by Tony Salter
As he looked at the parakeet doing Tarzan impressions on the poor lizard’s tail, Jim pictured himself as the photographer, strapped onto an overhanging branch, sitting still for hour after hour, only occasionally firing off a string of shots before settling back to wait for the petulant, uncooperative actors to find their marks.
Once upon a time, he’d toyed with the idea of giving it all up and training to be a professional photographer, but his taxi master plan was well underway by that stage and he couldn’t just leave that behind.
Besides, everyone would laugh at him; the people from the photography world would find him curious for a while maybe, but they wouldn’t let him in; everyone in his world would either take the piss or scream at him. Or probably both. And, at the end of all that, he’d end up scratching a living taking portraits of grumpy kids or bloody wedding photos.
The conclusion had always been the same – stick to the plan, be who you were brought up to be, and keep the rest of it to yourself.
But the master plan had gone pear shaped and the memories and regrets were still worrying away at the edges of his mind as he made his way out of the exhibition.
What had it all been for, after all? Where had his great plan led him? His grandchildren were little angels, but neither of his daughters were speaking to him. That cut him to the bone, although he knew why and couldn’t really blame them. The strange thing was that, despite everything that had happened, he and Julie had reached a point where they muddled along all right together. But apart from that, what was there? A fold up chair and a purple fleece? It wasn’t much of a life.
The photography exhibition was an underground maze, dimly lit aisles and dark cloth everywhere, except for the bright, back-lit images on every wall. The high point was the overall prize winner, blown up to poster size and set alone in a small alcove.
He knew what it was – a picture of an orangutan climbing a vine, but he made a point of not looking; he was saving that for last. The blonde-haired woman standing in front of it snatched at the edge of his vision like a burr or a teasel on the sleeve of a jumper, but he walked on past. He was going to be late.
He wasn’t shocked to discover that the dinosaur hall hadn’t changed much while he was away. Will was still at his post and he waved as Jim paced hurriedly back to his chair and picked up his fleece.
The half-caught image of the blonde woman in front of the picture wasn’t going away. He’d only caught a brief glimpse in profile, but there was something about her.
No. It couldn’t be. That would be impossible.
Hassan
Mona was Egyptian. She was smart, funny, and she actually looked like Elizabeth Taylor playing Cleopatra.
She was also very posh. Despite having never lived outside Egypt, Mona spoke English perfectly with the same lazy, dismissive drawl used by all the wealthy Arabs, Indians and Pakistanis who floated around Oxford in their designer clothing and rowing blazers. She also spoke French, German and, of course, Arabic. Hassan suspected she was equally relaxed in each of them.
It was a funny thing. Because Mona was so far out of his league, their differences didn’t seem to matter. They could get along perfectly well without discussing the realities of their backgrounds and their families. Oxford was their world; a hermetically sealed microcosm where they were just two young biochemists; in their little bubble, the fact that Mona’s handbag was probably worth more than his dad’s car didn’t have to be a problem.
University was supposed to be the place where you made friendships for life; where you learnt how to think, to argue and to grow; where your true self emerged, slowly at first, but then all in a rush, like blue-green bacteria colonising a Petri dish. University was supposed to set you up with a network for life and, if you were at Oxford or Cambridge, it was supposed to set you up for life at the top of the tree.
It wasn’t like that for Hassan. Not at all.
He met Mona on his third day at Oxford. The biochemists had their first practical session in the lab and, as with every classroom he’d ever been in, Hassan had found the quietest corner of the brightly lit room, insulated from his peers by an empty workstation. The lab was nothing like they’d had at school, more like the pictures he’d seen of top research laboratories than the grimy wooden-benches, tired equipment and stark tube lighting he was used to.
The lecturer had talked them through the instructions and the room faded into silence as each white-coated student nervously measured liquids and triple-checked their notes. Whatever their backgrounds – public school or Bradford comprehensive – Oxford was a different world and the wrinkled brows, squinting eyes and trembling hands were evidence that they all knew it.
Over half an hour into the three-hour lab session, a new girl swept into the room, long black hair pulled back into a pony tail and buttoning her lab coat as she entered. Hassan watched the lecturer pointedly look at his watch and waited for the roasting which was surely coming.
It never did. The girl leant towards the lecturer and smiled, probably mumbling words of apology. Whatever she said, it worked like magic; the lecturer mirrored her smile, tucked his about-to-be-wagging finger behind his back, and pointed towards Hassan’s corner.
It isn’t easy to make a straight white lab coat sexy. Not easy, but the girl walking towards him managed it without trying and without seeming to be even slightly aware of the impact she was having – even though every eye in the room was locked onto this outrageously late, outrageously confident, outrageously beautiful apparition.
Hassan watched as she approached, realising much too late that he was staring too hard. He snapped his sagging jaw closed, looked down at the bench in front of him and mumbled into the lapel of his coat.
‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘Y’alright?’
The long manicured fingers thrust out in front of his eyes obliged him to look up. He raised his head and took the proffered hand, trying not to stare at the lovely girl.
‘Hi. I’m Mona,’ she said, arching one eyebrow.
After a few seconds Hassan wondered if he’d been holding her soft warm hand for too long and released her. The girl, Mona, continued to look at him, now with both eyebrows raised and an amused smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
‘… And you are?’ she said, eventually.
‘Oh … Sorry … Yes … I’m Hassan.’ Why was he such a clumsy idiot?
‘Pleased to meet you, Hassan.’ She tucked her expensive-looking leather shoulder bag under the bench and sat down. ‘It looks like we’re going to be lab partners. I hope you’re very smart.’
It was fortunate Hassan turned out to be smart even by Oxford standards as he quickly learned that the relationship with his new lab partner was going to be far from equal and balanced.
As far as he could tell, Mona was bright and naturally academic, but her life was complicated in ways that Hassan’s simply wasn’t. She had to balance her studies with a full calendar of social engagements; hairdresser’s appointments, shopping trips to London, family parties, cocktail-induced lie-ins. There simply weren’t enough hours in the day and she needed someone – someone like Hassan – to help her to fill in the gaps.
He didn’t mind at all. He was happy to write more than his share of their lab notes, prepare lecture summaries for her on the days she wasn’t available … even tell lies for her on occasion. He’d fallen in love when their fingers touched and he heard her rich, sultry voice speaking her name for the first time. From that moment on he’d been hers, body and soul.
That was all in a different life. Memories weren’t harmful as such, although dragging up what might have been, achieved less than nothing.
The white cotton vest stretched out on the changing table in front of him like a flag of surrender as Hassan stripped to the waist and washed himself in the small basin. He wasn’t usually a smelly man, but it had been a stressful morning and he struggled to banish the pungent stink of nervousness.
He was dreaming, but awake, slowly moving through a practis
ed sequence of actions, his fingers steady and precise, aware of every movement, each muscle and tendon in perfect control. The human body was a marvellous creation. Unimaginably complex and beautiful, but fragile as a blown eggshell.
He had brought a clean, dry T-shirt which he put on once he’d dried off as well as he could manage. As he reached for the vest, he was jolted out of his trance by a loud banging on the door.
‘You going to be in there all day?’ said the voice. ‘I really need the loo.’
‘Give me a couple of minutes,’ he said. ‘… Sorry.’
‘OK. Just don’t be long.’
Any remnants of peace and self-awareness evaporated in the shock of the interruption and Hassan’s hands were shaking as he grabbed the vest and threw it on roughly, only just remembering to take care to strap it smoothly around him.
His hoodie was three sizes too large and fitted loosely over the top. He looked in the mirror, turning from side to side and craning his neck. It looked fine. He breathed in and out slowly. Five times.
It was time for the terrifying bit; he took the two wires from the vest and fed them from the inside through the hole in his hoodie pocket. He then took the detonator battery unit from its box, noting the US army safety warnings stamped on every side. How could the Americans have been so stupid as to leave that sort of technology lying around?
It was a sealed unit about the size of a cigarette packet which also functioned as the trigger and he remembered to flick the switch back and forth a few times to make sure it was disabled before clicking the safety cover back into place. Even then, he stopped breathing as he pushed the two wires into their sockets. The LED glowed red, staring at him like a one-eyed devil, but there was no terrible, humiliating, accidental explosion.
Hassan double-checked that the connections were firm before slipping the whole thing back into his pocket and straightening his jacket. Facing him in the grubby mirror was an ordinary young Asian man, a little overweight, badly dressed and scowling like he’d just lost a month’s salary on the horses. Not someone who’d stand out in a crowd.
There was more banging on the door.
‘Just coming,’ he shouted.
‘Thank God,’ said the panicky voice on the other side.
Hassan stuffed the rest of his clothing into his bag, quickly made sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, and opened the door.
The waiting man pushed past him with a muttered ‘thanks’ and slammed the door shut. He was in one of those sporty wheelchairs like they used at the Paralympics and couldn’t have been more than mid-twenties. He had what looked like a military haircut and Hassan wondered if he was an ex-soldier, maybe injured in Afghanistan. It would fit.
A part of Hassan felt sorry for the men sent out there; he understood that the big decisions were taken elsewhere and the individual soldiers were just pawns. But they still had choices. It was still them who pulled the triggers, who fired the mortars, who called in the air strikes. What did they expect? Gratitude? What right did they have to go meddling in another people’s lives, thousands of miles from home and in a different world?
Hassan was from Bradford and life there was what he understood. The world had seen enough interfering, especially from those countries where the damp, sweaty underarms of colonial guilt were still moist. It was time for governments to focus on looking after their own houses and leave others alone. That was a fight worth dying for.
As he walked out of the cafe and towards the main park gates, Hassan tried to imagine fighting to defend Bradford, but the idea was too absurd and he gave up. He stopped at the cafe entrance and looked around carefully before flipping open the lid of a big green wheelie bin and dropping his holdall inside.
Shuna
‘So, Zoe,’ said Shuna. ‘Tell me about Spike then. How old is he? Where does he go to school?’
They were standing in the blissfully short security queue at the Natural History Museum and Zoe had nowhere to hide.
‘Do we have to do this, Mum?’ said Zoe. ‘He’s just a boy I know.’
‘Yes, we do,’ said Shuna. ‘You’re not even fourteen yet. We going to need to do this for a while longer, I’m afraid.’
‘OK. Whatever.’ Zoe knew she was going to lose this battle, but they’d be through security in a couple of minutes and then she’d have some space to wriggle free of interrogations. ‘Look, he’s sixteen, OK? It’s no big deal. He goes to the Lycee.’
‘Sixteen,’ said Shuna. ‘That’s pushing it, isn’t it? What’s he doing hanging around with your lot?’
‘He’s Marie’s brother. I met him at her party. Happy now?’
‘Not really. I’m not comfortable with this at all. He’s a lot older than you.’
‘It’s fine, Mum. Really. There’ll be loads of us. We’re just going to meet at half three, play some softball and hang out. You have to trust me a little.’
‘Three thirty? I thought you said four.’
‘It’s changed, OK?’ said Zoe walking past the security guard. ‘Honestly, you can be a real fascist sometimes.’
Anna had been quietly watching her mother and sister sparring but it had become predictable and boring. She was impatient to see the wildlife photography exhibition, which was why they had come.
‘Come on,’ she said, tugging at Shuna’s sleeve. ‘We’ve only got half an hour before we’re meeting Dad.’
Shuna breathed a deep sigh and allowed herself to be dragged along. ‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of time.’
It was only a group of friends meeting in Hyde Park. In the middle of the afternoon. What could be more innocent?
They had seen the exhibition of the previous year’s winners and Shuna and Anna had been looking forward to coming for months. Zoe had enjoyed it last time, but her interests had moved on and she was clearly only killing time before her date.
The pictures would be amazing, that was certain. Anna loved the underwater shots, but for Shuna, it was about a glimpse of home. Jungles and open plains, soaring trees surrounding emerald lakes, nature red in tooth and claw, the colours and light of Africa. She had never met a South African who didn’t feel the same way. It was simply the way it was.
After Simon’s marriage proposal – joyfully accepted – they’d had two more glorious champagne-filled days with her father in Knysna before setting off for Stellenbosch.
For reasons known only to herself, Shuna’s mother had insisted that they return their hire car to the airport; she would send a driver to pick them up and bring them to the estate. As the three of them sat on the balcony after a final dinner, Simon was looking at the drive times on his phone.
‘We should do it in five hours,’ he said. ‘But it’s crazy that we’re dropping the car off first. We’d be quicker going straight there and it would be much less hassle. Why don’t we tell your mum that’s what we’re doing?’
Shuna’s father shrugged his shoulders and smiled and Shuna felt her fears and forebodings rolling back in like the sea mist. The coming days were going to be tough.
South Africa had been hard for Simon, even in Knysna. For most of the time, he was the only black person in the room who wasn’t staff and, even when there were a few middle-class black couples in the same restaurant, none of them were mixed.
He’d accepted the situation with his usual grace and good humour, but Shuna could see that it was getting to him. Two weeks was definitely long enough.
‘Darling,’ said Shuna. ‘God knows why Mummy has decided that’s what she wants, but it’s not worth arguing with her. My guess is that, if the prodigal daughter is going to turn up at Kleinbosch with a fiancee of the wrong colour, at least she won’t be arriving in a crappy rental car.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Simon. ‘This is going to be hell, isn’t it?’
Shuna and her father both sat silently, looking at him, until Shuna’s father snorted with laughter and raised his glass in a mock toast.
‘Still, look on the bright side. She d
oesn’t know you’re engaged yet. I’d love to be there when you tell her that.’
It was a five hour drive back to the airport. Shuna drove the first half as far as Swellendam, where they stopped for a pizza and to stretch their legs. Neither of them had much to say. After lunch, Simon drove and Shuna slipped into a fitful, restless sleep.
She didn’t wake until they were almost at the airport.
‘Hiya,’ she said. ‘You still awake?’
‘It goes on for ever,’ he replied.
‘What?’ Shuna was still half asleep.
‘This bloody pit of a shanty town. We’ve been driving through it for miles. It makes Kingston look civilised.’
‘Mmmnh. Crossroads,’ said Shuna. ‘One of apartheid’s proudest legacies. The whole East side of Cape Town is pretty much the same, I’m afraid.’
Simon didn’t reply and Shuna could feel the tension shimmering in the afternoon heat.
Shuna wasn’t surprised to see the same old Mercedes waiting for them, paintwork and trim in perfect, shining condition as though it had left the factory that morning rather than decades earlier.
‘Nice to see you, Miss Shuna,’ said the driver from under the shadow of his extravagantly peaked cap. ‘Welcome home.’
Shuna took half a step backwards. ‘Joseph? Joseph, is that you?’
‘Yes, Miss.’ The driver looked up at her, flashing a broad, wrinkled smile. ‘So, who else would it be?’
‘It’s so wonderful to see you.’ Shuna reached for Simon’s hand and pulled him close. ‘This is Simon.’ She turned to Simon. ‘Joseph has been at Kleinbosch since before I was born. He always took care of me when I was small.’