by Jane Davis
Following in the boy’s footsteps, Ayisha waited for him to expand. Balking at a putrid smell, she located the fruit bowl: heavily freckled bananas, the brown threatening to dominate what was left of their yellow skins.
“These are the ones. These, and his notebooks. Everything in the other room, yeah? The novels and all that?” Ayisha recalled a few Stephen Kings, a Douglas Adams, John Peel’s autobiography. Shamayal screwed up his nose. “Just for show, innit?”
Ayisha, who liked to fill her living room bookshelf with titles she thought said something about her, even though she hadn’t actually read any Hanif Kureishi, found herself laughing. “So which one’s his favourite?”
Shamayal reached across the fruit bowl and picked up a battered specimen with a photograph of a green woodpecker on the cover. “First one he ever owned.”
She regarded him blankly. The first what?
“I know what you’re finkin’: bor-ing! But it’s cool, man. He’s showed me stuff I never would of noticed before. Mind you, you got to sit still for a long time.”
Ayisha admired the way Shamayal elongated the word. She gave the image of the woodpecker another look. Was he saying that they went bird-watching?
“We tell each other all our stories. Well, I gotta be honest, it’s mainly Jim who does the tellin’. Fact, he was halfway through somethink I wanted to hear the end of when all this happened. Then he sketches, of course. He starts off with a couple of lines and, before you know it -”
“A regular Rolf Harris!”
“Who’s that, then?”
“I’m showing my age.”
“Never! Not you, Miss.” The boy looked Ayisha up and down in a way that might have been flattering in other circumstances. She was about to issue a stern reminder about acceptable boundaries when he continued, “Hey, you think Jim could do some drawin’ in hospital?”
“You know, that’s a really good idea.”
He grinned. “That’s me: full of ‘em.”
While Shamayal went in search of pencils, Ayisha peeled back the top corner of the cover of the notebook, revealing the edge of a line-drawing: a head. Opening the page, what she saw was not the simple outline of Shamayal’s description, but a perfectly executed sketch of a bird, rich in detail. She would never have had Jim down as an accomplished artist.
Being in his home enabled Ayisha to flesh out his bones. She pictured him sitting at the kitchen table, a half-eaten croissant abandoned, a golden trail of flakes on the tabletop. He was looking out at the small courtyard - its iron table and chairs and its terracotta pots overflowing with lavender and rosemary. Pencil poised, he watched the birds - her knowledge of birds being limited, these were blackbirds - as they landed on the tired ivy-clad fence. She imagined walking into the scene, drawn by the smell of coffee and warm pastries, and hesitating in the doorway; not wanting to let him know she was there, observing the careful lines his pencil made on the page. She was wearing his dressing gown, its smell musky and earthy, towel-drying the ends of her hair; the whole day ahead. Later she would make a salad dressing using the expensive olive oil she had spied on the kitchen worktop and the lemon from the fruit bowl. They would eat lunch outside, perhaps drink prosecco...
“Course, we do other stuff as well.” The boy’s voice wafted through the door.
Ayisha checked herself, confused. Where had these thoughts sprung from? She saw that a few dandelions had sprouted between the crazy paving stones. You need to get out more, she mocked herself. Holding the bananas by their woody stalk, she took them from the fruit bowl and dropped them into the pedal bin.
“He kicks arse at Medal of Honour. He had me on my knees, beggin’ for mercy.” Shamayal appeared in the doorway, laughing, a deep and unexpected sound. Attempting to look busy, Ayisha began opening and closing kitchen drawers. His smile froze. “What you up to now, Miss?”
She deferred to him. “Looking for plastic bags. I thought we could take him the rest of the fruit before it goes off.”
“Bottom left,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously. “Hey, what d’you do with them bananas?”
“I binned them.”
“You din’t!” He stamped on the pedal, looked inside. “Man! They was just gettin’ to how the recipe said they should be.”
“They were making the place smell.” Move the conversation on, she told herself as Shamayal set his face. “The nurse suggested pyjamas. Jim said he doesn’t have any, but he thought tracksuit bottoms and t-shirts would do.” She would have preferred not to go rummaging round in his bedroom, but this was something she definitely couldn’t ask Shamayal to do. Walking past him, Ayisha found herself submerged in calming olive-green.
“Ahem! Should you even be goin’ in there, Miss?”
There was a smell not dissimilar to her imagined scent of the dressing gown, except that it had lost its warmth. “Should you?”
“I guess we could both go - if you fink you can trus’ yourself with me, that is.”
“Please don’t joke about it.”
He groaned. “That’s your rule book speakin’, right?”
Couldn’t Shamayal see how inflammatory the situation was? “No. This is me.”
“Doubt it,” he muttered, clearly intending to be heard. “No one’s that uptight.”
Choosing to ignore this - what was there to be gained? - she located Jim’s dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, where he had said it would be. Shamayal gently eased folded t-shirts out of a drawer, laying them on top of the duvet to square the shoulders. Against the black of a t-shirt, his nails were perfectly white. Seeing underpants in the open drawer, Ayisha reflected how humiliated she would be, having a male colleague go through her underwear. Perhaps it was best to leave Shamayal to it. She tried to give the impression of disinterest in the bed - its leather headboard and good white linen - but opened the door of what she imagined to be a closet and flicked the light switch. Whatever the small room’s history, it was now another example of Jim’s ingenious use of space. The walls were lined with history books, one wide shelf at desk height. How perfect! A hidden office. There was an old-fashioned style desk lamp in shining chrome; his laptop; a discarded pair of rimless glasses. It was as if Jim had just left. Ayisha thought of her own poor attempts at balancing exercise books on knees, or sitting up in bed as she corrected formulae and equations, and graded tests with no one to tell her it was time to turn the light out. Before she could stop herself, she had conjured up an image of bringing Jim a cup of tea, finding him hunched over an essay; kissing the crown of his head.
“What you lookin’ for, Miss?”
Feeling as if she had been caught red-handed, Ayisha flicked off the light, saying, “Nothing,” but turned back to enquire of the office door. “You don’t think he’d want his laptop, do you?”
“Might have some games on it. You fink they let them have electrical stuff?”
“Everybody else does. I don’t see why not.”
“I’ll chuck his i-Pod in, then.”
“He needs toiletries. We should do the bathroom next.”
Ayisha wasn’t disappointed with what she found: chrome, natural stone with a mosaic inset. Her hands idly brushed against a towel: hotel quality. Shamayal went straight to the bathroom cabinet.
“Get this!” He thrust a can of Lynx in Ayisha’s direction. “This is the stuff girls go wild for, right?”
She turned up her nose. “Not me.”
Shamayal hesitated, closing the mirrored doors carefully. “Can I aks you something, Miss?”
She sat and folded her arms. “Within reason.”
He turned, leaning back on the sink. “Jim’s an attractive man, right?”
Ayisha blinked, deliberately slowly.
“Them rules don’t apply when you’re sittin’ on the side of a bath. ‘Sides, I’m not asking if you fancy him.”
“Alright,” she relented. “He’s not unattractive.”
“And this is a nice place! Ignoring his taste and the fact that it�
�s quite pokey - it’s nice, right?”
“It’s very nice,” she agreed. And not pokey at all when compared with her own flat. Used to having everything handed to them on a plate, kids had no idea about the value of things. Or interior design, apparently.
“You’re his friend -”
She opened her mouth to contradict him, but all that emerged was an Ah!
“Why do you think he’s single?”
Shamayal was right: the intimate setting did demand honesty. He had sat down on the closed toilet seat. “Shamayal, what I said to you…” She shook her head. “I don’t actually know Jim all that well. I like him very much, but as a colleague.”
The boy’s look was despondent rather than triumphant. “Man! I thought as much.”
Realising she had extended a hand towards him, Ayisha swiftly retracted it. “What is it, Shamayal? Is there something you want to tell me?”
“I don’t think he’s got anyone. I mean, it’s fine in term-time, isn’t it? It’s easy to keep busy. But once the holidays start...”
She smiled. Jim had voiced concern for the boy in similar terms. Who was feeling sorry for whom? Gripping the sides of the bath, Ayisha stared down at her painted toenails, visible through the peep-toes of her shoes. Anyone who has time to varnish toenails has too much time on their hands! Her smile slipped in stages at the thought of the long weeks ahead: the few days earmarked for tasks; the prospect of visiting her parents. She had fostered ideas of a week on the Amalfi coast; winding roads with sheer drops; walking through lemon groves; bathing in a turquoise sea. But the idea of asking for a table for one, wondering where to look while she ate a solitary meal, was too painful. Instead she had blown the money on a Mulberry handbag.
“You got a boyfriend, Miss? Stupid question. Someone as hot as you must have, right?” The boy was still seated, elbow resting on the toilet roll, but his expression was earnest and slightly embarrassed.
Her smile clicked into position; her voice, formal. “Not at the moment.”
“For real, Miss? I mean - and I don’t mean no disrespect - but you’re proper buff. Still, you got lots of friends, right? You all out having your likkle girly lunches, drinking your cocktails...”
“Oh, yes.” Never having been described as ‘hot’ or ‘buff’ before, she was thrown by the unexpected compliments. Girly lunches, rare occurrences taking a month of fraught email exchanges to arrange, were taken in family-friendly cafes with ample facilities for baby-changing and staff who didn’t object to customers spoon-feeding their children home-pureed sweet potato. “My life’s one long episode of Sex in the City.”
“Right, right!” He laughed easily, but his grin became suspended. “Hey, you’re not the lesbo, are you?”
“That’s none of your- !” If that’s what other people thought, it was no wonder it had been a year since her last date.
“I’m not prejudiced,” he coaxed.
“No, I’m not the lesbian!” God! “No more questions.”
His Cheshire-cat grin was infuriating. “I ain’t got no problem if you are. I’m jus’ about the most open-minded person you’ll ever meet.”
CHAPTER 17: JIM - AUGUST 1992 - RALEGH GROVE
His mother called out the minute Jim’s key was in the door. “Ben’s here for you. I’ve just been saying that we haven’t seen him for a while.”
Not since Nick ‘left home’. Thick-set and broad, Ben was the youngest lad from a large Irish family. His older brother - self-proclaimed leader of the local gang - had a reputation for being a nasty piece of work. Jim imagined the day had come when he was going to be asked, “So: you with us or against us?” and there would be no more stalling.
“Alright, mate.”
They nodded without smiling, sizing each other up. Jim couldn’t tell what Ben’s blank expression was hiding but had himself down as the faster of the pair.
“Thought you might fancy a kick-about.”
“Could do,” Jim replied, his non-committal tone implying it was obvious he knew there was no game of football to be had. What was his mother thinking? There was no ball tucked under the older boy’s arm. And she should have asked herself what a lad of Nick’s age would want with him in the first place.
“I said you’d be dying to get out.” Jean turned to Ben. “I’ve been laid up with that nasty bug that’s been doing the rounds. Jim’s been nursing me back to health.”
“Is that right?” Ben nodded, pretence at being impressed proving an acting challenge.
“I’ll take that, love.” Jean reached for the Happy Shopper bag, leaving Jim exposed.
“Where are you off to, then?”
“Is the park alright with you, Jim?”
Jim, who never used names unless it was strictly necessary, could smell his own sweat. “Why not, Ben?”
“See you at tea-time.” Jean smiled at Ben. “I don’t know what we’ve got in but you’d be very welcome.” A polite invitation, designed to be declined.
“My Nan’s coming round tonight.” A perfectly weighted reply to a fake invitation.
Jean’s nod projected just the right level of disappointment. “Another time, then.”
She stood waving as they ambled wordlessly towards the staircase, hands in pockets, matching each other pace for pace.
“Where are we off to, then?” Jim asked, once in the stairwell, out of earshot and out of view.
“I only go as far as the corner.” Ben took his hands out of his pockets. They weren’t clenched into fists. If Jim was in danger, it would come from elsewhere.
“So you’re the messenger, are you?” Expecting to be jumped at the bottom of the stairs, he swung wide on the handrail. The space underneath was empty.
“You know me,” Ben sneered. “Anything for an E or two.”
Of course: Ben was expecting payment.
They passed the Wednesday-ripe bin sheds which had attracted the usual shimmer of pigeons. Jim winced at the sight of them picking through the overspill. “Filthy birds.”
“And there was me thinking birds was your thing.”
“Not pigeons. You can’t respect anything that doesn’t give a toss what it puts in its mouth. They only have thirty-seven taste buds - that’s 9963 less than you and me -”
“Jesus!” Ben’s hands made stop signs. “Did you hear me say I was interested, Freak-boy?”
Jim shrugged. He stepped over the puffed out males who were strutting in that ridiculous way of theirs. Others fought off stiff competition from black-headed gulls (a misleading name, given that they’re only black-headed when they’re in season). Although not officially vermin, Jim thought them just as bad. Attracted by leftovers; screeching loudly enough to drown out the B.F.P’s persistent cooing; bullying anything smaller that had the bad judgement to get in their way. Right at home, he thought, glancing sidelong at Ben.
They passed a skinny kid lying in an estate road beside a speed bump. All of five, he was small enough to hide behind it. Football shorts displayed knees that stuck out like golf balls.
“Alright, Stef,” Jim hovered over the boy, one foot either side. “What you doing?”
“Waiting for cars. Mark dared me.”
“Leave ‘im.” Ben mustered all the authority a sulky teenager can carry.
There was an official five-mile-an-hour speed limit on the estate, but some joker had changed the signs to read fifty miles an hour, which was closer to the mark. “How much danger money is he paying you?”
The young boy sat up, scratching his head.
“Hadn’t thought about it, had you?”
At the washing lines, one of the kids was spinning a rotary dryer hand over hand, while another hung from it. A few yards away, the official play area was occupied by a couple of heavy-set pigeon-heads baiting an American Pitbull. Ben chuckled as they forced the seat of a swing into the dog’s jaws and let go, sending the animal reeling backwards and forwards, legs scrambling. Jim turned away from its whimpering.
Further into the centre of
the estate, the roads ran out; high-rise replaced low; concrete replaced brick. The bright spark who had decided that the balconies should be decorated with blue panelling hadn’t anticipated how his colour scheme would look thirty years on, tired and peeling.
Perched in his usual spot, Bins was fully galoshed, fishing rod at the ready. “Jim Stevens!” he announced the boy’s arrival.
Self-conscious, Jim felt eyes flit to him, some with sympathy, others with respect. He’d never been so well known, that was for sure. “Bins.” He nodded casually.
A rolled up piece of newspaper on the end of his hook, Bins winked. “I’m feeling lucky today. Like it, eh?”
“Alright, Jim.”
He spun around at the sound of a voice to see two lads of Ben’s age. So this is it, he thought, his pocketed hands squeezing into fists.
“Tony Maloney and Jake Stewart!” Bins raised one hand in cheerful greeting. The lad’s real name was Tony Malone, and it wasn’t just Bins who struggled. He had been given the nickname Bugsy at an early age, but was only just getting a proper feel for it. Rumour had it, the previous week he’d dangled a young lad who wouldn’t willingly donate his lunch money from a balcony by the ankles. Sixth floor. What good fists would be, Jim had no idea.
“How you doing, Bins?” Tony returned the salute.
“Alright, Bugsy,” Jim said flatly. Everyone was at their most civil when Bins was there to referee.
“Get your skinny arse over here!” Jake called out.
“Good news travels fast,” Ben said when Jim joined them.
A hand was clapped on his shoulder. Swallowing - show your fear and you may as well lie down there and then - Jim turned to look whoever it was straight in the eye. His jaw dropped. “Nick!” A few weeks earlier he would have been relieved to see his brother. Now he wasn’t sure.
“Good to see you too, bruv.” Nick nodded in Ben’s direction. “You can get lost now.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Ben said, leaning against the wall of the block, cupping a cigarette as he lit it.