Stone Cold Trouble

Book 0: Zaq & Jags

by Amer Anwar

Genres: City Life; Thrillers; Mystery

Synopsis

Set in the heart of West London's Asian community, this is the latest instalment in the unmissable ZAQ & JAGS series . . . Trying - and failing - to keep his head down and to stay out of trouble, ex-con Zaq Khan agrees to help his best friend, Jags, recover a family heirloom, currently in the possession of a wealthy businessman. But when Zaq's brother is viciously assaulted, Zaq is left wondering whether someone from his own past is out to get revenge. Wanting answers and retribution, Zaq and Jags set out to track down those responsible. Meanwhile, their dealings with the businessman take a turn for the worse and Zaq and Jags find themselves suspected of murder. It'll take both brains and brawn to get themselves out of trouble and, no matter what happens, the results will likely be deadly. The only question is, whether it will prove deadly for them, or for someone else . . . ? Praise for Amer Anwar and the Zaq & Jags series: 'An engaging hero, a cunning plot and a fascinating journey into Southall's underworld. We'll be hearing a lot more from Amer Anwar' MICK HERRON 'A fresh and exciting new voice' ANN CLEEVES 'Tense and pacey . . . fast and furious' GUARDIAN 'An authentic slice of Brit Asian noir . . . Gripping' VASEEM KHAN 'Gritty, startlingly original and great fun' ROBERT BRYNDZA 'Utterly convincing . . . Terrific dialogue and much humour' THE TIMES

Release date: September 24, 2020

Publisher: Dialogue Books

Print pages: 396

Sample

Zaq was sitting in traffic going nowhere fast when his phone rang. He saw Jags’ name on the screen and hit the green button. ‘Hey, how you doing?’

‘All right. What you up to?’

‘Not much. I’m stuck in traffic near Ealing Common.’

‘Shouldn’t you have finished work already?’

‘Yeah, but that idiot Sid sent me out on another drop last thing and now I’ve hit the Friday evening rush. I knew this’d happen.’

‘You should’ve told him to stick it.’

‘Wish I had. But he said he had this urgent delivery that had to go out today. Shits wasn’t back – probably parked up somewhere having a joint – so I had to do it.’

Shits was the other driver at Brar Building Supplies, whose family nickname, Bits, had been bastardised to Shits by his workmates.

‘Bummer,’ Jags said. ‘What you up to this evening? Fancy coming to mine? Uncle Lucky’s here, says he needs to talk to us.’

‘Us? Why me?’

‘Don’t know. He said to call you round, though.’

‘You don’t suppose they’ve finally found a girl dumb enough to marry you, do you? Maybe he wants me there to help convince you.’

‘Get out of it. Better not be. And anyway, why would my mum and dad send my uncle? Why not come themselves?’

‘True.’ The traffic crept forward a few car-lengths. What was going on? Had there been an accident up ahead at the lights? ‘The yard’ll be shut by now,’ Zaq decided. ‘I might as well head straight to yours and drop the van off later. Dunno how long I’ll be, though.’

‘That’s cool. See you in a bit.’

The traffic inched forward again. There had indeed been an accident: two cars had collided at the main junction by the common. Once Zaq made it past them, there was just the usual rush-hour grind to contend with. He thought about cutting through the back of Ealing over to the A40 but figured it’d probably end up taking just as long, so he stuck to the straight route along the Uxbridge Road, passing through Ealing and Hanwell before he hit his home turf of Southall.

Zaq had been born and brought up in the large, close-knit Asian community there, and it was where he’d lived practically his whole life, except for eighteen months in his own place in Greenwich and five years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. When he’d bought his flat he couldn’t wait to get away from Southall, but when he was banged up all that time he couldn’t wait to get back to it. It was a strange feeling to be back now. Though it was still home, he couldn’t help feeling a bit of an outsider. So much had changed while he’d been away – not least of all himself.

Now he was back, he appreciated all the things he’d thought he wanted to leave behind. The too-familiar sights and sounds, places and people. Turned out those were exactly the things he’d missed the most. As he drove along the Broadway, he took in the bright, bold colours that assailed the eye from window displays, signs, lights, and the Asian clothing worn by so many of the area’s inhabitants. The Bhangra and Hindi music blaring out from the Indian shops and street stalls competed with raised voices speaking a myriad languages, the most common being Punjabi and English; and hunger-inducing smells emanated from the restaurants and takeaway joints – onion, ginger, garlic and chillies, mingling with the aroma of chicken and lamb curries, French fries and pizza. To top it all off, the glitter and sparkle of Indian gold and jewellery gave the whole place a magical, otherworldly feel. In the dusk and summer heat, it felt like a high street plucked from the heart of the Punjab itself and dropped into west London.

Zaq couldn’t help but feel uplifted as he drove through it all – like a battery being recharged. No matter what had changed, this was where he belonged. It was where his heart felt at home.

He passed the place where the Hambrough Tavern used to stand, a landmark from the riots in 1981, and left the Broadway behind, heading on into Hayes, where Jags lived.

‘You made it, then?’ Jags said, when he opened the door. Zaq and Jags had been best friends since childhood and were still pretty much permanent fixtures in each other’s lives. Jags was about the same height as Zaq, though slightly leaner in build. His dark hair was stylishly ruffled, his beard shaped and trimmed close. His brown eyes held their usual mischievous glint, though if ever there was trouble they’d turn hard as shards of iron. He was dressed in lightweight grey sweatpants and a Batman T-shirt. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘I could murder a beer.’

In the L-shaped lounge-kitchen-diner, Jags’ uncle Lucky was sitting on one of the sofas, looking unusually serious. He was a stout, generally jovial character, athletic in his younger days, his body now padded out by a fondness for drink and easy living. His hair was cropped short, more grey than black, and he was dressed in dark jeans and a dark polo shirt. His name was actually Lakhbir, but he’d been called Lucky all his life.

‘Kidaah, Uncle?’ Zaq said, and shook his hand. Even though Lucky was Jags’ relative not Zaq’s, Zaq called him Uncle too, partly out of respect for an elder, but mainly because he and Jags had grown up so closely that they were practically part of each other’s families.

‘Teek uh,’ Lucky said, though he sounded anything but OK.

‘Uncle, you want another beer?’

Lucky looked uncomfortable, the lines in his face suddenly deeper, more pronounced. ‘Got anything stronger?’

Jags raised an eyebrow. ‘Might have a bottle of Black Label somewhere.’

Lucky nodded, and Zaq sat down on the sofa opposite him. ‘How’s business?’ he asked.

Lucky had left school at sixteen with no qualifications and got a job at a garage as a trainee mechanic. He’d been rubbish academically, but out in the real world he’d discovered he had a natural affinity for cars and engines. In those days, in Southall, everyone had had a car but no one had much money, so before long Lucky was fixing up his mates’ cars outside of work. Soon he’d had so many people coming to him, he’d been able to convince his dad to lend him the money to set up his own garage. Now he owned three large garages, in Southall, Hounslow and Hayes, as well as a showroom for buying and selling cars.

‘Business is good,’ he said. ‘All this austerity bullshit means people are holding on to their motors longer, which means they need to get them fixed more. Works well for me, if not everyone else. Saw your name in the papers a while back … what’s happening with that court case you were involved in?’

‘Nothing right now. The guys are all banged up on remand until the actual trial. It’ll be the end of the year some time, I think. There’s a lot of them involved, so I suppose there’s a pile of evidence to go through and get straight.’

Lucky nodded. ‘You have to go court too?’

‘Yeah, as a witness. Not that I know much. I just got caught up in things at the end.’

This wasn’t strictly true, but Zaq was circumspect. There were only four people who knew the truth about what had really happened with the Brar brothers and Mahesh Dutta’s gang. Two of them were in the house – and Jags’ uncle wasn’t one of them.

‘Way it looks,’ Lucky said, ‘those fuckers are going down for a long time.’

Zaq shrugged. Jags came back carrying two bottles of beer in one hand and a tumbler of whisky in the other. He set the drinks down on the coffee table between the sofas. Lucky held up the tumbler. ‘What’s this?’

‘Black Label, like you wanted,’ Jags said.

‘I mean, what sort of shot is it? Just bring the bottle – and get some ice too.’

Jags rolled his eyes at Zaq, who knew exactly what he was thinking, and headed back to the kitchen. The last thing he wanted was for his uncle to get drunk here and then have to take him home. Jags’ aunt would not be impressed, and Lucky would deflect any blame on to his nephew. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Jags returned with a half-full bottle of Black Label and a bowl of ice with a spoon. He put them close to his uncle, picked up his beer and sat down next to Zaq.

Lucky tripled the measure Jags had poured. ‘Now that’s what you call a proper shot.’ He raised the tumbler in salute and knocked the whole lot back in one long swallow, exhaled a slow appreciative breath, and put the glass down. He refilled it to the same level. This time he added an ice cube and let the drink sit in front of him. Its presence seemed to have a calming effect on him.

‘So, Uncle,’ Jags said. ‘What did you want to talk to me and Zaq about?’

Lucky picked up his drink and took a hefty swallow. He kept hold of the glass and breathed deeply before he spoke. ‘I need your help.’

The way he said it, Zaq figured it had to be more than just some simple building or decorating project, which was what he usually roped them in for.

‘OK … ’ Jags said. ‘What with?’

Lucky was clearly trying to work out what to say. ‘Your auntie and me,’ he began, ‘we went to a wedding last week. You know Diggy?’

‘Yeah, he runs your place in Hayes, don’t he?’

Lucky nodded. ‘Well, it was his youngest boy’s wedding. Big do – he invited a load of us from work.’

Sounded to Zaq like the perfect excuse for a piss-up.

‘So,’ Lucky continued, ‘I got drinking with some of the guys from the girl’s side too, having a proper party and all that. Later on, we were still sitting around having a few shots, and they started talking about a card game … ’

Uh-oh. As soon as Lucky mentioned a card game Zaq thought he knew where it was going. Jags’ uncle might’ve been Lucky by name, but when it came to gambling he was nothing of the sort. He’d probably lost money and needed to borrow some to help cover whatever he owed and keep it quiet from his wife, who was well aware of his gambling problem. Either that, or he wanted their help with some sort of dubious scheme to make a bit of quick cash.

‘A bunch of them,’ Lucky went on, ‘get together once a month for a poker night, at one of their houses – get some food in, drinks, you know, make a night of it. Their next game was the day after the wedding, and they invited me and a couple of the other guys along. I thought, why not? Go along, have a drink, something to eat, bit of a laugh, play some cards, no big deal.’ He took another swig of his whisky. ‘Well, it all started off friendly enough, but then I guess the more we drank and played, the more serious it got.’

‘Serious how?’ Jags asked, though Zaq was sure they both knew.

‘We ended up playing for silly money.’ Lucky didn’t look happy; he must’ve lost a significant amount. He took another hit of whisky. ‘But I was on a roll, I’m telling you, proper winning streak. End of the night, just a few of us left, we decided to have one last game. The stakes kept getting higher and higher. I had a fucking great hand – all four aces and a jack. It was a winning hand, I was sure of it.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘Ended up just two of us left, me and this guy Shergill, whose house it was. Everyone else had dropped out.’

‘And … ?’

‘I ran out of money.’

‘What? You just folded and gave it all away?’

A strange expression passed over Lucky’s face. He seemed a bit peaky, as though he wanted to be sick. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said, looking like someone who’d just discovered they’d shat their pants.

Zaq and Jags waited for him to tell them what he had done. He took another belt of whisky.

‘You know your auntie’s necklace … ?’

‘Which neck—?’ Jags started to say before it hit him. ‘You mean the antique one, the family heirloom? With the emeralds and the other big stones and that?’ They could tell by Lucky’s pained look that he did. ‘What the hell have you done? Auntie’ll kill you if she finds out!’ It wasn’t just a figure of speech. OK, so she might not actually kill him, but there was every chance he’d end up needing hospital treatment.

‘It was Monday night,’ Lucky said, holding his hands out, palms up, gesturing like it wasn’t his fault. ‘She’d worn the necklace to the wedding, wanted to show it off. We don’t keep it at home, not with all the fucking break-ins happening all the time, fuckers after all the Indian gold and jewellery desi families have. We keep it in a safety deposit box at the bank. I took it to work with me on Monday, so I could put it back during the day. Only things got bloody hectic and I didn’t have time. Then it got too late. So I figured I’d just do it the next day. I had it with me when I went to the card game.’

‘You didn’t just bet it away, did you, Uncle?’ Jags asked.

‘I’m not that stupid,’ Lucky growled. ‘I just used it as a marker to cover me for the game. I needed five grand to stay in.’

‘Five grand!’

‘And another five to see him, so ten in all. The necklace is worth way more than that, so it easily covered the bet.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘He played his hand. Fucker only had a straight flush, king high.’ Lucky must’ve seen the blank looks on Zaq and Jags’ faces. ‘A straight flush beats four of a kind.’

‘Shit,’ Jags said.

They were quiet for a moment.

‘But you only put the necklace down as a marker,’ Zaq said. ‘So, all you got to do is give the guy the ten grand and get it back.’

Lucky’s queasy expression transformed into a sour look. ‘I tried that already.’

‘And … ?’

He shook his head. ‘Bastard said he’d changed his mind. Decided to keep the necklace.’

Zaq frowned. ‘He can’t do that, can he?’

‘Well, he has. Told me it was up to him, as he won. Said I could keep the money. I told him the necklace is worth a lot more and he knows it. Probably shouldn’t have said that. Anyway, I started to get mad and he fucking threw me out of his house.’

‘So what do you want us to do?’ Jags asked.

‘I thought we could go and see him again, try and get him to give back the necklace for what I owe. I’ll even throw in a couple of grand extra, as interest or whatever. I was hoping you’d come with me.’

Jags looked at Zaq. ‘What d’you think?’

Zaq shrugged. ‘Sure, why not? Might help if you don’t lose your temper this time though, Uncle. Just try reasoning with him. Hopefully, he’ll see sense and take the money.’

‘OK. Shall we go tomorrow? I need to get it back as soon as possible.’

‘I suppose we could go after I finish work,’ Zaq said. ‘I should be done by about five, so let’s say six o’clock.’

‘I’ll pick you both up.’ His mood lightening, Lucky lifted his glass only to find it empty. He grabbed the bottle, poured himself another finger of whisky, knocked it back and looked at them, concern tightening his features. ‘Let’s keep this just between us, right? Don’t mention it to anyone, especially not your auntie, or your mum and dad.’

‘Sure, no problem,’ Zaq said. Jags agreed too.

‘Thanks, boys,’ Lucky said with a grin. He got to his feet. ‘I better get home for dinner. See you tomorrow.’

‘You sure you should drive after those whiskies, Uncle?’ Jags said. ‘I can call you a cab.’

‘Aw, jah purreh,’ Lucky said, waving him off. ‘Those were nothing, just little pegs. I’ll be home before they have any effect. You youngsters don’t know what real drinking is.’

‘I know what drink-driving is.’

‘I’ve never been pulled over for that.’

‘Maybe that’s where all your luck went.’

‘Cheeky bugger.’

Jags showed his uncle out then came back to the lounge. ‘Why d’you say we’d go tomorrow? We’re going out with the girls, ain’t we?’

‘Yeah, but we’re meeting them at eight, right? I’ll get home, shower and change, then we’ll go with Lucky and sort his shit out. He can drop us off in Ealing straight after, in time to see the girls.’

‘Why not do it Sunday?’

‘Man, I’d rather just get it out of the way tomorrow and chill on Sunday.’

‘All right. What d’you want to do now?’

‘It’s gone eight. I’m going to head home. The guys’ll have got some food in, so I’ll probably just eat, have a drink and go to bed.’

‘We can always order something here.’

‘I know, but I’d still have to drive back later, which’d be a drag. And I got to get up for work in the morning. Least if I go back I’ll be able to have a couple of beers, and the guys’ll do my head in so I won’t stay up too late. Don’t get me wrong, you do my head in too, it’s just they’ll do it a lot quicker. Besides, I’m seeing you tomorrow anyway … ’

‘Yeah, yeah, OK. Go on, get the fuck out of my house.’

Zaq smiled. ‘I love you too, mate.’

Zaq followed the aroma of food to the communal lounge-kitchen at the rear of the house and stuck his head through the open doorway. All five of the guys he shared the place with were seated at the dining table. ‘Leave some for me, you greedy sods.’

His housemates, who were all Sikh, looked around. Zaq was the only Muslim in the house, and even though he wasn’t religious in any way it had caused some friction when he’d first moved in. It had been a bigger deal than the fact he’d just been released from prison. But over time they’d come to accept him as one of them and now, most of the time, the matter of religion never even came up.

‘Where the fuck you been?’ Bal said, round a mouthful of naan. ‘Weren’t sure if you were coming or you’d gone out.’

‘Well, I’m here now. I’ll just dump my stuff upstairs.’

‘Phudi da, better hurry up then, innit.’

Zaq took the stairs two at a time. His was a double room at the front of the house that he paid extra to have to himself. After five years of sharing cells, he valued his privacy. The room was clean, tidy and basically furnished. A bed and nightstand on one side, a double wardrobe, drawers, clothes rail and a full-length mirror on the other. Over by the bay window was a chair with a pile of folded clothes, and a small IKEA desk with his laptop on it. On the floor near the desk were several sets of dumbbells, and a punchbag that he kept meaning to hang somewhere.

Downstairs again, he grabbed a plate and fork and dished himself some seekh kebab, karahi lamb, chilli paneer and butter chicken, along with jeera rice and a tandoori naan from the various containers laid out on the table. He and his housemates usually took turns to cook during the week, but Friday and Saturday nights they’d invariably opt for a takeaway and some booze. They’d all chip in some cash and order from their favourite Indian place, some of the guys not being at all adventurous about food, though on occasion they’d have a Thai or Chinese. The alcohol would be beer, whisky, Bacardi and vodka; no gin or any other more exotic liquors for these guys – they weren’t exactly what anyone would call sophisticated drinkers. As usual, they’d ordered too much, so there was still plenty left. It wasn’t as piping hot as Zaq liked, so he gave it a blast in the microwave. While it was heating up, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and poured it into a pint glass. The fact that he liked a drink was a major point in his favour as far as his housemates were concerned.

‘Kidaah?’ Manjit greeted him. The big Sikh builder was out of his work clothes and highly colour-co-ordinated in black Adidas tracksuit bottoms, a black T-shirt and a pristine black turban, all of which matched his thick black beard.

‘I’m good,’ Zaq said, sitting down at the end of the table. ‘Bloody starving though.’ He grabbed a piece of seekh kebab in a bit of naan and started to eat. It was a favourite of his: he’d been thinking about it since lunchtime. Damn, it tasted good. He finished chewing, swallowed and washed it down with a few gulps of cold beer. ‘Ahhh,’ he sighed, expelling some of the stress of the day. ‘I got held up in traffic then had to go see Jags.’

‘Left it any later, you’d have been cooking your own dinner.’

‘Shut up, we always order too much.’

‘Yeah, but we don’t waste it, though. We keep going till it’s all gone. Talking of which … ’ Manjit reached over and spooned more rice and butter chicken on to his plate.

‘Seconds?’ Zaq asked.

‘Thirds, mate. Still got some room left.’

After they’d eaten, they all sat around with full bellies, shooting the shit, taking the piss out of each other and gossiping. Zaq had another beer, knowing the others were waiting for their food to go down before starting on the spirits. They’d usually wait for either Manjit or Bal to crack open a bottle: Manjit because he was the biggest of the bunch and they kind of deferred to him because of that, and Bal because he was the loudest and meanest, and no one wanted to get on the wrong side of him. Zaq figured he must have a metabolism like a goddam furnace; he ate and drank whatever he wanted, in no small quantity, and it never seemed to affect him. He didn’t even put on any weight. An inch or so shorter than Zaq, and broader, Bal was as solid as a lump of rock that had been chiselled to resemble a stocky Asian plumber.

It wasn’t long before Bal got Lax to pass him the bottle of Chivas Regal. He broke the seal on the bottle and held it up, offering to pour shots for everyone else. They all knew better than to accept. Bal’s measures were the complete opposite of what you’d get in a pub – three-quarters of a glass of whisky with a splash of Coke, instead of the other way round. And if he poured it for you, you had to drink it. Bal gave a shrug, poured himself a mega-shot, dropped in some ice and added so little Coke it hardly seemed worth bothering. ‘Chak de phatte,’ he saluted, and took a drink.

Once Bal was sorted, it seemed to be a signal for the others. Lax grabbed the whisky and poured normal shots for himself and Dips. Pali, the oldest of the housemates by several years, opted for vodka and got up to get some tonic water from the fridge.

‘Zaq, OK if I use some of your lime?’

‘Yeah, go ahead.’ Zaq always kept some limes handy, to cook with and also to squeeze into his Bacardi and Coke. For now, though, he was happy to finish off his beer. ‘You not having a shot?’ he asked Manjit, who still had a beer too.

‘Might have one in a bit, but I got work tomorrow and I want to hit the gym after. I’ll have a proper drink tomorrow night.’

‘Yeah, I got work too, then I’m out tomorrow night. I’ll have a few then.’

None of the guys had cushy office jobs. They either worked shift patterns or had jobs where they needed to go in on a Saturday, which meant most of them had to be up for work the next morning, so they wouldn’t drink too much tonight. All except Bal, who didn’t give a shit what day it was and would happily put away a bottle of whisky any night he felt like it. Six or seven years ago it wouldn’t have worried Zaq either. For one thing, he’d had a well-paying job that didn’t require him to work weekends, and in any case he never used to think twice about having a few mid-week drinks and going in to work slightly hungover. It was all par for the course back then.

Now things were very different. Prison had that effect.

‘Oi, who’s doing the dishes?’ Bal demanded, from the other end of the table.

With the dishwasher out of order, they took it in turns to wash up after they all ate together. If you cooked you were excused, and anyone cooking for themselves had to clean their own stuff. All eyes turned to Lax. The skinny twenty-three-year-old was treated by the others rather like an annoying younger brother.

‘What?’ he said. ‘Ain’t my turn. I did it last time.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Pali said. ‘I did.’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Manjit agreed. ‘And it was me and then Zaq before that.’

‘What about Dips?’

‘Don’t even go there,’ Dips retorted. ‘You know I took my turn, ’cause you slipped in a mug and plate from upstairs you should’ve washed yourself.’

That only left Bal. Lax looked at him. ‘What?’ Bal barked.

‘Nothing.’ Lax got up and started collecting the dishes.

Zaq didn’t know why Lax was making such a big deal of it: the takeaway containers would all go in the bin, so all he had to do was wash their plates, glasses and cutlery – no pots and pans. He was a right lazy shit at times.

‘Seeing as you’re doing all that,’ Bal said with a smirk, ‘there’s some plates and glasses next to my bed. You might as well run up and get them too.’ Bal and Lax shared a room, as did Dips and Pali.

Lax grunted and took the pile of plates to the sink. Then he went off upstairs. Zaq and the others carried on drinking and chatting. Lax came back carrying a small stack of dirty dishes that couldn’t all have been Bal’s.

‘You going to have a shot?’ Bal asked when he saw Zaq had finished his beer.

‘Yeah, one,’ Zaq said. ‘Manj?’

Manjit had finished his beer too. ‘I’ll have one of yours.’

Zaq took their pint glasses to the sink and deposited them there for Lax to wash.

‘Thanks,’ Lax said, his tone stripping the word of any gratitude at all.

Zaq got two tall glasses from the cupboard and returned to the table where he half-filled each with ice. He opened the Bacardi and poured two sensible but generous shots, topped them up with Coke, then grabbed two quarters of lime from the plate in front of Pali and squeezed one into each glass. Theirs being a classy joint, he used a clean knife to stir the drinks before passing one to Manjit. They clinked glasses then raised them to the others. ‘Cheers.’

‘Fucking girlie drinks,’ Bal grumbled.

‘It tastes good,’ Zaq said. ‘What’s wrong with that? I want to enjoy it. I ain’t trying to teach my liver a lesson.’

Bal just huffed. As far as he was concerned, if alcohol didn’t scorch its way through you, you weren’t doing it right.

Dishes done, Lax rejoined them. He’d finished his whisky while washing up so Dips poured him another and told him to stop being such a grumpy bhen chaud. They sat around, drinking and taking the piss, first out of Lax then out of each other, laughing and cursing in a mash-up of English and Punjabi. It would have been quite easy to stay and carry on, but Zaq was tired and had to be up early. He finished his drink and stood up.

‘Where you going? Have another one,’ Dips said.

‘Nah, I got to get up for work.’

‘So do we.’

‘Yeah, but I got to drive all day, so I better not have any more.’ Zaq washed his glass and left it on the dish rack to dry. ‘See you guys tomorrow,’ he said, and went up to bed.

He was woken by his phone ringing, pulling him from the depths of sleep. He forced an eyelid open. It was still dark. What the hell time was it? He grabbed the phone. The time on the screen read 02.56. Who the fuck was calling him at that hour? He didn’t recognise the caller’s number. It had to be a mistake. He rejected the call and closed his eyes, hoping to fall straight back to sleep.

A few seconds passed … and his phone rang again.

What the hell? The same number was calling again. He was sort of awake now anyway, so this time he answered it. ‘Hello.’ His voice was still thick with sleep.

‘Is that Zaq?’ an urgent male voice wanted to know. ‘Tariq’s brother?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, his tone making his annoyance clear. ‘Who’s that?’

‘My name’s Prit. I’m a mate of Tariq’s.’

‘What d’you want? You know what time it is?’

‘Yeah, sorry. Look, it’s Tariq – he’s in hospital.’

Zaq was instantly wide awake. ‘What’s happened?’

‘We got jumped by some guys. They really fucked him up.’

‘Where are you? Which hospital?’

‘Hillingdon.’

‘Stay there. I’m on my way.’

Zaq rushed to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face to wake himself up. Then he threw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a scuffed pair of Nike Air Max, grabbed his phone, wallet, keys and a tracksuit top, bounded downstairs and left the house.

Outside, everything was quiet. The stark white LED streetlights cast harsh shadows. Zaq pulled on his black Adidas tracksuit top as he strode out of the drive, past Bal’s and Manjit’s parked vans to his own recently bought car, a ten-year-old Volkswagen Golf. It needed work but the engine was fairly sound and it got him around, which was all that mattered. He could have bought something better with the money Jags had given him, which he had stashed in his room, but he didn’t want to blow it all on a flash motor, or draw any attention to himself. He gunned the engine and took off towards the Broadway.

The streets were practically deserted and he was able to make his way unhindered, unlike daytime when he spent far too long sitting in traffic in this part of west London. As he approached the top of Lady Margaret Road, the light ahead changed to amber. His first instinct was to floor it and streak through the junction as it turned red, but then he remembered he’d had a few drinks earlier and braked instead. He was pretty sure he was OK to drive now, but he didn’t want to risk getting pulled over by the cops. The lights seemed to take an age. Zaq went on amber.

Having spent nearly all his life in the area, he knew the roads well – where you could speed up, where to slow for cameras. He knew he could get there faster but forced himself to stick to the speed limit all the way. When he reached the hospital, he parked, got a ticket from the machine, locked the car and jogged to the entrance.

Almost every seat in the waiting area was taken, people