Last Request. Liz Mistry
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murdered him.
Her phone rang, breaking through the fuzz. Still not looking at Burhan, she slipped it from her pocket – the boss, Hegley – and silenced it before tossing it onto the table. No sooner had it landed than it started ringing again. Fuck’s sake, can’t it wait? Then the doorbell was ringing, echoing through the house. She lifted her hands to her head and covered her ears. Shut up, just shut the fuck up!
‘Nikki, Nikki, open up, come on, let me in. It’s important.’
Sajid! Just go away, let me think.
Her phone started ringing again, DCI Hegley flashed on the screen. It rang a few times and went to voicemail. They must have caught a case. Why now?
Burhan, with effort, pushed himself upright and made to approach her but Nikki extended her hand, palm up. ‘NO! Just go.’
The voice from the door came again. ‘Nikki, Nikki. Open up, Come on. I can hear you’re in there.’
Fuck off, Saj!
The phone started going again. Nikki wanted to smash it through the kitchen window. Just let me think!
Almost conversationally, Burhan continued as if they were completely alone. ‘Khalid had responsibilities at home, but he was adamant he would stay here with you. We thought when he stopped contacting us, answering our calls, that he’d divorced himself from us.’
Nikki frowned. What was the old idiot talking about, Khal divorcing himself from them? It was Nikki he’d left.
Straightening his spine, Burhan slammed his palm on the table and yelled at her. ‘Did you not think they could identify him from his remains. You should have taken his passport.’ Spittle flew from his lips and his frail body shook. ‘They told me how you went there, saw my son excavated. How you never gave a hint about what you’d done. Cold as ice. They’ve come to arrest you. You will either rot in a British prison cell or I will kill you.’
Nikki stilled. Anger tinged with sadness flashed in his eyes and her shoulders slumped.
‘They contacted me. You see all they found to identify him was his passport, with me as next of kin.’
What? Nikki reached out her hand to the worktop. What is he talking about?
‘All these years we thought he was with you and all these years he’s been dead … murdered. We will have our revenge. You will suffer for this. How could you discard him so thoughtlessly – like rubbish – in a car park?’
The Odeon car park.
The skeleton?
Khalid?
Fifteen years.
Like an electric shock, it all slotted into place. He’d been here all along. He’d not left them … he’d not left her.
With everything ringing in her ears, Nikki turned and vomited into the sink.
The wind whistled lifting empty crisp packets and yellow takeaway containers, dancing them further down the weed-ridden alley which skirted the recreation ground. On the one side was the rear of a row of shops, their backyards fenced off with black painted metal topped with barbed wire. An old settee wobbled on top of a skip. Rain-swollen grease-spattered worktops and a dozen metal ghee cans stood next to a line of industrial-sized bins. The stench of decaying meat hung strong in the air. On the other side was a six-foot concrete wall sectioning off the kids’ playground. Overgrown grass skirted the bottom of the wall – a coarse browny-green fringe that stank of piss and hid a conglomeration of syringes and bent spoons. The alley was a shortcut between the terraced houses at one end and the main road. It was rarely used now, except by drug dealers, prostitutes and the occasional rough sleeper.
The lad, in his school uniform, spotty and ghostly pale, was sprawled on the wet ground, a rolled-up sock in his mouth, one foot bare. His gelled hair rippled in the breeze, the contents of his schoolbag scattered all around him. Textbooks soaked up the damp from the floor, a few pages fluttering, making a strange whirring sound in the air. Pencils and pens, trampled on, jotters covered in blood and muddy footprints surrounded him. His shoe floated in another puddle, laces dangling in the water. One hand, held away from his body, trailed through a mucky pool of water, his fingers twitching. Blood trickled down the back of his hand and dripped into the slurry, sending small waves over the surface. Beside it, on the cobbles by the watery rut, lay his little finger, blood oozing from the stump.
With his two mates, Tyke and Big Zee, standing behind him, Franco glowered down at the boy, a satisfied smirk on his face. Tyke had his phone out, taking photos of their handiwork – moving around, getting the angle just right – whilst Big Zee snapped the pliers open and shut, his gaze fixed on their victim as if daring him to provoke more action from the pliers.
‘You deal with me, you make sure you get your payments in on time. This was a warning, okay?’ Franco kicked the lad on his leg. ‘I said, okay?’
Whimpering, the lad nodded. His lower lip trembling, his eyes wide and staring. Tyke had held him down whilst Big Zee did the deed. He’d tried to yell but all that had come out was a muffled noise.
‘You take my stuff, you sell it and you pay me. Them’s the rules. You fuck up, you pay the consequences.’
The boy moved his head a little to see the damage and groaned, spitting the sock from his mouth as he did so. A stream of vomit flooded from his lips, mingling with the stagnant water on the path. With his good hand he wiped his mouth, his chest heaving. As Franco moved closer, the boy curled his legs up, to his stomach, preparing himself for more pain.
Franco kicked him on the thigh once more for good measure and then jerked his head to his mates, ‘Come on. Let’s go before someone sees us.’
As they passed, Tyke and Big Zee too kicked the boy. Big Zee snapped the bloody pliers in front of the lad’s nose, laughing as he whimpered and tried to push himself away from them.
They walked up the alley towards the main road and then paused. Franco yelled back down the alley. ‘Get up to BRI with that – you never know, they might be able to re-attach it.’
*
Haqib waited till their voices faded into the distance followed by the sound of a souped-up car engine as they roared off, before moving. His hand throbbed and when he looked at his severed finger more bile gushed into his mouth. Weeping, he pulled his phone from his pocket with his good hand and dialled. Relief surged over him when it was answered and great sobs rent the air as he told Charlie what had happened and where to find him. Keeping his eyes averted from his injured hand he shoogled himself into a sitting position and leaned against one of the wheelie bins.
Why the hell had he been so stupid? He should have known better than to trust Deano, but it seemed easy. Deano had promised it would be easy. Just sell a few pills. Set up a supply in Listerhills and he’d be quids in. And it had been easy till Charlie had swiped his stash so he couldn’t sell it. She’d been going to give it back to him on pay day so he could return it to Franco. Trust his aunt to find it. It was all Auntie fucking Nikita’s fault. She should’ve minded her own damn business and he could’ve returned it and everything would be sorted.
He heard Charlie before he saw her, ‘Fuck’s sake, Haqib. What did I tell you about getting mixed up with that lot? Bloody stupid you are.’
As she got closer and saw his hand held out away from his body, she gasped. ‘Shit. They cut your finger off?’
‘Nowt like stating the obvious, Charlie. Just help me up. I need to get it sewed back on.’
Galvanised into action, Charlie rummaged around in her schoolbag for tissues, before loosely wrapping his stub. Displaying less aversion than Haqib, she picked up his pinkie with two fingers and after placing it in another tissue, she