‘Honour,’ I repeated, wondering how such a small word could have caused so much trouble.
When Sat’s sister, Jas, is married off into the Atwal family she changes, she’s quiet and distant. But Sat’s too busy with his own life; his girlfriend, his friends, football … Then Jas disappears.
According to her new husband, she’s run off with another man. Her family disown her; don’t seem to care if she's ever found. But Sat doesn’t believe it. Something has happened to his sister and he’s determined to figure out what. But his investigations take him into dark and dangerous territory …
A powerful, hard-hitting teen thriller on the controversial topic of honour killing, by multi-award-winning author Bali Rai.
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
Questions and Answers with Bali Rai
Also by Bali Rai
Copyright
The room is cold because she’s left the window open, and a wintry storm has turned the sky purple. The wind sneaks in and stabs at her with its icy fingers but she doesn’t notice. She’s in an unmade bed, in the dark; lying to one side, her legs curled up so that she resembles a ball. The tears have stopped running down her face but the pain in her belly refuses to go away …
He’d come to her earlier, sniffing and coughing, with bulging eyes and drunken lust. Pushed her down and taken what he wanted, as always. He’d been violent, meeting each of her cries with a slap or a pinch; or by yanking at her hair so that her scalp burned. In the end she’d let him have his way, whimpering as he’d subjected her to yet another humiliation. Relieved once she’d heard him grunt like an animal, clean himself with a tissue, pull up his jeans and leave.
‘Useless little bitch!’ he’d sneered. ‘What’s the point of you?’
She turns on her other side, her head pounding. A trickle of warm fluid makes its way down her thighs. She reaches down, brings her hand to her face. Menstrual blood coats her fingers. She retches twice before running to the bathroom and vomiting into the toilet bowl. Little explosions of light, like fireflies, zip across her field of vision. The bile in her throat makes her gag, and she wonders whether other wives go through the same thing. Is this what married life is all about?
The journalist looked at me across the coffee shop table as an elderly couple walked past. We were sitting in Caffè Nero, close to St Pancras station. I ignored her gaze and pretended to people-watch. It didn’t work. I looked back into her face.
‘Why now, Sat?’ she asked me. ‘It’s been more than two years …’
Amanda Ryan’s bright blue eyes were studying my reaction, as if she was trying to catch me out. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. I was like a rabbit, watching the car approaching, blinded by the lights, knowing I was dead but accepting my fate.
‘Because I need to talk,’ I replied with a croak. Someone dropped a cup somewhere, and the coffee machine hissed as the waiter began to froth milk for a cappuccino.
‘I appreciate that, Mr Kooner … but why tell me?’ she said in her soft, melodic voice.
This time I had to look away. I thought back over the past four years, to the time when I was fifteen and life was so easy. I didn’t have a care in the world then; didn’t think about anything. It was all about me and my shit: the girlfriend, the mates, football. I was so selfish, I didn’t even think about her. Didn’t listen when she spoke, or ask questions when she remained silent. Back then, all I wanted was to get away. Away from my family and their annoying traditions. Away from the feeling that I was being suffocated. I wanted to see things, be someone and live my life. Not once did I wonder if she wanted the same. If we were the same underneath.
‘Have you told the police?’ the journalist went on.
I shook my head.
‘But I don’t understand …’ She was a picture of confusion. Her hair was tree-bark brown, her lips full and pink. Three small moles like dabs of chocolate paint worked diagonally across her left cheek.
‘You helped Jennifer Barton write the story that first time,’ I said.
Amanda half smiled. ‘I was a young reporter then,’ she explained. ‘It was my first job. I’m not much further down the line now … And I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.’
I shrugged. ‘This is all of it,’ I told her. ‘Everything I know, from the beginning …’
She looked down at her notebook. The page was fresh and empty of words, waiting for a story. She sighed. ‘Look, I know it’s been really hard and it must still hurt, but—’
‘We know the truth now, all of us. That the Atwals probably killed my sister,’ I said suddenly.
Her eyes lit up. ‘I’m sorry?’ she replied. ‘Did you just say …?’
I nodded.
‘But the police followed the case until it was exhausted,’ she said.
‘Yeah, they did. Only there are things they don’t know …’
She picked up her pen and tapped the end against her notebook. I watched her for a while, wondering whether I was doing the right thing. I’d helped to hide the truth. Only it was getting harder and harder to keep going. The guilt ate at my brain all day long, every day. The voice in my head was shouting. Most nights I woke up shivering, drenched in sweat, unable to shake her face from my mind.
‘OK,’ she said finally.
I thought about everything my family had faced. The threats and the danger. Then I thought about her, and my eyes began to well with tears. I gulped down air, tried to clear my thoughts. The coffee machine hissed on, customers chatted and gossiped, cups were set down on saucers, the door opened and closed with a ping, a chair was scraped across the floor, someone ripped open the cellophane around a piece of cake …
‘Mr Kooner?’
‘I’ve got evidence now, and a witness,’ I revealed.
Amanda Ryan gasped. Her face fell but her eyes lit up.
‘Can I tell you?’
She looked around, made sure no one was listening. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But not here. My flat is ten minutes away; what time do you have to be back in Leicester?’
I shrugged, realizing that there was no going back now. There was no way out. ‘I don’t …’ I replied. ‘At least, not for anything in particular. To be honest, I’d be better off staying in London for a while.’
She smiled, stood up and gathered her things. ‘Come on,’ she said.
It started when I was fifteen and living with my parents in a suburb called Oadby. My dad owned shops – a newsagent’s, an off-licence and a chippy. We had a six-bedroomed house with a garden all the way round. I was the youngest of three. Amar, my brother, was twenty-four and married. He lived up the road, in a house that my dad had bought. His wife, Mandy, was pregnant with my nephew. My sister, Jas, was eighteen and recently married. She lived on the other side of Leicester, but it wasn’t far. Nothing in Leicester is.
Amar was very business-minded and took after my old man. Both wore turbans and beards, but neither of them were proper Sikhs; they liked drinking too much. They were the same build too – short and stocky with hooked noses and big shoulders. My brother was like Dad’s mini-me.
Jas was tall and slim. She had pale cream-coloured skin and deep brown eyes, the same colour as mine. She was so pretty that my mates all fancied her. Her hair was naturally light brown, and sometimes people thought she was mixed-race. One of our neighbours, a lovely old guy called Keith, teased her all the time. Told her that she was probably the milkman’s daughter.
‘If I was twenty years younger …’ he’d say, leaning on his stick, before setting off up the road with his dog.
Jas didn’t really notice the attention. At least, it came across that way. She was quiet and respectful – the ‘perfect’ Punjabi daughter. She never answered back to my parents, never rebelled against them. Sometimes she was like a ghost …
I was the youngest, the loudest and constantly in trouble. I didn’t mean to cause trouble – it just happened. Like, if my dad wanted something done, Jas and Amar would do it straight away, no questions. Me, I would ask him why. It was the same with Mum. By the time I was fifteen they had pretty much given up trying to control me.
It’s funny that I said control. When I think back, that is probably what it was, especially for my dad. He wasn’t a tyrant or anything – he just wanted his kids to behave in a certain way. Loads of other dads were worse – men who were alcoholics or violent. My dad wasn’t like that. He just had his ways, if that makes any sense.
Anyway, I was the one who had tantrums and played loud music. I hardly ever went to family functions or helped out in the shops. Instead, I’d disappear into town, play football or just hang out with my mates. At fourteen, I went to some boring family wedding, drank half a bottle of vodka and puked everywhere. I made a right twat of myself. However, despite their anger, my parents were never violent or anything. They shouted, screamed, and banned me from going out, yeah. They never, ever hit any of us, though.
My family is massive. I have so many uncles, aunts and cousins that I can never remember all their names – not at the same time. Back then, we had masses of family functions. Every weekend there was a birthday or wedding; or some kind of blessing ceremony at the gurdwara, the Sikh temple. Not that most of my family were true Sikhs – they weren’t. Most of the men were like Amar and Dad: they drank alcohol, ate meat, and a few smoked in secret. That’s how things were. Not good, not bad – just normal.
My mum was the only practising Sikh in our house, the only regular at the gurdwara. I’d stopped going by the time I was twelve, although my mum still gave me grief. She spent years hounding Dad too, but it never worked. He would just smile, open a can of lager and scoff a bacon sandwich.
Mum was short, with long black hair and tiny hands and feet. She was overweight too because she loved all those Indian sweets – jelebi, barfi, ladoo, anything. That’s where her diabetes came from. She was a happy person and didn’t really work. Occasionally she’d go to one of the shops, but mostly she was at home, cooking our dinner or watching the telly.
The first argument I remember is a blur. It was about six months after Jas’s wedding – just after my fifteenth birthday in October – and Jas was staying at ours. She’d come for one night but my mum had convinced her to stay longer. She had lost some weight and looked ill. As soon as Mum mentioned it, though, I was out of the door, not interested. I went up to my room and started playing on my games console – one of those games where you shoot people and steal cars.
I’d been up there for twenty minutes when I heard their voices get louder. Jas was yelling at my mum, telling her that she didn’t understand. My mum’s voice was even louder, asking Jas to calm down and show respect. I went down to the living room, wondering what was going on.
‘What’s with the shouting?’ I asked, looking at my sister. She’d never raised her voice before, not that I knew of, and I was a bit shocked. Only she didn’t look angry or anything. She just looked sad.
‘It’s nothing,’ replied Mum. ‘We were talking about someone …’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘No one you know, beteh. Go and do something else – I want to talk to your sister.’
I shrugged, got a drink from the kitchen and returned to my room. Even though it was strange to hear Jas raising her voice, I soon forgot all about it. She was an adult and she was married. To be honest, I was pleased to see her standing up for herself for once …
Neither Jas nor Amar chose to get married. They didn’t go out with people or have dates – nothing like that. My family did all the matchmaking. Amar was nineteen when he got sorted. Most of his close friends were Punjabi like us, and they were all married too, or thinking about it. Amar met a few girls over the summer, round at one of my uncles’. Before I could blink, he’d said yes to one of them and that was that. His wife, Mandeep, came from Birmingham, and she was pretty and friendly. She had that funny Brummie accent too, and I used to enjoy taking the piss. The way they’d met seemed strange to me, but they came across as happy enough.
It was different for Jas, though – she had to get married. She’d been going to a local college, training to be a beautician and enjoying it. Then everything got messed up. Some old gossip who lived up the road told my dad that Jas had a boyfriend; an Asian lad who went to her college. When Dad asked her, Jas went bright red and denied it. Only he didn’t believe her. He got angry and called her names. He said that she’d dishonoured him, ruined his good name. My sister never admitted that the accusation was true, but she still paid the price.
My parents pulled Jas out of college, and within two months she’d been fixed up with some man. I remember thinking she’d gone mental. She wasn’t angry or upset or anything. She acted like it was nothing.
‘Were you going out with him?’ I asked her eventually when we were sitting together in the conservatory.
‘No, Sat,’ she replied. ‘It was just some lad …’
‘But aren’t you angry with that woman?’
Jas shrugged. ‘Not really – it was a mistake. She didn’t mean any harm.’
‘But look what happened!’ I said. ‘They stopped you going to college and everything. I’d go mental …’
‘Mum and Dad only want what’s best for us,’ she told me. ‘I can always do another course after I’m married. I can’t get another mum and dad.’
I didn’t understand her, though. There’s no way I’d let Dad run my life; but Jas was different. She just seemed to accept things. It makes her sound strange, but she wasn’t. She was just … Jas.
‘So who you getting married to?’
‘I dunno much about him,’ she admitted. ‘We only met last week. He seems OK …’
‘Just OK?’
She gave me a funny look. ‘His name’s Taswinder Atwal.’
‘When’s the wedding?’
‘Next summer,’ she replied, switching TV channels and ending the conversation.
The argument between Mum and Jas continued until my dad came home from work. Then it stopped. Jas came up and asked me what I wanted to eat.
‘Dunno,’ I replied. ‘What’s Mum made?’
‘Dal, roti …’
‘Stuff that,’ I said, pulling a face. ‘I’m gonna get a kebab.’
‘What you up to?’ she asked, looking around my room.
I followed her eyes and felt ashamed. My clothes were scattered across the floor. Textbooks and projects cluttered my desk, burying my laptop. The shelves were overflowing with books, old toys and all sorts of other crap. Peeping out from under my bed was a copy of Nuts magazine. I edged over to it, praying that my sister hadn’t seen the naked blonde woman on the cover. I kicked it under the bed.
‘Smells in here,’ she said, half smiling. Back then, I didn’t notice how tired she looked. I wish I had.
‘Smells like your pants,’ I joked, like I’d done as a kid.
‘More like your bum!’ she added, joining in.
‘You wanna kebab?’ I asked her.
‘Yeah … come on – I’ll drive you. Taz got me a car. BMW one-one-eight.’
I whistled. ‘Taz is proper rich, i’n’t he?’ I said.
Jas nodded.
‘You’re well lucky!’
If I had been paying attention, I would have seen it. The distant look in her eyes, the slight shadow that fell across her face. If I could go back …
Two days after that first argument, I was getting my lunch when Taz drove by. He was in a blue Jaguar XKR – a five-litre supercharged V8 with over 500 horsepower, my mate Dash explained.
‘And that colour, bro – kyanite blue, exclusive to that car,’ he said. Dash was obsessed with cars; he could tell you everything about any car you cared to mention. Even stuff you didn’t want to know.
If Taz saw me, he didn’t show it. We were standing outside Greggs in Oadby when he went by, disappearing round the bend. He had two passengers with him: big, heavy-set men with shaven heads.
‘Best get back to class,’ I said.
‘What’s he do for a living?’ asked Dash.
‘Just stuff with bars and that,’ I replied.
Taz owned two bars and a club, and did promotions for Asian music shows. His dad owned loads of property – which is where Taz’s money came from – but he was in prison now. Even so, my dad was proud that Taz had agreed to marry Jas.
‘Millionaires,’ he’d told me at the time, smiling and taking a big glug of Chivas Regal. ‘We must have impressed them.’
I bit into the sausage roll I’d bought for lunch. It was straight out of the oven and set my mouth on fire. ‘OWW!’
Bits of pastry and pig flew out of my mouth, just as two girls from school walked past.
‘You’re nasty,’ said Charlotte, a white girl with dark hair and serious good looks. I’d fancied her for ages. Her mate, Pooja, was Asian with blonde highlights and green eyes.
‘Sat’s been nasty since we went to Brookside,’ said Pooja – Brookside was our junior school.
They giggled and went into Greggs. An old Asian woman walked past, saw the sausage roll on the pavement and cussed me.
‘Charlotte looked well impressed,’ teased Dash.
‘Piss off!’
We made it back just in time. I went into English, brushing the crumbs off my jacket.
The teacher, Miss Woodward, winked at me. ‘Those sausage rolls can be a killer,’ she said with a smile.
I looked over at Charlotte and Pooja, who started laughing. Eventually Miss Woodward began her lesson on Lord of the Flies.
‘So what’s the importance of the shell that the boys find?’ she asked the class.
When Pooja put up her hand, some of the lads sniggered; the stupid ones who talked like gangsters. They were all rich kids who’d shit their pants if they saw a real rudeboy. There were loads of them where I lived.
‘It’s a symbol of authority, miss,’ said Pooja.
Charlotte was listening with her head propped on her hand. Her wavy hair was the colour of melted milk chocolate, cut just below her jaw line. Her caramel-coloured eyes shone. I wondered what her skin smelled like. Daydreamed about kissing her.
‘… Ralph and Piggy?’ said Miss Woodward, finishing a question.
Suddenly everyone was looking at me.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘More attention to what I’m saying, Sat. You can gaze at Charlotte later,’ Miss Woodward told me.
Some of the pupils whistled and cheered, but Miss Woodward repeated her question. I noticed that Charlotte was looking at me and thought hard and fast. Recalling something I’d read on the BBC revision site, I managed to answer the question. Miss Woodward nodded and gave me a big smile.
‘Well done, Sat – that’s exactly what I was looking for,’ she said.
I looked over at Charlotte and grinned. She smiled back and I nearly fell off my chair.
Jas’s mother-in-law came round that night. Taz’s older brother, Ricky, was with her. He was stocky and well muscled, with a shaved head. He wore an expensive-looking light grey suit over a lilac shirt and silvery tie. I’d seen him at the wedding and knew him to talk to. Amar and Mandy were there too, sitting with my parents.
I found my sister in the kitchen, making tea. She was wearing a traditional Punjabi outfit and loads of matching red and gold bangles on her wrists.
‘What’s with the decorations?’ I asked. ‘You look like a Christmas tree.’
‘They’re called chura,’ she explained. ‘You get them on your wedding day. You have to wear them to show you’re recently married.’
‘Why?’ I asked, looking at my mum’s special tea set – the one she kept for important guests – which sat on the worktop.
‘Why what?’ said Jas.
‘Why do you have to wear them?’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t know much, do you? It’s called tradition.’
‘Bullshit, more like,’ I said, grinning.
‘Just get some biscuits out, will you?’ she said, looking flustered.
‘You going back then?’ I continued, getting the biscuits out of the cupboard.
My sister’s one-night stay had lasted a week. Not that it was a big deal; it was nice to have her around – I’d missed her.
‘I don’t know …’ She didn’t meet my eyes.
‘Don’t you miss Taz?’
Jas was making Indian-style tea. She’d boiled water and milk together with the tea bags in a saucepan. She turned down the heat and started to set the china cups and sugar bowl out on a tray.
‘It’s not about missing him,’ she replied, not making any sense.
I gave her a look, which she didn’t see.
‘But—’ I began.
‘Our marriage was arranged,’ she reminded me. ‘It’s about duty, not love. That’s for other people …’
I didn’t understand what she was saying so I changed the subject.
‘Is Taz coming?’
‘I don’t think so – he’s just gone to Spain on business.’
‘Yeah?’ I asked, trying to imagine myself being that successful. Travelling to other countries and running a big business of my own.
Jas looked straight at me. ‘He goes away all the time.’
I nodded and put some expensive M&S biscuits onto a plate.
‘I’ve got samosas in the oven,’ she said. ‘Could you put them out too?’
I grabbed a white chocolate-covered biscuit and stuffed it into my gob. ‘Just checking they’re OK,’ I joked when I’d swallowed it. ‘Don’t wanna kill the in-laws.’
Jas shook her head and smiled a little.
I sat with the adults for twenty minutes, being polite. I knew that Dad would bang on at me otherwise – and besides, I needed cash. Pissing him off, then asking for hundred-quid Timberlands would be a stupid move. I spent the time chatting to Ricky about football and stuff.
‘You should come down the Dice bar,’ he suggested.
‘Ain’t old enough,’ I reminded him.
He ruffled my hair. ‘No age restrictions on family,’ he told me. ‘When my brother took your sister on, he got you lot too – that’s how us Punjabis run our shit.’
I nodded.
‘Besides,’ Ricky continued, ‘you don’t look young. Just dress up smart and I’ll sort you out.’
‘Serious?’ I asked.
‘Yeah … I’ll leave you my number – Taz’s too. Anytime you’re out, call me and I’ll hook you up, little bro.’
Eventually my dad offered Ricky a shot of Chivas. He refused a few times before Amar poured him a large one anyway. I could tell that Ricky had only refused out of politeness. It was a real Asian thing – saying no to be polite, and then having a drink anyway. They did it over booze, presents, money – all kinds of shit. It made me laugh.
I left them to it and watched telly in the conservatory. Not before reminding Ricky to leave his number, though.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Even if I forget, Jas has got it.’
‘Nice one.’
The following week Pooja started following me around school, asking me questions. What music I liked and what TV shows I watched – all sorts. She even wanted to know whether I preferred plain or patterned boxer shorts, which was the most random of the lot. Like that would make any difference to anyone. Eventually she told me that Charlotte liked me.
‘You should ask her out – go and see a film or something,’ she suggested.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘If you ain’t winding me up.’
Pooja flicked her blonde highlights and pulled a face. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you wanna take the piss.’
‘You’re paranoid,’ she said, grinning like a nutter.
‘Why you askin’ me?’ I asked her. ‘Why not Charlotte?’
‘Ain’t very romantic, is it?’ Pooja replied. ‘Like she’s gonna come beg you for a date? Most lads would form a queue …’
‘So I’ve gotta beg now, yeah?’ I said jokingly.
Pooja nodded. ‘My friend is a goddess. Bow down at her feet and take your reward, Satinder Kooner.’
I grinned at the way she’d used my full name. No one called me that – not even my parents, unless they were angry with me. ‘You’re a proper loony,’ I told her.
‘Might be,’ she said, grinning again. ‘But I’m a loony with a buff best friend, so you’d better start being nice to me.’
That’s how it happened. Ten minutes later, I saw Charlotte in the kiosk queue at Sainsbury’s, getting her lunch. I went over and used the ‘let’s go see a film’ suggestion from Pooja. Charlotte went a bit red, smiled and gave me her number.
‘Call me tonight,’ she said. She looked gorgeous: she’d tied up her hair and wore a light blue dress that buttoned down the front, over a white, three-quarter sleeve top and indigo jeans with Converse boots. She smelled of vanilla.
I smiled back at her. ‘OK,’ I replied, noticing two wannabe-gangsters giving me a stare.
Every man at school wanted to get with Charlotte. I was going to get plenty of dirty looks. Bring it, I thought as I went back to join Dash.
‘Sorted?’ he asked me.
‘The girl is mine,’ I said proudly.
‘You lucky bastard,’ replied Dash, turning back to the sandwich fridge. ‘Who puts tandoori chicken in a sandwich, bro? With yoghurt! That’s just nasty.’
My parents never asked me about my social life and I never told them. I was happy that way too. They were old-fashioned Punjabi, so girlfriends were out. It was disrespectful, to their way of thinking. If I wanted a woman, I was supposed to ask them to find me a wife; arrange it all for me. Only that wasn’t happening. I wasn’t getting married young, not like Amar and Jas. I wanted to enjoy myself. I never told them about Charlotte and she didn’t seem to care, anyway.
‘None of my business,’ she’d said when I explained my parents’ backward ways.
‘Yeah, but don’t think I’m ashamed of you or anything,’ I’d told her.
‘I won’t, Sat – not unless you make me.’
I was out all the time, mostly with Charlotte. If she was busy, I’d go see Dash or some other mates. I never stayed in. Whether I was hanging out at Charlotte’s house, listening to music in her bedroom and doing them things you do, or hanging around on the streets with Dash and the others, something was always going on. I played football on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and went round to Dash’s house most Wednesdays to kick ass on his PlayStation.
My parents, apart from the usual shit, didn’t really try to stop me. Occasionally my dad would bang on about working in the chippy or the off-licence, but I never did. I used homework, projects or football as an excuse. That year, after Jas got married, I grew further and further away from my family. Not because I didn’t love them. I just missed what was going on because I was never there. I didn’t know what they were doing. And I didn’t really care.
By New Year’s Eve my relationship with Charlotte was going strong. I decided to take up Ricky’s offer and got some tickets for Dice bar. I had to lie to my dad, though. He didn’t want me to go out, but when I mentioned Taz and Ricky, his attitude changed. Respect and honour were big things to Dad. As the family of the bride, we had to show respect to the Atwals. They had taken the burden of a daughter from my parents, and we were supposed to be grateful. It was all bullshit to me, but my dad swore by the old traditions. Whatever he did, he did by the rules. So when I told him that Taz had invited me, he actually started smiling.
‘You should have said so, beteh,’ he said.
‘I can’t let them down,’ I added, pushing my luck.
‘No. Take some money before you go. Don’t let them think we have empty pockets.’
Dad told me to listen to everything Taz said. To respect him. ‘My izzat is at stake,’ he went on, not making any sense. What did going out for a beer with Taz and my dad’s honour have in common?
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I replied. ‘I won’t disgrace you.’
It was snowing when we got to Dice, and the city centre was busy with people. The queue was massive. I had four tickets – one each for me, Charlotte, Pooja and Dash. I looked at the crowd waiting to get in, huddling together to stay warm.
‘Ricky said to join the VIP,’ I told Charlotte. She was wearing a short black dress and high heels. The skin on her arms was red because of the cold.
‘Hurry up then,’ she replied, putting her arms around me. ‘It’s freezing out here.’
‘Should have worn a jacket,’ I teased her.
‘What?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling. ‘Don’t I look good?’
I nodded. ‘You look amazing.’ I wondered what she thought of my clothes. I was wearing a pair of dark jeans with a white shirt, maroon sweater and navy pinstriped jacket. I’d also borrowed some brown Chelsea boots from Amar.
We walked up to the door, ignoring the dirty looks we were getting. Someone swore at us. I began to worry about getting in. Despite what Ricky had said, I felt like a little kid, dressed up for no reason. The bouncers would know we were underage. We saw that there was a smaller queue to the right of the door. A tall woman in a black puffa jacket, dark blue jeans and bright white trainers was standing by it, holding a clipboard.
‘This is the guest list queue,’ she said, giving me a big smile, ‘and I can’t see any school outings on it.’
My heart sank and Charlotte pinched my side.
‘I thought you said it was sorted,’ she said. She didn’t seem angry or pissed off. If anything, she looked amused. She was like that: things didn’t really bother her too much.
‘Er …’ I began, seeing Dash pull a face. ‘Ricky put us down …’
The woman with the clipboard looked down the list, frowning. ‘Ricky?’
‘Yeah,’ I told her. ‘I’m Taz Atwal’s brother-in-law.’
‘Wait here …’ She shrugged at a huge bouncer with massive shoulders wearing a long black coat. His freshly shaved head looked red and sore. He walked across, took the clipboard from the woman, and gave us a funny look.
‘You reckon Ricky and Taz put you down?’ he asked. His eyes were pale blue and cold. He didn’t blink once.
I nodded.
‘Name?’
‘Sat Kooner,’ I replied. ‘There’s four of us.’
The doorman nodded. ‘You’re on the list,’ he said, looking surprised.
‘I know,’ I told him. ‘Ricky and Taz are family.’
The doorman smiled at me. ‘One of them Asian things, is it?’ He still hadn’t blinked. He was grinning at me but his eyes were dead.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked him, looking away.
‘I get about fifty people every week – claiming to be family.’
I shrugged. ‘Ask Ricky,’ I replied. I was annoyed, but I tried not to show it. Winding up a bouncer would only cause trouble.
‘Nice girl you’ve got there,’ he said. Another smirk that failed to reach his eyes. ‘Does she give it some …?’
I turned away when he winked, anger flaring inside me.
When Laura walked in, Taz Atwal was sitting in the office looking at the sales figures from the previous week. Money – small amounts of it – had been going missing for a while. A hundred short here, fifty quid there. He was trying to spot a pattern, but instead of finding one, he had given himself a headache.
‘Got some lad outside – looks about sixteen,’ Laura told him.