by Louisa Young
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘What for?’ he said, slightly bitterly.
‘Blaming you when it was my fault. Sorry. I’ve been …’ Damn, I didn’t mean to say this. ‘Busy.’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
Oh bugger.
‘But listen,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘You know, when the next stage comes up, I mean – talk to me. We have to keep talking. Don’t we.’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Well?’
‘Yeah,’ he said.
I’m not playing this game. I don’t know if it was punishment because of Sa’id or what. But it was a bore.
‘Yeah,’ he said again. ‘So you start.’
‘Ummm …’
‘Tell me stuff.’
‘I’ll call you later,’ I said. ‘This is silly.’
‘No – no, wait,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Sorry. But Angel – look. Umm.’ His preparation for saying something difficult noise. I waited for the short pause. It came, it passed. ‘When I started seeing Amygdala,’ he said, ‘I came round specially to tell you, because I thought it mattered, and that under the circumstances you had a right to know, and now you’ve got this bloke and it’s like I’m some kind of … oh, I don’t know, just for wanting to know. Wanting you to have the grace to tell me. So when you start saying “we’ve got to talk” like some BT advert, it’s just sounds a little bit absurd, if you see what I mean. Ironic, I think might be the term.’
So he was right again.
‘So tell me about him,’ he said.
So I had to. Insofar as I knew. But ‘I can’t now, hon,’ I said. ‘He’s here …’
‘Is he living with you, then?’
‘Sort of. By default. He was staying here anyway. You know.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, so there’s that. And, um …’ I wanted to give him something. To show willing. ‘Well, I’m going to go to Cairo with him in a week or so, at half term, and …’
The line went funny. Not in itself, but with the strength of feeling at the other end.
‘You’re what?’
‘Going to Cairo. With Sa’id. At half term …’
I could hear him thinking. I could feel his brain racing. I could taste the intensity of his reaction.
‘Don’t go,’ he said.
‘What do you mean don’t go? I’m going.’ I was irritated. Every time we get on to a sensible level one of us does or says something stupid. ‘Who are you to tell me not to go?’
‘Oh shit shit,’ he was saying. He wasn’t listening to me. He sounded distressed. Genuinely.
‘Harry, what is it?’
‘Can you come out? Now? Come and meet me?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Lily’s only just come back and it’s school tomorrow. I need to put her to bed.’
‘Later? Please. Please. Your man can babysit. Please.’
I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to ask Sa’id to babysit while I went off to see another man. He wouldn’t like it either. I didn’t like the thought that with Sa’id here Harry couldn’t – as it seemed – just come round. I didn’t like to think that his presence in my life was already constraining it.
‘Come here,’ I said, just to get it out in the open.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s private.’
If he won’t say it in front of Sa’id, if he’s making the point of not meeting him (which I don’t blame him for – I wouldn’t want to meet Amygdala) then it must be about Sa’id. So went my logic. My sympathetic ear went too.
‘Well then sorry,’ I said.
He breathed for a while. And thought.
‘Meet me tomorrow? Please? I’ll come up to the Winfield. What time is good for you?’
Daytime. Lily will be at school; Sa’id if inclined to be suspicious will be less suspicious. God, this all bodes well for the harmony and relaxation of our future lives, doesn’t it? Time for a civilised modern dinner party, I think, of me and Sa’id and Harry and Amygdala.
We arranged to meet at noon. Harry was jumping about at the urgency. I didn’t like it.
*
‘Was that your friend?’ said Sa’id, as I came back into the kitchen. He was stirring onions, adding ground and chopped up little bits of I’m not quite sure what, that he’d bought at the Syrian supermarket.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Tell me,’ he said, quite kindly.
So after I had put Lily to bed, I told him some more of my secrets, of what I had not told him before. That Harry might be Lily’s father, that he had been my boyfriend, that he had slept with Janie, that we were just now trying to prove one way or the other, and when we did, well … we would have to find a way to live.
‘He slept with your sister,’ said Sa’id with a little snort.
‘It was after we’d broken up,’ I said.
‘Sweet,’ said Sa’id, musingly. ‘You protect him and yourself. What about her?’
‘It’s between her and God,’ I said. ‘I don’t hate her so much any more.’
He smiled into the aromatic haze rising from the hot oil.
‘Your complicated life,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you have room for me?’
‘Oh God yes,’ I said. ‘God yes. Yes.’ Without thinking.
He didn’t seem to mind.
‘So are we spending this week in bed too?’ he asked. ‘Or shall we go back to work? I have things to do before we leave.’
It was sad. Kissing goodbye to our first stage. Sad but realistic.
EIGHTEEN
What Harry Knows
Next morning’s post brought a letter postmarked Taunton, containing a large piece of white paper with my name written on it in inaccurate phonetic Arabic, covered with lipstick kisses, and ‘Sorry!’ across the bottom in fluorescent pink.
I wondered if the stalking law they’ve been going on about had been brought in yet. There must be something I can do to stop this bloody woman.
Sa’id looked at it. ‘What’s that about?’ he asked.
‘Oh –’ I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to get into Eddie, in any detail. I told him in next to no detail. Wife of the dead man, had been rude at the funeral, silly, nothing really. He looked at me cool and slow. He knew perfectly well there was more to it. He let me know he knew. I looked at him, let him know I knew he knew. He said nothing, but held me in his gaze, kindly, gently. I swear my heart grew warmer inside me.
*
I held that warmth when I went to the Winfield, edgy about Harry. At noon it was still, or already, reassuringly dark and smoky. Already a few diehards were playing snooker in the vast back room, wreathed in nicotine and low lighting. Harry was at the bar, where Liam, who has been a good friend to me over the years as only a barman can, was ignoring him. Harry was drinking a vodka and tonic. I was surprised. Ordered a coffee.
‘What’s that about,’ I said, indicating the drink, as we retreated to a quiet and distant corner.
‘Nerves,’ he said.
Well, that had to be a lie. I’ve never seen Harry nervous of anything.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Sit down,’ was his reply. I sat.
He drank. Almost emptied the glass.
‘You said I shouldn’t do crap things,’ he said. ‘Well. I’m about to do something and I don’t know if it’s crap or not. I mean it not to be. I think you’ll understand. But. I am about to. Oh shit.’
He was shaking. Almost.
‘What,’ I said, gently. Observing.
‘Please don’t go to Egypt,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ I asked. If he could give me a reason why he was acting so strangely then I could consider it. But not without.
‘For me, because I ask you?’
He knew that was hopeless.
‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Do you remember when I asked you to stop seeing Eddie Bates, and you wouldn’t?’
‘Yes,’ I said, warily. I couldn’t see where this was leading.
‘Did yo
u think I was jealous?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I knew you would think I thought so. I only saw him at all because Cooper had stitched me up. I wasn’t interested in him.’
Harry gave a little snort.
‘Do you think I’m jealous now?’
‘It had crossed my mind,’ I said delicately.
‘If I could convince you that it’s not that, would you agree not to go?’
‘No,’ said I.
‘Oh shit oh shit,’ he said. Somehow more resignedly now.
Then he took a breath and regrouped.
‘Why are you going?’
‘Because I love Cairo, I haven’t been there for years, Sa’id has invited me, I … OK, I’m Emma Woodhousing a bit for his family. Their mother is going out and I feel a bit responsible and a bit interested, you know, having helped Hakim find her and everything. And,’ I said. It occurred to me that I hadn’t told him about Eddie’s little legacy.
‘And?’ he said.
I sort of laughed. ‘This curious thing has happened. I was going to talk to you about it actually. You know Chrissie, and those letters …’
‘I thought they’d stopped after the funeral,’ he said. Very short.
‘No. Why have you gone white?’
‘Carry on,’ he said.
‘Well to start with they weren’t too bad, then I got one with a razor blade in, and some with poetry, and stuff. I told her to stop sending them. She came round after the funeral, drunk as a skunk and yelling. Then I got this letter from a lawyer. I thought you knew most of this.’
‘Some,’ he said.
‘Saying, well. It enclosed a letter from Eddie, saying, if you please, that he’s put £100,000 in a bank in Cairo for Lily, just in case he’s her father, don’t you know, and if I don’t fetch it before a certain date he’s set up another £100,000 to go to the BNP. Clever fucker, eh?’ Even as I recited it I felt sick.
Harry had gone green.
‘Oh sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Oh sweetheart.’
‘What?’ I demanded. ‘OK, what?’
He shut his eyes for a moment and dipped his head like a pigeon.
‘What I am about to say,’ he said, ‘I’m saying purely to save your life. Don’t ever tell a fucking soul. Ever. I’m putting …’ he laughed ‘… my job on the line here. And quite a few other things.’
I goggled.
‘If I ever deceived you about anything, and I know I did, I’m making up for it now. Angeline,’ he said. ‘Angeline, keep this to yourself. I’m trusting you. Trust me. We’re talking here, oh yes. Angeline.’
He had taken my hands in his, and started to play gently on my knuckles as if they were a xylophone.
‘He’s not dead, angel,’ he said. ‘He’s not dead.’
Well, I didn’t need to ask who. There’s only one person who should be dead.
‘He’s living in the Middle East. I believe Egypt, though I haven’t been told. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it were Cairo.’
I sat. Shocked.
‘Well then I’d better kill him,’ I thought. Immediately.
Everything I ever hear about him fills me with fear. The toad in my belly and the bird on my back. I had a flash of his face from years ago: in the flames, the very first time he tried to hurt me. Fear when he was alive, fear when he died, fear from his letter, fear now, oh my God yes.
‘Why is he alive?’ I asked. Very quiet. Very controlled.
Harry watched me carefully, as if to estimate my capacity to take on information. Was I losing it, as I had so very recently when told the bastard was dead? No, I was holding on to it.
‘Witness protection,’ Harry murmured at last. ‘The people he grassed up, you wouldn’t believe. Interpol adore him. He’s the CIA’s favourite valentine. Various Colombians are a little pissed off, but … Don’t go, Angel. Don’t go.’
Witness protection.
‘So he just gets a new life?’ I whispered. ‘Somewhere else?’
‘Yes.’
I sat. Silent.
Then: ‘Fucker!’
Then: ‘Thank you for telling me.’
Then: ‘I can see why you couldn’t before.’
‘I didn’t know before,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know when I told you he was dead.’ He looked a little relieved. Probably he thought I would be furious with him. I was – well, I would be, but my mind was otherwise occupied. I’d think about that later.
I thought about the letters. How much simpler it was, that he had sent them. The ones from him, at least. How it fell into place. The flowers: ‘I always get what I want.’ The phone call, my God.
‘The thing is though,’ I said, ‘that I am still in danger from him,’ and I realised I was shaking.
Harry started to speak but I hushed him.
‘He sends me this love poetry. Invitations. Blackmailing manipulations. Expectations that I will run away and join him. If I hadn’t burnt them I would show them to you. Actually I had one this morning … I thought it was from Chrissie … I thought she was sending them …’ It was in my pocket where I had thrust it. I offered it to Harry.
‘Oh dear oh dear,’ he said, sounding for the first time a bit like a plod-style policeman.
‘And Chrissie is sending stuff too … I don’t know what is who. And he’s joking about thinking he’s Lily’s father – at least I think he’s joking. I can’t live like this, Harry.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘And if he’s officially dead there’s nothing you can do for me either.’
‘No,’ he said.
‘If you kill someone who’s officially dead, can you get done for it?’
‘Interesting point,’ he said. ‘I’ll look into it.’
Then I started crying.
Harry stroked me inefficiently, then gave up and took me in his arms.
Liam looked across disapprovingly.
*
Later, Harry said, ‘I’m sorry you can’t go.’
I laughed. ‘Oh but I am going,’ I said.
He looked at me.
‘If I don’t go there now, I can never go anywhere ever again. Do you see? I fucking am going.’
NINETEEN
The Madness Sets In
The last time I had faced a crisis with Eddie, a madness had come upon me. A wild energy. It was something to do with fucking him, and something to do with violence, something to do with winning, and something to do with escaping. It had lasted through that chaotic day, the day when Jim crashed and burned, when Lily reverted to me, when Harry told me about him and Janie, when Ben Cooper was carried off by the long arm of the law. It had taken me a while to burn it off. I felt something of the echo of it today.
Eddie was alive. My enemy lives. My enemy is tormenting me not from beyond the grave but merely from Cairo. My enemy will regret the day he was born.
The thing is, I’d had enough.
Sa’id almost sniffed at me when I came in.
‘What’s happened?’ he said.
It’s not that I didn’t want to tell him. But I couldn’t. Or could I? He didn’t know who Eddie was. I could give him another name, another story … but I would be lying, and he would be able to tell. But if I don’t tell him, I am still lying, and he will certainly be able to tell.
So. Literal truth or emotional truth?
And if I tell him, aren’t I walking straight out and betraying Harry? The way things have been round me lately it wouldn’t be surprising if Sa’id turned out to be either a major Cairene gangster, who has sought me out specifically to track Eddie down, or the chief of the Egyptian secret police, or God knows what.
God, that would explain why they suddenly turned up out of the blue. On my doorstep when they must have others they could go to. Why didn’t they go to a hotel?
Do I really think that?
It would be no weirder than a lot of what’s happened.
I went through to the kitchen and looked at him.
‘Sa’id, why did you come to my hous
e?’
He knew I wasn’t talking about the romantic reason he had given me before.
‘To find Hakim,’ he said.
‘Why did he come here?’
He paused a moment. ‘For help to find his mother.’
Well. Yeah. That sounded all right.
‘How did you know he was with us?’
He smiled. ‘He sent us a postcard. Saying he had seen you.’
I liked the way he didn’t mind my questions.
‘Are you a policeman, Sa’id?’
He fixed me with the pale eyes.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Are you a criminal?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you?’
‘But you’re not surprised that I ask.’
‘I see that you have a mystery in hand, and you can’t tell me.’
‘Do you mind me not telling you?’
‘Tell me if you are in danger.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe you are, or maybe you will tell me?’
‘Maybe I am.’
‘Will the danger be in Cairo?’
I have no reason not to trust him. Except he did search my desk.
‘Why did you search my desk?’
‘I was looking for anything about Hakim. I should have asked but you weren’t here. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had noticed. Do you think I am the danger?’
‘No.’ And I didn’t. But it’s not just me involved here.
It was unsatisfactory. He didn’t know enough about my past to hear the whole story. And I couldn’t tell him. There was so much behind it. I didn’t want to go over it all, and there were things I didn’t want to tell him anyway, even if I could do so without compromising Harry. Things like how I had killed Eddie (the first time). That sort of thing. Because if he knew he might not love me any more. It’s that simple. Luckily I didn’t have to think about that, or about whether he loved me anyway, because I couldn’t betray Harry and that was that.
