by Tony Salter
‘Don’t be a prat. I went to tell her to keep her obnoxious brat off the barrier and she got all snotty with me. Really pissed me off.’ Jim could see that the boy had stopped climbing. ‘If he does it again, she’s all yours.’
‘OK. No problem,’ said Will, his cheery smile untouched by Jim’s sourness. It was like he was covered in a suit made of Teflon; all the shit storms of daily life slid past him without sticking. Jim would have given a lot to be able to borrow that suit for a while.
‘I’d better not hang around,’ said Jim. ‘You-know-who will be back soon.’ He turned to leave and then span back, leaning close to Will. ‘One more thing. When I was on my break, I think I saw this woman I used to know. If she comes in here, I might need to make myself scarce. OK?’
‘OK. No problem.’ Will was clearly interested and Jim knew that he wouldn’t let this slide by. ‘So. Who is the lucky lady? A blast from the past?’
Jim leant closer and gave Will the look. Eyes hard and unblinking, face set in a tight, humourless mask. It took a few seconds, but the young lad got the point soon enough and backed away, showing the whites of his eyes. Jim patted him on the shoulder and smiled. ‘Good lad. Just cover for me. All right?’
Will nodded and Jim turned away.
He pulled his chair round to face the passageway leading to the exhibition. He could picture her stepping out into the hall in such detail that it felt like a regular event. It was like the anticipation of waiting for someone at an airport, or a moment back in the Christmas Eve excitement of childhood.
Before the girls had been born, he’d been posted for a couple of years to Cyprus, and Julie would come out and visit for the weekend every few months. He could still remember the churning hungry feeling in his stomach as he waited for her to come through customs. Ten minutes would seem like an hour as figure after figure walked out and, one after the other, turned out to be someone else’s wife or girlfriend. Until, when he’d suffered enough, the shape that had looked like Julie had turned out to actually be Julie and Jim could start breathing again.
A lot of water under the bridge since then. They’d been good times. Uncomplicated times. A shame things couldn’t ever stay simple, but what could be done?
The exhibition was popular and people flowed in and out, but none of them was Shuna. He thought he saw a girl who looked like her daughter, but he’d never paid much attention to the girls and they changed so fast at that age. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing? The power of wishful thinking should never be underestimated, as he’d learnt to his cost.
He’d only wanted to talk to her and there hadn’t been a better way. He could understand now why she’d been frightened, but if she could only have stopped to listen to him, everything would have been different. Why did people find it so difficult to listen? He could get their attention well enough with the threat of aggression – look how young Will had buckled – but he was tired of it.
Perhaps the wind had changed suddenly one day and left him frozen as an aggressive, curmudgeonly old git? He lifted his hand to his mouth to cover the involuntary snort of laughter. Who was he kidding? He’d always been an aggressive, curmudgeonly git; the only new element was the added bonus of getting old.
He’d been working hard to put that evening, and everything that came later, behind him; in spite of his ongoing anger or panic attacks, the doctors thought that he was doing well. Seeing Shuna, or an imaginary ghost of Shuna, had dragged him straight back into the thick of it and reminded him that, whatever progress he was making, he had a lot of work ahead of him if he ever wanted to properly make it up to Julie.
The days and weeks which followed that incident in the cab had blurred into a rolling nightmare with new disasters striking on an almost-daily basis.
Julie, in particular, had lost the plot completely, especially when the police came sniffing around looking for his cameras, laptop and hard drive. It was strange, but the fact that he’d kept his photography hidden had seemed to hurt her more than anything else. Their marriage had never been smooth, but Jim had always been certain that they’d find a way through. These days, he wasn’t quite as sure. They were moving forward, but something was still badly broken, and he wasn’t the world’s greatest fixer.
‘Jim. Are you planning on telling me what the fuck’s going on?’ Julie had stood at the open front door, spitting the words out onto the street like shrapnel. ‘The police were round this afternoon, looking for cameras and computer equipment.’
‘OK, Luv,’ said Jim. ‘Let me just get inside.’
‘Don’t fucking “Luv” me. The whole street was out. I’ve never been so bloody humiliated.’
Jim had then pushed her gently back into the hall, closing the door behind him. ‘I’m sorry. It’s something – not actually a big deal – which is being made into something much bigger than it actually is.’
‘That’s not the impression I got from the police.’
‘Why? What did they say?’
‘That you’ve been following that woman from the tribunal. And taking photos of her. I told them that you didn’t even have a camera, much less know how to use one. They looked at me as though I was a sad idiot. The copper was only about twelve and I could swear he felt sorry for me.’
‘Well, there’s an element of …’
‘ … What?’
‘It’s partly true. I do have a camera and I was taking photographs of Shuna, but they won’t find them.’
‘Shuna? It’s fucking Shuna now is it?’ Julie was pacing up and down the narrow hallway, stiff arms barely moving and fists clenched. ‘And how come you’ve got a secret camera? Are you some sort of pervert?’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ said Jim. ‘I take photos of wildlife. Mostly birds. I’ve been doing it for years.’
Julie had stood looking at him with her mouth hanging open before spinning around and letting out a guttural sob. Half a second later the kitchen door had slammed in his face and the glass vase on the hall table had started rocking back and forth in sympathy; once, twice and then the dull crack as it fell, broken in two.
Hassan
Hassan didn’t look back to see if the van driver was following him. He either was or he wasn’t. Hassan had moved beyond caring as his feet led him closer and closer to the museum. He was on schedule and would have enough time to look at the diplodocus. That would be a fitting end to his fucked-up journey. There was a tidiness about the way it would close a circle going back to his childhood.
Did it make sense to see life as a circle or was it a series of choices, branching out into multiple futures in a dizzying pattern of ever-thinning threads? Or was it both? Did anyone really have any choice about what they did, or was every step ordained by the Fates from the beginning, with every branch already drawn out?
To begin with they’d pretended that the ultimate decision was his, but that pretence had stopped as soon as he’d started sharing his views about violence, and whether it was ever the best option. Choice either sat in their hands, or that of the Fates. Hassan, as for so much of his life, had none.
Could Hassan really decide to go back to the park, take off the vest and then go to meet that girl outside the posh cafe? Would she be waiting for him at three o’clock with a smile on her face? Or would it turn out to be another humiliating disaster in his failure-filled life? How could he know and, even if she were waiting for him, how could he live with the consequences of that decision?
Sally. That was her name. It was calming to imagine meeting her. They could go out for a quiet drink and Hassan would find himself content with just one, or maybe two, whiskies. They would laugh and tell stories about home before strolling back to her place as the sun was fading. He wouldn’t need to go back to Bradford ever. He would find work making the best cappuccinos in London and no-one would know where to find him.
Maybe he would contact his mother, but not for a long, long time. Perhaps to send her photos of her grandchildren, little Hassan and baby Fatima. She would want
to know that he was all right, but she would need to swear never to tell his father.
Why couldn’t that be his future?
Did he really need to ask that question? Maybe his future had been mapped out from birth, maybe not. But, whatever had come before, his future had been fixed at that moment in time when Mona had told him about Anwar. The path from that morning to a young man in a vest walking down Exhibition Road was scored so deeply into the fabric of the universe that nothing could have changed it.
It had been half way through the second term of his third and final year at Oxford.
Hassan and Mona had been having such a great time; they were partners in every facet of daily life, they could talk about anything, they would cook together and laugh together, and the sex (even with the self-imposed restrictions) was amazing. Every morning, Hassan woke early just so he could spend a few extra minutes watching Mona breathe softly through gently parted lips. She was even more beautiful asleep and her relaxed half-smile told tales of exotic dreams filled with sand and spice.
It was during these moments – no more than five or ten minutes every day – that Hassan thought about the one subject which appeared to be taboo. The future.
It wasn’t as though they’d specifically agreed not to talk about life after Oxford, it was simply that Mona always skilfully avoided any attempt to discuss what happened next. Hassan didn’t want to create a big issue because his life was closer to perfection than he’d ever dreamt of; he didn’t want to jinx things, but the future was now less than three months away. They would take their final exams in May. And then what?
He couldn’t picture what would come afterwards, but he definitely couldn’t imagine a future without Mona. She completed him; she brought out everything that was good in him and allowed him to feel – for the first time in his life – that he had a place in the world.
Eventually, he’d found a solution. It had taken every ounce of courage he could scrape together and every last penny in his bank account, but he had a plan and on that particular March morning, as he watched her lying next to him, he’d known everything was going to work out.
Saturday mornings were always relaxed. Study wasn’t allowed and they would walk into town and have a late brunch at Quod on the High. Hassan was doing his best to relax but, as Mona dithered back and forth between the blue scarf and the green scarf, he felt his resolve crumbling.
‘The green looks great,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’m starving.’
‘All right. Keep your hair on.’ Mona wrapped the blue scarf around her neck and opened the door. ‘It’s only eleven. You’ll probably survive.’
‘Of course I will, but I wanted to take you to the botanic gardens on the way. I know how you hate our English winters and I thought the spring flowers might cheer you up.’ He bustled her outside and pulled the door closed. ‘Y’know? Remind you that summer’s on the way.’
Mona wrapped an arm around his waist. ‘That sounds great,’ she said. ‘You are a sweetie.’ She lifted her hand to her mouth in mock horror. ‘As long as you won’t collapse from starvation before we get there.’
Hassan laughed. ‘I think I’ll make it.’
The Oxford Botanic Gardens were only ten minutes walk from the flat and they seemed to be the only people there. Most of the flower beds were still bare, and it was only when they got to the far end towards the river that the reason for their visit became clear. A carpet of tiny, blue scilla spread out under the trees, a light blue sea surrounding beds of hellebores, papery flowers pink-veined and modest against the vibrant freshness of their leaves.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Mona, squeezing him tight. ‘What a lovely idea. You were right. I was getting a bit fed up with the greyness of everything.’
Hassan knew that the moment was right and he kissed her gently on the lips before sinking to one knee in front of her and holding out the small red box which held all of his hopes.
‘Mona,’ he said, smiling as he saw her hand go to her mouth in mock horror again. ‘Mona El Masry. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
Mona’s hand stayed over her mouth as the two of them held their cartoon tableau. Neither was breathing.
Eventually, she spoke. ‘Oh, Hassan,’ she said. ‘I thought you understood.’
‘Understood what?’ Hassan hadn’t moved from one knee and didn’t know what was happening. Whatever it was, it wasn’t what he’d been hoping for.
‘Stand up,’ she said quietly. ‘Come over here and sit down.’
Hassan allowed himself to be led to the waiting bench like a spring lamb. ‘Understood what?’ he said again, trying to keep the rising panic from his voice.
‘I’m already engaged,’ she said. ‘I’ve been engaged since I was seventeen.’
‘Engaged? Who to? How can you be?’
‘His name is Anwar. He’s twenty-six. His parents are friends of my parents.’
‘Do you love him?’
Mona glared at him. ‘How could I? I hardly know him. We’ve only met once or twice since I was a kid.’ She moved closer to Hassan, confusion tracing tiny wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. ‘Surely you know how this works? Love has nothing to do with anything. It’s just how it is.’
‘But you’re different,’ he said, hearing the notes of pleading creeping into his voice. ‘You’re not from some poor village family, hanging onto old traditions. Your father’s a doctor and your mother’s a university professor. It’s different.’
Mona rested her cool palms against his cheeks. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not.’
Hassan’s sluggish mind was still unable to keep pace, and he kept the ring box wrapped in his fist like a talisman. ‘But I love you. Don’t you love me?’
‘I don’t know what to say. If I tell you I love you, does that make it better or worse?’
‘If you love me, we could find a way. I don’t know how, but we could find a way.’
Something broke then. An invisible thread that had been joining them together. Mona took her hands from his face and pulled away. ‘No. We couldn’t,’ she said, an imperial hardness filling her words. ‘I love my family and my country. My life is there. You and I have had such a wonderful time, but when I leave Oxford, it’s over.’ Her lips were set tight and he could see the implacable certainty in her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry, but I really thought you understood.’
Hassan didn’t know what to say. Should he have known? Why? She’d never said a word about bloody Anwar. Was he supposed to be psychic? He’d been nothing more than a toy for her. Why was he surprised?
Mona looked at him, waiting for him to respond, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. An elderly couple were making their way towards them along the path, arm in arm. They looked as though they’d been married for a lifetime. ‘Well, if you’re just going to sit there,’ she said, eventually. ‘I’m going to brunch. Are you coming?’
‘Of course I’m not coming to fucking brunch.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said, before getting up and walking away, her back stiff and the blue scarf flowing behind her.
As Hassan sat alone on the bench, head resting on his hands and the misery washing over him, he realised he was greeting an old friend. He’d allowed himself to believe that he could be happy, but the reality was that this was all there was. All there had ever been, waiting at the end of every tunnel.
Failure. Pathetic, weak and oh-so-familiar failure.
Shuna
It had to be a coincidence.
Of course it wasn’t a bloody coincidence. Shuna could remember how she’d pressed herself back in the seat of the cab that night as though it would help her to keep away from him. She’d wanted to scream, but all she could manage was a whimper.
‘Please don’t hurt me.’
‘I’m not going to hurt you. What makes you think I would want to do that?’ His disembodied voice crackled over the intercom and Shuna wanted to scream out the list of reasons why she didn’t believe him – his aggression at the airpo
rt, his face after the tribunal, the fact that he’d been following her and taking photos, the fact that he’d abducted her and locked her in the back of his taxi. What did he expect her to think?
She didn’t say any of those things. She knew that she needed to stay calm. ‘Please let me out,’ she said. ‘Just pull over here and open the doors. I won’t tell anyone.’
‘I will. I promise,’ he said. ‘But not quite yet. I want to talk to you first.’
‘Talk about what?’ Shuna could see his eyes in the mirror, watching her as she reached for her phone.
‘No. Don’t do that. Don’t call anybody.’ The taxi stopped sharply, and the phone flew out of Shuna’s hands as she was slammed into the seatbelt, the coarse webbing cutting through her thin coat and dress and biting into her right breast.
She sat back, shocked and aching and the taxi pulled away again. She could see her phone on the floor, too far to reach with her foot.
‘Shuna. Can I call you Shuna?’ His voice was hoarse and grating or was it the speakers? He sounded desperate, pleading, a different man from the oaf at the airport. ‘I just want to talk to you for five minutes. No more.’
The click of Shuna’s seatbelt releasing was unnaturally loud and his eyes widened. ‘Stop that,’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing? Don’t …’
But it was too late. Shuna threw herself onto the floor, grabbing her phone and bracing herself for another sudden stop. His voice was still booming from the speakers, but she wasn’t listening.
Simon picked up on the second ring and Shuna blurted out the words in a stream. ‘Simon … It’s me … No, just listen … I’m in a cab … On Piccadilly … It’s him … I’m locked in … Call the police … Help me …’
Simon hung up. He was always calm in an emergency and she knew he would be calling the police, giving them complete precise information. He would call her back when he was done. There was nothing else she could do, and she lay curled up on the floor, her nostrils full of the stale stench of London which lingered in the carpet.