by Jane Davis
“He knows something.” He heard the hope in Mrs White’s voice as he walked away. “He’ll find her.”
She was almost as certain as Jim was.
CHAPTER 31: SHAMAYAL - AUGUST 2010 - RALEGH GROVE
“I can disappear myself,” Shamayal said, quick-fire, hands forcing his head back and to one side flat against the wall. “You won’t ever have to hear from me again.”
The point of worrying about hearing himself beg had passed. Already the hot taste of blood was in his mouth. It was just a question of degrees of humiliation versus degrees of pain. Wide-stance boy was doing the holding; American footballer guy, the hitting. This was how it was going to be: teamwork.
“No?” American-footballer guy clearly took pride in his work. No knuckle duster for him, he liked to feel his victim’s soft flesh give. There was no lunatic gleam in his eye. He was professional about the job. A hint of a smile, he adjusted his shoulder and took aim. Shamayal couldn’t help himself: he closed his eyes. Brickwork skinned his cheekbone like a cheese-grater. One eye was hammered deep into its socket and seemed to want to stay there, pulsing with a heartbeat of its own, pouring a river of water.
It seemed important to keep talking, even through the shock of it. To be civil while convincing them of his sincerity. Last chance: “Course, man.” Hauled back up by the collar, his other cheek was turned for him. At a time when he might have been tempted to cry out for her, it suited him to speak about his mamma; things he’s never told no one. “My muvver did it four years back. No one’s heard from her since.”
“How d’you know she din’t have no help?”
Another fist in his stomach, then a knee. His body wanted to slump to the ground, curl into a tight ball, but hands insisted on holding it up. “She din’t need no help.” Only the final shove his father gave her. Pushing her past her limits one time too many.
“Where have you been?”
“Where d’you think I’ve been, woman? Working!”
“You bin drivin’ in that state? Watching you slowly kill yourself is one thing, but I am not going to stay and wait for you to wipe someone else out with you.”
Slap!
Slowly, slowly it grinds you down. And there is the one thing - that little thing - that drives you over the edge. Something so small that people think you’re weak, when all along you know you’ve taken more than they could ever stand.
He asserted himself, like a marathon runner sprinting for the finish. “The only help my muvver had was from me.”
Another foot forced air out of him and his mouth hung open.
The word “You?” was aimed mockingly at him, like he was some kind of worm.
These boys were equipped. They could finish it at any moment. Looking into the snarling face brought to mind a pitbull who they say is only playing while it sinks its teeth into you. This is nuffin, Shamayal told himself: they’re toying with you.
Another fist and he was dazed, his vision blurred. It was his father leaning over him: “You know where she is, son? You know where your mamma is?”
“I knew where she was -”
A knee.
“- But I din’t never tell.”
They let him drop to the ground, hard onto his kneecaps; the different kind of pain a distraction. “Because I can keep my maaf shut, see?” Then he was kicked sideways. His elbows instinctively made a mask to protect his face, but wide-stance boy dropped down behind him, prising them away, exposing his head, his face, his chest. Now he was all pain, the time for words was over. What had he done but dragged the whole thing out? At least it had been fast for Christian. Shamayal felt the fight go out of him and it was such sweet relief that he wondered why he had been holding on. Out of one eye, he saw the yellow trainers trot backwards so that they could take a run-up. A yellow trainer, his father’s shoe: it was all the same. He prayed he wouldn’t lose control - you heard about that sort of thing; prayed the next kick would be the last.
CHAPTER 32: JIM - AUGUST 2010 - ST HELIER HOSPITAL
With no visitors to rouse him, Jim had dozed fitfully through a day that blended into others, punctuated only by Joyce’s tortured shouts, what passed for cups of tea and the painful changing of his catheter. There is time and there is NHS time. Elsewhere, the hands of clocks travel at the same speed; here they operate to the same set of rules as pots that will not boil. Jim found he had passed beyond boredom, beyond exhaustion; like a long-haul flight with no prospect of landing. A burst of startled laughter rose from the nurses’ station, fracturing his semi-conscious state. He saw a rush of wings as panicked birds broke free from the foliage that would have camouflaged them. Opening his eyes, he was caught in another Groundhog Day, except this was not the same day being replayed. The date on his newspaper told him it was a different day. Exactly the same as all of the others.
This time Jim remembered what he had been dreaming of. He could still smell the smoke-infused yarn of his granddad’s jumper as he listened to the legend of the phoenix, a fine story for an autumn bonfire. Many countries had laid claim to the mythical bird: the most beautiful creature that ever lived, a bird with red and gold tail feathers. “They say the phoenix was the only bird not to be banished from the Garden of Eden after Adam and Eve disgraced themselves.” But what impressed Jim most was this: “Only one phoenix can exist at any time.”
“Isn’t it lonely?” he’d asked.
“I would imagine it is. You see, lad, it can regenerate when it’s injured, so it can live for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.”
Wolverine was Jim’s reference point, the superhero equivalent. “So what kills it in the end?”
“When the time’s right, it builds a nest and sets fire to it. Both nest and bird are reduced to ashes, but a new phoenix egg comes from the embers and the cycle begins all over again.”
“How does it know when the time’s right?”
“Instinct, lad, instinct. It just knows.”
When Jim relayed the story to Aimee, she had nodded. “It’s an art, knowing when it’s time to leave.” At the time he’d thought of his mother’s warning never to outstay his welcome.
He blinked up at the air-conditioning vent in the white ceiling, his lashes wet: I spent my life observing things, sketching things, making notes. So why couldn’t I see what was coming?
CHAPTER 33: AYISHA - AUGUST 2010 - AT HOME
Two minutes had passed since Ayisha last checked her watch. She was cutting it fine - normally, she would leave fifteen minutes to walk to the station. When she had called her mother, after an animated, “Hello,” and, “I’m so relieved to hear your voice,” Ayisha heard the thin rasp of a colleague phoning in sick. Fake or not, having spent the promised time at school, she could hardly claim that visiting Jim in hospital was more important than visiting her own mother, and so she had volunteered: “I’ll bring you chicken soup.”
“Oh, I don’t want to be a -”
“There’s no point arguing. I’m coming.”
“But the roads -”
“I’ll catch a train. It’s only an hour from the centre of town.” There: she had admitted it. Details of the journey would be filed away for future reference and used against her.
Opening her handbag for the umpteenth time, Ayisha assured herself that her tickets were stowed inside, but where was Shamayal? So far, she had been impressed by his punctuality, his cheerfulness, the quality of his work. To be honest, she has paid so-called professionals to do half the job he has done. She’d been even more impressed that he seemed instinctively to know when she wanted company and when she wanted to be alone. The past few weeks have been fun. She’d laughed out loud when, normally, she wouldn’t call herself a laugh-out-loud kind of girl. Even the small accident with paint being trodden into the hall carpet - from the soles of her own trainers! - hadn’t ended in disaster because Shamayal had been ready with the turps. He owed her nothing. If he chose to spend the last few days of the holidays elsewhere then, really, what could she say but ‘thank you
’? If half of what he boasted was true, there would be a girl somewhere - and a lucky one at that.
Shamayal was just like any number of boys Ayisha would have dismissed as having that bit too much attitude, demanding respect and giving none in return. It had been Jim who detected the boy’s vulnerability hiding behind big words with missing ‘t’s, the hard ‘k’s. And it was because of Shamayal that she had re-written her internal rulebook, justifying this to herself as temporary. Things would be different once they were back at school - they would have to be. And yet she couldn’t help wondering how many other vulnerable kids she might find lurking in her class. If only she wasn’t obliged to pass the problem on to someone else as soon as one of them reached out to her for help.
Not concerned that Shamayal had her spare key, Ayisha was only sad that she wouldn’t get the chance to thank him in person. She began to scribble what she hoped had the appearance of a rushed note: To my number one helper, Got to run - off on a mission to take chicken soup to my sick mother! Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Her pen stalled. What was she doing? Five weeks of holiday and she was forgetting herself. Imagine this in the wrong hands! She balled the note and dropped it inside her handbag. As she did so, Ayisha caught her reflection in the hall mirror. The face that stared back was Miss Emmanuel’s. So far, despite her constant and crippling fears, their blatant breaches of the child protection policy seemed to have gone undetected, but a moment’s stupidity and everything could change. She pulled a plain envelope from the drawer, put the exact amount she owed inside, wrote Shamayal’s name, then added, Post keys through letterbox. Just as she would for any other workman. There could be no more lapses. But, as Ayisha, she reflected that no one would tell her she looked hot in decorating overalls. No one would add matching spots of paint to the manicure she had ruined with drips of duck egg blue before she went out for the evening.
Thrown together under those circumstances, she had convinced herself it would be a catastrophe.
“Is it time for a coffee break?” Shamayal had asked less than five minutes after arriving on her doorstep, just after she’d climbed back up the creaking stepladder.
“I thought I might get some work out of you first.” But she had climbed down.
“Proper stuff!” he insisted when she reached for the jar of instant.
“You’ve got expensive taste.” She tightened the lid, imagining it was the boy’s neck she was wringing. Or perhaps Jim’s.
“You’re gettin’ cheap labour. Everythin’ evens out. It’s Karma, innit?”
As soon as she had poured the boiling water, Shamayal reached for the cafetiere: “Let me, let me!”
But when she deposited a mug in front of him, he had said, “You don’t fink I akchully drink that stuff?” and opened a can of Red Bull.
“Then why have I - ?”
“Rots your stomach, dunnit? I fought Jim would of told you I like to do the plunger. I know you been talkin’ ‘bout me behind my back.”
Ayisha had been about to protest but the wrinkling of her brow must have betrayed her.
“Blatant. I knew it!” He took a triumphant swig from the narrow can and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “If the two of you are plannin’ on adoptin’ me, I’m gonna have to put my foot down. I had enough of being the victim of a broken home. The two of you get it together first, then I consider it.”
Locking the front door behind her, Ayisha smiled to herself at the memory - the cheek of the boy - acknowledging she needed time away to think. A fresh coat of paint hadn’t quelled her desire for change. Not adoption - God, no! Added to her experience of dealing with other people’s children, the memory of poor Mrs Knoll’s face was enough to make her question whether she would ever be ready for responsibility of that magnitude.
Once on the train to St Pancras, she fished about in the depths of her bag for her phone, and dialled Jim’s private number at the hospital. Every other day, she had visited him, an hour at a time, always just on her way to or returning from somewhere. The gym, the supermarket; once with her skin still smarting from a bikini wax. He would expect her that afternoon.
No, she clicked the red button, the first feeling of control she had experienced for weeks: Let him miss me.
CHAPTER 34: JIM - AUGUST 1992 - CARSHALTON
Jim knew where Aimee escaped to when she was in pain. It was the same place she’d accused him of hiding. Only as he broke into a sprint did it strike him: she’d recognised he was in hiding because she’d been doing exactly the same thing. He could have kicked himself. Dammit, how could he have been so slow?
As he approached the bridge, Jim’s pace dropped to a jog and then faltered when he saw workmen dressed in yellow jackets. His mind turned to where else Aimee might wait for him if she hadn’t been able to get down to the side of the tracks. Jim was so focused that he didn’t see the policeman, but he heard an unmistakably uniformed voice:
“Not this way, son. You’ll have to take the long way round.”
It was then that Jim noticed the vans and cars parked on the far side, the cordons blocking his way. “Any chance you can let me through?” he gambled. “I need to get home. It’s an emergency.”
“Where d’you live?”
“The flats over there.” As with all his dealings with officials, the boy tried to be vague. For all he knew, they might well be looking for Nick. If Jim was honest, after his brother’s visit, he was surprised he hadn’t been hauled in for questioning.
“Sorry, the boss said no exceptions.”
Lingering, still hoping for an opportunity to duck under the cordons, the bleeding text of a sign that was taped to a lamppost caught Jim’s eye. Missing, much loved family pet cat. Max is wearing a blue collar with a bell. He was last seen in the garden at 11pm on 30th July. Over a month ago. No chance, mate! A nagging thought gnawed as he examined the photocopied photograph of a startled-looking tabby at close quarters.
“S’cuse me,” he called out to the officer who was standing guard while a frustrated motorist made a meal of a three-point turn. Other cars were grinding to a halt behind, hesitating, as if they too thought exceptions might be made.
The policeman narrowed his eyes at Jim. “Still here?”
“I’m looking for a friend who’s run away. How soon should her parents report her as missing?”
The policeman drew a circle in the air, intended to mean either, ‘All of you!’ or possibly, ‘Turn around,’ and then ambled over, looking as though a juicy morsel might tempt him into discussion. “Young girl, is she?”
“Thirteen.”
“Depends on the history, but most would ring as soon as they find she’s gone.”
Jim had thought as much! Aimee could handle herself by day - he’d seen it for himself - but roaming the streets at night was a different matter.
Flipping open a notebook, the policeman consulted his watch. “What’s her name, son?”
“Aimee.” Jim was happy to supply the details. “Aimee White.”
“Boyfriend?” he asked without taking his eyes off his notes.
Jim shook his head. “Just a friend.”
“Not you, lad! I meant, does she have a boyfriend?”
Ego bruised, Jim said, “No.”
“No. Known. Boyfriend.” The policeman annunciated slowly as he wrote the words.
“Where does she live?”
“Durnsford. Number thirteen.”
“Very nice, very nice.” He raised his eyebrows, surprised, no doubt, that someone like Jim might claim to know someone from such a good address. “Can you describe her for me?”
“Quite skinny, long hair, frizzy-like, middle parting, amber eyes - like a cat’s, gap in the front of her teeth.” Jim reeled details off like a shopping list.
“Height?”
Placing one hand on his head, the boy lifted it by a couple of inches.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll drop in on her parents as soon as I’m done here. Check she’s turned up. Probably nothing t
o worry about. You know what girls that age are like.”
Jim attempted a worldly laugh. He wondered if he deserved a sympathy-vote now the officer knew he had serious business involving law-abiding folk to attend to. “Sure you can’t let me through?”
“Sorry, lad. Not my shout.” His uniformed arm pointed. “Your quickest way is back the way you came, right at the end and right again at the roundabout.”
“That’ll take me half an hour!” Jim danced impatiently.
“Then you’d best get going!”
The route took Jim back past Aimee’s house. He saw a figure leaning on the garden gate, her face hidden by long hair, clutching her cardigan tightly around her torso. All that worry for nothing! Laughing out loud with relief, he was ready to call out, “Forget something?” when Mrs White turned her pale and anxious face towards him.
“No luck?”
“Not yet.” Jim swallowed. “The bridge is blocked off.” He indicated with his thumb. “Road works or something. I’ve been sent the long way around.”
Hurrying on with a new sense of urgency, Jim forgot to mention the policemen. No matter, he thought. Mrs White would be glad of a visit. He’d already sussed it was her husband who was against involving the police. Mr White had said they would give Aimee time to calm down, when it was him who looked as if he needed calming.
The remainder of Jim’s birthday was spent retracing the steps he and Aimee had taken together, returning home after each foray to make sure she wasn’t there waiting: sitting on the wall by the road opposite Jim’s block, calling, “Where have you been?” Shouting out his name and looking pleased to see him. Perched on a chair at the kitchen table, turning her gap-toothed smile towards him.
In his local park, Jim by-passed the courts where two boys were sitting astride the shoulders of two poor sods, gripping with their knees and shouting orders to charge at the park’s single hoop, applying the logic that two puny twelve-year-olds equal one six-footer.
“And Magic Johnson shoots…”