‘You want to stay with me, chéri? In my little bed?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Pas de problème.’ She smiled at him, the old grin. ‘Avec plaisir.’
They talked of Leila again, and of the world she’d left behind. Riham had been trying to coax out a little information about the girl’s family. At first, said Gabrielle, Leila had refused to talk about her mother or father and the life she’d led at home, shutting her eyes and turning her head to the wall, but over the last couple of days it seemed she’d started to confront the memories she’d shut away.
As far as Riham could tell, she’d been living near the refugee camp at Jabaliya. Like many Gazan kids, she came from a big family – lots of brothers and sisters. The mortar strike and the shower of white phosphorus that followed had killed or injured lots of other civilians in the immediate vicinity, and Riham had the feeling that Leila’s parents were among them. It was still far to early to pin down any of this stuff, but when Gabrielle talked about a feeling of lostness in the little girl’s eyes, Faraday was inclined to believe her. Whatever the living conditions, the teeming slums of Gaza were a world away from the steady pulse of a UK hospital burns unit.
Faraday wanted to know why Riham had been chosen as the interpreter.
‘The surgeon at El Arish knew her already. She’s a friend of his sister’s. He knew she spoke good English, and French as well. She’d studied at Cairo University. He said she’d be parfaite.’
Riham, she said, was also Palestinian, one of the thousands of refugees who had fled to either Jordan or Egypt. As a child she’d lived in Gaza, which made her even more perfect.
‘So you met her in El Arish?’
‘No. I met her here. At the hospital.’
‘She came separately?’
‘Separately how?’
‘From you and Leila? She didn’t come with you on the flight?’
‘She did. That’s exactly what she did. She came with Leila and with a nurse. They flew direct from El Arish to Southampton. Riham was on the plane with them.’
‘So where were you?’
‘I thought I told you, chéri.’
‘Maybe you did. Maybe I’ve forgotten. Tell me again.’
Gabrielle looked at him a moment and Faraday thought he detected the tiniest flicker of alarm.
‘Chartres,’ she said. ‘I was in Chartres. I went home. I know people, lots of people. I know people at the university in Orleans. Il y avait beaucoup de manifs contre les Israéliens. I met some Arab students. One of them was from Saudi. Voilà.’
Faraday had lost track. He’d simply asked where Gabrielle had been when the medical evacuation flight brought Leila and Riham to the UK. It seemed the answer was Chartres. Orleans was the nearest big city. With its endless street demos against the Israelis.
‘And that’s how you raised the money? From this Arab student at the university?’
‘From his father, yes.’
‘You met the father?’
‘No, but I had photos of Leila in the hospital, and a letter from the surgeon, and more stuff from the people in Salisbury. I emailed everything. He lives in Riyadh. He’s a rich man. It was very quick. Two or three days.’
‘How much?’
‘Comment?’
‘How much did you need?’
‘Eighty-seven thousand pounds.’
‘And you raised that? In a few days?’
Gabrielle nodded. Faraday sensed her discomfort.
‘Isn’t this something you should be proud of? A huge sum like that?’
‘Of course. But …’ She shrugged.
‘And that paid for what? The flight? The Burns Unit? Riham?’
‘Tout ça.’
‘Fantastic.’ Faraday shook his head. ‘Thank God for oil.’
‘Oil?’ Gabrielle was staring at him. She didn’t understand.
‘The Arab. The man in Riyadh. The one who gave you all the money. I’m guessing that maybe he works in the oil business . . .’
‘Dans le pétrole?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, of course. That’s where he works.’ She frowned. ‘I expect.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No. Not exactly. Why should I? He has the money. He wants to help. Ça suffit, n’est-ce pas?’
Faraday nodded, then apologised. Of course, he said. Of course it’s enough.
She ducked her head and picked at her napkin for a moment or two. Watching her, Faraday was aware that a shadow had fallen over their evening. For whatever reason, she wasn’t keen to discuss Leila’s benefactor.
Moments later the food arrived. The waitress presented Gabrielle’s coq au vin with a flourish. It looked, and smelled, delicious.
‘Santé.’ Faraday reached for his glass, trying to warm the atmosphere with a smile. ‘Here’s to oil.’
Chapter Nineteen
FRIDAY, 13 FEBRUARY 2009. 19.33
Winter had asked Misty Gallagher to pick him up at Portsmouth Harbour station. It was pouring with rain again when he emerged on the station steps. Parked illegally among a line of cabs, Misty beeped her horn.
‘Shit weather, Mist,’ he said, climbing into her new Mercedes coupé.
They drove the half-mile to Gunwharf and Misty waited while Winter plunged into Blake House. He emerged minutes later carrying a large holdall, which he dumped in the boot of the car.
‘Where next?’ she enquired drily.
‘Home, Mist. Yours, not mine.’
Misty lived on Hayling Island, a thirteen-mile trek onto the mainland and thence east. Mackenzie, back in the days when he had the time and the inclination to attend to her, had presented his mistress with a waterside house towards the bottom of the island with views of the Pompey skyline across Langstone Harbour. The gift had come with few strings attached, and Misty had made a life for herself among like-minded locals who spoke the language of poolside summer barbecues and drunken winter dinner parties. Winter had treated himself to the odd visit recently, episodes which Misty referred to as ‘sleepovers’. The description amused Winter a great deal, not least because he enjoyed being mothered by the likes of Misty Gallagher.
Misty wanted to know what was in the holdall. Winter had slowly built up a modest wardrobe of clothes at Misty’s, largely because he forgot to take them home with him. So why did he need more?
‘They’re not mine, Mist.’
‘So whose are they?’
‘Long story.’ He gave her thigh a squeeze. ‘Later.’
At home Misty was in the throes of something she called a primavera makeover. She’d picked up the idea from one of the endless DIY shows she watched on TV. Winter picked his way through the tangle of ladders, paint pots and dustsheets abandoned by the decorators Mackenzie had sent over. They were nice young lads, Misty said, but had left early to score some toot for the weekend.
‘So what’s primavera about, Mist?’
‘Spring. You paint everything yellow. What do you think?’
Winter didn’t answer. He had his head in the fridge. Misty kept a decent stock of Stellas for nights like these.
She joined him in the kitchen. Winter had dumped the holdall beneath the breakfast bar.
‘You want me to take it upstairs?’
‘No, Mist. I want you to hide it.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Like where? Why?’ She was sitting on one of her mock-leather bar stools. She extended a foot and gave the bag a poke. ‘What’s inside?’
Winter poured her a vodka and pulled the tab on a fresh can of Coke. By the time he’d finished explaining about Johnny Holman, her glass was nearly empty.
‘So what are you saying, Paul? You think Johnny killed them all?’
‘More than possible.’
‘But why? He was a darling, Johnny.’
Winter was debating how much of the story to share with Misty. Finally, in the spirit of their new relationship, he saw no point in holding anyth
ing back.
‘Johnny had a problem, Mist. He drank too much.’
‘We all drink too much. So far I don’t remember killing anyone.’
‘There are complications, Mist. Turns out Johnny was babysitting a whack of the laughing powder for your friend and mine.’
‘I know.’
‘You what?’
‘I know about the toot Baz had with Johnny. I’ve known about it for years. Baz always said it was his little parachute. If things got too heavy, if it all went tits up and he had to bail out, then he’d cash in and fuck off. I thought at the time he’d take me with him but I think I was kidding myself. Deep down Baz is about Baz. End of.’
Winter felt the urge to applaud. No matter how much time he spent with Mist, she always came up with some new surprise.
‘He trusted you with this stuff?’ ‘About the toot? Of course he did. There was no way I’d ever grass him up, and he knew that.’
‘And now?’
‘Now’s different. That man’s changing in front of my eyes. I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but since it’s you . . .’ She pushed her empty glass towards him. ‘Not so much ice, eh? And don’t be so mean with the Stolly.’
Winter reached for the vodka. He wanted to know more. And he wanted to compare notes. ‘He’s become more reckless, have you noticed that?’
‘Definitely. And sometimes he loses it completely, just goes crazy. That Marie’s never had an easy ride but now must be impossible. Take the other night, round your place. He was all over you. He’d have done anything to get you back. I hate to say it but the man was a serious embarrassment. That wasn’t Baz, not the Baz I knew.’
‘Yeah? You should have seen him the next morning. Different guy. Jekyll and Hyde. No wonder I’m jacking it in.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I am, Mist.’
‘So what’s he saying?’
‘He’s telling me I can’t bail out. He’s telling me to forget it. It’s playground stuff, Mist. Once you’re in his gang, you’re stuffed.’
‘He probably means it.’
‘I’m sure he does.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Fuck knows.’ Winter stooped to the fridge for another Stella. The thought of a night with Misty Gallagher had rarely seemed so enticing. The front door treble-locked. Body oils at the ready. And a woman with a sense of humour to buffer him from thoughts of Bazza Mackenzie.
‘Tell me something, Mist.’
‘What, my love?’
‘How did I ever get into this?’
‘You thought it might be a laugh. He did too, when he wasn’t pissing himself laughing at the stroke he’d pulled. He used to send your Filth ex-bosses little postcards to wind them up. How well he was treating you. How he’d doubled your wages. He couldn’t help himself.’
‘Really?’ This was news to Winter. ‘How do you know?’
‘I posted some of them.’
‘But how did he know their names?’
‘You told him.’
‘Did I?’
‘So he said. But then he might have invented that bit. Fuck knows.’ She ran a perfectly manicured finger round the top of her glass. ‘Tell me again …’ she said ‘… about getting out. Why now?’
This question had been troubling Winter all day. He couldn’t rid himself of the memory of last night on the island, standing in the freezing darkness, surrounded by the wreckage of someone else’s life. Mackenzie in his current mood was someone you’d be wise to get away from. But how?
‘I don’t know, Mist. I know I’ve got to get out, but if you want the truth I haven’t a clue what to do. A lot of it has been fun. I love some of the moves that man makes. I love the fact that he’s clever as well as crazy. I like Marie as well. In fact from where I’m sitting, she’s the one who’s held it all together.’
‘Big time.’ Mist was gazing into her glass. ‘But it was that way from the start. He treated her like shit but he’d be half the man without her. She knows that, of course. Which is why she hangs in there.’
‘Loyal missus?’
‘Nursemaid.’ She looked up. ‘All men are the same, my love. Come here and I’ll show you how.’
Faraday and Gabrielle got back to Avon View just after ten. Her room, she’d warned him, was a mess, but after a couple of brandies on top of the Burgundy it didn’t seem to matter. They made love in the narrow bed, conscious of something new in their relationship.
Afterwards, Gabrielle cradled beside him, Faraday tried to voice exactly what this something might be. It wasn’t the crushing sense of abandonment that had stalked him during the days alone at the Bargemaster’s House. Neither was it the fear that Gabrielle was pushing herself deeper and deeper into a situation that could only hurt her. It was something else. Something elemental. Something to do with need.
He tried to put it into words, failed completely.
‘What do you mean, chéri?’ Her head was on his chest. ‘I don’t understand.’
He closed his eyes. In his mind he tried out one formulation, then another, each one carefully qualified in case it overstated the case he was trying to make for himself. Finally he saw no point in hiding from the truth.
‘I’m nothing without you.’ He said softly. ‘Rien.’
‘C’est absurde.’ Nonsense.
‘Truly. I mean it. I’ve meant it from the start. And now it just makes the feeling stronger … all this …’
‘All what?’ A small, dangerous question.
‘You … me … here …’
‘And Leila?’
‘Yes, her too.’
‘You mean that?’
Faraday could feel the tension returning, the way her fingertips stopped tracing patterns across his chest, a stiffness all the more acute for being so physical.
‘Tell me what you want to do,’ he said.
‘I want her to be with us for ever.’
‘You want us to adopt her?’
‘Oui, bien sûr.’ Of course.
‘And would that be easy?’
‘No.’
‘Difficult?’
‘People say impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Because …’ She propped herself on one elbow and peered down at him in the darkness. ‘You really want to talk about this? Now?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s important.’
‘For me? For you?’
‘For us.’
‘You’re right, chéri … alors…’
She tried to muster her thoughts, fogged in by the events of the past month and by too much wine. The hospital at El Arish, she said, had made her angry. So angry she’d scarcely known herself. And then Leila had arrived, and the moment she’d seen her on the trolley in the corridor, wheeled in by the ambulance men, all that anger had gone. Why? Because she’d known that here was a chance to do something.
‘But why her? Why Leila?’ The hospital had been full of kids.
‘I don’t know. Maybe because she was so small. Maybe because she wasn’t crying. It was just something in her face. J’sais pas.’
Faraday nodded. The child’s eyes were extraordinary. He’d seen it himself in the Burns Unit this afternoon. They were huge, almost black, and they followed you round the room, they sucked you in, they somehow made you accountable. We are the sum of all our choices, he told himself. And here’s one that Gabrielle couldn’t avoid.
‘So …’ She frowned at this effort of memory. ‘You ask yourself what is it that I can do? Apart from sit with this child and listen to all the nurses whispering about her.’
‘What were they saying?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t speak Arabic.’
‘What do you think they were saying?’
‘They were saying she was going to die. I know they were. I could see it in their faces. But I didn’t want that. I didn’t want her to die. So that was something I could do. I could try and keep h
er alive. Not just alive, but make it possible for her to live again, properly – have a proper life.’
‘And the surgeon? What did he think?’
‘He spoke French. We had many conversations. He was a good man. And he was right too.’
‘Right how?’
‘She did live. Thanks to him. And after that it was my turn.’
My turn.
It was at this point, thought Faraday, that Gabrielle must have begun to think about treatment abroad, about what it would entail, how much it would cost, how she might be able to pay for it, but he’d been there once already this evening and he didn’t want to return.
Instead, he asked her about adoption. Leila came from Gaza. Her parents may or may not be dead. She’d have aunts, uncles, extended family. Surely there were procedures here, hoops to jump through.
‘Of course.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘You have to write to Gaza. You have to get permissions, many permissions. I’m still talking to the surgeon. It may be possible.’
‘But he’s in Egypt.’
‘He knows people in Gaza, doctors like himself. There are lots of NGOs. Maybe the Red Crescent. Someone will be able to help.’
‘And then what?’
‘You have to talk to people here. People in Portsmouth. Social services people. They have to … comment on dit?’
‘Assess you?’
‘Oui. Exactement. Assess you. Lots more questions. Why you want to do this thing. Where you live. Who you live with. How much money you have. C’est très compliqué.’
She said she had to find out more. She thought the process took a long time. It was expensive too, très cher. But that didn’t matter. She had some money saved. And she couldn’t think of a better way of spending it.
‘On Leila?’
‘On us. All three of us. In life, sometimes, you make un investissement, n’est-ce pas? All of you, all of what you have, everything. Something happens, something comes along, something unexpected, and you know what?’
‘Tell me.’
‘That makes you very lucky. Why? Because it only happens once, just once, and if you ignore it, if you let that something go, then it will never happen again.’
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