Sandman

by Anna Legat

  Malik interrupts the broadcast. ‘I know him. I know that bloke... Ismail Najafi,’ he exclaims, ‘we went to school together. Same class. We played football together, can you believe it!’

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘He’s a nice guy.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘You never know – maybe the bastards missed.’

  Pippa loves the flowers. She has arranged them in a cut glass vase in the middle of the dining table. Through the glass you can see the stalks with a rash of tiny air bubbles on them. The roast beef melts in Ahmed’s mouth. It reminds him of home and of Mum’s cooking. She had added the Sunday roast to her Iranian cuisine recipe book long before Ahmed was born. He has never known Sundays without the Sunday roast.

  Malik is complimenting Pippa on the fluffiness of the Yorkshire puddings and the tenderness of the beef, not to mention the crispness of the veg – who would’ve guessed Malik was such a food connoisseur? ‘I needed this,’ he points at his near empty plate, ‘You saved my life, you know?’

  Pippa shakes her head and smiles, flattered. ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration.’

  ‘No,’ Malik waves his knife at her to demonstrate the strength of his conviction. ‘I’m not exaggerating. Trust me, you’re a lifesaver.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do!’ Malik gobbles up the last forkful and wipes his mouth with a napkin, which he then crumples into a ball and throws onto his plate. ‘I hear we’re celebrating something here, Ahmed tells me.’

  Harry gets up and fetches an envelope from the mantelpiece. He holds it reverently like a winning lottery ticket, and passes it to Malik. ‘Our son wrote to us. We haven’t heard from him in sixteen years.’

  Malik takes the envelope and gazes at it, uncertain what to do with it. ‘I’m glad for you,’ he says. ‘Really glad.’

  ‘Go on, open it. You can read it if you like. No secrets there.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘Read it to us, please,’ Pippa asks. She is such a dear old lady you can’t say no to her, so Malik reads out the letter. Pippa watches his lips as he reads, her own lips silently forming the words Malik says out loud. Within the first few words she falls out of synch with Malik, racing ahead of him – she has obviously learned the letter by heart. When he finishes reading the letter, Malik puts it back in the envelope and passes it to Harry.

  ‘Great news – to find out he’s alive after all those years of you thinking he was dead! Must’ve come as a shock... I mean, a shock in the best possible way...’ Ahmed cringes, Malik has put his foot in it.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Pippa exclaims, but she’s smiling so she can’t be too upset. ‘We never thought he was... Will isn’t dead – he just wouldn’t speak to us. For years, he wouldn’t.’

  ‘That’s a bit radical, isn’t it?’

  ‘He had his reasons,’ Harry says. He isn’t smiling. His gaze has travelled away, towards the window.

  ‘What reason on this earth -’

  ‘Grief,’ Pippa tells him. Now she too is upset. The smile has vanished. She has reached for Harry’s hand. He lets her fingers curl into his and tears his eyes from the window to return her affection. To give her strength. She inhales deeply and says, ‘Will had a sister, Cathy. Two years older than him. They were very close. When you live in the middle of nowhere, on a farm, miles from the nearest town, you don’t meet many people your own age to socialise with. Those two had only each other to play with since they were little. Cathy of course, being older, would always mother Will – more than I would; I was too busy with the farm! And she was the apple of his eye. Will adored her so he couldn’t... She died when she was twenty. He couldn’t -’

  Pippa doesn’t know how to complete the sentence – her lips try to form some sound, but she shakes her head and stifles that sound with her hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, we shouldn’t be prying,’ Ahmed says.

  ‘No, don’t worry. We’d have to talk about it some time, some day,’ Harry tells him. ‘About Cathy’s death.’

  ‘Especially now that Will’s got in touch. If he can face it, so should we.’ Pippa squeezes her husband’s hand and nods to him reassuringly.

  ‘Had she – Cathy – been ill?’

  ‘Oh no, she was as fit as a fiddle! No, no long illness to prepare us for it. It was sudden, you see – riots and mob rule, unrest throughout the whole country. Mugabe had promised land to everyone, but it was taking time. Too much time for some... And there were hard times, people got tired of waiting. War veterans – they called themselves war veterans, but most of them were too young to remember the war, let alone... They went about land redistribution their own way. It was a mob of more than thirty that marched on our farm. We barricaded ourselves inside – as well as we could – and tried to call for help. I couldn’t hold them off for long on my own. Most of our farm workers had fled – can’t blame them. I knew the police would turn a blind eye to the goings-on so I was calling around the neighbours, but they were no better off than us – trapped inside their own houses or on the run if they had been lucky enough to see it coming... Still, there was hope: I was armed, I could fend them off for a while until help arrived or until they got bored and moved on... as long as we were all together -’

  Harry has to stop. He reaches for a glass of water. His hand is shaking as he carries it to his lips – he puts it back down without taking a drop. ‘It was then we realised Cathy wasn’t with us in the house. Pippa shouted to look for her, but someone – can’t remember who... was it Sunny? – someone said they saw Cathy running into the tobacco field. She was probably terrified when she saw the veterans coming – she must’ve thought she could hide... She knew that field inside out. We thought: ok, she’s safe. They don’t know she’s there. As long as she stays there quiet as a mouse. Then at dusk, as they got fed up with screaming and camping outside the house, they torched everything – set the fields on fire, too, with Cathy there... We found her the next morning... We had looked through the night after they’d left, we called her name, hoping that maybe... We found her with the first light, right there, not that far from the house. She hadn’t even tried to run. Too afraid to move, too afraid to make a sound...’ Harry wipes off a stray tear. ‘We gathered the soil mixed with her ashes from where she sat – she had been sitting, you see, curled up, with her knees to her chin, and that’s how she died. We kept the soil – that’s all we’ve got left of her. Will went mad with grief.’

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault – what happened,’ Malik says what Ahmed is thinking. ‘Why wouldn’t he speak to you all those years? You weren’t responsible -’

  ‘But we were, weren’t we, Harry?’ Pippa is looking at Harry – it’s a hard, demanding stare. They aren’t holding hands anymore.

  Harry nods. ‘We were. I could’ve sold the farm, taken the compensation that was on offer, pittance as it was, and kept my family safe, and Cathy alive. I could’ve – should’ve done it, but I couldn’t bring myself to let go of the farm. It was all we knew, it was our home, our livelihood. I was arrogant thinking this whole land redistribution malarkey would go away. It didn’t. Will never forgave me for that. I never forgave myself – I never will.’

  Pippa’s small hand is back squeezing his. She says, ‘But he has forgiven you, hasn’t he? He wrote to us. Shall we read his letter again? Will’s letter.’

  III

  Awaiting her turn, Gillian is sitting on the edge of her bed, feet dangling. She is gazing at Fritz, who is gazing back at her – his expression a mirror reflection of hers: sheer despair. His torn ear twitches as the noise in the bathroom intensifies; it isn’t just the gurgle of running water or the hiss of the toilet tank, it is also the hum of conversation. So Charlie has now joined Tara in the bathroom, and the wait stretches indefinitely under Gillian and Fritz’s very noses. Fritz sits up on the bed and begins to groom himself with minute attention to detail. He keeps doing the same patch on his hind leg for a couple of minutes, then moves on to clean behind his ears. With her finge
rs Gillian brushes her unruly locks. She wishes she could do more by way of personal hygiene this morning; she wishes she could do without a bathroom and lick herself clean like Fritz. She wishes she were a cat: free to do her own thing in her own house, to walk about naked, snack on gherkins, and not stumble across items of men’s underwear in the crevices of her sofa. Well, on second thoughts, she wouldn’t mind that last bit if those items belonged to her man, not to Charlie Outhwaite.

  Fritz completes his morning ablutions and expels a well-pronounced yodel, which translates into I want my breakfast. He glares at her and adds a brisk, Now. Gillian rubs her face (the closest she can come to washing it), throws her dressing gown over her pyjamas (she has dug out the only pair of pyjamas in her possession – the one she keeps for when she needs to go to hospital), and takes herself – and Fritz – downstairs to the kitchen. She passes by the closed bathroom door where someone flushes the loo while a deep male voice asks for the towel. Are Tara and Charlie this intimate with each other? He’s been virtually living with them through the whole of the summer holiday, moving in as soon as Deon had left. It has been almost half a year since Gillian and Fritz had their house to themselves.

  Under the stairs is Corky’s makeshift bed, with Corky in it. The dog jerks his head upward and eyes Fritz warily, watching his every fluid step; Fritz, on the other hand, gives Corky a positively freezing cold shoulder. Gillian is glad that six months into their cohabitation they have finally agreed on the pecking order in their mixed-species pack. She can hear Corky rise from his bed and follow them to the kitchen, his soft paws padding on the stone tiles.

  She is relieved to have at least her kitchen to herself. She dishes out two smelly varieties of wet pet food, one dishful for the cat, another for the dog, both looking and smelling exactly the same. She puts the kettle on for herself and proceeds to scramble the last three eggs in the fridge. Not very hospitable of her, but Gillian has never claimed to be an exemplary hostess. In fact, she is anything but. People, especially long-faced young men casually shedding items of their underwear all over her house and sleeping in her daughter’s bedroom, get on her nerves. Gillian is a bundle of nerves, taut as a violin string. She goes through the house every evening, restoring ornaments to their rightful places, straightening coasters on the coffee table, ordering shoes on the shoe rack, picking up empty mugs from bizarre locations – who on earth would take their coffee to the toilet?

  She relishes her private moment, eating scrambled eggs on toast, three slices – one for each egg. Above her head, creaking floorboards on the landing announce that the bathroom has been vacated at last. She burns her lips on her hot black tea while, at the same time, trying to chew the last bite of her toast. It is now or never: it’s her only chance to repossess the bathroom. She lets the animals out in the garden – Fritz first, Corky right behind him – and tiptoes upstairs, hoping to make it through this morning unseen and unheard. She is already late. Detective Chief Superintendent – following his recent promotion – Scarfe has called a staff meeting at ten: some training on rolling out the Prevent programme in local schools, ready for the start of the new academic year. Not quite the top of Gillian’s priorities, but definitely top of Scarfe’s.

  Just as Gillian pushes the bathroom door open, Tara’s towel-wrapped head pops out from her bedroom. ‘Oh, there you are! Be home by seven – we’ve got a surprise for you! And a dinner, too!’

  The briefing has turned out to be a whole-day affair. Gillian is bored stiff. Listening isn’t her strongest quality, unless it is she who asks questions and demands answers. She listens when she has a reason to. In any other circumstances, she drifts away into her own – very busy – world, which needs to be continually inventorised, as she calls her mental note-taking. The homeless colony in Sexton’s Wood has grown in size and the landowner – Philip Weston-Jones, who insists on being referred to as Sir Philip – has threatened to take the law into his own hands. They are trespassing and it is his learned opinion that they should be prosecuted. He nailed a sign to that effect next to a well-trodden footpath that leads into the wood through a grazing paddock. So far the sign has been consistently ignored. At the end of his tether, Sir Philip has demanded police intervention to protect his property rights. It sounds good but it won’t do without an eviction order. And even with the order, things aren’t as straightforward as they seem. The homeless fraternity is an elusive bunch. Trying to fish them out from the wood, one by one, is near impossible. They squeeze through the cracks and blend with the background, offering neither resistance nor cooperation, and the next day they’re all back to rebuild their underground dwellings. Rabbit holes, Webber calls them, which is a surprisingly accurate term, if politically incorrect. Their occupants disappear into one hole only to reappear from another one, and walk away undetected. That brings back a childhood memory of Bugs Bunny and Porky Pig – a memory Gillian has to smile at.

  ‘Anything funny I said?’ Scarface is addressing Gillian, his expression on the lines of We are not amused.

  ‘No! No, sir! It was... I was just,’ Gillian stammers, ‘I was squinting to read the... the... what’s on the board.’

  ‘You may want to have your eyes checked,’ Webber whispers into her ear, his expression that of Prince Philip about to commit another unforgiveable blunder. Which he does. ‘First thing that goes at your age is the eyesight, I’m told.’

  Erin guffaws. Gillian fixes her with an unforgiving stare.

  What’s so funny about being forty... OK, forty-three? Erin is only six years younger, and so is Webber. They’re not that far behind. Anyway, you’re only as old as you feel. It’s a feeble reassurance, considering that lately Gillian has been feeling drained and de-motivated, contemplating retirement from the Force. She needs a case – a decent manslaughter at the very least, though a nice juicy murder would go a long way in revitalising her outlook on life. Chasing homeless buggers around Sexton’s Wood doesn’t come close despite the fresh air and panoramic views over Wensbury Plains.

  ‘This may be a good time to break for tea,’ the guest speaker throws Gillian a lifeline. ‘Shall we reassemble in, say...’ he checks his watch, ‘fifteen minutes? At two forty-five.’

  The three of them, Gillian, Erin, and Mark Webber, are gathered around the buffet table, sipping tea from dainty cups and munching on flapjacks – a far cry from their regular diet. It’s all for the benefit of their guest, one Eduard Gosling from MI5, who is standing at the far end of the room, chatting to Scarfe. The Chief Super is positively elevated by association. His sycophantic laughter thunders through the room – Gosling must’ve told him a joke. Webber nods towards them and mimics Scarface’s earlier remark with remarkable accuracy. ‘Anything funny I said?’

  Erin chortles, again.

  ‘Leave off, will you, Webber?’

  He salutes. ‘Yes, ma’am!’

  They each pick up another piece of flapjack and proceed to chew thoughtfully. Erin peers at her watch. ‘Two forty,’ she informs them, torturous resignation etched into her face. ‘We should be going back.’

  ‘What is the purpose of this... this Prevent thing? How is it relevant to us?’ Webber complains. ‘It’s not like we are awash with Muslim fundamentalists here in the Shires, is it now?’

  ‘You never know, DS Webber. Like they say – better safe than sorry,’ Gillian shares the words of wisdom though deep down she has to agree with him. In Sexton’s Canning people murder each other for perfectly logical reasons. Crime makes sense here: take the landowner hunting down homeless trespassers with a shotgun.

  ‘I’ll need something stronger than a cup of tea when this day’s up. I’ve been watching paint dry for way too long, God help me,’ Webber moans as they regroup back into the conference room.

  ‘Drinks at the Bull’s Eye?’ Erin suggests.

  Gillian nods approvingly, ‘We’ll reconvene there at six.’

  It’s seven thirty – give or take – when Gillian rolls in home from the pub: early by her standards,
but Webber had to be home to put his girls to bed (Kate still isn’t with it, as he puts it with a pained look on his face, so Gillian doesn’t ask any questions). It’s pouring down and, as she had to walk home, she is soaked to the bone and her usually fluffy coiffure resembles a wet mop, fresh out of a bucket. Rainwater has somehow managed to get under her collar – she can feel it trickling between her shoulder blades. She pats her pockets for the key. Corky barks from the garden. Has Tara forgotten to take the beast out of the rain? He must be missing Sean, especially when it’s raining and no one seems to give a toss about his personal... his canine welfare. Tara takes after Gillian in the forgetfulness department. Like mother, like daughter, Gillian muses proudly, still searching for the key to the front door in the deep recesses of her spacious pockets. The door swings open and a stream of light pours out of the house. The skinny silhouette of her forgetful daughter is standing in the doorway. Before Gillian has a chance to remind her of the poor dog, Tara hisses through her teeth, ‘You forgot, didn’t you? I asked you to be home by seven – once in your life! I didn’t ask you for a new car or a loan – just to be home by seven!’

  ‘I am -’

  ‘No, you’re not! It’s... seven thirty-six! Get in! You’ve missed the starter.’

  Is that a problem? Is that what the fuss is all about? Gillian is just about to inform Tara that she isn’t hungry – she’s had a steak and kidney pie with mash and veg at the Bull’s Eye – when she changes her mind. In the dining room the table is laid for ten – laid quite elaborately with her best china and silver cutlery, not to mention her nan’s silver candlesticks – and the people sitting at it gaze at her most cordially (at least, some of them do – Tara is looking away).

  ‘Well... hello... everyone...’ Gillian’s smile turns awkwardly lopsided. She takes a seat. She is baffled to see the assembly of people at the table. Seeing Charlie there, even Tara’s friend Sasha with her boyfriend Rhys, isn’t that perplexing, but Sasha’s parents? They, in their turn, appear equally bewildered. It isn’t like Sasha’s mother to sit demurely at a table, quiet as a mouse, but here Grace sits – quiet as a mouse, her jovial Caribbean temperament in the grip of utter stupefaction. Nathaniel Garland, Sasha’s father, looks bland and inscrutable, seriously out of his comfort zone, but then again that is his usual look: a man who swallowed a broomstick. Nathaniel isn’t one for large gatherings. He is shy and withdrawn as a rule, for which fact his wife Grace normally makes up for tenfold. Not tonight. Tonight even Grace doesn’t know how to interpret this occasion. Her large dark eyes blink in earnest, her fingers are tugging at a napkin.