‘What is it?’ he asked ‘What you laughing at?’
‘Us,’ said Reenie. ‘Look at us. It’s gone midnight and we’re having a picnic in the middle of St James’s Park, like a couple of tramps.’
Ibrahim peered at her through the dark, and could just make out her face, and her helpless grin, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. He looked out across the park, at the silhouettes of distant trees, the London Eye lit up like a crescent of gemstones beneath dark, infernal clouds, and the glowing, yellow clock face of Big Ben. He latched on to these as the proof, if it were needed, that they’d made it, that they were here, and though his legs were in agony and his bruises and scabs were still sore, he felt the skin along his shoulders and arms rise up in gooseflesh, and that night-time postcard of the city began to blur and sparkle through his tears.
Big Ben was halfway through its hourly rendition of Portsmouth Bell when the shower began; the raindrops whispering on the leaves of nearby trees, the subtle droop of each leaf causing branches to dip and rustle. Reenie began packing away the camp stove, the kettle and the mugs, but as she climbed inside the tent Ibrahim stayed outside, sitting in the rain.
‘You staying out here?’
Ibrahim shrugged. ‘Not much else I can do.’
‘Get in.’
‘What? But…’
‘Don’t be daft. Get in. It’s pissing down.’
Were there any more light, she may have noticed the sudden colour in his cheeks; an almost adolescent blushing. Yes, it was raining, and yes he was cold, but he hadn’t shared a bed with a woman in over three years, and the idea of sharing a bed was so entangled with the dark morass of sexual desire and guilt that, despite her age and the absence of any physical attraction, he found the prospect daunting and shameful.
‘Er, I…’
‘Listen, Ibrahim. Stop being a prat. It’s raining. Get in. I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise. But shoes off. I’m not having you traipsing mud in here.’
The tent was small, even smaller than he’d imagined, and the two of them lay close together, their thick clothes only adding to their bulk. Every slight movement caused a rustle of man-made fibres, and there were several moments of awkward shuffling and wriggling before they were both comfortable beneath her single blanket; not touching, and all too aware of the person next to them in the dark.
‘Goodnight,’ said Reenie.
‘Goodnight,’ said Ibrahim.
Though at first he was unsure he’d be able to sleep, within minutes Ibrahim was unconscious, too exhausted by the day, and by all the days of the week so far, for the sounds of traffic, or of aeroplanes, or of raindrops puttering against the canvas to keep him awake.
25
‘’Scuse me, sir, but would you mind stepping out of the tent?’
A heavy-set man in a beige coat, and beneath that a grey suit, blue shirt, patterned tie; leaning into the tent. Behind him, another man in a suit. They looked official, important, serious.
His thoughts still muddled by the leftovers of a dream, Ibrahim raised himself up on his elbows, for a moment forgetting where they were, imagining they might still be in some remote place far from any town or city.
‘What’s happening?’ he mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes and clearing his throat.
‘I’m DCI Garfield, Metropolitan Police. Could I take your name, sir?’
‘What? Metropolitan? What?’
London. They were in London. They were driven to London, dropped off in Hammersmith. Walked from Hammersmith to St James’s. Pitched Reenie’s tent in the park, a short distance from The Mall. In the early hours that tent was invisible against the park’s black fields. Now, after sunrise, its orange canvas must have stood out like a beacon against the green.
‘Would you mind stepping out of the tent?’ The DCI asked, more impatiently than before.
Ibrahim nodded and, after slipping on his trainers, crawled towards the bright morning. Behind him Reenie began to wake, and outside and upright he saw the second plainclothes policeman; taller, younger and red-haired with a moustache and goatee beard.
‘Morning,’ said Ibrahim.
‘This is DI Donovan,’ said DCI Garfield. ‘Would you mind telling us your name?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your name, sir? Could you tell us your name?’
‘Ibrahim Siddique,’ he replied. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Sir… are you aware that you are not permitted to camp in the park without permission?’
‘What?’
‘You are camping in the park without permission. Did you know this is against the law?’
‘What? No, I… really?’
‘Yes, sir. Could I ask what you’re doing here?’
The flaps of the tent opened, and Reenie poked her head out, scowling at the two detectives, then at Ibrahim. ‘Who’re they?’
‘CID,’ said Ibrahim. ‘We’re camping illegally.’
‘Who says? And why’ve they sent CID?’
‘Madam,’ said DCI Garfield. ‘Do you know this man?’
‘I should bloody hope so. I’ve just shared a tent with him, so I don’t know what it would say about me if I didn’t.’
‘And what relation is… er… he to you?’
‘He’s my friend,’ said Reenie. ‘Now, alright, okay, maybe we’re not allowed to camp here, but we’ll be packed up and on our way in…’
‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious than that, madam. Mr Siddique… if you’d care to join me. We’ll just go over to the car and go through a few more questions.’
Ibrahim looked at Reenie and shrugged, a small, tired part of him wondering if this was some elaborate prank. One of those TV shows with a hidden camera, and a studio audience laughing at the footage, and the person being pranked standing there on stage, embarrassed and blushing.
‘Mr Siddique?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Ibrahim. ‘Whatever.’
He followed Garfield across the field, towards The Mall, and heard Reenie’s volley of short, irritated questions to the second detective getting quieter with the distance. Garfield spoke into his walkie-talkie; most of it indecipherable gibberish to anyone but a police officer, but the one turn of phrase Ibrahim understood clearly was ‘requesting back-up’.
On reaching the car, the DCI had him put his hands on the roof and patted him down, finding only a wallet, a set of keys, and a wad of printouts, which he unfolded one by one, laying them out on the car’s roof.
‘What’re these?’ he asked.
‘Maps,’ said Ibrahim.
‘I can see that. What are they for?’
‘I’ve been walking. I needed maps.’
‘I see.’
DCI Garfield helped him into the car, a large saloon, and closed the door behind him with a loud clunk before climbing into the driver’s seat.
‘Mr Siddique. Do you know where you are?’
‘What? What kind of a… yes. Yes. I know where I am.’
The DCI said nothing else; he simply raised one eyebrow and nodded, as if to prompt a more elaborate answer. In the closeness of the car’s interior, Ibrahim imagined the detective would smell of cigarette smoke laced with aftershave and maybe toothpaste, if only he could still smell. Rather, that smell was half tasted, half imagined.
‘I’m in London,’ he said. ‘St James’s Park.’
‘That’s right,’ said the DCI. ‘St James’s Park. And about three hundred yards down there is…?’ He pointed out through the windshield, towards the far end of The Mall.
‘Buckingham Palace?’ said Ibrahim, with a noncommittal shrug.
‘That’s right. Buckingham Palace. And about a quarter of a mile over there?’ He pointed over Ibrahim’s left shoulder, through the car’s rear window.
Ibrahim craned his head around, but all he could see was the park and the distant trees. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.
‘Houses of Parliament,’ said DCI Garfield. ‘Now, perhaps you could tell me why y
ou were camping in the middle of the park between Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament.’
‘What?’
‘Who’s the old woman, Ibrahim? It is Ibrahim, isn’t it?’
‘Yes… I… what?’
‘The old woman. Who’s the old woman?’
‘Her name’s Reenie. Well, Irene. We met in… we’ve been walking. I’ve been helping her. Why are…’
‘Is she homeless? Is she a homeless person?’
‘No. She has a tent. She has a house. In Cardiff. I…’
‘So what’s the deal? You saw her here last night? Figured her tent would be a good place to hide out?’
‘No. What?’
‘Right, Ibrahim. Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to take a trip across town, and we’re going to have a little chat about why you were camping in the park. How does that sound?’
‘A little chat?’
‘Ibrahim Siddique, I am arresting you on suspicion of vagrancy. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Vagrancy? What are you talking about, ‘vagrancy’? I’m not homeless. And that’s not what you were talking about. You were talking about Buckingham Palace, about the Houses of Parliament. Do you think I’m a terrorist? Is that it?’
Ibrahim heard himself say the word, but at the same time couldn’t quite believe he had said it. Its three syllables seemed to echo in the car.
‘You tell me,’ said the DCI.
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. We’ve walked from Cardiff. Both of us. We got here last night, and we needed somewhere to stay. She’s got that trolley. I thought…’
‘Save it for when we get to the station, Ibrahim. I think we should get this down on tape, don’t you?’
There were other police cars now, two of them pulling up in front and behind the saloon, and uniformed officers climbed out. Some crossed the park, to where DI Donovan was still talking to – or rather being talked at by – Reenie. There was a brief exchange between uniformed and plainclothes, and the DI walked back to the car, carrying Ibrahim’s bag, and climbed in next to him on the back seat.
‘Nothing, sir,’ he said. ‘She says they’ve been walking from Cardiff. Got here last night.’
DCI Garfield looked at Ibrahim in the rear-view mirror with a bitter, ironic smile.
‘Nice work, Ibrahim,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve got her well primed.’
Ibrahim refused to meet the detective’s glare, instead looking out across the park at Reenie. She was still talking to the uniformed officers, but looked back at him, and he held her gaze as the car began moving along The Mall. The finality in their exchanged glance told him everything he needed to know. They would never see each other again.
‘Where are we going?’ said Ibrahim.
‘Charing Cross Police Station,’ said DCI Garfield.
‘This is crazy.’
‘Is it?’ Said DI Donovan. ‘You were camping in the park. That’s illegal. That’s vagrancy right there. Vagrancy Act. 1824.’
‘Well remembered, DI Donovan,’ said DCI Garfield. ‘You ought to go on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? with a memory like that.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not a vagrant,’ said Ibrahim. ‘I’ve got a flat in Cardiff. I’m visiting family in London.’
‘Really?’ said the DI. ‘Family in London? Is that why you were sleeping in a tent?’
‘And then there are your maps,’ said DCI Garfield. ‘And your location when we found you. Look at it from our perspective, Ibrahim. You can see what it looks like.’
‘And what about Reenie? What’ll happen to her?’
‘She’ll be fine. Don’t worry about her. Obviously, we’ll probably have to contact social services, but she’ll be looked after.’
‘She doesn’t need looking after. She has somewhere to go. She has to be somewhere.’
‘Where, Ibrahim? Where does she have to be?’
‘Somewhere in Mayfair.’
‘Where, exactly, in Mayfair?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Thought not.’
Nauseous, his body tingling, Ibrahim couldn’t bring himself to believe this had happened; that they could travel so far, and for this to happen now, when he was so close to home. Though it must have lasted minutes, the drive across the West End seemed to take hours, and his nausea was coupled with a sense of alienation, of being foreign here. He no longer recognised his surroundings, and he’d forgotten how each part of the city fitted together. He’d hardly ever made these journeys above ground; always underground. When was the last time he had seen the West End? He couldn’t put a name to any of these streets.
The police station was an unfamiliar slab of beige tucked away a few streets from Trafalgar Square. Inside they processed him and placed him in a narrow, high-ceilinged cell with no windows, and from there he heard the sound of other prisoners yelling and shouting in the neighbouring cells, the slap-slap-slap of people passing by in the corridor, and the endless ringing of distant telephones.
This was it. They had made it to London, they had actually got to London, and now this. He thought of all the things the detectives might find, if they just looked hard enough, if they investigated further. Perhaps they would make a connection they had failed to make six years ago, linking him to Jamal and the others. Maybe then they’d join the dots, tie his being in St James’s Park on a Sunday morning to the books he had read as a teenager. Or perhaps they would go further than that, and some bright spark would remember the night of vandalism in an East London graveyard. He imagined the moment when, sitting in a box-like interview room, they’d slam the hammer and chisel down onto the table before him, the chisel’s blade still dusty with powdered marble. He laughed desperately at the idea that his journey had never been about seeing his father; but was about this. About being caught. No second chances now. He might as well have walked back into London with a sign around his neck, telling everyone what he had done.
When the time came for him to be questioned, he gave only the most recent of facts. His father was in hospital. He was unable to make the journey by car, bus or train. He began walking. On the road he met Reenie Glickman, and they walked together, for a while, before parting. They were reunited on the outskirts of Bristol, and they took to the motorway.
‘You walked on the motorway?’ said DI Donovan, scratching at his russet beard with his index finger.
Ibrahim nodded.
‘You do know that’s illegal?’ said DCI Garfield.
From the station he tried calling his sister, but the call was diverted to her voicemail. He gave the detectives her details. She could verify his story, he told them.
Back in the cell, he found he was unable to focus on any one thought with undivided attention, as if every concern was a brick, and those bricks had built up into an impenetrable wall. He was in a police station and his father was in a hospital. Reenie was… well, Reenie could be anywhere, as could his sister. The police could do anything with him, anything they liked. They had the power now, didn’t they? And what sympathy would there be for him? What sympathy was there for anyone arrested like this, when a name like his was as good as proof of guilt? The details were all there, the circumstantial details that would give the papers what they wanted. He was arrested between Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament. There’s no smoke without fire. And with him, the fire was there, if only they could find it, and they might.
26
She’d weathered many things in the last few weeks – washing and going to the toilet outdoors, surviving on scraps – but this took the cake. For the uniformed officers who arrived, shortly before they took Ibrahim away, she played dumb. No, worse than that – she played senile. Not incompetently senile. That would have had them calling social services, the arrival of co
ncerned people with clipboards, and a swift referral to a hospital or care home. No, instead she played mildly senile – doddering and bemused, the harmless old bag lady – and it helped that she certainly looked the part, but she hated every second of it. She hated their patronising tenderness, the soft tone of voice they adopted, the way they spoke about Ibrahim. She insisted he’d done nothing wrong, that they’d been together since Cardiff, but here her playact senility backfired on her, and they humoured her, telling her no harm would come to the young man, that they just needed to ask him a few questions. She knew what that meant, understood perfectly the veiled threat those words contained, but there was nothing she could do.
Once they’d left her, one of the officers having pushed her trolley back as far as The Mall, Reenie made her way into Mayfair. Here, she saw the difference between small town folk and Londoners. In the small towns and villages people had stared at her openly; here in London they made a point of not staring at her, of looking everywhere but at her.
The address on the letter was a place she’d heard of but never visited; a narrow, cobbled street of Georgian townhouses. Reenie ambled along the pavement, checking each house number in turn, and received a condescending sideways glance from a woman in a fur coat who clipped and clopped past her in stilettos. She got a similar look from a man in a tweed suit who passed by walking an Afghan hound. When she found the house she was looking for, Reenie parked her trolley next to a bollard, rang the doorbell, and waited.
From within the house she heard muffled voices, footsteps on a staircase, and then the sound of perhaps half-a-dozen locks being turned before the door was opened by a young man, no older than thirty; short blond hair and pale blue eyes, dressed in a bright red jumper and blue jeans. He looked almost Swedish or perhaps Norwegian, and Reenie wondered if she had the wrong house. It was hard enough for her to imagine any relative of hers living in a place like this, let alone looking quite so goyish. The young man looked at her askance and said, ‘Hello? Can I help you?’
Ibrahim & Reenie Page 23
