N.W.

by Zadie Smith

  The defence was constituted along the same basic lines as transubstantiation. Someone else had used the vicar’s flat to chop up Viv. Someone else had deposited her body in a series of bin bags by Camden Lock, twenty yards from his own back door. He claimed the key was freely passed among his parishioners; many people had a copy. That his sperm was found inside her was only evidence of further coincidence. (The papers had dug up a series of suspiciously similar-looking local prostitutes, all claiming to have known the vicar in the biblical sense.) ‘But this is not a trial about race,’ said Johnnie, directing the jury’s attention to Natalie Blake with a slight move of his arm, ‘and to allow it to become one is to submit the evidential burden – your first concern, as jurors in a British court – to the guilty-cos-we-say-so principles of our lamentable gutter press.’ The distressed huddle of Viv’s family kept clinging to each other in the gallery, but Natalie did not look at them again.

  The prosecution offered a PowerPoint presentation. Grubby-looking Camden interiors. Natalie Blake sat forward in her chair. The point was the flecks of blood, but it was everything else that interested her.CFour modish Sixties-era white chairs, unexpected for a man of the cloth. The too big piano in the too small room. Mismatched sofa and ottoman, a top of the range TV. Outdated fitted kitchen with a cork floor, unfortunate, the blood soaks in. Natalie felt a nudge from the junior advocate and began taking down the pretend notes she’d been instructed to scribble.

  117. In the robing room

  As Natalie Blake turned to shuck off her gown, Johnnie Hampton-Rowe appeared beside her, put his hand on her shirt, pulling it aside with her bra. She had a delayed reaction: he was pinching her nipple before she managed to ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing. With the same sleight of hand she’d just seen in court, he turned the fact of her shouting into the crime. Backed off at once, sighing: ‘All right, all right, my mistake.’ Out of the door before she’d turned round. By the time she had collected herself and come out of the room he was at the far end of the hallway bantering with the rest of the team, discussing the next day’s strategy. The junior advocate pointed at Natalie with a pen. ‘Pub. Seven Stars. You coming?’

  118. Emergency consultation

  Leah Hanwell arranged to meet Natalie Blake at Chancery Lane tube. She was working close by, as a gym receptionist on the Tottenham Court Road. They walked to the Hunterian Museum. It began to rain. Leah stood between two huge Palladian columns and looked up at the Latin tag etched on grey stone.

  ‘Can’t we go to the pub?’

  ‘You’ll like this.’

  They made their tiny donations at the desk.

  ‘Hunter was an anatomist,’ explained Natalie Blake. ‘This was his private collection.’

  ‘Have you told Frank?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be helpful.’

  With no warning Natalie prodded Leah into the first atrium, as Frank had done to her a few months before. Leah didn’t scream or gasp or cover her hands with her eyes. She walked right past all the noses and shins and buttocks suspended in their jars of formaldehyde. Straight to the bones of the Giant O’Brien. Put her hand flat against the glass, and smiled. Natalie Blake followed her, reading from a leaflet, explaining, always explaining.

  119. Cocks

  Thick and squat and a little comical, severed a few inches after the head, or perhaps simply shrunken in death. Some circumcised, some apparently gangrenous. ‘Not feeling that envious,’ said Leah. ‘You?’ They moved on. Past hip bones and toes, hands and lungs, brains and vaginas, mice and dogs and a monkey with a grotesque tumour on its jaw. By the time they reached the late-stage foetuses they were a little hysterical. Huge foreheads, narrow little chins, eyes closed, mouths open. Natalie Blake and Leah Hanwell made the Munch face at each other, at them. Leah knelt to look at a diseased piece of human material Natalie could not identify.

  ‘You went to the pub.’

  ‘I sat there for twenty minutes looking at the grain of the table. They talked about the case. I left.’

  ‘You think he did the same with this Polly girl?’

  ‘They had a “thing”. Maybe it started the same way. Maybe he does it to everyone.’

  ‘The plot thickens. I hate plots. The gym’s the same, full of cocks making drama. Drives me insane.’

  ‘What’s that bit? Cancer?’

  ‘Of the bowel. Dad’s kind.’ Leah moved away from the jar and sat down on a little bench in the middle of the room. Natalie joined her and squeezed her hand.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Leah Hanwell.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Natalie Blake.

  120. Intervention

  A few weeks passed. Dr Singh cornered Natalie Blake in the pupils’ room. It was clear she had been sent as a sort of emissary. Some people upstairs – unnamed – were ‘concerned’. Why had she stopped participating in the social life of the set? Did she feel isolated? Would it help toC talk to someone who’d ‘been through it’? Natalie took the little card. Without realizing it she must have rolled her eyes. Dr Singh looked wounded, and drew a finger under a line of letters: QC, OBE, PhD. ‘Theodora Lewis-Lane was a trail-blazer’– this was meant as an admonishment – ‘No us without her.’

  121. Role models

  A fancy cake shop on the Gray’s Inn Road. Natalie was fifteen minutes late but Theodora was twenty, demonstrating that ‘Jamaican time’ had not quite died out in either of them. She was fascinated by Theodora’s chat-show weave (having recently abandoned her own, upon Frank’s request), and the subtle, glamorous variants she brought to the female barrister’s unofficial uniform: a gold satin shirt beneath the blazer; a diamanté trim to the black court shoes. She was at least fifty, with the usual island gift of looking twenty years younger. Surprisingly – given her fearsome reputation – she was no more than five foot two. When Natalie slipped off her chair to shake Theodora’s hand she looked disconcerted. Sitting, she reclaimed her gravitas. In an accent not found in nature – somewhere between the Queen and the speaking clock – she ordered a tremendous number of pastries before proceeding without any encouragement to tell the story of her Gothic south London childhood and unlikely professional triumph. When this tale was not quite finished, Natalie Blake took a fastidiously small bite of a croissant and murmured: ‘I guess I just really want my work to be taken on its own merits …’

  When she looked up from her plate, Theodora had her little hands folded in her lap.

  ‘You don’t really want to have a conversation with me, do you, Miss Blake?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ she said, with a sharpness that belied the fixed smile on her face, ‘I am the youngest silk in my generation. That is not an accident, despite what you may believe. As one learns very quickly in this profession, fortune favours the brave – but also the pragmatic. I suppose you’re interested in a human rights set of some kind. Police brutality? Is that your plan?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ said Natalie, trying to sound bullish. She was very close to tears.

  ‘It wasn’t mine. In my day, if you went down that route people tended to associate you with your clients. I took some advice early on: “Avoid ghetto work.” It was Judge Whaley who gave it to me. He knew better than anyone. The first generation does what the second doesn’t want to do. The third is free to do what it likes. How fortunate you are. If only good fortune came with a little polite humility. Now, I believe this place does wine. Will you have a little wine?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s a good tip for court: don’t imagine your contempt is invisible.

  You’ll find out as you mature that life is a two-way mirror.’

  ‘But I don’t have contempt –’

  ‘Calm yourself, sista. Have a glass of wine. I was just the same at your age. Hated being told.’

  122. Theodora’s advice

  ‘When I first started appearing before a judge, I kept being reprimanded from the bench. I was
losing my cases and I couldn’t understand why. Then I realized the following: when some floppy-haired chap from Surrey stands before these judges, all his passionate arguments read as “pure advocacy”. He and the judge recognize each other. They are understood by each other. Very likely went to the same school. But Whaley’s passion, or mine, or yours, reads as “aggression”. To the judge. This is his house and you are an interloper within it. And let me tell you, with a woman it’s worse: “aggressive hysteria”. The first lesson is: turn yourself down. One notch. Two. Because this is not neutral.’ She passed a hand over her neat frame from her head to her lap, like a scanner. ‘This is never neutral.’

  123. Bye noe

  hi finally

  that wasn’t so hard now was it

  just don’t like downloading things

  me no like computerz

  from the internet at WORK. Weak gov computers. One little virus

  me fear the future

  and they die innit

  is it

  shut it blake

  That’s just so fucking FASCINATING

  Hello hanwell DARLING. What brings you to the internets this fine

  afternopn

  noon

  woman next to me picking nose really getting in there

  tried to call but you no answer

  delighteful.

  cant take private calls in pupilf room what’s up

  big news

  You got cat aids?

  free may sixth?

  You catch cat aids may sixth? I am free if not in court. I big lawyer lasy

  these days innit Big lawyer lady jesus

  shit typer

  lady jesus I am getting married

  !!!!!?????

  on may

  that’s great! When did this happen???

  Six in registry same like u but irth actyl guests

  I’m really happy for you seriously

  Actual guests.

  Iz for mum really.

  right

  also, I really love him.

  lust him.

  Important to him and he wants to.

  It’s what people do innit.

  sorry clerk one min

  enough reasons?

  I think I’m going to wear purple

  Also for Pauline

  And gold like a catholic priest

  Hello?

  Sorry that is really great – congrats!

  Does this mesn

  Mean procreation??

  FUCK OFF WOMAN

  ☺

  FUCK OFF WITH YOUR SMILEY FACE

  cant believe you getting hitched

  whats happening to

  me too

  universe?

  we iz old

  we’re not fucking old

  at least u achieving something. I’m just slowly dying

  this my 2nd year as pupil. May be pupil for rest of

  dying of boredom

  life

  don’t know what tht means

  it = not good. Most peole tenant after ONE YEAR

  anyway boring – can I ask question and you not get off

  offended sorry

  fuck most people

  haha I am so not getting off right now

  can I?

  when u get hitched you have to give up everyone else anyway.

  that’s the idea, isn’t it?

  Stupid idea.

  haha

  So just more people to give up.

  That answer your question big lady jesus?

  Haha yes. You iz mind reader for realz

  and when all else fails:

  www.adultswatchingadults.com

  passes the time

  you know what I’m chatting about. Come on girl!

  Oi mate don’t leave me hanging!

  Sorry. Work shitstorm gotta go love you

  bye noe

  ‘bye noe’

  124. A tenancy meeting question

  Ms Blake, would you be prepared to represent someone from the BNP?

  125. Harlesden hero (with parentheses)

  Natalie Blake did not expect to be offered tenancy. To convert an external judgement into a personal choice she told herself a story about legal ethics, strong moral character and indifference to money. She told the same tale to Frank and Leah, to her family, to her fellow trainee barristers and to anyone else who enquired after her future. This was a way of making the future safe. (All Natalie’s storytelling had, in the end, this aim in view.) When, contrary to her expectations, she was indeed offered tenancy, Natalie Blake was placed in an awkward position vis à vis her personal ethics and strong moral character and indifference to money (or, at least, as far as the public representations of these qualities were concerned) and was forced to refuse the offer of tenancy and take the paralegal job at R senb rg, Sl tte y & No ton that she had been talking up for several months. A tiny legal aid firm in Harlesden with half its stencilled letters peeled off.

  126. Tonya seeks Keisha

  Natalie Blake’s clients called at inappropriate times. They lied. They were usually late for court, rarely wore what they had been advised to wear and refused perfectly sensible plea deals. Occasionally they threatened her life. In her first six months at RSN, three of her clients were young men who ‘went Brayton’, although they were much younger than Natalie Blake herself. This caused her to wonder if the school had gone downhill – further downhill. She snatched lunch from the jerk place opposite McDonald’s, sat on a high stool and had trouble keeping the oil off her suit. Pattie, fish dumpling and a can of ginger beer, most days. She tried to vary this menu, but at the counter any spirit of adventure abandoned her. A long-term plan existed to meet Marcia and Marcia’s sister Irene, who lived nearby, for lunch, but this fantasy appointment, with its two hours of idle time and no need to read briefs, never seemed to arrive, and soon enough Natalie Blake understood that it never would. Fairly often she saw her cousin Tonya on Harlesden High Street. On these occasions – despite her new status as a big lawyer lady – she experienced the same feelings of insecurity and inadequacy Tonya had compelled in her when they were children. This afternoon Tonya wore sweatpants with HONEY written across the posterior and a close-fitting denim waistcoat with a yellow bra underneath. Her fringe was purple, the hoop of her earrings brushed her shoulders. Her platform heels were red and five inches high. Despite the toddler and the baby in her double buggy, Tonya retained the proportions of a super-heroine in a comic book. Natalie meanwhile was sadly ‘margar’, as the Jamaicans say. To white people this translates as ‘skinny’ or ‘athletic’, and is widely considered a positive value. For Natalie it meant ultimately shapeless, a blank. Tonya’s skin was never ashy but always silky and gorgeous and she was not prone to the harsh pink acne that sometimes broke out across Natalie’s forehead, and was present today. Where Natalie’s teeth were small and grey, Tonya’s were huge, white, even, and presently on display in a giant smile. As Tonya approached, Natalie was sure she, Natalie, had dumpling oil round her mouth. But perhaps all this displacement of anxiety into the physical realm was a feminine way of simplifying a far deeper and more insoluble difference, for Natalie believed Tonya had a gift for living and Natalie herself did not seem to have this gift.

  ‘These children are so good-looking it’s criminal.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Look at André– he blatantly knows it.’

  ‘That’s his dad. His dad bought him that chain.’

  ‘Now he’s like: I’m a three-year-old playa.’

  ‘You know what I’m saying! Seriously.’

  Underneath the smile, Natalie saw that her cousin was disappointed with this exchange, wanting, as usual, to make a deeper ‘connection’ with Natalie, who wished to avoid precisely this intimacy and as a consequence retained a superficial and pleasant exterior with her cousin as a means of holding her at bay. Now Natalie put down André and picked up Sasha. Neither child ever seemed real to her no matter how many times Natalie felt the
ir weight in her arms. How could Tonya be the mother of these children? How could Tonya be twenty-six? When had Tonya stopped being twelve? When would her own adulthood arrive?

  ‘So I’m back up in Stonebridge, with my mum. Elton and me are done, that’s it. I’m finished wasting my time. It’s all good, though. I’m back to school, up in Dollis Hill? College of North West London. Tourism and hospitality. Studying, studying. It’s hard but I’m loving it. You’re my inspiration!’

  Tonya put her hand on the shoulder of Natalie’s ugly navy skirt suit. Was that pity in her cousin’s eyes? Natalie Blake did not exist.

  ‘How’s your mate? That nice girl. The redhead one.’

  ‘Leah. She’s good. Married. Working for the council.’

  ‘Is it. That’s nice. Kids?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘You lot are leaving it late, innit.’

  Tonya’s hand moved from her cousin’s shoulder to her head.

  ‘What’s going on up there, Keisha?’

  Natalie touched her uneven parting, the dry bun, scraped back, unadorned.

  ‘Not much. I never have time.’

  ‘I did all this myself. Microbraids. You should come by and let me doC it. It’s just six hours. We could make it an evening, have a good proper chat.’

  127. The connection between chaos and other qualities

  At RSN Associates the law burst from broken box files, it lined the hallways, bathroom and kitchen. This chaos was unavoidable, but it was also to some extent an aesthetic, slightly exaggerated by the tenants, and intended to signify selflessness, sincerity. Natalie saw how her clients found the chaos comforting, just as the fake Queen Anne sofas and painted foxhounds of Middle Temple reassured another type of client. If you worked here it could only be for the love of the law. Only real dogooders could possibly be this poor. Clients were directed to Jimmy’s Suit Warehouse in Cricklewood for court dates. Wins were celebrated in-house, with cheap plonk, pitta bread and hummus. When an RSN solicitor came to see you in your cell, they arrived by bus.

  128. ‘On the front line’

  Now and then, in court or in police stations, Natalie bumped into corporate solicitors she knew from university. Sometimes she spoke with them on the phone. They usually made a show of over-praising her legal ethics, strong moral character and indifference to money. Sometimes they finished with a backhanded compliment, implying that the streets where Natalie had been raised, and now returned to work, were, in their minds, a hopeless sort of place, analogous to a war zone.