Lyndall inclined her head in the man’s direction. ‘Tell him he has to go.’
He said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to.’
Was there a secret microphone in the room so that people could eavesdrop? There must have been because when Commissioner Yares opened the door, all he said, and to the man was, ‘Leave them.’
‘But, Commissioner.’
‘I take responsibility. You can have that in writing.’
‘If you say so.’ The man slipped past the Commissioner and out of the room.
‘Thank you.’
The Commissioner nodded. ‘Just one condition. Because there will have to be a post-mortem examination, you must not touch him. Do you understand?’
When Cathy nodded, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
She stood, motionless, Lyndall’s hand was still in hers.
She looked down at the man she once thought she had known. He was lying there. So still. So unlike himself, if, that is, she had ever really known who he was.
It’s a second death for me, she thought. The first was many years ago when she’d had no choice but to cut him from her heart.
All those years that had passed before he had reappeared and never once had it occurred to her how much Lyndall looked like him. And now, seeing her live daughter and her dead love, it was as if she could hardly tell them apart.
She said, ‘I love you.’ Whispered it so that neither would hear.
Lyndall’s hand was limp in hers. She let it drop.
Lyndall moved forward then. Just a step until she was close to him. She raised the hand that Cathy had been holding.
Cathy readied herself to spring forward.
Lyndall kissed two fingers and then she lowered them until they came to rest just above Banji’s forehead. ‘Hello, my daddy,’ she said.
11.30 p.m.
They were side by side on the sofa as they had been for hours. In silence. Until at last Lyndall’s voice sounded out: ‘Was it my fault?’
‘No, darling. It wasn’t.’
‘But I knew he was there. I could tell he wasn’t okay. I should have told you.’
‘He asked you not to.’
‘I shouldn’t have listened to him. If we’d got to him earlier, if you’d been able to stop him . . .’
‘Listen to me.’ She stretched out an arm and pulled Lyndall to her. ‘It is not your fault.’
She felt how Lyndall was trembling.
‘But if I had . . .’
‘Sshhh.’ She gripped her tighter and began to rock her. And that’s the way they stayed for a long time, Cathy rocking Lyndall, who shed the tears that she could not.
One day she would. She knew that. Knew how much she had loved him.
But for now she needed to face the truth. And share it with her daughter.
‘That first time he left,’ she said, ‘had nothing to do with you.’
‘It was because you were pregnant.’
‘I was pregnant, but that isn’t why he left. He told me why. Said he didn’t love me. That he never really had.’
‘But he came back.’
‘Yes, he did, and it’s taken me all this time to understand. I realise now it wasn’t to do with me. It was to do with you. He came back because he wanted to know you.’
Saturday
One Year Later
Peter
‘With only ten days to go before the election,’ the reporter was saying, ‘it would take something as serious as last year’s riots to stop the onward march of the government. And even if rioting was to break out again, the Prime Minister has proved himself a strong leader in times of crisis.’
‘Not bad for a liar,’ Peter told the air.
‘Perhaps this is why he is currently polling as well as both Margaret Thatcher or Tony Blair did at the peak of their respective careers.’
‘Not news,’ Peter said. And it wasn’t.
The Prime Minister’s public humiliation of his son (who got a driving ban – big deal – and a slap on the wrist for a bit of pot) had made him the nation’s favourite and put an end to any further leadership challenge. The end of the drought, and the spike in tourist revenue, had added to the feel-good factor. So now, despite his previous and oftrepeated insistences that he was planning to step down after the election, the Prime Minister had made it clear that since the country and the Party wanted him, he would serve another term.
‘He seems to have become that rare thing – a politician who, having apparently moved past his sell-by-date, has a late resurgence.’
‘Enough.’
Beyond enough. He clicked the radio off.
He was in shirtsleeves, alone at the kitchen table, while Patricia dozed upstairs. He could go on being in his shirtsleeves, he turned his wrist to look at the time, for at least another hour before he had to leave. He poured himself a third cup of coffee.
One year on from his fall and he had grown accustomed to this slower pace of life, which was bound to slow down even more after he gave up his seat. It suited him. Granted there were still times, mostly in the dead of night, when he would wake in a panic about how he was meant to survive this smaller life, but the sight of Patricia beside him was enough to drive such doubts away. He also had consultancies and seats on boards aplenty, which brought the added advantage of a bank balance that, despite the punitive maintenance payments, was much healthier than it had ever been.
And, of course, there was the baby to look forward to.
How wonderful to be able to spend time with this one when he came. Not like when Charles was born, when he’d been distracted by the urgent need to build a political career.
Which reminded him: Patricia had suggested he send the picture of the latest scan to Charles as a way of coaxing him round, if not to Patricia then at least to the brother who’d be with them in a couple of months.
May as well do it now.
He went to the bottom of the stairs and called, ‘Where did you store that scan, darling?’
No reply. She must have dropped back to sleep.
Her laptop was on the kitchen table. He’d find the photo on his own and forward it on to Charles as a surprise to her.
He switched the laptop on. When it asked for her password, he typed in the four digits of his birthday – sweet that she had chosen these.
Easy enough after that to locate her store of photographs, although the sheer quantity of folders was daunting.
As efficient as ever, she had named each folder, although, he soon discovered, not in a way that was open to easy interpretation. When he tried the obvious one – ‘Baby’ – it opened to a series of photos of Patricia with her three best friends, all of them looking much the worse for wear from drink. And her folder called ‘Recent’ was a series of selfies she had taken in the bath. Touching to see how she was smiling, and how she had focused the camera on her growing bump. Impressive also that she had not dropped her phone in the water while taking them.
He cast his eye down the list again. There was one labelled ‘BS’. Could stand for Bullshit or, equally, Baby Scan. Yes, he had a good feeling about this one. He clicked on the folder.
And nearly fell off his chair.
* * *
He couldn’t stop himself from roughly shaking her.
She opened her eyes in fright. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘What does “BS” stand for?’
‘I’m sorry?’ She blinked. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’ He shook her again. ‘You have a folder called “BS": what does it stand for?’
She swallowed.
‘Answer me.’
She pushed herself up. Covered her stomach with both hands as if she was in danger of being hit.
Which he would never do. Although he felt like it. ‘I’m waiting,’ he said. ‘What does it stand for?’
She looked at him. Said, ‘Bill’s Surveillance,’ the first word tripping up against the second.
‘Who’s Bill?’
‘A friend.’ Then she shook her head. ‘No. More like an acquaintance.’ Another shake. ‘Doesn’t matter who he is.’
‘He was following us?’
‘Yes.’
‘He took those photos?’
‘Yes.’
‘The ones of us in bed as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then he sent them to Frances?’
‘Yes.’
‘On your say so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Silence.
‘I want to know why you wrecked my marriage.’
‘I didn’t wreck your marriage,’ she said. ‘You didn’t love her. You loved me. You kept on saying so. But you were never going to leave her.’
‘I was,’ he said. ‘I told you that I was.’
‘But you weren’t. You didn’t have the guts.’
‘How dare you?’
‘I knew it for sure when you prostituted me with that policeman – and all so she could find the ammunition to get her to Number 10. Wasn’t your style to ask me to fuck another man, so I knew she was the one who had suggested it.’
‘You ruined my political career.’
‘You wouldn’t have been happy. Not with her.’
He looked away.
‘You were so under her thumb you couldn’t have left her. Not unless she chucked you out.’
He said it again: ‘You ruined me.’
‘It wasn’t me. You keep harping on about how the Prime Minister was to blame for making your private diaries public. Maybe he was. But how do you think he would have got hold of the diaries? She must have given them to him.’
‘You make me sick.’
She looked at him. ‘Do I?’ She held his gaze so tightly that eventually he looked away.
Joshua
The last time he’d come here, she’d objected to his car outside her house. So this time he had his driver stop a block away. Then, dressed in civvies (she’d also told him to keep his uniform out of it), he walked around the corner, pushed open a gate that was half hanging off its hinges, passed along a path that badly needed weeding, and to her door where, because he knew that the bell didn’t work, he knocked.
She opened the door and said, ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ as if, despite his calling to tell her that he was on his way, she hadn’t known he was due. She looked him up and down. ‘Thought you’d be sporting the badge.’
‘What badge?’
‘Of your elevation. I saw they made you a proper Sir.’
‘We only get to wear that on formal occasions.’
‘Pity,’ she said. ‘Your kind like to show off all the time.’
He said, ‘You asked me to come here, and here I am. You better tell me what it is you want.’ And then, as she continued to block the entrance, he added, ‘Do you really want to talk on the doorstep where everybody will see us?’
She stepped aside. ‘The lounge,’ she said.
It not being his first visit, he knew which way to go. He went down the corridor past the line-up of photographs of Julius. He walked through a doorway and into a small room that was under-furnished but newly dominated by a huge wall-hung television screen.
‘Yes,’ she said, following his gaze. ‘I did buy it with your money. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’
‘It’s not my money,’ he said. ‘Now tell me, why am I here?’
‘That’s good,’ she smiled. ‘I like that you don’t pretend.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want our deal made formal. I want it written down.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘No reason why I should. But why I want a proper document is because you lot never do last long. Take the other one – your deputy – that you did the dirty on.’
‘What makes you think I did the dirty?’
‘My husband was a copper. Other coppers tell me things. Especially now he’s dead.’
‘Coppers have been known to exaggerate.’
‘Don’t get me wrong: whatever you did to him, I couldn’t give a shit. Why I’m bringing him up now is that he was riding high – talk was that he was after your job and nearly got it – and where is he now? Working security in Asda would be my guess. If it happened to him, it could also happen to you. Okay, you’re white, so you won’t fall so far – but if it happens, I’d be the loser. I want what’s due to me – Julius’s pension – no matter whether it’s you or some other idiot in charge.’
‘What you’re getting is more than a constable’s usual pension.’
‘Yeah.’ A quick bark of hollow laughter as she turned her head to look around the room, at its dowdy walls and sparse furniture. ‘I’m living the life of a multimillionaire.’ Her gaze was now on him and hard. ‘I want our arrangement formalised.’
He reached up to straighten his cap, which, he realised at the last minute, he wasn’t wearing. ‘All right,’ he dropped his hand back down. ‘I’ll ask somebody in the Federation to prepare the paperwork. They’ll send it to you to approve and sign.’
‘Thank you.’ Swallowed. Looked away. Swallowed again.
‘Is there something else?’
‘No,’ she wouldn’t look at him. ‘Nothing.’
‘Well then.’ He had to squeeze himself against the wall to pass her. Once out, he made his way to the front door.
And heard her saying, ‘I saw them.’
He stopped. ‘Saw who?’
‘That fat white woman and her daughter. They paid for a rose bush in the crematorium and they go there every week. Make sure it’s watered.’
‘That’s good of them.’ He made to leave once more but she stopped him again with a question.
‘The girl. Is she his?’
He shrugged.
‘She is his, isn’t she?’
No point in lying: it was clear she knew. ‘Yes, she is.’
She nodded. ‘Julius wanted children, you know. More than anything, but I couldn’t have them. That’s what made him turn away from me in the first place.’
‘I’m sorry.’ And he was. This was a decent woman hardened by what her husband had done and by what had been done to her husband.
‘She looks nice,’ she said. ‘The girl, I mean. He must have been gutted not to get to know her.’
Something in her tone. ‘You do understand, don’t you, that if you were to approach her, or her mother, that would void our agreement?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know that. But that’s not why I wouldn’t tell. Enough harm’s been done without me adding to it.’ A pause and then, ‘The name – Banji – the one you said he used with them, it kind of suits him.’
‘It should. He chose it.’ He opened the door. Stepped out.
Her voice pursuing him down the path. ‘It’s dishonest, though, them not knowing. Don’t you think?’
Cathy
Six months after the Lovelace had closed and they were back.
It felt nothing like going home: whole sections of the estate had been torn down and the rest was so heavily boarded there was no longer any home to go back to.
Only the community centre had been preserved and, for this occasion, given a fresh lick of paint. But to get to it they had first to pass through a checkpoint where private security officers employed by the Lovelace Development Project rifled through their bags. Once through this checkpoint they were met by the sight of two lines of police standing opposite each other and creating a corridor that was so narrow they had to walk down it in single file.
With Lyndall leading and Jayden (who was now living with them) behind, Cathy concentrated on putting one foot down and then the next, over and over again, and that way trying to control the urge to turn on her heels and run away.
It’s the police, she thought, they’re giving me claustrophobia. And said, ‘Do they really think we’re about to start throwing stones at a building site?’
‘Nah,’ came Lyndall’s reply. ‘They’re here to stop us refugees
making for a country which we don’t belong to.’
Her words had the ring of truth: although the Lovelace looked worse than it ever had, with rubble everywhere and its walkways blocked, most of the flats in the blocks that were due to be constructed had already been bought off-plan. And although final completion was at least two years off, the High Street was already abuzz with changes, with burnt-out shops taken over and refurbished to sell the kind of goods – French baby wear, handmade frozen meals – that the old residents of the Lovelace could never have afforded.
Why couldn’t she summon up the energy to feel angry about that? It would help her if she could, damning the future being so much easier than mulling over the past. And yet, while Lyndall kept muttering about the filthy rich, Cathy couldn’t stop herself from remembering.
She looked up to where they once had lived and, although it was all boarded up, she seemed to see herself and Lyndall standing on the landing and looking down. She knew what they were looking at: they were watching Banji tracking Ruben along this self-same route.
That’s when it began to go wrong, she thought, as memory dragged her on to that next moment: Banji handcuffed on the floor of the community centre and Ruben lying still. She saw Banji struggling to get to Ruben. As if he were trying to hold back Ruben’s death, she thought. As if the thread that had joined the two men’s lives had doomed them both.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was her fault: that Banji had only been trying to protect Ruben because she expected him to.
Stop it, she told herself: too fanciful. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the tears that had begun to pool.
When she opened them again, she was surprised to see how dull and grey was the sky; then, it had been blue, she remembered, and hotter than she could now imagine.
‘Mum.’ Lyndall’s voice, summoning her back into the present. ‘Mum, are you okay?’
She nodded.
The police lines, she saw, had tapered off to let the crowd expand into the space in front of the community centre. So many people that she hadn’t seen for months who had come back, on this anniversary of their first vigil, to remember Ruben and to protest the failure of the IPCC to finish its report and hold anybody to account.
As Lyndall and Jayden weaved their way through the crowd, high-fiving kids with whom they were no longer schooled, Cathy greeted her former neighbours, hugging some, nodding to others. Hard to smile and not to cry, and yet, seeing Ruben’s parents by the entrance to the community centre, she told herself it wasn’t her right to fall.
Ten Days Page 33
