by Jo Bannister
‘Well, I’ll wait. She won’t be long or she’d have taken the car.’
‘She wasn’t back last night,’ muttered Saturday. ‘I don’t know when she’ll be home.’
That surprised Ash more than it should have done. He was so used to her being there that he often forgot she was a young woman with a life of her own. ‘Is she with someone?’
‘Oliver Ford.’ The acid in Saturday’s voice would have stripped varnish.
The years Ford had been a household name were the same ones Ash had spent as a virtual recluse. He had to think longer than almost anyone in England would have had to. ‘Oh – yes. The historian. The one she rescued from the fire-bomber.’
‘Yeah. Him.’
Puzzlement knitted Ash’s brows. The former street-kid was a born cynic, unlikely to be much impressed by celebrity, but this overt hostility was unexpected. ‘Saturday – has something happened?’
‘No.’ The boy leaned over to pick up one of Hazel’s magazines, feigning an interest in soft furnishings and cleaning products.
Ash gave an oddly gentle sigh. He checked his watch, but there was time enough, and anything that Saturday was this keen to keep from him he probably needed to know. He took the chair on the other side of the little coffee table and rephrased the question. ‘What has happened?’
‘Nothing,’ insisted Saturday. He looked up. ‘I don’t like him, all right? I don’t like his fancy car, I don’t like his fake tan, I don’t like his expensive suits and I don’t like him. I don’t know why Hazel’s hanging out with him. She can do better.’
Ash blinked. Surely the boy wasn’t thinking …? But no. His concern, his indignation were more brotherly than proprietorial. ‘You think a famous, highly paid, much-admired television presenter isn’t good enough for her?’
‘I think that one isn’t,’ growled Saturday. ‘I think he’s a two-faced git, and if she doesn’t wipe him off her shoes pretty damned fast she’s going to find out for herself. I don’t want her to get hurt.’
‘Me neither. But Saturday, we don’t have to like her friends. Maybe she sees something in him that we don’t. Maybe she’s right, maybe not, but it’s her call. Even if it proves to be a mistake, it’s hers to make.’
‘Mistakes can be costly,’ muttered Saturday darkly.
‘I think she can look after herself. She’s been looking after all three of us for months. If Ford gets uppity, she’ll have his arm up his back and frog-march him down to Meadowvale before he knows what hit him.’
The boy managed a rueful grin at that. ‘She’s nobody’s doormat,’ he admitted.
‘No, she isn’t. I don’t expect there’s anything that the pair of us can do that Hazel can’t do better. Still …’
‘What?’
‘Maybe we’ll keep an eye out for her all the same. Let me know when she gets home, will you? I need a word with her.’
Saturday promised that he would, and Ash left the boy somewhat happier than he had found him.
TWELVE
Hazel Best had never been a silly teenage girl. She’d never screamed at pop-stars, mooned over local heroes or moped over matinee idols. She’d been level-headed to an almost disturbing degree. She’d always been able to see the big picture, always taken the long view, always known there were plenty more fish in the sea. She was the teenage girl that the mothers of other teenage girls pointed out as a shining example.
Privately, she’d suspected she was a deeply boring teenager, but at least avoiding problems saved you the trouble of having to resolve them.
Now, at the age of twenty-seven, she was behaving like a silly teenage girl. She was hanging on the arm of a man older, wealthier and more famous than she was, and enjoying the heads that turned and the eyes that widened. She was flirting. She was charming and provocative. She was going to clubs she’d only ever been to on drugs raids, dancing as if her feet were on fire, and drinking dubiously coloured concoctions with little paper umbrellas in them. And she was enjoying herself immensely. She bought three new outfits, none of which her mother would have approved of.
Ford was excellent company: witty and urbane, socially skilful, a practised summoner of taxis and cajoler of head waiters. He was fluent in the language and all the nuances of social interaction. When he remarked, self-deprecatingly, that if the television work dried up he might try his chances as a gigolo, Hazel giggled appreciatively and said he’d make another fortune. She meant it. He was as polished, and successful, a seducer as he was at everything else he turned his hand to.
Not the least pleasing of his attributes was the interest he took in her: her history, her activities, her opinions. As far as Hazel could tell, it was genuine: when, afraid of boring him, she gave him only the edited highlights, he demanded more detail and seemed flattered by the most mundane of confidences.
In a rare moment of introspection, Hazel realised that this ability to be interested in anyone and anything was, much more than his qualifications as an historian, what elevated Oliver Ford to the status of celebrity. She was not so dazzled as to think she was the only woman he’d ever shone the searchlight of his personality upon. His outstanding talent was for making everyone he dealt with feel special. He was a flatterer; but a flatterer of supreme artistry, so almost perfectly sincere that even people who knew what he was doing liked him for it.
When the shooting script left Ford at a loose end and he suggested quitting grimy Norbold for an away-day in Devon – ‘Nothing improper, nothing you should tell the chief constable about’ – Hazel gave no thought at all to whether she should go, only to what she should wear.
As the days passed and he still hadn’t heard from Hazel, Ash found himself growing anxious. He knew he’d annoyed her, and he wanted to update her on his search for a nanny. There was also PC Budgen’s message. Ash tried her mobile but she didn’t answer. He sent her a text, picking out the letters as clumsily as an arm-wrestler doing petit-point; but he may have done it wrong, or perhaps she never received it. In any event, she didn’t reply.
The day after he interviewed her, Ash telephoned the nanny agency to offer Ms Kelly the job, starting as soon as she could manage it. He was asked if he wanted her to live in or out, and didn’t know how to answer.
‘Has she any preference?’
Either, he was assured, would be entirely acceptable to her. She had lived in with her last family; she was currently renting a room in Coventry and could commute if that suited him better.
Finally they agreed that, for a trial period of a month, she would come in daily, from eight in the morning until five at night, five days a week, unless he needed her to stay late; after which, if all parties were satisfied, they would review the question of living in.
Discreet enquiries were made as to whether he could afford the financial commitment he was entering into. Ash understood their concern: he made an immediate transfer of funds to cover the initial month, grateful for the money he’d made while he was capable of well-paid work. He’d had a lot of different things to worry about in the last few years, but money had never been one of them.
That settled, and the boys in school for the day, Ash addressed his next dilemma: what, if anything, he should do about the young man in the hospital. He hadn’t been able to pass on the information Hazel had asked for. Should he let Budgen know?
Curled up on the sofa, without lifting her head, Patience said, You could go to the hospital yourself.
He expected to be refused access to the prisoner. But as luck would have it, PC Budgen had drawn the short straw again. He was propped disconsolately on a plastic chair that had probably seemed a lot more comfortable two hours earlier, at the shut and shuttered door, and Ash was a welcome distraction from his tedious duty.
‘Hi, Gabriel. Is Hazel with you?’
Ash had never, in forty-one years, come to terms with his given name. On the lips of a twenty-five-year-old police constable he hardly knew, it sounded more alien than ever. He took some comfort from recognising that (a) it
was an improvement, however slight, on what they used to call him at Meadowvale; and (b) if he was on first-name terms with the local constabulary, it was as a friend of Hazel Best’s and marked her own gradual rehabilitation back into their ranks.
He still couldn’t bring himself to call PC Budgen ‘Wayne’.
‘I couldn’t get hold of her. I left her a message but she hasn’t called back.’
Budgen shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose it matters. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.’ He gave a sideways nod towards the door.
‘How’s he doing?’
‘On the mend, apparently. He was pretty sick for a while there, between blowing his hand off and burning his face to a crisp, but he’s conscious now and seems to be making sense.’
‘Has he been able to explain?’
‘Why he crossed Europe in order to blow up a little local museum?’ Budgen shook his head. ‘No. DI Gorman’s tried talking to him a couple of times. He wasn’t interested in answering any questions.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t speak English.’
‘I think he does – at least some. “Please” and “thank you” to the doctors and nurses. Seems quite grateful for their attentions. His mother would be proud of him,’ he added sourly. ‘They’re sending a specialist up from Counter Terrorism Command in London. Someone who can talk to him in his own language. Maybe the spooks will make more progress with him.’
Ash kept a diplomatic silence. Budgen had clearly forgotten that, in his years as a security analyst, Ash had worked under the Home Office umbrella in that division which might loosely be described as ‘spooks’.
But Budgen had his mind on other matters. He looked furtively up and down the corridor. ‘Gabriel, are you rushing off?’
Ash shook his head.
‘You wouldn’t sit here and look official for ten minutes? I’m bursting for a pee, and I could murder a cup of coffee. I’ll bring you one back,’ he offered hopefully.
Ash took his place on the plastic chair. ‘What do I do if he’s knotted his bed sheets together into a sub-machine gun?’
‘Do what I’d do,’ said Budgen. ‘Look for something really solid to hide behind.’
The constable was longer than ten minutes. The plastic chair quickly grew uncomfortable. And Ash found himself doing what he had no business doing, which was opening the door and looking at the frail figure under the white sheet in the only bed in the room.
Rachid Iqbal looked back.
Ash gave a start of momentary fear when he realised he was alone with a terrorist. But Iqbal was tethered to the bed not only by his weakness but by the tubes drip-feeding the life back into him. Illness had replaced the coppery warmth of his skin with a greenish pallor, except where areas of his face and neck were dressed with some glistening unction.
His arms lay on top of the sheet. One of them ended in heavy bandages, midway between wrist and elbow.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ said Ash quietly. ‘Do you need anything? I can call a nurse.’
‘No.’ The voice was breathy, and accented, but clear enough. The terrorist added politely, ‘Thank you.’ He eased his slight form fractionally under the sheet. Even that minimal action made him catch his breath and squeeze his eyes shut.
‘You’re in pain,’ said Ash. ‘I’ll get someone.’
‘No. Really.’ The young man managed a fragile smile. ‘It will soon be time for my medication.’ He pronounced the four syllables carefully, as if one might otherwise escape. ‘I will wait. I must be a good patient.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Ash went to back out of the room.
‘Please …’ The likelihood that he would be left alone again instilled a timid urgency in Iqbal’s voice. ‘May I ask you something?’
‘You can ask. I may not be able to answer. I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a policeman.’
Iqbal acknowledged that with a dip of his eyelids. He had long, fine eyelashes like a girl’s. ‘Then perhaps you will not know. But … there was a young woman. She tried to stop me. Do you know, was she hurt?’
Ash fisted his hands deep in his pockets. ‘As a matter of fact, I do know. She’s a friend of mine. And yes, she was hurt. Her face was burned. But she’ll mend.’
‘Is she in the hospital here?’
‘Not now. They sent her home.’
The young man sighed. ‘That is good to hear. I have been most worried about her. I never meant for her to be hurt.’
Ash said mildly, ‘If you don’t want to hurt people, perhaps you should avoid fire-bombing crowded places.’
Flat under the white sheet, the boy’s chest attempted to swell. ‘It was a matter of honour.’
‘Really? You think there’s something honourable about burning a young woman you’d never met before? All I can think,’ said Ash, ‘is that something’s getting lost in the translation. In English we use the word to mean noble, self-sacrificing, putting other people’s needs ahead of our own. But you think it means forcing people to see things your way and torturing them until they do.’ He pursed his lips reflectively. ‘Have you considered the possibility that you might be wrong?’
‘You think this was … politics?’ Even in its frailty, the young man’s voice managed to convey surprise.
‘I hope so. I’d hate to think it was a passing whim.’
‘Not … politics.’ This was the most talking Rachid Iqbal had done since he woke up and it was beginning to take its toll. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, and the unpractised words were slurring together.
‘You’re going to tell me that jihad isn’t a political imperative, it’s a religious one,’ guessed Ash. ‘So I’m going to do what nobody in polite society ever does, which is tell you what I think of your religion. Of all religions. None of them are worth a damn unless they make their followers better people. And you are not a good advertisement for yours. Anyone who’d do what you’ve done shames the cause for which he does it. People stopped cutting bits off one another in the name of their gods when the notion of civilisation began to catch on. What you do or don’t believe is your own business; but when you maim and kill people for believing something else, you immediately revert to barbarianism.
‘And you will lose. Because there’s something in human beings, those of many religions and those of none, that aspires to be better. Fairer, kinder, more caring. Kindness is stronger than hatred. It endures longer and it spreads wider. Hatred is ultimately self-defeating. You’re going to lose because you have nothing to offer. You think you can frighten people into thinking in old, discredited ways, but you’re fooling no one except yourselves. You’re an intellectual dead-end. The world will run you down and move on, and all that will be left will be a footnote in history: Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, and you. You’re an anachronism. You’re a freak show, and everyone knows it except you.’
Ash heard himself then and winced. Had the damaged boy before him any idea what he meant by anachronism? Had he any idea what Ash was trying to tell him?
Probably not. Because Rachid Iqbal had entirely exhausted his reserves. He could stay awake no longer, not even to be lectured on the error of his ways by this big, quiet, angry Englishman using words he’d never heard before and attributing to him attitudes that he did not recognise. The best he could do was simply repeat, ‘No …’ as clearly as he could before the comforting darkness swept up to claim him.
Gabriel Ash went on looking down at him for some moments after he realised that the young man was unconscious. Then he padded quietly from the room, and waited outside until PC Budgen – finally and apologetically – came to relieve him.
THIRTEEN
Ash sat down with his sons that evening, with the television off and gadgets put away for the night, and explained about the new nanny.
Predictably, Gilbert was unimpressed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not doing as good a job of looking after you as I want to,’ Ash said honestly. ‘It’s a long time since I got any practice, and even then I wasn’t doin
g it alone. Ms Kelly knows more about raising children than the three of us put together. She’ll make our lives easier, and more fun. Yes, Gilbert, that includes you. Don’t decide you don’t like her before you’ve even met her. She’s made of sterner stuff than Saturday – you should probably avoid making an enemy of her.’
‘Nobody’s called Saturday,’ growled Gilbert rebelliously.
Promptly at eight the following morning the doorbell rang, and the boys hurried to answer it – Guy, who suffered from the same crippling shyness as Billy Graham and Liberace, making no secret of his curiosity, and Gilbert struggling to get there first while still appearing coolly uninterested.
Frances Kelly stood on the doorstep, dressed in a bright yellow smock over dark trousers, wearing a smile as bright as the smock. ‘Good morning, Mr Ash. And Guy, and Gilbert. Ready for school, I see. That is a very good start.’
Guy, beaming, grabbed for her hand, shook it manfully and pulled her inside. Gilbert stood back with an expression of shock on his narrow face. ‘But she’s …’
Ash had a pretty good idea what was coming, hurried to change the subject. ‘Do come in, Ms Kelly. You’ll have to tell me what you need, how we should organise things. And what the boys ought to call you.’
‘Most people call me Frankie,’ she said. ‘That would be fine. And I suggest we talk about routines and such after I’ve walked the boys to school. I need a word with their head teacher – introduce myself and so on.’
‘Yes, fine – excellent,’ nodded Ash, keenly. He knew he was behaving like an idiot, but he was anxious to leave no gap for his elder son to fill. Perhaps he should have told them the name was misleading. But that would have given Gilbert all night to formulate a strategy, and this way he could only be as unpleasant as he could manage at a minute’s notice.
Gilbert Ash was always ready to rise to a challenge. ‘But she’s Chinese!’ he protested loudly, and Ash cringed.
Ms Kelly appeared entirely untroubled. ‘No, I’m from the Philippines. Do you know where the Philippines are, Gilbert?’