Ten Days

by Gillian Slovo

  ‘Is your mum okay?’ Mr Hashi had needed him early so he could take his mother to the hospital.

  ‘She is old.’ Mr Hashi gave a resigned shrug. He turned to the stove, picked up the silver teapot and poured from it into a glass cup. He added milk and a spoon of sugar, and then he put the cup on a silver tray on which was already laid a plate piled high with the flat pancake bread that Jayden had learnt to love and, beside it, a bowl of honey.

  ‘The till drawer was open, Mr Hashi,’ Jayden said. ‘You got to get it fixed.’

  ‘True. I got to.’ Mr Hashi put the tray down on the small metallic side table beside Jayden. ‘Now worry about yourself, growing boy, Jay Don. And eat. My mother baked the biscuits you like. She will be most disappointed if you don’t have at least five.’

  9 p.m.

  Cathy and Lyndall had opened every door and every window and still the place was too hot, so they had moved out onto the landing. As had most of the estate. Conversation, laughter and the sounds of quarrelling rose up into the sticky air to the accompaniment of the heavy base beat blasting out of one of the flats. Arthur from next door had fallen asleep in his rickety deckchair, his mouth slack, his snores beating out their own rhythm against the general racket, and nothing, not even the giggling kids who were running up and jumping over his outstretched legs, occasionally delivering a mistaken backward kick, disturbed him.

  ‘Shift up.’ Cathy used a foot to nudge Lyndall, who was sprawled out on sofa cushions. ‘And take this, will you?’ She passed down the plate she’d just fetched from the kitchen.

  ‘Mmm.’ The cake was a soggy mess surrounded by a sticky puddle of icing. ‘That looks . . . umm . . . good?’

  ‘No need to lie.’ Cathy lowered herself down ‘It’s my worst ever. Chocolate wasn’t the best choice in this weather, especially with the fridge on the blink. But it’s Jayden’s favourite, and it may taste better than it looks.’

  ‘And Jayden is where exactly?’

  ‘He’s never been the most punctual of boys. Give him a knock, will you?’

  Lyndall, who was in one of her more cooperative moods, sprung up, her gazelle legs making short shrift of the distance between their front door and Jayden’s. She beat a tattoo against the board that had been nailed in over a broken pane. No answer. She knocked again, and harder. A long pause before the door opened a crack. Lyndall spoke into it, and whoever was behind the crack said something before banging the door shut.

  Lyndall shrugged and came back. Standing in front of Cathy, she lowered her head and raised her shoulders in a perfect imitation of Jayden’s mother’s slump: ‘She doesn’t know.’ She also had Jayden’s mother’s monotone pitch perfect. ‘Never sees him. Doesn’t know what he’s up to,’ and now an escalation in pitch, ‘doesn’t care. He should be protecting her, but he’s a bastard. Like his father. End of.’ Lyndall smiled. Having ditched Jayden’s mother’s sour expression, she now looked so pretty, especially given that the lowering sun added a golden lustre to her coffee-coloured skin. ‘Who’s Jayden meant to be protecting her from?’

  ‘Her enemies, I guess.’ Cathy sighed. ‘Of which she makes many. She’s going to be at the bottom of every list when they close the Lovelace.’ She sighed again. ‘Poor Jayden.’

  ‘At least he knows who his bastard of a father is.’

  ‘Lyndall!’ Cathy had to shield her eyes against the lowering sun in order to see her daughter. ‘You promised.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ Lyndall’s hands raised high in mock surrender. ‘I won’t ask for another week.’ She dropped her hands, slapping them for emphasis against her bare legs. She gave a quick smile, her way of showing that she didn’t bear a grudge, before she walked the few paces to the low wall that overlooked the estate.

  The sun was just now dipping behind the furthest building, and the black of the intertwining walkways had taken on a silver sheen. ‘There’s another meeting at the centre,’ Lyndall said.

  ‘I didn’t hear of any meeting.’ Cathy went over to stand next to Lyndall. She saw the doors to the community centre open and a handful of people filing in. ‘I wonder what it’s about.’

  ‘Scouts against the Bomb? Mothers for Rap?’ Lyndall smiled. ‘Oh no, if that had been it, you’d be there, wouldn’t you, Mum? How about Rastafarians for a Better Quality of Puff?’

  Next to the community centre was another low-brick building that had started out life as a launderette. After it closed, a series of deluded optimists had tried and failed to turn it variously into a functioning chippie, a newsagent and, for a few mad months, a soft furnishings shop. Each reinvention had failed more spectacularly than the previous one. Now, with the Lovelace coming down, the council had given up trying to rent the space and had, instead, boarded up the building, but badly, so someone soon prised open a hole big enough for a person to get in and out. As they stood looking down, a woman climbed through this hole.

  ‘Hold on to your wallets,’ Lyndall said. The woman straightened up, tugged down her tiny skirt, put the sunglasses that had been embedded in her straw-coloured hair on her nose and then, teetering on high heels, sashayed in a generally forward direction. ‘The pop-up brothel’s on the move.’

  ‘Just because she uses,’ Cathy said, ‘doesn’t make her a prostitute.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Lyndall said. ‘You’re such an innocent.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, and you’re the one who landed us in an estate named after a porn star and didn’t even realise it.’

  ‘I keep telling you, Richard Lovelace was a seventeenth-century poet.’

  ‘So you do,’ Lyndall said, ‘and I bet you also think the mistresses he writes about are all allegories.’ But she said it without much emphasis, because her attention had been caught by something else. ‘Looks like Ruben’s off on one,’ she said.

  As the tottering woman neared the edge of a building, Ruben had rounded the corner. He was holding something that, when Cathy looked harder, turned out to be a long stick. Coming abreast of the woman, he lifted the stick. She held up two fingers and flicked them, then kept on going. It was a gesture that, if Ruben saw it, he ignored. He thwacked the stick down against his palm. His lips were moving, although he was too far away for Cathy to hear what he was saying, as he continued, rhythmically, to hit his palm.

  ‘I better go down,’ she said.

  ‘No need.’ This from Lyndall, whose eyes were keener than her mother’s. ‘Banji’s on the case.’

  Cathy saw that Lyndall was right and that Banji had also rounded the corner. As Ruben made slow progress, Banji made no effort to catch up with him, instead matching his pace to the other man’s so he wouldn’t be seen. At one point Ruben wheeled round to stand stock-still, peering into the rapidly descending dark as if he knew someone was following him. But by then Banji had melted back against a wall so Ruben didn’t spot him.

  Banji’s such a contradiction, Cathy thought: first he steers clear of any involvement, and then, just as I decide he’s a complete waste of space, here he is, quite clearly following Ruben to make sure he stays safe.

  The door to the community centre was still open. When Ruben came abreast of it he stopped. Banji stopped behind him. Someone must have been standing near the door because, although Cathy couldn’t make out who it was, they came to the threshold and spoke to Ruben, who raised his stick arm. The someone must have talked some more because although Ruben kept the arm up he neither stepped away nor raised it further.

  ‘Must be somebody who knows him.’ Cathy felt herself relax.

  The door was opened wider, and Ruben stepped in.

  ‘They’ll talk him down,’ Cathy said. ‘They’ll keep him safe. I’m going to make some tea.’

  9.10 p.m.

  There was so much to catch up with and so much to put right that Joshua Yares would have stayed on if Downing Street hadn’t called. It was for the best: if he’d kept going, others in the senior management team might have felt obliged to do the same. Probably wiser n
ot to stretch their patience so early on.

  The secretary who’d called had made it clear that this was a private visit, so Joshua circled round to Horse Guards Parade in order to go in through the back.

  ‘The Prime Minister’s expecting you, sir.’ A man led him up the narrow service stairs to the third-floor flat and rapped smartly on the door. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door, saying, ‘Please do go in. And help yourself to a drink. The PM will be with you in a jiffy,’ before he went away.

  Joshua hadn’t been in the living room for a while, and now he admired afresh how successful Marianne had been in her project to stamp out all the tasteful traces of the previous occupants. The room was in fact such a riot of colour the tabloids had nicknamed it Dizzy Street.

  None of this was much to Joshua’s taste, but when Marianne was in residence there was a crazy logic that seemed to work. Now, however, everything looked to be out of place and clashing with everything else. Marianne must be in the country, leaving the room to the mercy of the whirlwind that was Teddy, who was bound to be the source of the loud rock music issuing from deeper in the flat.

  Joshua was hot and thirsty from his walk. He poured himself a soda water.

  ‘That all you want?’

  He turned. ‘Prime Minister.’

  ‘No need to stand on ceremony, Josh. Here we can still be friends. Fix me a malt, will you? No ice.’ The Prime Minister had always been a vigorous man and, although he looked exhausted, he strode rather than walked across the room, and when he opened the door to shout, ‘Turn that racket down. And come and say hello to Joshua,’ his voice was loud enough to penetrate the music, which was immediately cut off.

  ‘That God for that.’ Taking the glass from Joshua, the PM went over to one of the sofas, plopped himself down into its bright-cushioned embrace and took such a big swig that he almost downed the lot.

  ‘Bad day?’

  ‘Not much fun. Bit of a pattern at the moment. I wake, see the blue sky, remember the latest guestimate of how much water there is in our reservoirs and decide, yet again, that somebody up there has it in for me.’ He drank what remained of his glass before putting it down with a bang.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘Better not.’ He stretched out his long legs and sighed. ‘It’s frenetic at the moment. Marianne’s right to have made good her escape. She sends her love by the way.’

  ‘And mine to her.’ With Marianne away, Joshua couldn’t help wondering why this sudden summons to the private residence. And on his first day as Commissioner.

  ‘You must have heard Whiteley using your appointment to attack me?’

  Could this be the reason? But surely the Prime Minister knew that, now he was in post, there was no way that Joshua could get involved in a squabble between politicians, especially in the same party, even if it did seem to be about him. Joshua gave a noncommittal nod.

  ‘The ungrateful bastard is after my job. Didn’t think he’d dare. Frances, his Lady Macbeth of a wife, sweats politics – if, that is, she ever sweats. I can’t help admiring her even though she’s dangerous. She was born to it. But he had to fight hard to get where he is, and he got there with my help. I thought he was genuinely interested in public service. And loyal.’

  There was a time when Joshua could have pointed out that a series of disastrous polls might have something to do with Whiteley’s new-found disloyalty, but he must now be more circumspect. He was saved anyway from replying because the door was flung open to reveal the Prime Minister’s son, Teddy, who was dressed in a pair of frayed cut-off shorts and no top, so that his sharp ribs seemed to stick out through his pale-white skin.

  ‘Hello, Joshua,’ he said, and immediately turned away.

  ‘Teddy!’

  He turned back. ‘Sorry.’ He put a hearty fakery into his voice as he repeated his greeting, ‘Hello, Joshua,’ adding, ‘enjoying the new job, are we?’

  ‘Too early to say.’ Although Teddy’s tone had made it clear that he was only doing what his father expected of him, and with ill grace, Joshua couldn’t help smiling. Not easy to live under the spotlight in Downing Street when you were seventeen, especially when you were pitching for edgy eccentricity, as Teddy obviously was. And despite the pimples, and the louche posture, and the drawled disinterest, Joshua could still see remnants of the enthusiastic young boy he had always warmed to. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Fucking awful, actually. Nothing but revision, and in this heat. Which, speaking of. Must get back to it.’

  He made to leave but stopped when his father said, ‘You remember I’m off tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure do.’ It was said breezily enough and yet, Joshua thought, there was also something sad in Teddy’s tone. What was Marianne doing in the country when Teddy was about to sit exams, he wondered, a thought reinforced by the PM’s next statement.

  ‘If you want Mum back while I’m gone, you only have to say.’

  ‘Kind of you,’ another effete drawl, ‘but you’ll soon be,’ he made speech marks with his hand, ‘home. What more could I possibly need? You go and have a good time, why don’t you? I hope the glad-handing of a president does the trick with your disastrous polls.’

  The Prime Minister seemed to flinch, and yet when he said, ‘Try and get a bit of air when I’m away,’ he sounded calm.

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘But for pity’s sake dress properly when you go out.’

  ‘What’s the matter, pater?’ Teddy smiled. ‘Do you think my ugly mug will impact your popularity?’ He winked at Joshua and exited, closing the door firmly behind him.

  ‘He’s impossible.’ The Prime Minister sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not to worry.’

  Should he say something or should he keep his mouth shut?

  Of course he should say something: he was after all the boy’s godfather. ‘He has got very thin,’ he said.

  ‘Has he?’ The PM’s frown displayed more uncertainty than disagreement – an odd thing to see in a man who was usually so bullishly confident. He swallowed. He leant forward and swallowed again. But if he had been about to say something, a loud knock on the door stopped him. He leant back. ‘Come.’

  A man poked his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb, Prime Minister, but you wanted to know when they arrived?’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment.’ The door closed, and when the Prime Minister looked at Joshua, Joshua thought he must have imagined that earlier uncertainty. ‘Duty calls. I’m truly grateful for your coming at such short notice. Before you go, there is something I need to ask you.’

  10 p.m.

  The cake had tipped the kitchen from messy into a disaster zone, and she was trying to clear it when she heard Lyndall calling, ‘Mum.’

  If she’d told Lyndall once, she’d told her a thousand times: come into the same room as me if you want to speak to me.

  ‘Mum.’

  She ran a pan under the tap, seeing how thick was the crust of congealed food on it.

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

  ‘Mum, hurry.’ There was now no mistaking the urgency in Lyndall’s voice. It got Cathy to the balcony in seconds.

  She saw Lyndall at the balcony edge. Not just her but a whole line-up of neighbours were also looking down as the dark sky flashed blue.

  ‘What’s going on?’ When she went to join them, she saw that the flashing lights were coming from a bevy of police cars. She counted four outside the community centre and one on its way to join them.

  ‘They drove up,’ Lyndall said. ‘All of them at once. And then all the police rushed in.’

  The sound of more sirens rent the air. ‘I better get down.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘No, don’t.’ Her voice was firm enough to show that there would be no gainsaying her. ‘Stay here.’

  As she got to the bottom of the last gangway, four more police cars screeched to a halt and eight more police officers rushed into
the centre.

  Something really serious. She ran the last few yards only to find her path blocked by a policewoman. ‘You can’t go in.’

  ‘I’m a member of the police liaison committee. You will let me,’ she said with an authority that came as a complete surprise to her, and to her greater surprise it worked.

  She pushed the door open and stepped in.

  She could hear the sounds of raised voices and of banging, but there was no one in the darkened entrance hall. She felt along the wall until she had located the light switch, which she flicked on. Nothing. The bulb must have blown.

  More shouting: was that Banji’s voice rising above the others?

  She knew the centre well enough to feel her way through the dark towards the assembly room that was at the back. More shouting. Something happening which, despite the massive police presence, had not been resolved.

  ‘Get the fuck off him,’ she heard.

  Was that Banji’s voice?

  ‘Can’t you see you’re hurting him?’

  It was Banji.

  She pushed through the double doors.

  Afterwards she was sorry that she had, because the memory of what she saw would never leave her.

  At first she couldn’t make sense of it, because the images she absorbed were so fractured. She saw the room – big and square and windowless. It wasn’t just hot, it was so steaming hot and it stank of mould and damp and sweat that seemed to be coming off the walls. Pushed up against one of these walls were two armchairs whose floral cushioning had been yellowed by age and overuse. Above the chairs, a series of posters, stuck up more to hide the damp stains on the wall than to tell the community how to combat STDs, when the local MP had his surgery and why breastfeeding was best. And near these sofas . . .

  ‘Let me go to him,’ she heard.

  She saw Banji face down on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was still struggling to free himself. He was shouting so loudly that she could hear what he was saying above the din that issued from the corner where a group of people, also all shouting, were penned in by policemen with batons extended. ‘You’re supposed to be the good guys,’ he was shouting. ‘You’re the police. The representatives of the law. You’re meant to help. Can’t you see how you’re hurting him?’