by Liz Mistry
About the Author
Born in Scotland, made in Bradford sums up LIZ MISTRY’s life. Over thirty years ago she moved from a small village in West Lothian to Yorkshire to get her teaching degree. Once here, Liz fell in love with three things: curries, the rich cultural diversity of the city … and her Indian husband (not necessarily in this order). Now thirty years, three children, two cats (Winky and Scumpy) and a huge extended family later, Liz uses her experiences of living and working in the inner city to flavour her writing. Her gritty crime fiction police procedural novels set in Bradford embrace the city she describes as ‘Warm, Rich and Fearless’, whilst exploring the darkness that lurks beneath.
Having struggled with severe clinical depression and anxiety for many years, Liz often includes mental health themes in her writing. She credits the MA in Creative Writing she took at Leeds Trinity University with helping her find a way of using her writing to navigate her ongoing mental health struggles. Being a debut novelist in her fifties was something Liz had only dreamed of and she counts herself lucky, whilst pinching herself regularly to make sure it’s all real.
You can contact Liz via her website https://www.lizmistry.com/
Also by Liz Mistry
Last Request
Broken Silence
Dark Memories
LIZ MISTRY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Dublin 4, Ireland
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Liz Mistry
Liz Mistry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © January 2021 ISBN: 9780008358389
Version: 2021-01-11
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Liz Mistry
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Present Day: August
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Tuesday 1st September
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Thursday 17th September
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Friday 18th September
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Saturday 19th September
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Monday 21st September
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Tuesday 22nd September
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Wednesday 23rd September
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Thursday 24th September
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Wednesday 30th September
Chapter 86
Epilogue
Extract
Acknowledgements
Author Letter
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
To my family, you always have my back and you keep me strong even when the Black Dog bites xxx
Prologue
December 1993
Layla sat at the dressing table applying a coat of red lip gloss. The light from the unshaded bulb exposed the room’s shabbiness. She paused, looking at the reflection of her two children in the mirror. They were leaning against the wall, a duvet wrapped around their shoulders at the top of the grubby single mattress that lay on the floor. An episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was playing on the crappy telly that she’d positioned on an upturned box at the end of their bed. Her oldest was speaking. ‘I’ll be Raphael; you can be Donatello.’
‘You’re always Raphael. I want to be Raphael.’
‘But Donatello’s the clever one. Don’t you want to be the clever one?’
Head to one side, Layla’s youngest acquiesced. ‘Okay. But you got to call me Donatello or Don all night and I’ll call you Raph.’
Layla smiled. They were so cute, so beautiful it made her heart bleed. Their skinny arms holding the duvet under their chins, their too-small Ninja pyjamas riding up their little bellies, their eyes flitting across the screen, enraptured by the antics of the Turtles, made her sad. Why should they be content with so little?
She looked round the room, hating it. The grubby wallpaper peeled from the walls and the threadbare carpet offered no warmth to their feet in the frozen winter. The single-glazed window rattled and let in a force-ten gale when the wind was high. It was a dive and she was ashamed of the life she’d brought her babies into. Next to the children, a single bed was positioned underneath a window, which was shrouded in a scrappy curtain. She’d left the drape open a few inches to allow the amber glow of the streetlamp to illuminate the room when she was gone. Positioned near the mattress was another upturned box with a plate of sandwiches and two yogurts on top.
She placed her lip gloss back on the dresser and start
ed applying cheap make-up to cover her bruises. When she was ready for work, she jumped to her feet and walked over to the mattress, grabbing her little turtles, tickling them mercilessly for a few minutes until he yelled up the stairs. ‘Shut the brats up, or I’ll come up there and do it myself, Layla.’
All three of them froze. She forced herself to smile as she leaned over and kissed them before pulling them close to her chest. I hate him, I hate him so much and I hate that bloody name – Layla. Why did I allow him to call me that? It’s just another way for him to scrape away my identity.
Who was she kidding though? She had no choice in anything. Her cheek rested on her eldest’s shaved scalp, the barely growing bristles scraping her skin. Her lips thinned and she closed her eyes tightly to stop her tears from falling When the kids had come home from school the other day with a letter warning parents to be vigilant about head lice, he’d grabbed them and, ignoring their protests, had shaved all their hair off, saying, ‘This will stop the brats catching nits.’
She ran her hands over their heads and whispered, ‘It’ll grow back soon.’
‘We hate him, Mummy. Why is he so nasty to us? We try to be good.’
A voice came roaring up the stairs again. ‘Get an effing move on – you’ve got money to earn.’
She inhaled and counted to three. One day she’d get away from this. One day the three of them would escape … one day. But, for now, she had to get a wriggle on. Cupping her oldest child’s face in her hands for a moment, before repeating the gesture with her younger child, she smiled. ‘Now, you know what to do. No noise, only the little light and don’t go near the window.’
They smiled up at her, their eyes filled with a love she didn’t deserve. ‘Don’t worry, Mummy. We won’t make a noise. No one will know we’re home alone. We’ll be good.’
She nodded once. ‘Don’t forget the bucket if you need to wee wee.’ From her pocket she took out a key and placed it beside their food. ‘Remember, don’t open the door for anyone except me, unless …’
Two small mouths opened and chanted in synchronicity: ‘… There’s a ’mergency.’
‘That’s right.’ She grinned and handed them a packet of Rolos. She rose. ‘Don’t forget to share.’ Walking to the door, she flicked the main light switch off, leaving the room in a dull glow. ‘Love you!’
As footsteps thundered up the steps, she slipped out of the room, locked the door and sneaked her key into her pocket before moving over to meet the grunting man who had now reached the top of the stairs. ‘Thank God you’re ready. Hope them brats are sorted.’
She nodded, avoiding his gaze. One of these days she’d kill him! No matter how long she had to wait, she’d kill him!
*
The children looked at the door after their mother left, Donatello’s lips trembling. ‘Why does she have to go? Why does he always make her go? He knows she doesn’t like it, Raph.’
By the time the Ninja Turtles’ episode had finished, the room had become colder. The creaking central heating had long since clicked off and the old radiators were making cooling-down sounds. Snow fell outside, illuminated by the orange streetlight. ‘It’s snowing. Shall we climb onto Mummy’s bed to watch the snow?’ Donatello’s tone was hopeful. If they moved onto the big bed, the draught from the door wouldn’t hit them and they’d be able to peek out the window. If they switched off the small lamp, no one would spot them.
Raphael grinned, and in a good imitation of the Teenage Turtle’s New York accent said, ‘All right, Don, but you’ll have to invent a screen so no one can see us from outside.’
They peered through a gap in the curtains, enjoying watching the layer of snow build on the pavements and on the few cars that were parked in their street. Car lights driving up the road made the snow glisten, but as the snow got heavier, fewer cars chanced the shortcut offered by their street, which was on a steep slope. Only a few well-wrapped-up figures braved the weather and the pretend Ninjas watched as their footprints disappeared under the snow.
‘Do you think Mummy’s cold?’
Raphael didn’t know exactly what Mummy did when she went out to work, though one of the lads at school had said their mummy was a slut. Not quite sure what a slut was, Raphael, in true Raphael Ninja style had punched the kid on the nose and had earned a beating from him afterwards for drawing attention to them. Mummy was probably cold, but there was nothing they could do. To distract Donatello, Raphael held out a fisted hand, then grinning, opened it up. ‘I love you enough to give you my last Rolo, Don.’
Cuddling together, they continued to watch the snow until a figure walking up the hill drew their attention as it weaved from side to side, slipping a few times in the slush and getting back to its feet again. As it got closer, Raphael saw that the person carried a bottle, which surprisingly hadn’t broken despite its owner’s frequent falls. ‘Who’s that, Raph? Do you think he’s drunk?’
Raph did indeed think the figure was drunk, and noting worry in Don’s voice said, ‘Don’t worry. Nobody can get in here. Remember we’ve got the key. And you activated the magic screen didn’t you?’
Don, nose pressed to the cool glass, shuddered. ‘Is it him, Raph? Is it him?’
Raph knew exactly who “him” was, but as the figure drew closer, Raph relaxed. ‘No, it’s too skinny to be him.’
The figure tottered closer to their house and then stood in the middle of the road waving the bottle in the air. ‘Come out, you fucking pervert. Where are you? You’re a dirty fucking old perv. A nonce and a pimp, that’s what you are.’
The hood that was obscuring the man’s face fell back, but they didn’t need to see his face to recognise him.
‘It’s Dexy.’ Don’s tone was a weak gasp. ‘What’s wrong with Dexy?’
Raphael shrugged. Who knew, but whatever it was, it was bad. Without warning, Dexy made a staggering run towards the pavement in front of their house, arm raised as he propelled the bottle through the air and against their living-room window. The sound of glass shattering was loud. Dexy had fallen to the wet ground and was now trying to get on his knees, when Raphael noticed the door from the house opposite open and a man, pulling on a coat as he ran to help Dexy to his feet.
‘What you doing here, Dexy? You’ll get yourself in trouble. You can’t go about smashing windows. You can see nobody’s home. Look, the house is in darkness. Come on. Come in here with me and we’ll get you dry.’
But as other doors opened, Dexy’s voice rose in volume, and flinging a mis-aimed fist at his would-be helper, he ended up on the ground again. ‘You’re a pervert too. You dirty old git. I know what you did to me … and to my mates too.’ Dexy half turned towards his initial target, now with a broken window. ‘And he fucking organised it. You sick bastards need locking up. Every one of you.’
The erstwhile helper stood statue still, then glancing round at the other neighbours who had gathered and were watching him in silence, stammered, ‘He’s lying. The lad’s drunk. Talking nonsense.’
Sirens in the distance seemed to bring him to his senses and he took a step away from Dexy and, as if afraid to turn his back on him, walked backwards till he reached his gate, before spinning round and hotfooting it into the house and slamming the door shut. Within seconds, his house too was in darkness and the other neighbours were sidling back into their homes, leaving Dexy on the road as a police car drove down the street and parked up.
Dropping the curtain into place, Raphael and Don crawled up to the top of their mum’s bed. Pulling the duvet over their heads, they tried to block out the shouts from Dexy and the hammering of fists on their front door. If anyone found out they were home alone, they’d be taken from Mummy. Hands over their ears, they muffled their sobs underneath the duvet, wishing their mummy would soon come home.
Present Day
August
Chapter 1
With a pint of real ale in front of me, I wait in The Sparrow till night falls. I keep my head down; don’t make eye contact with nob
ody. Just another bloke having a quiet drink on his own. There must have been a Bradford City home football match as some of the other punters are wearing the amber and claret scarves. By the sound of their laughter they must have won. I don’t betray my disbelief, but bloody hell, Bradford F.C. winning. Must have been a right duff team they were up against.
I cup my pint in my hand, savouring it, and I think about why I’m here. It’s all for her. It’s always been all for her. For as long as I can remember all I’ve ever wanted to do was protect her – look out for her – even if she doesn’t realise it. She’s too good for that bastard, but she just doesn’t seem to get it, so all I can do is sit on the side-lines and make sure she’s okay. He’d never think of doing anything like this to protect her – never! Too bloody soft. Too selfish to make sacrifices or too stupid to realise that he needs to. I take a slurp and enjoy the malty flavour as it trickles down my throat. Usually I’d be off partaking in my little hobby. But that got hit on the head. Another reason I hate that bastard. Another reason she needs looking after. Never mind, I’ll sort out Peggy Dyson and make sure the shit doesn’t hit the fan.
The manager calls last orders and I watch as the city centre pubs throw out their last rowdy occupants and leave the streets of Bradford to the young clubbers, those intent on criminal activity, and the rough sleepers currently congregating under the arches near the Forster Square train station.
During the day, I’d sidled past, trying to spot Peggy … although there were plenty to choose from, I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure if she was one of the motley bunch of homeless people that laid their heads down in this little pocket of misery hidden from the mainstream Bradfordians. It would make my job easier if the old bint had OD’d – but knowing my luck she’d still be hanging around … It doesn’t matter either way; I’ve geared myself up for it now.
Pulling my hooded top more tightly round my head, I’m glad of the cooling breeze that accompanies the fall of darkness. It’s important that I get this right – even more so now that Liam is causing trouble, stirring up shit, and that good-for-nothing tosser just sits and waits for it all to land. Idiot! Peering into the tunnel, I exhale and contemplate the problem. I could just yell out her name and hope for the best. On the other hand, last thing I want is any of the blokes to come forward and challenge my presence. Some of them look harmless enough, but there’s a crowd in the far corner who look like they’d be up for trouble – probably coked up.
