‘No chance of that. We’re gonna glass it in and then embed the post in concrete – the lawn is history. And after that we’ll fence the lot in.’
‘That’s overkill, isn’t it?’
‘You think so? It’s the badlands around here, and from what we’ve heard it’s only going to get badder.’ He grimaced. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, we have to get on.’
She left them to it, walking along the High Street until she turned off to go down the market. There the ice was melting almost as fast as the fishmongers could lay it down, so that water was dripping off the trays onto the pavement and into the gutters, flavouring the air with the stink of fish. Careful to hold her skirt up, she stepped onto the pavement and kept going, passing a pound shop, one of three along the parade. She stopped by a display of plastic boxes of various sizes, and mops and brooms that had spilt out onto the pavement and almost into the road.
‘Jayden?’
Jayden, who had been picking up the fallen brooms, looked up. A taciturn boy, he nodded to her.
‘You were out early this morning.’
He shrugged and said something that sounded like ‘I dunno.’
‘Not at school?’
He shook his head and didn’t speak, but whether this was because he was truanting and didn’t want to say so, or because he couldn’t summon up the energy for an explanation, she couldn’t tell.
‘Come and have some cake with us after your tea.’
‘Okay,’ he said. And gave a little smile. Which she knew was the best she was going to get out of him.
She moved on only to stop again at the last shop in the run. It wasn’t her favourite, but it was the cheapest. She reached over the display of peppers and okra and tomatoes to the plantain at the back. She had just picked up a piece when a voice sounded in her ear: ‘That plantain’s tired.’
She looked up and straight into the sun, so that all she first saw against the dazzle was a dark shape. She took a step back, blinked and her vision cleared: ‘Banji. You scared me.’
He smiled and his eyes crinkled. Which she’d always liked. She smiled back.
He took the plantain she’d been reaching for, turning it over to expose a bruised underside. ‘If you have to shop here, you’ve got to shop clever.’ He put the piece back and picked through the pile. ‘This one’s fresher.’
As she took it from him, his other hand touched and held hers.
‘You’re so cool,’ she said.
‘I was born cool.’ He smiled again.
They stood for a moment not speaking, and she thought how mismatched they – a stout white woman and a tall black man, standing close – must look, and then she thought that she should take back her hand.
She didn’t want to.
‘How was Lindi this morning?’ he said.
‘Disappointed you weren’t there. And stroppy as hell.’
‘Can’t imagine where she gets that from.’ Another smile as he increased his pressure on her hand.
She looked down at his long brown fingers with their broad square-cut nails and the back of his hand with its raised veins. She saw her own hand in his, plump and white, as he continued, gently, to squeeze it.
It was fifteen years since he’d left, and his going had been so brutal and so final she’d neither expected to see him again nor hoped that she might. But now she found herself in the grip of some of the feelings she had thought long gone. He’s playing me, she told herself. And said, ‘Where did you go this morning?’, although she knew he wouldn’t like the question.
He took his hand away so abruptly that she was pulled forwards.
‘What the hell?’ She backed away from him. ‘Why do you always have to be so difficult?’
Not often that she shouted at him, and now she saw, in his rapid blinking, how she had taken him by surprise. Good, she thought.
‘Hey.’ He reached out to tap her, gently, on the nose. ‘I didn’t mean to unbalance you.’
If he thought he could win her over so easily, he better think again. She turned her wrist to look at her watch and, although she had nowhere to be, said, ‘I’m late.’ Plantain in hand, she went into the shop.
There was a queue by the till. She wandered through the narrow aisles, giving herself space in which to cool down and Banji time to make good his escape. But when at last she re-emerged, she found that he had waited for her.
‘I’m sorry.’ He was looking down at her, twitching his nose in that other way she had also always found appealing. ‘I was out of line.’
She couldn’t remember him ever apologising. Despite herself, she softened. Said, ‘And I overreacted. The heat’s doing me in.’ She even thought of stretching up to kiss him.
But his attention had already moved off. ‘Trouble,’ he said.
She followed his gaze and saw Ruben, who, six feet three and broad with it, his head covered even in this extreme heat by a hoodie, was cutting a swathe down the middle of the market as only Ruben ever did.He walked as if he was completely alone in an empty space, wind-milling his arms to accompany words that seemed to burst from him. ‘Option,’ Cathy heard. ‘Action. Traction. Mischief.’ To punctuate the last, he slapped open palms against his chest so hard it sounded like a gun going off.
‘He must be off his meds,’ Banji said.
‘He won’t hurt anybody. Not unless he feels threatened.’
‘No, but he might hurt himself. And . . . Oh shit.’
Banji had already seen what Cathy only now noticed – two uniformed policemen making straight for Ruben. She knew most of Rockham’s bobbies, but she had not seen these two before. And Ruben did not take to strangers.
‘If they try and stop him . . .’ Banji began.
She didn’t stick around to hear what he was going to say. ‘Come on,’ she called as she began to run.
By the time she reached Ruben, a group of onlookers, mostly young men who, for want of something better to do, hung around the market, had also been drawn to the scene. She could feel the heat coming off them, and she knew this wasn’t just down to the weather.
As a member of the police community liaison committee, she’d clocked the recent rise in confrontations between the police and Rockham’s youth, a result of the Clean-Up-Rockham campaign that the new borough commander had set in motion. It was a grand-sounding initiative that so far seemed to consist primarily of an escalation in stop and searches, with a corresponding rise in allegations of harassment. With the imminent closure of the estate upping the tension, the last thing they needed was another incident, especially one involving Ruben, who was a kind of Lovelace mascot. She pushed her way to the front.
‘I’m asking you nicely, sir,’ the older of the two policeman, a sergeant, was saying to Ruben. ‘Lift your hood away.’
‘Action,’ Ruben said. ‘Mischief.’ He windmilled his arms close to the policeman’s face.
‘Careful,’ the policeman said. ‘Hit me and there’ll be trouble.’
‘Action.’ Ruben sped up the agitation of his arms.
The policeman held his ground. ‘Under Section 60 of the Public Order Act, I am authorised to request that you remove your face covering. All you have to do, sir, is take it down and then, all things being well, we can go on our way.’
‘Mischief,’ Ruben said, and again, ‘mischief.’
‘Let him alone,’ came a shout from inside the crowd, and from someone else, ‘He’s not doing any harm,’ while the crowd moved closer.
‘Do what you’ve been trained to do,’ the sergeant told his junior.
‘Assistance required,’ the constable said into his radio as he turned to face the gathering. He was young, and new, and the hand that held the radio was trembling.
Not so his sergeant. A big man, and sure of his authority, he stepped close enough to Ruben for their noses to be almost touching.
‘Action,’ Ruben said. ‘Traction.’ He flicked both hands at the policeman as if trying to shoo away an insect.
‘No need to take the piss.’ The
sergeant moved closer.
‘Don’t touch me.’ Ruben backed off until he ended up jammed against a stall.
‘Leave him alone!’ The cry was taken up by other members of the now growing crowd.
‘Sarge.’ This from the young constable.
But the sergeant was not prepared to listen either to his junior’s appeal or to the rumblings of the crowd. ‘Your choice,’ he said, and might have laid hands on Ruben had not someone darted from the crowd to interpose himself between the two.
‘Hold on, officer.’ It was Reverend Pius Batcher of the local Methodists and a fellow member of the liaison committee. Normally a soft-spoken man, Pius now used a voice built up by years in the pulpit: ‘You’re new to the area, so allow me to introduce you to Ruben, a member of my congregation. Ruben wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not unless you invade his personal space.’
‘I wouldn’t care if he was the Archbishop himself,’ the policeman said, ‘I would still ask him to remove his hood.’
‘Which he will do, officer. In good time.’ Pius smiled as he saw the policeman taking in his dog collar. ‘I’ll stand here,’ he said, ‘while Marcus there,’ he nodded his head at the dreadlocked third member of their small committee, who must have arrived with him, ‘asks these concerned members of our community to back away. Meanwhile, Cathy here,’ he inclined his head in her direction, ‘will help Ruben.’
What the crowd would not do for the rookie they did for Marcus, stepping back when he asked them to. Not far, though. They kept pressure on the policeman, who called out, ‘Sarge.’
The sergeant looked towards his young constable. He frowned and seemed about to turn away when the young policeman said softly, ‘There’s a lot of them.’
In that moment, before the sergeant could do anything worse, Cathy said to Ruben, ‘You know me, Ruben, don’t you?’
Ruben had lowered his head and was looking at his shoes. He did not look up.
‘And you know I’d never do anything to hurt you?’
At least this time he nodded.
‘What they need you to do is pull back your hood. Only for a moment. They want to see your face. Do you understand?’
Another, reluctant, nod.
‘OK, then. I’m going to help you.’ She moved just one step closer. ‘The first thing I’m going to do is to put my hand on your arm.’ She reached out her arm: ‘Here goes.’
He jerked away, his head shaking wildly while his arms, which he’d crossed and folded around himself so that each hand was holding on to the opposite forearm, were likewise shaking. She knew that he was holding on to himself, not so much as protection from her but to stop himself from hurting her. Seeing the effort this was costing him, she took a step back. As she did, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, how the sergeant mirrored her movement by coming closer. If she didn’t manage to get Ruben’s cooperation, and soon, the sergeant would take over, with unpredictable consequences.
She said, ‘Ruben.’ Commanding him but without raising her voice.
He lifted his head.
‘I know you don’t want to hurt me,’ she said. ‘And,’ hoping it was true, ‘I know you won’t. I’m going to try again.’
She reached out, and to her relief this time he let her rest it on his velveteen sleeve. His arm was shaking, and his eyes had filled with tears. He was clearly struggling with himself, but he did, at least, let her hand be.
‘I’m going to leave my hand there and come closer.’ She moved in on him, keeping her voice low, making sure to clearly enunciate her intentions. ‘And now, what I’m going to do, is stand in front of you, and reach up, and move your hood back. Because I’m standing here, only me and the policeman will be able to see your face. Will you let me do that?’
He looked at her. Blankly.
‘Will you?’
His shook himself, as if coming back to himself. And nodded. Almost imperceptibly, but it was consent.
‘Okay, then.’ Without taking her eyes off him, Cathy called, ‘Officer, please join us.’
She had been so concentrated on making the small space they occupied safe for Ruben that all thoughts and all sounds had faded. Now she felt rather than heard the sergeant closing in.
‘I’m going to take down his hood,’ she said. ‘Please don’t touch him.’
She took the policeman’s silence as consent. She stretched up her arm, ‘No one but us can see,’ and nudged the hood off Ruben’s bald head.
He let out a strangled cry, and both his hands shot up to cover his face.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I have to have a proper look.’
She almost had to stand on tiptoes to take hold of Ruben’s hands and pry them away.
‘Reaction,’ Ruben whispered. He was still trembling.
‘Satisfied?’ Cathy didn’t wait for the policeman’s reply. ‘You did great,’ she said, letting go of Ruben’s hands. ‘You can put back your hood.’
He pulled his hood over his head so roughly that it covered his eyes. ‘Action,’ he said. His voice was louder now than it had been before. ‘Traction.’ And his arms wilder.
‘It’s okay.’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw the sergeant’s confirming nod. ‘You can go.’
Ruben took a step forward and seemed to stumble. It happened sometimes – his legs just gave out on him.
She resisted the impulse to help. She got out of his way so he could stretch both arms out as if the air would support them. Then at last, with his head hung low, he shambled away, a wounded bear in search of his cave. ‘Option,’ he muttered. ‘Action.’ His face was crumpled in distress. ‘Traction. Mischief.’
‘Show’s over.’ The younger policeman now tried to exert an authority that had so far eluded him.
The onlookers did not move on. They looked at him and his colleague. And did not speak.
‘Move along.’ His quivering Adam’s apple indicated that he had a lot to learn before he could exert authority over such a disaffected bunch. Which was probably fortunate, Cathy thought: a more experienced officer might have gone in harder, with unpredictable consequences.
‘If there’s trouble,’ Marcus told the crowd, ‘it’ll be us that suffers for it. Ruben is safe. Let’s go back to our lives.’ At which the crowd did begin to disperse.
‘Well then,’ this from the young policeman.
‘Break it up,’ the sergeant told the air.
As Pius began to tell the sergeant what he should have done, their voices faded from Cathy’s consciousness. Her first sensation had been relief that Ruben was safe. But now something else was bothering her. Something out of kilter. Something missing.
Someone.
Banji.
Where had he got to? Out of the corner of her eye she saw the sergeant stalk off. ‘Have you seen Banji?’
‘He’s over there.’ Marcus pointed to the far end of the market where Banji was still standing.
He didn’t notice her looking. He was too busy watching Ruben.
‘How come he didn’t help?’
She must have spoken the thought aloud, because Marcus came back with, ‘That coconut. He thinks only of his own skin.’
Knowing that there was little love lost between the two men, she didn’t reply. Besides, she couldn’t help thinking that Marcus was right: Banji had been the first to spot trouble looming, and yet when she had gone to help, he had abandoned her.
Again.
As he had done early this morning.
And fifteen years ago.
She sighed.
‘Something troubling you?’ This from Pius.
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ she said, hoping it was the truth.
8.30 p.m.
Mr Hashi had asked Jayden to come early, which meant he’d had to skip school, and then Mr Hashi had also asked him to stay on late. Okay by Jayden. He needed to earn enough to see them through until his mother’s next disability payment.
He carried the last of the plastic bins inside, stacking them below the left side shelf as Mr
Hashi had taught him to do. He stretched up on tiptoes, removing the long hook from where it hung and, taking it outside, used it to pull the shutter down. He left just enough space for him to duck under and then, once inside, closed the gap and bolted the shutter. He put the hook back, pulled up the counter, walked through, slammed the till drawer as he passed and opened the door behind the counter to call, ‘Mr Hashi.’
No answer. He tried again: ‘Mr Hashi.’
‘Come up, Jay Don.’ This was the way Mr Hashi always pronounced his name. ‘We have lahoh for you.’
He glanced back at the wall clock: 8.40. Lyndall’s mum would be wondering where he’d got to. So would his mum if, that is, she knew what the time was. But he was hungry, and Mr Hashi always acted hurt if Jayden said no to his invitations. ‘I’m coming.’ He pulled the door shut behind him.
Darkness and something wrong with the wiring, which meant there was no point trying to find the light switch. As he made his way up the steep stairs, he took care to steer dead centre so he wouldn’t bang into any of the goods that lined both edges. As he neared the flat that Mr Hashi shared with his mother, the smell of cardamom and cinnamon and the incense that they always had burning grew more pungent.
The door he knocked on was immediately opened. ‘Come in, Jay Don.’ As hot as it was, Mr Hashi was wearing that same dark-blue jumper he never seemed to take off. He stepped aside to let Jayden into a small room whose piles of cushions and thick carpeting made everything much hotter than it already was outside.
Mr Hashi’s mother was sitting on her usual cushion in a corner. Jayden went over to stand in front of her and bow, as Mr Hashi had taught him to do. When she said, ‘Salaam Alaikum,’ he answered, ‘Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,’ as he’d also been taught, although it always felt a bit strange having to twist his tongue around the words.
‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked, at which she, who didn’t have a word of English but who could tell his question was kindly meant, stretched her grin even wider so he got a glimpse of her few remaining teeth where they stuck out of her gums.
‘Sit, sit,’ Mr Hashi urged him. ‘You are our guest.’
One half of the room was the women’s section. Crossing into the other half, Jayden lowered himself down. When first he’d been invited in, he’d thought the lack of furniture strange; now he liked the cushions. They were much more comfortable than anything they had at home.
Ten Days Page 3
