by David Mathew
‘Do you take sugar?’ he was asked.
‘No, thank you. Are you alone?’
Three metres away, in the narrow kitchen, the woman sniggered. ‘Are you scared now?’ she asked teasingly.
‘No. Are you alone, I asked.’
‘Me Da’s on nights. Be home soon.’
‘And what does he make of the Eloise business?’
‘It was his idea.’ She sniggered again and crossed towards him. ‘It’s a bit strong,’ she warned, handing him a mug of brackish soup-like tea, for which he thanked her regardless.
She sat close by (there was no choice as to the distance), in the compact dining area. On the table before her, her Man U mug sprinkled steam into the air. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked him.
‘Yasser.’
‘As in Arafat? That’s a funny kind of name, Yasser.’
‘I’m a funny kind of guy.’
‘You’re surprised I’ve heard of Yasser Arafat, aren’t you now?’
Despite himself, Yasser smiled. ‘I am a bit. What’s yours, if we’re getting acquainted?’
‘Maggie. Maggie Earl.’
‘Well, Maggie Earl, how about we go straight from the h’ors doeuvres to the cheese board? You know what I want: I want the child. I want Eloise. More specifically, her parents want Eloise. Me, I’m just a go-between.’
Maggie blinked at him and asked, ‘How’s your tea?’
‘My tea’s fine. The other matter, on the other hand, remains not fine...’
‘Why, you haven’t so much as sipped at it, Yasser. I’ve been watching.’
Yasser shook his head. ‘My tea’s not in doubt... Maggie. The issue at stake is the child that belongs to someone else, sleeping where?’
Maggie jerked her makeshift bouffant in the direction of a closed door beyond the kitchen area. With a smile on her face she said, ‘Did you think I might’ve put her up in the South Wing, you dafter? Where else? I’m sorry if she’s more accustomed to a room with a view.’
Yasser sat back against the sofa; his back was tense – the muscles more clustered than he’d imagined. The thought trampled through his head that Tommy the so-called Brazilian might be waiting outside for him – and the longer he spent in this long box the better chance the bastard had of rounding up troops.
He took a sip of the tea: strong as cyanide. Again he said, ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Yasser. So what happens next, if you’ve got a script?’
‘I return Eloise to her parents, that’s what happens next.’
Maggie nodded. ‘Out of interest,’ she said, ‘how did you find us without a name?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘You didn’t know my name. So how did you find us, Yasser?’
‘I employed the services of a professional.’
‘You cheated, in other words.’
‘If it pleases you to think so...’
‘You’re a college boy, aren’t you?’
Yasser frowned. ‘That’s not relevant.’
‘But aren’t you though? Central Beds or Barnfield?’
‘Barnfield College. A.V. course, level 2. Mature student.’
‘What’s an A.V. course?’
‘Audiovisual.’
Maggie brightened. ‘So you’ll be making a film about me? I wasn’t far off with what I said about a script after all!’
Feeling mildly ashamed, Yasser looked away and did his best to let her down gently. ‘I’m not exactly making a film...’
‘Your face, Yasser! I’m only teasing. Why would you waste time and celluloid on us scum, eh? Shall I put the kettle on for another cup of tea?’
From outside came the rumble of a vehicle drawing closer.
‘I don’t think we’ve time for tea, Maggie. I’m taking her. You know that, don’t you?’
Maggie nodded.
‘Irrespective of who that is. Even if it’s your dad.’
Maggie nodded; she brushed back a stray frond of hair that cornered down over her left eye.
‘Because it’s the right thing to do,’ said Yasser, as softly as he dared. He stood up. Light on his feet, he moved towards the door at the end and opened it. He peered in, leaning slightly. He was able to see pencilly outlines, not much more, but he believed he could make out a cot beside the bed. The cot surprised him a little bit: he had expected the child to be wrapped in a towel or a blanket or something, asleep on the bed itself. But they’d bought a cot. And the sight of it made Yasser’s temples throb with heavyweight disgust. What better indication of their arrogance – of their belief that they’d get away with the abduction – was there, than the fact that they’d gone out and bought a cot! Or at least obtained one from somewhere… maybe the transaction of filthy lucre had had nothing to do with it…
The important thing was that the girl was inside it. Yasser bent at the waist… Part of his preparation for today had been to ask his cousin for a hold of her baby, and now he knew how to do it, reasonably well. He picked up Eloise – and he took it as an added slice of good fortune, the contented near-silence that she maintained as he transported her, gifted in a wrapping of blue blanket, towards the door. Her breathing was soft and still sleep-dunked, near Yasser’s left earlobe.
When he carried Eloise past Maggie, he tried to catch the woman’s eye. A transmitted note of apology (but from whom to whom?) he might have expected; but Maggie was having none of it. Her eyes stared at the surface of her drink, and Yasser shook his head. That Maggie had moved not a muscle to defend her newfound property might have come as little surprise to Yasser – not since he’d met her, although his doubts in the car over would have begged to differ – but her shameful reluctance to look up from her cup of tea was what he found disconcerting. Not even to say goodbye? he wondered.
Well, some people found farewells terrifying – brittle and hollow. If that was the way she wanted it… maybe it was for the best. Keep the break clean.
Yasser unfastened the door; the wind outside did the rest. A brassmonkey sou’wester stole the door from Yasser’s grip and flung it back against the side of the trailer, where it collided with a fearsome clump.
If the noise of the door was not enough to rouse Eloise, the wind and the rain combined certainly were. It took the girl a second to get her emotions straight, as if to make sure, then she started crying with a vengeance, her lungs sucking in moist, chilly air.
Yasser heard the noise – he had no choice but to hear the noise – but it was something distant, something dreamy. What occupied his attention at this moment was his welcoming committee, all three of whom were armed in one way or another. The man that Yasser had met originally – the Brazilian – was tapping a crowbar into the palm of his left hand. A second man (a stranger to Yasser) was older, but by no means necessarily wiser; he was carrying a petrol can. A third man (the oldest still) had parked a blue van next to Yasser’s car, angled slightly in front of the headlights of the latter in a way that might impede but not prevent an escape. Yasser guessed that this third man was Maggie’s father. Not that Yasser was any good with estimating ages, but he figured the man would be about right. Early fifties? Mid-fifties? Shoulder-length grey and white hair, not a bald spot or receding enclave to be seen; a thick but tidy grey beard. Surely this man – a father himself no less – would see reason. Surely Maggie had been fibbing about the kidnapping having been this man’s idea…
On the other hand, this oldest man of the three held a simple but effective weapon. Simple and effective, at any rate, if it was used in conjunction with the second man’s petrol can.
A box of matches.
They wouldn’t, Yasser told himself as he descended the three steps down from the trailer. But if he was so sure, what accounted for the sudden doughy texture about his legs? What accounted for the fact that despite the wind and rain, his body had broken out in a r
ash of perspiration?
A waft of ugly perfume – the smell of petrol – reached Yasser’s nostrils. It might well have reached Eloise’s too, for she emitted a fresh scream, as piercing as a needle through skin.
‘You’ll be leaving the child, son,’ said the man in the middle – Maggie’s dad’s workmate, perhaps. They might have arrived back in the van together.
‘She’s not yours,’ Yasser replied.
‘She’s not yours either.’
‘And she’s not Maggie’s,’ Yasser continued. ‘I’m taking her back to her parents in Luton.’
Eloise squealed.
The oldest man spoke next.
‘You’ve got two choices, my boy,’ he said, his eyes following Yasser as he executed the short crossing from the steps to the car.
Trying to ignore the implied threat, Yasser pointed his fob at the door; the locks clunked open. ‘My choices are stay here or do what I came here to do,’ he called across his car roof.
‘Your window was open a crack,’ said Tommy the Brazilian.
‘…What?’
‘The passenger side,’ Tommy explained. ‘This came in handy.’ He brandished the crowbar. ‘ –widen the gap a bit, you know what I mean?’
Yasser shook his head – and the man who had spoken first shook the petrol can at the car.
‘No!’ Yasser shouted.
The three men burst into laughter. The man with the can tipped the vessel upside-down; no more than a few drips fell out. They were bluffing. They’d been bluffing the whole time. So why…
‘You soft bollocks,’ said the oldest man.
…so why could Yasser still smell petrol?
‘Leaving your window open? Around here?’ the man continued. ‘You never know what might fall in, son…’
Yasser opened the driver’s side door. Sure enough, a weak puff of fuel vapour exited.
‘You’re talking about murder,’ he told the men.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Tommy. ‘Depends how many people get in the fucker, don’t you see?’
Yasser shook his head; Eloise squealed again, her breath having deteriorated into desperate little sobs.
Petrolcan Man explained.
‘If you get in that car on your lonesome, then I dare say not one of us’ll fancy a fag and let our sparks fly willy-nilly. At the other extreme, though, it’s two oyiz getting into a car that’s been soaked in a gallon of petrol. And nature’ll take its course.’ He shrugged.
Yasser experienced a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
‘People know where I am.’
‘Accidents will happen,’ the old man told him, also shrugging.
‘And they know where this little girl is too,’ Yasser continued. ‘You think you’re hated now? Just imagine the persecution when the locals find out you incinerated a baby!’
For the first time the older gentleman smiled. ‘You’ve got spirit, son. Go on about getting in your wheels, why don’t you. Before I change me mind.’
‘Da?’ protested Tommy.
‘I wanted to be sure you meant it,’ said the elder. ‘A test of your convictions, if you care to call it. Go on now. Don’t make me beg.’
As swiftly as he had with his cousin’s offspring in the back seat of her four-by-four, Yasser strapped the wailing Eloise into the child’s seat he had attached to his passenger side chair. Seconds passed; Yasser felt hot with panic, but his preparations at least had been thorough. When he sat down (he didn’t bother with the belt) an ice-cold shower of sweat passed from his skin to his shirt and back again.
The engine started reliably. Were they really going to let him go so easily? To test the question Yasser engaged reverse and squelched away from the trailer, trying not to make eye contact with any of the committee.
He swung the car on to the smooth driveway and headed for freedom.
3.
Standing on the landing, Bahrati wagged a finger and said, ‘You’ll eat some breakfast before you leave ho.’
Yasser was sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling on a white sock. So far he had dressed only in his boxers.
‘Get out, Mum! I’m getting my kit on !’
Bahrati chuckled as she stepped into the bathroom. ‘Aho! You think I haven’t seen my own boy in the nip? Eh? Eh?’
‘I’m twenty-three!’ Yasser protested. For fuck’s sake, he added under his breath. Leaning forward, he tapped the door closed and resumed his preparations for work.
Before his mother locked the bathroom door she called out a parting shot – a reminder.
‘And eat some breakfast ho! Your father and I don’t want you wasting your earnings on a bloody Mickey D innit!’
Yasser clipped downstairs when he was ready, trailing a wash of aftershave and hair gel. His mother had left him a bowl of Coco Pops on the breakfast bar; but how long ago? Yasser’s stomach squinted at the sight of the cereal congealed in a puddle of filthy brown milk. No thanks, Mum.
In sweats and found hundred-quid trainers, Yasser jogged to his Saturday job: to the market in Luton’s High Town, two-and-a-half miles away.
By eight o’clock, an hour after his arrival, the market was in full swing. Not even a sandalwood sky threatening a cloudburst could keep the local Saturday shoppers away this morning... The plot where Yasser sold gardening equipment, under the wing of his Uncle Wafiq, stood next to a stall brightly-coloured with herbs, fruit and vegetables, and the aroma of berries was sweet in Yasser’s nose. If he had to work anywhere at all, this was as good a patch as any to fritter away the lion’s share of his weekends. Before he’d ordered his first bacon sandwich of the morning he had personally swapped two shovels, a set of green waste sacks and a pair of sturdy gloves for hard cash. His mood was buoyant.
The snacks van that he frequented was one of three clogging up High Town Road. Its competitors sold Polish and Caribbean food, but it was too early in the day for cabbage or curried goat for Yasser. He queued patiently for Snow White’s attention. Behind the counter, Snow White, a hyperactive, septuagenarian Rasta who claimed to have studied under Steve Biko back in the old country, finished preparing a sausage-and-egg baguette for the guy who sold paperbacks of dubious provenance, and Yasser tapped his toes to the disco beat slamming out from Snow White’s iPod. Snow White dished out the man’s change and clocked his next customer. So wide was his welcoming grin that Yasser was able to see past his tan-coloured large front teeth, right to the back of his mouth, where the gold was buried.
‘Yo, Yass! Usual innit?’
‘Safe, man. You okay?’
‘When it don’t rain it shine, blood. You’s onions?’
‘Nah. Too early for onions.’
Yasser took a step back from the counter when Snow White turned his concentration to his grill plate. Without looking up while he flipped bacon, Snow White asked Yasser if he wanted a coffee. Yasser lit a smoke and declined politely. Then Snow White added: ‘Woah, boy!’
‘What?’
‘Them creps, man! They the shit!’ And he pointed his dripping tongs at Yasser’s new footware. ‘You win the Lotto or sumpin?’
‘Been saving for a rainy day.’ Yasser smiled, delighted that his investment had been noticed.
‘They cost you what?’
‘Four ton.’
Snow White whistled, then revealed his teeth once more. ‘Someone paying you too much, Yass!’ he declared.
‘Well it ain’t Wafiq!’ Yasser replied.
‘Then who is it?’ said a voice behind Yasser’s left shoulder. Yasser turned. Immediately he felt prickly with anxiety. The face was familiar – more familiar than that of any regular Saturday morning market-haunter.
‘You don’t tell me that’s your babysitting money paid for that,’ the man went on.
‘...What do you want, Tommy?’ asked Yasser.
It was the Brazilian, from the camp. Close up, closer than he’d been three mornings earlier, the man held about him the odour of swamp and sweat. He was dressed in the same clothes as he’d worn then.
‘I owe you a freebie, son,’ Tommy replied. ‘Never let it be said I don’t honour me word.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ Yasser told him. ‘The business is concluded.’
‘Can I help you?’ Snow White called from behind a crackling hedge of silver fat fumes.
Tommy asked Yasser: ‘What is it we drink? You got any petrol, mate?’ he asked Snow White.
‘Any what?’
‘I asked you what you wanted, Tommy,’ said Yasser, his voice level but his heart ranting.
‘And I told you, boy: I tear strips off poor cunts, and you qualify.’
‘The baby’s well, by the way. Eloise.’
Tommy shrugged. ‘I don’t give a fuck. That was none of my business. You think I ask their permission to scratch me bollocks?’
‘No. And there was no petrol on my passenger seat either,’ said Yasser. ‘The smell receded as I drove away. It was the can I could smell.’
‘Oh it receded. You college boy...’
Yasser turned his head by twisting his neck. To Snow White he said: ‘Have you got your camera with you?’ When Snow White nodded, his dreadlocks whipped like horses’ tails. ‘Get a picture of this prick, would you then?’
Malice leaked through Tommy’s features. ‘You’ll not be taking my photo,’ he stated flatly.
‘Then get away from me.’
‘Why? I’m here to buy a wheelbarrow,’ Tommy answered. ‘I hear you’re doing em cheaper than Homebase.’
Yasser shook his head. ‘We reserve the right not to sell to psychopaths. How d’you find me?’
‘No, son. How did you find me? Is the question. See, it had to be here. No other connection.’
‘Well, well done, Inspector Morse.’
‘You bacon is ready,’ said Snow White.
‘Do you sell trowels?’ Tommy asked, grinning.
‘Yes. But not to you.’
‘We’ll see what your Paki boss thinks about that opinion, so we will.’ Tommy laughed as Yasser took possession of his bacon sandwich. It was wrapped in kitchen roll. ‘That looks good,’ he added. ‘Can I have a bite?’