Between the Regions of Kindness

by Alice Jolly

  The sitting room will never be the same again. It’s been stretched into the shape of the stranger, continues to carry his imprint. She goes to the cocktail cabinet, pours herself a gin and tonic, switches the gramophone on and steps out onto the terrace. She imagines the stranger is still there, holding her against him, her feet moving in time with his, as he turns her across the cracked paving stones. Below her the fading red-brick city, the cathedral, the River Severn, the Malvern Hills are replaced by the glow of floodlights, the glitter of sequins as the music from the gramophone quicksteps her away into beckoning and brilliant uncertainty.

  34

  NOW

  Lara – Brighton, April 2003

  Lara is keeping her side of the bargain. God – or whoever else – will look after Jay. Everything happens for a reason. This is the story she tells herself and it must be true because she got a buyer for the flat immediately. Six people came to see it the first day and now a couple moving down from London want to proceed. Lara isn’t surprised, she takes this as tribute to her talent for design – even though that concept has come to seem irrelevant. And this is part of the plan, this is how it’s meant to be. She hasn’t heard yet when the sale might happen but she’s got to be ready.

  It’s eleven in the morning and she hasn’t put the radio on, or the television. She knows that Jay will be all right. He’s doing what he wants to do. The days are unfolding as they should. American troops have reached the outskirts of Baghdad so maybe they’ll take control of the city soon and then Jay will be safe. She surveys her bedroom and plans the next stage of the packing – her wardrobe first and then the chest of drawers. Everything must go, she knows that. The flat has been a drug, an addiction. Flats should be harmless but this one has eaten her. She offers it up as a penance, gladly. The only problem is Jay’s room. How can she begin to unstick his posters from the wall or put his greasy bike bits into a box?

  As she sorts through shoes in her wardrobe, she thinks of Oliver, of that strange moment on the seafront. She had wanted to kiss him – and more – but it was right that she didn’t. She wouldn’t want to take second place after Grace. And if she’d started to kiss him, they would have finished up in bed, but after two weeks it would have come to an ugly end. She can’t afford that, she needs Oliver, he’s her friend. Even inside her head, she uses that word with care because she knows now that she’s never properly understood what it means. That must be the case because otherwise why is she alone here with no one to help her? No one to drive a defunct CD player to the tip or offer a home to a shabby houseplant?

  When Jay first left people did ring up but she never returned the calls and now they don’t ring any more. When she told her friend Annabel – and others – that she’d left her job they’d behaved as though someone had died, which was odd because for years those same people had nagged her to give up her job, or cut down her hours. But now she’s done it, they seem curiously unnerved. And then Annabel came around a few days ago and burst into tears. Oh Lara, I’ve been such a bad friend to you. I haven’t given you what you need. Lara had made tea and dispensed comfort while thinking – isn’t this the wrong way round?

  But she’d quelled that thought because she’s trying to be good now, although it’s hard to know where to begin. If God wants people to be good He should make it easier.

  She finds the jacket at the bottom of a box on the top shelf of the wardrobe. It’s green suede, with a leather collar and cuffs. The elbows are shiny and creases suggest the bend of her arms. She remembers that stain down near the pocket – was it red wine or coffee in that London café? The stain is shaped like an upside-down horseshoe. Perhaps that should have served as a warning? She pulls the coat out of the box. It feels powdery, smells of dust. A green leather button dangles from a thread. She slides an arm into the jacket and it settles around her as though it’s arriving home, as though the last twenty years or so have suddenly evaporated.

  She’d worn the jacket in the short period of her youth. She must have bought it in a second-hand shop when she was in the sixth form at Frencham Heights. Everyone there could afford as many new clothes as they wanted and consequently bought all their clothes second-hand. At that time Lara had been expecting to go to university and become a lawyer. The world a luxurious department store displaying exotic possibilities.

  She wore the jacket later as well – after Jay was born.

  In the park she would count the laps – ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Through rain and sleet, through puddles which crackled with ice, watching the other people who still had their lives. Jay wouldn’t even allow her to go to the loo on her own. He followed her in and held onto her knee, trying to help her with the loo paper but dropping it so that it unravelled all over the place, and she had to ravel it up again. She remembers once weeping uncontrollably because it was so very hard to wind the paper back onto the roll.

  The jacket feels slightly damp and stiff but it fits her. Over the last two months that extra stone which she’s spent twenty years trying to shift has fallen away of its own accord. So now she’s the size she was when she was eighteen. And looking in the mirror now, she sees that she’s become the kind of woman she’s always despised. No make-up, ragged hair, wearing jeans, trainers and a stained old jacket. She runs her hands down the powdery material of the jacket, leans down to examine the stain.

  Strangely, at times over the last two weeks she’s enjoyed being in the peace protest office. The people there may be the walking wounded but at least they are still walking. One evening Wilf put music on and they shared a bottle of cheap vodka. Martha had got tipsy and danced with the dog until everyone cried with laughter. Lara had wondered whether she might be starting to have the teenage years she’d missed. And even the morning after the vodka, she’d found herself sparkling with energy. For the first time in her life, she’s on the side of right. Moral rectitude is clearly good for your health.

  Looking in the mirror again, she imagines her life unravelling backwards. Like one of those old-fashioned cine machines, the tape unspooling and spilling onto the floor. There she is as she was two months ago, wearing her suit for work, going to London every day, backwards and backwards to the moment when she bought this flat ten years ago. And there she is, moving in the furniture, and then on again, backwards, to her first day working for Craig, in the original Brighton office, putting on a black Lycra pencil skirt and a black roll-neck jumper, sheer tights, plenty of make-up, a gold necklace and large gold earrings shaped like hearts. Leaving Jay with Mollie. Was it wrong? At the time she’d felt that, once again, she was leaving behind all the mess of her childhood and turning into the person she was always meant to be. So why has everything started going in reverse? It’s a surprise to find that she’s not unhappy – now that she’s become the kind of person she never wanted to be. She realises that, all of her life, she has made the fundamental mistake of believing herself, and the events of her life, to be significant.

  Still wearing the coat, she heads down to the kitchen to make herself a coffee. The kitchen table is spread with envelopes sent by letting agents. She rang five of them last week, in a sudden panic, knowing that she would need to find somewhere else to live. She’s seen the envelopes arrive but hasn’t opened them. She needs to take a brutal approach to this business. She will not be seduced by a wrought iron balcony, a Scandinavian light fitting, Eames-style kitchen chairs. When she opens one of those envelopes and takes out the list which will doubtless be inside, she’s going to look at the flat which is second up from the bottom, and she’s going to work from right to left, and the first two-bedroom flat she comes to which costs less than eight hundred pounds a month, and is reasonably central, is the one she’s going to rent.

  The place has to be basic, perhaps even a little squalid. Like the recovering alcoholic with the one sniff of whisky, the promise of Farrow & Ball paint, or Fired Earth tiles, could prove her undoing. She eases open an envelope, pulls out the rental list, thumbs through the expensive family prop
erties at the beginning until she comes to the one- and two-bedroom flats at the back. Second row up from the bottom. Preston Park – too far away. Woodingdean – also too far. The next one is marked Central. It’s in a Georgian-style town house but the paint on the window frame is peeling and the walls are stained.

  But that isn’t the only problem. Something else about the flat unsettles her. She looks at the address – 42B Roma Street. The flat is owned by Mollie. She has to take the first one she sees – she promised herself that. But no, she can’t go and live in a flat owned by Mollie. Of course, Mollie needs tenants and particularly ones who might pay the rent. And the flat is certain to be squalid enough for her requirements. But no, she’ll have to try again.

  She opens another envelope. This time she’ll take whichever property is in the top column, furthest to right, on the second page of two-bedroom flats. She finds that page, looks in the top right-hand corner. The property is 42B Roma Street. She crumples the magazine closed and drops it back on the pile. She feels like the victim of a practical joke. She opens another envelope. This time she’ll give herself two choices – either the first flat listed on page two or the first one listed on page three. The first one listed on page two is in Heron Street. It’s central and has two bedrooms. A photo is included. The flat has swirling carpets and even in the photograph Lara can almost see them crackling with static. A picture of the kitchen shows shiny pine and brown tiles. The woman with the frizzy red hair, no make-up and a stained jacket will fit in there just fine. Right, I’ll ring the agent first thing to tomorrow, she thinks and pours herself a coffee. Then she decides that she’ll look at which one was on the third page – just to check. 42B Roma Street.

  The phone rings and she stops at the kitchen door, hesitates. Then she walks slowly into the sitting room. No need to panic, everything will be fine. But as she tries to put her coffee cup down she misses the shelf and the cup falls, the black stain of it spreads across the boards. For a moment, Lara worries about the stain and then she remembers. Soon these boards will not be hers any more so what does it matter? She hears Spike’s voice – We’ve had a message. Apparently they hit the Palestine Hotel but we can’t find out. The news is on one of the Arab websites.

  I’m coming, Lara says. I’m coming. She steps over the spilt coffee and grabs her bag. As far as she knows, Jay isn’t in the Palestine Hotel but loads of journalists are and he knows those people, they invite him to go there. The streets reel past her – the pub, the corner shop, the entrance to the park gates.

  In the peace protest office, Spike and Wilf are crowded around the television. As always, Ahmed is fixed to the computer screen. Martha is on the telephone. We’ve seen a report. Are you able to confirm? No, the report is on an Arab website. The Palestine Hotel. Yes, yes. We’ve heard that there has been an explosion to the east of the centre. Yes, we’ve heard that. So you haven’t heard anything more?

  On the television screen smoke is rising from a building but Lara knows immediately that it isn’t the Palestine. It must be that other bomb to the east. She picks up the remote control and switches to another channel. Wait a minute, Spike says. Wait a minute. We need to see this.

  That isn’t the Palestine Hotel.

  Yeah, I know.

  What did they say? Lara says to Martha, who has put the phone down.

  They don’t know. They haven’t heard.

  We’ve got to find out, Lara says. Jay could be there. He goes there.

  Lara, please, Spike says.

  The dog in the box starts to shuffle and whine.

  Now come on, please, Martha says. Everyone keep calm. You know he’s a rescue dog and his nerves are bad.

  She bends to pet the dog, her plaits swinging.

  Where is this website? Let me see.

  Lara, can you just please switch back to the channel we were on?

  Show me the website. Lara leans over Ahmed’s shoulder, looks at what is on his screen but he’s reading a report about that other bomb.

  Listen, can you just show me where you saw it?

  He’ll do it in a minute. If you could just wait.

  You don’t understand.

  Ahmed turns and silence rises across the room like the pulling up of a drawbridge. Lara has only seen Ahmed’s face once before, months ago, at the Guest House when he was explaining about the nineteen pence he owed for the second-class stamp. Now his black marble eyes are fixed on her and his mouth is set in a tight line. Can you shut up? Can you just shut up because I’m trying to read this?

  Well, I’m sorry. But I’m just asking.

  I know what you’re asking.

  Listen. I just want to see that website.

  No, Miss Ravello. No. You just listen to me. This is my country here. This is my country that is dying here. And this is not about some journalists who may be staying at a hotel. This is about the whole of my country. And a bomb has gone into a residential area and this is what we need to know about. We need to know what is happening to my country, to the people there.

  OK. OK. I’m sorry.

  No. You are not sorry at all. You care for nothing except yourself and your son. But your son went to this country through his own choice.

  Yes but—

  No. You listen to me now. This is not about you and your son. This is about my country. Because people have died in this building and each of those people who have died is somebody’s son. And over the last ten years hundreds and thousands have died. And they were all somebody’s son. But you, you can’t understand that.

  I do – I’m trying to help. I got a loan to pay for the lawyer, I’m selling my flat. Lara hears her voice like the jangling of a triangle in a force ten gale.

  You don’t care, Ahmed says. You don’t care at all. Let me show you. Let me explain. Let me make you understand. You want to know what is happening in my country then I’m going to show you. Ahmed reaches into the drawer of the desk. His fingers rip at an envelope and he pulls out photographs. You come here. You come with me. I will show you what is happening in my country. And in my family. I will show you my brother. You will see.

  Ahmed is spreading the photographs out on the desk behind him. Lara’s eyes stray to the television. Still there is no mention of the Palestine Hotel.

  Look please, Miss Ravello. See. See what is here.

  Lara looks down at the table. A photograph of a charred body. Next to it a photograph of a corpse with both of the hands amputated. Lara raises her hands to her mouth, feels her stomach rise. She looks away but he shouts. Look. Look. Will you look at this? In this place – they found a meat grinder there.

  The images jumble in her mind. Legs without bodies, bodies without legs. A man’s torso with puncture wounds all across it, a man with his face beaten to a pulp – is he alive or dead? Lara tastes acid in her throat. This is like something you see in a film but this isn’t a film.

  This is what is happening in my country. These are somebody’s sons. Somebody’s daughter. This here. This here. He points at a photograph of a corpse. My brother. You understand. Ahmed is gulping as he speaks. This my brother. He went for me. He went to complain after I lost my job. He did that for me and I should never have let him do it. Or I should have gone with him. And so it was my fault.

  Ahmed turns, wipes his hand across his eyes, walks out of the room, the rhythm of his feet sure and slow on the stairs. Lara sits down beside the photographs, feels herself starting to cry. The room is silent. No one looks at anyone else and no one looks at the photographs spread on the desk. The phone rings and Martha goes to answer it.

  I’m sorry, Lara says. I’m sorry. But she knows that sorry isn’t going to be enough. No words are of any relevance now. Her eyes stray back to the photographs. She thinks of these people now, of their suffering, of the people that mourn them. She thinks of Ahmed and his dignified silence, the neatness of his clothes, the long hours spent washing up at the hotel, followed by the unending hours in this office. Briefly she longs for her mother but knows tha
t Mollie would side with Ahmed, not with her. Everyone will always side with him.

  She heads to the door, wondering where he might have gone. She walks upstairs and looks through the door of the café and into the Community Centre. Then she goes to the door of the church but he isn’t there. She heads out into the street, and stops, uncertain which way to turn. She sees him, sitting on the seat of the bus stop at the end of the road, his head bent down, staring at his clasped hands.

  She crosses the road towards him, then stops. It won’t do any good to say she’s sorry. As she watches him, she sees the size of the gulf that separates them, a gulf which can’t be crossed. Her world and his will never meet. Even if it turns out that Jay has died in a bomb attack, the divide will still be there. She can pay for a lawyer, she can even sell her flat but she can never begin to understand. She’d been told, of course, that he’d lost some of his family in Iraq but, if she’d thought about it at all, she’d assumed they’d been shot. She hadn’t thought of torture, or mutilation. Her mind convulses again at the thought of those images. Ahmed looks up, sees her standing there. He sits up straighter, moves his hand to the knot of his tie, then rubs his hands together.

  I am sorry, he says. I am sorry that I was angry with you.

  She stares at him, searches for words. No. No. You mustn’t be sorry. I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.

  He nods his head, gets up.

  Please, she says. I am trying. I will do anything. You just have to tell me.

  He nods his head, considers this question. Right now what we need is an extra power point, he says. An electrician. This would be most helpful.

  Lara knows about the three computers and printer all loaded onto one plug, the regular power cuts. Every day there are discussions about what can be done. But she’d wanted to offer something more, to participate in some grand plan. She longs to be forgiven for being white, affluent, safe and previously interested in interior design.