JACQUI ROSE
Dishonour

Copyright

Published by AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2013

Cover Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photographs Jill Hyland / Arcangel Images (woman), Shutterstock.com (background)

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

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780007503599

Ebook Edition © August 2013 ISBN: 9780007503605

Version: 2019-09-27

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

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Jacqui Rose

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 of 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.

6

It was late by the time Laila found the courage to knock on her mother’s bedroom. Tentatively she tapped, hoping her uncle wouldn’t return home now. He’d forbidden Laila to speak to her mother on her own, telling her she would find no comfort in her arms. So instead she’d lain in bed with her face sore and swollen, waiting to hear the familiar sound of her uncle’s car coming down the drive, willing to hear the sound of the tyres on the gravel, but it hadn’t come. The terror Laila felt inside her, knowing her uncle had gone to see Ray-Ray and hadn’t returned, filled her with so much dread that it overrode the fear of making her uncle angrier by disobeying him.

The bedroom door was opened by her sleepy mother. ‘Laila! What are you doing here, you know what your uncle said. Go back to bed.’

‘I need to talk to you.’

Laila’s mother looked up and down the corridor nervously. ‘Please Laila; just go back to bed, we can talk in the morning when uncle’s here.’

Seeing her daughter trembling, Laila’s mother’s voice became softer as she took hold of her hand. ‘If uncle catches you up at this time, you know there’ll be trouble. Please, try not to be so headstrong Laila. You must learn to quell your spirit, child. No good will come of it. Women have no place to question men, no matter how great a test it may seem.’

Laila scanned her mother’s face, not truly recognising the person in front of her. Before her father had died her mother had been open, warm and loving. Now she was closed, distant and worse still, afraid.

‘Mum, please. I need you to help me.’ Laila’s eyes filled with tears as she watched her mother wrap her shawl tightly round her shoulders. Her mother’s voice was hesitant when she spoke. ‘Laila, what do you want me to do?’

‘Speak to uncle. Explain I haven’t done anything. He might listen to you. Tell him I don’t want to get married.’

Laila’s mother slowly shook her head, pain for her child in her eyes. ‘Things have changed now. You don’t have a choice and your insistence in having one has caused all the problems. Did you really think hanging around with the English boy would’ve been acceptable to your uncle? Didn’t you know you’d cause trouble?’

‘Trouble? There’s that word again. We didn’t do anything.’

‘Laila, why do you always have to argue? Why can’t you just accept this?’

In frustration Laila raised her voice at her mother, tears streaming down her face as she spoke. ‘How can you say that to me Mum? You always taught me to think for myself; you told me I never had to accept anything I didn’t want to. You know we talked about me going to university. You told me you wanted me to do the things you’d never done.’

‘Shhh Laila, stop talking like that. You know all girls must get married eventually. It’s either now or later, so what’s the difference?’

Laila’s face was full of bewilderment. ‘There is a difference; you know there is a difference. Daddy would never have allowed this, he wouldn’t have wanted you to allow it.’

Her mother put her head down as she talked, fidgeting with the sash edge on her cream shawl. When she spoke, her voice was laced with warmth. ‘Laila, I know it’s been hard for you since your father passed away and today we buried one of your aunts. But doesn’t that show you Laila that life changes? We take things for granted when we shouldn’t do. Life moves in ways we sometimes don’t want it to move in. No matter how in control we think we are, we have no real power and we have to accept our destiny. And yours is to get married. Laila, you have to do this, not only for yourself, but for all of us.’

Laila could hear the hysteria in her own voice as she threw herself at her mother, wrapping her arms round her as if she were a child. ‘I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do it. Please Mum, help me! I don’t want to do this, I’m scared. I promise I’ll behave in the way uncle wants me to. I won’t complain again. Please tell him I’ll behave … tell him.’

‘The decision has already been made.’

‘Mum …’

‘Laila, if I could, I would help you, but there’s nothing I can do.’

‘But you’re my mother. You must be able to help me.’

Laila’s sobbing echoed around the upstairs landing and it became louder as she felt her mother stroke her hair in the darkness. ‘Laila, my beautiful, beautiful child, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.’

‘Laila? Laila? … Wake up.’ Mahmood Khan lent over his niece. He could see her face was swollen but chose to ignore it as he shook her awake. Bruises faded, swollen lips went down but defiance had to be tamed. It was as simple as that.

It was still dark outside, though the beginning of the crimson morning sky was just appearing over the chimney pots of the rows of terraced houses. Mahmood paused for a moment, deep in thought. They had a lot to do today and he hoped his niece would understand there was no room for hysterics.

Mahmood sniffed, realising the smell of last night was still lingering on his clothes. Last night had gone well; better than expected. He was proud of what he’d done. Taking control. Being fearless. Being driven by honour. Protecting their family from the shame Laila had brought or was about to bring onto them. And Tariq? He’d let him down; hesitated and had been unable to do what he was supposed to. But perhaps that was only to be expected from his brother’s son.

Sighing, Mahmood turned to face his niece. He scowled as he saw her roll over. ‘Laila. It’s time you got up.’

Laila groaned. Her face was hurting and she’d spent most of the night spitting blood out of her mouth. She was exhausted, but most of all, her overriding sense was fear. A thought flashed through her mind. Ray-Ray. She span round, feeling the twinge in her ribs. She’d only discovered her bruised swollen side in the middle of the night after she’d spoken to her mother. Laila guessed that when she’d been knocked unconscious her uncle had kicked her.

‘Ray-Ray? What happened to him … what did you do?’

The tears ran down her face, making the scowl on her uncle’s face deepen.

‘Please uncle; please tell me he’s all right.’

‘Have you no shame?’

‘Please.’

Mahmood looked at Laila. The thought that she’d be someone else’s problem soon made his heart soften slightly. ‘You don’t have to worry about him anymore. That life is over. You have a new one Laila. Today, we’ll be taking a trip.’

‘A trip?’

Mahmood bristled. He hated when she questioned him and challenged his authority. It was for this reason the whole marriage had to be arranged so quickly.

‘Yes, Laila. A trip. A trip to Pakistan.’

The scream which left Laila’s lips was heard all the way up the street.

Leeds Bradford International Airport heaved with the rush of excited laughing outbound holidaymakers and inbound sullen tired ones. Businessmen and women distanced themselves from the crowd, sitting with laptops precariously near their over-frothed cappuccinos. Honeymooning couples, families and security guards filed past, wrapped up in their own world, blind to Laila and her agony as she sat in her full burka, her face covered, with only her almond eyes showing.

The airport was overly hot as signs dotted around the airport apologised for the breakdown of its air conditioning. Laila could feel the sweat running down her back, changing from hot to cold as the heat of the July day mingled with the chill of her fear.

Her head was pounding and she felt ill, though no one could tell. No one could see her light brown skin become pallid and ashen, nor could they see the strain and bruises which were both imprinted on her face. All they could see was a person head to toe in black.

Laila’s eyes darted to the right, but her view was blocked. She looked the other way but that too was blocked. Both ways blocked by the sides of her burka, making her think of the horses she saw on match day wearing their blinkers, stopping them from seeing what was really going on around them.

A sense of panic started to creep over Laila; starting from her feet and slowly wrapping its way around her body, tightening her breathing and her chest. A cloying, nauseating feeling stuck at the back of her throat, causing her breath to rasp and making her feel as if she was being crushed by a heavy weight. She pulled at her burka but it was unrelenting; tight and unforgiving around her neck. The sense of claustrophobia was overwhelming.

It was the feeling of claustrophobia and panic which made Laila get up and run, scraping back the metal chairs and turning heads. She didn’t know where she was going but she had to get out of there. She couldn’t just sit there waiting for the hand of fate to happen. Maybe if she could get to a phone, perhaps then she’d be all right. But who would she ring? She knew it would be impossible to call her friends; they’d be as frightened as she was. Terrified the same fate would fall to them.

As the thoughts passed through her mind, Laila kept on running, hearing the muffled voices of the disgruntled crowd as she pushed past them, frantic to get away. She looked up at the signs. Which way out? Her eyelashes caught her veil, making her flinch. She ran forward towards the throng of people, hoping it was the exit.

Laila hurried on, seeing the curious looks from the passersby. Couldn’t they see she needed help? Help from what was about to happen. But how could they? They could no more help her than she could help herself.

Tears started to spring into her eyes, disrupting her vision even more.

‘Hey! Hey lady, calm down. Anyone would think you were in a hurry.’

A large security guard blocked Laila’s way. His arms outstretched with a large kind grin on his face.

‘Excuse me; can you get out of my way?’

‘Pardon?’

The material deflected the sound of her voice causing Laila to speak louder. ‘Can you get out of my way?’

‘It’s fine, she’s with me. She’s a nervous flyer. She’s never been one for planes, have you Laila?’

Laila turned to see her uncle, out of breath, standing behind her. His eyes were cold as he looked down. He took her tightly by her hand, pulling her away from the gaze of the guard.

‘Going somewhere Laila?’

‘No … no, I just needed to get some air.’

‘I hope you weren’t thinking of running to that boyfriend of yours? Not sure if he’ll be fit to see you.’

Laila screamed. She started to sink to her knees, but was held up by Tariq who’d come up behind her as well. He pulled her gently back to the coffee shop. His words were a warning as well as his tone. ‘If you want some advice, please do yourself a favour Laila and make this easy on yourself. Don’t mess with uncle.’

A crash of luggage falling off a trolley distracted Tariq, causing him to loosen his grip on his sister’s arm. Knowing it might be her last chance of freedom, Laila bolted. Running, ignoring the cry of her name, she lifted up her burka, revealing a pair of jeans underneath as she ran up the stairwell in front of her. If she could just find the exit, at least then there was more chance of getting away.

At the top of the stairs, Laila was breathing hard and was still no closer to finding the exit of the overcrowded airport. She hadn’t noticed the way she’d come in. Even though she didn’t know which way she was going, Laila continued to run, sensing an ever-nearing threat behind her. She was too afraid to turn around, knowing it could cost her vital seconds.

In the distance she saw two police officers. She hesitated. Perhaps they could help? But then, what would she say? She didn’t want to get into trouble and she certainly didn’t want her family to be in trouble. Besides, she wasn’t entirely sure if she could trust them. She’d always been told the police weren’t sympathetic and wanted to keep out of these matters; worried they were too culturally sensitive to get involved.

Pressing on, Laila continued along the upper level of the airport.

‘Could Laila Khan please come to the check-in desk? Laila Khan to the check-in desk.’

The voice over the airport tannoy sounded loudly, making Laila feel exposed. She whirled around as if a thousand fingers were pointing at her, uncovering her whereabouts, but she only saw the milling crowd of travellers. As oblivious to who Laila was as they were to her fear.

Then through the crowds Laila saw what she hadn’t wanted to see. Something which made her recoil into herself making her stoop in panic as she stood frozen to the spot. She saw the jet-black head of hair, distinctive by the way it bobbed and flopped. She saw the camel-coloured suede shoes paired with the green linen trousers. It was her brother, with his gaze transfixed on her.

Laila span round to run, but less than a meter away stood her uncle, disdainful and angry. Terror took over and she took an involuntary step towards the glass railing overlooking the drop to the busy ground floor thirty feet below, where people milled about in shops and drank coffee in the overheated airport.

She pressed her body against the barrier, clinging onto it and standing on tiptoes as she did so. Could she do it? If she jumped it’d all be over. She wouldn’t have to go to Pakistan. Wouldn’t have to marry a man she didn’t know. All her fear would go away in one swift movement. Looking over the barrier, she urged herself to do it as she felt her legs trembling. Her uncle walked slowly towards her, speaking with quiet menace. ‘Don’t be silly Laila; just come here, no one wants to make a scene. Not here. Not now.’

‘Please uncle, just let me go home.’ Laila’s voice sounded childlike as she struggled to hold back the tears.

‘That’s exactly what you are doing. Going home.’

She turned to Tariq, desperate for him to help her, but seeing her uncle take another step towards her made Laila turn away, her attention back on her uncle, hoping she could appeal to him. ‘Just let me finish school, like Daddy wanted me to, and afterwards, I … I promise uncle, I’ll do anything you say.’

‘We’ve been over this Laila. The life you had is finished. Your new life will be with your husband. Duty. Honour. Now come away from the balcony Laila, you’ll have people staring.’

Laila didn’t move. From behind her uncle she saw two large security guards looking over, concerned puzzlement on their faces.

Tariq spoke to her now, his jaw clenched in tension, desperately wanting his sister to stop causing herself more trouble. ‘Laila, there’s nowhere for you to go. Please. The best thing you can do is to make it easy on yourself. In time you’ll get use to it. One day you will come to love him. So please come here. Please.’

Mahmood interjected, pushing Tariq out of the way, irritated by his soft tone. ‘We both know you’re not going to jump Laila, so stop this nonsense and come here now. As your uncle, I’m ordering you to.’

He put out his hand for Laila to take, but she only looked at it, unable to take it, knowing if she did it would only harm her rather than help her. She turned her head and looked down at the drop below again, her heart racing.

‘Is everything alright Miss?’

The security guard from earlier spoke as he walked towards Laila. From the expression on his face it was clear he didn’t know what to make of the scene. Her in her burka clinging onto the railing as if it were her life raft with her brother and uncle on either side, their arms stretched open, looking as if they were herding up a stray sheep.

Tariq spoke to the guard, not taking his eyes off Laila. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘I was talking to the lady.’

‘Well I’m talking to you, and I’m telling you everything is fine.’

Laila watched the security guard. His shirt, at least a size too small clung to him, and perspiration sat like angry storm clouds around his armpits and across his protruding stomach. As he spoke, he wiped the sweat away from his top lip. ‘Are you all right love?’

Tariq quickly whipped round. ‘She’s not your love. She’s my sister.’

The security guard, slightly thrown but not put off, spoke again. ‘I need you to tell me everything’s all right.’

Laila stared at him. It was now or never. This was the moment she could get away. Be taken somewhere to work things out. She could finish school and go onto university as she’d hoped to do. Then she could travel. See the world, before settling down to someone who loved her and who she loved. Now was the time to say what her family planned to do with her. This was the last chance she’d have. But then wouldn’t it also mean getting her family in trouble? And then what’d happen to her mother? Her brother? Could she really do that to them? Could she really live with the fact she’d never be able to see them again?

With her big almond eyes darting between the security guard and Tariq, Laila opened her mouth and spoke as confidently as she could manage. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’ As the words came out of her mouth, Laila could almost feel something dying inside her.

7

Tasha sat and waited. She’d been waiting now for several hours, though it could’ve been days or even weeks, maybe even years. Each second she waited seemed like a lifetime. Waiting for the doctors to tell her if Ray-Ray, her son, her baby, was alive.

Had it really only been last night when she’d got the call from her next-door neighbour? Tasha had expected to hear there’d been a parcel delivered or the alarm of her house wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t have even minded a call telling her the kids from the local school had been trying to scale her large gated walled house. But this? To hear her house was on fire with her son inside? That call she’d never wanted to get.

With her head in her hands, Tasha sat on the uncomfortable red plastic seat in the long corridor, staring down at the floor. Hearing, but not seeing the hospital staff and visitors walking by. The strong smell of disinfectant, though overpowering, was slightly comforting. Sterile and sanitary. Completely opposite to how she felt.

What had she been doing when Ray-Ray was screaming for help? When he was trapped by the fire and overwhelmed by the smoke? She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut but it didn’t take away the images, it only stopped the tears pouring out onto the floor. Nothing could take away her guilt. Even if Ray-Ray pulled through, she would know what she had been doing. Simply put, she’d been in bed with another man.

‘Tash!’

The sound of his voice made her look up. It was Freddie. She stood bolt up and stared hard at him. She hadn’t seen him for over a month but he still looked the same. Actually, he hadn’t changed much over the years. He wasn’t typical of a man of his age. At fifty-two there was no sign of a middle-age spread creeping up. No receding hairline, no lined face, only a body which a twenty-year-old man would envy. Her husband had had it all. The looks, the money, the gift of the gab, and most of all, the fear factor, but now he was paying a high price for being Freddie Thompson.

Tasha could feel herself turning red. She knew Freddie couldn’t read her thoughts, but it didn’t stop her feeling like he could. It was as if it was written all over her; as if Freddie could see the guilt on her face.

When she’d got the call, she’d pulled on her clothes and been driven straight to the hospital. No time to check to see if her usually immaculate hair was in place. No time to check to make sure there were no creases in her clothes. And if Freddie looked closely, he would know. The telltale signs were all there.

‘All right babe.’ It was all she could manage to say. She didn’t trust herself to say any more. She was trying to keep her voice steady. Hoping Freddie would think her nervousness and her appearance was all down to what had happened to Ray-Ray.

She’d missed the last prison visit and she knew Freddie had been pissed off. He’d sent one of his men round to see her, which she thought he might. Nothing had been said apart from, ‘Freddie was worried you weren’t well; wants to make sure that there isn’t a problem.’

But she knew it hadn’t been a bedside visit, but a little warning to her. Letting her know no matter where she was, no matter what she did, he would be there, right behind her. She belonged to him.

Freddie held her stare and it was only then Tasha became aware of the two screws on either side of him, handcuffed to him. They stood uncomfortably on either side. Both tall and lanky and nondescript, they could almost be mistaken for brothers.

They looked hot in their ill-fitting jackets and matching nylon trousers, unsuitable for the July heat. But more than that, they looked nervous being locked on the arm of the notorious villain, Freddie Thompson.

Tasha didn’t bother to acknowledge them. She hated screws nearly as much as she hated the police. She’d come across enough of them in her time when she’d visited friends and relatives in prison to know the majority of them were trumped up little bullies who would, if they had the guts, give Freddie a seeing to.

Freddie watched his wife. He hadn’t seen her for a while after she’d cancelled the last prison visit. It was good to see her, especially after a sweltering two hundred mile ride in the prison van, stuck listening to the two muppets who called themselves prison officers brag about their latest bit of pussy.

All he wanted to know was how Ray-Ray was doing. Nobody had told him anything. The prison officers had only smirked at him when he’d fought back the tears on the journey, wanting an update and asking if his son was still alive. Tonight though it’d be him who was smirking, after he’d put in a call to one of his men to pay them a little visit. To show them just what happened when they tried to make a fool out of him.

Tasha’s face was drawn and tired, but she still looked as beautiful as the young woman he’d fallen for all those years ago. Not that he’d tell her. He had a reputation to hold onto, even with his wife.

There was something else though, another look on her face he wasn’t quite sure of. She looked nervous. Jumpy. Though he guessed it was to be expected under the circumstances, it somehow made him feel uncomfortable.

He needed her to be strong. To be the Tasha she’d always been. Resilient. Headstrong. Loving. A woman who didn’t demand the emotional attention from him most women would. He didn’t go in for all that crap, but even if he wanted to give it to her, he didn’t know how.

He didn’t like to see her like this. He could see her vulnerability but he didn’t know what to do to make it better. So he did what he did best when he felt unsure. He got angry.

Instead of smiling at Tasha and comforting her like he wanted to do, he snarled, letting his anger show in every word he spoke. ‘Tasha, what the fuck is going on? One minute I’m sitting in my cell feeling jack arse sorry for meself, then the next thing, I’m being told something’s happened to Ray-Ray, but they don’t quite know what, or rather, they won’t tell me what. So now I’m asking you. What the fuck is going on?’

Tasha swallowed. She could see Freddie was frightened because that always made him angry, but then so was she.

‘I don’t know exactly what happened but I know there was a fire and Ray-Ray was in the house. That’s all I know. They’re operating. It doesn’t look good. They don’t know if he’s going to pull through.’

Freddie’s powerful muscular shoulders visibly slumped. His head couldn’t get round it. How was this possible? He’d sent them up to Bradford to be safe. He had to find out if it was an accident. A faulty switch. A gas explosion. Something. Anything.

Nobody had known where they were or at least not many people, but the thought that he could be somehow responsible for his son lying on an operating table tightened Freddie’s stomach. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of a revenge attack because of something he’d done to someone. There was a lot Freddie Thompson could live with but that just wasn’t one of them.

‘Where were you Tash? Where the fuck were you when this was happening because clearly you weren’t at home?’

Tasha paused. She knew Freddie was going to ask this question, but for some reason she hadn’t prepared an answer. She could feel her mouth moving. Twitching to say something, but unable to find the words. Anything she did say would sound like a lie because it would be. And the truth? She just couldn’t say, because her husband could never find out the truth.

Freddie stared at his wife. At forty-four years old she was stunning. Even with her messy hair and crumpled designer clothes, her beauty still shone through. Her skin was pale and lineless. Her face held the darkest, yet softest blue eyes and her lips were full and red.

When he looked at her, he found himself being overtaken by an uncontrollable jealousy. The thought of another man even looking at her made him rage violently inside.

When he’d first met her she was hostessing in a nightclub but he’d put an immediate stop to that. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else lusting after her. His jealousy, however, hadn’t done her any favours. It hadn’t given her the romantic weekends and bunches of flowers, though of course she’d always had access to as much money as she’d wanted. That much was a given. What his jealousy had done was make him treat her harshly. Almost as if it was her fault it made him feel that way. Although he hadn’t used his fists as most of his friends did with their other halves, he’d hurt her in other ways; with verbal punches and put downs which were as harsh and cruel as any physical blow.

He’d shot her down when he knew she hadn’t deserved it. Humiliating her in front of friends and other well-known faces because of his seething jealousy. And the more he’d done it, the angrier he’d got with himself. And that anger had in turn made him do it more. He hadn’t wanted to but he hadn’t been able to stop himself either.

Tasha was smart and he hoped she was smart enough to know that even with all the verbal, he loved her. He’d lay down his life for her. In fact, he’d lay down her life too if she ever thought about cheating or leaving him. All in the name of love, of course.

He knew every part of her so well and as much as his main focus was on Ray-Ray, he continued to look and wait for an answer, because he knew she was up to something. Problem was, he didn’t know quite what.

‘Mrs Thompson?’ The surgeon broke the atmosphere, and the relief even from the prison officers was palpable.

‘I’m her husband, so you can speak to me. Anything you’ve got to say to her. Tell me mate.’

The surgeon looked at Freddie before letting his eyes wander down to the handcuffs, staring at them with clear disdain on his face. Freddie sneered as he leaned in towards the surgeon, causing the man to blush and take a step back.

‘Never been chained up before doc? You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Freddie!’ Tasha shot her husband a stare as she tried to take hold of his hand, both for support and to try to calm him down, but she found it being pushed away by the slightly taller guard.

‘You know the rule, Mrs Thompson. No physical contact.’

Ignoring and turning her back on the prison officer, Tasha spoke to the surgeon, afraid of what she might hear.

‘Sorry darlin’ but don’t mind Freddie, as you can imagine it’s very difficult for both of us. Is our son okay?’

Bristling, and unnerved now by Freddie’s continuing hostile stare, the surgeon tried to create a professional environment once more. He cleared his throat and directed his entire conversation to Tasha. ‘We’ve just finished the operation and we’ve taken him to intensive care now.’

‘But he’s going to be okay though Doc?’ The tone in Freddie’s question frightened Tasha into answering her husband before the surgeon managed to. She’d never heard him sound so vulnerable.

‘Of course he is; why wouldn’t he be?’

‘He’s got some extensive injuries. Look Mrs Thompson, shall we go somewhere and sit down, so I can explain properly what’s happened to your son?’

Agitated now, Tasha snapped at the surgeon. ‘I don’t need to bleeding sit down, ain’t nothing wrong with me. Just tell me what’s going on.’

‘Okay well, we removed his clothes under anaesthetic and he’s sustained a number of burns, unfortunately including burns on his face, which will probably be quite disfiguring.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘But he’s been lucky.’

Freddie growled at the surgeon. ‘You call being turned into the fucking elephant man lucky?’

‘I know there’ll be a lot of adjusting but he really is lucky. It could’ve been much worse. He’ll be in intensive care for the next few days and after that we’ll reassess the situation. The other thing I …’

The black beeper attached to the surgeon’s scrubs sounded loudly. Glancing at it, he quickly started to rush away down the corridor. ‘I’m sorry I have to go. I’ll come back later to explain anything else, but he’s in good hands and the intensive care nurses will be able to answer any of your questions.’

Part of Tasha wanted to be angry and call after the doctor for leaving without telling her all the facts, but the frightened part of her was happy to let him go; relieved for just one more moment where she could pretend everything was going to be fine.

Standing in the side room with Freddie and the prison officers, Tasha wrapped her arms around her waist as if somehow it would stop the wailing sound that seemed to be resonating from every pore in her body. The only thing she could see through the tears was Ray-Ray, lying unconscious, almost unrecognisable in the mummifying bandages.

The smell of Ray-Ray’s burnt skin held thick in the air. Sweet, coppery and nauseating. Tasha was unable to look at her son’s face, not wanting to see the bandages, knowing the sweet, beautiful face she kissed only a few hours ago was no longer there. In its place was the face of a stranger.

She looked down his body and saw what looked like metal clamps sticking out of his leg.

‘Why has he got them?’

The nurse smiled sympathetically and spoke in barely a whisper. ‘His shin was splintered in three places. The surgeon needed to …’

She was cut off abruptly by Freddie. ‘Splintered? What … what are you talking about? I thought he was caught up in a fire.’

‘He was, but he also has damage to his leg.’

‘Can a fire cause that?’ As Tasha said it she knew it sounded ridiculous, but rather ridiculous than let the thought which was slowly coming into her head creep in.

Freddie turned to Tasha, his face red. ‘Don’t talk fucking bollocks Tash. There ain’t no fire which breaks legs.’

The nurse looked at them kindly. ‘Didn’t the surgeon tell you? The fire didn’t actually cause any damage.’

‘But I don’t understand; he’s been burnt?’

‘Not by the fire Mrs Thompson. He only suffered smoke inhalation from that. His burns have been caused by acid. They’re chemical burns.’

It took Tasha only a moment. Only a slight pause, before she leapt at Freddie. She lashed out, throwing her arms everywhere and bringing them down into contact with Freddie’s powerful chest. She reined the blows down as the prison officers tried to pull Freddie away, but he stood firmly rooted to the spot, watching as his wife’s tears poured out and he allowed her to take her anger out on him. And although the punches didn’t hurt on a man like him, the physical contact made him feel slightly better, although his expression stayed the same. Cold, hard and unmoving.

Tasha stopped, exhausted and her speech was laboured as she hissed at her husband. ‘This is your fault Freddie. The reason my son is lying here is because of you and your stupid, stupid business. Because of you his life is ruined. I will never forgive you for this. You hear me. Never!’ Tasha screamed out the last word then ran out of the private room, almost knocking into a group of student nurses.

In the corridor, she leant on the wall, breathing deeply, and welcoming the feel of the cool of the concrete seep through her shirt onto her skin.

‘Tash!’

She turned her head and saw Freddie being walked down the corridor the other way, being taken back to the prison van. He shouted to her as he was led away. ‘Tash, I’ll sort it. I’ll get whoever did this … I promise. Tash, don’t ignore me. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t want this to happen did I? Tasha? … Tasha? … I’ll call you, okay?’

Tasha Thompson didn’t bother looking at her husband. It was the first time she’d ever turned her back on him, and both of them knew it. As she walked into the July sunshine she looked up, enviously watching a single plane cut through the crystal-blue sky. She’d no idea where it was going but that didn’t matter; if she was given half the chance she’d be on it, because it was going somewhere. Somewhere other than here and somewhere would’ve been good enough for her.

Getting out her phone she sighed, knowing today was a turning point. Today, Tash’s life had changed forever.

‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘Hey, is everything all right?’

The voice on the other end was warm and kind, making the guilt Tasha had disappear. Despite what she’d thought earlier, she needed him now more than ever. His voice always had that effect on her. It always made her ask herself how could something this good be wrong?

‘No, not really it’s …’

Tasha trailed off, unable to explain and not wanting to break down into tears.

‘Listen, don’t try to tell me now. Shall I come and pick you up? Are you still at the hospital? We could have a coffee or something.’

Tasha paused then quickly said, ‘Yes, okay, I’d like that. I’m at the entrance but I can’t go far in case he wakes up. I want to be here when he comes round.’

‘I’ll jump in the car now. I’ll only be ten minutes. And sweetheart, try not to worry.’

As Tasha put the phone down, Arnold smiled to himself as he got his car keys out. He liked her. She was perfect. Just perfect.

8

Laila could see the grounds of Bradford Royal Infirmary as she looked out of the plane window. Everything seemed so small and unreal from the air, like a picture postcard from the sky. A leisurely summer’s day in Bradford, everyone getting along with their lives without a care.

She was invisible to all of them. High up in the sky, no one knowing where she was going. No one caring. But Laila cared, and she was terrified. There were so many questions she wanted to ask but there was no one to answer them. So the questions just went round and round in her head, terrifying her more with each recurrence of thought.

How long was she going for? When would she come back? Would she come back? That was the worst question of all and part of Laila was pleased her brother – who was sitting next to her, flicking through a motorcycle magazine – wouldn’t answer.

Islamabad. She hadn’t even been to Spain, let alone a country thousands of miles away. She didn’t know anything much about the country, not really about it. Not the things you really needed to know. Of course she knew about the history, the culture, the food and where it was in relation to Afghanistan; she’d learnt it all in school. She even knew enough about the conflicts and the different religious divisions to get an A-star in her history homework. She knew all that. What she didn’t know was about the real things. The things that mattered to everyday life.

How could she possibly go somewhere when she didn’t even know where to take a bus, where to buy chocolate or some underwear, or even where the Ladies toilets were? It was those things that mattered and it was those things she didn’t know.

Yet the biggest thing, the thing which scared her the most besides marrying a stranger, was how to live in a country when she didn’t speak the language. Yes, she knew and understood the odd word of Urdu but not enough to live there. But that was the point wasn’t it? She didn’t want to live there and until yesterday she hadn’t planned on even going. She didn’t want to go, yet here she was sitting on a plane, unable to get off, unable to do anything apart from what her family told her to do.

With the thoughts came the tears and Laila sniffed loudly. A moment later, Mahmood’s harsh voice was heard. Not for the first time that day, Laila Khan wished above all things her beloved father was still alive.

‘I can tell you this now Laila; I’m not sitting here the whole way to Pakistan with you sniffing away.’

Tariq looked at his sister. The guilt he felt was indescribable and the last thing he felt he could cope with was a whole journey of his sister’s tears whilst his uncle chastised her. Even though he’d been told both by his uncle and his mother it was part of his duty as her brother to take Laila to Pakistan and see her married off, truthfully, he could do without the whole trip.

Still, perhaps it’d be worth it in the end. Once she was married their uncle could stop being so angry with Laila. Tariq hated seeing him being so cruel to her. And as long as she didn’t mess up, maybe Laila’s torment would soon be over.

Exhausted, Tariq leaned back in his seat moving his head slightly to get a more comfortable position on the hard headrest. His uncle had refused to pay for first class and so for the next few hours he was going to be stuck squashed between his sister who didn’t sound like she was going to stop crying and his uncle, who’d somehow managed to get through customs with a container of homemade stuffed paratha and was already tucking into it, stinking the stale air.

Tariq closed his eyes and thought about the events of last night. He shuddered. Partly from what had happened to Ray-Ray and partly through his own fear and shame of being involved with it all. He supposed lying low in Pakistan until everything had died down wasn’t a bad idea. He didn’t think anyone had seen them but Pakistan was a good place to hide. It had different rules. His uncle had told him over and over again how the country acknowledged the importance of men being men. Only a few months ago they’d had the conversation.

‘How can men and women be equal Tariq? It’s like saying a zebra is the same as a lion.’

‘What about education uncle, don’t you think women have a right to that? Maybe it’d be worth Laila finishing off her education. I know my father would’ve wanted that?’

His uncle had stared at him and shook his head as he stood in the kitchen at home, a look of disappointment and scorn on his face. ‘Your father did a lot of damage. He made the mistake of letting you think we can choose our paths, when in fact our paths are chosen for us. Why fill Laila’s head with things which will only lead to disobedience? We will guide her and then, when the time comes, her husband will guide her. That’s the way it should be.’

Tariq broke his thoughts, uncomfortable, as he moved his head again hoping for some slight relief on the headrest. He sighed. How could he think his uncle was right, because that would mean his father had been wrong? He didn’t like to think like that. In fact, Tariq didn’t like to think of his father at all; it was easier. For one thing, it meant he didn’t have to question his uncle or for that matter, himself. But mainly he didn’t like to think of his father because he missed him. Missed the life which used to be.

Laila watched her brother, who was asleep. Gently, she placed a blanket over him. It was getting dark outside and it was also getting cold. The air stewardess smiled at Laila but wasn’t able to see the small smile in return. Her uncle hadn’t allowed her to take off the burka and she didn’t suppose she’d be able to until they arrived at wherever they were going.

Laila glanced at Tariq again, trying to keep her thoughts away from Ray-Ray and trying to stop herself imagining what her uncle might have done to him in his anger. Tariq had also been angry last night which she hated to see, but now as he slept he looked a different person, his face relaxed and free of any sternness. It was tragic, but it felt like it was only when he slept that she could be close to him, closing the void which had developed between them and recognising the brother she so dearly loved.

When their father had died a year ago, and their uncle who they only knew from short, strained yearly visits had come across from Pakistan to live with them, he’d taken over as head of the family, and Tariq had changed, although admittedly he had been forced to. He’d gone from a protective loving brother to a chastising angry one, who each morning scolded her over the breakfast table or when he came home from work at night. It was almost as if he was playing a role. A role their uncle had given him; one which didn’t really fit. At times Tariq seemed cruel, harsh, but Laila knew that wasn’t who he really was, but what their uncle expected of him.

The pressure to be a man when he was only a boy had taken its toll on Tariq. Like her, he’d been expected to take on a different role overnight. A role no one had warned them about when their father had still been alive.

When he’d been alive they’d talked, dreamt and loved one another. But their uncle had put a stop to that before their father had even been cold in the ground. Now she barely said a word to her mother or Tariq, and neither did they to her. And even though she knew hatred was against all her teachings, Laila struggled not to hate her uncle with a vengeance.

Tariq had been good at so many things when he’d been younger; he’d been especially good at football. Their father had often told Tariq he was certain he’d be the first Pakistani goalkeeper playing for England.

But only a month after the funeral, Tariq had come home from school, walked into the garden and set his football kit on fire. Their uncle had stood a few feet behind Tariq patting him on the back as the flames leapt into the air.

She’d looked at Tariq from the kitchen door, watching in puzzlement before her brother had turned to her angrily, answering a question she hadn’t asked but only thought.

‘There’s no point in having it Laila. There’s no time for playing; that’s what boys do.’

‘But Tariq …’

Mahmood had jumped in then. ‘Enough Laila. When will you learn it’s not our place and certainly not your place to question what we’re called to do? Your brother’s made up his mind.’

‘You mean you’ve made up his mind for him? You haven’t even bothered to see him play. Have you ever thought he could’ve been called to do that? A gift he was blessed with, uncle?’ That day was the first time Laila’s uncle had hit her.

Tariq stopped playing football. Stopped playing sport and even stopped making an effort at school, leaving with no qualifications but stepping straight into a job within their uncle’s business. Laila tried to talk to her brother about it, but he refused to talk to her and shut her out of his life.

She was certain if their father was alive Tariq wouldn’t have chosen the path he was now on. He seemed to be trying to convince not only his uncle but himself that his life was what he wanted it to be. And with it, the Tariq who’d once loved her, kindly teasing her as he pulled on her pigtails as they walked to school, had disappeared, along with his burning football kit.

9

Arnold drove steadily to the hospital. There was a sense of urgency to get there but a stronger sense of not wanting to break the thirty mile per hour limit speed. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, or perish the thought, kill somebody by driving too fast. He’d never been one to break rules even as a boy. Especially as a boy. His father had made sure of that.

1973

Northumberland

‘Arnold! Arnold, come here.’ His father’s voice echoed round the large hallway and Arnold shivered. Even though he’d just turned eleven he still never knew if his father was cross or happy when he called him. The tone was always the same; low, soft and devoid of any emotions which might give away his true feelings.

Coming down the stairs, Arnold made sure his shirt was without creases and his tie was straight; his father liked that, liked him looking smart, looking better than the other boys.

‘Now son, I want you to take your sister out, it’s not good for you to be cooped up in here all day. When I was a boy, the holidays meant adventure, not sitting in your room reading books. Go up to the woods; have fun, but mind Arnold, you know the rules. Don’t get dirty. You know what happens to dirty boys.’

Arnold glanced at his father; he actually didn’t know what happened to dirty boys. From as far back as he could remember, his Father had always said the same thing, and although he’d never heard his Father raise his voice or seen him lose his temper, there was something in the way he spoke, something which warned Arnold and made him afraid to ever dare to come home covered in dirt. He didn’t want to break the rules.

Arnold watched his sister stand on her tiptoes as their father bent down slightly to receive a goodbye kiss. He then turned to Arnold and reached out his hand for his son to shake it. ‘Have a good time children. And remember what I said.’

‘Fiddlesticks.’

‘What is it Arnie?’ His sister looked at him with soft big eyes and a mop of honey-blonde hair. He loved that she called him Arnie. She was the only one, and she only ever did it in secret when their father wasn’t listening.

‘I’ve forgotten our damn sandwiches, we’ll have to go back and get them.’

‘No Arnie, I’m too tired to go all the way back, you go.’

‘Then if you’re too tired to walk, you’ll be too tired to eat, so I’ll only bring mine.’ His sister looked at him before her cheeks flushed red with anger, which always made Arnold laugh; she had such a quick temper.

‘Arnold Wainwright, you’ll get my sandwiches for me or I’ll tell Pappy you said damn.’

‘You’ll do no such thing and if you do, I’ll tell him you call me Arnie.’

His sister, who was three years younger than him and four inches smaller than him, swung her fist violently. Arnold ducked out of the way and laughed, making his sister angrier.

‘Tell me you’ll get my sandwiches for me Arnie, tell me.’

‘Yes all right, I’ll get them, I was only teasing. Wait here for me. I won’t be long. Now, where’s my goodbye kiss?’ Arnold stretched his arms wide open and put out his cheek, expecting the loving kiss his sister always gave him; the only bit of affection he got.

‘I shan’t give you a kiss Arnold, I shan’t.’

‘Well I’ll give you one then.’ He bent forward but his sister darted away, still annoyed at her brother’s teasing.

Sighing, Arnold started to walk back through the woods towards the house, stopping for a brief moment as his sister shouted out to him.

‘Arnie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you still love me more than life itself?’ Arnold smiled before he replied to his sister, whose face was lit up with eagerness.

‘Yes. Yes Izzy, I do.’

Arnold ran as fast as he could back to the house to get the sandwiches he’d forgotten. The grass made him feel as if he was springing along as he bounded down the hill towards the isolated house. The River Coquet ran alongside and though it looked particularly turbulent today, hungrily sweeping along broken branches and leaves, many a summer had been spent paddling in the shallow part of the river, followed by a desperate attempt to dry out their clothes before returning back home.

As he ran he thought about Izzy. He hated it when she was angry with him. Hopefully when he got back she would cheer up and be his friend again. As long as he had Izzy he didn’t need anyone else and hopefully neither did she.

Approaching the house, Arnold was cautious to check his clothing, making certain no stray piece of mud or grass had surreptitiously got onto his trousers.

The large wooden front door creaked open. Standing in the entrance hall, Arnold contemplated going straight into the kitchen to pick up the lunch he’d left on the side and hoped his father hadn’t heard the door. But then it would mean breaking rules and he was loath to do that; even for Izzy.

The mahogany stairs leading up to his father’s office were highly polished, as was the rest of the house; pristine, with nothing out of place. Pictures of unknown relatives stared out from their gilded frames and the gold ornate wallpaper gave a feeling of formality to the high-ceilinged hall.

The mock-crystal candelabra with the glass droplets was in the exact same place, turned the exact same way it always was and Arnold was careful not to go anywhere near it as he passed, recollecting what had happened last year.

It was a simple mistake. An unintentional one when he’d run past the decorative candelabra, trying to get to his room before his father had finished counting to ten, being warned but not knowing what would happen if he didn’t make it to his bedroom by the end of the countdown.

He’d been aware of knocking it slightly, but he hadn’t thought anything else about it, until his father had come into his room in the middle of the night. Waking him up, suppressed rage in his voice, sweat dripping down his forehead, wanting to know who’d smashed the light. His father had dragged him out of bed and along the corridor to look at the candelabra.

‘Look at that Arnold, look at it. I didn’t know I lived with vandals.’ Arnold had looked, but hadn’t seen anything different. The candelabra still stood in centre place on the carved red wood table and the glass droplets gleamed as much as they always did.

His father had leaned into his face, punctuating each of his words as he spoke. ‘It’s. Been. Moved. Arnold.’ The fear Arnold had experienced only allowed him to mutter two words before he’d wet himself.

‘Sorry Papa.’

‘Well Arnold, you know what happens to boys who destroy people’s things. They have their own things destroyed.’

His father had then spent the next two hours quietly breaking all of Arnold’s treasured possessions which, in the absence of any toys, were made out of things Arnold had collected and found in the woods for him and Izzy to play with. The origami birds he’d made which Izzy loved. The pictures he’d painted at school and the stories he’d written for her to read up in the woods were cut up with a shiny pair of scissors, along with anything else Arnold held as valuable.

Clearing his thoughts of that night, Arnold stood outside his father’s office, hoping his Father would open the door straight away and let him get the sandwiches to take back to Izzy. He was aware his hand was shaking as he knocked lightly on the panelled door. A voice came from inside.

‘Yes?’

‘Papa, it’s Arnold.’

‘I thought I told you to go to the woods son.’ Pushing himself further against the thick door, Arnold spoke again, hoping his father wouldn’t think he was shouting, but at the same time needing to be close enough to hear him, as his father never repeated anything twice.

‘We did go to the woods but I forgot the sandwiches Papa.’ The long silent pause was exaggerated by the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall below. Eventually the door was opened and Arnold jumped back, standing up straight with his hands firmly by his side.

It was only his head his father put round the door but curiously, Arnold could see his shirt was without a tie with the top two buttons undone. The normally immaculate black hair was ruffled and a slight red flush sat on his cheeks. A strong sweet smell hit Arnold’s senses. His father glared and Arnold wanted to be sick.

‘Forgotten your lunch? Then what does that make you Arnold?’ Arnold put his head down and muttered inaudibly.

‘I can’t hear you Arnold.’

‘I’m stupid Papa. I’m just a stupid ignorant boy.’

‘And what else Arnold?’

Arnold stood in silence before his father promoted a reply. ‘Say it. I want to hear it boy.’

‘Izzy … Izzy doesn’t love me. She only loves you and not me.’

‘That’s right, and don’t you forget it. Run along now Arnold and get those sandwiches.’ As Arnold turned to go, his father’s words stopped him. ‘Shouldn’t you say something to me Arnold?’

‘Yes Papa. I love you more than life itself.’

Arnold was singing now. Singing a number song he’d made up about Izzy. He didn’t know why and he certainly wouldn’t tell Izzy this, but numbers made him nearly as happy as she did. Wherever he looked he would count and see numbers. It was almost as if the world was made up of them; rushing into his mind as if they were trying to tell him something. If he looked at the trees within a matter of minutes he could count the leaves. If he looked in the sky he could see how many clouds there were. If he saw numbers written down he could add them up, take them away, his brain making constant patterns with them.

It was his secret comfort, and in the back of his mind he had a memory of a lady who’d sung a number song to him as he lay curled up in bed when he was small. Singing to him; making him feel safe. He’d often wondered if it’d been his mother, though he had no one to ask. His father had always warned him never to ask about her – ‘You know what happens to boys that ask about her.’ Arnie didn’t, but all the same, he didn’t ask.

The tree he’d left Izzy by was the tallest in the woods, flourishing with branches which intertwined with the surrounding trees. He’d carved Izzy’s name on the base of the trunk two years ago and much to her delight, it was still clearly visible.

The vibrant green grass growing around it was like sitting on a mattress; soft and comfy. When they lay on the ground they’d watch the clouds go by, promising each other when they were older they’d always be together. It was their special place, but looking around now, he couldn’t see Izzy.

‘Izzy. Please come out. Izzy, I’m sorry I made you cross.’ The trees in the warm wind blew gently, caressing the air with their scents. Arnold sighed and hoped the whole afternoon wouldn’t be spent searching for Izzy as she watched him, laughing and looking on from a hiding place she’d found.

He started heading up towards the river; it was the only way she would’ve gone. He knew she wouldn’t venture deeper into the woods, she was afraid of the chattering branches and whispering leaves.

‘Izzy? Izzy?’ His feet were beginning to throb in the tight brown lace-up shoes he was wearing. They weren’t really suitable for walking or for the summer months but his father insisted on them being smart, even if it was only to go out and play.

Sitting down on the grass in the clearing, Arnold took off his shoes and rubbed his right foot; he could see a blister forming and if he put his shoes back on it’d only get worse.

The dancing sunbeams on top of the flowing river were mesmerising, making the water look like crystal glass waves, bubbling and breaking against the edges of the steep bank. As he watched the birds dive in and out of the water, Arnold noticed a large black bundle which looked like a bag on the side of the bank near the disused watermill. Getting up and shielding his eyes from the sun to see it more clearly, he realised that it wasn’t a bag at all; it looked more like a heap of material.

Leaving his shoes and enjoying the sensation of the grass between his toes, Arnold walked round the arch of the river towards the heap. He stopped dead. His heart banged in his chest and his breathing became shallow, then his legs started to run as his mind screamed. It wasn’t a piece of material. It was Izzy’s jacket and he could see it moving. He could see something struggling. It was Izzy.

The river gushed over her face as she fought to keep her head above the water level, clinging onto the side of the broken submerged limestone wall of the mill. The river careering towards the weir a few feet along.

‘Izzy!’ Arnold threw himself down on the ground, leaning his body over and hoping to reach his sister.

‘Help me Arnie. Help me; I fell.’

‘Hang on Izzy, I can’t reach you, I’ll get a branch.’ There were twigs, ivy and broken pieces of brushwood but nothing that would do. Arnold tried to pull on a hanging branch, hoping to break it off, whilst all the time calling encouraging words to Izzy, but the branch simply bowed, holding on solidly to the body of the tree.

Running back to the river empty handed, Arnold leaned over the side again, pushing himself further forward than last time.

‘Izzy, you’ve got to try to reach up and hold my hand.’

‘I can’t Arnie, I can’t let go.’

She was right. It was impossible for her to let go of the wall with one hand and stop herself from being swept along into the weir.

‘I’m going to go and get help Izzy.’

‘No, Arnie, no; don’t leave me.’

Arnold looked into his sister’s eyes, wanting to stay but knowing he needed to get help.

‘Izzy I have to go. Promise me you’ll hold on until I come back. Promise me Izzy even if you don’t think you can any more; I need you to hold on. Don’t leave me.’

‘I promise I won’t let go; I won’t leave you. Come back Arnie, come straight back.’

‘I will. I’ll never leave you but you’ve got to be strong.’

Running faster than he ever thought he could, Arnold darted back through the woods towards the house, calling his father as he ran. ‘Papa! Papa!’ Arnold opened the door wide, running into the hallway and shouting to his father. ‘Papa, please come quickly.’

The thunderous sound of his father running down the stairs and the wrath he saw on his face didn’t stop Arnold from screaming. ‘Papa, it’s Izzy.’ His father grabbed him, shaking him in frenzied anger. Arnold felt his head jolting back and forth as he swallowed the words he was trying to say.

‘Where are your shoes Arnold? Why are you covered in dirt?’

‘It’s Izzy, Pappy; please there isn’t much time, she’s in trouble.’

‘Answer me boy. Where are your shoes?’

Arnold looked at his father, then at his feet. Almost immediately, a different kind of fear hit him; he’d forgotten to put his shoes back on. He didn’t bother looking up, but was well aware of his father’s rage towering above him as he continued to speak. ‘Rules, Arnold. Rules are here to be adhered to and not to be broken. Haven’t I told you not to shout? Haven’t I told you never to get dirty? I’ve told you about the rules haven’t I?’

‘Yes Papa.’

‘Then why would you come running in here covered in dirt with no shoes on?’

Terrified, Arnold answered. ‘I left them up by the river Papa.’

The clump of hair being pulled from his head made him yelp out as he was dragged silently by his father into the quiet of the front parlour.

His father threw him towards the dark oak chair which was already placed in the middle of the room.

‘Sit down Arnold.’

He couldn’t sit down. He needed to be brave for Izzy. She was relying on him. He had to get his father to understand Izzy was in danger. ‘No, Papa.’

Arnold watched as his father gave a bemused smile and squinted his eyes, reminding Arnold of the monsters he’d read about in the storybooks at school.

His father’s footsteps sounded on the wooden floor as he unhurriedly crossed the room. Arnold trembled and imagined that every pore of him was beating.

He continued to look straight ahead; his view out of the far window blocked by the looming figure of his father centimetres away from him. The view of his father’s chest became the view of his father’s face as he crouched down to Arnold’s eye level.

‘What did you say boy?’ Arnold thought he was going to be sick; he could feel his knees tapping together and his body felt like his spine was no longer supporting him. His tears interfered with his speech as he clenched his fists desperately wanting to find strength. ‘It’s Izzy Papa, she needs our help.’

‘Sit down Arnold and listen to me. I’m going to go back to my office now. I’m going to leave the door open and give you the choice of staying here as I told you to, or break my rules by leaving this house without permission. Think carefully Arnold; the choice is yours.’

His father swivelled on his heels, creating a squeaking sound on the highly polished floor as he went to leave. He stopped in the doorway, not bothering to turn to look at his son, only to give him a warning. ‘As I say son, it’s entirely down to you, but remember; bad things happen to boys who break the rules.’

The room seemed to be spinning round as Arnold sat on the chair. He tucked his hands under his seat as his legs spasmodically shook. He needed to get to Izzy, he’d promised her he’d come back with help. If his father wouldn’t help, then he’d have to do it all on his own. He looked across at the open parlour door. It was only a few feet away, but for some reason Arnold couldn’t move.

All he needed to do was to stand up and run; run out the door and go to help Izzy. But he couldn’t. Something he couldn’t see but could feel was holding him back. Fear was pinning him to the chair. Fear was stopping him going to save his sister.

Arnold went to get up but found instead he sank ever deeper into the chair. His head became filled with a high-pitched scream unheard by the rest of the world. ‘Izzy, I’m sorry. Izzy please forgive me.’

Arnie stood next to his father; as still and as silent as Izzy who lay on the mortuary table. It’d taken a group of locals several days to recover the body – decapitated by the steel mechanisms of the weir – from the turbulent waters of the River Coquet. The rescue team had stopped the search for her head, hoping it’d eventually be washed up on the mud flats further down the river.

Nausea swept over Arnold and the overpowering smell made him think he was going to pass out. The remorse and the guilt; Arnold could almost taste it. As they stood alone in the room looking, his father spoke to him. ‘Your sister broke the rules Arnold; you see what happens when you break rules.’

His father had told him not to, but he couldn’t stop the tears running down his face. The loud voice made him jump.

‘Stop those tears. Tears won’t bring her back Arnold. You made your choice. I gave you the opportunity to go and help your sister, but you decided to sit in the parlour and do nothing. In my books at best you’re a coward and at worst … at worst you killed your own sister. Now I want you to look at her Arnold. See for yourself what happens to people who break the rules.’

Arnold span round to his father, who stared at him with a mocking sneer.

‘I can’t Papa. I can’t.’

‘Do it.’

‘Please Papa.’

‘Do it.’

Trembling with fear, Arnold walked up to the sheet covered body whispering under his breath to himself. ‘6, 8, 10, 12 …’

‘Stop muttering boy.’

Arnold’s fingers reaching for the sheet were almost rigid with fear. He felt the bile rise up in his mouth as he took hold of the starched cotton sheet. Pulling it back, Arnold froze, as his eyes rested on the headless torso of his sister. He screamed, then turned to run out of the morgue with the image and the echoing of his father’s laughter following him.

Outside the mortuary the local priest came up to give his commiserations to Arnold’s father, turning to Arnie afterwards. ‘As for you young man; all you have to remember is it’s only the body of your sister that’s been taken. Her spirit is still with us. The body you saw in the morgue is no longer Isobel’s. She’s left that one now. She no longer needs it. As long as a person’s spirit lives on; so do they. Isobel is all around you. She’s here, and you’ll find once your grief eases, you’ll see and feel her everywhere.’

‘But where … where will she be?’

The priest smiled at the peculiar little boy in front of him. ‘In all that is beautiful Arnold, you’ll find Izzy. In all that is perfect, she’s there. You just have to look.’

Arnold nodded his head but his mind was elsewhere. Izzy was still here. She was still alive. She hadn’t left him after all. She loved him. And now all he had to do was find her.

The horn being blown startled Arnold, stopping the flood of memories. He drove into the hospital car park and could see her standing by the entrance of accident and emergency.

Opening the passenger seat door Arnold smiled, speaking warmly. ‘I’m sorry I’m late, it seems to be a thirty mile per hour zone everywhere; I didn’t want to get caught speeding.’

Tasha smiled, looking at his handsome face. ‘It’s all right babe. I’m just grateful you came.’ She leaned over and gave Arnold a kiss on his cheek.

He’d been right, she was perfect. Just perfect. His perfect little Izzy.

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