Court of Lions

by Jane Johnson

  Kate caught the name Moreno and her heart faltered.

  The officer turned back to her, looked her slowly up and down. “Anna Maria Moreno?” he asked.

  Kate wanted, with terrible urgency, to piss, then feared she might do it where she stood, just as she had once in infant school, standing on a chair in front of the class, a punishment for talking. She fought the urge. “No. I’m a British national w— Uh, visiting Granada.” She’d nearly said working, and realized with sudden certainty that Jimena had been the one to send the police here, with some trumped-up story about terrorists. She’d heard Abdou mention the Nest of Storks and probably already knew of the bar. It was a sort of revenge—on him, for entering Jimena’s Arab-free zone; on Kate, for allowing him to do so, and for calling her a bitch and then exerting the only power she had by having the last word and walking out. But she couldn’t mention Jimena or the bar, or she’d have to explain why she was working under a false name.

  “You’ll have to come with us so we can check the system,” the officer said.

  Which was how she ended up riding in the back of a police van with half a dozen furtive-looking men who stole puzzled glances at her and whispered among themselves in their impenetrable tongue. She turned her head away from them, watching the lights of the city blur past into the darkness. She had done nothing wrong. So why did she feel so guilty?

  18

  She had to wait her turn as one by one her fellow passengers were taken off into interview rooms and without exception some time later led off to the cells, no doubt to be handed over to the border force to be deported back to wherever they’d come from.

  When the officers arrived for her, they were stiffly courteous, apologizing for the wait. They had found her in the system, they said as they seated her in the interview room and took their places at the opposite side of the table there, one manning the computer, the other with a pen hovering over his notebook, but they wanted to know what she’d been doing in Spain all this time, since there was no record of her paying taxes or claiming benefits.

  In the bus, Kate had prepared her story. She was researching a book about the Alhambra, she told them. She’d received an advance for the book and was living off it while she completed the commission. Writing didn’t pay much, she said with a laugh, but she lived very simply, renting a small apartment on the Calle Guinea. They asked for the address and she gave it to them. The book was why she’d been in the Nest of Storks talking to a zellij specialist about the traditional methods used for the restoration of the old tiles.

  They looked openly skeptical. “A bit late to be discussing tiles, wasn’t it?”

  It was exactly what Hicham had said, and she stifled the nervous urge to giggle. It was the only time the specialist could meet when he wasn’t working, she told them. What was his name and where did he work? She spread her hands—she didn’t know: she’d only met him briefly once before and thought he was an academic of some sort. She didn’t want to lead them too easily to Abdou. Or Abdelkarim, or whatever his name was. The way he’d run suggested something shady was going on: she wondered what.

  The next question took her aback.

  “Is there someone here who can vouch for you? Who can confirm you are who you say you are?”

  The name of her landlord was almost out of her mouth before she bit it back. Sergio might easily mention that she was working at the bar. And he knew Jimena. Panic scrabbled inside her. She couldn’t think of a single person she knew in this city who didn’t have something to do with the bar.

  But there was one. “Khadija,” she blurted out, then realized she could not remember the Moroccan woman’s surname.

  “Khadija who?” There was a sneer in the first officer’s intonation, though his face remained impassive. But the implication was clear: First we find you hanging out with Arab men in a bar and now you give us an Arab woman’s name. You must be some sort of conspirator.

  This was getting worse and worse. “It’s late—she’ll be asleep now,” Kate said awkwardly, wishing she’d said nothing at all.

  The second officer shrugged. “She’ll either vouch for you or it’s a night in the cells for you. Give us her number.”

  Kate felt a fool. “Hold on.” She fished in her bag. Had she put the card Khadija had given her in here? There was such a jumble of rubbish to go through and the more she searched for it the worse it got. “Sorry, sorry…” She tipped the contents of her bag out onto the tabletop—tissues and receipts, pen tops, a half-used packet of paracetamol, cosmetics tubes and compacts, loose change she hadn’t bothered to put into her purse. A boiled sweet that had somehow lost its wrapper and replaced it with a coating of dust and filth…

  A plastic-wrapped tampon rolled across the table toward the officers, one of whom smirked. She retrieved it, but he was still smirking. That was when she realized, oh God, that he must have spotted the strip of brightly foiled condoms. She’d had them for donkey’s years, probably even before she’d met James, but the officer wouldn’t know that, and there was no way she was going to explain. Blushing, she swiped them back into the dark confines of the leather handbag, and rooted around till she found her phone, then her battered old wallet. And there, in her wallet, was Khadija’s card, listing a mobile number as well as a landline. But would Khadija even remember her? They’d spent only a couple of hours in each other’s company and now Kate was dragging her into police business—a shameful, unforgivable imposition on someone who was barely even an acquaintance. And even if Khadija did recall their meeting, there was no reason she would have retained her name, or be willing to go out of her way to help a foreigner. Kate looked up, hoping the pass might be sufficient evidence, but the first officer handed it back to her.

  “The number?”

  She sat frozen and unhappy as the officers took Khadija’s number and called her from the big old-fashioned desk phone. It seemed to ring forever and Kate was almost relieved, thinking that maybe a night in the cells was not such a bad thing after all. Then someone answered—a male. There was a lot of back and forth in rapid Spanish, a pause, and then the officer asked, “Would you mind coming down to the central police station to vouch for her?”

  Kate hung her head in shame.

  The wait was interminable. One of the officers went out to talk to a colleague; the other sat at the computer, his fingers moving over the keys. Kate couldn’t see the screen. Was he searching for more information about her? Googling her? Or was he simply playing Solitaire? The reflection in the night-dark window gave nothing away. Twenty minutes later a smartly dressed, head-scarfed woman walked into the office, followed by the other policeman.

  Kate met her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. You were the only person I could think of.”

  She’d expected impatience at the least, or even a flash of anger, but there was only compassion in Khadija’s gaze. “I am more than happy to help you.”

  She showed the policemen her national identity card and her work permit. When they took note of her title and where she worked, their expressions changed, in just the way Kate’s had when she’d read Khadija’s card.

  “We apologize for getting you out at such a late hour, Professor Boutaki,” one of them said.

  “This young woman tells us she’s doing research for a book on the Alhambra,” the other said brusquely, determined not to show he was impressed.

  Kate saw Khadija’s lips twitch. “Yes, indeed, Officer. She’s become quite an expert, especially on the plants.” Her gaze slid toward Kate, gleefully conspiratorial.

  Ten minutes later, once a lot of forms had been signed and rubber-stamped, Kate was released on the promise that she would return with her passport the next day—“For our records, you understand.”

  Neither woman said anything as they exited the huge official building, dwarfed and cowed by its vast officialdom. On the corner of the plaza Khadija said, “Tell me why you were in the Nest of Storks.”

  A cloud passed across the moon. Kate was glad: it hid her embarr
assment. “I went to meet one of the men working on the zellij restoration.”

  Khadija laughed, a peal that rang out across the square. “I can’t quite imagine Omar inviting you to such a place so I’m sure that must have been Abdou.”

  Of course she would know them well. Kate’s embarrassment deepened. “Yes.”

  “It’s really not the most respectable place to be meeting late at night.”

  “I realized that when I went in.”

  Khadija tutted. “He shouldn’t have invited you there. What was he thinking? The Nest of Storks? More like the nest of thieves.”

  Kate didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

  “Come to the house on Thursday,” the other woman said. “Around eight or nine, unless you’re working, of course. Have dinner with us—my husband will cook.”

  Kate grinned. “I’d love to, and no, I’m not working.”

  “Here’s the address.” Khadija scribbled in a notebook, tore out the page and handed it to her. “Better get home. Brahim will be worried.” She enfolded Kate in a sudden embrace, and marched away, her cellphone pressed to her ear. Kate caught the words “habibi” and “okay, wachha,” and then she was gone.

  The next morning Kate woke at her usual early hour and lay there, luxuriating in the miasma of a dream that she couldn’t quite re-enter but that had left its touch on her in the small hours of the night, hot with yearning. It had something to do with baths and oil, and a man. Then with sudden clarity she recalled the stirring sensation of a man’s hand between her thighs, the perfection of the pattern of tiny tiles on the wall of the bathhouse. Oh…

  For God’s sake, Kate, she told herself sharply. Not only do you hardly know him, but he ran out on you during a police raid. She pushed the dream away and considered the unfamiliar idea of a day that lay before her as blank and clear as a fresh sheet of paper.

  Despite the unhelpful dream and only five hours’ sleep she felt alert and energized, and lighter somehow, unburdened. She hadn’t realized how crushed she had been by working in the bodega, or, more specifically, by working for Jimena. She swung her legs out of bed, went to the window and pushed back the curtains. The imposing walls of the Alhambra rose to meet the sky and her spirits rose with them. She was free to go there whenever she wished. She had her pass and acres of time, and in two days a dinner date with a new friend who was a great expert on the beautiful gardens: she felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

  Of course, the feeling lasted only briefly. Turning on her phone, she remembered it was Luke’s birthday. Which she had completely forgotten in the heat of her intrigue with the tile maker and her run-in with the law. What a terrible mother she was. A pang of loss and a shard of love pierced her through. Oh, Luke, she lamented, punching Jess’s number into the phone. My boy, my lovely boy. When she thought of him, it was as a baby enfolded in a chick-yellow blanket; yet there he had been, answering Jess’s smart phone and running around on the beach. She had no image of him as the toddler he was now; wouldn’t even be able to pick him out of a group of children at a play group. The phone rang and rang and at last went to voice mail. She tried to muster as much energy as she could, sang a horribly tuneless “Happy Birthday” and finished with a plaintive “Ask Auntie Jess to call me back!”

  Guilt enveloped her. Perhaps it was time for her to return to England. But the very idea made something inside her shrivel. Fear of James lay deep within her, dormant but not dead, like a microscopic cancer ready to blossom back into life. She might have stood up to Jimena, but she still wasn’t ready to take on her husband.

  And, she reminded herself, she still had to go back into the police headquarters and present her passport. A frisson of anxiety drove her to the espresso machine to bolster herself before she went to take care of that onerous task.

  On the way back, having circumnavigated the complex matter of Christian names and surnames and had her passport verified then copied by a perfectly nice policewoman, she found, by sheer chance, another Internet café.

  As she waited for the ancient computer to boot up, she found her mind wandering yet again to Abdou—or Abdelkarim, though it was hard to associate him with this unfamiliar name. She tried not to think of the candlelight on his cheekbones, making golden crescents in his dark eyes, and failed. She thought of how he had touched her in her dream, and felt a dark flush of blood deep inside her. Then once again she reminded herself of how he had abandoned her, taken her little paper treasure with him. She was, she told herself fiercely, as the hard disk cranked to life, a hopeless case when it came to men, always managing to choose the liars and deceivers, the unreliable and the downright dangerous. Just for once, couldn’t she find herself a nice man who would treat her kindly and honestly? She sighed and entered the code she had been given at the counter to get on Google.

  INGRID FOXLEY, she typed in. The search brought up absolutely nothing relevant. Damn. She wished she’d been nosier about her predecessor, at least found out her maiden name. She typed in JAMES FOXLEY INGRID, but this also rendered nothing useful. It did, however, bring up two photos of her husband, both of which looked pretty recent. Her skin prickled. There he was smiling at the camera as though he was the perfectly normal, charming, slightly old-fashioned middle-aged gentleman antiques dealer he liked to project, with his floppy dark fringe, greying at the temples, his eyes narrowed so you could not read their expression. In a tweed jacket and an open-necked shirt that she didn’t recognize he appeared the complete antithesis of a rapist.

  With some venom, she obliterated that search page by entering INGRID ACCIDENT CORNWALL.

  Nothing.

  WOMAN CORNWALL CLIFF FALL brought up hundreds of stories, some about rock climbers being rescued by local emergency services, two about women trying to save their respective dogs that had fallen onto ledges, a suicide, and a drunken tumble by a teenager. There seemed to be no mention of a James or Ingrid Foxley, at least in the first seventy-five articles or so. She moved on.

  JAMES FOXLEY ANTIQUES INGRID brought up references to the shop in East Molesey with INGRID crossed through in the search criteria and nothing of interest.

  What now? INGRID UK: 27,500,000 search results. So much for thinking the name was unusual.

  Bracing herself, she went back to using her husband as her starting point. JAMES FOXLEY EAST MOLESEY, she typed. Again, dozens of references to the antiques shop in local listings sites and two mentions in blogs by antiques dealers who had done business with him. “Always a pleasure buying something from James,” one of them claimed, accompanying a photo of a frankly hideous vase. “He is a man of exquisite taste in objets d’art and fin de siècle furniture. Oh, and women as well. Here I am with James and a really beautiful piece.”

  Beneath this oily pronouncement was a photograph. Kate felt her innards turn to ice. There was James, with the strong sunlight carving his face into striking planes, beside an older man in a smart shirt marred by darkened patches beneath the arms, and…her, Kate. Except, of course, it wasn’t. Not quite. The woman had a heart-shaped face framed by a neat dark bob with chestnut highlights that was shorter than Kate’s usual style. But it was almost exactly the cut James had urged her to have—just before the wedding. And then, when she had run away, a bit out of her mind, wanting to destroy the woman she had been, she’d shorn her head and sliced her arms. It had taken ages to grow her hair back to the length it was now.

  Trembling, she scrolled down, sure of what she would see. That the woman’s name was Ingrid. Ingrid Foxley.

  But it wasn’t. According to the blog, her name was Michelle—or as the blogger insisted, “Michelle, ma belle.” Kate read on, looking for further information, but there was nothing at all. Frustrated, she skimmed through the rest of the man’s blog posts, but there were no more references to James or this Michelle, though tons of boring details about classic cars and boozy trips to the Continent, as if he were some archaic tourist undertaking the Grand Tour.

  MICHELLE FOXLEY. Over
a hundred thousand references. Great. Kate clicked on Images, but even though she pored over the first few pages this brought up, there was no sign of the woman. Kate rubbed her eyes. She needed a break.

  Two coffees later and reduced to almost random Googling, she was about to give up, when an idea struck her. Logging into her old Facebook account—left un-updated ever since she’d married James—she typed in the name of the boring blogger: Mike Weston. Facebook offered her several choices: a man in a Chelsea shirt, another with hipster facial hair, one in Swansea, another in Cornwall, a third in drag. None resembled the man in the blog, whom she had seen lounging in a pre-war racing car, in Cannes, in Barcelona, at Ascot…

  She asked for more, and more she was given. She spotted him at once—slightly overweight, rather red in the face, in an England rugby shirt. She clicked on his profile and was gratified to discover he did not appear to care overmuch about his privacy settings. Among his list of friends she came across a Michelle Englefield. Clicking on the profile photo, which showed a tabby cat licking its paw, she found the mysterious woman she had been seeking: in a short, slinky dress as she raised a glass; amid a group of girlfriends with the sun setting behind them; with the tabby cat in her arms; posing in a smart black shirtdress under a sign for a company, as if for a corporate brochure. But in none of these images did James appear; neither was he among her list of friends. Which was no surprise, given James’s views on social media.

  Kate spent half an hour snooping through Michelle Englefield’s Facebook timeline and came away feeling guilty and depressed. The woman seemed preternaturally cheerful and popular, posting little mantras of positivity that made Kate feel rather nauseous (“Enjoy your life: every second is a precious gift!”; “Every experience, no matter how bad, holds within it a blessing of some kind: the goal is to find it”; “Diamonds are just little bits of charcoal that handle pressure extremely well”; “Don’t carry your mistakes around with you: use them as stepping stones to rise above them”).