JACQUI ROSE
Dishonour

Copyright

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.

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

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First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2013

Jacqui Rose 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

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, down-loaded, 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.

Ebook Edition © 2013 ISBN: 9780007503605

Version: 2018-10-25

Dedication

For my mum, Patricia ‘O’ Neill,

because I know it’ll make her smile.

‘Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of the person.’

Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Article 3

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

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

Chapter 43

Read on for an exclusive extract of Jacqui’s next book BETRAYED

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Jacqui Rose

Copyright

About the Publisher

‘IZZAT’

URDU FOR HONOUR

1
BRADFORD

Laila Khan opened her mouth to scream but the sound of the sharp slap across her face shocked her into silence. A tiny red mark appeared on her cheek, turning quickly into an angry raised welt as her uncle leaned into her face, spitting with rage. ‘You will do what I say, child. The time has come.’ Wide-eyed with fear, Laila stared at her uncle.

The aromatic smells from the palak chicken and rice on the plate in front of her began to overwhelm her senses. Her body jerked as a wave of nausea hit her. Hurriedly she jumped up from her chair, but her path was blocked by the imposing figure of her angry relative. Unable to stop herself, Laila deposited the contents of her stomach all over her uncle’s brand-new shoes.

Horrified, Mahmood Khan looked down at his feet before throwing Laila back down on the chair. Gripping hold of her hair, he snarled, hatred shining from his eyes. ‘I have been patient with you. Treated you like my own daughter. I allowed you to go to the funeral of your Aunt today, but now my patience has come to an end.’

Trembling, Laila felt a scratch on the palm of her hand and realised she was still clutching onto the reason for her nausea. It was a photograph. Loosening her grip, Laila allowed herself to look at it once more. It was a picture of a man. A man she’d never seen before yet her uncle had just informed her that in less than a week, she was to become his wife.

Tariq Khan sat across from his sister at the dinner table, noticing how her eyes were red, blotchy and swollen. Reminding him of a bullfrog he’d seen last year in Pakistan.

He’d come in later than the others from the funeral and had been greeted by screaming. When he’d gone to investigate, he’d seen Laila kneeling on the floor at their uncle’s feet, begging and pleading with him not to force her to marry.

Tariq had watched as their uncle had called his sister names. A whore. A slut. Accusing her of being nothing short of a disgrace. Spitting at her in disgust, putrid yellow phlegm sliding down Laila’s face. She’d then turned to him. Pulling at his trouser leg and looking up with her big almond-shaped eyes. Begging him to do something to help. But what could he do? How could he have helped her? He’d been powerless. So, unable to see the pain in Laila’s eyes, he’d turned his face away from her, leaving her begging on the floor.

She knew what their uncle was like. Didn’t she understand everything would be easier for her if she didn’t put up such a fight? Couldn’t she see she was making it harder for herself? She knew she had a duty. A duty to their uncle. A duty to their family.

What did she think her uncle was going to let her do? Had she really thought her uncle would let her run around like the other girls in her class? She was sixteen, almost seventeen. Old enough their uncle had told her, too old nearly.

Gravely, his uncle had told him word had got back that Laila had been cosying up with some English boy at school. ‘Flaunting herself, making a fool out of our family name.’

He’d tried to persuade his uncle that no dramatic course of action was needed but his uncle had just stared at him with hostility. ‘She has brought this on herself. You cannot feel sorry for her Tariq, you cannot show weakness. This sort of behaviour has to be stopped. To be punished. We have our family name to think of. Your family name.’

And then their uncle had straight away put what was needed to be done into action.

As Tariq continued to look at Laila, still sobbing, he knew she didn’t know how thankful she should be to be getting married. Her life wasn’t over; though it would’ve been, if his uncle and the family had had their way.

Their uncle was from a certain mindset. A small, but dangerous one. A dark sinister part to the otherwise warm, friendly Pakistani community they’d always lived in. His uncle believed in punishment, not forgiveness; revenge instead of mercy. And according to their uncle – just like the father who’d recently been found guilty of killing his daughter after finding text messages from her boyfriend – bringing dishonour to the family had to be avenged.

Tariq had found himself having to beg with his uncle and other relatives, pleading for leniency on Laila’s behalf. Trying to make them see the punishment didn’t fit the crime. Eventually they’d backed down, but on one condition; that Laila get married.

‘Is everything in order?’

Tariq’s thoughts were broken as his uncle spoke to him in a gruff tone. Putting his head down, Tariq muttered in reply, wishing that what was about to happen didn’t have to. ‘Yes, everything’s sorted; just like you asked.’

Mahmood Khan looked at his nephew. There was a lot to do before tomorrow. He was feeling tired but he prayed he would be given strength to deal with the next few hours.

He glanced quickly at Laila as he reached for another helping of rice. Girls were a curse. Especially beautiful ones. The more beautiful, the more of a curse.

Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure what wrongs he’d done to deserve to be blighted with three nieces. But then, Mahmood knew he shouldn’t question what he’d been given – only make the best of it, which if he were to be honest, was very hard to do.

Laila had always been spirited. Her two sisters, who were older than her and already married, had been different. They’d been quiet and willing to please. Understanding what it was to be a woman. Neither of them had the brains nor the dazzling beauty of Laila; they’d been blessed with simplicity and plainness.

From the moment Laila was born, Mahmood knew his youngest niece was trouble. As a baby she’d had the cry of a lion, roaring with discontent. When she was little she’d suffered with stomach problems, no doubt caused by the fire of the warrior in her belly fighting to get out. She absorbed knowledge like the jacaranda tree absorbed water. Her defiance whirling and gliding like a Middle Eastern Sufi dancer.

It was all too much. She was nothing like her mother who’d been a good wife to his brother, although admittedly he’d sometimes needed to show her his word was final. Nevertheless, his sister-in-law was silent and attentive. Two traits a woman should possess, but two traits his niece didn’t come close to holding. Thankfully though, by this time next week, Laila would be someone else’s problem.

It felt to Mahmood that all he’d done for the past few years was battle with his niece to keep her in her place. With each passing year it became more of a struggle as he fought against her unwelcome curiosity of the world. When his brother, their father, had died, the responsibility of looking after them had fallen on his shoulders. Neither Laila or her brother had liked the changes at first but it’d been necessary. His brother had been soft; far too soft for a man who carried the Khan name. Often Mahmood had disapproved at the freedom his brother offered his wife and children, giving them leave to argue, question and educate. He’d often chastised his brother but the admonishment had been wasted, falling onto deaf ears. But then his brother had passed away and everything had changed.

Under Mahmood’s guidance, everyone, including Laila and Tariq’s mother, had been shown the error of their ways. And though the changes had come up against long faces and the occasional question, they’d all eventually accepted the way it was going to be under his rule. All except for Laila.

Mahmood looked at his watch. ‘We better go Tariq, time is short.’

Mahmood pushed his chair away and looked once more at Laila. Her face was marked not only from her tears but also from the fresh bruise now forming on her cheek. Tomorrow when they went out, he’d make her wear her burka, to hide it. By next week the bruise would be gone, and then maybe, for the first time in his life he could be proud of her. Proud to give her away.

Laila’s eyes widened as she watched her older brother and uncle. She was terrified, but she had a rising suspicion something worse was about to happen. Her uncle rarely ventured out at this time of night, preferring instead to have his friends come to him.

Mustering up some courage, Laila directed her question at her brother. ‘Is everything all right, Tariq?’

Before Tariq had a chance to say anything, Mahmood snarled at her, his strong accent punctuating the words.

‘You bring dishonour on this family, then you ask if everything’s alright?’

Laila sat up in her chair, her face reflecting the puzzlement in her tone. ‘Dishonour? Tariq, what’s he talking about? I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

Mahmood banged his fist on the table. ‘Laila, don’t pretend to be the innocent, it’s too late for that … I’ve heard the talk. The whole of the community has. You’ve brought shame on us. On me. Well, it stops right here.’

Laila’s face was drawn and her fear was apparent. It made Tariq feel uneasy and he turned away, not wanting to see the terror in his sister’s eyes.

‘Tariq, please …’

Mahmood’s arm shot out, sweeping the supper dishes off the table, sending Laila’s untouched plate of food to stain the beige carpet rug.

‘Don’t make a fool of me. Do not make me your enemy Laila … I know all about you and the English boy.’

‘English boy?’

Mahmood clenched his fist. His niece was a liar. He’d always known it. He’d seen the slyness in her large almond eyes the moment she’d been delivered into this world. It put him in mind of what his grandmother had always told him when he was a boy; ‘the larger the eyes of a woman, the easier for the devil to dance into them.’ And looking at Laila now, Mahmood knew the wise woman who’d lived in a tiny house on the outskirts of Turbat in Pakistan had been right. Mahmood leant forward, leaning his arms on the table; ignoring the fact he’d just put his hand in a pile of cold rice. ‘Raymond Thompson. Ring any bells Laila?’

Laila Khan swallowed hard. She knew the name. She knew the boy. But not in the way her uncle was trying to imply.

He sat next to her in class. Yes, she’d talked to him. He made her laugh. They were friends; special friends. She’d even given him a CD of her favourite songs, covering the case with pink smiley stickers. But it’d all been innocent.

He hadn’t been at the school long, moving up north from London to come to live with his mother on the south side of Bradford. He was popular and handsome, his cockney twang adding to his appeal, though it wasn’t just the girls who flitted around him and swooned over his six foot frame. The boys wanted to be his friend too. They seemed to respect him, understood he could handle himself. That he wasn’t going to be messed with. Even Mrs Rigby, the sixth form maths teacher, blushed when he went to talk to her.

So she’d been surprised when Raymond had moved his desk next to hers, though quietly pleased. At first she’d ignored him, but slowly she’d started to smile when she’d heard his jokes. Then the smiles had turned into laughter and they’d become friends. Good friends.

Laila didn’t know why he’d chosen to be her friend but she’d cautiously welcomed it. She loved it when he teased her as his blue eyes twinkled back at her. A smile. A laugh. A tease. That’s all it could be. Even if she’d wanted to take it further, she couldn’t. She knew that more than anybody. But what they had was still special to them and no-one could take their special away.

There hadn’t really been any physical contact, apart from that one time. That once. The day she’d decided to forget she was Laila Khan; respectful and dutiful daughter of the late Zarin Kahn and niece of the ever-present Mahmood Khan. That day last summer she’d chosen to walk to the bus stop with him instead of with her friends and they’d held each other’s hands.

‘Laila, your uncle will kill you if he sees you.’

‘He won’t though will he?’

She could hear the conversation now between her and her best friend and she’d been right; her uncle hadn’t seen them. Nobody had. But she hadn’t needed to be seen had she? All it had taken were words and as Laila sat at the table, trying to ignore her uncle’s cutting stare, she knew her friend had talked. Not intentionally, but talked all the same. Probably to her sister who in turn had no doubt talked to her mother or an elder before the words had found their way back to her uncle. And it was this talk which had her uncle staring at her with so much contempt. ‘Uncle … it was nothing. Nothing happened … I was …’

The look on her uncle’s face made Laila stop talking. The rage which was already there in his eyes had turned into something else. Hatred. But worse still, when she glanced at her brother and saw what looked like disappointment on Tariq’s face, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear to have her brother, who she loved more than anyone in the world, look like she’d let him down.

She watched as her uncle nodded his head to her mother – who’d sat silently throughout – gesturing to her to leave the room. Laila could feel her legs trembling as Mahmood walked round the table towards her. He pulled her up as he grabbed her arm, painfully squeezing it as he did so. She saw Tariq step forward, then stop. Her uncle’s face pressed onto hers as he spoke in a hiss. ‘There is no place in this life for little whores. So understand this; if it wasn’t for your brother pleading your case Laila, you might not have had a tomorrow.’

Laila pulled back, terrified by what her uncle was insinuating. Though it wasn’t an insinuation was it? It was an outright threat. Clear for her to understand. She knew her family respected their cultural teachings, as she did. But this? She knew this wasn’t part of it. Couldn’t they see she hadn’t done anything wrong? She’d tried so hard to be obedient for her uncle but the harder she tried, the angrier he seemed to get. The more she asked questions about things, the more infuriated he got. She’d heard time and time again about what happened to girls in the community who brought shame and dishonour on their family. But she hadn’t brought shame. She’d walked less than the length of the high street with Raymond. Refusing his requests to go to McDonalds. Refusing his requests for him to walk her all the way home. It’d been innocent.

Mahmood dropped her arm and walked towards the door, deciding not to bother with a jacket. He turned to Laila as Tariq opened the dining room door.

‘You might have been lucky, but your boyfriend’s not going to have such an easy ride.’

Laila ran to her uncle, grabbing at his sleeve. ‘What are you going to do? … Uncle, please. He’s done nothing wrong.’

‘For someone who’s so innocent you seem to care an awful lot about what happens to him? You’re a disgrace.’

‘I don’t care … I mean I do care but not like that, I care because he’s done nothing … uncle, please, don’t touch him.’

Mahmood grabbed Laila’s hair, pulling her head back. ‘Try stopping me.’

He let go of her hair and started for the front door, but Laila refused to let him walk away. She grasped hold of him, trying to pull him back. She was beside herself with anguish and the tears rolled down her face as she cried. Her uncle sneered. She was out of control and he was going to enjoy seeing Raymond Thompson squeal. ‘Izzat, Laila. Honour. Doesn’t it mean anything?’

‘It means everything to me uncle, you know it does. But not like this. It isn’t about this.’

She let go of her uncle and ran to Tariq, pulling on him and hearing his shirt tearing as he tugged it away from her grip. ‘Tariq … no, stop. You can’t do this, leave him alone.’

The fear in Laila’s heart was mirrored in the look on Tariq’s face. He spoke in an urgent hush to his sister. ‘What do you want me to do Laila? I’ve got no choice.’

‘For me, please Tariq. Do what you want with me but leave him alone.’

Tariq couldn’t listen any more. He didn’t want to hear his sister like this. Couldn’t she see what harm she was doing by acting like this? It was just making their uncle more determined. More angry. And it made Tariq afraid his uncle would go back on his word and instead of just marrying Laila off, something worse, something more permanent would happen to her. Pushing Laila to one side, Tariq walked out of the dining room.

‘Tariq, no!’ Laila shouted after her brother. She needed to stop them but she didn’t know how. No one would help her. No one would get involved. This was family business; family honour and most people she knew would either think her uncle was doing the right thing or be too afraid to say anything.

She didn’t even have Raymond’s telephone number to warn him but she couldn’t let them hurt him. Not because of her. Without thinking, she picked up the phone.

‘Police, please.’

The phone went dead. Laila turned round. The first thing she saw was Mahmood come back into the hallway with the telephone wire he’d pulled out of the socket in his hand. The second thing she saw was his fist coming towards her. A moment later, Laila Khan blacked out.

2

Raymond Thompson or ‘Ray-Ray’ as his friends and family called him, looked in the mirror and smiled. He’d been blessed with good genes. His natural sun-kissed blonde hair tumbled onto his forehead, falling short of his dazzling blue eyes. And his big white smile gleamed out cheekily, charming both old and young.

He didn’t have to search far to see where his looks came from. His parents were a handsome couple. In his youth, his father, Freddie, had made Robert Redford look plain. His mother, Tasha, had been a hostess in one of the Soho clubs, persuading the punters to part with their cash for expensive glasses of champagne, whilst keeping their straying hands away. But she’d turned her back on it when she’d fallen in love with his father. And even years later, he knew his parents still turned heads.

Thinking of them made Ray feel sad; taking the edge off his good mood. He sighed heavily. His missed his father. He missed his old life. He wasn’t used to being up north. He was born and bred a Londoner, and had spent his whole life growing up in Soho. And then ten months ago, everything had changed. His father had been given a stretch and everyone, including the police, had been surprised when he’d actually been sent down.

His father was Freddie Thompson. The biggest face in London. One of the untouchables, or so he was supposed to have been, until the coppers had come knocking.

Almost three million in stolen jewellery had been found in one of the hundreds of lock-ups his father owned. Of course, everyone knew it was a set-up. A sting.

It hadn’t mattered that the coppers on the case had been bent, or that the evidence had been tampered with and the jury members squeezed. The powers that be had just wanted to get him off the streets, and the end result was the same. They had Freddie Thompson. The most dangerous man in London. The biggest villain in the south. But to Ray-Ray Thompson, they had his dad.

The eight year sentence had been bad enough, though the barrister and his father’s highly paid legal team had put in an appeal based on a technicality, getting his sentence reduced. So at worst they’d said his father would be walking free by Christmas.

That had been the plan and everyone had been happy. A couple more months inside had been doable. What wasn’t good was what happened after his father’s successful appeal. That was where the real problem lay. And that problem had added a life sentence to his prison term.

Ray-Ray shrugged his shoulders, trying to get rid of the sadness he felt. He didn’t want to think any more. It was summertime, and he refused to let another month go by when all he did was mope around.

Only this morning his mother had told him the best news he’d heard in a long time. They were moving back to Soho. By the end of the summer they’d be back in London amongst their friends and family. They could finally try to start to get some of their life back.

Neither his mother or him had wanted to come up to Bradford, but his father had insisted, and no one argued with Freddie Thompson. Not even when he was sat behind a bulletproof screen in Belmarsh prison. They’d moved to the north for two reasons.

Firstly, his Dad hadn’t known exactly who else besides the coppers were behind the set-up, so he’d wanted to get them out of London whilst his men sounded out the danger; if of course there was any. The second, and the reason they’d ended up specifically in Bradford, was that one of his father’s friends had moved to the north a few years ago to get his daughter away from the drugs scene, and his Dad had asked his friend to keep an eye out for them.

Putting on his black Alexander McQueen shirt, Ray-Ray knew he should’ve been more excited about the move back down South than he was. Yes, it was good news, but each time he thought about it, within a few moments the shine had been taken off his excitement. And two small words told him why. Laila Khan.

It was stupid. She hardly even talked to him. It was him who did all the talking. Bunnying away ten to the dozen whilst she just sat and listened. Staring up at him with her beautiful eyes. Ray-Ray felt soft admitting it, but she was special. What they had was special even though he didn’t quite know what they really had. Even when he’d walked with her to the bus stop together, all she’d really done was occasionally glance at him with her huge brown eyes and smile, holding his hand gently but fearfully. But that had been enough for him. Just being in her presence was enough.

She was shy. He liked that. But more than that, she was different from any of the girls he hung around with in Soho. Instead of legs and tits, blow jobs free and paid for, Laila covered up wearing long skirts and loose tops. She fascinated him. And as his father always said, he knew how to appreciate real beauty. She was stunning and the more she covered up, the more alluring to him she was.

She had long jet-black hair which touched the base of her spine. Big almond eyes pooled with warmth and kindness. To Raymond, Laila was perfect. And as his father used to say about his mother, ‘she was a diamond ring in a muddy football pitch.’

The sound of a car alarm made Ray-Ray look at his platinum Rolex watch; a seventeenth birthday present from his father. He needed to stop thinking about Laila and get a move on. He was supposed to be at the cinema on the other side of town by eight with some of his mates.

He turned to see his mother, Tasha, watching him. She gave him a big smile before gently rearranging his shirt collar.

‘You look a sort, babe. Going anywhere nice?’

His mother’s voice was soft and lulling but her cockney accent was clear to hear.

‘No, just going to the cinema. You don’t look too bad yourself.’

‘I’m going to meet your Auntie Linda; she came up for the day.’ Tasha smiled at her son, holding him a little tighter and a little longer than normal. Both of them knew what she’d just said wasn’t true. Her stepsister Linda was no more likely to leave Soho than the Queen would leave the royal family, and Tasha was grateful to her son for playing along with her untruth. She knew he didn’t feel comfortable with what she was doing; of course she hadn’t said anything to him, but he wasn’t stupid. She knew Ray-Ray would feel like he was betraying his father by not saying anything and therefore feel like he was somehow complicit in the whole situation.

But Tasha also knew Ray-Ray would be in no doubt what would happen to her if Freddie ever got even the slightest hint she was seeing someone else. And no one wanted that. Not her, not Ray-Ray and in a way, not even Freddie. So Ray-Ray played along, not wanting to know any more than he’d already guessed and not asking any questions. And as she said to herself in an attempt to make herself feel better; what he didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him. The last thing Tasha Thompson wanted to do was hurt her precious son.

He was so like his father in many ways, but in the one way that mattered he wasn’t. Ray-Ray was kind. He had a heart. Her husband was the opposite. It always amazed her how, despite this, Ray-Ray doted on his father, and his father on him. They idolised each other and turned a blind eye to the parts they didn’t want to see.

Ray-Ray chose to ignore what his father did, much in the way he chose to ignore what Tasha was doing now. Freddie was notorious; putting the fear into the hardest face. That’s what had attracted her to him all those years ago.

Tasha’s father had been a bully and handy with his fists, and her mother had been nowhere to be seen for most of her childhood. The combination of an absent mother and a bully of a father had driven Tasha into Freddie’s arms, seeing him as someone who could protect her from her father. And he had.

Tasha could still remember the day it had happened as if it was yesterday. Her father had been sitting on the outside toilet, reading the Racing Post with his kecks round his ankles and no doubt the usual sour look on his face.

After hearing the way her father treated her, Freddie had pulled up outside their house in his Rolls Royce, walked through the house, into the garden, and kicked down the door of the toilet. Her father’s face had been a picture; surprise, then shock, then fear.

Everyone in the East End knew Freddie Thompson and her father hadn’t been any different. The last thing anybody wanted was to be on the wrong side of Freddie, especially with their trousers round their ankles.

Freddie had dragged her father through the kitchen, before kicking him out onto the doorstep. Even now it made Tasha smile to remember her father pleading with Freddie not to hurt him, his trousers still down and his pasty, spotty white arse on show for all the neighbours to see.

That day Freddie had packed up her stuff and moved Tasha in with him. And she’d been with him ever since. Within a week she’d realised she was only swapping one controlling man for another, rather than the man of her dreams.

Even though Freddie was just as much of a bully as her father, at least in his own way Freddie loved her. Her father hadn’t even come close to loving her. Freddie had looked out for her and wouldn’t let anyone hurt her, and for that Tasha was grateful. He’d never raised a hand to her, whereas her father constantly had. However, there was one big difference between the two men. If Tasha ever cheated or said she was leaving, even though he’d never laid a finger on her, she knew Freddie Thompson would kill her.

Tasha looked over her son’s shoulder to check herself in the mirror. She looked good. Her blonde highlighted hair tumbled past her shoulders. Her constantly tanned skin glowed and her curvaceous figure hadn’t changed much since she was twenty.

She knew she was taking a risk. A huge risk. But she couldn’t help it. Last month she’d tried to stop it but after a week she’d found it impossible to curtail her feelings. Her sister had told her it was madness. ‘Tash, Freddie ain’t going to be happy with just giving you a hiding. He’ll kill you and what’s more, he’ll probably bleeding kill me an’ all.’

Tasha didn’t need to be told; she knew. She’d never meant it to happen, but some things in life you just couldn’t help. And love was one of them.

Tasha sighed, watching the frown forming on her forehead in the mirror as doubt started to show on her face and a sudden dread swept over her. She turned away, not wanting to see her own fear reflecting back at her. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Freddie was banged up, she was in Bradford. Perhaps it would be alright … it had to be.

Standing on her tiptoes to kiss Ray-Ray on his cheek, she purred as she spoke. ‘Okay baby. I’m going.’

Ray-Ray watched his mother as she walked out of the room but before she got to the doorway he grabbed her hand.

‘Mum … be careful … please.’

Tasha smiled; a deep warmth showing in her eyes, before turning to walk away without another word.

Ten minutes later, Ray-Ray rushed down the stairs. He was going to be late. As he got to the bottom he heard a loud bang then froze as the front door was kicked open and four men he’d never seen in his life forced their way into the hallway.

Instinctively, Ray-Ray ran towards the kitchen and towards the back door, hoping to grab hold of one of the kitchen knives in the wooden block on the side. Fear didn’t rush through him, only survival.

He hadn’t reached the door before he felt a hot pain at the back of his head, then the warmth of his blood trickling down his neck as he continued to run for the door. The kitchen knives were over in the far corner. He hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, trying to decide whether to grab one, but it was enough to cost him the chance.

Ray-Ray felt his arm being pulled, causing him to spin round and face his attackers.

‘Motherfucking pig. You stay away from her,’ Mahmood screamed at Ray-Ray, enjoying the rush of adrenaline. He would make him pay for the dishonour he brought on his family and was going to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget.

Holding onto Ray-Ray, Mahmood could feel he wasn’t as strong as him and if he wasn’t careful he’d soon be overpowered. He quickly looked around for Tariq who was standing back doing nothing, with a look of shock on his face.

‘Tariq, what are you doing? Get hold of him.’

After a moment’s hesitation Tariq grabbed hold of one of Ray-Ray’s flailing arms as his cousin, one of the four of the group his uncle had recruited, held onto the other. Mahmood drew back, clenching his fist before he began to pummel Ray-Ray’s stomach. Over and over again he brought back his hand, until Ray-Ray began to noisily cough up blood, the sound of it drowned out by Mahmood continuing to shout, his eyes wild with rage, ‘You will never see her again. Never.’

Tariq and his cousin let Ray-Ray fall onto the floor. Tariq stepped away towards the door, wanting to go. It’d gone far enough. This isn’t what he’d thought was going to happen. Maybe he’d been naive, but he’d believed his uncle when they’d told him they were only going to shake him up; scare him a little.

He watched as his uncle drove his steel heel sideways into Ray-Ray’s nose, crunching the cartilage down as he groaned in agony, splattering the area with blood.

‘Pour it.’ Mahmood gave the order, passing a small bottle to Tariq. ‘I said, pour it Tariq.’

Tariq froze, staring at the bottle, then looked at his uncle in horror. ‘No, uncle, I can’t. Not this. Stop it, please.’

Mahmood’s face creased into anger. ‘Do not disobey me and bring shame on me boy.’

Tariq felt the bottle being snatched away from his hands by one of the men who’d come in with him. A man Tariq hadn’t seen before. With a smirk he spoke to Tariq. ‘Give it to me. I’m more than happy to do it.’

The agony and the smell of his own burning flesh was the last thing Ray-Ray Thompson remembered.

3

She was perfect. Just perfect. Stroking her head of soft curls streaked with warm browns and honeyed blonde, he smiled warmly at her. ‘It’s not good for you to go without food. Eat something.’ He paused and looked down intently before adding, ‘Please.’

It was no good. She’d no intention of eating the chicken soup he’d spent the past half-hour lovingly making. ‘I suppose you’re on a diet. Maybe I should’ve made you a salad instead. If it helps any, I think you’re lovely just the way you are.’

She stared at him before she turned her head to one side. He wasn’t going to push her. He didn’t want to upset her. She’d eat when she was ready, like she’d talk when she felt able. These things took time; he knew that. Pushing back her curls, he kissed her gently on her forehead.

She coughed, making him look up at her, worried. He couldn’t remember a July as warm as this one but for some reason she was still trembling. It was true the evening’s were cooler, but it worried him the way she was shaking. It certainly wouldn’t do for her to get cold. He turned up the heating before standing up from the small metal-framed bed.

‘Try to get some sleep sweetheart. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’ Heading for the door, he stopped. ‘Silly me, I almost forgot.’ Turning back, he picked up the rope. ‘It wouldn’t do now if I forgot this, would it?’ With a sweeping movement he grabbed both her arms behind her back, making her cry out from the pain. He bound them expertly, pulling the bonds tighter than necessary to secure her incarceration.

‘One more day my beautiful; that’s all it’ll be. Just one more day.’

Putting her gag back on, he smiled. She was ready.

4

Freddie Thompson stood observing the prison’s pool table. He was the wing’s pool champion and nobody had ever come close or ever dared to beat him. This time however, he wasn’t playing; he was watching.

Rubbing his chin and thinking he needed another shave, Freddie saw one of D-wing’s lifers take one of the worst shots he’d ever seen, sending the white ball careering into the top right-hand pocket. Freddie sneered.

‘Hey, are you fucking blind? I bet a ton on you to win. Don’t try to turn me over Craig. You’re taking liberties.’

Forgetting himself for a moment and fed up of being pushed around, Craig snarled at Freddie. ‘Piss off.’

It didn’t need the silence which fell on the prison’s recreational room to tell Craig he’d said the wrong thing. The sick feeling he had in his stomach was real and felt by all the other prisoners as he stood facing Freddie Thompson.

Freddie smiled slowly. He laughed as he spoke to the now-visibly shaking Craig in front of him. ‘I don’t think I heard you right. I thought for a moment there you told me to piss off.’

Before Craig could utter a word, he found himself forced backwards against the pool table with the cue stick being rammed hard on his throat. He wheezed as he tried to catch his breath as Freddie pressed down.

‘What am I going to do with you Craig? What’s that? Can’t quite hear what you’re saying mate.’

As Freddie continued to press down on his throat, gurgling sounds competed with Craig’s gasps as he struggled to gulp mouthfuls of air. The normally pallid Craig started to get some colour as his face and the whites of his eyes turned a crimson red.

Freddie grinned, bemused at the wet patch slowly appearing on the front of Craig’s trousers as he pissed himself with fear.

‘I don’t like rude people and I don’t expect people to be rude to me on my wing. I don’t like your sort; thought what happened to your friend would’ve told you that. Do you know what I do to people like you?’

Craig tried to shake his head, but unable to move, he just closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable.

‘I’ll take that as a no shall I? So let me show you.’

The other prisoners, although hardened by their own life of crime and violence, still winced and turned away at the sound of the cue stick gouging out Craig’s right eye and his screams of fear and pain.

A few hours later, when all the prisoners of D-wing had been questioned by the screws, swearing on their loved one’s lives that they hadn’t seen, heard or even frequented the recreational room that day and had no clue how Craig had sustained his injuries, Freddie Thompson sat in his magnolia-painted cell.

He looked around, curling his nose up. The slop buckets were full to overflowing. The heavily stained sheets – which were supposed to be fresh each week – looked like they’d just been swapped from one dirty set to another. And the cold July evening’s air whirled in through the barred prison window as if looking for some warm sanctuary.

Freddie wasn’t sorry about putting Craig in hospital. Fuck it; he hardly had anything to lose now. And besides, Craig was a friend of Benjamin Bradley. He’d been there that day in the showers. The day Freddie had used up his get out of jail card. Closing his eyes, he remembered it like it was yesterday …

It’d been a day like any other when Freddie walked into the showers, hoping they wouldn’t be filthy. He never understood why the men had to behave like animals and shit all over the cream tiled floor. The screws didn’t care; it only sealed their belief the courts had been right to lock them up.

No one was willing to clean it up, so it stayed there, mixing with the soap suds along with the cheap shampoo before finally disintegrating down the shower plug holes.

The only time the showers were fit for human use was on a Wednesday morning, when the cleaners came with a look of disgust and made a half-hearted effort to clean them up.

Taking his frayed towel, given to him at her majesty’s pleasure, Freddie made his way to the showers expecting them to be empty, having sacrificed his breakfast of an undercooked egg to get a shit-free shower. So it surprised and annoyed him in equal measure to hear voices.

Coming round the corner he saw the wiry form of Benjamin Bradley laughing like a hyena and jumping around on one foot in excitement as he huddled up in the far corner with a few other men.

Freddie glanced at them, pleased the men were fully clothed with no obvious intention to shower and took no more interest in them than he would a pesky gnat. Until a moment later that was, when Benjamin dropped something on the floor, making him frantically scramble to pick it up.

Curiosity took hold of Freddie as he walked across to the shifty-looking men.

‘What’s so interesting Bradley to make a grown man roll on the floor like a fucking circus clown? What have you got there?’

Benjamin Bradley looked up and froze. Freddie knew most prisoners and come to think of it, most people were scared of him. His formidable reputation always preceeded him. It was clear to Freddie, from the sweat breaking out on Bradley’s face, he was afraid as any other man.

Freddie watched as Bradley stayed frozen on all fours, with his mouth opening to reply but closing again seconds later.

‘The cat got your tongue? Because if it hasn’t, you better have a fucking good reason for not answering me. Otherwise I’ll be the one having your tongue Bradley, and you really wouldn’t want that.’

Freddie looked round at the other men, who quickly averted their eyes. This was going to be very interesting. Again, Freddie could see Bradley was trying to find an answer but it was clear he didn’t have one. With the speed of a fox at the sound of a hound, Benjamin Bradley rammed the evidence into his mouth.

Freddie Thompson was dumbfounded. He’d expected the man just to tell him what it was; instead here he was shoving it into his mouth as if it was the last supper. It only took Freddie a moment to snap himself back into action. He reached quickly down with one hand, putting his fingers between Benjamin’s teeth as the other men stood frozen He yanked open the squirming man’s mouth with the other, making Benjamin shriek with pain and spit out the contents which he’d manically been trying to chew.

Freddie held Benjamin’s gaze for a moment before picking it up and unfolding the soggy mess. It turned out to be a photograph. As the photo unfolded, Freddie’s eyes widened. Lying in his hands, covered in Benjamin Bradley’s warm saliva was a photo of a little boy, no older than two or three. A mask of torturous pain covered his face and his big green eyes were wide open in manic terror. Bradley was in the photo as well, and there was no mistaking what he was doing to the boy.

Freddie had seen and done a lot. Hurt people for just looking at him. Nothing could touch him, but this image of the little boy made him want to drop to his knees and cry. Instead he used the ache he felt inside of him to clench his fist and bring it down in a haze of raging fury into Bradley’s face.

Ten minutes later Freddie stood under the cold shower, not feeling the icy sting on his back. Not caring that a dead man lay at his feet with a fractured skull and a small rich trickle of blood coming out of his ear. The only feeling Freddie Thompson had at that moment was one for the nameless boy and the image he knew he’d never get out of his head.

When they’d found Benjamin Bradley’s body, all the prison inmates denied knowing anything about the murder despite everyone knowing exactly who had done it, and how.

Freddie had decided with that with all the DNA tests, and the fact just a microscopic drop of blood could put you in the frame for something, it was best for him to admit he’d slapped Benjamin around a bit but deny all knowledge of the murder; adding that as Bradley was a known nonce, he was a sitting target.

Not having enough evidence to charge him for murder, due to having over twenty witnesses suddenly remember they saw Freddie Thompson slap Bradley about a bit before leaving him very much alive and well to go to play pool in the recreational room, the CPS had no alternative but to stop pursuing the case and let Freddie get on with appealing against his original sentence.

Freddie had thought it was all behind him, until one morning the police came to see him, informing him that one of the men who’d been there that day was willing to give evidence against Freddie.

The case had gone to trial a couple of months later and it’d only taken the jury two hours to come back with a guilty verdict. With no mitigation to speak of, Freddie had received a life sentence.

He’d honestly thought no one would’ve been brave enough to give evidence against him. But according to Freddie’s sources, the man who’d grassed on him had got early release for grassing him up. Not that it’d done him any good. Freddie’s men had found the geezer a week after the trial and three weeks after that his bloated decaying body had been found in the Thames.

Freddie sighed heavily bringing him back to the present. Killing the man hadn’t done Freddie any good; he was still sitting on a life sentence. He tried not to think about that day. Not because of the nonce’s brains all over the shower room floor, but because of the image of the little boy, which haunted him still.

On some days it made him squeeze his eyes tight shut so the tears wouldn’t seep out, and on other days, it simply made him want to beat a man within an inch of his life.

If getting a life sentence meant the boy could be saved from a life of abuse, Freddie Thompson would’ve happily served his sentence without another thought. But he could no sooner find and rescue the boy than he could walk out of prison. And the way it was looking, he wouldn’t be walking out anywhere until he was doing it with a walking frame.

Freddie put his head in his hands. He took a deep breath and tried not to think. But as he’d discovered in the last few months, not thinking was easier said than done.

He didn’t want to think about his house in Soho or his villa in the Costa Del Sol. He didn’t want to think about his beautiful wife, Tasha, because he missed her too much. He’d never told her that or even thought about telling her, but he did. He didn’t want to think about his son Raymond, who he was so proud of, and he certainly didn’t want to think about the next twenty-five years. The one thousand, three hundred weeks, or the nine thousand, one hundred and thirty-five days – give or take – he had to serve.

Whichever way he looked at the numbers it was a hell of a long time. Freddie Thompson found it was all he could think about and it was beginning to fuck him up.

How had he got himself into this situation? After all, he was Freddie Thompson. The Freddie Thompson. Since he’d been legally accountable, the longest he’d spent behind bars was eighteen months. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been able to get out of something, whether it be grief from his wife for boning some Tom from the clubs, some ruck with the South London boys or even the other charges of murder he’d been up for. He’d always been able to talk, to pay or threaten his way out of the situation; hell, he’d even had his original sentence reduced to a streak of piss, but as he sat in his cell, Freddie realised there was no getting out of this one.

He wanted to cry but he didn’t know how to. Tears were as foreign to him as a heatwave was in the Arctic. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t escape. He was fucked.

‘Hey, Thompson. The governor wants to see you. There’s been a phone call.’

Freddie looked up. Eyeballing the prison officer with as much contempt as he could muster, he snapped, ‘Ain’t you heard of knocking? Don’t walk into my cell again without a tap. Anyway, what phone call?’

Without thinking the prison warder snapped. ‘How do I know, Thompson? I’m not a mind reader.’

Freddie Thompson stood up. He stepped towards the officer, purposely standing within an inch of him, watching as the screw gulped and the colour drained away from his face.

‘I may be in here, but that don’t stop me getting to you out there. One nod from me and my men will come looking. And it won’t take five minutes to find you. How do you fancy being woken up in the morning with a fucking axe in your head, Officer Davies?’

‘All … all I meant to say is, I don’t exactly know what the call is about. But I think it might be about your son. I think there’s been an accident.’

5

‘You must think me awfully rude. I’ve spent all this time with you and I haven’t even told you my proper name. It’s Arnold, but my friends call me Arnie. It means powerful eagle you know, derived from a Germanic name.’

Arnold beamed, whilst thinking how much smaller than usual she looked as she lay naked, curled up shivering in a foetal position on the single bed, her hands tied.

He couldn’t understand why she was still shivering. He’d turned the radiator up to full blast even though he knew it would cost him an absolute fortune. But still, he didn’t want to be selfish.

A horrifying thought came to Arnold’s mind as he gazed at her. A fleeting, disturbing thought passed through his mind. Perhaps she was unhappy; perhaps she wanted to go home, instead of being with him?

Dismayed, he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror which was placed above the small white bookcase. He saw the worry lines etched into his forehead and he saw the anxiety in his eyes. He had to stop this. He had to stop torturing himself thinking she didn’t want to be with him. Why wouldn’t she? He wasn’t going to let himself start thinking negatively, especially not today of all days.

‘Are you still cold Izzy?’

‘My name’s not Izzy.’ She spoke and it shocked him. He wasn’t sure if it was the Scottish accent which he didn’t remember her having when they’d first met, or the obvious hostility in her voice. It made her sound coarse. But what shocked him the most was her denying her name was Izzy.

The other girl had said the same thing. Telling him over and over again her name wasn’t Izzy and he’d got the wrong person. Though eventually he’d seen she’d been telling the truth. He’d got the wrong person. He’d made a mistake and he didn’t mind admitting it. How he’d thought she was Izzy, he didn’t know. He’d been wrong. So very wrong. She’d been nothing like her.

The girl spat her words. ‘You’re fucking sick, you know that? My name’s Lucy, fucking Lucy, you sick fuck.’

Arnold scowled. Not wanting to listen to any more abuse, he placed her gag back on, watching as she squirmed and made grunting sounds until she’d exhausted herself. Touching her gently, Arnold stroked her head as he talked. ‘That’s my girl. Nice and calm now. You really shouldn’t get so angry Izzy. It’s really not good for you. My silly little Izzy; my Isabel. It means God’s promise you know.’ Arnold sat looking at her warmly, before feeling overwhelmed with emotion and having to brush away tears.

The knife he’d bought had cost a small fortune. It was over two hundred pounds, but looking at it, Arnold had to admit, the craftsmanship was beautiful. A Gerber Harsey silver trident made with a double-edge fixed blade, a thick rubber handle for a better grip and according to the man in the shop, made to US military standards.

He had everything ready. He placed the knife back down on the table, trying to remember the rhyme he used to sing. For the life of him he couldn’t remember it, but hopefully it’d come to him later. ‘Now then Izzy, it’s time. Are you excited?’

Arnold stood in front of the bed completely still for a moment, then he seized hold of her legs in a swift movement, dragging her off the bed; making her face smash onto the floor, oozing blood all over the cream lino. ‘Whoops-a-daisy, silly me. I’ll have to clean that up later. Not to worry Izzy, not to worry.’

The knife did what it said on the box; it cut. Deeply and precisely. It was so much better than the other one he’d struggled with last time. He whistled, enjoying his work. She was still moving, still wanting to show him she was boss. He chuckled warmly; that was Izzy alright. Always wanting to be in charge. Always wanting to get her own way.

He walked round to her front, warmed by her show of defiance. He carefully took the blade and placed the sharp point at the top of her pubic bone. ‘Fiddle sticks! Well I’ll be blown; look at that, my hands are shaking Izzy. I didn’t know I was so nervous. I better be careful.’

Arnold smiled as he took off her gag, wondering why a shrill piercing scream came out of her mouth.

It was way past his bedtime now and Arnold could feel his eyes burning. The rhyme which had escaped him before suddenly came flooding back into his memory. He started to sing as he sat in the corner of the room. ‘Izzy shall have a new bonnet, and Izzy shall go to the fair, and Izzy shall have a new ribbon to tie up her bonny brown hair.’

He laughed out loud, pleased at how the words came flooding back to him. ‘And why may I not love Izzy, and why may not Izzy love me?’ He stopped and paused for a moment as he got to near the end; frowning, he spoke the last lines very quietly. ‘Because she’s got a kiss for Daddy; a kiss for Daddy, not me.’ Bending down, Arnold smiled sadly before kissing the severed head.

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