Read Online Pretty Little Dead Things by Gary McMahon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary McMahon
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right with you." Our genteel exchange seemed so out of place that it had begun to take on a surreal air, like a mannered discussion between two psychopaths.
  I returned inside and put on my coat, then followed the large Indian man out to the street, where a shiny brown Jaguar was parked at the kerb. The man opened the back door and I climbed in, catching a whiff of leather and the vague traces of cigar smoke.
  The man drove off without further conversation. He kept his speed down, watched the road carefully, and handled the vehicle with skill and precision. He probably learned to drive in the armed forces, or perhaps MI5. The man certainly had the bearing of an ex-soldier, someone high up the ladder. I knew that Singh had a lot of shady family connections, and it was rumoured that some of the men working for him were experienced mercenaries.
  Again, I questioned my own judgement in associating with such a man.
  I'd known Baz Singh for about seven years, since the days when he ran an Indian restaurant in Pudsey and a takeaway in Horsforth. He'd come a long way in a short amount of time, buying up several businesses with money from big-time investors, and finally renovating the one-time massage parlour and clip joint, the Blue Viper.
  I'd first heard of Singh when I assisted a close friend of his in a suspected case of demonic possession that turned out to be part of a complicated (and rather desperate) blackmail plan concocted by the man's money-grabbing cousins. After unveiling the scam, my reputation had risen in the Indian community and I came to be known as a man who could be trusted. Baz Singh retained my services when he thought one of his restaurants was haunted. It turned out that he was right, and I was able to help the spirit vacate the building. Ever since then Singh and I had kept in touch, and he maintained an interest in my professional affairs, sending other clients my way if he thought that I might be able to help them.
  And now he was putting pressure on me to return those favours.
  Instead of heading out into the country towards Harrogate, where I knew Singh maintained his family residence, the Jaguar cruised towards central Bradford. Traffic was no heavier than usual, but it was slow going. Weak sunlight glinted off the car's bonnet, slicing pale arcs in the air. The sky seemed to lift as the day progressed, making room for something beyond even my vision. We passed terraced houses that became second-hand shops, pound shops, betting shops and chip shops. All purveyors of poverty, these stores provided poor diets, cheap products and empty promises of a sense of wellbeing that would never last.
  Soon enough we approached the Blue Viper. I should have realised that he'd see me here rather than at home, where his wife and other family members would still be in mourning. It was a tall, thin building flanked by derelict properties and takeaway outlets. The neighbourhood was in terminal decline, yet the club was booming. Sleaze, it seemed, was a recession-proof industry.
  "We're here," said the driver, unnecessarily.
  "Thank you," I said as I stepped out of the car and headed towards the low-key entrance to the notorious strip club. The driver remained at the vehicle, standing with the door open, his hand clenching the panel. He was smiling again, and it was such a nice open, honest smile that I felt compelled to return the expression. I wondered if it was the same smile he wore when he kicked in people's faces.
  The door to the Blue Viper was a plain hardwood barrier with a small, square window set slightly above the eye level of an average person. The glass in the window was strengthened, probably bulletproof, and opaque.
  Two men â these even larger than the driver â stood on the concrete steps leading up to the door. One was a black man with a bald head and startlingly blue eyes (so startling in fact that I
  I returned inside and put on my coat, then followed the large Indian man out to the street, where a shiny brown Jaguar was parked at the kerb. The man opened the back door and I climbed in, catching a whiff of leather and the vague traces of cigar smoke.
  The man drove off without further conversation. He kept his speed down, watched the road carefully, and handled the vehicle with skill and precision. He probably learned to drive in the armed forces, or perhaps MI5. The man certainly had the bearing of an ex-soldier, someone high up the ladder. I knew that Singh had a lot of shady family connections, and it was rumoured that some of the men working for him were experienced mercenaries.
  Again, I questioned my own judgement in associating with such a man.
  I'd known Baz Singh for about seven years, since the days when he ran an Indian restaurant in Pudsey and a takeaway in Horsforth. He'd come a long way in a short amount of time, buying up several businesses with money from big-time investors, and finally renovating the one-time massage parlour and clip joint, the Blue Viper.
  I'd first heard of Singh when I assisted a close friend of his in a suspected case of demonic possession that turned out to be part of a complicated (and rather desperate) blackmail plan concocted by the man's money-grabbing cousins. After unveiling the scam, my reputation had risen in the Indian community and I came to be known as a man who could be trusted. Baz Singh retained my services when he thought one of his restaurants was haunted. It turned out that he was right, and I was able to help the spirit vacate the building. Ever since then Singh and I had kept in touch, and he maintained an interest in my professional affairs, sending other clients my way if he thought that I might be able to help them.
  And now he was putting pressure on me to return those favours.
  Instead of heading out into the country towards Harrogate, where I knew Singh maintained his family residence, the Jaguar cruised towards central Bradford. Traffic was no heavier than usual, but it was slow going. Weak sunlight glinted off the car's bonnet, slicing pale arcs in the air. The sky seemed to lift as the day progressed, making room for something beyond even my vision. We passed terraced houses that became second-hand shops, pound shops, betting shops and chip shops. All purveyors of poverty, these stores provided poor diets, cheap products and empty promises of a sense of wellbeing that would never last.
  Soon enough we approached the Blue Viper. I should have realised that he'd see me here rather than at home, where his wife and other family members would still be in mourning. It was a tall, thin building flanked by derelict properties and takeaway outlets. The neighbourhood was in terminal decline, yet the club was booming. Sleaze, it seemed, was a recession-proof industry.
  "We're here," said the driver, unnecessarily.
  "Thank you," I said as I stepped out of the car and headed towards the low-key entrance to the notorious strip club. The driver remained at the vehicle, standing with the door open, his hand clenching the panel. He was smiling again, and it was such a nice open, honest smile that I felt compelled to return the expression. I wondered if it was the same smile he wore when he kicked in people's faces.
  The door to the Blue Viper was a plain hardwood barrier with a small, square window set slightly above the eye level of an average person. The glass in the window was strengthened, probably bulletproof, and opaque.
  Two men â these even larger than the driver â stood on the concrete steps leading up to the door. One was a black man with a bald head and startlingly blue eyes (so startling in fact that I
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