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I didn’t go to the trial. Didn’t follow it in the papers. It was enough for me that the drama was over. Harry it was that told me the verdict and the sentence. Guilty, fifteen years. I was happy. It was over.
Happy? I was over the fucking moon. I love safety. Safety and calm make me sing and dance. I bless every morning when nothing happens. Dullness and boredom do not exist in a life where activity has been motorbikes flying out of control and sisters dying and babies being orphaned and madmen imprisoning you and bastards claiming paternity of your child. I don’t ask for much. Just for nothing much to happen ever again. Maybe a few little quiet ordinary things. A calm ordinary little love affair, or an everyday kind of marriage. Some job or something. Don’t talk to me of self-fulfilment. I’ve survived; so has Lily. This is my achievement.
After that Harry had spent six months in Arizona on some exchange training thing, sending us postcards of giant jackrabbits in cowboy clothes, and views of downtown Tucson by night. His calls, on his return, had been infrequent, and they were a fly in the calm ointment of our reconstituted lives.
He was out there, and I couldn’t tell whether the big thing that he was was ever going to happen. Maybe he had just gone away. Then again he might reappear, any time, wanting things. Wanting to know. I’d been through it before with Jim, Janie’s ex, in the days when we believed him to be Lily’s father; been through that knowledge that someone outside of you can turn your life upside down and claim that which you treasure above all. And I’d been through it in a different way with Ben Cooper the Bent Copper, when he was blackmailing me to spy on Eddie Bates. I know what it is like when someone has power over your life. It’s bloody horrible.
The one thing that Harry didn’t mention again was his suggestion, at the end of That Day, when I said was knackered and going to bed, that he come with me.
*
I rang him back. He wanted to meet. It seemed to me like a tiny nasty echo of when Jim had reappeared, wanting to meet, wanting to see Lily, wanting to take her from me. How soon before the lawyers’ letters start up again? At the same time I recognised the absurdity: this was Harry, who had been my Harry, Harry who wasn’t a bad bloke, Harry who now wore a white hat, Harry who wasn’t even definitely her father. And I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever, because he was right, you cannot avoid what exists. This question existed, no doubt about it. I knew that all I’d said to him that night on the balcony was untenable. A father is a father – if he is then he is. I’d even agreed that about Jim.
So I agreed to meet him the next day. He wanted to make it the evening, I said no, lunch is easier, Lily will be at school. How much they have to learn.
FOUR (#ulink_ba21373d-39b0-5e28-baf9-bbed4d71ce1b)
Hakim’s Business, Harry’s News (#ulink_ba21373d-39b0-5e28-baf9-bbed4d71ce1b)
After the first day, spent drinking coffee and reading Arabic newspapers, Hakim had expanded his repertoire to drinking coffee, reading Arabic newspapers and making and receiving telephone calls. He had a mobile phone, of which he was proud. By day three he wanted an A to Z. However he doesn’t read English too well. This was obviously going to make life a bit of a problem for him, and for me by default. He decided that the simplest thing would be for me to teach him. I thought it would be far easier if I just showed him where Somerset House was on the map, and wrote out CHARING CROSS in big letters so he could tell when he’d reached the right station. I instructed him in English, he wrote it down in Arabic. I didn’t want to think about it actually. ‘You killed my love’ was on my mind. I didn’t want it to be. I know the form. You ignore anonymous letters, you put odd phone calls down to the vagaries of the system. You have better things to worry about. And I do. I have Harry.
But it was on my mind. Latching on to that which is always on my mind. Because I did … kill. Janie. And however much you may know, reasonably, and accept everybody else’s convictions, there is always … It’s always there. However much an accident is an accident. The sense of responsibility. Guilt at surviving when she didn’t. Helplessness at not having preserved your parents from it. Whatever she may have done makes little difference to that, and the punishment that I had, in losing my fitness to dance, makes little difference either. It matters, but it makes little difference.
I couldn’t think what the letter was to do with. But it had touched a nerve. A ganglion actually. So it wasn’t till Hakim had left that I wondered what he was going to do at Somerset House.
When he got back, five hours later, I made him a cup of coffee and asked him.
‘Nothing,’ he said. He looked angry, almost tearful. ‘Nothing. What can I do? I don’t know your writing. I was lost. It’s OK, I ask in shops and everybody speaks Arabic. I get home. But I found nothing. Somerset House is just the wrong place.’
Of course it was. Somerset House is always the wrong place. You think it’s the right place because it was in Sherlock Holmes or something, but the right place is now in Preston, or care of a privatised company in New Maiden. Poor lost foreigner. I remembered my first days in Cairo, days of lonely chaos before I discovered the bar on the roof of the Odeon, and the flat in the block on Champoleon Street – Château Champoleon, as Orlando the Colombian political correspondent next door called it in his camp Latino/Tennessee accent. Orlando it was who taught me never to say America when I meant the United States. There is a brilliant blind chaotic excitement to a new city, an alien city. But God there is some loneliness too. When there’s too much going on out there, too much cardamom and donkey shit and Arabic, too many Mercedes and veils and babies, and you can’t face it, so you stay in your cheap cockroachy room saying it’s only wise to in the heat of the day, or the danger of the evening, pretending that you’re taking the opportunity to catch up on Proust, but really you’re just building up loneliness and boredom to the point when you have to explode. It’s like the internal combustion engine. Suck squeeze bang blow: Suck in loneliness, squeeze it with boredom until BANG! you are blown out on to the streets of the alien city, and thank God for it. Whereupon you suck in strangeness, squeeze it with fascination till BANG! the top of your head blows off with the excitement of it all and blows you into the next strange and fascinating experience. (I was very much a biker in those days, hence the imagery. Orlando liked the image, said it was just like Hegel, thesis, antithesis and synthesis, only in fourtime instead of a waltz, ‘But it’s all dancing,’ he said. Orlando was a gas.)
I don’t know what London is like to a stranger. I should imagine horrible. Cold, unfriendly, cliquey, snitty, incomprehensible. And grey, and strange, and wet, and cold. Light when it should be dark; dark when it should be light. And expensive. And big. But people come here, people stay here, whole peoples come and live and settle. No thanks to the welcome we give them, that’s for sure. Poor Hakim.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I should have helped you. I’ll come down with you tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you,’ says Hakim.
‘Shukran afwan,’ said Lily, grinning, waiting for approbation.
‘Bravo,’ said Hakim. She went pink with pleasure, and he smiled and pinched her cheek, and she smiled and pinched his and said, ‘Chubby chops’, and he said, ‘What is chubby chops?’, and generally they were carrying on like love’s young dream.
‘So what is it you’re trying to find out about?’ I asked.
Hakim went very quiet.
I pointed out to him that if I was to find out for him where he was to go I needed to know what he wanted to find out when he got there. For a while he wouldn’t say. Then: ‘If someone is dead or married.’ Nothing more. This was irritating, but Lily needed her tea and if something’s not happening you can’t force it. So I fed her and washed her and did all those small yet vital services that prove love and build love and give love’s object a chance of being well-adjusted in the future. (Interesting those people who claim to care deeply for their children yet leave the actual caring to someone else. It used to be one word, care, what you do and how you feel. Now it is two, and you can feel it yet never do it, or do it yet never feel it.)
‘Who’s dead?’ she wanted to know. ‘Who’s married?’ She’s very interested in death and marriage. Wants me to get married, sometimes. Has proposed to me herself, actually. Best offer I ever had.
*
The next day brought the next letter. The envelope sat there like a toad on the doormat. Lily ran to pick it up; I stopped her. I picked it up quickly, read it quickly: ‘You did it and I mind.’
I didn’t like it. Incomprehensible letters making nebulous accusations against I wasn’t sure who were actually a worse incursion into my enderun (it’s a Turkish word. It means that which is within, private, domestic) than Hakim turning up and being mysterious all over the shop. Or were they? Well that’s the problem, isn’t it. They could be. They have the potential. But by their very nature, you don’t know.
I believe I may have mentioned before my slightly obsessively protective attitude to my gaff. I don’t like things coming in and upsetting me. I like being quiet and safe and calm. I believe this to be beneficial to my child. I live every day with the sole intention of giving her enough calm security to outweigh the drama and weirdness of her birth. A kid snatched at birth from the jaws of death, while the fangs sank into her mother, is a kid who can soak up a lot of calmness. Whether or not she knows it. My God, after five years it still shocks me. Pulled from the jaws of death and her mother’s womb simultaneously.
So now I protect Lily by protecting our home and, as my perceptive Egyptian friend Zeinab and my perceptive Irish friend Brigid have both pointed out, my body. And my heart. There had been signs of a little loosening up: letting Hakim stay, fantasising about maybe finding myself a man. But the potential of these letters sat in the base of the back of my mind, crying out to me.
*
I gave Hakim a little lecture on the bus (St Catherine’s House, it turned out, was the place). At home he was cavalier if courteous, operating all the assumptions of a man who expects a woman to wait on him. Out in the world he found it easier to be a child with me, and hence it was easier for me to mother him.
‘Hakim,’ I said, once we were settled on the 94. ‘Lily has bad lungs and I would appreciate it if you didn’t smoke in the flat. Also you drink too much coffee, it makes you manic and nervous. And please tell me now what you want to find out about who.’
We were sitting on the top of the bus, right up at the front because Hakim wanted to see the sights. Willing as I was to point out Shepherds Bush roundabout, Notting Hill tube station and the great dome of Whiteleys in the distance, I was more interested in getting to the point. To my dismay he started to cry. I put my arm round his shoulder and patted him, murmuring kind things in Arabic, the things Zeinab murmurs to her boys when they fall over.
‘I bring badness to you,’ he said, sniffing. ‘I bring badness to your house.’
‘Well just tell me what it’s all about, and then we can sort it out.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.
‘Yes you can. Open your mouth and speak.’
‘I can’t. I can’t. Too much badness.’
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Come on, just tell me. You can’t keep it to yourself, it won’t make it better. Just tell me.’
‘I can’t.’
I was getting bored.
‘Why not?’ I said.
‘Too much badness.’
‘Tell me why you can’t tell me. It’s not fair to bring badness to my house and not tell me what it is. Tell me something. Tell me why you can’t tell me.’
He stared out of the window at Holland Park Avenue unfolding before us, and the overlong branches of the plane trees slapped at the window as if at our faces. ‘I am in shame,’ he murmured.
‘Hakim,’ I said, in the bad mother voice that brings Lily to heel. ‘Stop it. Tell me.’
He turned his face round to me, tears still sitting in his eyes, and said, ‘It is family, Angelina. Family.’
‘Not Abu Sa’id,’ I exclaimed.
‘Not the father,’ he said. And then, with that slight shift of musculature that denotes the making of a decision, he said, ‘Mother.’
For a moment I thought he was calling me mother. Then I realised no, he’s just saying it.
Mother.
‘Mother?’ I repeated, intelligently.
He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the glass.
‘I have a mother,’ he whispered.
‘Ah,’ I murmured.
He leaned.
‘And?’ I suggested.
He leaned back. ‘I have a mother.’
There’s nothing you can do really but sit it out.
I sat.
‘An English mother,’ he murmured.
‘English mother!’
I was surprised. I was very surprised. All I had known was absent mother, gone mother, unspoken-about mother, maybe dead mother, maybe shamed mother. English mother, though, was something new.
‘English mother gone back to England. I want her. I look for her. Please don’t tell my brother or my father.’
Not bothering to point out how unlikely it was that I would happen to be talking to either of them, I just goggled at him.
‘But Hakim, that’s good! Finding a mother isn’t – yes, it might be complicated and everything but it’s basically a good thing to do. It’s … and English! So you’re half English! Blimey! … but why did she … I mean, tell me the story …’
I was rather pleased to see a boy so distraught at disobeying his parent. It seemed so old-fashioned, so honourable, so decent and right and endearing. And I was sorry for him, and I was excited about it, and relieved that it wasn’t something horrible. Also I know, as adult to adult, that Abu Sa’id is not an unreasonable man, and would probably, I thought, forgive his son for his natural curiosity and desire for his mother. But then – I’m not family. And I’m not Egyptian. And I’m not him. I cannot know where his limits are.
‘I don’t know the story,’ he said. ‘I was small. Five years. Sa’id was ten years. He never talked of her. Never. My father said nothing. Never. Not to talk of her, not allowed. When I cried for mama, there was Mariam.’
‘Who’s Mariam?’ I asked.
‘The woman in my father’s house. Second wife. New mama. The sad woman nobody love.’ I remembered the woman who moved like a fish, and hid from me. His wife. The woman in his house. I remembered his unwonted kindness to two English girls. A clear picture sprang up of a man heartbroken by a deserting wife, who still loved her enough to be kind to her countrywomen for her sake. And two bereft boys being foul to a substitute mother. And that poor woman, whom nobody loved. I was nearly in tears myself.
‘And you want to find her.’
‘Yes.’
‘What will you do when you find her?’
‘I will … ask her why she leaved. See if she is a good woman or bad. See what is my English me.’
Well, you can’t fault that.
‘I’ll help you, then,’ I said.
He smiled at me. I found myself thinking ‘You big softy’, and I wasn’t sure if I meant myself or him.
I took one look at the endless shelves of huge volumes in the high institutional halls of the Public Search Room and decided to leave Hakim to it. But of course I couldn’t.
‘What was her maiden name?’ I said. Hakim tried and tried to pronounce it but the sounds just didn’t work in his mouth.
We got it in the end. Tomlinson (I think. Could be Tompkinson). It only took another half-hour to find that in 1984 she had married a man called Stephen John Lockwood, in London.
*
I’d arranged to meet Harry in a sandwich shop in Strutton Ground, near Scotland Yard. I had toasted cheese and salami with gherkins, and he sneered slightly at my choice. He had a cappuccino with his ham roll, and I sneered slightly at that. I don’t think men should drink frothy things with chocolate on top. So it wasn’t great even before we started.
‘Well, to put your mind at rest, I didn’t drag you here to talk about Lily,’ he said, straight off. I was so pleasantly surprised that I almost forgave him for sneering at my sandwich, but then I got pissed off again about his power to relieve me by saying he wasn’t going to mention that which I thought he had no business mentioning anyway.
‘Good,’ I said, more briskly than I might have. ‘So what is it?’ Oh shit, I thought, it’s all going wrong. I don’t want not to get on with him. Oh bugger. (Not bugger, mummy, bother.)
‘I thought you might like an update on Ben Cooper and your friend Eddie,’ he said, rising to the mood of the occasion. Eddie is no friend of mine and Harry knows it.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Yes, I would.’
‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘as you know, Ben has been evading the police inquiry into his misdemeanours by claiming ill health.’ I did know. The slimy bastard had got a psychiatrist to say that the stress of having to account for himself might drive him to suicide. (Eddie Bates had tried a similar ploy – they’d said he wasn’t well enough to stand trial, but he’d had to, in the end.) Cooper had kept it up for over a year now. And because he hasn’t had his fair hearing yet, he can’t be sacked, so he’s still sitting about on sick leave, on full pay, the slug, and I’m still sitting about wondering whether I’m going to be called to help put him away. Which I would be happy to do, because he was at least in part responsible for my sister’s downfall. Because he was in business with her making the nasty little videos, and because he was the one who, when Eddie Bates saw me dance and wanted me, arranged for Janie to wear my costumes, masquerade as me, and sell herself, as me, to him.
Even as I write it a damp toad settles again in my belly. For Janie, for Eddie, and for my own shame.
‘Well now his lawyers are saying that it was too long ago,’ Harry was saying, ‘and the case should be dropped.’
My jaw dropped to match.
‘Surely not,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe it. He can’t get away with it. I …’ Mouthing like a goldfish. Pointless.
‘Well no, he probably won’t,’ said Harry. ‘But he might.’
‘Anyway that’s not all,’ he said. I looked up.
‘Um,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
He looked tired and sad.
‘Eddie Bates is dead,’ he said.
It all stood still for a moment.
And another. Then …
