Made To Be Broken (13 page)

Zamaan Khaleel stood behind the counter of the corner shop, his corner shop, reading the paper. He skimmed through the paragraphs, looking for people he knew, areas and items of interest that might affect him and his local community. He did it every day. Living and working here in Stapleford for all of his adult life meant that he knew everyone and he knew their business. The downside to that was that they also knew his. He used his forefinger and thumb to separate two stuck pages as a couple of youths he knew walked in. He knew them to be about twenty years of age. Bouncing on the balls of their feet, jeans hanging from somewhere mid arse. He split the pages and turned one over.

His daughter was only two and as she slept upstairs in the comfort of her surroundings with the protection of her mother, Zamaan worried about her. About the life she would have. They had a profitable business here. Their shop was the only one nearby when local residents needed their fags or a chocolate fix in the evening and the big supermarkets that were closing a lot of businesses down were too far away, so they had a stable income. He wasn’t worried about that. But he worried that the teachings he would provide for his daughter would not be enough to save her from the trappings of westernised ways and behaviours.

An article caught his eye. Three deaths in the city, police were appealing for witnesses and the media were sensationalising it. The article elaborated on the differences between the victims. The ages. The locations of death. One of the victims died publicly on a bus. A third on the street. The reporter knew one thing for certain, that the police had no current suspects for the three deaths, and no idea if there were going to be any further or how to stop them. He postulated that the poison could have got into the victims by any means, but at this stage, with such variety of people, it was likely to have been through food or drink. Of which sort, they couldn’t say. In fact the article couldn’t say an awful lot, if you looked at it properly.

Zamaan wondered about the source and hoped it would be sorted soon, then turned the page again. The only other crime articles in this one were to do with too much car crime and a robbery in the city centre where the offender had used a flick knife to obtain a wallet and mobile phone from a man in a suit, no doubt already walking about with his phone in his hand, looking face down towards the pavement. Not that he should need to look around him, but times had changed.

As he turned the page Khaleel heard a wet thud come from the back of the shop. He could no longer see the two lads who had not long ago entered. The shop was filled with shelving and cardboard display units, which held items like chocolate or cheap wines and beers. It was crammed with as much as he could get into it and this was at the expense of having clear sight of everywhere.

A deep-throated laugh went up and another joined it, both turning into higher-pitched excited laughter. Khaleel closed his paper and hoped Farzaana stayed upstairs with their daughter, Salimah. An uncomfortable feeling was running through him.

He rested both hands, palms open and down, on top of the paper and sighed. He looked under the counter, the little red light assured him the CCTV was in working condition and recording. He kept his stance open and non-threatening, his mobile sitting to the side where it had been pushed as he’d opened up the newspaper.

A third male walked into the shop. Khaleel recognised him as another regular. Slightly older than the two already at the rear. He was short for a male and wore his blond hair slicked back. A black leather jacket and brown pointed shoes were his trademark items of clothing. He appeared to carry a lot of weight with the younger group. Khaleel pulled his phone nearer to him. A cackle went up at the rear of the shop and as the older male went out of sight towards the others, silence descended.

He dialled Farzaana. She picked up on the first ring. ‘You know you’ll wake the baby. What are you doing?’ she barbed at him straight away.

‘Hush. Listen to me.’

‘What is it?’

‘Whatever you hear downstairs. Do not come down. Are you listening to me?’ His voice was low. Rushed.

‘Why? What is this about, Zamaan? What about Salimah?’

‘Just stay upstairs. You’ll be safe. I don’t know. It’s a feeling.’ He was ready to put the phone down. Something else was thrown now. The sound of low thudding and growing excitement. His nerves were fraying. No longer were his palms face down. His free hand was tapping out a beat on the edge of the counter top and it wasn’t a melody.

‘Zamaan, you’re scaring me.’ She looked to him for support, protection. Everything a husband should do and he took his role seriously. They were his family; he was going to protect them. These people just wanted to blow off steam. He knew others like them, had stood up to them and they backed away, but he didn’t want his wife or daughter down here just in case.

His voice cracked under the strain. ‘Do as I say. Do not come downstairs. Whatever you hear. Phone for the police if you become frightened and I don’t come up. You have your family. They are a good family. They will take good care of you. Of both of you.’ He was being overly cautious now. All it would take was for him to stand up to them. But there was a weird vibe in the air. He was uncomfortable. He couldn’t phone the police now simply because he was uncomfortable. What kind of man would that make him anyway?

He didn’t hear her cries in response. Zamaan put the phone down and came from behind the counter.

Zamaan Khaleel tried to live a good life. He’d done as his parents asked and married Farzaana. They’d had their first child and planned to have a second very soon. The business was booming. People around here wasted money easily, on the things in life that were not important, so his family both here and back in India prospered. Today these things worried him as he stepped from behind the relative safety of the shop counter. A barrier to all those who entered his shop, his livelihood. His stomach twisted in on itself causing pain and a feeling that he really needed to go to the toilet as he heard more things being thrown. Thudding, laughter, the noise of items falling from shelves onto cold, hard floor tiles. There was something in the laughter though, it wasn’t all fun, there was a heightened sense of pack mentality, of – fear. He knew what it was because he was feeling it so acutely now, but why? Why were they in his shop feeling and acting this way?

Khaleel turned the corner where the nappies, cotton wool, cotton buds, and powdered milk were shelved and saw the three men. Their lips stretched tight across their teeth as they howled with laughter. On the floor at their feet and around the wider area were fresh fruit and vegetables. Cartons of fruit juice spilled their contents from cracks in their sides, like leaking rivers breaking their banks.

‘Can I help you?’ It was the only thing he could think of to say. Benign and helpless, but what else could he offer? These were customers. People he knew and saw on a regular basis. They were his community.

The older male looked at him. Straight in the eyes. No menace or malice.

‘You know what they’re saying don’t you, Zamaan?’

A pain twitched in his head above his eye. He didn’t move.

‘What who are saying?’

‘The papers?’

He brought his thumb up and massaged the spot that throbbed.

‘What are they saying and what does it have to do with me?’ Zamaan voice was intentionally low. Conversational.

‘We’re being poisoned. All of us. Any of us.’ He had an apple in his hand and he threw it at the floor. It landed with another thud and juice sprayed up to the group of men who stood around it. No one moved from its path.

Khaleel now dug his thumb into his head and drove it towards the pain as though he could push it out the other side.

‘And my fruit and vegetables, my stock? How do they come into this? I’ve served you a long time. Haven’t I always been good to you?’

‘Use your head, Zamaan. You could be a target as much as we could. We could be targeted through you. We’re doing you a service now. You don’t want these goods in your shop. Anything not sealed you want rid of. We’re helping.’

The younger two bounced on the souls of their feet. The sense of good, of empowerment, flowing into them, driving them. ‘Yeah, we’re helping, look.’ One picked up two oranges and threw them at the shelves, knocking even more bottles from their places.

‘No! Stop.’ He couldn’t help himself. This destruction was unnecessary. He’d read no such thing. ‘Just stop. Leave my shop alone. Out. Out. You have to get out!’ His hands waved them away. Towards the door. It was too much. They had lost their minds. This wasn’t the way to behave.  

Another apple went past his head and skittled boxes of fruit bars down to the floor. There was so much mess and the laughter had started up again. The older male looked at Khaleel as though he was to blame, that he hadn’t listened; a look of annoyance mixed with pity. Zamaan couldn’t take it. This was his life. He was building a future here. For his family. He stepped forward, the ground wet and slick under his feet, his hands waving towards the door. ‘You must go now. You must go now.’

‘No, we don’t go; we have to destroy the poison in here. They’re poisoning us. Weren’t you listening? Are you deaf?’ Laughter again. Like hyenas. He needed them out. His head throbbed. His shop was a mess. ‘Here, see if this helps with the deafness.’ An orange came hurtling towards him. It hit his head, catching him off balance. He threw his arms out even wider, his shoes trying for purchase on the floor but it was slick with fruit juices of every description. His hand caught the edge of the cold metallic shelving unit but he was already going down, his feet had started to let him down. A pain shot through his arm as it scraped and banged against the units. When finally he could hold on no more, he collapsed in a heap on the floor with the rest of the smashed-up fruit and veg, in front of the watching men. His head slammed down hard onto the metal shelving, his temple forcibly hitting the corner of the stand and the world went black. There was no more mess for Zamaan Khaleel to see.

7 weeks ago

There was a post-mortem. They desecrated his baby. Opened her up like a piece of meat. He’d watched enough television to know exactly what they’d done to her. They’d crowded around her. Maybe told a joke or two. After all, this was just a day job for them. Then they’d looked at her medical history, seen what was wrong before she came in, assessed her externally and make sure there was nothing amiss. She’d have been there on that steel table, naked and cold. No dignity afforded in death. In birth, you’re wrapped immediately, warmed and cooed over. In death, you’re stripped down, laid out and examined, no longer seen as a person.

His hands gripped the arms of the chair.

Then the pathologist would have taken his scalpel and dug it into her beautiful clean skin and sliced it down her body. She wouldn’t have moved. Not a flinch.

He threw himself forward, his head into his knees, his hands coming from the chair to grasp at his head.

‘Isaac?’ Connie walked in.

‘I’m fine.’ His voice muffled from his lap.

‘I’m getting something to eat, do you want anything?’

‘No. No food.’

He heard her leave again.

They violated his baby girl. As clear as the day outside, they violated her when they didn’t need to.

They were trying to cover their own tracks, but they couldn’t fool him. They were all in it together. Health and pharmaceuticals.

They were incompetent. Em should never have died. Not at her age. Not in this day and age. She should have lived. She should have been able to live through this, survive it, fight it and win. He knew that. He wasn’t going to let them get away with this. They provided the medication that was supposed to keep her alive and now she was dead.

The briefing was due to start any minute now but I scanned the
Today
’s article in front of me, wanting to finish it before I went in. The byline was Ethan’s again. The headline more shocking than the last. Murders alone were bad enough but murders caused by panic were on another level and the press were playing that up.
Ethan
was playing that up.

The owner of the local community store on the B5010 in Stapleford, Zamaan Khaleel, 29, has been killed in the store he had made his home. A post-mortem is scheduled with a Home Office pathologist. Nottinghamshire police are investigating and are appealing for witnesses and ask anyone with information to come forward. Any and all information can be provided in confidence.

Zamaan Khaleel is survived by his wife, Farzaana, 27, and 2-year-old daughter, who were above the store in their home, just metres away, at the time of the attack.

Mr Khaleel was found by his wife after he phoned to tell her of trouble, warning her to stay upstairs. After hearing everything go quiet she went down and found his body at the back of the store.

The
Today
has learned that a group of men were seen entering the shop just before Mr Khaleel was murdered. Detectives have refused to speculate as to the motive of the attack but confirm that nothing was stolen and the contents of the till were intact. They want to speak to the three men seen entering the shop in relation to the incident, as soon as possible.

The timing of the attack on Mr Khaleel coincides with the press conference given by police asking the public to be vigilant of goods they purchased.

A neighbouring shop owner said, ‘Police need to be doing more than issuing words of warning, they need to arresting the “poison killer” and keeping our streets and shops safe. Panic is rising and more people are dying.’