Knife Edge : A Novel (2020)

by Mayo, Simon

  ‘It is, yes.’

  ‘No more pictures of old women in showers?’

  Sophie’s smile was a pained one. ‘None.’

  ‘No PS sorry for being a total dick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it all goes quiet in March,’ said Famie. ‘By arrangement.’

  Sophie shut the laptop. ‘They must have started their new investigation in March,’ she said. ‘One that needed electronic silence.’ She unplugged the computer and placed it between them. ‘So, what do we do with this? I wanted to delete the photos as soon as I saw them but got scared. What do you think?’

  Famie said, ‘I think delete. They’re photos of us. We have every right.’

  ‘And the Mary photo?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Stolen,’ said Famie. A pause. ‘OK. I know. Evidence, yes. But stolen evidence.’ She felt suddenly exhausted. ‘Do you have coffee? I need some drugs before we decide. Caffeine will do.’

  Sophie produced a cafetière and a small bag with an elastic band around it.

  ‘I’ll make it, Sophie, you get dressed.’

  ‘Are we going somewhere?’ Sophie suddenly sounded very young indeed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Famie, ‘but if we need to move, if the press or police do arrive, it might help if you’re wearing proper clothes. Fetching as your pyjamas are. And please don’t tell me Seth bought them for you.’

  Sophie grimaced. ‘Birthday present from my parents.’

  She stepped into the bedroom, opened the blind.

  Famie studied the couple in the family photo above the fire. Mid-sixties, smiling, the mother with curly hair also. ‘And they know nothing of all this?’

  ‘Correct,’ called Sophie, who was undressing by the door. ‘That’s another conversation that’ll take gin.’

  Seeing her momentarily naked, Famie thought that maybe there was a slight bulge to be seen after all.

  ‘How many weeks are you?’ she called.

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Going to keep it?’

  There was no reply.

  Sophie dressed in ninety seconds. Denim dungaree-dress, blue T-shirt, trainers.

  Famie smiled at her. ‘We suddenly have a lot in common, you and me,’ she said. ‘And pretty soon the press will find us.’ She put an arm around Sophie. ‘So before that happens, we need to disappear.’

  26

  Sunday, 10 June, 12.30 p.m.

  Warwick University, four miles from Coventry

  THE ACADEMIC WAS five six, gangly, with an eager-to-please smile. A livid orange scarf was tied turban-style in her black curls. Dr Bathandwa Bambawani approached the accommodation block with a priest for company. The chaplain was an awkward six two, with the sunken face common in men who have lost too much weight. Reverend Don Hardin chatted easily with his friend, always happy to be helping with pastoral work. She had called in at the Chaplaincy as she passed. He had stopped his post-service tidying and taken a walk.

  ‘Happy to pause the clear-up,’ he’d said. ‘I can always come back to finish off.’

  ‘How was the service?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was lacklustre. They were forgiving. That’s about the most of it.’

  ‘Well I fancied some company, Don,’ she said. ‘And missing students are a nightmare. For everyone. Sometimes they don’t want to be found. Sometimes they’re not even missing. Sometimes they’re actually in trouble. But finding out which is which … You’re a pastor. I could do with some support.’

  ‘And happy to help, BB.’

  Bambawani nodded. ‘Thank you. How’s the little girl doing?’

  Hardin’s face clouded. They walked a few paces in silence. ‘It’s tough,’ he said. A few more. Bambawani gave him the space he needed. ‘She just looks jaundiced to me,’ he said eventually, ‘like all the time. And way too quiet for a four-week-old baby. But the midwife was reassuring. Said she was doing OK.’

  ‘And is she a medically trained and qualified midwife?’ asked Bambawani.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Does she, maybe, know more about medicine than you?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hardin. ‘Yeah. S’pose so.’

  ‘Well then.’

  There were six identical student blocks. Three facing three, the slight incline between them laid with wide paths and grassy banks. A semi-circle of women sat on one, books open, phones busy. Each block had four floors studded with scores of windows, almost all of them pushed wide open. A vain attempt to catch some non-existent breeze. Just one window was shut. The academic and the chaplain stood under block C, looking up.

  ‘Guess which is his room,’ Bambawani said.

  Hardin squinted. ‘Third floor, second along?’

  ‘Correct.’

  They were hesitating by the block’s stairwell. By leaning against the brickwork they could stand in the shade.

  ‘No one has seen him for a good few days,’ Bambawani continued. ‘Missed an exam, which is unlike him. I’m his personal tutor, Don, I should know what’s happening. I need at least some idea before we go to his family and then the police. His scores have been impressive until the last few months.’

  ‘You know him?’ asked Hardin. ‘You have loads of students.’

  ‘I do. Well, I thought so anyway. I liked him. Earnest. Clear-eyed. Committed to the courses he was on. Courteous. Always asked me about South Africa. About Durban. He’s the only student in five years who’s asked me to teach him some words in Xhosa.’

  The chaplain smiled. ‘I like the sound of this guy. What words did you teach him?’

  ‘He wanted to be able to greet his grandmother. She speaks Bengali, I think, but he thought he’d try Xhosa. Thought she’d like it. Said she considered herself a citizen of the world.’

  Hardin waited. ‘Well? How do you greet a grandmother in Xhosa?’

  ‘Molo makhulu,’ said Bambawani.

  ‘Nice,’ said Hardin. ‘Very useful. I’ll remember. Was our student religious at all?’

  The academic pondered the question. ‘Don’t know. Hindu by culture certainly but seemed secular to me.’

  Hardin laughed. ‘Everyone seems secular to you, BB. When we find a copy of the Vedas on his desk you can buy me a drink. He might even have a bible somewhere, you never know.’

  Bambawani removed a key from her jacket pocket. She turned to Hardin, eyebrows arched. ‘If we find a bible in there, I’ll come to Mass myself.’

  The student’s room was a furnace. Curtains wide open, the sun had super-heated the room. Hardin dived for the window lever, pushed down and flung the pane as wide as it would go. ‘Good grief,’ he muttered.

  They scanned the room. A single bed, duvet, bed made. Twenty or so books on his shelves, some rotting apples on a plate on his desk; their sweet vinegary smell made Hardin wince. A laptop charger plugged into the wall, no laptop. A photo of two young smiling girls stuck on the back of the door.

  Hardin peered under the bed. ‘The laptop’s under here,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ said Bambawani. ‘Leave it there. We don’t need to move anything.’

  On the wall above the bed, a battered poster, peeling away from the wall at one corner. Bambawani reached out and stuck it back again. It showed a white hammer and sickle against a livid background. Beneath the sickle, in yellow type, the letters CPI-M. Then, in brackets, in case the reader was unsure, the words COMMUNIST PARTY OF INDIA (MARXIST). Bambawani and Hardin stared at it for some time.

  Eventually Bambawani spoke. ‘Like I said, Don, he seemed secular to me.’

  A knock at the door, then it swung open. ‘Hello?’ A frowning white face, stubble, baggy shorts and stripy T-shirt. Possibly pyjamas, possibly day wear. ‘Can I help you?’ he said. ‘I’m Paul. I live next door.’ He jerked his thumb at the left-hand wall. ‘I heard you … rattling around.’ He sounded both suspicious and surprised.

  Bambawani introduced herself and Hardin, explained their business.

  Paul relaxed, stepped into the room. ‘We haven’t seen him much,
to be honest with you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Hardin.

  Paul found another frown which said ‘Why should I trust you?’ Then he noticed Hardin’s dog collar and shrugged. ‘He was always part of everything,’ he said. ‘Start of the year he was always here. Cooked his meals with us, you know. Then he started going to some weird meetings. He got all political. Saw him hanging out with an older woman. She was nice, like, don’t get me wrong. But not a student. Not from here anyway. He went with her more and more. And with us less and less.’

  ‘And in recent weeks?’ said Bambawani.

  ‘In recent weeks barely at all. Drifts in sometimes. Probably joined a cult or something. Got a job. No idea.’

  ‘How did he seem?’ asked Bambawani. ‘When you did see him.’

  ‘He seemed fine,’ said Paul. ‘Busy,’ he added.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Preoccupied.’

  ‘Should the university be worried?’

  Paul thought about that. ‘Nope. Don’t see why. Don’t sweat the small stuff,’ he said. He looked from priest to academic. ‘Anyway. Shouldn’t you guys know? Isn’t that the kind of shit you’re supposed to tell us?’

  Hardin and Bambawani exchanged glances.

  ‘Yes,’ Bambawani replied, ‘that’s exactly the kind of shit we should know. But I’m not sure we do. Thank you for your help.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘Any time,’ he said.

  27

  Monday, 11 June, 5.30 a.m.

  WHEN FAMIE HAD said disappear, she meant a cheap hotel at the end of the Piccadilly Line. Sophie had packed clothes, toiletries and the laptop, Famie had borrowed some T-shirts. What Sophie couldn’t lend, Famie had bought from a market trader on the High Road. It wasn’t quite her smartest underwear but it would last until she got her flat back.

  The hotel was a two-storey celebration of 1960s concrete and glass. Equally it could have been a school or police station. A blue and green painted board offered rooms and WiFi for £49.95.

  Famie and Sophie’s box room somehow managed to be twin-bedded, with beige and cream carpet, beige and cream walls, beige and cream curtains. A television was bolted to the wall; a kettle, cups, biscuits and tea bags sat on a brown plastic tray. Famie had taken the bed by the door, Sophie the bed by the window. The first-floor view showed a row of bins and an almost empty car park. They had spent the weekend lying low, drinking the tea and eating the biscuits. The TV had been on but unwatched – it masked their endless, looping conversations on Seth, Amal, Mary, and what to do with the photos.

  Their second morning there dawned courtesy of an early bin lorry. They were both showered and dressed by six a.m.

  At Famie’s suggestion, Sophie had fired off an email to explain her absence from work. It said she was ‘seeking support counselling’ and asked for compassionate leave.

  ‘How long till breakfast is served?’ she asked.

  ‘A whole hour,’ said Famie. ‘Which means it’s time for more shortbread.’

  She reached for the replenished tray and threw a wrapped biscuit at Sophie, keeping one for herself.

  ‘So here we are,’ she said, ‘two journalists, one retired, one pregnant, on the run. Holed up in the glamorous Southgate Travelodge and eating the classic breakfast of the hungover traveller. I can’t go home because reporters are stalking me. You’ve left home to avoid the same reporters stalking you. We are both victims of a bastard prick womanizer who happens to be dead. He is also the father of your baby.’

  ‘If I choose to have it,’ added Sophie.

  ‘If you choose to have it,’ repeated Famie. ‘You met the bastard prick womanizer’s terrorist brother a number of times but haven’t told the police.’

  ‘Let’s try BPW for short,’ said Sophie.

  ‘OK,’ said Famie. ‘And neither of us has told the police about the BPW’s laptop which has compromising photos of both of us.’

  ‘And Mary.’

  ‘And poor Mary. And the other women.’

  ‘Which we might delete, even if they’re evidence of some kind.’

  ‘Yup. Apart from that, it’s all good.’

  Famie finished the shortbread.

  ‘You missed out the Telegraph,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Ah, correct,’ said Famie. ‘We are waiting for a communication from a weirdo who leaves messages for me. Either on my car or in the post. Or maybe in the bloody Daily Telegraph.’ She took a breath. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Sophie. ‘Let’s go find a newsagent.’

  They found a twenty-four-hour supermarket that sold them a paper and a greasy-spoon café that sold them breakfast. Two portable fans were already working hard blowing hot air, fine carbon particles and frying pan fumes over the handful of early customers. Famie and Sophie perched around a Formica-topped table with large plastic ketchup and mustard bottles. Seth Hussain’s laptop was in a drawstring bag on a third chair. A small, tinny radio played a country song so loud it was unrecognizable. The clientele was all male. Two read a tabloid paper, the other three stared at their phone screens. None of them looked up.

  Over fry-ups and stewed coffee, they found the Classifieds. There was no doubting which message was for Famie. This one was in capital letters. Famie shivered as she read it.

  FREAKS ARE REVOLUTIONARIES

  AND REVOLUTIONARIES ARE FREAKS.

  She showed Sophie, who read it aloud. ‘Another quote. Must be.’ She tapped the keys on her phone. ‘There.’ Sophie held up the screen. Large green letters, italicized, low-res: ‘A declaration of a state of war. Communiqué number one. From the Weather Underground.’

  ‘Them again,’ said Famie.

  She took the phone. The document was dated 1971. There were thirty-four lines, the words and lines double-spaced. Three were italicized. The freaks line was one. ‘Tens of thousands have found that protest and marches don’t do it’ was another. ‘Within fourteen days, we will attack a symbol or institution of Amerikan injustice’ was the last.

  ‘America with a “k”,’ said Sophie. ‘What’s that about?’

  Famie shrugged. ‘It’s radical, they’re hippies, it’s the seventies, who knows. The only thing that matters is this. I’ve been communicating with someone like we are still in the seventies. As though email and texting were never invented. So either this is all bullshit and I’m being trolled, in a very seventies way, or there’s another story out there and no one is reporting it. Not even close.’

  ‘Who’ve you told?’

  ‘Well Sam and Tommi came to Mary’s funeral with me, so they saw the first note. They know. And I told Andrew Lewis and the coppers. For all the good that did.’

  Sophie got coffee refills. This time she was noticed. A large man in a stretched white football top looked up from his paper, his eyes following her to the counter and back. He clocked Famie staring at him and returned to his paper.

  ‘What?’ said Sophie.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Famie. ‘Another BPW probably.’

  They drank their coffee. Sophie winced. ‘Shit coffee but it’s working. I’m waking up.’ She tapped the newspaper. ‘So what’s the other story then?’ she said. ‘What’s the story no one is reporting?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Famie, ‘I don’t know. But in the same way that generals always fight the last war not the new one, journalists often write the old story not the new one. When the Oklahoma bomb went off in ’95, everyone assumed it was foreigners who were responsible. TV news channels were full of stories about investigators looking for men described as being Middle Eastern in appearance who had driven away from the building shortly before the blast. But it was a homegrown terrorist that did it. A white American guy. Here we’re looking at Islamists and Russians and organized crime and maybe that’s right, but maybe our freak, our revolutionary, is telling us something else.’

  ‘Telling us what?’ said Sophie. ‘That they’re going to attack a symbol of American injustice? That they’ve declared war?’ Her tone suggested scepti
cism.

  Famie chased the final crumbs of fried bread around her plate. ‘Sure. Why not?’ she said. ‘A declaration of war can take any number of forms. This is one bat-shit crazy world we’re in. Why shouldn’t it get any crazier?’

  28

  6.34 a.m.

  THE STUDENT LAY on his bed, facing the wall. There was enough sunlight through the gap in his curtains to throw a faint shadow of his torso against the pale green paint. He was still, but sleepless as usual. If he’d had the photo of his twin sisters with him he’d have stuck it on the wall, right in front of his eyes, right where a piece of plaster had crumbled. He wondered about retrieving it from the car but dismissed the idea as reckless. The last thing he needed was to remind the leader about his greatest vulnerability.

  He knew he would do anything for them. Theirs was the only uncomplicated relationship in his life and he’d relished every moment of it. They always seemed so pleased to see him, always wanted to talk, always wanted to play. Everything seemed so unconditional. He suspected that that would change and he had, as a result, always dreaded them getting older. Now he dreaded never seeing them again.

  He would manage without the photo.

  On the other side of the room, the sweating man was silent. Still bandaged and sedated again, he had fallen asleep an hour ago. The student assumed he was the only one awake. The house was quiet. They talked late, got up late.

  His mind still swam with the events of Friday evening. The self-crit. The leader’s incredible assault. The damage had been less severe than the student had feared – the knife had ‘only’ taken the corner of an ear – but the effect on the group had been profound. The woman had produced the bandages, and he had leapt up to speak to the leader. ‘We should throw him out? You want him out?’ He had been amazed at himself; his instinct for self-preservation extended to undermining the sweating man even further. He could chastise himself later. If there was a later.