The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  “You’ve spent the last three years appearing for all intents and purposes to be Muslim. That should continue. Take your share of whatever your father has left. Do some good with it.”

  “I could donate it to an organisation my father would have hated.” Zed smiled. “A LGBTQ charity. ’Course, he might have spent it all or re-mortgaged the house. If there is anything it might be swallowed by debts. And I’ve just thought of something. I have no proof I’m his son. You gave me a different name.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Which is why I’ve brought you this.” Jackson handed him an envelope. “Your National Insurance Number as Hvarechaeshman Zadeh and a copy of your birth certificate.”

  “Am I going to be pleased?”

  “Depends what you want to see. I’ll make arrangements for the funeral and whatever else needs doing and call you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Made a decision about working full-time for us?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have a break this summer. You’ve worked hard. You deserve it.”

  Zed went back into the house and went up to his room before he took the certificate out of the envelope. Majid Zadeh was named as his father. He went back downstairs and got drunk.

  By the time Zed emerged from his room the next day, it was close to lunchtime and the house had been returned to its pre-party state. He’d already had a conversation with Jackson that morning. His father’s funeral would be the following day. Ten o’clock at the Everlasting Gardens, a Muslim burial ground near Maidstone. Janazah salah, prayers for the deceased, would be performed on site by an alim, a religious scholar.

  Theoretically, he should have been buried sooner but Zed had apparently been sick which also meant he’d not had to wash his father’s body at least three times. Jackson had arranged for someone else to do that as well as wrapping the body according to Islamic practice.

  What sort of sick? Zed had asked.

  Stomach bug. Easiest get out clause Jackson told him.

  Zed poured himself and Jonas a coffee, then headed for the music room where Jonas was practising. He put Jonas’s mug on the coffee table, then sat and listened to some moody modern piece he’d never heard Jonas play before. The throaty sound he was pulling from his violin was brilliant. Sounded like a pissed off tiger. Zed put down his coffee, closed his eyes and leaned back.

  If he worked for MI5 how much time would he have for music? Would he still be able to be in the band? If the band took off, he couldn’t do a daytime job as well. But even if the band was successful, that success might not last. The chances of making it were small no matter how talented you were. His heart pulled him to music, his head toward the job.

  “Have I sent you to sleep?” Jonas asked.

  “Not with those discordant sounds.” Zed opened his eyes. “Can I borrow your car for a few days?”

  “Yep, why?”

  “My father’s died.”

  Jonas put down his violin and dropped on the couch next to him. “Damn. Is that what Jackson told you last night? I was on the roof. I saw the two of you in the garden.”

  “Yes.”

  “He could have bloody waited.”

  “Muslims have to be buried quickly and he knows what my relationship with my father was like.”

  “How did he die?”

  “In hospital. He’d been admitted two weeks earlier with bowel cancer. His heart stopped in the middle of an operation and they couldn’t get it started again.” Zed turned to look at him. “And you know what I thought? So the bastard actually had a heart?” He gave a short laugh.

  “Oh damn, Zed.”

  They sat in silence for a moment or two.

  “How did he treat you before your mother died? Is there some memory you can pull up of him being kind?”

  “He was never kind. Before she died, the best I could say of him was that he was tolerant. I knew he liked Tamaz the best. He didn’t try to hide it. Mum did all she could to make up for it. Which made Tamaz jealous of me.”

  “Families can be messy things.”

  “Not ours.” Zed took Jonas’s hand.

  “No, not ours.” Jonas hugged him. “So what about the funeral. Do you need help to arrange it?”

  “Jackson has arranged everything. Well, got someone to arrange it. Tomorrow at ten. I just have to turn up. I don’t even have to do that but I feel I should.”

  “You want me to come with you?”

  “No, I’ll be okay. Thanks for offering. I’ll probably go and stay at the house for a couple of days afterwards. The things my father went into hospital with will be given to me at the funeral. That includes his keys. I need to sort stuff out, find out how to contact his parents, assuming they’re still alive, see if there are bills to pay. Put the house on the market, I guess.”

  “Let me help.”

  “No. I can do it. It’ll give me time to think about what I’m going to do with my life.”

  Jonas gave a little smile. “You’re all grown up. When did that happen?”

  The last funeral Zed had attended had been his mother’s. He’d knelt beside his father and brother and now he was alone in front of his father’s body for Salat al-Janazah, funeral prayers. He’d dressed in his graduation suit and Jonas’s black tie. The other mourners were in a mixture of suits and shalwar kameez.

  Zed had thought he might have felt something by now, but he didn’t. Not even when he helped put his father in the ground, positioned to lie on his right side facing the Kaaba, the sacred building at Mecca. Ropes were removed from the head and feet and a layer of wood laid to cover the body, so soil didn’t directly touch it.

  More prayers, three handfuls of dirt thrown by Zed, then by the other mourners before the grave could be filled in. Jackson had arranged for a meal to be served and Zed did what Jackson had asked him to do and talked to those who’d come, noted in particular the names of any who asked about Tamaz.

  People lined up to shake his hand and tell him how much they’d liked his father, what a good man he’d been, a good friend, a good employer, a good Muslim, a caring pharmacist. They were talking about a different man, one Zed had never known.

  He recognised a few faces from when he’d attended the mosques in Lewisham and Maidstone, and one man from the pharmacy. He got no hint that anyone had known he’d run away from home and wondered just what lies his father had told. When one guy in his thirties, who said he was from Maidstone mosque, had asked him about Imperial and said how thrilled his father had been by how well he’d done, Zed’s throat clenched. He had no idea that his father had known. His name was different. How had he known? Maybe he hadn’t.

  Zed would give this guy’s name to Jackson. Basem Nadir. He tried to find more about him but no one else there seemed to know him which was strange. When Zed spotted Nadir leaving, he slipped to the window and took a picture with his phone of him and his car. Something or nothing?

  Jackson had taught him that even thinking that meant there was most likely something.

  Zed reached the house in Upper Barton at two that afternoon. At the funeral, he’d been handed a bag with his father’s clothes, copies of his death certificate, his phone, wallet and keys. His father had been taken to the hospital by ambulance so his car still sat on the drive. A new BMW. Zed pulled up behind it.

  He was about to get out of the car when he instead sank back in the seat. He’d sworn never to come back here and here he was. The house had been his home but it hadn’t felt the same after his mother had died. He exhaled. He hadn’t thought he could come here without thinking about Caspian and he’d been right. He should be out of prison so maybe he was at home. So near and yet a world away. He wondered about trying to get in touch with him and could almost hear Jonas’s voice in his head. Leave him alone.

  Zed opened the car door and climbed out with the house keys and his phone. He left everything else in the car and locked it as he walked to the door. The garden was an overgrown mess. He’d never seen it looking as bad. The lawn
barely recognisable as a lawn under a riot of weeds. Nothing had been touched for far longer than a couple of weeks. He’d assumed his father had taken ill quite recently but maybe he was wrong. The windows were dirty and piles of leaves had blown up against the walls and accumulated in every corner. The outdoor furniture was filthy. Fuck.

  There was no longer anything to hurt him in this place but Zed hesitated before he turned the key. It was a warm day but as he pushed open the door, which scraped and stuttered across the floor in reluctance, it was as if he’d opened the door on winter. The chill hit him like a physical blow and he caught his breath. Inside it was dark, damp and dusty, the air still and heavy. Zed kicked aside the mail and walked through to the kitchen. It was warmer in there, brighter, the sun shining through the grimy windows. Unloved was the thought that went through his head. The house had been loved once, but love had died with his mother.

  He wished Jonas and Henry were with him. He called Jonas.

  “Hi, how did it go? Are you okay? Where are you?” Jonas asked.

  “It went okay. I’m fine. I’m at the house.”

  “Is it fit to stay in? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m going to sort out something to eat and I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Sure you don’t need your car? My father’s is here so I can probably use that.”

  “No, I don’t need it. Be careful, okay?”

  “I will. Bye.”

  Then he phoned Henry, who’d also asked him to call.

  “I’m at the house,” Zed told him. “And I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t fall to pieces at the funeral?”

  Zed chuckled. “It’s not allowed. No wailing or gnashing of teeth. You can cry but I didn’t bother.”

  “I hope you’d shed a tear for me.”

  Zed sucked in a breath. “Don’t you dare die. Don’t. Don’t.” He heard the break in his voice and was helpless to hold back his sob.

  “Zed, Zed,” Henry whispered. “It’s okay. We’re not going anywhere. Sure you don’t want one or both of us to come down?”

  Zed pulled himself together. “No. I’ll be a few days sorting things out then I’ll come home.”

  “Be careful,” Henry told him.

  “I always am. Bye.”

  His final call was to Jackson. One that lasted twice as long as the other two. Zed went over everything that had happened, who’d he’d spoken to, his thoughts about them, particularly about Basem Nadir, and he sent Jackson the pictures.

  He put his phone in his pocket, opened the fridge and slammed it shut again as the smell of rotten food rushed out. Fuck. He couldn’t face that for a while. The freezer was only half full, but he spotted a four cheese pizza he could eat later.

  Zed went back out to the car and brought in the bag of his father’s things, and his own bag. He took the latter upstairs. He needed to get changed. He didn’t want to wreck his suit. When he pushed open the door of his old room, he let out a startled gasp. It was totally bare. A carpet but no curtains, no furniture. Please let there be a bed in Tamaz’s old room. Or he’d be sleeping on the sofa because there was no way he was lying in his father’s bed.

  Tamaz’s room looked just the same as Zed remembered. Almost as if his brother had just stepped out for a while. Zed changed out of his suit and hung it in the empty closet. He stripped the bed, went looking for sheets in the airing cupboard and was relieved when he found them. Once the bed was made, he felt better.

  Then he slowly pushed open the door of his father’s room and for a moment, he thought he saw him standing by the window. “Dad?” But the sensation had gone in an instant. Just as fucking well, really. It would be a cruel twist to find this had all been some massive lie.

  The room smelt awful. Zed raised his arm to his nose and blocked it, breathing through his mouth as he walked over to the windows. Once they were unlocked, he opened them wide, then retreated from the room and returned downstairs. He picked up the mail in the hall and put it on the kitchen worktop. Nothing looked important.

  He left his father’s study until last. His computer sat on the desk. Zed went to get his father’s phone from the living room and then returned to the study. He opened the top drawer of the desk, found the phone charger and plugged it in. A quick look through the desk drawers revealed plenty of labelled folders but no address book. Zed picked up the phone and looked through his father’s contacts. Tamaz wasn’t there.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Caspian was kicking gravel on the drive when Glenn Woodrow, his supervising officer, pulled up in front of the house, thirty minutes late. Glenn got out of his car holding an orange folder and headed towards him.

  “Morning.” Glenn blinked a lot. Stress, a nervous disorder or maybe he was a vampire? “Let’s get out of the sun.”

  Definitely a vampire. Caspian walked into the house and led Glenn into the dining room. His father had said they could use his study but Caspian didn’t want to.

  “Would you like a coffee?” Caspian asked.

  There was a machine on the side table that Betsy had shown him how to use and she’d baked lavender shortbread biscuits. Caspian doubted they’d soften Glenn up.

  “Yes, thanks. Black, no sugar.”

  Glenn laid out his paperwork while Caspian made the drinks. He carried them over to the table along with the biscuits.

  “How was your first day?” Glenn asked.

  Bloody awful with moments of fucking brilliance. “It was okay.”

  “It takes time to adjust. Don’t expect too much of yourself or anyone else. They’re unsure how to talk to you or behave around you. And I’m sure you’re the same with them.”

  Sadly, that didn’t apply to his father who sounded exactly as he always had. Domineering, bombastic and intolerant. Nor to his mother who was the ultimate ice queen. Nor to his self-absorbed sisters. But Lachlan… Something was different about Lachlan.

  Glenn yet again went through the conditions for Caspian being released on licence. There ought to be a pictorial guide for this too, Caspian thought, then dismissed the idea. He wanted to forget about the last five years.

  “You must not miss an appointment to see me. And be on time.”

  But it’s okay if you’re not? “Are you always going to come here?”

  “No. You’ll mostly need to go to Ashford. No driving, remember. This is a list of the times, dates and places of meetings for the next year. Don’t turn up drunk or on drugs. Sometimes I might call you instead of us meeting up. The probation service is overworked and very busy. Respond promptly to my texts or emails. If there’s any sort of emergency where the police are involved, call me.”

  “Do I have to live here?”

  “For the time being, yes. I need to approve any place you want to live.”

  “If I found a bedsit…”

  “I’m not in favour of your parents supporting you living elsewhere. You have to learn how to look after yourself.”

  “I can get a job.”

  “Doing what? You don’t realise how lucky you are, living rent-free in a house like this. Meals provided. No doubt your laundry done for you, your room cleaned. Why on earth would you want to leave? You’re the first person I’ve ever had on licence with a home this size. The conditions aren’t onerous for someone in your position. I don’t see us having any issues.” He looked at Caspian over his glasses. “Do you?”

  “No,” Caspian muttered.

  “Now, training. Here are details of some courses you might like to sign up for. IT, office skills, that sort of thing. I can’t force you to go to any of them, but if you’re still unemployed after three months, you might be compelled to attend one or more. You have to report to the Job Centre and abide by the rules. Have you made an appointment yet?”

  Caspian shook his head.

  “You might be able to support yourself with savings but they’ll run out eventually. The first job you get might well not be what you want—preparing food, labouring, warehouse work bu
t it’s a chance to prove you’re dependable and self-reliant, and therefore a stepping stone to the next level.”

  Caspian dutifully nodded. Fuck you.

  “Don’t forget, if you get a job you have to tell me. I need to approve it.”

  No acting in porn movies then? Caspian thought but didn’t say.

  “You’re very fortunate,” Glenn said. “You have a supportive, wealthy family. You’re not violent. You’re not an ex-gang member, a sex offender, a habitual thief or a drug addict. I don’t believe you’re bad. You made a mistake and now you need to be the best person you can to make up for what you did.”

  He stared at Caspian and Caspian stared back.

  “You’ve never talked about the day of the accident,” Glenn said. “Maybe you should. Maybe it will help you.”

  Fucking go away.

  Glenn stared at him but Caspian didn’t speak but a slow rage filled him.

  “Just saying the words—I did it—would be a step in the right direction. If I can put on my report that you’ve admitted what you did, understood the damage you’d done and were truly remorseful…”

  Then you’d look good and probably get a clap on the back. Caspian kept quiet and Glenn sighed.

  More forms to sign, then less than fifteen minutes after arriving, Glenn was driving away. Never again would Caspian compromise himself or make himself unhappy just to satisfy the demands of another person. He’d been seventeen years old when he’d suffered the worst betrayal of his life. He’d never let that happen again. He’d rebuild his life and be who he wanted to be.

  But he knew it would take time.

  Caspian had money in the bank. His grandfather had set up a savings account for him and paid into it monthly until he’d died. Caspian had added money given to him for birthdays and Christmas. He had over twenty thousand pounds. The money put into his prison account was in the process of being transferred to him. He hadn’t touched it while he was in there but now his father had set fire to his dreams, Caspian had less qualms about using it.