by Mark Ayre
“There’s something else,” he said, and still she didn’t look. The defiance had dripped away, like water through a paper cup. She seemed afraid.
“Hard to switch off the love, isn’t it?” he said.
“Don’t patronise me,” she said, a little defiance creeping back.
“I don’t want to sound like I’m threatening you again,” he said. “This is just a fact. If I don’t find the truth, Jane will start looking into it, and she will find what I have. If you want Tahir in handcuffs, rather than somewhere nastier—if he’s guilty—you have to tell the truth.”
She stared out the window, at the telly, into her cup. Anywhere but him. Agonising over the decision she had to make. Eventually, she looked to him, real terror in her eyes.
“Promise me you’ll only go to the police.”
He didn’t mention she had described his promises as worthless. He promised.
“Friday morning, I got a call,” a deep breath. “It was Harris.”
James leaned in. Barely able to breathe.
“What did he say.”
“He didn’t know Tahir had moved out. Wanted to talk to him. I said Tahir wasn’t in and asked him what this was about. He paused for a long time. I could hear him breathing. Could almost hear him thinking. Then he said ‘tell Tahir she’s lying.’” She paused, closed her eyes.
“’Tell Tahir she’s lying. And tell him I’m looking for him. We need to speak as soon as possible.’”
14
James was out the door, playing it through.
While Harris is in his second year of university, his mother is sent to prison, leading to him dropping out. He comes home changed. Cuts himself off from his family and friends. Throws himself into work and only socialises with Michael. Warped by experience, he becomes obsessed with girls, one by one, pursues them, pressures them into sleeping with him, and films them. He uses the videos to taunt them, forcing them to sleep with him again, warning them to stay quiet. Things trundle along.
It doesn’t last forever. Michael is being pursued by the police, who want him to inform on the Chappell family, as he has in the past. He resists but people see him with a cop. The walls begin to close. Panicked, he goes to Harris, begging his friend for help. Harris either tries to help and doesn’t succeed or doesn’t try out of spite and regrets it later. Either way the grandfather kills the best friend and Harris is heartbroken, furious, and responds by robbing the killer.
Perhaps Davis would have retaliated, but Harris is running into trouble. Juggling too many girls, one of whom is also sleeping with Tahir. She runs to him, spills the truth, infuriating Tahir. When Harris finds out, he tries to get hold of Tahir, but can’t. Tahir has disconnected his cameras but wants the evidence, thinks that must be in the safe at the club.
Harris has failed to find Tahir, so tries to take his mind off things by convincing Megan to go on a date with him. They arrive at the bar but Tahir is here, and Harris finds him waiting in Harris’ office while Megan runs. There is an argument. A fight. Tahir has brought a knife as a precaution or Harris keeps one in the room. Either way, Tahir gets hold of it, puts Harris on the pointy end, more than once.
Panicked, Tahir tries to flee, but James has arrived. They have their own fight on the mezzanine, but Tahir is no killer. He harms James without taking his life. Once he has fled, James goes to Harris’ flat and finds the bag of money. When he comes out, he sees a man Davis had sent to collect said money, having discovered Harris had taken it. This makes him suspicious and, believing James to be guilty, he has him kidnapped, hoping to get a confession and make James suffer. At the same time, he has someone break into James’ flat with a lock picker to reclaim his money.
It all seemed to fit, though there were loose ends. Perhaps James could write off the names—Ollie and Andros—Harris had hidden away as irrelevant, but why had Harris’ door been open when he arrived? Could he have left it open? It seemed convenient, but it was the only major sticking point in the theory, so far as James could see.
“James, you alright?”
Owen was sliding from his car, running over. James wasn’t alright. He needed to talk to Tahir. To try uncover the truth as there was another option lingering. One that would not dissipate.
What if Megan had run crying to Tahir? What if she had begged for his help and he had said he would do so—if she could get Harris to the bar on Friday night.
“I gotta go,” he said. “You head home. I’ll see you later.”
“Not a chance,” Owen said, following him down the road to James’ car. “I came for excitement, and I want to see this through, don’t try get rid of me. I’m in it now.”
That was James’ worry, but he had no time to stand around arguing
“Fine. Take your car. Follow me.”
He jogged to his car, slid his phone from his pocket and almost dropped it as it buzzed, Jane’s name popping on screen.
Knowing she wanted an update, and he would have to lie, was a powerful motivator not to answer. Somehow, though, that seemed even more dangerous.
“Jane, hi.”
She was indeed looking for an update, and James tried to keep his voice straight and calm as he reported his findings at the bar. Leaving out anything relating to Tahir and her son’s amateur filmmaking, focusing on the two names he had found in Harris’ mousemat followed by his kidnapping and the ransacking of his flat.
“Sounds traumatic.” Her voice was flat, lacking trust.
“Yeah. I’m sorry about the money.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
A long pause.
“James?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?”
Another pause. Not so long as the last, but too long. James felt his voice catch as he tried to speak.
“James?”
“I might have a lead.”
“Do tell.”
“Not yet.”
“Excuse me?”
James’ hands were wet on the steering wheel. Sweat matted his hair. He wanted to breathe deep, but it would be too audible down the phone.
“I should have a report for you this afternoon.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And until then you plan to keep things from me.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh well, that’s wonderful to hear.”
The car felt oppressive. He wanted to jump out the door and suck in air but forced himself to stay, to only take small, hopefully, non-audible breaths.
“Jane, give me two hours, and I will have an update for you. I promise.”
She made him wait a long time for an answer.
“I don’t like this.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ll phone me in two hours, or I’ll come find you. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank—“
But she was gone, and James was on the clock.
James didn’t like fairs. Too loud. Too bright. Too many people rattling around, knocking into each other like the bumper cars they so enjoyed. Stupid arcade-like stalls, all fixed, and cloud shaped candy floss ready to flood the mind with paralysing quantities of sugar.
What was the point?
Owen stared at the flashing lights with the same derision James felt, though he was willing to be won over.
“They serve booze here?”
“Don’t know,” he looked at his phone. “Probably not before ten thirty am.”
Owen sighed. James tried a smile.
“You can still leave if you like.”
“Nah, let’s do this.”
Emily said Tahir had brought their son to the fair early because he wanted to beat the rush. Maybe he had, but it was still plenty busy with running kids, packs of teenagers, loved-up couples, and beleaguered parents. All of whom were apparently happy to pay six quid to get in, not to mention the amount they’d shell out at the various stalls and stands a
long the way.
James stepped past the ticket gates and stared at a ride spinning at frightening speeds. Which had a higher mortality rate, he wondered—creaking fairground rides or confronting murderers? It had to be close.
No turning back, though. He remembered why he was doing this. Who he was trying to protect. If it turned out Megan was involved… well, he didn’t know what he’d do. Cross that bridge when you come to it, he thought. Best case scenario, he confronted Tahir who burst into tears, confessing all. The police would come, and lock him up. Jane would be annoyed she hadn’t the chance to exact her revenge, but she would accept it, and they would move on with their lives.
Wishful thinking, maybe, but he was holding onto it.
Stepping across dry, yellowing grass, James examined faces at random, realising for the first time he didn’t have a plan. Owen seemed to be on his wavelength.
“How we going to find this guy?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to walk around until we spot him, I guess.”
“Genius. You have a degree right? That kind of plan can only come from higher education.”
James smirked and started through the crowds, looking this way and that for Tahir, wondering if he was wasting his time while Owen followed close behind.
“Quick question.”
“Yes?”
“What does Tahir look like?”
Ah. James stopped. Had Owen seen him at the bar? He didn’t often venture from his office, so there was no guarantee.
“He’s Asian,” James said. “Tall. Broad shoulders.” He stopped, trying to think of what else there was.
“Brilliant. Very specific.”
“I’m no good at describing people.”
“Fine fine. Tall, broad, Asian man. Hey, at least we’re not at a Bangladeshi gym convention.”
“Every cloud.”
The tents and rides jutting from the ground past the height of the nearest trees made it difficult to tell how much land the fair consumed, but James had been to the park and couldn’t remember it being so big. It was the corridors of stalls, winding this way and that. Seemingly shifting and changing even as they were passed. After half an hour James was sure they must have circled the whole place at least once, but it was impossible to tell.
“Tall broad Asian man,” Owen shouted, pointing. A few people looked, but James didn’t give them a glance. This was the third time Owen had pointed and yelled, but the first time the man in his crosshairs was Tahir.
“That’s him.”
They jogged through the throngs of people towards a candy floss stand where a small, smiling boy of six or seven was staring at the purple swirl recently handed to him. The light in his eyes suggested he had uncovered a stash of diamonds, rather than a bundle of sugar that would soon make him ill.
“Tahir?”
Father looked from son at the sound of his name, and James worried he might bolt. But why? He was here with his child, and it wasn’t like James was the police come to arrest him. Still, he cast an angry glare to the newcomers while the boy turned with big confused eyes from his father to James and Owen.
“What do you want?” Tahir snapped as they drew close. Owen took that one.
“We’re wondering if you’ve located a bar. I’ve not seen a drop of booze so far, and I know it’s early, but I had a stressful night.”
Tahir gave James an angry glare, as though he was responsible for everything Owen said, then turned to the man he did not yet have the pleasure of knowing.
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh, right. For religious reasons or…”
“Personal.”
“Oh good, so I can tell you it’s stupid. You should drink. Drinking is awesome. What about your son?”
Tahir’s eyes returned to James, now blaming him for Owen’s existence. Before a fight could break out, James intervened.
“We need to talk. Me and you I mean, not Owen.”
“Rude.”
“I am here with my son,” Tahir said. “We can talk another time.”
He began to turn, firm hand on his confused son’s shoulder. James didn’t want to scare the boy. Didn’t want to see an innocent kid upset, but he couldn’t let Tahir walk away.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” James said.
“Fine by me.” Still walking away.
“Okay,” he said. “Jane it is.”
That stopped him. His shoulders tightened. As did his grip from the gasp his son gave. Tahir apologised to the boy, ruffled his hair, then turned, eyes blazing.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
James paused. He looked to the boy, hesitated.
“I’ve no time for this,” and again he was turning. There was no choice.
“I’ve spoken to Emily.”
Another furious pirouette, but this time he could think of nothing to say.
“This is about Harris,” James said. “And a girl you were a little more familiar with than you should have been. I promised your ex I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. That means keeping Jane out of this, but I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me. It’s up to you.”
Tahir put his hand on his son’s shoulder, gentler this time, though anger still raged across his features. He wanted to tell James where to go, but James had left him with little choice.
“Okay,” he said, forcing the word out. “I need to get my boy looked after.”
“Owen can stay with him,” James said. They had discussed this ahead of time, but Tahir wasn’t having it.
“I don’t think so.” He went onto his haunches and tried to smile at his son. “How would you like to hang out with Jimmy for a bit?”
“Where are you going?” said the boy, looking to James. Afraid and upset to be losing his father. Not understanding why.
“I need to sort something for work. I won’t be long. I promise. Okay?”
The boy looked unconvinced but nodded. Bending to his father’s will. Tahir stood, taking the boy’s hand.
“I’m going to find some friends to look after him. You’ll wait here if you want to talk to me. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
He didn’t wait to be told this was okay, just departed with his kid in tow. James watched them disappear into the throng, then turned to Owen who looked concerned.
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
“He will.”
“You ever going to tell me what this is about?”
“Right after this, if you want.”
“Is it an international conspiracy involving rogue governments, an evil genius looking to start World War III and Jack Reacher?”
“Not exactly.”
“Nah, not interested then.”
James smiled, watching the children roll by and the Ferris wheel performing its slow loop across the other side of the fair.
“Go find your beer,” he said.
“You don’t need back up?”
James wasn’t sure but shook his head.
“I’ll be fine.”
Owen clapped him on the back, followed James’ gaze to the Ferris wheel, nodded as if he understood the secret message it was imparting.
“Want a pint?”
“I’d love one.”
James tried to stand out the way of both the passing crowds and the angry man throwing hoops at a nailed down bottle at the nearest stall. He thought about the kidnapping, and when Davis would come for him again. He tried to picture Tahir stabbing Harris. All the dead he had seen cartwheeled through his mind, and he swayed a little in the breeze at the sight of them.
How soon could this be over?
A hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped. He had been watching the route down which Tahir had left, but in finding friends, the bar manager must have doubled back and approached James from behind. When James turned he saw Tahir very close. Like a hand model scout, his eyes flicked first to Tahir’s fists.
“It’s fine,” said Tahir, twisting his wrists, opening his fists, showin
g empty palms. “I’m not going to kill you. Though it’d make me feel better to hurt you, given you went to see my wife. Get your rocks off pushing her around, did you?”
“Given you’re married, I’m guessing you know she’s not easily bullied.”
Tahir looked at him, nodded, conceding the point.
“Come on. Let’s walk.”
They started off the way Tahir had taken his son, walking side by side, weaving in and out of the people and talking over the heads of unending hordes of children.
“So, what did my wife tell you?”
James saw no reason to dally around the point.
“That you were cheating on her. That you wouldn’t say with who but she suspected it was bar staff.”
“Right,” said Tahir. “And you think this has something to do with Harris?”
“Well, I was thinking about what you told me yesterday—“
“Ahh,” Tahir clicked his fingers, piecing it together without giving James the satisfaction of explaining. “So you think the girl I was having an affair with is the same girl who came to me and warned me about his dastardly ways. You think, in a fit of jealous rage, I attacked and killed him. That about the size of it?”
“You missed the bit where you attacked me on the mezzanine, but other than that, yeah.”
“I’m confused,” he said, at least sounding as though he meant it. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a compelling narrative. You might even be able to sell it to Jane. But I don’t get it.”
“Sure you do,” James said, stopping to let a bawling five-year-old barrel pass at ninety miles an hour, followed several seconds later by her harassed father. “You were there when you did it.”
“You’ve got this all wrong.”
James looked at Tahir’s feet, seeing the boots and smiling.
“They’re nice,” he said, pointing. “I lift this top up, I reckon they’d fit neatly into the indent left when you kicked me in the chest.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. Jacket’s nice too, though it’s too hot for one this morning as it was the night you attacked. You must have worked up a sweat during the fight.”
Tahir’s face darkened with frustration.
“I told you. You’ve got this wrong.”
