by Liz Mistry
‘Late night visitors, Mo? Having a snow party, were we?’
A familiar head topped with a prayer hat appeared above the fence, near the offending bush. Mo cursed under his breath. Nosy effing bastard. Can’t mind his own effing business even in this weather. Getting to his feet and brushing the snow off his coat, Mo reigned in his initial retort which went something along the lines of sod off, you nosy prick and instead shook his head, ‘Just kids throwing snowballs, that’s all.’
Looking unconvinced, his neighbour stared pointedly at the compacted snow tracks and sniffed. ‘Didn’t seem much like kids to me. Inshallah this isn’t something I need to alert neighbourhood watch about?’
Neighbourhood bloody watch! Pompous prick! Mo kicked the pile of drifting snow away from the front of the shed and squashed the sudden urge to pick up a handful, make a snowball and fire it straight into his neighbour’s supercilious face. Jackass!
‘We have standards to uphold. Especially with the dross that’s flooding the area from Poland and the like – dragging us into the gutter they are. We need to be vigilant.’
Mo stopped, fists clenched by his sides. It was exactly this sort of narrow-minded shit that got his dander up. Wasn’t only the Eastern Europeans to blame, the Pakistani community needed to own its failings too. Turning, Mo stepped towards the fence and, past caring how this was reported at mosque, said, ‘Why don’t you, for once, mind your own damn business?’
He would have turned away at that point, but a flashback from sixteen years ago of this very man barring Naila’s entry to the mosque surfaced. Tears had streamed down her face, as she cast anxious glances around her, only for the community – led by this man – to turn away; to disown her. Anger that he’d swallowed down for years, surged up from the soles of his feet, into his chest. He placed his hands on the top of the fence and almost spat the next words at his neighbour, like a machine gun firing ice balls instead of bullets. ‘Or, better still, instead of being the pious prick you are, maybe – Inshallah – you can stop your son sitting in his car on Scotchman Road selling weed to twelve-year olds. Or beating up his Pakistani wife before screwing his Gora one or laundering his filthy drug money through one of the restaurants he’s set up on Barkerend Road.’ Mo was breathing heavily now, his chest heaving, his eyes flashing. He prodded his neighbour on the shoulder, ‘And if you ever, ever say one bad word about myself or my family you will have me to answer to, and believe me – your drug dealing son won’t rush to your defence. You got me?’
There was silence between the men for long seconds, then Nazir stepped back. Without another word, the head disappeared from atop the fence and Mo was left wondering exactly what repercussions he would face for his outspokenness.
Mo was glad to get back indoors with a pile of wood in one arm, the other dragging the biggest sack of wood he could manage. His mind still drifted to the words he’d uttered outside. The combination of years of biting his tongue for Naila’s sake, concern over their nocturnal visitors and worry about the row he’d had with Zarqa before bedtime had all conspired to make him lose it, big-time. He wasn’t concerned for himself. It was Naila he worried about. Naila and the kids. His words would have some sort of blowback, but right now, he couldn’t care less. They were a team and his temper outside had broken his agreement with his wife. Head down, he sat at the kitchen table, with a steaming hot spicy chai and a plate of buttered toast before him while he tried to put his row to the back of his mind. He picked up his phone again and hit speed dial. It rang out and eventually kicked onto voicemail. Shit, Gus, pick up! It wasn’t like he could leave a message: ‘Hey Gus, just so’s you know, Alice’s mum and dad were shoved through my back door by two masked thugs in the early hours of this morning. Their only words were ‘don’t tell anyone they’re here, or else.’
Naila, chai in hand, pulled up a chair on the opposite side of the table and grabbed a piece of toast, ‘No joy?’
‘Nope.’
‘I’ve just been in to check on them. They’re sleeping like babies.’
Mo nodded, ‘And the kids?’
‘I left them to sleep in – there’s no school today, so I thought I’d give them a long lie until we decide what to tell them about our visitors.’
With his index finger, Mo skimmed the skin off the top of his tea and put it in his mouth, ‘Poor things were petrified.’
Naila sighed, ‘They sure were.’
He stretched his arm across the table and linked fingers with his wife. ‘What the hell’s going on? Why would someone snatch Alice’s parents from their home in Greece, fly them in some sort of illicit private jet to a landing strip outside Leeds Bradford Airport in the middle of the worst storm in decades and deposit them with us? It makes no sense.’
Naila squeezed his fingers. ‘Gus’ll know what to do.’
‘Yeah when he bloody gets in touch, that is. Meanwhile, how do we keep their presence here secret? Mr Nosy Nazir from next door’s already been quizzing me.’ He bit his lip.
Naila frowned and leaning over, prodded his arm with one finger ‘Spit it out, Mo. What have you done?’
When he told her, Naila laughed.
Mo shook his head, ‘You’re not pissed off at me?’ Women! He’d never get them – never in a million years.
‘Hell no, why should I be? This whole Zarqa thing has made me realise that we should have stood up to him years ago. We’ve done nothing wrong – he is the one who should be doing the soul searching – not us.’ She entwined her fingers with Mo’s ‘As for the other.’ She shrugged, ‘We need to start sending out messages that this drug dealing on our streets is unacceptable. We should hold our community up to scrutiny, not turn a blind eye. For we all know what happens when we don’t address what’s under our noses.’
Mo, bit his lip. Naila was right. They should have been preparing for the day they had to tell Zarqa the truth. He should have been addressing what was under his nose. Preparing the way. Looking out for his family.
As if sensing his introspection, Naila tugged his hand, ‘No, Mo. I’m proud of you. The Young Jihadists have been highlighting these issues for ages. Maybe you should bring it up at the mosque? Make a stance.’
‘I just want an easy life, Naila. Don’t want the hassle. We’ve got enough on our plate right now.’
Naila tilted her head to one side. ‘Maybe this is exactly the time to do it. Maybe this could be what bonds you and Zarqa. If you supported the Young Jihadists on this issue perhaps it will help resolve some of the differences between you and your daughter.’
‘Ah, if only. But we both know that our differences are much closer to home.’ He looked at Naila, hating the way her face flushed. Even after all these years, the shame was still there. Didn’t matter that the shame wasn’t hers to bear. It still lived inside her, like a gremlin she could never get rid of.
Her tremulous smile and sad eyes broke his heart – yet still she lifted her head, chin raised, ‘Do you fancy a fry-up?’
Distraction tactic. Mo sighed. He was used to that. Naila’s go-to response when under pressure was to cook. ‘Eggy bread?’
Mo grinned when Naila nodded; he loved Naila’s fry-ups and eggy bread was his favourite. If it calmed her down, he’d eat eggy bread for any meal of the day and twice on a Friday.
His sadness lifted a little when she smiled. The uneasy flush left her cheeks as she said. ‘I’ll go and wake the other kids.’
Whilst she went upstairs Mo busied himself adding wood to the stove. Maybe he’d shut the cafe for the day and they could have a family day with Alice’s parents. His girls loved them and they could play board games and drink hot choc... The sound of Naila’s frantic whispered shout down the stairs had him running. Had something happened to Alice’s parents? Reaching the bottom step, he glanced up. Naila, ashen faced, was heading down. Her voice, though quiet, was anxious. ‘It’s Zarqa, she’s not in her room – not upstairs.’
‘Bathroom?’
Her response was sharp, ‘No, I che
cked. She’s gone.’
Blood thundered in Mo’s ears. His baby. Where the hell was she? This was all his fault. He ran upstairs, pushing past Naila and entered her room. The bed was made, everything in its place – her stupid One Direction poster with Zayn’s face encapsulated in a big red love heart, her lap top open on the desk, yesterday’s jeans thrown in the corner.
He whirled round and went to the bathroom – the door was ajar so he knew she wouldn’t be in there. Still he looked, whipping aside the shower curtain, just in case. Downstairs again, grabbing his still dripping coat from the radiator in the hallway, he unlocked the front door and yanked it open. Shoving his feet into his walking boots, he peered outside into the blizzard. On the path he could see the rapidly fading steps where Zarqa had walked. If he was quick he could track her. His Rocky ringtone filled the air behind him. He slammed the door shut, rushed past Naila who stood, arms folded around her middle, tears streaming down her face, and on into the kitchen. With his breath coming in ragged pants, he grabbed his phone. ‘Zarqa?’
Naila, pulled his arm, mouthing, ‘Is it her?’
He shook his head, ‘Hi Patti, what can I do for you?’ He frowned and took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly and turned and spoke to Naila, ‘She’s okay.’
He began pacing the kitchen. ‘She did what?’
He continued listening until finally, he said, ‘Okay, yes she can stay for now, but I want her home this afternoon. We need to talk.’
With a huge sigh he tossed his phone on the table and cradled his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his skull. Naila went to him, ‘What is it, Mo? Where is she?’
He enveloped her in a hug, savouring the scent of her coconut shampoo and wondered what the hell he was going to do. ‘Zarqa’s at Gus’.’
‘Gus’?’
‘She arrived there an hour ago. Thankfully, Patti was there looking after Bingo otherwise who knows what she’d have done. Told Patti she’d run away from home.’
‘Fuck!’
The expletive from his wife’s lips echoed round the room. Naila rarely swore. Her eyes filled with tears and Mo pulled her to him, ‘I’m sorry Naila, really sorry. I just don’t know what to do.’ And thinking his legs wouldn’t hold him up for a moment longer, he lowered himself into the chair.’
Nail pulled out a chair and sat beside him. ‘We’ve got to deal with this Mo. You’ve got to deal with it. She deserves to know.’
‘I told you, after her exams, ok?’
‘Hell Mo, have you ever thought that this not knowing, asking questions and getting no answers might make her mess up her exams?’
Mo closed his eyes. ‘She’ll have to wait. This isn’t just about her is it? It’s about us and the community and about everything. We need time. We need time to set things up, to prepare.’ He patted her arm. ‘After her exams, okay?’
53
06:55 Saddleworth Moor
Gus flicked a series of switches and the farmhouse was plunged into darkness. It wasn’t pitch black, but Gus hoped it was dark enough to give him and Gore a bit of an advantage. As soon as the lights went off, they positioned themselves at either side of the door. Within seconds, the living room door opened and they could hear the two men talking in raised voices – Turkish? Presumably they were arguing over who should check out the light situation. Gus hoped that whichever one of them came through, they’d be without their machete.
Footsteps along the hallway followed by a bang and a clatter as something got knocked over. A single staccato word – an expletive? And the footsteps continued. As the door opened, Gore pressed himself against the wall, ready to pounce, whilst Gus – concealed by the door – waited, crowbar in hand. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it as the noise of a scuffle would no doubt alert the other man.
As soon as their prey walked in Gore moved behind him, wrapped one arm round his chest and the other over his mouth and propelled him into the middle of the kitchen, allowing the door to swing shut. A stream of Greek flooded the room as the man struggled. Gore slapped his massive hand over his opponent’s mouth temporarily quelling the angry words until Gus came from behind the door and shoved a ball of food bags into the struggling man’s mouth. Gore pushed their prisoner onto one of the pine chairs and wrapped the length of rope they’d found in the electricity cupboard round his chest, arms and chair. With his adversary largely immobilised now, Gus took the time to study him. Body odour, sharp and piercing, hung round him like a shroud. A spattering of acne scars dotted his cheeks, stubble covered his chin. He was the smaller of the two men, still Gus guessed he weighed more than him.
All he and Gore had to do was secure his limbs to the chair and move him onto the pantry. That done, they looked at each other and grinned. They waited for the other man to grow suspicious and come looking for his partner. They moved back to the door and opened it a crack, listening for any activity from the other room.
When the initial burst of adrenalin finally dissipated, Gus shivered. Despite the warmth generated by the AGA, the broken window rendered the room cold – almost freezing. Trying to keep warm, he rubbed his hands up and down his arms and shook his legs. Gore, suffering from the cold too, copied him. At last, after about ten minutes, they heard stirring from the living room. The heavy tread of a bigger man made its way along the hallway and Gore and Gus resumed their earlier positions.
The man flung the door open, yelling at the top of his voice in his mother tongue. The door ricocheted off Gus’ head, stunning him for a moment. Meanwhile Gore, who was a big man himself, launched himself at the other man. However, the foreigner was larger and, as if he sensed Gore coming from behind, pivoted round, trunk-like arms raised, and smashed one into Gore’s face. An explosion of blood splattered over the floor and Gore yelled. Gus dived from behind the still juddering door and launched himself at their opponent, but he too was floored by a swipe from a muscular arm. Breathing heavily, the giant Greek towered over them as they tried to regain their composure, then with an inhuman roar he raised a massive booted foot and kicked each of them in the head.
When Gus came round, his head drooped forward, his chin resting on his chest, saliva dribbling from his mouth. In contrast to the numbing cold that had encompassed him for most of the day, he was cocooned in warmth. The sort of warmth that made you question your luck. The sort of warmth that made Gus realise he was probably in deep shit right now. Fuck, was his head sore. When he moved, pressure exerted itself against his chest and his heart began to race. Not now, get a grip, Gus. He realised the pressure was external, not the inner tightness that accompanied his panic attacks. Breathing through his mouth, willing himself to be calm, he flicked his eyes open – just for a second. A thick rope was wound twice round his chest. He wiggled a little, but it was taut. Not good. Taking a moment to ground himself, Gus replayed the sequence of events that had led him here. Big fucking tosser, built like a bloody mountain – even bigger than Gore. A frisson of fear shot up his spine. He didn’t want to die – not like this. He thought of Patti and his parents... and his team. They needed him, so there was nothing else for it – he had to get out of here.
Keeping his eyes closed, he strained his listening, trying to work out who else was in the room with him. A grunting half snore seemed to be coming from somewhere in front of him, Gore? He listened again – Yep, definitely Gore. A wave of relief swept over him. That evened up the odds a little – well, if you didn’t count the fact he was tied up with a sodding headache from hell. The spit of the fire was faint and the occasional sound of chair springs protesting told Gus that at least one of his attackers was in the room – probably sitting in one of the armchairs near the fire. Wonder where the machetes are?
The mustiness of neglect and damp tickled his nostrils. He was still in Jordan Beaumont’s farmhouse. Keeping his head bowed, Gus risked a longer look. The fire sent amber and gold shadows flitting across the floor and an eerie daylight was beginning to penetrate the dark farmhouse. He was sitting in one of the kitchen ch
airs, tied in the same way he’d secured the smaller man earlier. When he tilted his head up just a fraction, he saw that Gore was sitting directly opposite him, trussed up just like him. Gore was still unconscious, his head lolling onto his chest, blood covering his top. Angling his eyes to the right, Gus saw the old sofa with the bundled-up form on it that they’d seen through the window earlier. He strained to see who it was. Daniel? Beaumont?
To his left, as he’d guessed, sat their attackers. Both slouching, like they were on holiday – maybe this did constitute a holiday pastime for them. Blinking a few times to clear his vision, Gus noted a mental inventory. Despite their size difference, they were too alike not to be related – brothers probably. They each sprawled awkwardly in the chairs, legs splayed, a loosely held machete balanced over their knees. Stubble dotted each of their faces, their hair greasy, their jeans filthy. Blood stains?
Gus studied them. The larger man dwarfed the chair, his tree-sized limbs sticking out, his head tilted to one side resting on his shoulder. His knuckles where he held the machete were covered in blood – Gore’s? Gus’ eyes drifted to the smaller man and saw that his face was battered and bloody. He frowned. He and Gore hadn’t done that. His gaze drifted back to the other guy’s bloody knuckles. Ah ha – friction in the camp – maybe he and Gore could play on that?
