Unseen Evil

by Liz Mistry

  As a result, everyone else was sweltering. And he’d had to give up his bed to accommodate his aunt and uncle. For the past week, he’d been unable to settle in the top bunk in the attic box room. He hated sharing with his brother, Adil. He snored like a pig and smelled twice as bad. As far as Haider was concerned, the sooner his aunt and uncle moved on to the next set of relatives, the better. At least Adil’s snoring had stopped. Maybe now he could get some rest. He’d a GCSE in the morning and maths wasn’t his best subject.

  Rolling his tall frame into a more comfortable position, Haider tried to ignore the lumps in the mattress and the faint aroma of dirty socks that hung in the air as if Adil had hung them across the room with the explicit purpose of annoying him. He was a repulsive little scrote. Feeling the bed wobble, Haider tried to punch a dent into his washboard-stiff pillow and, when he failed, he gave up with a sigh. Of course, the best bedding had gone to the relatives. He wouldn’t mind, but he didn’t even like them. Neither did his mum. They were his dad’s brother and sister-in-law and they had issues with the fact that Haider’s mum was a Gujarati Muslim and they were Pakistani. Bloody load of old rubbish as far as Haider was concerned. His cousins were all right though. Two girls, just a little bit younger than him. As long as nobody got it into their heads that he’d be up for marrying either of them. No chance! He’d find his own wife when it was time, and if he had owt to do with it, that wouldn’t be for at least a decade.

  Flinging off his duvet, he hung his legs over the edge of the bed. Why was it so hot in here? Course he knew why. Bloody visitors. It felt that everything they’d done for the past few weeks had been dictated by the sodding relatives that nobody really liked. They’d not been able to have their regular Friday night Raja’s Pizza treat because his uncle could only eat curry and chapattis. When he’d suggested the kids have the pizza and the parents have the curry, his boring old uncle had put the kibosh on that saying he didn’t want his daughters being ‘tempted into the ways of the West.’ Idiot! Raja’s pizzas were a Pakistani tradition in Bradford… part of the culture, just like Chicken Cottage.

  As his body temperature cooled, Haider’s eyes became heavy and he was on the point of dropping off when Adil’s snoring started up again. Fuck’s sake! Pulling himself into a half-sitting position, to avoid banging his head on the room’s sloping ceiling, Haider edged his bum closer to the bedrail where his feet still dangled and was just about to jump onto the floor, not caring if he woke his brother, when his phone vibrated. Who the hell was contacting him at this hour? Stretching his hand back, he groped under his pillow for the phone. When his fingers grabbed it, he edged his backside over the rail and lowered himself off the bed, jumping the last foot and a half. Adil, snorted, flapped his lips, and heaved himself onto his side. Haider glared at him and kicked the edge of the bed with his bare foot, but Adil just commenced a rhythmic purring snore.

  The floor was cool under Haider’s feet. The box room was a junk room and so had only a bit of tatty old lino with a threadbare rug covering the floor. Haider hopped onto the rug and looked around in the semi-darkness for his slippers and clothes. Adil, as usual, had left a trail of clothes in bundles all over the floor and it took Haider a minute to locate his single pile near the door. Cursing, he removed the pile of underwear Adil had dumped on top of his clothing and sniffed the T-shirt that was topmost. He gritted his teeth. Little shit! His T-shirt smelled of pissy underpants now. Rummaging under the bed, he pulled out a suitcase containing his clothes ration for the duration of his exile. Still no response from his brother who slept on regardless of the evil looks Haider flung his way at regular intervals. Unzipping the bag and extracting clean clothes, Haider breathed in the scent of fabric conditioner as he pulled a top over his head before sliding his feet into a pair of shorts. He’d go and sleep on the sofa. He stretched up, yanked his duvet down, and slung it over one shoulder and then, phone in pocket, he turned back. With clawed fingertips, he gripped his brother’s skull and shook hard before leaving the room, ignoring the confused yelps that followed him.

  Downstairs it was cooler, and the lingering aroma of incense made him quite lethargic as he snuggled under his duvet, positioning cushions beneath his head. He’d just got comfortable when he remembered the notification on his phone and groaned. Now he’d remembered it, he’d have to look. That’s the thing with phones; somehow, they demanded an instant response… even in the middle of the night… even when you were dog fucking tired. Using his fingerprint, he activated his phone and saw he had a Snapchat. He opened it and stared at the image. What the fuck? It disappeared. Haider shook his head as if to clear the image from his thoughts. What the hell was the knob playing at? This was so not funny. Not funny at all.

  He replayed the image. What the hell would make him send Haider an image of himself covered in blood with a fake knife sticking out his neck at this time of night? Fucking gross! With the duvet pulled over his shoulders, Haider’s fingers flew over the phone and, just before he settled down for the night, he hit send.

  TOSSER!!!!

  CHAPTER 6

  H alf ten on a Sunday night and it was still fucking boiling. As he turned off Toller Lane onto Smith Lane behind Bradford Royal, Karim Mirza welcomed the occasional whoosh of air as cars passed by him. When he licked his lips, they tasted of salt and his hair was all limp across his forehead. Hope I don’t bump into any of the lads… or Zarqa. Don’t want her to see me looking like a div!

  Why’d it have to be so hot? His hands were stuffed in his pockets, Trixie-Belle’s leash hooked over his right wrist. And why did his mum have to sign him up for this? Bloody Lubna. ‘Oh, Ami, I’m too busy – got my biology tomorrow – make Karim do it.’

  It was her job, not his. His sister had been the one to agree to walking the dog for their neighbour, not him. Why did he have to get dragged into it? Bad enough that he had to deliver chapattis and curry lunchtime and teatime, every day. Stupid old bat kept chuntering on, ‘Oh could you just make me a cold drink, Karim?’ or ‘Can you move the fan a bit closer, Karim?’ Least she sometimes slipped him a note which he promptly spent on a tenners bag on Scotchman Road.

  Strolling on, Trixie-Belle trotting ahead of him, he considered cutting their walk short. It was bloody humiliating. Imagine if his friends saw him with a pooper scooper bag? They’d slag him for weeks. Trixie-Belle doubled back on herself and looked up at him, her head tilted to one side, ears twitching as if to say ‘can we get a move on?’ Poor sod’s feeling the heat too.

  Karim mimicked her head movements and then, grinning, reached down and scratched the top of her head. Trixie-Belle liked that, her mouth fell open and her tongue lolled out from the side all pink and rough looking. He took his phone out, checked his notifications, and shrugged. Nowt important. ‘Poor Mrs Brown’s hip op this, poor Mrs Brown’s hip op that,’ said Karim in a baby voice to the dog. Trixie-Belle looked up at him as if she understood every word. Karim laughed. His mother’s words made him think of hip hop and Drake. He couldn’t imagine Mrs Brown getting down with a bit of Drake or 50 Cent for that matter. Specially not with her ‘hip op’. He sniggered and tugged Trixie-Belle’s leash. ‘You get it, Trixie-B! Hip Hop, Hip op.’ He was still laughing when he dropped her leash to the pavement so he could search his shorts’ pocket for his Clipper.

  He’d just shoved the bent spliff between his lips and flicked the lighter to light it when Trixie-Belle made her bid for freedom. She was off, lead dragging behind her, straight up Smith Lane, past the Maternity Unit car park, and then she disappeared to the left. Karim cursed and took off after her, the light from the street lamps casting a white glow as he went. His heart pounded, unlit joint hanging from his lips as he panted after the dog. All the while he ran, he repeated to himself, ‘Please not the Haunted House, Trixie-B. Please not the Haunted House.’

  When he reached the point where he’d last seen her, he stopped, ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and spun in a complete circle, before kicking a nearby lamp post. �
��Aaaaaaargh!’ He snatched the spliff from his lips, shoved it back in his tin case beside his grinder, and rammed it in his pocket.

  The Haunted House was right there, and he bet that was where the stupid dog had gone. To his left, back from the road, behind a line of overgrown bushes, the upper floor of a dilapidated building was visible. Its smashed windows, covered on the inside by bits of wood hanging loose as if a ghostly figure had tried to break out, glinted in the headlights of cars rounding the bend. ‘Fucking Haunted House.’

  Two huge boulders were placed at each end of the hedges, restricting access to the premises. Karim looked along the street in both directions hoping for some human presence in the distance, but there was none. What am I going to do? No way could he leave the dog out here on her own. Hip op or not, Mrs Brown would skin him alive if owt happened to Trixie-Belle. The trouble was, he couldn’t bring himself to go in after her. Brought up on a recipe of jinns, demons, and angels from his parents, and spooks, ghosts, and poltergeists from his friends, Karim was scared. He’d never admit it to his mates, but the stories of the Grey Lady who floated round the grounds of the Haunted House looking for naughty kids to eat, still, on occasion, gave him nightmares. Then there was Smiling Jack. Aw no, why did I have to think of Smiling Jack right now?

  He approached the nearest boulder and peered into the darkness beyond. There were large looming shapes at the back – trees. ‘Why does there have to be trees? Trees and fucking Smiling Jack.’

  He peered into the distance and then, when that didn’t help him see any clearer, he got out his mobile and used the torch function. Now the trees in the distance took on an even more ghostly appearance. Was that a body hanging in that tree? Had Smiling Jack grabbed Trixie-Belle, stapled her mouth into a smile and hung her from a branch? Fuck I hope not!

  Karim bounced his torch over the ground, his hand shaking, his voice tremulous as he called into the darkness beyond, ‘Trixie-B. Trixie-Belle? Come on, girl. Please, come on.’

  An answering bark from beyond the rocks confirmed his fears. Trixie-Belle was in the grounds of the Haunted House, but at least she was alive. Smiling Jack hadn’t got her. He shook himself. Aw, come on, Karim, don’t be such a pussy. Smiling Jack’s a myth, not real.

  He took a deep breath and squeezed between the boulders, bouncing his torch around him as he went. Now he was onto the drive, the house looked even scarier. The broken gutters cast weird shadows over the weeds that sprouted from between the pebbles on the drive. A dark outline of a plant growing up the walls to the smashed windows made them look like they were crying blood. He directed his spotlight towards the side of the house where the trees were, and, taking baby steps, moved forward, glad of the sound of the occasional car passing on the road behind. ‘Trixie-B, Trixie.’ Why the fuck am I whispering? ‘Trixie-Belle – come on girl. Come to Karim.’ A little louder this time. Again, the same answering bark, but no sight nor sound of Trixie rushing back to him. He groaned. Maybe she’s injured? Oh, fuck no! Mrs Brown would definitely have him for that. No more tenners for bud if the dog was hurt.

  He drew level with the house and risked moving his phone over the walls, just making sure the Grey Lady wasn’t there waiting to jump out on him. There was a door at the side, with a half porch. Just the place for Smiling Jack to hide! Giving the porch a wide berth, Karim edged forward, his trainers dislodging pebbles as he walked, making too much noise. He tried to walk on tiptoes and that was a little quieter, but awkward. If he had to run, he’d not bother about the noise. Drawing level with the porch, he risked a glance towards it. Apart from the dark shadows, nothing. Thank fuck.

  Moving on, Karim reached the end of the house – a few more steps and he’d be in the grassy area near the trees at the back of the property. ‘Trixie-Belle? Trixie-B, come on, girl.’

  Again, the yelp of an excited dog, closer this time. Summoning up every ounce of courage and avoiding looking at the trees, Karim walked on, peering to his right where he’d heard the dog. Trixie-Belle wriggled on her haunches, the lead lying on the ground behind her. ‘Thank God, Trixie, why didn’t you come when I called?’

  Trixie-Belle turned to greet him, her mouth wide in a canine grin, not a staple in sight, her tongue a Scooby Doo loll. Karim grinned and bent to pick up the lead, No way are you getting away from me now. As he straightened, his torch landed on something a few feet away on the grass. Karim, yelped. Fingers frantic, he grabbed the lead and, dragging Trixie-Belle behind him, legged it back round the Haunted House, between the boulders and onto Smith Lane before stopping. A quick glance behind him reassured him he hadn’t been followed. Bending over, bracing his hands on his knees, he struggled to catch his breath. ‘Fuck, oh fuck. What was that?’ Tears streamed from his eyes, his heart thundered, and he thought he would have to slide down onto the pavement.

  A low growl rumbled in Trixie-Belle’s throat. Through the dark, something gripped his shoulder. He jumped and spun round, arms raised, shining the torch in the eyes of the person who’d grabbed him. His sudden movement dislodged his baccy tin from his pocket. It crashed to the ground and Karim groaned. He swung his torch to the tin. Aw fuck! There on the pavement was his tin, lid to one side, joint and weed grinder on the other. He met the eyes of the police officer who looked pointedly at the spliff.

  Her partner, a big fucker, grinning like he’d won the lottery, rocked on his feet, a sarcy grin on his face. ‘Been spending our pocket money on naughties, have we?’

  CHAPTER 7

  And tomorrow’s set to be another scorcher throughout Yorkshire, with temperatures reaching highs of 24 degrees. Watch out for thundery showers over the Dales overnight and increased humidity…

  D etective Inspector Gus McGuire switched Capital Radio off and got out of the police pool vehicle. Taffy had picked him up from home and as soon as he’d left the house, he’d started to sweat. A kid’s body wasn’t his idea of a great way to end the weekend. Not for the first time in the last five months, he wished it was Alice with him. Taffy was a great lad and was beginning to show the makings of a good officer. His main failing was that he wasn’t Alice. He’d heard nothing from her in those five months. His DCI, Nancy Chalmers, was happy to give Alice more time after all she’d been through. However, their new Detective Chief Superintendent Gazala Bashir wasn’t being so patient. Now that she’d got her feet under the table, she was beginning to flex her muscles and Gus was concerned that Alice would be forced to make a decision she might regret because of Bashir’s thirst to assert herself.

  Even after eleven at night, it was still sweltering. The build-up of heat and humidity throughout the day made it difficult to breathe and now hung like stagnant piss in a spit-and-sawdust pub’s urinal. Gus, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, was sweating like a pig at a barbecue. He’d taken to wearing a bandana to create a bit of air between his short dreads and his neck and to stop the sweat from running into his eyes. All day he’d been wishing for a thunderstorm to clear the air and, now that one was imminent, he was hoping it would hold off until they’d processed the crime scene. Sod’s bloody law. The thought of scrambling into crime scene overalls in this heat made his skin prickle.

  There were two entrances to the Haunted House, and both were cordoned off with yellow and black crime scene tape attached to the gateposts and stretched over the two boulders that had been deposited at each entrance years ago. This takes me back. Last time he’d passed the house, the hedge had been covered in snow and hadn’t looked quite as unkempt. Now it seemed that it was making a bid to seal off the entire length of the property with elongated leafy shoots branching out in all directions. He couldn’t remember a hedge at all when he’d been a kid living on Wheatland’s Drive. He, Mo, and Greg had spent a lot of time playing here, building dens and having picnics and making up imaginary worlds.

  Everything seemed less grand now. The windows were all shuttered off with planks of wood that were hanging on by a single nail by the look of it. They’d had bother a few years ago with rough sleepers
and junkies taking over the building, but now, with special constables being detailed in the area, this had been sorted. Since then, they’d padlocked the building off with chains and heavy-duty bars across the downstairs windows. To Gus, vacant properties like this were a scandal. According to the statistics that occasionally landed on his desk, there were nearly three thousand homeless folk in Bradford, so why didn’t they do something with some of these abandoned properties?

  A uniformed officer stood guard by each of the entrances and Gus and Taffy approached the nearest, signed in and ducked under the tape. Gus ignored the officer’s far too cheery, ‘Hot tonight, sir.’

  The crime scene investigators had set up spotlights which illuminated the entire property. Closer up, the house looked even sadder than it had from the road. Roof tiles missing, with triffids growing out of the gaps, as if the peripheral hedge had somehow sent roots into the basement with the express purpose of escaping from the roof. The once yellow sandstone, now pitted in places, was crying out for a good clean. Half the pebbles had disappeared from the swooping semi-circular drive, leaving potholes and bare patches where once more Mother Nature had erupted in the form of spindly wildflowers and less attractive weeds. The front area had become a refuge for empty beer cans, spent cigarette packets, and the detritus left behind by drug users – bent spoons, empty lighters, syringes, and a flurry of empty bud bags.

  Gus turned to Taffy. ‘Used to play here when we were kids. Me, Mo, and Greg.’

  ‘I’d be shit scared to play here when I were a kid. It’s too creepy, like it’s haunted or summat. Like some sort of unseen evil’s lurking in the shadows.’ The younger officer looked nervously around him, hands stuffed into his short’s pockets, his brow furrowed. Taffy had clearly spent a bit too much time in the sun as his brown face had become red across his nose and cheeks and was beginning to peel. ‘It’s not really haunted, is it?’