The Friendly Ones

by Philip Hensher

  Leo put the pizza boxes in the bin, and took a new yellow sponge-wipe from the unopened packet underneath the sink. He went to the downstairs toilet, and, after trying the windowsill and the little bookshelf, determined that Tom Dick had used the top of the lavatory cistern to chop up and snort his drugs. He poured bleach onto the sponge, wiped the surface, then wiped it again with hot water and dried it with toilet paper before repeating the whole sequence. He took care not to brush any crumbs into the crevice at the back of the lavatory cistern, and afterwards washed the floor around the lavatory with the same care, with the same sponge in case any fragments had fallen to the floor. Afterwards he let the hot tap run over the sponge for five minutes, before taking it out to bury it in the outside bin. Leo had long ago concluded that there was no point in trying to separate what love did from what you did out of penance. Love was not only what you felt like doing, and for him it had not started with that.

  3.

  The office still made Aisha laugh. It was so much like an American funeral parlour, with its perpetually renewed flowers, pale beige carpet and air of tactful dignity. The twins’ idea of what a lawmaker’s offices should look like. It was gloriously convenient, there was no doubt about it, but the feeling of the hushed suite of offices, a room outside for the PA and another, slightly larger, attached for a pair of interns was not very comfortable. She couldn’t think in it. It was incredibly kind of Omith and Raja to commit to paying the rent for the next ten years, and even kinder of them to devote so much energy to finding it in the first place. After three weeks there, she had asked Veronica if she would move her desk into the main office, as she called it. The interns could move to Veronica’s old office. And the interns’ office …

  ‘Let’s use it as a meeting room,’ Veronica said. ‘You won’t always want me around when someone important wants to talk to you. Or – I know – let’s not shift at all. Let’s just keep the doors open and you move your desk closer. Then we can chat or we can shut the doors and not chat.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Aisha said. There was no getting round it. She was now officially very grand. They’d been open-plan at A Woman’s Place with a meeting room for private or difficult conversations. In the House of Commons she’d shared a wood-panelled office with Sean, an MP from the same party, plus Veronica, plus Sean’s assistant (his wife), plus coming-and-going unpaid assistance, plus whoever came to drop in and perch on the edge of the Pugin desk and shout at them, like a party whip. It had been quite jolly. Now the twins had intervened and offered to put her somewhere where she could actually do something. She’d agreed without thinking too much about it.

  The boys hadn’t thought about it at all, it turned out. They’d just stared in horrified incomprehension when she’d thought to tell them that she’d of course have to declare their generous gift in the Register of Lords’ Interests (Category 6, Sponsorship). It was too late. The connection between her and them had been made. She might as well become a director of Fuck That Games and let the red-tops do their worst.

  Today she was on one of her visits. It was a visit that had been set up in her previous life, when she was finding out about everything and everyone in the constituency. Now she had no constituency she was concentrating on her interests and projects, but the hospice had said she was still very welcome, and Veronica thought, Why not? Baroness Sharifullah did not think that she was going to tell a hospice that her interest in their work had stopped sharply – ‘Don’t say “stopped dead”, Aisha, please,’ Veronica had said – on the morning after the general election of 2015.

  The taxi drew up, and Aisha got out. The hospice was converted out of half a dozen tall nineteenth-century houses, a glass box constructed in front of the main entrance. There was, happily, no one there to greet her, and she went inside.

  ‘Baroness Sharifullah,’ the receptionist said. ‘Yes, indeed. We’re expecting you. Leo was here a moment ago – he’ll be showing you round. Here he is.’

  Leo was a very short, grizzle-haired, square-faced man with nervous blue eyes, flickering from side to side. She shook his hand.

  ‘This way,’ he said, leading her towards what had been the back of the house; it gave way to a modern extension with a glass roof. He didn’t say anything as they walked, not even asking if she had had a good journey. (Perhaps he knew that she had only come from Westminster.) They went into a meeting room, and she shook Sanjay Ghosh’s hand – she had met him before, a decent sort, a bit keen on the bottom line. Lady Holloway was there as well, a Tory peer; she greeted Aisha like an old friend, and soon it turned out that Sheila Holloway, as Ghosh referred to her, was chair of the Friends organization. She lived just a street away, she explained. The man called Leo ran through the history and functioning of the hospice in a couple of minutes: he went through its funding and its financial situation, all the time looking down at a folder that, Aisha could see, he did not really need to consult. She knew all about these shy people who had all the facts. He handed over to Ghosh, who went on to outline what they needed to expand. The demand for their services was such, Ghosh said, that users could only very rarely be admitted more than two or three days before their eventual death. Aisha nodded: she understood. A few words from Sheila Holloway about their fundraising and their fêtes, a warm embrace from a woman who, as far as Aisha knew, she had never spoken a word to, and she was handed over to Leo.

  ‘You don’t remember me,’ Leo said, when they were on their own.

  ‘I knew it was you,’ Aisha said. ‘I was sure it was you. It must be –’

  ‘Oh, twenty-five years,’ Leo said. ‘At least that. You’d just finished at Cambridge, hadn’t you?’

  ‘I can’t understand …’ Aisha said.

  ‘They’re still living in the same place, then?’ Leo said. ‘Your mum and dad? Are they well?’

  ‘Still well,’ Aisha said. ‘Still living there, next to your dad. He’s going to be a hundred in two months, isn’t he? We’re all going to the party for it – I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘I never thought,’ Leo said, ‘I never thought I’d bump into you again.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It seemed best. It’s bad luck we’re meeting again now.’

  ‘Oh, kay,’ Lady Sharifullah said. But then she engaged. Her eyes lit up, not with happiness. ‘I don’t know why you would say that.’

  ‘Because,’ Leo said. It was as if a flicker, the temptation of superiority, crossed his face. ‘Oh, I don’t think we really want to go into that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lady Sharifullah said. ‘I suppose we left each other in rather an awkward way. You telling me what I should have done and me wanting to say all the time that I didn’t feel any of that stuff I wrote in that letter. I had just made a mistake.’

  ‘Well, there’s no point in going over it,’ Leo said. ‘We’re all so pleased that you’ve come to see our work here. Let’s just forget about the bad-luck element of it.’

  ‘Actually, you know,’ Aisha said, ‘I thought you were going to be nice to me. But when you say that … It makes me feel – how do you think it makes anyone feel, being spoken to like that? You ought to think twice before you say things like that to anyone.’

  ‘It’s not meant to be rude,’ Leo said. ‘It’s just how things are. It’s lovely to see you again. I’m really happy to see you again.’

  ‘Except you wish it hadn’t happened,’ Aisha said.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart,’ Leo said. ‘It’s nothing to do with you in particular.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You in particular, I meant,’ Leo said.

  ‘And people like me, you mean?’

  Leo stared. She could see that he was in a conversation he had not understood and had not engaged with, and he blushed. Whether or not he had meant to dissociate himself from anything, he now had no language to explain himself.

  ‘I’ve heard that before – don’t take it to heart. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s all to do with me,
who, by the way, has done nothing wrong or unusual. I’m not challenging you. Do you know what it’s like, being an immigrant?’ Aisha said. ‘You know the word. Don’t flinch when I say it. I was an immigrant. I came here when I was eight years old. That’s old enough. I’ll tell you what it’s like, being an immigrant. It’s like having a knife held to your throat and being told that if you do exactly what they tell you to, then they’ll take it away and you can be allowed to be friends with them again. Never knowing whether you’ve said the thing that is going to bring the knife to your throat. You probably haven’t said anything. The knife is at your throat and slowly someone is going to take it away. That’s what it’s like. Don’t tell me it’s lovely to see me when you did what you did. That was like a knife to my throat. That letter. Don’t tell me you’d prefer never to see me again and expect me to smile.’

  ‘I don’t think that was anything to do with what I said,’ Leo said. ‘I’m not that sort of person.’

  ‘I don’t think you get to decide whether you’re that sort of person or not,’ Aisha said. ‘I think it’s for the people who you make suffer to declare what you are.’

  ‘I’m actually not going to go to my father’s party,’ Leo said. ‘It’s best not.’

  ‘You’ve got your own reasons,’ Aisha said. She pulled at the silk scarf at her neck, tightening it.

  ‘My life’s down here now. I don’t go up there at all.’

  ‘When was the last time you were up there?’ Aisha asked. She breathed. She could feel herself letting kindly interest back into her voice. There was no reason for her to lose her temper. Leo was a long time ago and she would walk away from him in five minutes.

  ‘That would have been when I last saw you,’ Leo said. ‘Twenty-five years ago. I don’t mean to be dramatic. It’s not important.’

  She digested this.

  ‘My dad’s still there, then,’ Leo said.

  ‘He’s amazing,’ Aisha said reprovingly. ‘Are you really not going to go up there for the big jamboree? It’s going to be amazing. Didn’t you know? Surely you knew.’

  ‘I’m really out of touch,’ Leo said.

  ‘Well, you’d have to be, not to know that your dad’s going to be a hundred years old in two months. He’s really looking forward to it. My mum and dad, they’re organizing the whole thing for him. They love it. Everyone’s going. You’ve got to come.’

  Leo smiled and shook his head.

  ‘What?’ Aisha said. ‘What does that mean? They’re all coming. Your dad’s tortoise is looking forward to it no end. Do you even know that Gertrude’s still going strong?’

  ‘Is she,’ Leo said.

  ‘Your dad was talking about giving her her own blog at one point,’ Aisha said. ‘Do you know what a computer whizz he’s become? He’s the king of below the line, my dad says. He’s always getting kicked off the Guardian’s comments. A hundredth birthday – it’s to say goodbye.’

  ‘Are you living in London, these days?’ Leo said. She turned and looked at him. Her memory of him had been, until this kindly sentence, of being spoken to as if from above by a man hardly five feet tall, specific and sharply limited. She had remembered his identity and the summer during which they had spent time together, in the car, driving him backwards and forwards to the hospital – who was it who had been ill? Was it Raja after his throat had been cut open to save him? She forgot. It was this kindly sentence and others like it, produced in writing a quarter of a century ago, that had sent her out into the needy world. She was a peer of the realm and a well-known public figure, and she was being talked down to by a nurse in a hospice as if she had made some awful incontinent blunder. He was going to overlook what she had said for her own sake. She had written him a letter, twenty-five years ago, and he had responded in exactly the same generous way. Her mind produced, without effort, a couple of phrases she had written with girlish abandon. A patch of sore skin had been touched again, and she winced.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I am. It’s been extremely nice. Thank you so much for finding the time to show me round. I really appreciate it. I won’t disturb Sanjay to say goodbye, if you could just …’

  She walked to the tube; was back in the office by one thirty with a sandwich. She thought she would phone Nihad.

  ‘No!’ Nihad said. She was at work; she handled the publicity for a very successful football team. She’d shut herself away so as not to have to deal with anyone for half an hour. It was a pleasure to hear Aisha’s voice, she said. ‘You’re literally the last person to say, “Is that Fanny?” to me. You know, you’re lucky to get me. They’re announcing a new coach for the juniors downstairs as we speak.’

  ‘You’ve got to pretend to be interested.’

  ‘I am literally counting the days until retirement,’ Nihad said. ‘Just a few more months – just ninety-six months – and then there’s a carriage clock and I’m selling up and buying an estate in Poland. Umbria. Wherever. What’s up, your ladyship?’

  ‘You’ll never guess who I met this morning,’ Aisha said.

  ‘Who have you met today? I’m literally not guessing.’

  ‘Here’s a clue – his dad’s going to be a hundred years old in two months.’

  ‘Prince Edward. I really don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, Fanny, it’s the son of Mummy and Daddy’s next-door neighbour. You know. Dr Spinster who leapt over the fence and cut Raja’s throat and saved his life that time ‒ you must remember. He’s going to be a hundred.’

  ‘And you met his son. Spare me.’

  The list of Fanny’s men was short, and consisted of Matthew, the man she had met on her course at university and who had been the root cause of her 2.2, the disgrace. Perhaps Aisha’s was longer, and harder to remember in detail. The list began with girlish enthusiasms; the last two or three were guarded, doubtful, hedged round with obvious scepticism. The very last one had been another MP, God save her. She had examined those recent men sceptically, rigorously, thoroughly, as if they were novice budget proposals full of unjustified assumptions about growth. By the time she had finished reminding Fanny about Leo, the impact of their meeting had somehow gone.

  4.

  All week Josh had been in a state of dread and excitement. The event happened once a month in the club under the railway arches. He at once longed to go and hated the thought of going. He did not really want to go. But he knew he would go.

  He had broken the rules, he knew. On Tuesday, he had sent her a text message asking if she was going. The response had come back in seconds. She wrote in capitals, WHO IS THIS? HOW DARE YOU. DON’T YOU EVER FUCKING PROPOSE ANYTHING TO ME, YOU SCUM. And then silence. He accepted it humbly. The rules of the game could extend beyond the hours OYK was open, once a month.

  All week, he had thought that she had dismissed him, that he had broken the rules and was now cast out. The game had lasted for two years and was now over. He thought of going on his own, but she would be there: she would look at him in real, not performed, contempt, as an amateur who just didn’t know how to play, and then ignore him. He had blown it. But then on Saturday morning the text came. He was to be standing at Old Street roundabout at nine p.m., shirtless, wearing his slave’s collar and his leather trousers. He must await his betters.

  He did it. They made him wait for an hour as traffic roared past and he drew the attention of Hoxton party-goers. He had slicked down his hair and put on sunglasses. If a partner saw him here, surely, too, they would think it could not be Josh: Josh certainly didn’t have a two-foot panther tattooed on the side of his ribs. Josh – boring Josh, who always wore a vest and lived with his mummy? No.

  It was after ten that a white Nissan drew up; the window was rolled down. She yelled at him to get in. The black man she called Saveloy was driving. Josh got into the back and she carried on talking to Saveloy as if they were still alone. Josh accepted this humbly. She was talking to Saveloy about what they were going to do to their runt, dwelling on it lovingly. Saveloy was a huge presence in
the car, a matter of cubic metres filling the space. He had made the atmosphere in there – thick, soup-like, intoxicating. He had mastered it at her command, and had been instructed to be silent. ‘Sav went to the gym last night, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘And you didn’t shower afterwards. And you ran to my house. More sweat. It’s three days now since you washed, Sav. And that T-shirt you’ve got on. What’s that, Sav? What’s that all down the front? It’s cum, isn’t it, Sav? We used it to wipe up your cum. And then you put it back on. Oh, you spilled some poppers on it, too. Oh, Saveloy, you stink.’

  Josh waited.

  ‘That’s right, Sav. You’ve got a new hole to fuck. You’re going to take the runt, aren’t you, and there in front of everyone at On Your Knees. I’ve got a little something for him. Have you seen what I’ve got for him? I’ve got it in my bag, to tie on with little ribbons, little ladylike ribbons, and then master him with it. He won’t like that, not one bit. And then when I’m done with him, I’m handing him over to you. Little straight boy. He doesn’t like being fucked, does he? It’s just a fucking hole to you, isn’t it, Sav? You’ll do it if I tell you to. Little runt. He only sent me a text this week. Against orders. He’s got to learn his lesson.’