Anything You Do Say

by Gillian McAllister

  ‘What was he like?’ I say softly, the impulse to ask the question a complicated, tangled mixture of curiosity, atonement and sadness.

  She gets her purse out and flips it open. ‘Here,’ she says. She shows me a photo of her and Imran.

  It’s a selfie. He’s holding the camera. Just as Sadiq did, twenty minutes before I made the biggest mistake of my life.

  I feel like a rubbernecker, a voyeur, but I can’t seem to stop. I stare at his face, his slim, smiling face. He has high cheekbones. A wide smile, with straight, white teeth. He looks like he should be playing soccer in America. Bounding home for Oreos and milk.

  ‘Imran,’ I say, tracing a finger over the photograph.

  Imagine if she knew. Imagine if she knew who I was, standing here in front of her.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, letting me take the photograph. ‘I’ve got loads. But that’s my favourite.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘He wasn’t perfect,’ she says, which surprises me. ‘You know when someone is killed –’ she says the word easily ‘– everyone always says they were a shining light or something.’ Her accent’s becoming more London. Getting stronger as she continues speaking. ‘He wasn’t. He had mental social anxiety. He’d go to parties and stuff but come home and tell me everything that he’d said … ask me for reassurance. All of that. Did my head in.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah. He was talented, though. Loved food. He was doing a cheffing course. In Central. Used to do those posh food smears on plates, bring them home on the tube.’ She pauses, studying her nails, then adds, ‘He was good.’

  ‘I see,’ I say. There’s something in my throat. The old animal that lives on my chest has momentarily climbed up, making my voice sound heavy and husky.

  ‘He was a park runner, too. He got up at eight every Sunday morning. What was your brother’s girlfriend like?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘I’d love to hear more about him. Imran.’

  It’s hot, here in the back of the bus, and my top clings to my chest under my jumper. The panic sweats are back, but I don’t walk away. Can’t seem to.

  ‘He was funny,’ she says. ‘He was fun. You know? One of those people who makes things more fun.’

  I nod. I know the type. Wilf used to be that way, when we were growing up, before we lost each other. We used to spread the sofa cushions out on the living-room floor when Mum and Dad were out. It was massive, our living room, with no television in it – that was in the den – and they’d have had a fit if they knew what we were doing. We’d bounce from sofa to sofa, pretending the floor was covered in lava. We called it electric shock. We’d shriek with laughter. I’d keep an eye out on the drive, checking for Mum and Dad, and Wilf would almost always nearly wet himself with laughter. So much so that I would have to remind him to use the toilet before we played.

  I stare into the distance. How would I feel if he wasn’t around any more? I can’t imagine the scale of that loss. Not in spite of the fact that we don’t see each other much now, but because of it.

  ‘We had a traditional funeral, which he would’ve hated. But there you go. Mum and Dad came back. From Pakistan. We were living on our own, before that.’

  ‘Are they back there now?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Just me and Bilal now. Imran’s room is empty. Probably get kicked out soon – the bedroom tax, you know?’

  I close my eyes, briefly, against this story. I can hardly stand to hear it – their losses.

  When I open them again, she’s looking at me. ‘That’s why he was on the cheffing course. He discovered he liked cooking. For us. Well, he sort of had to cook for us.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve got loads more things,’ she says, opening her purse. One section is stuffed. She passes me two more pictures. Both are her and Imran, again. One on a holiday, tanned against a bridge crossing a river. The other is from when they were little. Their high, distinctive bone structure leaps out at me, like stars in the night sky, getting more obvious the longer I look.

  I could tell her now. It would be so easy. She might even be misled, by me, at first – by my casual tone. She might not realize the enormity of what I am telling her. She’d grasp it soon enough, of course. But maybe I could fool her, for a moment. And I could say sorry, and she’d say she forgave me. And then, afterwards, she’d angrily realize, and turn me in.

  My hands start to shake. My eyes fill with tears. I look down as I wait for them to disappear but they won’t. They keep gathering, my throat feeling tight.

  ‘But now it’s over, you know?’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice barely audible.

  ‘He probably didn’t know it was happening.’

  I think of the reality of his death. He couldn’t catch his breath. It would have been freezing. The ground. The air. That water all over his nose and mouth. Maybe he would have thought of her, as he died. Maybe he would have seen his parents in his mind. Maybe he would have wondered, Who would do this to me?

  I meet her eyes. They’re damp, the bottom lashes clumping together.

  I can’t help but ask. ‘Do you know what happened to him?’ My voice is raspy and strange. Desperate sounding.

  ‘That night?’ she says sharply.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She closes her eyes, looking as though she’s in prayer. Her skin is flawless, but becoming lined. Not happy lines – smile lines around the eyes, the mouth – but miserable ones. Forehead lines.

  Her eyes open. ‘No,’ she says, blinking. ‘The police say … they said it was suspicious. But now … we don’t know. We just don’t know what happened to him. Nobody knows.’

  ‘Are you any closer to knowing?’ I say, and, to me, my tone is so obvious. So hungry. I marvel once more that people don’t know; that they can’t tell; that it is not broadcast above my head somewhere in neon.

  I move towards her. She backs away.

  ‘Closer?’ she says. She looks wary now. Takes another step back. Her rucksack hits a stand of Quick Reads and she reaches to steady it with her hand as it rocks.

  ‘To finding out,’ I say.

  I brush my hair from my face and notice my hand is shaking. Surely she sees it too. Her eyes stray to it, then back to mine.

  She doesn’t say anything for a moment. She shakes her head, biting her bottom lip with those white teeth of hers. She glances at my face, her eyes scanning mine. Can she see my tears?

  ‘No, not really,’ she says.

  And, for a moment, the paranoia is extinguished, replaced by a strange kind of jubilation. This is guilt, I am learning. The odd ups and downs of it. The inconsistencies. The relief, followed by the opposite, because true, lasting relief is no longer possible.

  I nod once. ‘You can always tell me. Talk to me, about it,’ I say.

  She just looks at me. Says, ‘Right,’ and turns back to the books. I have frightened her.

  I spin around, then start, feeling adrenaline rush from my heart and down my arms and legs: Ed is right behind me. I didn’t hear him. His tread is soft, like a cat’s. I should have been more careful, but I look closely at him and see he hasn’t heard. His expression is entirely neutral, impassive. He can’t have heard, with the noise of the heating above us. It’s like a dim roar.

  Ayesha takes out eighteen books. It’s more than the maximum, but I let her anyway.

  When she leaves, Ed touches my arm very lightly. ‘You okay?’ he says softly. ‘Must be tough thinking about Wilf.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve lost so much weight.’

  ‘I know.’

  Later, I should be meeting Laura for our Friday-night tradition. It’s still raining, and I’m sheltering in the doorway outside the offices. The air has that grey quality that only February seems to have; like everything is filtered by Inkwell through Instagram.

  She said she would text me when she was finished. There’s no point walking home when I could get the tube from
here, and so I’m standing, outside our offices, even though Ed has locked up. I’ve told Ed I don’t want a lift home, but now I think I do. I can’t be bothered to go. What’s the point?

  She didn’t ask to meet; she just presumed we would. We see each other almost every Friday. It would be strange if I cancelled. We won’t go to a bar, I decide. We’ll go to a café instead.

  I picture Laura finishing whatever she’s doing – she and Jonty are always doing random things with their collection of people who occasionally live on their boat with them. Dropping them at airports and travelling to Stoke Newington to buy a car for a man called Erik who lived with them for a few weeks. That kind of thing.

  But she’ll text. I know she will. She’s reliable like that, and she’ll have been looking forward to it all day. I feel distracted and insane about Ayesha’s visit to the bus. Maybe she’s keeping tabs on me. Maybe she knows. I’ll have to lie to Laura about why I’m distracted, putting up barriers where they haven’t existed before; new, ugly, sixties-style concrete blocks in the middle of my most important relationships.

  I’ve got to get home. Away from everyone.

  I’ll go home – to Reuben. The thought of that curdles my stomach more. Maybe I can avoid him, too. Avoid lying to him. Where could I go?

  I don’t go to see Laura. I cancel on her. And I don’t go home, either. I go to the cinema, alone. I watch some Will Smith film, staring at the screen, not blinking, until my eyes sting. I can’t follow the plot, but I don’t care. I want oblivion.

  Reuben texts me at eleven. Good time? he says, and I feel a dart of pleasure. He’s been texting me more, recently. Trying to reach me, I guess. And then another appears. Two in a row. I’m tired. In case you’re not back. No. 2,650 – the way you prioritize time with Laura.

  I stare at the closing credits of the movie blankly. He is even wrong in his love for me.

  It’s half eleven when I get home. This time two months ago, I am thinking. It was happening. It had just happened. That decision that would change everything forever.

  Sixty days on. And what have I done to help myself? My clothes are at the library, soon to be laundered through a system designed to get rid of them forever. I wonder if December-me would be pleased that I am getting away with it. I don’t think so. There’s no pleasure in it. It’s not my choice, not truly. Like women who have abortions being described as pro-abortion by the press. There’s no truth in it. We are making the best of a bad situation.

  I let myself silently into our bedroom, but Reuben’s sitting up, with the light on. I stop, like a burglar, caught, my body language freezing mid-step.

  ‘How was Laura?’

  ‘Annoying,’ I say. I don’t know why I say it. To add flavour to a night out that never happened. Because I do feel annoyed with her, maybe, and with him – irrationally – for expecting our relationships to stay exactly the same when everything has changed.

  ‘Don’t bitch,’ Reuben says softly. ‘She’s not even here to defend herself,’ he adds needlessly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, meeting his eyes eventually.

  It’s not the worst thing I’ve done, that bitching. Not even close.

  I recognize their knock, somehow, when it comes the next day. Reuben is at work, and I’m about to leave. It’s an early knock, designed to catch me off guard, I expect.

  It’s the same two men again. Short and tall. Blond and dark.

  ‘Joanna,’ Lawson says.

  He lets himself in, really, or perhaps I step aside. I don’t know. My limbs are shaking and my ears are rushing and my vision feels blurred. Here they are.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  They go through to the living room and I follow them. Their crisp suits look strange amongst my soft furnishings.

  ‘We have spoken to this Sadiq of yours,’ Lawson says.

  ‘Yes.’ Fear moves outwards from my stomach and down my arms and legs.

  ‘He says he didn’t harass you. He says nothing happened.’

  I stop and think for a moment. Of course. Of course he won’t just admit it. God. I’m so stupid. ‘Well, he’s hardly going to say so to two policemen, is he?’

  ‘Maybe not. We could check the CCTV? If he was behaving so obviously badly towards you, maybe he’s our man for the attack.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say faintly, thinking, Surely they know the difference between a sexual predator and a random attacker? Sadiq may be the former, but I am the latter.

  ‘So, things definitely happened as you said?’ he observes casually. ‘Sadiq’s behaviour in the bar? And … after?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, trying to look indignant, as I would be if I were innocent. ‘Yes, just as I said.’

  ‘Okay.’ Lawson waits, sitting on my sofa, looking at me. ‘And your route?’ he says.

  ‘Just as I said. To avoid Sadiq.’ I stand up, ready to assert myself, to see them out.

  ‘Let us know if you remember anything else,’ Lawson says.

  ‘You’ll be the first people I call,’ I say.

  Lawson stops at the door. It must be his trick.

  ‘Thanks so much for putting yourself forward. You’re the most important person in this investigation. See you again soon.’

  22

  Reveal

  I meet Sarah in a sterile Costa off a wet high street in Hammersmith. There are winter drinks for sale – bizarre concoctions – and shoppers fuelling themselves mid-trip. Sarah arrives just a few minutes after me.

  ‘Hi,’ she says simply. ‘Brace yourself,’ she adds, which strikes me as a strange thing to say. She stands over me, folding up her umbrella and putting her bag under the table. ‘What do you want?’ she says.

  ‘Just a tea.’

  She lays a small stack of papers in a cellophane wallet, which she’s been carrying under her arm, on the table. ‘Read while I buy,’ she says. She’s got a dark, plum lipstick on, but it ages her, showing up the lines around her mouth.

  I inch the wallet over to me, then open it.

  I flick to the back, to our expert’s report on the victim’s injuries. It’s full of incomprehensible words.

  Coup. Contrecoup. Frontal-lobe injury.

  Sarah returns. She’s in wide-leg trousers that collect the contents of the floor as she strides over.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ I say to her.

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’ She takes the papers off me. ‘Experts’ reports are always complicated. Imran is awake,’ she says.

  Something in her expression troubles me. It’s only momentary, but I see it. It’s the slightest of frowns. Her gaze goes down, then up again as she looks at me.

  ‘Is he – recovered?’ I say.

  ‘Getting there,’ she says shortly. ‘This is what I want to go through with you.’

  She takes the front statement off and passes it to me. The back page comes loose, marked SUH1, and I see it’s a photograph. She lays it face down on the table and hands me the statement.

  I scan the first three sentences, then stop. ‘This is Sadiq,’ I say. ‘Sadiq from the bar?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah says, a slim hand moving gently across the table towards the statement. She reaches out a fingertip and neatens up the papers. ‘I met with Sadiq. But I’m afraid he approached the police, after he spoke to me.’

  ‘But … why?’ I say.

  ‘He didn’t agree with your version of events. He offered to help them. I’m guessing some sort of deal was done. He didn’t want them to accuse him of harassing you. So he helped them. He’s produced this statement.’ She wordlessly turns the photograph over.

  Of course. Of fucking course. It’s the selfie. The selfie we took.

  ‘He says you were chatty. Friendly. He says you had a bit of a flirt. A hug. And then nothing further happened.’

  ‘But he … he grabbed me. He pushed his –’ I stop, unable to go on, unable to allow myself to remember. Not only the events that preceded this, my life now, in cafés with lawyers trying to keep me out of prison, but also bec
ause of the event itself: a man pushing himself into me, against my will. I haven’t spoken about it. Haven’t been allowed to come to terms with it.

  ‘I know. And we’ve got Laura and her supportive statement. But, nevertheless, I got the CCTV,’ she says, reaching into the side pocket of her laptop bag and pulling out a CD. Wordlessly, I watch as she boots up her computer, inserts it and finds the file. She turns the screen to face me.

  It’s three files. The first, the selfie. I’m laughing at something, tilting my body towards Sadiq. Laura is moving away, not me, but I blindly follow her. It always strikes me when I see myself on video how small and meek I look; as though there is nothing going on in my mind when, in fact, it is busy and full. It’s strange to see.

  The second frame is shorter. In the upper-right corner, in amongst the dancers and the revellers, he grabs me. I see his hands reach for me. But in the video, I look complicit. I do nothing, my face grainy and blank. He holds me while I do nothing.

  And then the final frame. He reaches for my hand. My face is open. I hold his hand, doing nothing, actually extending my hand where his went, not fighting back, not trying to attract any attention whatsoever.

  ‘Oh shit,’ I whisper as I watch them.

  ‘I know,’ Sarah says.

  ‘That wasn’t – that wasn’t how it was.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He was frightening. He grabbed my hand so hard I couldn’t do anything.’

  ‘I know, Jo. I know. But – we’ve got a battle on our hands. Proving that. You don’t look … you don’t look frightened there.’

  ‘Laura will testify.’

  ‘Of course. Of course she will.’