by Vicky Newham
‘No compensation for losing her mum, of course, but it’s good news,’ I said.
‘The main thing is that it will help her to bond with foster carers and any adoptive family members.’ A huge smile spread over the woman’s face. ‘I’ll take you over. She’s made a friend already.’ She gestured to the boy, who was laying out toys on the little girl’s bed.
‘Hello, Abbie. I’m Maya. Have you made a new buddy?’
The girl fixed large brown eyes on me. ‘Are you a friend of Mummy’s?’
‘Sort of. How are you feeling?’
‘Can I go home soon? Where’s Mummy?’
‘I think the doctors and nurses want to look after you a bit longer.’
Her face fell but then she was distracted. ‘Not there. Here.’ She shifted a piece of Lego. ‘This is Joshua. He’s got a poorly foot.’ Abbie clipped the plastic pieces together. ‘We’re making another hospital so that there will be room for all the sick children.’
The boy continued to lay out pieces on the sheet.
‘I need you for a moment, Joshua, please,’ the nurse said, and she held out her hand to steer him away so I could talk to Abbie.
I showed her a photograph of Ali. ‘Have you met this boy before?’
She nodded.
‘Was he a friend of your dad’s?’
She screwed up her face. ‘Don’t think so.’ She had a worried look.
‘That’s OK. Do you know his name?’
‘Uncle Ali. He’s not from here. He’s not my real uncle either.’
‘What about this man with your dad?’ I showed her another image. ‘Do you recognise him?’
She continued to hold the Lego and leant towards the image to get a better look. ‘That’s Uncle John. He’s my real uncle.’
‘That’s excellent. Well done. Shall I come and see you again soon?’
She nodded profusely. ‘If you like. Can you bring Mummy?’
Maya, 9 a.m.
Rosa was standing in the doorway of the newsagent’s when I arrived. She had a primrose-yellow scarf round her neck, and hope glimmered in her eyes in a way I hadn’t seen since I was a child.
‘Best thing for it,’ she shouted over the top of the rumble and thud from the bulldozer, and gestured to the remains of the soup shop. ‘She can start again. We all can. I should have sold up when Józef died.’
Across the street, Indra’s thin frame was visible next to her sister’s stronger build. She was talking to two men in suits.
‘Agnieszka’s gone home.’ Rosa turned to face her own shop and I followed her inside. The shelves were finally empty, and crates bulged with items for Rosa to sort through. ‘The new owners will gut the place and sort the damp out. It’s what it needs. I don’t know how I didn’t see it.’ She was gathering up a few remaining pieces of stock and stacking them on the counter for the removal men. ‘Basildon Bond notepaper?’ She attempted a feeble laugh. ‘No-one writes letters anymore, do they?’
‘Not so much, no.’ It was something Mum would say.
She flipped the CLOSED sign over on the door and turned to me. ‘Thank you for what you said. Józef did help his father. They worked together for years. I don’t know where I got the idea from that I couldn’t let Tomasz help me. Stupid pride, I suppose.’ She sighed, and regret crept into her face. ‘Józef was so hard on Tomasz. Refused to accept his ideas or help. I thought I had to be like that too otherwise I was being disloyal to his memory.’ She looked over at the racks of trendy mobile phone covers and battery packs. ‘Those were Tomasz’s suggestion and they were one of our best sellers.’ She laughed now, a proper laugh.
‘Have you thought about where you’ll move to?’ I asked.
‘I won’t stay round here now. So much has changed, and none of it is going to change back just because I’d like it to. I’ve lost my husband, and now my son. My future is with Agnieszka and the children. Apparently, Tomasz has bought a house for me in East Ham. I’ll wait ’til I feel a bit stronger and I’ll probably move in there.’
‘That’s a good idea. You’ll have your own independence, and you’ll have company close by when you want it.’
‘I’m struggling to get my head round Tomasz paying someone to set fire to this place. Did he really believe it would do me a favour?’
‘I think so.’ As I said it, I wondered again whether I believed it. Was the gap between the Tomasz I’d known as a child and the one he was now so wide? I didn’t think it was. ‘He said he found it upsetting to see you struggling in the shop and feeling guilty.’ I could clearly recall his face when he spoke to me yesterday. ‘He thought a small fire would solve things for you.’ As I said it, I realised that in a way, it had.
‘What’s tragic is that his decision has resulted in so many people getting hurt.’ Rosa looked like she was on the verge of tears and I found myself sniffing back my own.
‘I know.’
‘I would like to see him. Hear what he’s got to say. Can you arrange it?’
‘Of course. He wants to see you too.’
‘Will he go to prison?’
‘Most probably, but we don’t know. We’re discussing charges with the CPS.’ I pointed through the shop window. ‘Did you know that your son had developed a crush on Indra’s sister, Marta?’ I wouldn’t mention the baby. I’d leave that to Tomasz to decide on.
‘Oh?’
‘He told me.’ I recalled how he’d talked about Marta when I told him about Indra’s baby. ‘Seems he fell in love with her.’
I watched Rosa’s expression. She placed the packets of pale blue envelopes, and the box of Pritt Sticks, into a crate and inched towards the glass. ‘And did she . . . ? Did she love him too?’
I remembered the giggling I’d heard when the two of them came home together. ‘I think so.’
Rosa reached for the door handle.
‘Shall I put that lot in a crate for you?’ I gestured to the pile of things on the counter by the till, taking the opportunity to give Rosa some space.
The doorbell dinged and she walked towards Marta and Indra. She must’ve called them, because they spun round, and the two younger women walked towards the older one. Rosa opened her arms and she and Marta fell into a hug for a few moments before Indra joined in.
Maya, 10 a.m.
In the distance, daffodils lay in clumps on the grass and dappled April sunshine fell through the branches of the cemetery’s oak tree.
A male social worker stood next to Riad Farzat at Ali Kousa’s grave. Another man stood behind them. Rima and I were a short distance away from the men, and we watched the official lay out Ali Kousa’s shrouded remains to face Mecca. A few metres from us, Sophie Williams and her mother looked on.
‘Forgive him. Pardon him. Cleanse him of his transgressions and take him to Paradise.’ The imam’s voice was sombre, and it reminded me of Sabbir’s funeral.
‘Their whole village was wiped out by an air strike.’ Rima spoke softly. ‘He and Riad may as well be brothers. They travelled all that way together. It took them months.’
As she spoke, it was such a relief to let the tears fall.
She passed me a tattered piece of card. A photograph.
‘Is that Ali’s family?’
She nodded. ‘He brought it with him. Riad saved it from the squat. I promised to give it back to him, but I thought you’d like to see.’
‘That’s so kind. Thank you.’ It was his mum, dad, four boys and two girls and an older couple. ‘Is that him?’ His eyes were recognisable and the quiff of hair.
‘Yes, he was the youngest.’
At the grave, the imam was still talking.
‘We’ve found Riad a foster home with a Syrian family here. That’s the father, up there. I visited them yesterday and Riad seems to like it.’ She grabbed my hand. ‘Fingers crossed they’ll keep him on. It’s the middle of term, but we’ve found him a place at a school too.’
The corners of my mouth lifted. ‘I’m delighted to hear that.’
The men placed the wooden planks over the grave and sprinkled soil.
‘It’s so weird. For twenty-nine years, we’ve all acted as though Dad was dead. It must’ve been a defence mechanism.’ I looked at Rima’s kind face. ‘But underneath, I’ve been convinced that Dad was alive. I just wouldn’t let myself believe it because I knew it would hurt too much if it wasn’t true.’ I let the sun warm my face for a moment. Jasmina and I had the morning off and we had arranged to see Dad’s friend, Ody, after the funeral. ‘Now we’re pretty sure he is alive, I don’t know what to do with the information.’
‘Oh, Maya.’ She took hold of my arm.
‘It might have been twenty-nine years ago but the evening he disappeared is still vivid in my mind. Before he left, he said, “You children be good for your mother” and part of me knew he was saying goodbye.’
Rima squeezed my arm.
‘People don’t leave their families for no reason. Do they?’
‘It’ll come out in due course.’
‘Yes.’ I glanced over at Jasmina, who was waiting under the oak tree. ‘What’s bothering me is that, for all those years, the thing I wanted most was for Dad to come back. And now I’m scared – what do you do when the thing you think you’ve wanted most looks like it’s about to happen?’
‘You take it a step at a time, and do what you always do,’ she said. ‘You feel your way through it, with your friends and family around you.’
The ritual was over now. From a distance, the imam gave us a nod and Riad’s new foster father gave a polite wave.
‘He said to thank you for . . . They couldn’t have afforded the—’
‘I know.’ I smiled at her. ‘It’s the least I could do. I wanted Ali to know that his life mattered, and that people cared about him.’
A short distance from the gathering, by the cars, Tomasz Feldman stood in between two police officers. He was handcuffed, and as he watched the ceremony, the morning light briefly graced the tears on his cheeks. He saw me looking and lowered his head in shame. At the office, this morning, his and Kenny’s charges were being agreed with the CPS, and John, who was a minor, was being processed.
Over by the tree, Jasmina was waiting alone and I waved.
‘I’m going to head off,’ I said to Rima. Even at a hundred yards, I could see from my sister’s expression that she felt as excited and impatient as me. But, like me, she was worried about what we were about to find out.
I glanced over at the grave, with a child’s body in it, and freshly sprinkled soil. ‘Go well, Ali,’ I whispered, and I turned and walked towards the oak tree and the daffodils. And my sister.
Acknowledgements
This novel would not have been possible without the input and guidance of numerous people. Firstly, huge thanks to Clio Cornish, whose fabulous editorial skills helped me to shape and sharpen Rosa and Maya’s stories. Secondly, thanks to my agent, Adam Gauntlett, for his unwavering faith in me.
I’m hugely grateful for the help I’ve had with the police and fire procedural elements of the book, without which many details may have been taken from the telly! These people have asked to remain anonymous, but have been incredibly generous with their time and expertise. The book is fiction and I believe that drama trumps realism, so all inaccuracies and flights of fancy are mine.
Thanks to Dave Sivers, for beta-reading while he was on holiday, and to Liz Barnsley for a second beta-read later on. Huge thanks are also due to the crime fiction community, who are incredibly generous, supportive and encouraging.
I began drafting Out of the Ashes straight after finishing my debut novel, and it then lay in skeletal form for a couple of years before I set about re-writing it. As with the first in the series, the plot and characters grew from people I’ve met, places I’ve spent time in and things I’ve become interested in. In 2002, when I was teaching A-level Psychology in East London, I was teaching about conformity and obedience during the Second World War. I was struck by how awful it must have been for Polish Jews and Christian Poles to be forced into collaborating with the Nazis, and by the courage of those who risked their lives to help the Polish Jews.
At this time, I was working close to Brick Lane, and often walked round the area, absorbing information about its history and people. I became interested in what lies beneath the cyclical nature of immigration into the East End. Ethnic groups have always arrived, settled and moved on. This is what inspired the characters of Rosa Feldman and her family, and many others in the book. Something else which Rosa struggles with is change, as does Maya’s mother. I’m fascinated by denial and resistance to change because they can be incapacitating.
Thanks so much for reading the book. If you’ve enjoyed it, do please spread the word. You can follow my news on Twitter @VickyNewham and my website is https://www.vickynewham.com/.
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