Broken Windows

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Broken Windows Page 6

by Janet Pywell


  Monika blows me a kiss, and Ali salutes us from the window. Joe grins excitedly, and Lisa wipes away a tear. Only Adam remains stony-faced and aloof, preferring to stare out of the front window.

  As we wave them off and watch the minivan disappear, I can still hear Monika’s soft voice whispering as she hugged me in parting.

  ‘I love you, Mikky.’

  * * *

  Peter and I are on the evening flight, and so we spend the morning sightseeing, and at lunchtime, we find a small restaurant where we sit under the shade of an umbrella enjoying a lunch of delicious lamb couscous.

  ‘You’ve enjoyed being here, haven’t you, Mikky?’

  ‘Yes, but I feel I’m a fraud,’ I reply. ‘The Parks trusted us, and I can’t let them down.’

  ‘You won’t let them down. They like you,’ Peter says. ‘But it will take a little longer for them to trust us. Joachin seemed to think it would happen in a few days, but these few days haven’t been enough. These kids are very reserved. I think we have to go back to London and follow up on our documentary—’

  ‘They did trust us, Peter. I’m surprised at how much they did speak to us, but I feel like I’m using them. Look at this …’ I reach for my camera. ‘I didn’t want to tell you earlier, but Monika came to my room last night …’

  Peter’s hand, holding a fork of couscous, pauses halfway to his mouth. ‘She went to your room?’

  ‘She stayed the night.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Mikky! What happened?’

  ‘Lisa and Joe were having sex, and she didn’t want to be in the bedroom with them.’

  He tosses the fork on the plate and, when I turn the screen of my camera in his direction, he wipes his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘What the …?’ He glances at me and then back at the image. ‘That’s a sword?’

  ‘It looks more like a dagger to me,’ I mumble.

  ‘You mean, Monika has a tattoo of a dagger under her left breast?’

  ‘She said there was an Asian who made her get it, and she says they all have one.’

  ‘Like in a cult?’

  ‘She didn’t want to speak about it. She was abused. She wanted to talk—’

  He shakes his head and exhales loudly. ‘Oh my God, Mikky … that’s awful.’

  ‘She’s very affected.’

  ‘Did she specifically mention the Asian?’

  ‘I think she is a cult member, Peter. Or she was. She told me how her stepfather’s friends raped her and then she was groomed by the Asian into selling coke. Chief Inspector Mulhoon seems to think there is a cult – it’s a gang. But I’m thinking maybe all the members have this tattoo inked on their skin. She mentioned a ceremony.’

  ‘So, what now, Mikky? Are you sending this image to the chief inspector?’

  ‘No, I can’t tell him that Monika has this tattoo. He’d take her in for questioning and harass her. I can’t take the chance that they would potentially put her life at risk. She’s been through so much. I can’t betray her trust when she’s trying to make a new life for herself. We must tread gently.’

  ‘But they have trained police officers. I’m sure that they—’

  ‘No! We must go slowly with her. With all of them,’ I insist.

  ‘Then what do you want to do?’

  ‘I’m going to find out more about the dagger – that’s what he wanted me to do. He wanted me to find out what sort of talisman it was—’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then I’ll tell Mulhoon.’

  ‘So, we’ll catch the flight this evening to London, as we planned?’

  ‘Yes, but this afternoon I’ve asked Aziz to take us through the Kasbah to a specific shop – I want to find out how easy it is to make a replica of this dagger.’

  * * *

  ‘I googled swords and daggers like the one that Monika has under her left breast,’ I explain after lunch to Peter, as we walk through the Kasbah with our guide Aziz.

  ‘There are loads of valuable swords. There’s the Sword of Mercy that once belonged to Edward the Confessor. There was a carved sabre in a museum in Brazil, and a thirteenth-century Japanese sword used by a Samurai. There’s also Napoleon Bonaparte’s gold-encrusted sabre, worth $6.5 million, and finally – if you believe in coincidences – an eighteenth-century Boating Sabre belonging to the Chinese Qianlong Emperor, with an estimated value of $7.7 million.’

  ‘A Chinese dagger?’

  ‘Well,’ I say, teasing, ‘there is a fascinating one that looks like the Shah Jahan’s personal dagger, worth $3.3 million.’

  Peter whistles softly.

  ‘The problem is, Peter, none of them – as far as I know – have been stolen.’

  ‘So, you think the dagger Monika has tattooed on her chest looks like the Japanese sword used by the Samurai? An Asian dagger?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘No, Peter. It looks exactly like a replica of the Shah Jahan’s dagger, valued at over $3 million.’

  ‘Really?’ He stops to look at me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, could the design of the tattoo be based on this dagger?’

  ‘Hypothetically, if they use a dagger in a specific ceremony, like Monika hinted at, then it doesn’t have to be an original. Who would know the difference? These street kids are probably drugged to the eyeballs and so terrified. If it looks expensive, then they’ll believe anything.’

  ‘So, it could be part of an initiation ceremony?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply.

  As we pass the stalls, local merchants call out, and one even pulls on my arm, but Aziz steps between me and the stallholder and angrily admonishes him.

  ‘They like lady blondes.’ Aziz gives me a dazzling smile.

  ‘Little do they know,’ Peter adds, ‘the Rottweiler bites.’

  I grin at him before falling back into step behind Aziz.

  We weave our way through narrow alleyways, past large shops selling luxurious carpets and rugs, and smaller stalls displaying handmade jewellery and souvenirs. The stench of cured leather and exotic spices fill my senses, making me both heady and tired.

  It’s been a gruelling few days and with little sleep. I’m emotionally exhausted; caught up in the euphoria and excitement of the Parks, I’m beginning to feel guilty.

  I want them to trust me but I’ve lied to them.

  Aziz comes to an abrupt halt, and I almost walk into him. He stands aside at the entrance to a small workshop. Peter lowers his head and enters first, and I follow him into a stifling room filled with a small wooden worktop, anvils, assorted rusty tools, and metals. It smells of burning metal and cannabis.

  Inside, a man with one arm is bashing an iron rod held tightly in a vice attached to the wooden bench. His forehead drips in sweat. His Liverpool football shirt is stained and grubby. He barely looks up as Aziz explains what we need, but he continues hammering rhythmically.

  I pull out a piece of paper, a copy I sketched of Monika’s tattoo.

  Aziz lays it on the bench, and when they converse with each other, they ignore me. Instead, they look to Peter for confirmation on price.

  Peter nods in agreement and pulls out a cash deposit.

  Aziz translates the blacksmith’s short answer. ‘He’ll deliver it to the hotel in two hours.’

  * * *

  We arrive back in London to a cold, dark, and damp November night. I shiver dramatically, missing the African heat, and I don’t feel warm until we’re back in Josephine’s penthouse apartment, enjoying a brandy nightcap before going to bed.

  ‘Three hundred euros,’ Peter says, turning the dagger carefully in his hands. ‘Do you think it was worth it – and the hassle of declaring it at customs?’

  ‘It’s alright. It’s not that good.’

  ‘Well, we can turn it over to the chief inspector. Job done!’ Peter says.

  I hesitate.

  ‘What is it, Mikky? What’s troubling you?’

  ‘What about the documentary?’

/>   ‘Forget that! You’ve done what Mulhoon wanted you to do, which was to find out about the dagger; you can give him the photos of Monika’s tattoo – you don’t have to say who she is – and your sketch and now this replica. We can get on with our lives.’

  ‘What about the Parks?’

  ‘Forget them. Think of Marco. Go to Blessinghurst Manor, go shopping with Josephine and relax.’

  ‘She’s a bit miffed with me for pulling out of our planned shopping trip this week, and besides, she’s gone to Miami with Simon this weekend.’

  Peter laughs. ‘Does she think you arranged to go away to Morocco on purpose?’

  ‘Probably; let’s have another drink.’ I hold out my glass and Peter fills it for me, and I savour the brandy on my throat.

  ‘Are you keeping your blonde hair for Christmas?’ Peter grins.

  ‘I’m dying it next week.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Marcos likes a brunette.’

  ‘He should find one then.’ Peter laughs.

  ‘He’s been talking about our wedding.

  ‘Marco’s already asked me to be his best man.’

  ‘Really?’ I pause with my drink at my lips.

  Peter grins. ‘You didn’t know?’

  I shake my head. ‘We haven’t really talked about the wedding.’

  ‘But he proposed?’

  ‘Yes, but we didn’t go into details. I didn’t expect him to go ahead and ask you—’

  ‘Don’t you want to marry him?’

  ‘Of course I do, I just thought he’d be more … um—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Reticent.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I haven’t exactly had the best of lives, have I? I’ve got a past, Peter – as you well know.’

  ‘Look, Mikky, we all know about your past, but that doesn’t stop us from loving you.’ He reaches over to where I’m lying curled up on the sofa and refills my glass.

  I sigh and stare out over the London skyline, suddenly remembering that it was only last night when we were with the Parks and film crew in Morocco.

  ‘Thanks, Peter. Cheers!’ I raise my glass in a toast.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure if I feel worthy of Marco.’

  ‘Worthy?’ Peter explodes laughing. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s inherited Blessinghurst Manor and—’

  ‘And what? Don’t you want to live there?’

  ‘Yes, I love it. It’s lovely to have somewhere to call home finally.’

  ‘But it isn’t Spain?’

  ‘No, but that doesn’t matter. I can live anywhere with him, and besides, we can sail to Spain or wherever we want to go. There’s freedom on the yacht, and that suits us both,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, you’ll be near to Josephine and Simon when you’re here in England.’

  ‘That’s true. We’ll be able to spend more time together, even if we meet here in London.’

  ‘I know how close you are to Josephine now.’

  ‘I know I am. I feel fortunate, especially when you think I’ve barely known my birth mother for five years.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. She loves you and would do anything for you. You’re very similar, Mikky. Besides …’ He drains his glass. ‘She’s crazy about you. And, she’s sworn me to guard you with my life.’

  ‘Everything is practically perfect, then.’ I can’t hide the sarcasm in my voice.

  ‘Mikky, what’s really troubling you?’

  I ask quietly, ‘Am I good enough for Marco?’

  Peter leans across the coffee table, and he takes my hand in his.

  ‘Mikky, you are more than good enough. Marco loves you and he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. Now, to be honest, you might not get many more offers. You’re knocking on a bit, and you’re almost past your sell-by date. So, if I were you, I’d make the most of it, or you’ll be doomed to a lonely life of solitude and masturbation.’

  I explode laughing, and that’s when Peter’s phone rings.

  It’s past midnight, and we’re still grinning when he checks the caller ID.

  ‘Matt? Hi. It’s good to hear from you. I’m here with the lovely Mikky. Did you have a good flight back? What?’ He pauses and I watch the colour drain from Peter’s face. ‘Dead?’

  * * *

  Peter swallows hard and stares down at the table, concentrating on Matt’s words that I can’t hear. His jaw clenching and unclenching, and when he eventually looks up at me, there are glassy tears in his dark, bewildered eyes.

  I unfold my legs from the sofa and lean forward, a sense of dread speeding through my veins.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Matt. No, it doesn’t matter. I know it’s late. Thank you for letting us know. I’ll call you later in the morning.’ Peter pockets the phone and clears his throat before meeting my eyes.

  My heart is beating erratically. There’s a stone lodged in my heart, paralysing me as I wait for Peter to find the words. The silence stretches between us, then his voice cracks.

  ‘It’s Ali.’

  ‘Ali?’ I whisper, conjuring up the round, cherubic smiling face and the hurt, soulful eyes. ‘Ali?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead? But that’s impossible. He wants to be a policeman.’

  Peter shakes his head and grips his hands tightly.

  ‘How?’ I ask.

  ‘They think it’s suicide.’

  ‘Suicide? That’s impossible.’

  Peter’s eyes fill with tears. He whispers, ‘They just found his body in the river. He threw himself off Tower Bridge this evening.’

  ‘But he had so many plans. He wanted to be a policeman. He wanted to work with Matt …’

  Chapter 5

  “All crime is a kind of disease and should be treated as such.”

  Mahatma Gandhi

  The following morning, in Josephine’s London loft apartment, we have spread out: Peter’s computers, two monitors, and a couple of other gadgets already cover the dining table.

  You can see Tower Bridge from Josephine’s penthouse, but when I stand at the window, there’s nothing to suggest that Ali has taken his life. I begin to hope, if not think that Matt is wrong, and he’s made a mistake. Perhaps it’s all a dream. It couldn’t have happened. But the inevitable question haunts me – why?

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I say to Peter, as we lock the penthouse and take the lift down to the street, and I’m still trying to make sense of it when we take the tube train to Islington.

  ‘It doesn’t seem possible that Ali has taken his own life. It doesn’t make sense,’ I whisper.

  Peter is unusually quiet. He links his arm through mine as we make our way to the address Peter found on the Internet.

  We’re looking for answers, and there’s only one place we can think of visiting.

  The building consists of two old Victorian houses, refurbished and knocked into one, and is ten minutes from the Angel tube station. Inside, it’s decorated cheaply with colourful, plastic, and practical furniture. Dixon House is a haven and refuge for many.

  Matt doesn’t seem surprised to see us.

  ‘Sorry, we didn’t want to phone first. We both wanted to see you in person.’

  ‘How are you?’ Peter asks.

  Matt grips Peter’s hand and then pulls me into a tight hug. I can feel the strength of his shoulders through his tight T-shirt.

  ‘Come on, let’s get some coffee, but not here.’ Matt pulls on a leather bomber jacket and indicates for us to follow him down the street into a cosy café.

  Matt looks exhausted, as if he’s been awake all night. The smile he had yesterday when they left us in Morocco has been replaced with a worried frown.

  ‘The Dixon Trust opened the Crash Pad last winter,’ he explains. ‘We’d seen how other charities had done something similar, and we wanted to provide somewhere for homeless people to go in a crisis.’ Matt rubs his shaved head. His hands are massive, and he has a tattoo on each f
inger – spelling out the words died and live.

  ‘We wanted to provide a safe and secure environment for them. Sleeping rough on the streets is dangerous, but here we can give them clean bedding, towels, access to hot water, and a decent meal. They can wash their clothes, and there are people here who will listen to them and, more importantly, support them.’

  ‘Are they all homeless?’ Peter asks.

  ‘Most of them are sleeping rough. They’ve been thrown out of their homes, and some might be as young as twelve or fourteen.’

  ‘Did Ali come here?’ I ask, leaning on the table between us in the small café a few streets behind Islington High Street and around the corner from Dixon House.

  Matt nods.

  ‘I found him on the street. He was hiding. His stepfather beat him, his mother is a junkie, and his father had disappeared. He had nowhere to go, so I brought him here the first time, when things got terrible – just over a year ago. I couldn’t let him go through any more, the poor lad. Social services got involved, and we found him a foster family – but he was always torn. His mother kept coming for him and wanting him to go back and look after her, but then his stepfather would beat his mother again, and—’

  ‘What about the police?’ I ask.

  ‘She wouldn’t admit that anyone beat her or him. She said she fell or banged into something, something like that.’ Matt shrugs and rubs his eyes. ‘Then, about three months ago, his father turned up in one of the flats near here, and he agreed to take Ali back.’

  ‘So, Ali was happy?’ I ask.

  ‘His father wasn’t around much, but afterwards I got Ali away from the gang – he was interested in parkour. He used to hang out here, with me, and help out. I feel so helpless, Mikky – as if I’ve let him down.’

  I reach out and squeeze Matt’s hand, conscious of his strength and the size of his fingers.

  ‘You didn’t, Matt. It was the opposite; you gave Ali hope and something to feel good about.’ I remove my hand.

  ‘Thanks for meeting us.’ Peter sips his coffee, and Matt nods in appreciation. ‘I wish we could do something. Can we help, Matt?’

  Matt bites his lower lip. ‘It’s the others I’m worried about.’

  ‘The other Parks?’ I ask.

 

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