by Claire Askew
‘Upstairs,’ she hissed.
For a moment, Charlie looked confused. Then, the rattle of the brass knocker.
‘Fast,’ Birch added, ‘but quietly.’
Charlie frowned at her. ‘Ignore it?’ he mouthed.
But it was too late. Birch was on her feet.
‘Upstairs,’ she insisted again, and then watched from the hallway as Charlie tried – with only limited success – to ascend the stairs softly, on the balls of his feet.
Another knock came: knuckles directly on the wood this time. On the other side of the door, a throat was cleared.
‘Helen?’
Birch’s heart leapt. It was Anjan.
Nobody batted an eyelid as we dragged my da outside, though he fairly hollered. It was that sort of place. Jimmy was that sort of guy. If they hadn’t seen it before with him, they’d have seen it before with a thousand others. Only the barmaid looked concerned as Fenton and I half carried him out, each of us gripping an elbow, his weak legs kicking at the floor.
‘He’s my da,’ I said to her. I tried to sound apologetic. ‘He’s had too much.’
She nodded. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘He’s always had too much.’
Jimmy was squirming in our grip, yelling, Fuck youse fuck youse, as we hassled him out into the white shock of the street.
We ended up round the back of the Gunner, where the keg hatches and glass bins were. A gaggle of kids was back there, spray-painting crap tags onto the render. Fenton let go of my da, who listed over like a cannoned ship. I shifted my weight, keeping one hand around his arm, and grabbing the back of his collar with the other.
‘Quiet down, Jimmy,’ I hissed.
Fenton was advancing on the teenagers, waving at them as though to frighten off crows.
‘Go an’ fuck off,’ he yelled.
The biggest of the lads took a step towards him, his hood up same as ours, his hands black and oily with paint. ‘Fuckin’ make us, Grandad,’ he said.
Beside me, Jimmy laughed. I closed my eyes: Back off, kid. You’re messing with the wrong radge.
‘What’d you say tae me?’ Fenton stopped, and planted his feet.
A showdown with some feral children. Great.
All the boys had paused in their work now. There were five, total: the biggest one maybe fifteen. I wanted to tell them they ought to be in school; then I remembered what school was actually like.
‘I said . . .’ The biggest boy drew himself up, and mirrored Fenton’s stance. In the pocket of his Adidas top, I could see the fingers of one hand working at something. ‘Fuckin’ make us.’
Three of the other kids shuffled into a sort of formation behind their leader. Only the smallest one, who I realised might be just ten or so, hung back. He was watching Jimmy and me.
‘Grandad,’ the big kid spat. His fingers closed on what he was looking for, and he drew out a snub folding knife – cheap, I could tell, the kind you bought in camping stores – and flicked it open.
The theatrical flourish made me want to laugh, too, but I knew better. I knew how close this kid was to the sort of beating that would leave him without ribs.
At my side, Jimmy sagged, apparently sick of standing. The moment stretched and hummed, like a taut piano wire.
Fenton made a rattling sound in his throat. At first I thought he might actually be growling at the kid: the sound was low and animal, like the kind a Rottweiler makes as it pushes up its hackles. But then the sound changed, and I realised he was laughing. A guttural, cold sort of laugh. I felt it send up the hairs on the back of Jimmy’s neck.
‘Are ye takin’ the piss, kid?’ Fenton said, with what sounded like genuine mirth in his voice. ‘Are ye actually yaffing me?’
The big boy tilted his chin up, defiant as anything, but behind him, his goons eyed one another. I watched as the littlest one quietly laid down his spray can, and began to shuffle backward out of the yard.
‘This is my patch, Grandad,’ he said. His voice was a little less certain now, but he was trying not to show it. ‘Go and take your junkie friend somewhere else.’
For a second, the whole gang glanced over at Jimmy.
I glared back at them.
Fenton was still laughing, but the laughter was ebbing away. He reached behind him and I saw it for a split second, just shoved there in his waistband, right against the skin, like this was Die Hard or something. Then he flipped it over with something like grace, and pointed the business end at the big kid.
Beside me, Jimmy let out a sigh that sounded like a mower shutting down. I felt the fight go out of him.
The fight went out of the big kid, too, though it took him a minute of looking down the barrel of Fenton’s matte black Glock. The little one didn’t need telling: he turned tail and pelted out onto the tarmacked street. All seven of us stood and listened to the smack smack smack of his tiny trainers as he ran.
‘All right,’ the big kid said. He raised his free hand slightly, and with the other he palmed the small blade back into its casing. ‘Nae need, pal. We didnae realise, okay?’
The goons had fallen away, and were gathering up their spray cans in the deliberate manner of young men who are frantic, but don’t want to show it.
Fenton let go the safety. I saw the gorge rise in the biggest boy’s throat. Now both his hands were up, the folded knife pinned onto his right palm by his thumb. He was looking at the gun.
‘Hey, where’d you get that, man?’ In spite of his fear, I could see his eyes glittering with desire, thinking of the power he could wield.
‘Never you mind, sunshine.’ Fenton angled the barrel in the direction of the street. The goons were already halfway there, backing out as fast as they dared. ‘Dae me a favour, will ye?’
I waited to see what Fenton would say. I expected some smart-mouth comment.
‘Dinnae go looking for wan o’ these,’ he said, nodding at the Glock. ‘Stay in the school, dae yer homework, make yer mammie proud, okay? I’m speaking tae all of ye.’
I think my mouth must have fallen open. Beside me, I heard Jimmy whisper, ‘Yes.’
The boy snorted. ‘Ma mammie’s deid,’ he said. ‘I’m already fucked.’
As though shaken from the spell the gun had put him under, he ducked out from its path and hooked up the can of black paint into his hand. Taking this as their high sign, the goons ran for it, but their leader turned his back on the barrel of the Glock and sauntered to the edge of the yard with his chest out, casual. I almost whistled in awe of his swagger.
‘But thanks for the advice, Grandad.’
He rounded the corner, and only then did I hear the same smack smack smack of his unlaced Nikes on the tarmac.
Fenton turned then, letting the Glock drop and hang loose in his fingers. ‘Some kid, eh?’ he said. He was grinning.
Beside me, Jimmy was staring at the gun. I realised I was, too. I wanted Fenton to put it away. This wasn’t the deal.
Instead, Fenton took one long step towards Jimmy, raised his hand and with it, the muzzle of the Glock. I heard it clunk against the flat plate of Jimmy’s skull. In my grip, I felt him go dead still, stiff as a door.
‘Any last words,’ Fenton said, ‘for your boy?’
Jimmy flinched, but he couldn’t move the gun, pressed as it was into the centre of his forehead. I remember thinking, If he shoots this cunt now, I’ll end up wearing his brains. I had a light-coloured hoodie on. That was stupid, I thought.
‘Fenton,’ I said, hissing through my teeth as though somehow I thought my da wouldn’t hear. ‘This wasn’t the deal.’
Fenton raised one eyebrow at me, and laughed again: not the Rottweiler laugh, but his usual short, sharp cough of a laugh.
He pulled the trigger.
Anjan was standing on the doorstep, a brown paper carrier bag in his arms.
‘Hello, Helen,’ he said.
Birch had opened the door less than a foot. She’d put her face into the gap, and now looked steadily at the bag he was holding, so she wou
ldn’t have to look at his face. Her jaw hung loose: she couldn’t think what to say, yet she knew she ought to say something, make some sort of noise, so Anjan couldn’t hear Charlie making it to the landing and looking for a place to hide.
‘What are you doing here?’ It was the only thing in her head, right then.
Anjan looked disappointed by her welcome, then glanced backward, towards the prom. ‘Could I . . . would you mind if I came inside?’
Birch blinked at him, and he seemed to draw himself up a little taller, as though summoning some extra reserve of patience.
‘It’s just . . . with the case ongoing I know that I shouldn’t really be seeing you.’ He smiled, trying to appeal to her. ‘I really wanted to check in with you, but . . . I ought to keep a low profile here.’
It made her shiver, hearing him say the words Charlie had said to her, just the night before. He wasn’t a man to be put off, she knew that. She had no choice but to open the door, step to one side, and admit him. As soon as he was fully in the hall, she reached past and locked the door in his wake.
‘Sorry, Anjan,’ she said, trying to find the manners her mother had taught her. ‘Come in.’
Too late, she remembered the pasta dishes. They sat on the coffee table: two plates, two forks. They stopped Anjan in his tracks, and he turned to her.
‘You have company,’ he said.
She didn’t like the way it was phrased: an observation, not a question. ‘No,’ she said. She could feel her face reddening with the lie. ‘Just last night’s dishes. I’m just not being very houseproud right now, I’m afraid.’
Birch scrambled past him and clattered the plates one onto the other. Anjan reached down to take them, his hand brushing her forearm.
‘Let me,’ he said, and juggled the dishes out of her hands and into his own. His skin was warm. Birch wanted to take one of those hands and hold it, hold on to Anjan’s steady presence.
Charlie had placed his empty lager can on the floor under the sofa arm. She stepped past it, hoping Anjan wouldn’t see, and led the way into the kitchen. On the drainer: two dirty coffee cups. Before he could follow her in, she dumped them down into the sink, along with the empty wine bottle.
Anjan set down the plates and cutlery on the worktop, his quiet breath and warm smell at her shoulder.
‘You can go through,’ Birch said, ‘and sit down if you want. I’ll make some tea?’
But of course, he was taking none of her orders. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. He smiled, a small teasing smile. ‘I don’t want you to treat me like a guest.’
Birch smiled back. She was trying not to think of her brother, squirrelled away upstairs, listening.
‘Lots of milk, no sugar, right?’ she said.
Anjan’s smile grew. ‘You remembered.’
Birch blushed. ‘Of course.’ She turned away and opened the cupboard with the creaking door, fished out two clean mugs.
‘I heard you weren’t well,’ Anjan said.
When she turned back to begin making the tea, she saw he’d put down the bag he’d been carrying and leaned against the worktop in front of it. She liked the look of him there, more relaxed than she usually saw him. She liked having him in her space, filling it with the good energy that he seemed to radiate naturally.
‘And I didn’t like the way we left things yesterday.’
Birch ceased her hasty movements. Her hands went limp, and she looked over at the drainer with its scatter of teaspoons, crumbs, the plates’ smears of pasta sauce. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that was my fault. I misunderstood, and I behaved badly. I owe you an apology.’
She heard the brown paper wrinkle as he stood upright again, brushing against the bag’s side. Then, he crossed the small space between them and his hand alighted on her shoulder. She flinched, surprised, but glad of his touch. She realised she’d missed it.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, his mouth close to her ear. ‘But . . . are you all right? I mean, I know you’re off work. But are you . . . all right?’
Birch paused. She felt held there by him, not unpleasantly: his right hip lined up with her left, his right hand on her left shoulder. She liked it: it felt safe. Anjan was smart: a small, childlike part of her wanted to ask him to stay, ask him to just sort everything out. Make it all go away, Anjan. If anyone can, it’s you.
Then she remembered. Except . . . you work for the enemy now.
‘What do you mean,’ she asked, ‘all right? Do you mean mentally?’
She wasn’t looking at his face, but she knew he was frowning.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said. His hand squeezed her shoulder, but then, ever afraid of telling a lie, he added, ‘not quite.’
She shrugged the hand away, and slid sideways, running her fingers along the drainer.
‘This is a bloody hard case,’ she said, ‘for everyone. You made it about fifty times harder. So yeah, I’m not having the best week of my life.’ She paused: Understatement of the century, Helen. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’ve gone mad,’ she added.
She’d shuffled into the nook of the galley kitchen now, as far as she could go. She turned, at last, and faced Anjan fully. He’d been at the station, she could see it on him somehow. He was wearing his camel-hair coat, and the bag he’d brought in matched it in colour almost exactly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘That was thoughtless of me. I was just told that you were unwell, but . . . well, you always look so good, Helen.’
She blushed again, before she could stop herself. ‘Yes, well.’ The bag was stamped Valvona & Crolla in green ink. ‘I’m not over here having a mental breakdown, I promise.’
Finally, she looked at his face again. She was being combative, mainly because of Charlie, and, for a brief second, she wished her brother hadn’t shown up. Everything in her was telling her to forgive Anjan, to decide the hell with this case, walk over and comfort him. He looked tired, too, she saw. He might be as tired as she was. And she’d hurt him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry that our’ – he paused, then went on – ‘our relationship has rather taken a turn. I was so enjoying being with you. Enjoying . . . seeing where it might go.’
She had to keep her guard up. You have to. ‘I don’t think I need to remind you,’ she said, ‘that you deciding to defend Solomon Carradice rather did for our relationship.’
‘Represent,’ he said, without a blink. ‘Not defend.’
Yeah yeah, she thought. So you keep saying.
‘You just said yourself,’ she went on, ignoring him. ‘You shouldn’t even be here. I’m likely to be a witness for the prosecution.’
Anjan’s eyes hardened again. She knew what he was going to say before he said it, so she cut him off.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said. ‘Only if the case goes to trial.’
Anjan looked away. He nudged the bag a little, steadying it against the drainer. It nudged the red-smeared plates, and the pile of dishes shifted towards the sink. Birch saw him notice the two coffee cups.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said again. Birch noted that he really did sound it. ‘Sorry that you’re struggling to build a case. But I’m doing my job. The firm—’
She felt her stomach twist. ‘Let’s not talk about it,’ she said, her voice spilling out so suddenly that it shocked her. ‘We shouldn’t be, anyway. And I can’t handle it. Not today.’
He gave a quick nod, and then dropped his gaze. He seemed to be looking at her feet on the tiled kitchen floor. Birch realised it was after four o’clock, and she was still in pyjamas. She couldn’t remember if she’d washed off yesterday’s make-up. She dreaded to think what her hair looked like.
‘Sorry, I’m not a pretty sight—’ she began, but Anjan had begun to speak, too. He looked up at her, awkward under his long, dark lashes.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
His voice was quiet. ‘You look just fine,’ he said. ‘You always do. But I was saying, I . . . brought you a few things. Pro
visions. I know how hard it is being unwell. Stuck in the house.’ He gestured towards the brown paper bag.
‘Valvona and Crolla,’ Birch said. ‘Very nice. I appreciate that, you really shouldn’t have.’
She thought that perhaps Anjan Chaudhry might be blushing, just a little.
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, still speaking softly. ‘You deserve some TLC.’
In the tense silence that followed, Birch was overwhelmed once again with the desire to stumble back across the kitchen and into Anjan’s arms. She wanted to be held, and stilled. A weaker, smaller part of her also wanted to throw something at him: the big frying pan, perhaps, or a plate. Something that would make a loud noise, smash into a thousand shards, take some of the anxiety from her body and spirit it away. I must look wild, she thought. Wild-eyed. She realised he was giving her a look she couldn’t read.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’
He seemed to blurt it: the little darkening room reverberated his words, made them strangely sharp. Above them, Birch imagined she’d heard a footstep, the creak of a floorboard. Charlie shifting his weight, listening.
‘Yes,’ she heard herself say. ‘There’s everything I’d like to tell you. There’s so much.’ She felt the starchy pasta turn in her stomach. The blood in her feet ran cold, the skin prickling. ‘I’m in a bind and I don’t know what to do.’
Don’t, Helen, she thought. Don’t. He’s the defence. Don’t throw yourself to the sharks.
Anjan was waiting. Around her, the whole house held its breath.
Don’t.
‘But I can’t,’ she said, and saying the words felt like taking the first breath after struggling in deep water. ‘I can’t say any more. The case. Like you said . . . you shouldn’t even be here.’
For a moment, neither of them spoke, or moved. Then Anjan took a long inward breath, and straightened his coat.
‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t. But I’m glad I got to see you, and I hope you feel better.’
He was already heading for the kitchen door. Birch trailed after him, her feet still cold, all the blood in her body racing around in her chest, in her pink face.
