Dishonour Page 11

  ‘Bitch.’ Freddie Thompson gripped the phone between his hands, squeezing it, but having the restraint not to smash it apart. He’d never known anyone not to answer their phone as much as Tasha lately. And it was pissing him off. Big time. If she wanted to mess with his head by playing games with him, then it was working. If she wanted to grab his attention by blanking him, then she was doing a bleeding good job of it.

  He didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to have done to her. He’d been a good husband; was a good husband. Okay, so he’d dipped his dick in tasty bits of pussy, but that was hardly a crime.

  He hadn’t done the mushy crap. But she’d seemed okay with that; she’d never complained anyway. More to the point, he was Freddie Thompson, the biggest face around and it wouldn’t do his rep any good to be seen to be a soppy cunt. He was married to her, what more did she want?

  So she blamed him for Ray-Ray. She was angry. Furious. He got that. But it seemed too little, too late. It didn’t really make sense for her to be pissed now. She’d always known the risks and for all the years so far she’d managed to ignore them. Brand new Bentley convertibles and a wardrobe full of designer clothes seemed to have that effect.

  Confusion and emotional shit didn’t sit well with him. It made him edgy. Paranoid. Dangerous. If it was a game she was playing, then Freddie hoped for her sake she knew what she was doing. No one fucked over Freddie, not even his wife.

  He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. He didn’t need this. He was trying to focus on the bigger picture. He needed to have a clear mind, with no distractions, if he and Eddie were going to pull this off.

  Looking around his bleak cell, Freddie could almost taste the freedom. There was a sense of wanting to get it over and done with, but he knew he only had one chance. One chance to get it right.

  It had to be planned meticulously, otherwise he was fucked. He’d be banged up in a cell tighter than a nun’s fanny. There’d be restricted visits, all done through a thick pane of reinforced glass. A twenty-three hour lock-up regime. Isolated yard exercise, and worst still, life would probably mean he’d be locked up until he was pushing up daisies.

  Freddie sniffed, trying to ignore the anxiety which lay heavy in his stomach when he allowed himself to focus on what was at stake. Yet however anxious he was, he knew that if he pulled it off, it would be worth it. It’d be sweet.

  He clenched his fist, as images of what he’d do and how he’d torture the person who’d turned over Ray-Ray shot through his mind. He had to focus on that. Remember the reason he was doing this. Once it was done, he’d get the hell out of the country. Maybe to Spain, then on to Morocco, before hitting Brazil. Tasha and Ray-Ray would join him as soon as they’d got the all-clear from the doctors and finally, he could be with his son.

  He’d heard there were excellent cosmetic surgeons out there. Hopefully they’d be able to do something to help Ray-Ray, but if they couldn’t, Freddie was sure his son would feel a whole lot better knowing that the people responsible for his injuries had a long, slow, tortuous death.

  ‘How’s tricks?’

  Eddie walked into Freddie’s cell. He was the only person who could walk in without knocking. Pushing away the thoughts of his family, Freddie grinned. ‘Not too bad, you?’

  Eddie smiled back. ‘Good. In fact, fucking class mate. I’ve got word from my driver it’s a goer; only problem is he’s not back at work until beginning of September. Is that going to be a problem?’

  ‘No, in fact, I spoke to the Governor and he was telling me some crap about not being able to have a visit to Ray-Ray until the 27th September, so it works out perfectly.’

  ‘So that’s what? Just over two months from now? Shit.’

  Freddie tapped his friend on his back, laughing at his friend’s sudden glum face. ‘Patience, Eddie. Good things come to those who wait. It gives us plenty of time to make sure there’ll be no cock-ups. You’ll be sorted on your side by then?’

  Biting on the apple he had in his pocket left over from lunch, Eddie said, ‘Nothing much to sort really. Everything’s really tied up, apart from the money of course.’

  ‘I’ll arrange with my men to drop off half the money up front, then the other half after the job’s done,’ Freddie replied. ‘Eddie, he does know if he fucks me over, he’ll be watching whilst I bury him and his missus alive?’

  Eddie gave a half smile. He liked Freddie. He knew what he wanted and got it. His fearsome reputation was justified. Though admittedly, he wasn’t too taken by the next part of the conversation.

  ‘And Eddie, I don’t know this guy, but I know you. So I’m making you his guarantor. If he screws me Ed, as his guarantor, I’ll be coming after you first.’ Eddie’s half smile vanished.

  ‘When they jump the prison van, my men will be waiting for me in a car. Then they’ll take me to another before finally taking me to the last car. The one Tasha will drive.’

  ‘Tasha’s going to drive you?’ Eddie sounded incredulous which was picked up by Freddie. He cut his eyes at Eddie as his expression darkened.

  ‘What’s the tone for Ed?’

  ‘I … I’m just surprised that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  Eddie didn’t like to be put on the spot, especially when it was by Freddie. ‘She’s a woman and women can’t drive.’

  Freddie burst out into laughter, along with Eddie. The tense atmosphere was immediately lightened, bringing Freddie back to being upbeat. ‘Don’t let Tash hear you say that about her driving, she’ll be cutting off your balls.’

  ‘I’m just impressed I guess.’

  ‘Impressed?’

  ‘Yeah, that anyone could put something so big in the hands of their missus. It’s like saying you’re putting your life in her hands. You must really trust her.’

  About to answer his friend, the cell door knocked, but not before a nagging doubt started to creep into Freddie’s head first.

  ‘Come.’

  Deputy Governor Martin Warner walked into Freddie’s cell. He nodded his head to Eddie, who took the pointer and left. Freddie yawned, lying back on the hard spring mattress of the prison bed. ‘How’s your face?’ Freddie grinned, his eyes mocking.

  Automatically, Martin Warner touched his face. It didn’t hurt now but the humiliation did. The knowledge that the whole of the wing, and no doubt the whole of the prison, knew he was under the thumb of Freddie Thompson didn’t sit comfortably with him. It wouldn’t be so bad if he were in Freddie’s pocket. At least then he’d get something out of it. But he wasn’t that lucky, all he got out of it was a headache and the knowledge his family could sleep easy in their beds. Well at least for tonight.

  ‘What is it you want Thompson?’ Martin Warner’s tone had an air of authority but he knew it held none.

  ‘Less of the lip, Mr Warner. I don’t appreciate being spoken to like a cunt in my own cell.’

  The deputy dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands to stop himself getting angry. Noticing, Freddie laughed. ‘Temper, temper Mr Warner. Why don’t you go right on ahead and say what you want to say. Come on, I dare you. Grow some balls.’

  The deputy retorted angrily, full of resentment and hostility at being pushed around by Freddie. ‘Listen here, Thompson. There’s only so much you can push a person before they snap.’

  Freddie stood up. The bed creaked behind him. Walking slowly across to Warner, he was amused to see the sudden fear in the deputy governor’s face. But he didn’t show his amusement; instead he held his mouth in a tight, grim expression.

  Inches away from Warner, Freddie could hear the man’s fast-paced breathing. He jabbed his index finger hard into Warner’s chest. ‘Go on then; snap.’

  He jabbed again, several times, in quick, aggressive succession. ‘I’m pushing you Warner. Snap.’

  Martin Warner’s humiliation was complete as tears of frustration and anger stung his eyes. His face paled, marked with his cheeks turning red. He had no other place to go besides backing down. ‘It’s just a tu
rn of phrase. You can imagine how difficult this is.’

  ‘No, Warner I can’t. I could never imagine what it’s like to be a man like you.’

  Freddie laughed out scornfully as he watched Warner quickly wipe away a tear. ‘You’re pathetic.’ He turned away, disgusted at the man’s weakness.

  Going over to make a drink from his new espresso machine, an item which was prohibited in the prison but an item which Martin Warner was all too well aware he’d been required to bring in on Freddie’s insistence.

  Freddie winked. ‘Fancy a coffee, Mr Warner? Marvellous things these machines. You should get yourself one.’

  Martin Warner shook his head stiffly, realising he was being mocked.

  ‘I need you to do something for me Marty. You don’t mind if I call you Marty do you? I got word I can go and visit my son on the 27th September.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. What are you telling me about it for? It’s ages from now.’

  ‘Let’s call it due warning. The thing is Marty, I need you to make sure you’re working that day.’

  Puzzlement showed on Warner’s face. Freddie rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the man. ‘I don’t understand what you’re asking me.’

  ‘I’m not asking. I’m telling. I need you to work on that day and I also need you – and this is very important – I need you to make sure Eddie Davidson is in the same van as me.’

  ‘Davidson? He’s not due to go anywhere.’

  ‘No, but he will be. Let’s just say I’m a bit of a Mystic Meg and I’m predicting he gets a bit of an injury on that day.’

  Warner stared in horror at Freddie. ‘If you’re suggesting what I’m thinking, you can forget it. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.’

  Martin Warner turned to walk out of the cell, but with the swiftness and agility of a man half his age, Freddie ran in front of the deputy, blocking his way and slamming the cell door closed.

  Nervously, Warner jangled his keys hanging from his worn black leather belt. ‘This has gone too far, Thompson. It needs to come to an end. Get out of my way.’

  Freddie leaned in, speaking through gritted teeth. ‘It only comes to an end when I say it comes to an end. Don’t let me have to show you that by sending one of my men to come and pay a cosy visit to that wife of yours. Patricia her name is, isn’t it?’

  Beads of sweat formed of Warner’s forehead, and he licked his dry lips. ‘I can’t, I just can’t do what you’re suggesting. I could get into serious trouble.’

  ‘Tell me Marty. Which frightens you more? Getting into trouble from the authorities or getting into trouble with yours truly? Point is Marty, if you help me then there’s a real possibility no one will ever know. You can get on with your life as if I never existed. If you don’t help, then how shall I put it? There’ll be no possibility of you, your wife, or your daughter, ever getting on with life.’

  ‘I need to think about it.’

  ‘No you don’t. There’s nothing to think about. Just make sure Eddie gets in the van.’

  Freddie could see the hesitation still in Warner’s face. He walked over to the grey tatty locker and opened the top drawer. Banging it hard to open it where it’d stuck on the runners, he pulled something out. Turning back to Warner he winked.

  ‘I want to show you something.’ Freddie smiled as he spoke, the exact opposite to the expression on Warner’s face.

  ‘Where … where did you get that?’

  ‘One of my men took it. I must say your missus takes a nice photo.’

  Martin Warner snatched the photograph held in the air by Freddie. He studied it. There was his house. His garden. His wife and his daughter in the front driveway, oblivious to the fact they were being watched.

  Freddie cleared his throat. ‘So what do you say now Marty? You going to get Eddie in that van or what?’

  Martin Warner screwed up the photo in his hand before throwing it at Freddie who grinned broadly. He swung open the prison cell door and without looking directly at Freddie, he spoke in a hoarse whisper. ‘I’ll do it. But Thompson, I hope you rot in hell.’

  15

  The cold water hit her with such sudden sharpness, Laila wasn’t sure what it was. She scrambled to her knees, clawing the cushion she’d been asleep on as if she were tumbling down a soaring, crumbling mountain. A dog barked in the distance and the realisation of where she was made her stop moving.

  In slow motion she turned her head and body round. Standing above her were the two men from the river and next to them, glowering, his face red with fury, was uncle Mahmood.

  Laila’s body lurched, in a hopeless attempt to escape, and she felt the top part of her burka being pulled, causing it to fall off. Her thick, long hair tumbled out over her face. She could see only the floor and the bare feet of the three men.

  The searing pain on her head made her scream. Laila jumped to her feet, onto her tiptoes, hoping to stop the mass of black hair being torn out of her scalp. Her uncle began to yell in her face. Spit showered her as he bellowed, first in Urdu and then in English.

  ‘Answer me. Why have you done this? Did you think you were going to run away? To go back to England, to that boy in Bradford? Well whatever you thought, it’s not going to happen. You will do your duty.’

  ‘Please stop uncle, you’re hurting me,’ Laila’s words were staggered as she spoke, between the flashes of pain. The back hand caught Laila’s head hard and the force behind it sent her flying across the tiny room. She hit the wall, sliding down it in a mix of blood and tears.

  Her uncle came towards her screaming. Raging. Words she couldn’t understand. She curled up in the corner, pushing herself into it as she felt the blood trickling down past her ear. Eventually Mahmood squatted down to her level. ‘You are coming with me now. I don’t even know if there will be a wedding. Who wants a bride who acts like an animal?’

  Through her pain and fear, Laila’s spirit broke through. Spluttering her words, she defiantly answered back. ‘Good, because I hope there isn’t a wedding. I don’t want to get married and I don’t want to be here with you … I hate you.’ Her last words shrieked out with all the emotion she had.

  The shock on Mahmood’s face clouded over in seconds into a snarl of disgust. He stood up whispering his chilling warning. ‘You will do what I say Laila, otherwise I won’t hesitate to kill you. Do you hear me? I would rather go to prison than you bring dishonour on me and my family.’

  Mahmood turned to leave but as he did he grabbed Laila’s hair once more, pulling her up from the corner. Her legs scuttled quickly to keep up with the lengthy strides of Mahmood as he continued to drag her along by her hair. She screamed out to the two men and the old lady.

  ‘Help me please, help me. I’m begging you.’

  Tariq looked at his sister kneeling in the middle of the room. She wore a bright red shalwar kameez with a bejewelled matching dupatta. The dupatta covered her hair and hung down by the side of her face. He watched, conscious of the ten other people in the room inspecting her. She was looking down. No eye contact. No smiling. No emotion. The sign of respect. But Tariq was sure that given the chance she’d try to escape again, and increasingly he felt that he wouldn’t blame her.

  He continued to think as he watched his sister move her hand and wipe away the tear trickling down her face. Then she was motionless again. Tariq sighed, which sounded much louder in the silent room than he would’ve wanted. Uncle was getting angrier by the day. Tariq didn’t want to see her hurt and he didn’t know how to explain to her that she had to stop and accept her fate.

  He could see her lip bruised and starting to swell. If only she’d not put up such a fight. He’d spoken to her briefly earlier, when uncle had dragged her back, looking dishevelled and hurt.

  ‘Laila, please, this isn’t helping you. People are going to start turning against you. Make life easy on yourself. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me.’

  She’d glanced at him then, but said nothing. A moment later she’d been ordered to change and
await the arrival of her future in-laws.

  Tariq noticed a heated discussion taking place on the other side of the room. Their voices were low but he could still make out the words of the astoundingly short but obese old lady, the matchmaker of the wedding, speaking angrily to his uncle.

  Tariq raised his eyebrows at the old woman’s request, at his uncle’s insistence over the past year, he’d worked hard at understanding his language. He shot a quick stare at Laila to see if she’d heard or understood what had just been said. If she had, she wasn’t giving anything away as she stared at the floor, trance-like. The old lady made a noise in the back of her throat, then limped out of the room, her face sealed with disapproval. The others nodded and silently followed behind.

  Mahmood walked across to Laila and bent down. He hissed in her ear, grabbing hold of her arm and squeezing it too sharply.

  ‘See what your behaviour has brought me? Shame. Humiliation. Never did I think my brother’s children, who I’ve shown nothing but kindness to, never did I think they’d bring me so much trouble and pain. Everything I try to do is selfless, yet I’m the one who is disgraced. I’ve just been told there will be no wedding unless a virginity test is performed Laila. They want to make sure you’re intact before they allow you to marry their son. Do you know how that makes me feel, hey? Answer me.’

  Laila’s head turned towards Mahmood but he raised his hand and she quickly lowered it. Her whole body was trembling from fear and from her uncle shaking her violently. She screamed out as a cutting pain hit her back, followed by another sharp pain. She fell forward, her body tense as she waited for the next blow, but it didn’t come. She turned her head slightly to see Tariq holding onto their uncle’s arm which was holding a thin cane.