The Buddha of Brewer Street

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‘What’s “serious”?’ he had enquired.

‘Backpacking in Umbria, maybe. Or at least driving lessons. He’s suggested it. Got a BMW 3-series. Black. Convertible. With a six-stack Kenwood CD.’

He wasn’t sure whether he was being teased. ‘You can’t take driving lessons in a car like that.’

‘Got any better suggestions?’

He had not. He still had several months to go on his ban and had long ago sold his own car. He lapsed into silence, speculating on what other lessons teenagers learnt in a black, 3-series BMW with endless stereo, and whether it made a difference if the soft top was up or down.

She was on the verge of independence and he had no choice but to accept it. University. Separate holidays. Separate lives, for the most part. He could only be grateful that she shared some of her time and came to stay with him, a friend as well as a daughter – even if it did mean him scrabbling around dealing with dirty linen instead of matters of state. Although on reflection perhaps there wasn’t all that much difference.

He threw a bundle of university brochures to one side and tried to fold the bed back into the sofa. But it was stuck, complaining, something in the way. A magazine had become wedged in a spring. It turned out to be a copy of Metropolitan, a publication that, in the language of the shout line, ‘Makes Young Women Turn On and Turn Over’. It made him feel uncomfortable. He’d never read one before, hadn’t realized it carried items like … He sat down – no, sank would be a better description – onto the bed. This was clearly going to be one of those growing-up sessions that fathers had to endure when they discovered what truly took their daughters’ interests. Like ‘Male Lust – Inside the Mind of the Man Inside You’. And ‘Bonking Your Way to Greater Brain Power’. The illustrations for ‘Nifty Ways to Naughty Nights’ were particularly vivid.

He leafed through the pages, becoming involved in it rather more than he had intended. The photographs of the models were about as close as he got to female flesh nowadays, and he found himself making the most of it. Then, to his intense embarrassment, it dawned on him that any one of these full-figured and flawless young women could have been Sam. In pursuit of her interest in art she had posed for life classes, taken her clothes off for strangers, still did for all he knew, and although he had tried to be as dispassionate and as analytical about it as she was, he had failed. He knew what he felt about these young women, their bodies barely covered, their all too evident sexual attractions, and it served only to remind him what other men felt about Sam.

He hurried on. Through the advice of the agony aunt (‘His Wife Doesn’t Understand Me’), past the breast-enlargement advertisements (‘the implant with impact …’), skipping over the tarot readings and astrology charts until finally he was done. Nothing left but the classified ads. He was about to toss the magazine to one side when he noticed she had marked one of the ads. Ringed it in ink.

The Unplanned Pregnancy Advice Clinic.

It took a little time for the thought to take hold. It was almost as if he were standing on the deck of a great liner which at first trembled then, very slowly, started to sink. The deck began to tilt and the familiar furniture to shift. He found himself scrabbling for his footing, his uncertainty turning by stages to confusion and then to fear. Little Sam. Pregnant? Suddenly he saw a life with so much promise, overflowing with such potential, now on the brink of – what?

Ruin. His daughter. Just another social statistic. Of course! That’s why she’d been coming to London so frequently. Not to see him but to attend a bloody … a bloody bun club! He’d been a fool, felt deceived. But he also felt responsible. All those parental conversations he had tried to launch before retreating in embarrassment. That had been his part of the deal and he had failed. He had owed her more than that. Now she was paying the price, not only for her own weakness but for his, too. His fault. More guilt.

And after the guilt came panic. What to do? He didn’t know, had no idea. He’d never been a grandfather before.

And who was the father? Bryan? Bryan! He’d kill bloody Bryan-the-little-bastard. Or whoever. Perhaps it wasn’t Bryan. Still more panic. No, he wanted it to be Bryan, he didn’t want a whole list of suspects.

Little Sam!

He swore, most vividly, but it didn’t help. And outside he thought he could hear a Black Dog braying, waiting for him. So, lacking any other inspiration and ignoring the fact that it was still only eleven o’clock, Goodfellowe rose unsteadily from the bed and fixed himself a drink.

A different bed, still more makeshift than the first. Little more than a mass of complaining springs, no mattress, supported by four short and rusting iron legs. It was to the legs that they had tied her.

Sherab should never have returned to Tibet. Such trips always involved risk. She was only a functionary, not a mighty maker of decisions, no more than a manager of Potala Travel in McLeod Ganj. But she handled all the travel arrangements for the Dalai Lama’s office and anyone with those sort of connections becamea subject of interest to the Chinese. A target. Yet her mother was gravely ill; it might be a final chance for Sherab to see her. She had no choice.

Luck had not travelled with her. Sherab was riding in the back of a vegetable lorry along an ancient Khampa trade route, avoiding the main roads which were heavily patrolled, but every mile took her further east, to where the Chinese presence was most evident and oppressive, drawing her deeper into danger. Her head was covered to protect her from the swirling dust of the high plateau and the stench of burnt diesel, so she did not see the Chinese patrol at the side of the road. They weren’t looking for her and had little interest other than in liberating a few vegetables to accompany the yak broth they were brewing, but they became suspicious when they found Sherab hiding in the back, covered, and grew still more interested when they found the money belt packed tight with the savings she had intended for her mother. This was no ordinary peasant, concealed behind sacks, and with such soft hands. They could read fear in her eyes, and fear spelled guilt. Anyway, if she wasn’t guilty of something they would have to hand back the money pouch. So she had been apprehended, and Sherab’s life was squandered for an armful of vegetables.

She had been taken to Gutsa Gaol to the east of Lhasa, not in the main section but in a wing reserved for the politicals. It was there they unravelled her true identity by matching sex, age, accent and eventually her face to their files. ‘Sherab Chendrol,’ they had said, ‘we believe you wish to be a good citizen. Please co-operate.’ And to encourage her they had put her in a ‘cooperation’ cell fourteen metres square with one overspilling bucket and twenty hideous women, every one of whom was disfigured by some malevolent skin disease that she presumed to be highly contagious. There was no room to hide, no place to wash, and several of the hags had made a point of brushing up against her. When in the morning she had begged to be put in another cell, she was brought down many musty flights of concrete stairs to this new place. It was below ground, dank, with only a single bare light bulb hanging awkwardly from the ceiling and condensation seeping down the walls. But she felt, at first, relief; at least it had a bed. And she was alone, except for the guards, three male and one female, who accompanied her. There seemed to be very little noise down here; it was a long way from any other part of the prison. She wondered why there was no latrine bucket; perhaps that meant she would not be staying here long. It was only then she realized this could be no ordinary cell.