Criminal Revenge (3 page)

A week after the bombing at the mosque, Mamood checked his reflection in the mirror. He smiled to check that his teeth looked clean. They should be. He had brushed them four times since getting home from school. His hair was jet black and shone with freshly applied hair gel. It was cut short at the sides and back, and spiked on top. Mamood stood side on to the mirror and breathed in, pushing his chest out and tensing his biceps. He was only fifteen, but he played most sports at school and kept his figure toned by lifting weights. His dad had been tough all his life, and he pushed Mamood to follow his lead. Mamood looked up to his father, and respected him for what he had achieved in his lifetime. He always wore designer clothes, holidayed abroad regularly, and changed his Porsche every year. One day Mamood would enter the family business, whatever it was they did, and he would have all the flash trappings of wealth that his father had. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure what his business entailed, only that it was an import/export company. Whatever he did, it paid a shitload of money.

In a few years time he would be borrowing his father’s car to pick up his dates, and a few years after that he would have his own. The future was bright. Mamood was vain, to say the least, and he worked hard to keep his appearance manicured. He opened the wardrobe door and flicked through his favourite shirts. The white Armani was very cool, but it might become marked where he was going. He selected a navy blue Versace and slipped it on, fastening the buttons up to the neck, leaving his gold chains visible. A pair of faded Levis and his new Air-Walk trainers finished the ensemble. He picked up the letter and read it again. Perfume wafted up to him from the pastel-coloured paper.

The letter was from Vicky Stanton, who was in the year above him. She was a very sexy chick with a growing reputation for putting out to her boyfriends. The letter had been posted the day before, and it had been waiting for him when he had got home from school. Vicky said that she had fancied him for ages but was too shy to approach him. If he was interested, then he had to meet her at the reservoir. She said that she would make it worth his while. She hadn’t included her mobile number; she said that her father didn’t like her getting text messages from boys. There were a couple of old lock-ups close to the reservoir where teenagers met to kiss and canoodle. Mamood was hoping for a bit more than that tonight, and he checked that his parents weren’t around before slipping a packet of condoms into his Levis. Vicky’s reputation promised a lot more than just kissing. He checked the mirror one more time and slid the letter into his back pocket. Three long squirts of Ralph Lauren’s
Polo
topped the grooming. Mamood walked down the stairs with a spring in his step, nervous but excited at the thought of a sexual encounter.

“Where are you going, son?” his father asked.

“Got a hot date, Dad,” Mamood smiled and winked at his father.

“You be careful, and don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do,” his father went to touch his hair.

“Hands off, Dad, don’t mess up the hair!” Mamood danced back on his toes and put up his hands like a boxer.

“You’re still not big enough to take on your old dad,” his father followed suit, raising his guard.

“Leave the boy alone, Ash.” His mother came walking out of the kitchen. “Where is this hot date then?” she asked, a little concerned. His mother was old-fashioned. Her religious values had been passed down from generations and were deeply engrained in her. She found it difficult to think of her son being in a casual relationship with a female; her husband was her one and only sexual partner. He was far more ‘westernised’, his Muslim background long forgotten. She knew that he didn’t share all her ideals, especially where their son was concerned.

“None of your business, Mum.” Mamood skipped over to his mother and picked her up by the waist. He was tall and gangly like his father had been at that age. He kissed his mum on the cheek and spun her around. She was pretty for her age and always dressed to impress, sometimes in modern designer gear and other times in traditional Pakistani silks. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll behave.”

“It’ll be dark soon, Mamood,” his father said seriously. Ash wanted his son to have as much freedom and fun as he could, as long as he kept safe. He knew the dangers of being that age from firsthand experience. The world was a dangerous place, especially so for the young and vulnerable. Ashwan Pindar dealt with death and danger everyday of his life, but he kept it separated from his family.

“Oh, Ash, stop fussing,” his wife laughed. Her teeth were straight and white, and her smile made little creases form around her beautiful brown eyes. Her father’s lifelong friend and business partner had introduced her to her husband. The first time she had seen him she had fallen for his dark good looks, and they had been married six months later. Ten months after that Mamood had been born. She had realised over the years that her husband was no angel, but he treated her like a princess and doted on their son, Mamood. He was secretive about his business dealings, but they lived well, and as the years went by, it became less important to her.

“See you later, much later if I get lucky,” Mamood joked as he headed through the front door.

“Like father, like son,” his mother tutted. Lana Pindar had been sexually inexperienced when she had met her husband, but he had overcome her embarrassment and shyness, teaching her and coaxing her. She had soon become comfortable, even confident of her prowess in the bedroom, but the thought of her son engaging in sex made the hair on her neck stand on end. It seemed like yesterday she had been cradling him in her arms, fixed to her bosom. Now he was a handsome young man, off on a date. “Where have all the years gone?” She shook her head, happy and sad at the same time.

Ash watched through the window as his son walked away. He was a good boy, never involved with gangs at school, unlike Ash. Ash had been involved in gangs all his life in one way or another. A tight-knit group of school friends, bonded by their ethnicity, had grown up into a powerful crime family. It had been a dangerous but lucrative career, and not one he wanted his son to emulate. A chill went down his spine and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He couldn’t explain it, but he had a strange feeling that something bad was going to happen.

When Byron ventured out at night, he stayed on the paths that skirted the perimeter of the park. He walked his dog, Lulu, three times a day, wind or shine, without fail, but he never entered the park after dark. The park was a hive of leisure activity during daylight hours, but at night, it took on a darker persona. Drug dealers, prostitutes and perverts trawled it after sundown. Onceone of the most affluent areas of the city, the suburb around the park was spiralling into a mire of poverty and deprivation. The dregs of society had been drawn into the area when the tall Victorian terraces had been bought up by property developers and turned into bedsits.

Byron, saddened by the decline, was trapped in his one bedroom flat by negative equity. His only companion was Lulu, a French poodle, named after the television star and pop diva. He had never been married, never been in a steady relationship with a woman, but he didn’t think that he was gay, either. Byron enjoyed his own company and didn’t really have any sexual urges. His life was simple but happy. He had inherited the proceeds from the sale of his mother’s house when she had died. She had spent the last few years of her life in a nursing home, wasting away while senility took her brain and her memories from her. Byron had spent the money on his humble apartment, where he enjoyed the simple things in life.

At least it had been simple, until last week. It wasn’t simple anymore. Byron had stumbled across a group of Asian youths attacking a young fat boy. They had been like a pack of animals, kicking the prone body. His dog, Lulu, had gone mad barking and pulling at the lead. Byron was the last man to get involved in someone else’s business, but he had tried to intervene, he hadn’t been able to walk past. There had been so much blood that he had thought they’d killed the boy. He had called the emergency services from a phone box. As they had dispersed, the Asian youths had given him some verbal abuse, ‘faggot’, ‘dirty queer’ and a couple of ‘bummer’ references, probably because he was walking a poodle in the park. He thought that Lulu may have bitten one of them in the leg, but he couldn’t be sure. When Byron had called the emergency services and reported the incident, the police and an ambulance had arrived, and before he had known what was going on, he had been making a statement describing the attackers without considering the consequences. Since then things had become weird. ‘Queer’ had been daubed on his front door in yellow paint. A brick had smashed his front window, and when he walked the dog, he felt as if someone was following him. Lulu wouldn’t settle at all, either on the lead or at home. She seemed to sense danger was close by. As he walked around the park, he was mulling it all over in his mind when a voice called out.

“Bummer!” a voice shouted out of the darkness, deep in the park. Byron could hear people laughing, but he couldn’t see them.

“Queer boy!” echoed across the park. Byron couldn’t be certain that the abuse was aimed directly at him, but he had a gut feeling that it was. He walked a step quicker, but he could hear chattering voices and sniggering keeping pace with him from the darkness, behind the tree line.

“Nice poodle, you big poof!”

“Arse bandit!” This time the insult was hurled from the opposite side of the road. Byron turned and looked for his abuser, but there was no one in sight. The insulting references to his poodle left him with no doubt that he was the target of the abuse. He immediately made the connection with the Asian youths that he had encountered the week before, and the resulting police investigation. They couldn’t know that he had given a statement, could they?

“Don’t bend down when Byron is around or you might get a penis up your arse!” several voices sang in unison. His abusers had adapted a song from the football terraces of the day, especially for him. Shadows moved against the darkness, just out of his range of sight. The voices belonged to young teenagers.

Byron shivered. They knew his name. The police had assured him that his identity would be kept secret. Obviously not. He was a half-mile from home, and the pavements were well lit all the way. ‘There is nothing to be frightened of’, he told himself.

“You’re dead, faggot!” another voice shouted. This time the abuse came from the opposite side of the road. There was a grassed area parallel to the pavement, planted with thick rhododendron bushes. Someone was hiding behind them, he could hear them rustling.

“I’ll call the police as soon as I get home, you don’t frighten me.” Byron tried to sound assertive, but he did not. His voice was reedy, almost camp. People often mistook him as a gay man because of his voice and demeanour. The streets were empty and the traffic was sparse. There was no one he could turn to for help.

“You talk to the pigs too much, bum boy,” a reply came from the park again. Byron turned sharply, the voices nearer this time. His heart raced, pounding in his chest. He had seen the level of violence that this gang of teenagers were capable of first hand, and he had no wish to become their next victim. The young boy that he had rescued had been slashed and beaten to a pulp by them.

Byron walked on quickly, surrounded by a dangerous entity that he could feel tingling on his skin, even though he couldn’t actually see them. Lulu knew that they were there, and she was barking, snarling and standing on her hind legs, trying to protect her master. She could sense his fear.

“Don’t bend down when Byron is around, or you might get a penis up your arse!” the gang sang as one from the shadows.

“Shut up, I’m not gay!” Byron shouted, scared and offended. How dare these teenagers follow him and abuse him, intimidating a grown man walking his dog, how dare they? He turned towards the park, staring into the darkness. His eyes became accustomed to the inky blackness, but he could see nothing but shadows.

“You need to shut up, grass!” This time the voice came from across the road. Byron turned around to face his abuser, droplets of sweat forming on his brow and shivers running down his spine. His stomach felt like it was being squeezed by the icy fingers of an invisible giant. He still could not see anyone.

“You are nothing but cowards, all of you. Spineless cowards!” Byron shouted towards the darkness.

A figure emerged from the shadows dressed in a black tracksuit, black trainers, and a hooded Parka. Then another two appeared. Another three came from the trees on the left, two more from the right. Byron swallowed hard, his heart racing with fear. The gang were all around him, emerging from the night. A Ford Cortina slowed as it passed, and Byron waved to the driver for assistance, but he sped up and drove on. He heard footsteps running towards him and he turned around, Lulu yanking the lead and almost pulling him off balance. A hooded figure appeared from the bushes, squirting a liquid from a yellow tin. Suddenly flames shot towards him. Byron couldn’t comprehend what was happening. The figure clattered into him, knocking him over. Lulu snarled at the fleeting figure but it was gone in a flash, and then she howled like a banshee as her fur began to burn. Byron stared in disbelief as his dog burst into flames before his eyes; stripping his coat instinctively, he wrapped it around the howling dog. He rolled her on the grass, desperately trying to extinguish the flames.

“Next time it’ll be you that we burn, bum boy!”

“Don’t bend down when Byron is around, or you might get a penis up your arse!” some of the voices trailed off, laughing hysterically, and the hooded figures disappeared into the blackness.

Lulu whimpered; she was hurt, but not fatally. Byron picked her up and ran the rest of the way home. He grabbed his car keys and took the whimpering poodle to the emergency vet. On her hindquarters there was a weeping bald patch the size of an orange. The vet thought the burn had been caused by lighter fuel, sprayed like a flamethrower. Byron didn’t care what the vet thought; the terrible experience had scared him to death. It was frightening how vulnerable he felt despite the earlier assurances of the police. After hours of mental debate, he called the police that night and dropped his witness statement.