‘Honestly, Miren, will you give it a rest? Ana threw your attempt-at-a-rose at me, that’s all. And then I went and tried to get the stains out. But I was feeling ill.’
Miren looked satisfied, as if she’d wheedled the story out of me. Her triumph was so obvious it made me feel ashamed, as if I’d given her a compliment I didn’t mean. But I couldn’t explain about Skizi; it would be stupid to try. I didn’t know myself why I’d followed her, or why I’d run away.
We got to the corner of the street, and Miren paused, as if she wasn’t sure whether it was safe to let me walk home on my own. She said, ‘And you’re really all right?’
I was about to keep on walking, but I turned back and looked at her. Her hair had come out of its plait, and was clinging to her face in a kind of frizzy veil. She had a crumb of wood clinging to her chin from chewing her pencil, and her eyes were very wide and blank and shiny. I felt a great rush of sadness, as if I was never going to see her again.
I said, ‘Thanks, Miren. I’m really all right.’
Then I leant forward, kissed her on the cheek and walked away.
Our street was very quiet, and even in the shade the stones seemed to be giving off heat. I couldn’t find my key – it was probably at the bottom of my satchel, among the old hair ribbons and scraps of paper and broken pencils – so I rang the bell, glad that it wasn’t Dorotea’s afternoon off. When she came to the door she looked flushed and grumpy, with a pale shiny oil stain on her apron. She stood aside without a word to let me in, and then slammed the door and marched off down the passageway.
I said, ‘Thanks,’ to her back, and went up the stairs.
She made a noise that was halfway between a grunt and a question. Then I heard her say, ‘Esteya? Will you come here a minute?’
For a second I thought she’d found out, somehow, about Skizi. But when I peered over the banisters, she was standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the little table that stood beside the drawing-room door.
I said, ‘What?’
She pointed. ‘Did your mother move that pot?’
She meant a little silver inkwell, an ugly, ornate thing that someone had given Mama for her thirtieth birthday, just after Martin and I were born. She kept it there so that everyone who came to the house remarked on it as they went into the drawing room. But now there was only a faint circle in the dust.
I felt a slow stirring of something under my heart, like nausea. I said, ‘Don’t know. Sorry, Dorotea.’
Dorotea’s frown deepened, and she went into the drawing room. Through the open door I saw her shadow hesitate, then slide out of sight. She called, ‘Esteya! The little statue – the gold crucifix – the clock . . .’
I said, ‘Yes? What’s happened?’ but my voice sounded false, as if it was recorded. I hung on to the strap of my satchel, forbidding myself to open it, because my key was in there, somewhere. I wasn’t even going to bother to check.
‘Come here! Look – oh, dear heart of Jesus, everything valuable . . . and I was in there, in the kitchen, all the time – but how did they get in . . . ?’
Slowly I made my way down the stairs. I stood in the drawing-room doorway and looked around at the gaps, the reproachful little absences that I’d hardly have noticed, if I hadn’t known to look for them. I swallowed hard, and said, ‘You were here all afternoon?’
Dorotea opened her mouth and shut it again, like a fish, and then dropped noisily on to the sofa, breathing heavily. ‘Oh, Mary, full of grace! I could have been murdered . . .’
‘Are you sure it was today?’ I said. ‘Maybe the things could’ve been gone for ages, and you just didn’t notice. Maybe one of Papa’s patients –’
She sat up, as if she’d had an electric shock. ‘Call the police!’
‘Are you sure?’ I said again, feeling the dread in my stomach wriggle, like something trying to get out. ‘I mean –’
‘I could have been murdered,’ she said again, and this time there was an unmistakable note of pleasure in her voice. ‘Someone creeping round in here, taking everything they can lay their hands on . . . disgusting, that’s what I call it! Probably –’
I said quickly, ‘I’ll call Papa,’ but it was too late.
‘Zikindi,’ she said. ‘Bound to be.’
I stared at her, frozen, as if the word was a curse.
Then I stumbled back into the hall and stood next to the telephone, forcing myself to breathe.
I opened my satchel, upended it on the floor and spread everything out with my foot. There were exercise books and textbooks and bits of paper and even a leathery apple core; but no key. I hadn’t expected it to be there. Not when Skizi had rooted through my things, pulling out anything she liked the look of . . .
I put my hands flat on the telephone table, trying to stop them shaking. Then I picked up the receiver and dialled: not the police, but Papa, at the dispensary. I heard myself give him a brief explanation of what had happened, as efficiently as if I were a policeman myself, not letting him say anything. Then I hung up, gathered my things and went upstairs with them in my arms. Dorotea called after me, but I ignored her.
The door of my parents’ room was ajar. I pushed it open, and looked around. I didn’t come in here very often, but I knew Mama kept her jewellery on the dressing table, in a little velvet-covered box. The box was there, next to her powder puff; but it was open, and empty.
I leant back against the doorway, feeling sick. I imagined Skizi walking quietly up the stairs, my key still in her hand, and casting a quick, efficient eye over my mother’s things. I’d been so stupid. Everyone knew the Zikindi were thieves . . .
I couldn’t tell whether anything was gone from Leon’s room. It was as neat as a cell, with a pile of books on the desk and a pale patch on the wall where the picture of the Sacred Heart had hung. But Leon had taken that down himself.
Martin’s room was so messy it looked as if it had been burgled, but the only thing that seemed to have gone was his penknife. The only really valuable thing he owned was his wristwatch, and he was wearing that.
And in my room there was nothing missing; nothing at all. I wouldn’t have known that anyone had been in there – except that my ball, the pello ball that Skizi had given me, was sitting in a dent on my pillow. It seemed to be a message, but I didn’t know what it was supposed to mean. I looked at it and wished it was still where it had been, in my top drawer, out of sight. I thought of Skizi going through my flaccid, off-white cotton knickers; but instead of embarrassment I felt a sharp pain in my throat, pinching my larynx until I could hardly breathe. I blinked. My eyes were stinging.
Skizi . . .
I sat down on my bed, and waited for Papa to come home.
As Mama listed the things that were missing and pointed to each gap, the policeman glanced dutifully in the right direction, nodded wordlessly and then returned his gaze to his notebook. Papa jingled the small change in his pocket, and I heard Martin sigh. He’d insisted on being there, but I could feel him shifting restlessly on the sofa next to me, as if he was regretting it.
‘And there are a few other things missing,’ Papa said loudly, as if he was trying to attract the sergeant’s attention.
‘Yes?’
‘My wife’s jewellery, for one thing. Nothing priceless, but some items of great sentimental value.’
‘Jew-ell-er-y,’ the sergeant said, making a great show of writing it down.
‘Luckily I don’t keep any cash in the house,’ Papa said. ‘But I understand the thief went through every room – even my younger son’s penknife was taken.’
‘Army knife, Papa,’ Martin said. ‘My Swiss Army knife, that Grandpa gave me.’ He added, to the sergeant, ‘It’s really Swiss. I think it’s worth quite a lot actually.’
‘Ar-my . . . knife . . .’ the sergeant said. I felt Martin nudge me, but I ignored him.
There was a silence. Finally Mama said, ‘Do you think you can catch them?’
I looked down at my shoes, clenching my
toes so hard it hurt.
‘Well . . .’ the sergeant said. ‘Probably not. The thing is, there was no forced entry. Just opened the door and waltzed in, you see. Could’ve been anyone. Not easy things to sell, silver boxes and the like . . . Got household insurance, have you?’
It took me a second to understand what he was implying. When I raised my head, Martin was leaning forward, his cheeks flushed, just about to open his mouth. Papa shot him a look.
‘As I’ve explained, my daughter Esteya dropped her key in the street, this morning, when she was feeling ill. Anyone could have picked it up and decided to help themselves to our things.’
‘Exactly what I was saying, sir,’ the sergeant said, and scratched the inside of one nostril with his thumb. ‘Could’ve been anyone. No evidence. Careless of your daughter, I’m afraid.’
‘It certainly was,’ Mama said. I didn’t look at her.
‘But . . . well, I sympathise with your loss, of course, sir,’ the sergeant said. His voice was greasy and ironic. Papa’s jaw tensed and he took a deep breath, as if the words had an extra meaning only he understood. ‘But . . . I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Mama said, standing up and straightening her skirt. ‘We know perfectly well that there are Zikindi hanging about the town. It seems to me that you would do very well to start with them.’
I swallowed, feeling the heat start to creep over my cheeks, like mould.
‘Zikindi?’ The sergeant was being deliberately stupid; I didn’t know why, but I could see it in his eyes. I looked at my shoes again, scared someone would notice my face.
‘Zikindi are thieves, blood and bone,’ Mama said. ‘Everyone knows that, surely? Even people who appear to know very little else.’
‘We-ell,’ the sergeant said, looking at his notebook, as if he hadn’t noticed her tone. ‘Undesirables, certainly, and we will be asking them to move on, but as for your little silver boxes and suchlike –’
There was the noise of a key in the front door, a footstep, and then the drawing-room door opened and Leon stood in the doorway, sweaty-faced and in his shirtsleeves. ‘Hello. What’s this, then? The end of a whodunit? Who’s dead?’
The sergeant looked round at him, and the dislike showed on his face, as if the veneer had finally worn through. ‘Sorry to say there’s been a burglary,’ he said. ‘And you must be –’
‘My son Leon,’ Papa said, and cleared his throat. ‘Well, thank you for your effor–’
‘Papa, you let him into the house?’ Leon’s upper lip curled, as if he could smell something bad. ‘I hope you don’t expect the police to do anything except keep a sharp eye out for their own interests. Oh, and beat people up, of course.’ He added to the sergeant, ‘Teddy home yet?’ and then to Papa, ‘Better go round to see him as soon as he is. He’ll be in need of a bit of work.’
‘Leon,’ Papa said, ‘please don’t –’
‘Oh,’ the sergeant said. ‘You’re the one who likes playing at Communism, are you? We’ve heard about you.’
‘Playing at –’ Leon began.
‘Leon!’ Papa said. ‘Go and check your room to see if anything’s missing.’
‘No need, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Got all your details. Anything else comes up, let us know. You can send your son down the station, if you want. Kill two birds with one stone.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The sergeant frowned, scratching his head. ‘Oh, nothing meant by it, sir, only a joke. Just – well, thievery and the – what’s the phrase? – the redistribution of wealth aren’t that different, are they?’ He nodded to Leon. ‘Better watch what you say, sonny. Got away with it so far, but no one’s luck lasts for ever.’
There was a silence. Leon took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.
Martin said, ‘Is it true that Teddy – that Mr Edwards was . . . ?’
The sergeant rolled his neck, making the tendons crack. He said, ‘Mr Edwards is having a word with my colleagues down at the station, about an article he caused to be published.’
‘?“Caused to be published”?’ Leon muttered. Mama flinched, but no one else reacted, as if we were all hoping the sergeant hadn’t heard.
‘Well . . . if that’s all . . .’ He shut his notebook and pulled the elastic band round it with a snap. ‘Good evening, Dr Bidart, Mrs Bidart . . . I’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything . . .’
Papa moved the corners of his mouth into a smile and crossed to the door to show him out. I heard him say, ‘Thank you for coming, and do excuse my son – students, you know, he’s at a rebellious age . . .’ Then the front door opened and shut again.
Martin shook his head and hissed through his teeth, glaring at Leon, ‘Great idea, Leon! Just insult the police, why don’t you? To their faces. Why don’t you draw a bullseye on your shirt and invite yourself to the station for target practice?’
‘Be quiet, Martin,’ Mama said, her voice cracking like a whip. ‘Esteya, I cannot credit your stupidity in losing your key! I’m disgusted and disappointed in you both. And as for you, Leon –’ She stopped, catching herself, and shrugged.
Papa came back into the room. He looked round at us, dropped into the nearest chair and dabbed at his eyes as if they were hurting. After a while he said, ‘I looked after his brother’s little girl, when she was ill. Poor little thing. I tried my best, but she was too far gone . . . They had no money, they hadn’t wanted to call me in, until it was too late . . . They’ve never forgiven me.’
‘And now they have a reason to hate Leon too,’ Mama said. She sounded waspish, but her face was white and strained.
‘They don’t need reasons,’ Leon said. ‘They’re the self-serving skivvies of a corrupt regime, and –’
‘Be quiet!’ Papa said. He took a deep breath and looked at Mama. She returned his gaze, without saying anything.
The silence went on and on. In the end Martin said, ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Yes,’ Mama said, ‘I suppose you’d better wash before supper. Esteya, you’ve got ink all over your hands. I hope you haven’t left black fingerprints all over your school uniform . . . Leon, perhaps you could try to look a little more respectable . . . ? And Martin, you’ve been playing pello in your good shoes again, haven’t you? Honestly, I don’t know why I bother . . .’ Her voice sounded too thin, as if she couldn’t catch her breath. She made her way to the door, holding on to the furniture to support herself, like an old woman. ‘Go on, children. Do get a move on.’
Leon went out without a word, his hands in his pockets, and Martin followed him, more slowly. I stood up too, but the floor felt soft and wobbly, as though I was standing on a plate of jelly?. My stomach ached. I said, ‘Sorry, Mama.’
‘Oh, Esteya . . .’ She glanced at me, and then sat down, very suddenly, on the nearest chair. ‘If only you hadn’t been so silly . . . we probably shan’t get anything back, and that horrid policeman . . . and Leon being so –’
She broke off, and ran her forefingers delicately under her eyes. I realised, with a surge of sickness, that she was crying. I said again, pushing the words out, ‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Run away, Esteya,’ Papa said. ‘We’re all a little overtired, with the upset. Go and wash your hands for supper.’
I swallowed, took a last look at Mama and went out into the hall. I shut the door behind me and then sat on the stairs, my head in my hands. I was too tired to wash my hands; too tired to move. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I never wanted to eat again. It was all my fault. My fault, for being so stupid, for trusting Skizi, when everyone knew the Zikindi were thieving bastards . . . I thought of all the spaces in the drawing room, where Mama’s little cherished things had been; and of the sergeant’s face when he called Leon a Communist, with that malicious, triumphant edge in his voice – the same tone he’d used when he’d said, Mr Edwards is having a word with my colleagues down at the station . . . Now the police had noticed Leon, and that was dangerous. Maybe Papa should never
have called them. But if Skizi hadn’t robbed us, he wouldn’t have needed to. And if I hadn’t let her steal my key . . .
The thoughts went back and forth, like a ball smacking against a wall over and over again.
And it was only then that it occurred to me that maybe I should have told my parents about Skizi. I thought of how easy it would be, really: a few days of fury from Mama and cold disappointment from Papa, distaste from Leon, bewilderment from Martin . . . and the police would get back everything she’d taken, and beat her up a little bit to make sure she moved on, and then everything would be sorted out. That’s what Miren would do, or Ana Himyana, or . . . well, anyone else. That was how things worked.
I closed my eyes. I saw the walls of Skizi’s hut, with lopsided sunlight streaming from the hole in the roof, so the drawings were picked out in random gold: Leon’s glasses, Teddy’s camera, Angel’s beautiful face.
Distantly I could hear my parents arguing, muffled by the door: Mama raising her voice and Papa trying to calm her down. I kept my eyes shut and thought of Skizi.
Then I went upstairs to wash my hands, letting the taps run so I couldn’t hear my parents’ voices.
I woke up in the middle of the night, jolting out of sleep, and I was on my feet and at my window before I realised I was awake. I stood looking out into the street, bracing myself against the window frame, and took deep breaths of night air, feeling the sweat drying on my skin. Something had woken me. It might have been a nightmare, but somehow I was sure that it was something real: a noise, or someone calling my name, something that meant something . . . But everything was quiet.
I waited until I felt chilly. There was nothing but silence. I took a deep breath, and another, and then slowly I turned away from the window and sat down on my bed. But I wasn’t sleepy: whatever had woken me up had woken me up completely, like a bolt of electricity. I leant my head against the wall, wondering if Martin was awake, if he’d heard it too.
And then, suddenly, I realised what the noise was. The front door.
The front door, but no one had come up the stairs. So . . .
Love in Revolution Page 6
