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‘When do these staff tensions arise most?’
Shari picked fluff off her jilbab while she thought what to say. ‘When we have Muslim speakers, some of the non-Muslim staff object to the hall being gender-segregated. And when we have celebrations, the non-Muslim staff want one thing and —’
‘Is that about alcohol?’ Dan cut in.
Shari blinked and looked at Maya, as though she were hoping for sympathy. ‘Among other things. At Christmas and end of year parties, many of the staff want wine and beer, and to go to the pub afterwards.’
‘And the Muslim staff object?’
‘Some mind less. But others refuse to go anywhere alcohol is available.’
‘Simple, surely? Separate it out?’
‘It’s not that easy. We’ve tried having non-halal food and alcoholic drinks in one room, and halal food and non-alcoholic drinks in another but we ended up with two separate parties. That defeats the object, to celebrate collective hard work and achievement. We then tried having all the food and drink in the staffroom at opposite ends. That worked better but the staff who don’t want to go anywhere where there is alcohol still refused to attend. Linda was convinced she’d find a solution but in the end we came to the conclusion that perhaps there is no way of resolving the situation. A case of necessary segregation for certain occasions.’
Dan could see her frustration. He didn’t know what the answer was either. But how the hell were these cultural tensions and literacy problems involved with Linda’s murder? And how did money come into it? At the back of his mind was a mental image of Linda, eyes bulging, her hands bound. And the Buddhist precept: I abstain from taking the ungiven. Was mousey, dithery Shari a fan of Linda’s or had she ducked out of the staffroom and squeezed the life out of her senior colleague?
Wednesday – Steve (#ulink_ccfe1b88-bc6a-5ccb-b8cb-c18f9cabf05b)
The arrival of Roger Allen at the Morgan Arms set everyone on edge. Steve sensed that his colleagues, who had just begun to relax and talk freely, resented having to watch what they said in front of the senior manager who had been off sick all day.
After three pints of real ale, jet lag and the mother of all hangovers, when Steve arrived back at his sister’s flat, one desire eclipsed all others: to slide under the duvet and stay there. Shaky, and with a crushing pain expanding inside his head, he climbed the two flights of stairs to the top floor of Durkin House. Outside the flat door, he fumbled in his jeans pockets for his keys. Relief swept over him when he hit the dead lock: Jane was out.
Steve closed the flat door behind him. The place was hardly any warmer than outside. Never mind. He’d soon be under the covers. Then his gaze fell on his sister’s gym bag in the hall. ‘
‘Ah, bollocks.’ He’d left his messenger bag in the Morgan Arms. He’d get it tomorrow. He couldn’t face trekking back there now. Carrying a pint of water, he headed straight for the spare room at the end of the landing. This was home for the next few months until he could find a place of his own.
He took his mobile out of his jeans, rang the pub and asked them to hold on to his bag. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. On the floor his rucksack leaned against the wall and his attention fell to the key ring that Lucy had given him, with the letters NYC, when she’d first told him she wanted to return home to the USA.
He felt a dart of pain in his stomach. How long was it going to take until he could think about Lucy, and see things that reminded him of her, and not feel regret?
Just get into bed, you idiot. And stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve only got yourself to blame. Lucy gave you fair warning. Claiming indignation about her going home to the States was never going to cut it, and nursing your pride isn’t going to reverse things.
He exhaled, swung his legs up and lay back on the mattress. Within minutes of head and pillow meeting, Steve’s breathing slowed and he was snoring. Until –
‘Hey. Sleeping Beauty.’
The overhead light flicked on.
‘Wake up.’
Steve’s eyes were dazzled. The abrupt waking jolted him from his boozy sleep.
It was Jane in strident mode, standing over the bed with hands on hips. ‘It smells like a pub in here. How much have you had?’
‘Oh fuck,’ he groaned and pulled the pillow over his face. Dread surged through him along with ripples of nausea. Jane on a rant was bad enough when he was on top form.
‘From what I’ve heard, you already did that. D’you want to explain why I’ve had a call from Lucy first thing this morning, and then one from some DI Rahman woman about your school?’
‘Not really, no.’ He might have guessed Lucy would be on the phone to Jane. They’d been close for several years. ‘Look, do one, will you? My head hurts. I’m not up to one of your inquisitions.’ He replaced the pillow over his eyes.
She yanked the duvet off the bed and onto the floor, leaving Steve naked, except for his boxers and the pillow over his head.
‘Piss off. Don’t do that.’ He lobbed the pillow to one side, reached over to grab hold of the pastel pink duvet cover and pulled it back over him. This was something his sister used to do when they were growing up and it had always infuriated him. As she clearly remembered.
‘Well?’
Steve didn’t answer. He rolled over and tucked the pink duvet under his chin in case she tried to pull it off again, feeling like he was about six.
‘You heard me. What’s going on?’
‘I’m not talking to you when you’re in this mood. The last forty-eight hours have been a pile of crap. Now can you please leave me alone?’
‘The detective wanted me to confirm you’re staying here.’
‘I am, aren’t I?’
‘She said you’ve been involved in a serious incident. What’s happened?’
‘We aren’t allowed to talk about it.’
‘Bit late for that. It’s already on the national news. The head teacher of your new school’s been found dead.’
‘If you know what’s happened, why are you asking?’
‘Oh my God, was it you who found her?’
‘Yeah. Now please leave me alone.’
‘So, you aren’t interested in Lucy’s message then?’
‘What message?’ Curiosity replaced the world-weary, about-to-die tone in his voice. He was facing her now.
‘If you’re showered and dressed and in the kitchen in ten minutes, I’ll tell you.’
Brick Lane, 1990 – Maya (#ulink_7dcd196e-054a-5dc0-8869-369192438e67)
‘In here, you two,’ Mum calls from the kitchen.
Plunged into darkness, Jasmina and I grope our way out of the lounge to join Mum. Illuminated by the blue light of the gas ring, she’s at the stove. Sweet, spicy smells waft round the kitchen, and there’s a pot bubbling on the hob.
Outside, even the street lamps have gone off and the whole terrace is in darkness.
‘I wonder how long this one will last,’ I ask.
Mum has placed a candle on the table. She strikes a match and it fizzes. Smells. The wick catches, casting a ball of light momentarily before shrinking.
‘Sit here.’ She’s pointing to the table. ‘And for goodness sake mind your hair on the flame this time, Maya.’
Jaz and I cram round the tiny Formica table where the five of us sit every evening for tea, knees banging, feet jostling for space against Dad’s work boots and Sabbir’s huge school shoes.
Jasmina and I sit now, side by side on the wooden bench, and the soft light of the candle flickers, casting a spell over the room. Shadows sway around the dingy, smoke-yellowed walls. As the wick waves in the draught, the flame billows and casts looming shapes. Homework forgotten in the excitement, Jaz tickles me and I poke her; we giggle and wriggle in the tiny kitchen.
‘Stop it.’ Anxiety rattles in Mum’s voice. She always gets tense when the electric goes off. And when Dad’s late home. ‘When your father gets in, he can get some more candles. Jasmina, call upstairs to your brother, will you?’
In the chilly air of the flat, steam trails upwards from the saucepan as Mum stirs it. The walls round the cooker shine with condensation.
A few minutes later Sabbir arrives, with bed-head hair and sleep furrows in his bruised cheek. ‘What’s for tea?’ He glances round the kitchen.
We all know the answer, but each day we hope it might be different. We love Mum’s cooking, but after eight years of school dinners, and tea sometimes at friends’ houses, we’ve got used to eating different food. Perhaps Dad will come home with a treat for us all? A bagel each from the shop in Brick Lane, or some red jam to have on sliced bread?
‘Rice and curry,’ Mum says. She always talks to us in Sylheti, and at home my sister and I speak our mother tongue too. Unless, of course, it’s something we don’t want Mum to hear.
‘It’s the second power cut this week, isn’t it?’ Sabbir is the eldest of the three of us.
Mum serves out the stodgy rice and curry, and passes bowls over one by one. ‘Careful. They’re hot.’ All seated round the table now, Dad’s chair sits empty, no bowl on his place mat, just cutlery and an empty water glass. ‘We may as well eat. Your father’s obviously got held up again.’ The words ride a sigh.
My socked feet are cold. I like it when I can rest them on Dad’s work boots. Get them off the cold concrete and warm them up.
Just as we’re finishing our tea, we hear the front door bang shut downstairs, and a few moments later the grinding sound of a key in the flat door. Dad comes in, bringing a whoosh of bitter winter air and cigarette smoke, and another smell I’ve noticed before. The draught pulls the candle wick first one way then the other, and Mum jumps up to shield Sabbir from the billowing flame, bashing the table and knocking over her water glass. She uses a tea towel to mop first the water then the gash of wax that’s run onto the shiny tablecloth.
‘While we’ve been here with no power, you’ve been in that pub again. I can smell it.’ The reproach is unmistakeable. ‘This is the last candle. We need more. The children can’t sit in the dark.’
Dad looks at Mum, and then shines his gaze like a torchlight round the table. Pauses.
I’m watching him. Wondering what he’s thinking and what’s going to happen. I grab Jasmina’s hand under the table. He looks over at the hob, then back to the table. The room shimmers with tension and it makes my skin prickle. Every day now, Dad’s late and Mum says the same thing. He must be tired and hungry after working all day, but it’s as though there’s more to him going to the pub than either of them mentions.
Dad lets out a long sigh, like letting air from a balloon while holding on to its neck. In the soft light, his cheek muscles quiver. ‘I’ll go and get some now.’ He and Mum whisper to each other in very fast Sylheti.
My breathing tightens.
As he turns, I get another waft of that smell, the one his clothes so often reek of. ‘Won’t be long,’ he says in English.
I feel a swirl of something in my stomach, pulling at me. I put down my spoon. I don’t want Dad to go out again. He’s home now and it’s cold. I look into his face, with its gentle creases, the dark growth round his face, and his large eyes the colour of conkers.
‘Dad?’ I can’t help saying. I don’t know why.
‘You children be good for your mother,’ he says sternly, and ruffles my hair with his hand. When he stops, he lays his palm flat on the top of my head for a second, and I feel momentarily held in his warmth before he removes it. He gabbles something else to Mum in Sylheti, his voice even lower than usual. A jumble of sounds, noises, tones.
I squeeze Jaz’s thumb. Use my eyes to plead with her, but she shrugs and shakes her head.
Before I know it Dad pulls the flat door behind him and the latch clicks shut. He never even took off his coat and now he’s gone.
Mum’s spoon drops from her hand and clatters on the bowl in front of her. She closes her eyes, sucks in a long breath and lets it out, at first with a low moan, like an animal in pain, then in a full-throated wail.
‘Mum?’ She’s never made a noise like this before. ‘Are you okay?’
Sabbir’s chair screeches on the hard kitchen floor as he pushes it back to stand up. ‘Okay. Let’s all play a game.’
I know something’s happened, but have no idea what. ‘Dad will be back soon with the candles, won’t he? We can finish our homework then. I’ve got English to do and Jaz —’
‘We can play ’til then.’ Sabbir looks over at Mum, and I follow his gaze.
She’s sniffing, dabbing her nose and fanning herself with her hand. ‘I’m fine,’ she says, her voice faltering. ‘Just give me a minute.’
But I can still hear that moan in my ears and I know we can’t leave her.
‘How about we get the blankets from our bedrooms and put them on the floor in here?’ It’s Jasmina. ‘If we push the table over, we can make a camp. Mum?’
Excitement bubbles up. I love camps. ‘We could sleep down here too.’
‘We may have to if the power doesn’t come back on soon,’ says Mum.
Five minutes later, Jaz, Sabbir and I have fetched our bedding from upstairs. Mum has cleared away the dishes and pushed the table against the wall. On the gas hob a pan is heating for our hot water bottles. We pile cushions onto the eiderdowns and clamber on top. Our bottles filled, Mum joins us, but with her back against the wall and her legs under the covers.
‘Tell us about Bangladesh again,’ I ask Mum. ‘What was it like growing up outside the city?’ All three of us love to hear her stories. We’d lived in the city centre of Sylhet so this part of our home country wasn’t something we knew well.
Mum speaks slowly as though she’s combing through her memories and putting them in place. Hearing her speak in Sylheti feels completely natural. Comforting, somehow. It’s like being in our old flat by the river.
‘One of my favourite things was the rolling hills. The land often flooded, especially in the monsoons, and lakes formed on the flood plains. Sometimes your grandfather took us into the swamp forests by boat. They’re magical places where trees grow out of the water. Their branches join up at the top to form canopies and tunnels.’ Mum gestures with her hands.
In the soft candlelight I catch the look on her face, as though the memories bat her back and forth between pleasure and pain.
‘Living here in London, in the cold and grey and the dark, I miss life by the river and the lush green colour. After the monsoons, beautiful star-shaped pink water lilies would float on the lakes. Sabbir, d’you remember the migratory birds? You always loved the swamp hens, didn’t you?’ Her melancholy makes me wonder how she feels about us moving to Britain. ‘The tea estates are glorious,’ she says, making a sloping gesture with her arms. ‘Carpets of green bushes, all trimmed to waist height. My mother and her sisters would pick the tea. I went once to help.’ The soft candlelight melts the ache in her features. It warms her voice for the first time this evening. ‘My father’s family grew rice.’ Energy builds in her voice. ‘I liked to watch the buffalos treading on the rice hay to dislodge the grains. It’s the traditional way of doing it. Afterwards we’d all swim in the Surma, and watch the cattle as they drank in the river. They’re —’
The flat buzzer silences her, and we all jump. Wrenched from the vivid colours of Bangladesh back to our dark kitchen.
‘Who’s that, ringing at this time?’ Mum’s tense again.
‘Perhaps Dad’s forgotten his key?’ It’s all I can think of. ‘I’ll go.’ I get up and feel my way to the hall, my eyes used to the dark. I open the door, expecting Dad to rush in, laden with bags, full of apologies and jokes and stories.
But there’s no-one there.
‘Who is it, Maya?’ Mum shouts through.
‘No-one. Someone must’ve pressed the wrong bell.’ I step outside the flat into the hall and, smelling tobacco, I scour the darkness for a glowing cigarette end or the light of a torch. My foot knocks against an object on the ground. There’s something beside the doorway. I lean over to feel what it is. A plastic bag rustles in my fingers. In it is something hard, like a cardboard box. I pick up the package and carry it into the flat.
‘Someone left a parcel.’ I place it on one of the kitchen worktops.
‘At the door?’ That tone is back in Mum’s voice. ‘For pity’s sake, Maya —’
‘No-one was there, just this bag.’ I point, although it’s obvious.
‘Give it to me,’ says Mum sternly, moving towards the worktop.
But Sabbir has already begun rummaging in it. He looks at us all in turn, his face excited. ‘It’s candles and . . . you’re never going to guess what . . .’
‘Bagels?’ Jasmina and I shout in unison.
