by Ian Watson
Terry made a croaking sound, but actual words failed him.
“They might still be here,” whispered Abigail urgently.
He yelled again, though weakly now, and moved cautiously off to check the other rooms. Abigail fought her fear and stepped further inside. At a couple of places, broken glass crunched under the heels of her leather boots. She attempted to tiptoe, aware of her own shallow breathing, of tension in her neck and shoulders, a readiness to flee.
“No one here,” announced Terry as he reappeared. There was obvious relief in his voice. “But it’s all like this!” And dismay too.
Abigail relaxed a little. “Is anything missing?”
He waved his arms around. “How the fuck would I know?”
“Oh… yeah.”
He fished a picture of his parents out from the jumble and tried to rescue the old photo from behind its cracked glass.
“We should call the police.” She grasped his shoulder to show support. The muscles were bunched-up. He grunted.
“I guess, for all the good they’re likely to be.”
“And we shouldn’t really touch anything. You know, fingerprints and all that.”
Terry carried on with the mission to save his smiling parents of thirty years back. He succeeded, but the glass plate fell apart and cut his finger.
“FUCK!”
Blood dripped down, like the wine, but darkening a swathe of earth where it touched; this shed from a plant-pot that must have been flung across the room, ejecting its cactus.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” soothed Abigail, though it probably wasn’t. She found a clean tissue and stemmed the flow, but not before a crimson circle had blossomed on the sleeve of her white blouse.
“Here, hold onto that. Why do you think someone would do all this? I mean, burglars don’t usually make such a mess, do they?”
“I dunno. Maybe they were drugged-up, out of their heads.” Terry was still in shock, staring around in disbelief.
“You’re not involved in anything are you?”
“ME!” he bellowed, his eyes suddenly blazing. “Me involved in something?”
Terry’s abrupt rage caught Abigail completely by surprise. She scrabbled about for some defence.
“Well, that loudmouth you banned from the bar put a brick through your window at Christmas, and what about those diamonds you hid for that other customer?”
Terry spluttered with fury before finding his voice. “He just didn’t want his wife to find them! It’s hardly a nefarious involvement. But what are you involved in? Huh? How can you accuse me of stuff, with your secrets?” He flung words like darts, thoughtlessly reaching for the next ammunition while there was still something left to throw. “What about that guy who was following you? What was that all about?”
The tap of dripping wine on tin measured a long and awful silence. Abigail found herself staring at him, while her brain struggled to catch up. The anger was sucked from his eyes, along with the blood from his cheeks. His lips quivered, as though they would tug back what was said. She felt her own anger and suspicion inexorably rising.
Somewhere a pivotal point was passed, which somehow they both knew.
“What guy?” Her softly spoken question nevertheless thrust into Terry like a knife.
“Abigail, Bee, please I…”
“What guy?”
Terry blinked to hold back tears. His slack face admitted… what? Despair? Loss? She didn’t care.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I knew something was going on. I got jealous… only because I love you so much. I… I followed you. To Café Lorca. You met that dorky guy.”
Rage and abhorrence erupted deep inside Abigail. At that moment she loathed everything that Terry was. His limited horizons, his pathetic job, his pretence at college, his aversion to travel, above all his incurable jealousy. He’d deliberately fooled her with his thin mask of charm, yet now truths were out! She could identify her deeper disquiet. Terry was a stalker!
“You’re despicable!” she screeched. “How could you do that?”
“Bee, please forgive me… I wasn’t thinking properly that day. I…”
“That’s it! WE’RE FINISHED.” A small part of Abigail was amazed by what she was doing, amazed by the uncontrollable intensity of her own mood. But this fragment of consciousness made no effort to interfere. She didn’t want to deal with Terry ever again, didn’t want to touch him ever again.
Terry was crushed. Streaks of wetness shone upon his pasty cheeks. He didn’t even have the spirit to plead.
“Someone else was following you too,” he insisted weakly. “I’ve no idea who. Perhaps… Perhaps you’re in some kind of danger?”
Abigail was past caring. “Then it’s a bit late to tell me!” she snapped furiously. “I can look after myself. I will look after myself!”
Terry hung his head in shame.
For just a split second, Abigail thought about grabbing her stuff. But given the state of the flat, she’d never find it. Well, there was nothing she couldn’t do without. She stomped through the mess, heading for the door, crushing and scattering goodness knows what.
“Don’t call me,” she flung bitterly over her shoulder.
“Bee,” wailed Terry. “Abbeeegaaail…”
The air outside felt like a breath of freedom to Abigail, yet it didn’t cool her mood. She stalked at speed down the sidewalk, her mind a churning engine of wrath. How could he do that? How could I have been fooled by him for so long? A stalker!
As she turned the first corner, heading for the Charles MGH station, she didn’t notice a police vehicle pulling into the street behind her. In her current state, she might well not have registered even if its lights and siren had been on.
Terry was on his knees amid the sea of destruction. He tasted the salt of tears on his lips, and peered through shifting distortions at the old photo of his parents.
“What kind of son did you raise?” he asked them desperately. Maybe it really was all his fault. Maybe he really was hopeless, the way Abigail thought.
He took a long, shuddering breath, and tried to think of practicalities. He ought to call the police. But it was no use, he probably couldn’t even talk without sobbing. He’d lost his beautiful girl. For all he knew, he might have lost half his possessions too. The rest were floating in this chaos, which would take days to clean up. He wouldn’t make it to work now either, he’d be letting the guys down.
Life didn’t get worse than this. Fresh tears burst forth.
And then two policemen walked in. Terry was confused. He hadn’t even called them yet. He stood up and hurriedly wiped his face with his sleeve. The police guys gazed around the room. One took off his cap and scratched the scalp under his thinning blonde hair.
“Sir? We had reports of a serious disturbance.”
“I just had a row with my girlfriend, but…”
“I’ll say! Some row!”
“No! No, I mean that wasn’t the disturbance, we didn’t make a disturbance!”
“Well, someone sure disturbed this place pretty bad. Are you injured, sir?”
Terry looked down at his hand. Blood was leaking through the tissue. One of the police guys spoke into his radio.
“I… I just cut my finger. Look… I’ve been burgled, my place is trashed!”
“So this is your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Well, sir, I have to tell you… This doesn’t look like a burglary exactly. I’d say someone was searching for something in particular. Something valuable to them. Really valuable.”
A third policeman walked in, accompanied by a menacing-looking German Shepherd on a tight leash.
“I haven’t got anything valuable,” protested Terry. “Not really valuable.”
“Value can be a reflection of need.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You don’t mind if we check then, do you sir?”
“Hey! I’m the victim here!”
But th
e big dog was already unleashed. It bounded about the room, almost immediately picking out a bulky old computer screen lying on its side. The dog pawed at the plastic casing and whined.
“What’s it doing?” asked Terry, a knot of fear already forming in his gut.
“It’s trained to find stuff like cocaine, sir. Perhaps we’d better have that casing off.”
Terry collapsed to his knees again. He wondered if this was a nightmare, if he was really asleep. He beat his head with the palm of his hand, hoping to wake up, or disappear into oblivion, or get any result but having to remain here.
“Sir? Sir! Hey Jim, grab his arms.”
Abigail was riding the subway by the time her anger abated. The carriage was almost empty, only two other passengers, both apparently too tired to keep their eyes open.
She realised she’d been harsh, leaving Terry like that, with such hate, at such a time. No doubt he’d already felt vulnerable, the lock on his front door broken and his place trashed by some low-life.
In retrospect, she realised her subconscious had long been waiting for its chance to strike, and this chance had been perfect. She’d pulled out with her own psyche intact, with no complications, able to stand on high moral ground and direct all blame towards Terry.
Guilt grew in her mind. She felt manipulative, as he’d sometimes said she was. She stared at the circle of Terry’s blood on her sleeve, already dried-out and darkened. She thought about calling him and fished out her mobile, but of course it wouldn’t work underground.
Then, perhaps as a counter-balance to guilt, the prospect of freedom and excitement, of exotic places and exotic men, spurted up from some deep source to flood Abigail’s consciousness.
She knew herself well. Loyalty and guilt could easily tie her to Terry again, if she allowed any opportunities for them to take hold. Without her even knowing, the mobile slipped back into her bag. In the end, Terry had tailed her, when she’d given no cause whatever for jealousy.
Only then did she wonder about the other guy who’d been following her. No doubt that was one of Jack’s minions. Perhaps this shouldn’t be a surprise after their row at Elephant Walk, yet she still found it hard to believe that he considered her so important.
She thought about having her father fall on Jack from a great height, but decided against it. Right now she was still full of anger; she needed someone to hate, someone to fight against, especially in a good cause. Bigoted, fundamentalist, spy-master, unacceptable face-of-the-state Jack, was the perfect candidate. Already she hated him with a passion.
And then she noticed a newspaper lying abandoned, on the seat next but one to her left. Surely it was a Boston Globe, but was it today’s? Would Paul have anything in there?
She leaned over and grabbed what indeed turned out to be that morning’s Globe. She swiftly scanned the first pages… nothing. And then, low down on page five: ‘ICE around Roxbury mosque’. A short piece, but enough. Her mouth involuntarily curled to a grim smile. She must thank Paul. It was clearly her day for striking back.
Cronkite Graduate Center, Cambridge, Massachusetts: May
When the doorbell of her apartment woke Abigail, she squinted at the bedside clock, bleary-eyed, imagining for a moment that the alarm had rung. 8.00 a.m. Was she forgetting something important? But then the doorbell rang again. A faint echo of interrupted dream still chased around her memory; Jack Turner stabbing her with questions. Was it him standing outside, shoving an acoustic ice-pick into her brain! Surely that bastard knew that she’d only meet him on neutral territory. Or was it Terry? At 8 a.m.? Impossible! Then all flooded back...
Their terrible break-up yesterday. Leaving him among all that chaos. A pall of guilt and depression forced a groan from her. She slipped out of bed, half hoping it was Terry. Perhaps she could retrieve some friendship and honour from the emotional wreckage; offer to help him clean up the apartment.
Impelled by another insistent ring, she pulled a green silk dressing-gown over her shortie pyjamas, belting the gown as she padded into the tiny hallway, bumping the door-jamb on the way. Be careful of your toes, a banged toe hurts like hell. The floors of these residences in the Cronkite Graduate Center on Brattle Street were hardwood throughout, and she hadn’t put down any rugs. Leased by the year from September, the accommodation lacked air-conditioning, which might pose a problem come the hot and humid days of July and August.
It wasn’t Terry, nor Jack. The peephole fish-eyed a dark-complexioned, middle-aged man with a trim salt-and-pepper beard, dressed in a pin-stripe suit and plain grey tie. Who on Earth? Then amazed recognition dawned on Abigail; it was that fairly dishy, sophisticated-looking academic who’d been at the CMES reception, yeah, standing nearby when she’d lost control of her glass. But… What… Her sleepy brain gave up even trying to form the question and she opened the door, though keeping the chain on.
As soon as she did so, she could see what hadn’t been obvious due to the distortion of the lens; the man wore a reluctant and troubled expression.
“Dr Abigail Leclaire?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Kamal al-Mustafa Abu al-Bashir. I’m an acquaintance of Walid al-Areqi.”
He must be the selfsame academic Walid had said he might introduce her to… Why ever should he be standing at her door at eight in the morning? Walid mentioning her name couldn’t possibly cause the man to pay her a personal visit at home, never mind at such an hour!
“I do apologise,” said her visitor, “for intruding upon you so early.” Now he looked compassionate, she thought, and faint apprehension whispered inside her. “But I gathered that you were quite close to Walid, a good friend in fact. So I took it upon myself… Your phone number was in Walid’s notebook, and an operator was helpful with the address.” His English was excellent and almost courtly, the accent softly vibrant in a very attractive way. “I felt that a personal visit was best. A phone call to you would have been… inadequate.”
“What’s wrong?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“May I come inside? I do realise you’re probably alone, but if we could overlook the offence to etiquette. Walid spoke very highly indeed of you, and of your admirable desire to understand aspects of our faith.”
Could dear Walid have rather over-emphasised the scope of her interest, the better to further her cause? She slipped the chain and stood back then, after he’d entered the hallway, closed the front door.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered, grasping already that something serious must be.
“It is that your friend Walid, our beloved and wise colleague, has tragically died.”
“Died? But how?”
“He was knocked down, I think the expression goes in English. It sounds so innocent, doesn’t it? In reality the vehicle brutally crushed Walid, peace be upon him in the name of Allah the Merciful. That was last night, on his way home.”
Abigail’s jaw dropped. Words failed her.
“He was slain by the hand of a drunkard, is my belief. Such an evil of our modern times. I felt it beholden upon me to spare you from perhaps learning this unawares from local television or the newspapers. And to invite you to the funeral, as well as to the litanies of remembrance at the mosque in Roxbury, though that will not be for forty days.”
Abigail felt chill and confused. Still struggling to absorb yesterday’s drama and loss, her thought couldn’t grasp the enormity of this new and much crueller loss. She was suddenly aware of her life teetering on free-fall. She fought against dizziness.
“Crushed?”
Kamal seemed to gather himself, and Abigail sensed within him an aura of great competence in relationships, a warm confidence, as though he was more than an ordinary man yet at the same time serenely concealed that fact.
“There is mercy in this,” he softly intoned. “Walid would not have felt anything. Do not be afraid for him, his soul is safe, and on the Day of Judgement will gain paradise. The pain and suffering will be borne by those left behind. We must share ou
r loss, and share our strength.”
Kamal firmly clasped Abigail’s shoulder, and indeed his touch seemed like a lifeline. She lurched against her visitor, as though a gale of horrors was blowing and he was a great boulder that could shelter her. Kamal held her, his strong muscles a comfort, his odour of sandalwood. Then he led her to her small kitchen, with scarcely a glance at her abandoned bed. After helping seat her in the upright Shaker chair, which he seemed to intuit that she favoured, he glanced around and then to her utter surprise brought down a cognac glass and a half-full bottle of Martell, from which he proceeded to pour a half-inch for her, which she gladly drained.
Kamal seated himself opposite. Self-conscious and shaking, Abigail pulled her silk gown tight around herself, but the Arab gentleman looked only to her face or towards the window, beyond which the crown of a horse-chestnut tree bore white candelabra in bud, offered to a fluffy sky. Gulls winged past, crying mournfully. To Abigail the familiar scene seemed now to hint at candles, at souls.
“Around midnight one of our own…ah, congregation… came across the body. He ran first to the mosque for assistance. It may help you,” he suggested, “to reminisce about Walid, whom you surely knew better than I. It is a way of letting his merits live afresh a little longer. It will console.”
As he, already, was consoling her in such a noble way.
“I guess you know why I was consulting Walid in the first place,” Abigail began.
Her visitor spreads his hands. “No, I don’t. It was just the other day that Walid spoke about you, in glowing terms I might add, though only briefly. Which is partly why I’m here. Walid and I didn’t go into details. We both had so many calls on our time.”