Strangers

by Carla Banks

  Mari had brightened at that. ‘Yeah, OK. Thanks,’ but Roisin hadn’t seen her since.

  She was aware of a heavy reluctance as she got ready to go out. She had memories of care homes from her school years when she had done her work experience in an old people’s home. She could still remember the smell of urine, the bleak sitting room where the old people sat mumbling to themselves, the fear and anxiety she had seen in the eyes of the few who were struggling to hold on to their mental faculties. She dreaded seeing that fear on George’s face.

  She pulled on her coat and looked out of the window to check the weather. The prospect of heading out into the cold wasn’t inviting, but at least the rain had stopped. The street below was empty, and the pavement looked muddy and wet. It had become little more than a cul-de-sac that gave the workers access to the building site, and taxis access to the station. As she watched, a truck lumbered past, weighed down with rubble, and a small white van negotiated its way into a space in front of a now disused gate.

  She stood for a while longer watching the van, wondering what it was doing in the no-man’s land of redevelopment. She could see the driver’s hands as he tapped a cigarette out of a packet. They vanished for a moment then came back into view, the tip of the cigarette a red glow in the monochrome day.

  It was time she set out. As she hurried to the tube, she noticed how ubiquitous Middle Eastern dress had become: the burka, the abaya and the niqaab covering the anonymous shapes walking the streets of London. Any one of them could be someone she knew–Yasmin, Najia, Souad, Haifa–and she would only recognize them if they chose to greet her, otherwise they could pass unrecognized, anonymous, and silent. She headed down the steps to her train.

  As it turned out, her fears about the care home were unfounded. The place where George had moved to wasn’t a home at all but a small flat in a block of sheltered accommodation. ‘He’s a lovely old man,’ the warden said with the cheerful optimism of one who could attribute the vagaries of old age to an endearing second childhood.

  She could hear Shadow barking as she rang the bell, and the irascible Geddown that took her back at once to the days before she had left, the days before she had met Joe.

  She was almost knocked off her feet by Shadow’s ecstatic greeting. He leapt up and licked her face, dashed round in little circles, ran away and came back, ran away again and came back carrying his lead. In the middle of all the chaos, it was easier to greet George, who had immediately quashed the delight she had surprised on to his face with a gruff, ‘Oh, it’s you. You’d better come in. Dog! Geddown!’

  She climbed through Shadow’s manic dance of joy into a small, neatly appointed flat. Her first impression was of warmth, and then of clutter. It looked as though George had moved his entire stock of possessions from his flat into this tiny studio apartment.

  They stared at each other for a moment. ‘How are you?’ she said.

  He ignored this. ‘Been having a rough time, girl?’

  She felt tears come into her eyes as she nodded. He indicated a chair, and she sat down. Shadow pressed his chin into her lap and looked up at her with troubled eyes as she stroked the soft ears. The two of them, the old man and his dog, were conspiring to make her cry.

  George looked better than she remembered him. Before, he always looked unkempt, a bit too thin, not quite clean. Now, he had put on weight, he was clean-shaven and he was wearing a neatly pressed pair of trousers and a big sweater. Before, he’d always sat in his overcoat and a pair of gloves because he couldn’t afford to run the heating, or was afraid he couldn’t. Now he looked like someone who was eating regularly, who was living in warmth and comfort. ‘You look very well,’ she said. ‘Do you like it here?’

  He grunted a dour assent, adding, ‘Could do without all the busybody women. Now then, Rosie, you’d better tell me about it.’

  And she found that she could. She told him in clear, spare detail about the party, about the bomb and about Joe. She kept her fingers buried in the silky hair around Shadow’s neck as she spoke.

  George just sat and listened. When she’d finished, he sighed. ‘There’s bad places in this world and that’s a fact. Come on, let’s have a cuppa.’ He heaved himself to his feet and went through to the kitchen. She followed him, noticing the brand new electric kettle unused on the worktop, and the blackened kettle from his flat on the hob. ‘Did he find you then, that chap?’

  ‘Who?’ She moved across to pour the boiling water into the pot. She knew he must do it for himself all the time, but it made her nervous to see his unsteady hand so close to the scalding liquid.

  ‘That chap who came looking for you. Just the day before I left. I’ve been keeping an eye on the place for you, don’t you worry. Saw him hanging around your door. Shadow gave him what for, didn’t you? Good boy.’ He thumped the dog’s head and Shadow, who had crowded into the kitchen behind them, panted eagerly up at him.

  ‘Someone came looking for me?’

  ‘Is she coming back? he says. Not my business, I told him. And not yours, neither. Couldn’t have told him if I’d wanted to.’ He looked at Roisin expectantly.

  ‘I did write,’ she said, aware that she’d only managed two letters in the welter of new experiences. ‘I don’t know who it was. Did they leave a message?’

  ‘Not with me. You don’t want nothing to do with him, Rosie. Nasty piece of work, if you ask me.’ Roisin didn’t take this comment too seriously. Every stranger was a nasty piece of work to George.

  He turned on the TV and they watched an afternoon quiz show in companionable silence. When it was time for her to leave, she said, ‘Do you have someone to walk Shadow?’

  ‘With all the busybody women round here? We don’t get a minute, right, dog?’ He looked at her. ‘If you want to take him for a run, any time, Rosie…’

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  She kissed his cheek and let herself out, leaving him watching TV. She went along the front of the flats until she found the warden’s office. The woman looked up. ‘You off? He’s doing nicely, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He looks a lot better. Listen, could you tell me how long he’s been here? I mean, what was the actual date he arrived?’

  The warden hesitated for a moment, then decided the request was harmless. ‘He came here on the 27th,’ she said.

  ‘December?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t usually move people during the holiday, but there was a tenant who needed his old flat urgently, so we made an exception.’

  So the person who’d come looking for her had called just a few days after the party, a few days after Joe…after Joe had died. Someone who knew she might be returning. She puzzled over it on the way home, but couldn’t make any sense of it.

  The light was fading as she headed back. The street lights reflected orange on the wet flagstones and she made herself hurry, juggling her handbag, her shopping and her umbrella. She thought about the evenings in Riyadh, the sudden darkness, the way the hot air cooled and it became possible to move around outside in comfort, the smell from the evening barbecues, the night sky in the desert…

  When she got back to the flat, the street was silent and empty, the twilight making grey shadows of the space where the van had been parked. She fumbled with her keys as she opened the outer door that let her on to the stairway, suddenly uneasy.

  The door shut behind her with a reassuring clunk. She had never been nervous in the dark, or worried about who might be behind her. She had always walked the streets confidently, knowing her way around, knowing how to take care of herself. Now, she expected danger around every corner. Her security was another thing that Riyadh had taken from her.

  She climbed the dim and poorly maintained stairway to the top level and let herself into the flat. The light from the street lamps shone through the window and she went to close the blinds, taking a last look at the street outside. She could see from here that the van was still in its impromptu parking bay, a dark shape among the shadows. She wo
ndered if it belonged to someone who lived in the flats.

  As she watched, she thought she saw a spark of red in the darkness, the glow of a cigarette, rapidly fading and gone.

  32

  Damien left Riyadh early one February morning. The sky was already clear blue, a blue that would intensify to white as the sun rose fully and the baking heat of the day began. He’d known at some level since the first day he’d left the hospital that his time in the Kingdom was coming to an end, but he’d been postponing the decision to go. Part of him still didn’t want to leave the place that had been his home for so long, even though it had changed, or he had changed beyond restoration. Officially, he was on sick leave. He’d gone to see his boss to hand in his resignation, and had been persuaded to take a few weeks off, to leave the Kingdom for a while and postpone any decision until after that.

  Two days before, he had gone to visit Majid. He didn’t want their last encounter to be that interview at police headquarters. He hoped that, within the privacy of his home, Majid might become, once more, the friend he knew. But there had been no news of the missing child, and the trail must be growing colder each day. The loss of his son had turned Majid in on himself, driven him behind the mask that his job allowed him to wear, and into the certainties and securities of his family. His welcome to Damien was cool. Damien sat in the familiar room as coffee was served, and Majid and his brothers watched him in silence. They accepted coffee as the servant brought it to them, but none of them drank.

  ‘You are leaving?’ Faisal said. He spoke in English. In the past, he had always addressed Damien in Arabic.

  ‘Yes. This may be my last real time in Riyadh.’ Damien let his gaze move to Majid, who dropped his eyes. He looked stressed and tired.

  Silence fell as Damien lifted his cup. He had two choices. He could take his leave quickly and accept that he was now excluded from this house, or he could stay and try to re-establish some contact with the man who had been his friend for over ten years. He wanted to give Majid his sympathy, and his support. ‘These have been sad times,’ he said.

  ‘Sad times come and go,’ Faisal said. The other men remained silent as Damien put his cup on the low table.

  They were speaking English. Perhaps it was time for some English directness. He addressed Faisal but he was aware of Majid in his peripheral vision. ‘I came to take my leave from people who have become good friends. And who will remain good friends in my mind always. If there is anything I can do for you now, or at any time, remember that I will.’

  Faisal bowed his head. ‘I hear your words,’ he said. He didn’t lower his guard of formality, but this time he spoke in Arabic. Damien stood and the three brothers rose to their feet. The farewells were stiff and formal.

  The next day, Rai drove him to the airport. The two men embraced as Damien took his bag from the car.

  ‘A few weeks,’ Damien said. ‘Then we’re in business again.’

  ‘In business.’ Rai gave him the thumbs-up and grinned. There were tears in his eyes.

  He listened to the sound of Arabic around him, to the men at work greeting each other with the blessings of God, to the calls of the water-sellers on the streets, and he wondered if he would ever hear it again.

  He’d sent Majid a note telling him the time of his leaving and giving him a forwarding address. He had hoped, against all expectation, that Majid would come and say goodbye, but he didn’t.

  Me and my brother against my cousin.

  Me and my cousin against the stranger.

  And Damien was the stranger now.

  33

  It was late afternoon when Damien stepped off the plane at Heathrow and set foot in the UK for the first time in ten years. He hadn’t expected any jolt of familiarity, any moment of nostalgia, and he didn’t get one. An airport was an airport. In his mind, he’d severed all ties with the UK when he’d gone to work overseas. The only things that had bound him to the place were gone. His brief marriage was over and Catherine was dead. He’d left with no intention of coming back.

  His eventual return was low key. He went through Customs unimpeded and found himself once again under skies that were heavy with grey clouds, the chill air wet with recent rain and threatening more. England was much as he remembered it.

  The first thing he intended doing was contacting Roisin Massey. He joined the queue for taxis, then called her number. She answered at once.

  ‘Roisin, it’s Damien O’Neill.’

  ‘Damien!’ Her voice sounded distant and oddly faded.

  ‘Have I called at a bad time?’

  ‘No, it’s…No, of course not. How are you?’

  ‘I’m…fine,’ he said, choosing the word deliberately. She laughed, sounding more the way he remembered her. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m OK. More or less. Damien, where are you?’

  ‘Right now? I’m second in line in the queue for taxis at Heathrow.’

  ‘Heathrow? You’re here?’

  ‘Yes. Just for a couple of weeks.’

  There was silence, then she said, ‘That’s so…Look, we can’t talk like this. Will you come and see me?’

  ‘Of course. It’s one of the reasons I’m here.’

  ‘Why don’t you get settled in, then come straight over. Where are you staying?’

  ‘I’ve taken a flat in Camden Town.’ He opened the taxi door and threw in his case.

  ‘That’s not far from me. Call me when you’re on your way.’

  ‘I will.’ He rang off and looked at the phone. ‘Roisin…’ he said.

  He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until the taxi driver said, ‘Where, mate?’

  When Damien O’Neill’s call came, Roisin had been trying to put some order into her life. A job would be a starting point. She didn’t need the money, or not yet. Joe’s salary was still coming through from the company. This was for her own recovery. Her mother phoned regularly, and in her weekly letter she had started putting cuttings with job opportunities. Roisin was touched to see that none of these would take her to the North East. It was as if her mother were saying, I’m not trying to force you home. I want this for you.

  She’d gone out that afternoon to pick up the Times Educational Supplement, and had just settled down with a cup of coffee and the jobs pages spread out across the table when the phone rang and the voice at the other end of the line took her straight back to Riyadh.

  Damien O’Neill. She barely knew him, and yet the events at the party had formed a link between them that made it feel as though an old and welcome friend was coming home. As she whipped round the flat, tidying up, she remembered the rather distant man who had shown them the ad-Dirah souk that first day, the day she had found her way to as-Sa’ah Square. She thought about the man at that first party who had stonewalled her with conventional politeness until she had started making fun of him, then he had laughed and become more approachable. And then she remembered the man at the Bradshaws’ who had been concerned for her, watched out for her welfare, and in the end had saved her life, nearly losing his own in the process.

  A couple of hours after he’d called, the entry phone buzzed. ‘Roisin? It’s Damien.’ As she pressed the button to release the lock, she was suddenly afraid that, now he was away from Riyadh, she would find he had become another stranger, that he would be just another once-familiar face in the massive darkness that was London. But when she opened the door, he was the way she remembered him: a slim man with light hair and grey eyes, who carried himself with an air of watchful caution.

  ‘Roisin.’ His smile was warm. She kissed him and he put his arms round her and held her close. He gave her a bunch of flowers, early daffodils. ‘I think the spring flowers are the only thing I missed about England,’ he said. Their pale yellow brightened up the gloom of the day and filled the dark hallway with the promise of better days to come.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. As she took the flowers, she realized that the daffodils would be blooming along the canalside in a few weeks.


  They talked in a desultory way as she made them both coffee, about his flight and about the flat he was renting in London. It wasn’t until she was sitting down opposite him that she began to see the toll that the bomb had taken. Under his tan, he looked pale and she could see the lines around his eyes and mouth that had been etched by pain and exhaustion. He was observing her with the same closeness and she wondered what he saw.

  ‘How are you?’ he said.

  She didn’t find it necessary to prevaricate with him. ‘I’m keeping myself busy. Looking for work.’

  ‘What are you going to do next?’

  He’d understood at once that this life was just temporary. This was crawling into the hole to heal. ‘I don’t know. Yet. You?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know either.’

  She suspected that he knew perfectly well, but she didn’t push it. The fact that they were both here, that they had both survived this far, was a cause for celebration. ‘We should have a drink.’ She went and got some wine from the fridge and poured them each a generous glass. ‘Here’s to…’

  He thought for a moment. ‘A meeting? Wherever we are, whatever we’re doing, this time next year, we’ll meet.’

  She met his gaze as she lifted her glass. ‘That’s a promise. This time next year.’ They drank.

  He leaned back in the chair. ‘Has anyone from the consulate been in touch with you?’