pay for somewhere to stay. Tatiana stepped inside a cluttered storeroom. Large brown sacks of potatoes were lined up along one wall next to a battered looking refrigerator and chest freezer. The floor was dirty and the air smelled sour.
She felt large calloused hands on her arm and neck, and spun around to face the man. Unperturbed by her incredulous expression, he fumbled with the buttons on her shirt as he tried roughly to undress her. Tatiana beat at his hands, and seeing his belt and pants already unfastened she staggered backwards and fell heavily against the wall. He shouted at her, the tendons in his neck as taut as tow-rope, and spittle flew from his lips. He pulled a crumpled wad of notes from his pocket and brandished them at her. His fury raged. Tatiana staggered to her feet and bolted out into the alley.
Her breath felt hot and acrid in her throat as Tatiana fled toward the main street. She stole a look backwards to make certain she was
n’t being pursued, ran headfirst into a passer-by and they both tumbled to the ground. Panic gripped Tatiana and she felt danger all around her. She looked up at this new potential threat, but saw no malice in the young girl’s quizzical gaze back at her.
Tatiana checked for her pursuer. The man stood uncertainly by the doorway; his pants had slid down a few inches, revealing a band of pale, hairy flesh. Seeing the anxiety on Tatiana’s face, the other girl got to her feet and shouted at him. He dragged up his pants and disappeared back into his store.
The prospect of spending the rest of his life in jail wasn’t something Decker was able to process. Six months, or a year, or even ten years, he thought he could begin to wrap his head around. At least then there was an after. But life … to remain within the same four walls until he drew his last breath just didn’t make sense. There was no after, there was only a before; and 24 hours in every day to relive the before, over and over again.
His first week in Portmarsh was the longest and most unbearable of his life. He was locked in a one-man cell for 23 out of every 24 hours. For the hour a day when the door was left unlocked for him to socialise with other prisoners, Decker still remained alone in the cell. It was almost as if by attempting to make something of the situation he was in, and get to know fellow inmates, he would be accepting his fate. A fate he still found too unbearable to comprehend.
He didn’t wash, just splashed cold water onto his face as a distraction from the oppressive brick walls and banging cell doors that echoed continually throughout the wing during daylight hours. He didn’t talk to the guards when they checked on him by opening the metal panel in the door. He ignored the inmates who spoke to him when they brought his meals three times a day, and did little more than pick at the food which was tasteless at best.
