Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 5. Whole No. 777, May 2006

Baba’s Bites by Chris Simms

After traveling throughout the world, Chris Simms settled near Manchester, England. He works as a freelance copywriter while also turning out psycho-logical thrillers that have earned him comparison to Ruth Rendell and Mo Hayder. His novels to date are Outside the White Lines, Pecking Order, Killing the Beasts, and Shifting Skin, the latter scheduled for publication by Orion U.K. in July 2006.

Lamb rogan josh. My favourite curry and, once you’ve got the basic spices, one of the easiest to make. Brown off your lamb cubes and put to one side. Add a generous glug of oil to a wide pan, put the heat on medium high, and throw in some cardamom pods, bay leaves, cloves, peppercorns, cinnamon, onions, ginger, and garlic. Stir for thirty seconds. Add cumin, coriander, paprika, and salt. Stir for another thirty seconds. Add the lamb, some yogurt, and a cup of water. Simmer for as long as you can resist.

I thought I had the curry sussed, until that night in Baba’s Bites. Meat cooked until the strands barely hung together, yogurt and spices perfectly balanced, and some other ingredient that brought the dish springing to life. I thought of all the previous times I’d eaten it and knew I’d been stumbling around in the dark.

“Kaz,” I said, hunched over the shallow polystyrene tray, prodding towards the riot of flavours with a plastic fork, “this is delicious. New cook or something?”

Kaz’s brother usually prepared the curries, but I’d only had to smell this one to know it was in a different league. Kaz smiled as he sprinkled his homemade chili sauce over a doner kebab and held it out to the customer who stood swaying on my side of the little takeaway’s counter.

“No, no, mate. I mean loads of chili sauce,” the young bloke drunkenly said, trying to speak slowly and clearly for the benefit of what he thought were foreign ears. In a larger version of the action I’d just made with my fork, the customer jerked his hand up and down to demonstrate that he wanted the kebab to be drowned. The smile didn’t leave Kaz’s face as he soaked the open pita bread with gouts of fiery liquid.

“Cheers, mate,” said the customer, grabbing the paper-wrapped package and staggering out the door, leaving a trail of crimson drops behind him.

Kaz looked over at me and, with an accent that combined the nasal twang of Manchester with the thicker tones of the Middle East, said, “Yeah, mate. It’s good, then?”

My mouth was too full for any spoken reply. Holding up a thumb, I nodded vigorously. Kaz looked pleased as he turned back to the huge hunk of processed meat slowly revolving on the oil-soaked spike. Flourishing a long knife, he began carving away at its outer layer.

Once I’d swallowed my mouthful I said, “So what’s your brother doing, then?”

“Oh, he’s pursuing a new business interest. He won’t be around so much from now on.”

The curry was too good for me to continue talking, so before tucking into it once more, I quickly said, “Well, compliments to the chef.”

I’d dropped out of my chemical engineering degree halfway through my second year. There was no way I could imagine a career in it. Life, I decided, was too short to spend doing something you didn’t enjoy. I sat down and tried to imagine a job that I would enjoy. Twenty-one years old, with a series of mind-numbing McJobs behind me and I was struggling. But during my gap year I went to Thailand (original choice, I know). Though I was far too much of a traveller ever to step inside Koh Samui’s flashy tourist hotels full of mere holidaymakers, I watched the tour reps at work. I reckoned I could handle a life working in some of the most beautiful places on earth. Work it out for yourself: Manchester versus the Maldives. Britain versus Barbados. So a degree in Travel and Tourism it was.

Which left me with a new set of course fees rolled into almost two years of student debt. I got a night job in the baker’s just down the road from my digs. “Mr. Wing’s Chinese Bakers.” There can’t be many of those in Britain. But you wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff he churns out. During the day, it’s things like doughy rolls filled with sweet and sour pork, kung-po chicken, or special seafood mix; or batches of little buns sprinkled with sesame seeds and filled with chestnut purée or honey paste. At five o’clock, the day shift goes home, the front of the shop shuts, and the night shift appears round the back. While the rest of the country is slumped in front of the box, or enjoying themselves in pubs and restaurants, the output changes to speciality or “ethnic” breads as they’re classed on the supermarket shelves. Pitas, naans, chapatis, lavache, ciabatta — all that stuff. The monstrous silver ovens never get the chance to cool down. Staff scurry around them, transporting away the steady flow of produce like worker ants carrying off the stream of eggs laid by their queen.

My coworkers chat happily away in languages from India, Asia, or Africa, but hardly any speak English. It’s obvious most haven’t got to Britain by legal means, either. The cash changes hands just before dawn, and unlike my rate of pay, theirs reflects the twilight world they operate in. The minimum wage doesn’t even come into it. It’s probably because I’m an official British citizen with a clean driving licence that I got the job of doing drop-offs. And, seeing as working next to a furnace half the night wasn’t my idea of fun, that was fine by me. I deliver to city-centre takeaway joints that need more stock, or the Indian restaurants on Manchester’s curry mile that prefer to serve freshly baked produce. They all know Mr. Wing’s never shuts. The phone rings and I’m off in the little van with their order.

Baba’s Bites called on my very first night. As soon as I wandered in with the tray of naans and pitas, Kaz spotted me for someone who was prepared to do a deal. And this is how it works: Kaz rings with an order, I pick what he wants from the racks of stuff in the storage room and swipe an extra tray or two. In return he gives me a free curry.

Baba’s Bites — it’s your typical late-night, city-centre takeaway place. A few stools and a narrow counter running along the plate-glass window at the front. Overflowing bin by the door. Rear of the shop partitioned off by a counter with a glass case on top. Underneath the warm panels of glass are stainless-steel dishes full of curry, lumps of sheek kebab on skewers, mounds of onion bhajis, savaloy sausages, and pakoras. Above the counter is a huge back-lit menu. A panel of photos showing juicy morsels which generally bear no resemblance to what gets handed over. Along the back wall is the inevitable kebab turning in one corner, a couple of hot trays for the meat Kaz skims off, a chip fryer, a hot plate for flipping burgers, a microwave for pizzas, a glass-fronted fridge full of cans, and a small sink (never used). In the other corner is the tiny hatchway through to the kitchen. Although you can hear the clatter of pans in the kitchen, you can’t actually see into it — a hanging screen of multicoloured plastic strips ensures that. Kaz shouts through and a short while later whoever is doing the cooking presses a buzzer. Kaz then reaches in and picks up the next batch of burgers, sheek kebabs, or boiled rice. When I arrive, Kaz always scoops me a portion of lamb rogan josh, then passes it through the hatch for the extra coriander and sliced tomatoes that I like to be added.

Where Kaz was lucky — and why Baba’s Bites does so well while countless other similar places just scrape by — is that less than a year ago a massive late-night bar and club opened opposite. Now he’s assured of a steady flow of revellers being drawn across the road to the glow of his shop like moths to a flame. Unlike the melting pot of ethnic foods on sale, the clientele are mostly white, mostly male, usually in their twenties. Eyes bright, they burst raucously through the door, vying with each other at the counter, sometimes loudly critical of what’s on offer, sometimes reverently appreciative like kids in a sweet shop. Who knows which way alcohol will tip them. As they wait for their orders they discuss all manner of topics. The standard ones of women in the club they’ve just left, how United or City are doing, the lack of black cabs. Sometimes it’s stuff from the news — the state of the country’s immigration system, scrounging asylum seekers, the flood of immigrants ruining the country. Even when they start to bitterly discuss “Pakis” or “ragheads,” Kaz’s smile remains unchanged as he plays the dutiful proprietor, quietly carrying out their commands. Serving them food from the very countries they curse.

To the left of Baba’s Bites is a Slow Boat Chinese takeaway, on the other side a 24-hour Spar complete with bouncers to stop shoplifters escaping. After that is a dive of a pub. The rest of the row of shops on this stretch of the street consists of daytime businesses — dry cleaners, a newsagent’s, and places like that. At the other end is a fish and chip shop which, for some reason, always shuts at around eight o’clock. The shutters are drawn down and padlocked long before I ever show up. Above the chip shop is a massage parlour. You’d miss it from the street, but in the alleyway round the back a discreet sign above the permanently open door leading up the stairs reads “Far Eastern Massage. Open 24 hours.” I only know this because, when I arrive with a delivery for Kaz, I have to carry it up the alleyway to his shop’s rear door.

As you’d probably guess from the swell of my belly, I’m not too fussy about my food. As long as there’s enough of it. But I’m sure plenty of people happily gorging themselves at the front would spit it out in disgust if they could see the state of things round the back. The alleyway is narrow and it stinks. While the food places are open for business, the extractor fans sound like a collection of giant vacuum cleaners left permanently on. The grills pump out warm, grease-laden fumes that mingle with the sickly-sweet aroma of rotting food. The alleyway is littered with trays of all shapes and sizes dumped from the back doors of the shops. Most usually contain the remains of food: broken eggshells, mangled halves of oranges, or overripe tomatoes with skins that are split and weeping. Discarded twenty-five-litre drums of economy cooking oil sit piled next to empty beer barrels and crates of bottles from the pub. Industrial-size wheelie bins seem permanently stuffed to the top, the lids unable ever to close properly. Crowding round them are broods of bulging bin bags, haphazardly piled onto one another. Water pooled in the pitted surface of the alley is either a foul-smelling milky colour or tinged with a surface of glistening oil.

Kaz’s door is like all the others — heavily metal-plated. He’s spray-painted a large red 29 on it and I kick it twice to let whoever’s in the kitchen know I’ve dropped off. I’m always back in the light cast by the lamps on the main road before the bolts go back and the cardboard trays vanish, dragged inside by, I presume, one of the kitchen assistants.

I found the note in about my eighth curry prepared by the new cook. Because I always have lamb rogan josh with extra coriander and freshly sliced tomatoes, she must have worked out it was the same customer asking for it each time. In fact, I was fairly certain that I was Kaz’s only regular customer — the rest just stumble in because it’s the first place they find serving food after coming out of the club. Most of them probably couldn’t even remember what they’d eaten by the next day. I was halfway through my usual, watching with amusement as three lads attempted to cross the road. After about ten o’clock on a weekend, it seems, pedestrians, vehicles, and the watching police silently agree that daytime rules don’t apply. Made impatient by booze, people will lurch out into the path of cars that instantly slow down or stop to allow them to cross. Similarly, cab drivers pull up whenever they like or make U-turns anywhere they fancy. The whole thing is a melee, yet, apart from the occasional slanging match, it seems to work.

The three lads had made it through the door and were debating about whether to go for doner kebabs or quarter-pounders when I bit on the strange object. At first I thought it was gristle — but it was too hard for that. An exploratory poke with my tongue revealed that it was something folded up. With a forefinger and thumb I extracted it from my mouth, sucking the remains of curry sauce from it as I did so. I held it up and saw that it was greaseproof paper, tightly folded. Carefully I opened it out and there, in the middle of the small square, were the words, “Help me. I am prisoner here.”

I stared with puzzlement at the paper. Placing it carefully to one side, I decided to show it to Kaz once he’d finished serving the group at the counter. The first two had taken their burgers and wandered out onto the street. The third one waited at the counter, a twenty-pound note dangling from his hand. But as he was handed his order, the customer whipped the money from Kaz’s reach and spun around to run for the door.

From the corner of my eye, I saw his two mates sprint away up the street. Until then, I’d only ever seen Kaz from the chest up. He was of a thickset build and I didn’t think particularly agile. But he vaulted across that counter in a flash. The lad had bumped against the doorframe and lost a second as a result. Kaz sprang across the shop, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him back to the counter in one movement. With his other hand he reached behind it and produced a baseball bat. He shoved it hard up against the customer’s mouth, the wooden tip audibly catching on his teeth. A smear of blood appeared on his lips.

“Pay me,” Kaz demanded, aggression lowering his voice to a growl. All traces of the amiable kebab-shop owner with a limited understanding of English had vanished and I looked at the muscles bunched in his shoulders and arms, knowing that he meant it. The prospect of imminent violence hung menacingly in the air and I felt a surge of queasiness in my stomach. Thankfully the customer quickly produced the note from the breast pocket of his Ben Sherman shirt. Kaz snatched it, walked him back to the doorway, and said, “’Night, then.”

The lad walked shakily off up the street and Kaz returned to behind the counter. He looked at me and said, “Why do people have to be like that? I work hard all night, give him what he wanted, and he tries to rob me.” He shook his head regretfully. “It’s a bad world, Richard, a bad world out there.” His eyes turned to the street and he gazed with sadness at the procession of people flowing past. Then, with a smile and a shrug of his shoulders, he picked up a ladle and began stirring the curries.

I couldn’t believe how quickly he readopted his previous persona. It was like having a friendly dog snarl at you one moment, then wag its tail the next. Finding it hard to keep the same easy familiarity in my voice, I said, “You’re right there.” I looked at the piece of paper and, having witnessed this new side to him, decided against letting him see it.

Two nights later I was making a delivery at Baba’s Bites again, but this time I had slipped my own note into the tray of naan breads. It read, “Who are you? Why are you a prisoner?”

Not knowing if I would ever get a reply, I banged on the back door and then went round to the front and stepped inside. “Same as usual?” asked Kaz, already spooning rogan josh onto a pile of rice.

“Yeah, cheers,” I replied and sat down on my favourite stool in the corner. He handed the tray through the hatch and a few minutes later it was returned with a garnish of coriander and tomato. Shielding the food from him with one forearm, I sifted through the curry with my fork. A thrill of excitement shot through me when I found the little wedge of paper. Quickly I wrapped it in a serviette and slipped it into my pocket.

And so began a correspondence that would change my outlook on life forever. Over the next two weeks we exchanged a series of notes, mine written on lined sheets, hers scrawled in a microscopic hand on lengths of greaseproof paper. She’d write them at night, sacrificing valuable sleep to describe to me her plight. Her name was Meera and she was a seventeen-year-old Hindu girl from the war-torn region of Kashmir sandwiched uncomfortably between India and Pakistan. Her father and both brothers had died in the crossfire between militants and government troops. That left her as the eldest of four remaining daughters. After a long and tearful talk, she had persuaded her mother that the only way to prevent the family from becoming destitute was for her to leave the war-ravaged region and look for work. So they had paid almost all their savings to a man who promised to find Meera a well-paid job as a cook in an Indian restaurant in London. Abandoning her dream of a university place in Jammu to read law, she had climbed into the back of a lorry with seventeen other people and begun the slow trek overland to Britain. The group was occasionally allowed to emerge at night for a few minutes. Twice they transferred to other lorries — the one taking them on the final leg of the journey was the newest. They sat at its end, crammed in on all sides by crates of tulips. Eventually they were all dropped off at a house, herded inside, and the men and women separated. They were told they were in Britain, but certain arrangements still had to be made. After two days locked in a room with only a bucket for a toilet, some bottles of water, and a few loaves of bread, a different man kicked open the door. Meera was dragged out by her hair and told the cost of her passage to England had gone up. Her passport was taken off her and she was told that, to repay her debt, she could work in a brothel or a kitchen. Of course she opted for the kitchen and was bundled into the back of a van and driven to Baba’s Bites.

When she asked me which city she was in, tears sprang to my eyes. She arrived late at night and was led up the stinking alley, marched through the back door, and chained to the sink pipes. She had enough slack to get around the kitchen and reach the toilet and sink in a tiny room at the back. She slept on a camp bed in the corner and hadn’t seen daylight since arriving; the nearest she got to that was when the back door was opened up to take in deliveries. But she was made to hide in the toilet when that happened. After cooking from lunchtime to the early hours, she would clean the kitchen. Once Kaz had bolted the back door, he left by the front of the shop, padlocking the metal shutters behind him. Then he went round to the alley and bolted the back door from the outside, too. Once he was gone, she was able to grab a few hours’ sleep before he or his brother returned late morning. Then she would be preparing food — including my curries — until the shop raised its shutters once again at lunchtime.

In one of my first ever replies to her I offered to go straight to the police. But she wouldn’t let me. If any officials were involved, she reasoned, deportation would inevitably follow. She needed to remain in Britain, working in a job that paid her cash to send home to her family. All she wanted to do was escape from Kaz’s kitchen. She told me that the pipe she was chained to was old and flimsy; she was confident that she could bend or even break it. What she needed me to do was slide the bolts back on the outside of the back door; she would do the same to the ones on the inside of the door, and then she would be free. She didn’t want any more help than that.

The situation she was in made me feel sick — and outraged at Kaz. I agreed to help her, and we arranged that the next time Kaz rang, I was to put a note in the tray of breads confirming that tonight was the night. A previous note she sent me had stressed the importance of successfully getting her out; she was terrified of what Kaz would do if she tried to escape and failed. I wished she had room on the piece of paper to elaborate, but I reasoned we would soon have plenty of opportunity to talk face to face.

Friday night and I was sitting in the office, fan directed straight at my face, trying to learn the main aspects of insurance law relating to groups travelling abroad (one of the less glamorous modules of my course). At 10:43 the phone’s ring put a welcome end to my study.

Pushing the door shut, I picked up the receiver and said, “Mr. Wing’s Bakery.”

“Rick? It’s Kaz here.”

By keeping to our established patter, I was able to hide the revulsion in my voice. “Kaz, how’s business, mate?”

“Busy, my friend. Very busy. I need six dozen more pitas, two dozen naans, and one dozen peshwari naans.”

“No problem. Any extras?”

“Just naans, my friend. All you can get.”

“Coming right up. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Twenty-six minutes later I pulled up outside Baba’s Bites. The place was heaving. A couple were sitting on the pavement outside, he finishing off a burger while she rested her head on her knees and moaned about how pissed she was. In the doorway, four boisterous lads were struggling over a pizza, each one trying to grab the quarter with the most pepperoni on. I rapped on the window and once Kaz caught sight of me, I pointed to the trays of bread balanced on my other arm, then set off round to the back door. As I picked my way between the debris in the alley I saw shadows moving in the glow of light shining from the massage-parlour doorway. Keeping in the shadows, I watched as two men emerged into the alley. Both smiling, they turned round to shake hands with the man who had escorted them to the bottom of the stairs and I realised with a shock that it was Kaz’s brother. He patted each man on the shoulder and, as they disappeared round the corner, he headed back up the stairs. So that was the new business interest.

I banged twice on the door and as I leaned down to place the trays on the step, noticed for the first time the bolt drawn back at its base. Looking up, I saw another at the top. They hadn’t been there a few weeks ago and, knowing the reason for their sudden appearance, anger surged through me — if a fire broke out at night Meera stood no chance of escape.

In Baba’s Bites I stood silently in the far corner and waited for the skinny man sitting on my stool to finish his curry. I knew my presence by his shoulder was unsettling him, but I didn’t back off. I even wanted him to say something; a confrontation might dissipate the ugly knot of aggression lodged in my chest. Alternatively, it might aggravate it further: Either way I didn’t care. Hurriedly the man wiped up the remains of his curry sauce with a piece of naan bread and popped it into his mouth. Glancing at me from the corner of his eye, he left the shop.

I sat down and scowled out the window at the people blundering past, all of their spirits lifted by the arrival of the weekend. I watched and wondered if any had the slightest concern for the army of anonymous workers slaving to keep them served with a plentiful supply of cheap takeaways and taxis. Sitting there, I began to think about other parts of the economy that were kept running by illegal immigrants. The people who deliver our pizzas, clean our offices, pick our fruit and vegetables, iron our shirts, and wash our soiled sheets. No one on the street outside looked as if they could care less. A minute later, Kaz called me over and handed me my curry. Hardly able to meet his eyes, I took it with a brief smile and reclaimed my seat.

Looking at the bright red curry I guessed that I’d put on a good half a stone over the past fortnight. It was as delicious as usual; Meera had explained in one note that it was Kashmiri rogan josh I was eating: She used fennel, cloves, and a pungent resin called asafetida. As I finished it off I saw the tiny scrap of greaseproof paper. Surreptitiously I unfolded it and saw she had just been able to scrawl the words, “Please do not fail me.”

Raising my voice unnecessarily, I said goodnight to Kaz, hoping Meera was able to hear me in the back kitchen. The bakery night shift finished just after four A.M. and immediately I drove back to Baba’s Bites.

Most of the clubs had shut around an hour before and now just a smattering of mini-cabs roamed the streets searching for their last fare of the night. The shutters at Baba’s Bites were drawn down and padlocked, the bin outside overflowing with the remains of that night’s sales. Polystyrene trays were thrown into the doorways of the neighbouring shops, chips dotted the pavement like pale fat slugs. I pulled up at the corner and quietly made my way up the alley. The council bin lorry came round every Sunday and Thursday — which meant the refuse had been cleared from the alley only last night. However, Fridays were probably the week’s busiest night and already the alleyway was piled with bags of rubbish, boxes, and packaging hurled from the back doors of the shops. At the other end, light shone from the massage parlour’s open door. It spilled across the narrow passageway, helping me pick my way forward. Up ahead, an enormous rat heard my approach. We looked at each other for a few seconds, then, to my relief, it casually crept back into the overflow of a nearby drain.

At the back door of Baba’s Bites I put my ear up against the cool metal surface and listened. But there was nothing to hear. Tentatively I knocked twice. Instantly a knock was returned. She must have broken free of the pipe and was sitting on the other side of the door listening for my arrival.

Urgently I whispered, “Meera, is that you?” Instantly I felt stupid: It could hardly have been anyone else.

Her voice was light and sonorous and would have been beautiful to hear if it wasn’t packed with so much fear. “Yes, Richard, it’s me. I have broken the pipe, the kitchen is flooded.”

Looking down, I saw water seeping out from the bottom of the door. Metal began to clunk and rattle as she started undoing the bolts on her side of the door. I stepped back to slide open the ones on my side — and to my dismay saw they were secured with two heavy-duty padlocks. I shut my eyes and silently swore. I didn’t think Kaz would bother padlocking a door that was bolted shut from both the inside and out. But now it seemed an obvious precaution, especially considering the prisoner he kept inside. Meera’s trembling voice sounded through the thick barrier separating us. “I have done it. Can you open the door?”

“Meera,” I whispered. “He’s padlocked the bolts. I can’t unlock them.”

“You must,” she cried, now panic-stricken. “I must leave here!”

I needed a hacksaw; and nowhere would be open until morning. By then, our chance would be gone. Even if Kaz turned up late, I couldn’t stand there in broad daylight breaking into the back of a shop. “I’m so sorry, Meera, I need a hacksaw. I’ll get one later and come back the same time tomorrow.”

“No!” she pleaded. “I cannot be here when he comes. He will know what I have done.”

I looked at the tamper-proof screws protecting the door hinges: There was no way I could free her. I slapped the palm of my hand against the wall in frustration. “I’m sorry, Meera. I promise to come back.”

She began to sob, “He beat me for burning the rice. He said he will send me somewhere far worse than here if I do wrong again. Help me, Richard.”

Desperately I whispered back, “I will, tomorrow.”

I heard her slump against the door and start to cry. At the other end of the alley male voices were audible coming down the stairs of the massage parlour. Pressing my hands against the door, I could only whisper, “I’ll come back tomorrow night,” before quickly walking back out onto the street.

As soon as B&Q opened I was searching the place for hacksaws. An elderly assistant saw me scanning the aisles and took me to the correct section. “It’s a big padlock. The hasp is about a centimetre thick,” I told him.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin with one hand, “this will get through it in about five minutes.”

“Great,” I said, taking the saw from his hands and hurrying to the tills.

After that I went to the supermarket and bought a load of food, including a pile of fresh fruit and vegetables. I had already decided to insist that Meera stay at my place until she was sorted out with a job. I was confident I could get a place for her in Mr. Wing’s bakery, even if it would be for a pittance. Now, given what she had said about Kaz beating her, I wasn’t sure what sort of a state she might be in when I finally got that door open. I had formed an image of her face — long dark hair, fragile features, and large brown eyes. Picturing her now covered in bruises, I added bottles of ibuprofen and paracetamol to my trolley.

The rest of the day was spent dozing fitfully on my sofa. I kept waking up, my mind dwelling on what he’d do to her. He wouldn’t hurt her too badly, I reasoned. After all, he needed her to cook. But I’d seen the flash of his temper and an uneasy feeling sat heavy in my mind. Flicking the telly on, I caught the lunchtime news. The presenter was describing how a major ring peddling African children into the British sex trade had been broken up by the police. The implications of Kaz’s brother’s new business interest suddenly hit me like a slap in the face. Kaz himself had said she would end up somewhere far worse if she did anything wrong again. An image of a grimy bed in the Far Eastern Massage Parlour forced its way into my mind. Meera chained to it, a queue of punters at the door, pulses racing at the prospect of a new girl in her teens. I tried to push the thought away.

In Mr. Wing’s that night I sat staring at the Chinese calendar on the wall of his office. It was the Year of the Monkey, judging by the number of little primates adorning the pages. The relief I felt when the phone finally rang was instantly diminished when I heard Kaz’s voice. Sounding unsettled, he asked for double quantities of just about everything. He hadn’t had time to make it to the cash-‘n’-carry, he explained. At least I could now make a delivery and then sit at the counter and observe him. Try and gauge by his behaviour just what he might have done to her.

So, after dumping the trays at the back door and kicking it twice, I marched round to the front of the shop. As soon as I stepped inside it was obvious something was wrong. For a start, there was no lump of doner kebab turning on its vertical skewer in the corner. The fridge of canned drinks was almost empty — just cream soda and cans of shandy remained. People were waiting restlessly for their orders while Kaz hurried around behind the counter looking totally stressed out.

“Forget the chicken,” said one customer. “I haven’t got all night. How much are those things?” He pointed down at the skewers of sheek kebabs lined up under the counter.

“Two-fifty each, including pita bread and salad. How many?” asked Kaz, acknowledging me with a quick wave and passing a portion of lamb rogan josh through the hatch.

“Two,” the young man snapped, rapping a pound coin impatiently against the counter.

I took my corner seat, and after a longer wait than usual, my curry arrived. “You all right?” I asked as Kaz handed it to me over the counter.

“Yeah, staff problems, that’s all,” he replied distractedly. As I took the polystyrene tray I noticed a long scratch running across the back of his hand. Pretending I hadn’t seen it, I took my curry and sat back down. With the first forkful I knew it hadn’t been cooked by Meera. The sauce was watery, my extra garnish of coriander was missing, the lamb was burnt, and the rice had been left in the pan until the grains were bloated and soft. As soon as it entered my mouth it turned into something that resembled semolina. I struggled through it, wondering what this meant. Was Meera beaten so badly that she couldn’t cook? Or had she already been bundled up the alley and into the massage parlour?

Binning the container, I waited a few moments to try and ask Kaz where his usual cook was, but the shop had grown too busy again. Drunken men milled around at the counter, confused by the lack of doner kebab and settling reluctantly for the poorly prepared alternatives. Not wanting to arouse Kaz’s suspicions by lingering for too long, I slipped back out and returned to Mr. Wing’s.

As soon as the bakery shut, I said my goodnights and hurried along the street to my car.

Checking that the hacksaw was still safely stashed on the backseat, I set off straight back to Kaz’s. In the alleyway I picked my way through the debris, nose wrinkling at the fruity smell being given off by a tray of rotten bananas.

Now, at the door, I knock on it twice and wait for a reply. Nothing. “Meera?” I whisper loudly. “Can you hear me?” On the other side of the door is only silence. Dark thoughts crowd my brain. Have they gagged her? Can she no longer speak because her mouth is so badly swollen? I raise up the hacksaw but, just as I start to saw, I realise that without her to unlock the inner bolts, the door will be impossible to open. Voices at the other end of the alley cause me to crouch behind a pile of bin bags. Four men emerge from the massage parlour. They step out into the alley, laughing and patting one another’s backs. One mimes a whipping motion as if he’s urging a horse to the finish line and they all roar with laughter again. Holding up hands to slap one another’s palms, they head back onto the street and disappear round the corner.

The image of Meera chained to the bed, legs spread, reappears in my mind and I throw the hacksaw angrily down. Looking at the entrance to the massage parlour, I consider barging my way up the stairs and demanding to see her. Two more men appear at the corner and disappear into the open doorway. Angrily I pull out my mobile phone and dial 999. Once connected to the operator I ask for the police. I’m put through to a tired-sounding man and I explain that I have reason to believe there is an illegal female immigrant being held against her will in the Far Eastern Massage Parlour, just off Cross Street in central Manchester. The person asks how I know this for certain and when I reply that I don’t, he says they’ll try and arrange for a patrol car to call the next day.

“But you need to send someone now. She’s probably up there being raped this very moment,” I almost shout.

The person at the other end of the line barely attempts to mask his boredom, assuring me that my report has been logged and will be dealt with at the earliest opportunity. But, he adds, with it being Saturday night, that may well be some time.

Furiously I yell, “Now! You must send someone now!” and kick out at the nearest bin bag. The thin plastic splits, and among the scraps of shredded cabbage, tomato, and cucumber that tumble out is a human hand. Long feminine fingers, bone and gristle visible at the neatly severed wrist. I think of the rows and rows of sheek kebabs Kaz was so eager to sell and the lumps of crudely butchered meat in the curry I’d eaten earlier. As the vomit erupts from my mouth all I can hear is the officer saying, “Sir, are you all right? Can you hear me, sir? Sir?”

Copyright © 2006 Chris Simms