Out of the Ashes

by Vicky Newham

  Maya, 7.30 p.m.

  ‘How much did this lot cost then?’ Dan pointed at the recently landscaped gardens and new wooden benches.

  We’d arrived at Stepney’s Ocean Estate, to interview Ali Kousa.

  ‘Twenty-two million. It’s won design awards. Been all over the news.’

  Dan whistled. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘It needed the investment. Been one of the most deprived estates in the country for years. When Dougie and I were training, we’d have a call-out here practically every day.’

  ‘I’m impressed. It’s often cheaper to flatten the lot and start again. Looks like they’ve added a health centre over there, and some shops and a job centre.’

  ‘Duckett House is this way. It’s very different.’ I pointed at the looming tower block and a few moments later, we were in front of a derelict building. Sheets of metal covered ground floor windows. Others were smashed and gaping. On the dull concrete fascia, chalky water deposits told tales of leaking gutters and downpipes. A boy, around Ali’s age, was repeatedly kicking a ball – bang, bang, bang – against a wall while his two mates looked on.

  ‘Jeez. What happened? Why’d this place get left off the development schedule?’

  ‘The council ran out of money.’

  Dan approached the boys. ‘Any idea where 286a is, fellas?’

  ‘You feds?’ One of the boys asked.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘That one over there.’ He pointed at a ground floor flat, one with boarded windows.

  Dan’s gaze met mine.

  ‘I hope they’re winding us up.’ I kept my voice low.

  ‘It may be a lot better inside than it looks from here.’ Dan scoped the block. ‘I’d guess the main entrance is that one with the knackered CCTV.’ He pointed, and began striding towards a set of metal double-doors.

  The three boys had gathered in a scrum and were whispering. Nudging and pointing.

  I checked my watch. Under normal circumstances, a ten-year-old boy would be on his way to bed, but I somehow doubted this was what we were going to find. I pressed the buzzer for the flat.

  ‘It’s bust,’ the boy yelled. ‘Just pull the door.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I yanked the handle and entered the building, Dan behind me. The lobby was in darkness, except for a weak light which seemed to be flickering from a doorway along a short corridor. I switched on the torch on my phone, aware that we should probably call for back-up, and wait for it to arrive. But we’d wasted so much time already, I pushed the thought from my mind. ‘Flat 286a must be where the light’s coming from,’ I said to Dan over my shoulder. ‘It corresponds with where that kid pointed.’ As we made our way along the corridor, the stench of filth and skunk hit me.

  The flat door was loose on its hinges and was propped open by a broken chair. The doorway opened onto a tiny hall, and beyond that, there was a room which had been stripped and had no electricity. Inside, black bin liners had been taped over the windows to keep out the draught. Concrete floors were partially covered with board, and several people were sitting on the floor. It had probably been someone’s lounge. Now it was a squat.

  Dan and I entered the room.

  ‘We’re looking for Ali Kousa,’ I said.

  ‘He ain’t here.’ A tall figure on the floor growled the words. His voice was older than the boys outside, and his attention was glued to the screen of a mobile phone.

  My eyes were struggling to make out who was where. ‘How about you boys help us out? No-one’s going anywhere. Back-up is waiting for the word from me.’

  ‘Hey, Paki. It’s you they’re after so you speak to them.’ The tall youth on the floor stood up and hauled a boy to his feet. It was Ali. He shoved him in my direction. ‘And piss off out of here. Bringing them filthy feds here.’ He slumped back down to the ground.

  I grabbed hold of Ali. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Where’s your brother?’

  ‘Who?’

  Hadn’t Sophie said that Riad’s surname was ‘Farzat’? ‘He’s not your brother, is he?’

  No answer.

  ‘Ali, who’s that?’ I gestured to the youth on the ground, who was muttering, swearing and fidgeting, presumably off his head on something.

  ‘Come on, buddy.’ Dan was beside Ali now. ‘Do yourself a favour and answer the question.’ He was eyeballing the chap on the floor.

  ‘Ali?’ I spoke gently, aware that Dan’s Australian accent and booming male voice sounded intimidating.

  ‘Let me go,’ Ali shouted. ‘He kill me if I talk to you. He fucking kill me. And all of us.’

  ‘Who?’

  He pointed at the guy on the ground, who had put his phone away. ‘Him. Or him crazy brother, Kyle.’

  My grip relaxed slightly as I felt Ali’s body tremble and realised he was crying.

  Ali must’ve sensed my momentary loss of concentration. With one almighty yank, he took a flying leap, and launched himself past Dan towards the doorway from the lounge into the corridor. Dan lost his balance and fell on his side. Moments later, I heard the front door of the building bang shut. Before I knew it, the wiry body was up from the floor. The youth plunged after Ali, out of the squat, and began sprinting along the corridor towards the exit.

  ‘Bugger,’ Dan yelled, as he scrambled to his feet. ‘We well and truly screwed that up.’ He turned to me, his eyes blazing. ‘Right. Time to call it in. Let’s get this shithole cleared before any more of these kids nick off. They need to be in foster homes where they’re safe and we can keep an eye on them.’ He took out his mobile.

  Dan was right. We’d assumed we were visiting a home and had been foolish to go inside without back-up. I’d allowed impatience to cloud my judgement. ‘I’d better alert Jackie. She’s going to be furious.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll start putting calls out about Ali and the other boy. Somehow I don’t think Ali was joking about Kyle.’

  Through the dim light of the squat, I caught Dan’s expression and knew he felt as scared for Ali as I did.

  Maya, 8.30 p.m.

  As we left the estate, the sequence of events at the squat were playing on a constant loop in my mind. I couldn’t escape the fact we’d cocked up. Ali had run off. He seemed sure that someone called Kyle was going to kill him, and that meant we’d exposed him to even greater danger. What the hell were these kids mixed up in? I was sure about one thing: I had to find Ali.

  And that meant going looking for him.

  From the squat, I drove straight to Brick Lane.

  At night, it always took on a different quality from the daytime. This evening, the brightly coloured neon strips seemed to jump out at me from the shops. Vandalised street lights plunged me in and out of darkness, and shadows lurked beside every vehicle and wheelie bin. Each street corner was filled with menace. I kept my eyes peeled for anyone of Ali’s age, scouring doorways and alleys for a scrawny kid with black hair and white trainers.

  Suddenly, I caught a movement between the rows of jackets in a leather shop and then saw Mr Bashir’s bald head pop up. I strode past Sclater Street and continued walking towards Bethnal Green Road. Ahead, the crumbling remains of the soup shop were a sad sight behind vast hoardings. I signalled to the uniformed officer who was guarding the crime scene and ducked under the cordon. ‘Hi, Gary. Everything OK?’

  ‘Evening, Ma’am. Nothing to report.’

  ‘You haven’t seen a ten-year-old boy, have you?’ I described Ali.

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  I knew it was a long shot but couldn’t help hoping. ‘Let me know if you do, please.’

  ‘Will do.’

  The water from the pumps had drained away now but even in the dim light, above the hoardings, I could see the white scars that water residue had left on the once pretty fascia. Where the windows had been, smoke charring hooded the masonry over every aperture like black eyelids. The gaping holes yawned into the darkness behind. It looked as though the building had had its teeth knocked out.

  To the left of the sou
p shop, the glass-fronted barber’s was still open, and through the window, gowned men sat in chrome chairs having their hair cut and beards trimmed. It reminded me of how much Dad had loved popping in there in the evening, as much for a chat as for a haircut. I suddenly felt nostalgic for my childhood, and a life which was more innocent.

  ’S’cuse me, love.’ Behind me, a discombobulated voice penetrated my mind. ‘Can you ring her bell? I’ve got a delivery here and eight more to do after this one.’

  I turned and saw a Waitrose delivery driver, holding a plastic crate of shopping.

  ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Mrs Feldman.’ He strode towards the door of the newsagent. ‘It’s her regular order.’

  ‘It’s OK. Leave it there. I’ll take it in for her.’

  The puffer-jacketed driver didn’t seem bothered who I was, or need any further encouragement. He yanked the shopping bags from the box and stacked them against the shop front. ‘Cheers, darlin’.’

  I rang the bell.

  A few moments later, Agnieszka came down and opened the door.

  ‘Your mum’s Waitrose delivery has just arrived.’ I pointed at the bags. ‘I told the guy to leave—’

  ‘Come in. Come in. You’ve saved me. Mum’s got all Dad’s photographs out. I’ve seen them a million times, but she wants to show me each one again.’ She grabbed a couple of carrier bags.

  Her good humour made me wonder whether she knew that we’d interviewed Olaf. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘Thanks. Tomasz orders it for her every month. He even gets her Jewish food.’ She pushed the door open with her foot. ‘Olaf’s busy so I’ve sent the girls home with his parents. I don’t feel safe having them here, but I can’t leave Mum on her own. She’s scared stiff but too bloody stubborn to admit it. That Star of David business has shaken her.’

  There was no awkwardness when Agnieszka mentioned her husband. Had he really not told her about LfA and the flash mob?

  ‘Olaf’s working,’ she said. ‘Someone’s forgotten their tax return and needs some accounts done quickly.’

  That wasn’t a good sign. ‘Has your husband spoken to you about an organisation called LfA?’

  She frowned. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘They campaign against gentrification.’

  Confusion spread over her face. ‘Olaf?’

  I followed her through the shop towards the stairs. ‘I take it you didn’t know?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why? He probably belongs to lots of organisations for his job.’

  ‘Could you stop a minute?’ I didn’t want to discuss my concerns in front of Rosa.

  She turned on the stairs. Put the bags down. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘This group, LfA, may have been responsible for the flash mob. We received an anonymous call from someone purporting to be from them. We haven’t been able to trace its source or authenticity. Your husband denies any current involvement with the group, but its website is registered to him.’ I waited for her to absorb the news.

  She sank down onto one of the steps. ‘Christ.’ She held her head between her palms. ‘There’s got to be some mistake. What does Olaf say?’

  ‘That he ceased involvement with LfA years ago.’

  Agnieszka let out a deep sigh of relief.

  ‘However – he hasn’t been able to provide any evidence to support that.’

  She stared down at the stairs as she absorbed the implications of what I’d said. ‘There must be some mistake. Surely?’

  ‘We hope so,’ I said gently.

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me? I need to speak to him.’ She got up and continued carrying her mum’s shopping upstairs and I followed her, aware that I’d dropped a bomb on her world.

  Upstairs, Agnieszka quickly dumped the shopping on the landing and scurried off towards one of the bedrooms. ‘Say hello to Mum if you like,’ she said over her shoulder as she padded across the carpet. ‘She’ll be upset if she knows you came but didn’t say hi.’

  *

  Along the corridor, Rosa was in her bedroom, sorting through what I assumed were Józef’s belongings. From the side, her slender frame made her look vulnerable. Her elbows were clenched against her body and she was holding an item to her nose and drinking in its smell. Away from the ground-floor walls, the room felt less damp but didn’t have proper heating, just an electric bar heater. On the outside wall, the wood-chip wallpaper was peeling away from the plaster around the window, where a pipe or gutter had been leaking. This wasn’t a year of poor maintenance. Had the decline been so gradual over the years that it hadn’t registered? Or had Rosa really not realised how bad things had got? ‘Knock, knock,’ I said.

  ‘Hello, Maya, love.’ She was perching on the edge of the bed, on a floral counterpane, kneading a man’s shirt and staring at it, as though she couldn’t quite believe that its owner wasn’t going to wear it again.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Feldman.’ It was a heart-breaking sight.

  ‘I keep expecting him to walk through the door. To hear his whistle. Smell his clothes when he’d been smoking. Hear him calling up the stairs. It’s been a year, but I still can’t believe I’m not going to see him again.’

  I swallowed, not wanting to burden her with my own grief by saying I knew exactly what she meant.

  She placed the shirt on the bed next to a cluster of photographs and her hand lingered for a moment on the cloth. ‘These are from when we got married.’ She picked one up, in a polished silver multiframe. ‘In over forty years of marriage, we were best friends.’ There were no tears in Rosa’s eyes, none streaming down her face, but the sunken eye sockets and dark bags under them suggested she was resigned to her losses, and had been crushed by them.

  I took the battered frame, eager not to say anything which would upset Rosa further. In one of the photos, a bright-eyed couple beamed at each other in spring sunshine. Guests cheered as Rosa got ready to launch her bouquet into the crowd. ‘What a lovely picture. And precious memories.’

  ‘There are more there beneath the glass.’ She pointed at the wooden dressing table by the wall. ‘There are a few of Józef with some of his friends from the tennis club, and Agnieszka and Tomasz when they were babies.’

  I glided over to the antique dresser and my gaze fell on the pictures. They’d all faded and gone brown. It seemed insensitive to whisk Rosa through her memories and dash off. I removed the mirror, her hairbrush, the perfume; lifted the glass carefully and slid out the delicate images. They curled in my hand. I studied each one before passing them over. Józef Feldman with an older man, outside the shop. ‘Was this his father?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  In another, Józef stood proudly holding a tennis racquet. Time and sunlight hadn’t dulled the huge grin on his face.

  I chuckled. ‘He was sporty, then?’

  Rosa nodded.

  In another, Józef was in Brick Lane with three other men. They were outside the barber’s, all wearing suits, and laughing and smoking while they chatted amiably. ‘I wonder what they were laughing at. I looked closer and – ‘Oh my gosh.’ I peered again. ‘That’s . . . ’ I turned to Rosa in disbelief. Looked at the image again. ‘That’s Dad.’

  ‘Show me,’ Rosa said, her eyes shimmering with excitement.

  The room stood still. I drank in the familiar image; let my eyes feast on every pixel of his face, his hair, his kind eyes. My thoughts were spinning with the shock of seeing his photograph. I handed the image to Rosa.

  ‘The one smoking the roll-up? That’s right.’ She paused. ‘How silly of me. Things have been so hectic, I must’ve forgotten. Now what was his name? Kass? Kaz?’

  ‘Kazi, people called him. Kazol Rahman.’

  ‘That’s it. Kazi Rahman.’ She chuckled, as though memories were trickling into her mind, warming her. ‘He and Józef met over there at the barber’s. He always enjoyed your father’s company. Said he told good stories.’ She chuckled.

  A smile stretched over my face. ‘He did.
Sadly, he . . . he left us. In 1990.’ The familiar pain knifed at my insides before the automatic response emerged. ‘He popped out to get candles during a power cut and didn’t come back. We’ve never seen him since.’ I heard the words leave my mouth and it was as though someone else had said them, as if in the intervening years of trying to cut myself off from the pain of Dad’s disappearance, it was someone else’s father who had left and never come back.

  ‘Oh, Maya, love. I am sorry.’ Rosa was trembling, one hand clasped to her mouth. ‘Now you mention it, I remember something about that. I think we all thought he’d died.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘And you never found out what happened?’

  I shook my head, keenly aware of how many times I’d been asked the same question in the last twenty-nine years.

  ‘Or whether he’s even alive?’

  I bit back a gulp. ‘Until recently, nothing.’ I still hadn’t had the courage to read the fingerprint analysis from the lab. So much depended on the results. ‘Mum’s struggled . . . and never wanted to talk about it.’ Talking to Rosa felt different from the nosey questions of peers and strangers. ‘We’ve never been able to find out what prompted it. One moment he was there and then he’d gone.’ I remembered opening the door that evening when the flat bell rang, expecting Dad to be there. But he hadn’t been. Just the . . . ‘Oh my God. The smell.’ I stared at Rosa. ‘I hadn’t registered the tobacco smell on the landing that night. Someone left candles and four bagels in a bag at the front door. My sister and I always thought it was Dad – but we’ve never known for certain. If the landing smelled of his tobacco, it must’ve been him.’ I felt elated. Seeing the picture of him, and talking to someone who knew him, must’ve loosened the memories. It made me hungry for more information. For the stuff I didn’t know. ‘Did Józef see much of Dad?’ Recollections were stirring at the edges of my consciousness.