by Anna Legat
‘I used to love drawing,’ Izzie tells him. ‘Drawing and acrylics... When I was a little girl. A lifetime ago.’
‘You are not that old.’
‘I feel that old.’
‘You don’t look old. I will draw you and show you. Do you like that?’
She shrugs, which means that yes, she would like that. Haji leaves Ron’s portrait unfinished, and moves to the next page of his pad. Izzie is a graceful subject. Her outline is sinuous and uninterrupted. It flows like a river. Her eyes are large and blue, born under the same blue sky as Svetlana’s, but her hair – deep chestnut brown and shiny – brings back the memory of Haji’s sister on her wedding day. That, too, was a lifetime ago.
He is pleased with his sketch. He has captured her strength and her frailty, wrought into one.
She says, ‘Thank you.’
He says, ‘Believe me, this is my pleasure.’
‘I don’t mean the drawing.’
‘Ah!’ He nods, because he knows she means his timely intervention. ‘It was nothing.’
‘It was everything. To me it was.’
‘OK.’ He is focusing on the bone structure of her long, thin fingers. Hands are notoriously difficult to draw. Her chin is resting on the back of her hand which is cupped over her knee. Her hand is part of her face. She is gazing into the fire.
‘I never told this to anyone, but I can tell you. We already share one secret. What’s another one?’
‘OK. What would you like to tell me?’ Nothing is likely to shock him. No secret. She may as well get it off her chest.
‘I have a son. I haven’t seen him since he was born.’
‘I see.’ Haji does understand: he has a son. He hasn’t seen him at all. It hurts, but to him, there is no relief in talking about it. He can’t bear thinking about it, never mind speaking of it.
‘I don’t want to see him.’
This Haji doesn’t see as well as the first part. He, on the other hand, would die to see his son. Just once.
‘I was hardly eighteen. I was raped. Brutally raped. I was young and trusting. It was at a party, with people I knew... I was drunk and probably drugged. He thought I wouldn’ t remember, but I did. I still do. I remember I couldn’t lift a finger to fight back. It looked like I was OK with it. Not a single scratch mark on me... He knew how to go about it without leaving any marks. I couldn’t complain to the police. No one would believe me. He said I was a slut. I believed him. I hated myself. Nine months later, I gave birth to a child. A son. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him – all I saw was that man. I saw that man in my son’s eyes. I ran away. Spent years on the streets, on drugs...’
Haji is outlining her mouth and adding final touches to the childlike curvature of her upper lip, a downward arch forming seconds before the child bursts into tears. This expression is so fleeting, but he got it – he captured it!
‘You know, I never had a father. I thought he would’ve stood up for me if he lived... He would’ve protected me. My father was a soldier.’
‘He would’ve if he could, yes. That’s what soldiers do, but yes, they don’t live long lives.’ Haji never says anything unless he is sure of it. He is sure, being a soldier himself, that yes, her father would’ve protected her, if he had been there at the right time and at the right place. That however, he knows from experience, doesn’t happen often.
‘You protected me, Sandman. If you had been there, ten years ago, it would’ve never happened.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ he shakes his head. ‘I let people die, couldn’t save them...’ this is the closest he has ever come to confiding in someone. He trusts this girl. Once again, it’s a mistake to trust people, but if there’s anyone he can trust, it’s Izzie. Because she trusts him.
The portrait is nearly finished: a beautiful, long-necked woman with a child’s grimace quivering on her lips and long fingers curling up into a white-knuckled fist. She lifts her eyes towards Haji, ‘It’s stupid really, but I’ve come to think of you as my father. I imagine, if he lived, he would be like you. Looking after me, not letting anything bad happen.’
‘If I can help it, I will look after you, God willing.’ It’s only a manner of speech because Haji doesn’t believe in God. But he believes in what he says – every word of it.
XXVII
Charlie is out of danger, and fully awake. Against all the odds, his youth and vitality have conquered death, but that’s just his body. His spirit is crushed and quite beyond repair. He is semi-reclined in his bed, his leg holding him in place like a convict’s ball and chain. ‘I saw them. I could’ve stopped them,’ he mutters.
‘Saw who?’ Tara leans over, peers into his eyes and squeezes his hand, which she has been holding since arriving by his bedside, to the exclusion of everyone else.
‘Those two – bastard-terrorists. I recognised them straight away when the cops showed me their mugshots. I could’ve stopped them! They pushed by me – I said, “Where you going, mate?”, but I let them pass! I let them do it! Rhys, Joe, Adrian... they’d be alive now -’ Sobs shake his body. He pulls his hand out of Tara’s and presses his fist between his teeth to muffle the crying. ‘It’s my fault they’re dead. My fault...’
‘No, no... Stop this now, Charlie! None of it is your fault!’ Theresa is shaking with fury, or despair. Hasn’t her son suffered enough? He doesn’t deserve all this anguish and guilt! ‘Tell him, Jerry! Tell him!’
Jerry looks bewildered. He is not a strong man and doesn’t know how to exert his authority; he doesn’t believe he has any. Anyway, he can’t fathom what Charlie is talking about. ‘Don’t upset yourself, son. You must rest,’ he stammers, hapless.
‘Those two, Dad,’ Charlie insists on prolonging his mental torment, ‘I don’t know their names, but I remember their faces. I was stood up – there was no seats in that carriage – I was blocking their passage – they pushed by me – heading for the driver’s door. One of them looked at me – I told him, “No seats up there...” He heard me, but they weren’t looking for seats, were they? The bastards! They were gonna hold up the train, and I could’ve stopped them!’
‘No, you couldn’t,’ Gillian says. She is the only one who is calm and composed, the only one who gets what he is talking about. Perhaps, because of her job, she’s used to keeping a cool head under fire and to analyse facts without emotional engagement. Perhaps it is because she’s made that way – detached. Be as it may, she won’t be swept away by this river of grief. ‘If you’d tried to stop them, you too would be dead. It’s a simple fact -’
‘Mum – don’t!’ Tara fixes her with a warning glare. What has she said wrong?
‘Sometimes I wish I was,’ Charlie mumbles under his breath.
The nurse sends them away – it’s time for Charlie’s meds; then he needs to rest. The more he rests, the quicker his recovery. He turns his head away when they say goodbye, even when Tara tries to kiss him. It’s those damned emotions: they play a man for a fool. Gillian has never been any good at making sense of emotions. Tara tries to teach her a thing or two. ‘Next time, Mum, say nothing.
OK? You aren’t helping – only making things worse.’
‘Yes, of course... What was I thinking!’ Gillian agrees, keen to please her daughter. She glances furtively at the Outhwaites. Are they angry with her, too? It’s hard to tell. Jerry is holding Theresa around the elbow, carrying her weight as if she’s about to sink to the floor.
‘This isn’t over yet, not by far,’ Theresa sniffles. ‘When will we have our son back?’
‘One small step at a time. At least he’s alive.’
Gillian is about to agree with that statement when she collides with a diminutive elderly woman. Both of them break into a profuse apology. ‘I’m sorry! I wasn’t looking!’ There is a tint of a South African, or Zimbabwean, accent in the old lady’s voice. Gillian recognises it instantly. It brings back the memories of her life in Kwa-Zulu Natal.
Pippa has brought grapes and chocolates, as y
ou do for people confined in hospitals. She had to take a bus this time as she can’t afford the taxi any more. Everything is so expensive, she has realised recently. But not the bus. She is a bus-pass holder, a fact which has been buried somewhere at the back of her mind for years. She has always regarded the little card bearing not the most flattering photo of her as rather useless, but now, suddenly, it has become absolutely indispensable. She saves money on transport so that she can spend it on grapes and chocolates, and sometimes on something small for herself. Yesterday, she bought a new scarf. Her excuse is that the winter is unusually chilly this year, but the scarf is also pretty and soft; it rejuvenates her when she wraps it around her neck, covering the scruffiness of it. She must look her best, of course.
She enters the ward and finds him awake and smiling at her. So he has noticed her new scarf! Pippa blushes.
‘I brought you some grapes, and chocolates.’ She kisses him on the cheek. ‘We’d better hide them in the drawer, before the nurses catch us!’ Dexterously, she conceals the box of chocolates in the depths of his bedside table.
‘Thanks, Mum!’
‘Don’t you mum me, Harry! I’m doing this for you, but really! You ought to be more careful in future,’ she scolds him gently, playfully. She doesn’t mean to be harsh on him, but God! – didn’t he give her a fright! Getting himself into trouble like that! She nearly lost him! What would she do without him if the unthinkable had happened, if she had lost him! She can’t bear the thought of it! She sits on the side of his bed and gazes lovingly at his handsome, manly face. She strokes his hand where the big needle is attached with a plaster. ‘Oh, Harry, Harry, what shall I do with you?’ she admonishes him, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.
He grasps her hand and kisses it.
‘Do you think the nurses may object if we kiss, properly kiss?’ she asks.
A little tear comes from nowhere and rolls down his cheek.
‘What’s that for?’ Pippa pulls a hankie out of her bag and wipes away the unruly tear. ‘Anyway, you’re right – we shouldn’t be kissing. Not in public... When you come home...’
She picks up a grape from the punnet and feeds it to him. He crushes it with his teeth, smiles, tells her the grapes are yum. He is so good-looking, her Harry! A magnet for women! ‘You’d better not chase after the nurses,’ she chuckles. She knows he won’t. He only has eyes for her.
A nurse wanders in. Fortunately, she is rather heavy and unattractive. And she isn’t in the first bloom of youth.
‘Nurse!’ Pippa takes this opportunity to inquire, ‘When will you be releasing my husband? I feel he will recover much better at home.’
The nurse looks at her awkwardly; then her eyes travel to Harry, questioning and puzzled. He shakes his head. A little secret between them? Pippa cocks her head, a nip of suspicion tearing on the edge of her mind. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know,’ she says aloofly. ‘I’d better speak to the doctor, hadn’t I?’
‘Yes, Mrs Winterbourne,’ the nurse concurs. Her voice is low and tired. No, Harry wouldn’t find her in the least attractive. ‘Visiting hours are over. You can come back tomorrow, at ten.’
‘I was just leaving. I’ve a bus to catch.’ Pippa shrugs her shoulders, none too pleased about the nurse’s manners. She leans over and, with all due propriety, kisses Harry on the forehead. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, darling.’
She leaves the room and, mercifully, hears nothing of the exchange that takes place following her departure:
‘Your mother, I take it?’
‘Yes. My father died on that train, you know?’
‘Everyone knows. The hospital is full of casualties. I had to cut my holiday short.’
‘Yes, I can imagine. My mother can’t get her head around his death. She thinks I am him, and I don’t know how to tell her...’
‘Poor thing. Bless her! Let her believe what she wants to believe. The brain has ways of protecting itself against shock.’
The bomber’s parents look dignified and innocuous: he, a well-presented man of Middle-Eastern origins, with a neatly trimmed beard and tinted rimless glasses; she, slim, with dark soulful eyes, an upright posture and long black hair threaded with silver. Both are wearing smart, Western clothes. Both are well-spoken despite the remnants of foreign accents. They are Iranian, having come to Britain after the Islamic Revolution of 1979 – refugees from religious persecution, the voiceover informs the viewer. How ironic, Gillian marvels.
Pain is howling from the depths of the woman’s eyes which are crumbling with red veins. The man’s eyes are hidden behind his dark glasses, but his pain is in his voice. Gillian watches them and wonders: what is it about? Is it about the loss of their only son, or is it about the fact that he turned out to be heartless killer? Which is worse?
It is notable that, although they sit arm in arm on a stylish sofa, they do not hold hands and their bodies do not touch. They are isolated in their respective pain. It is as if they do not dare to draw solace from each other. Perhaps one blames the other one for what happened?
The man continues, ‘And we’d like to say how very sorry we are for... to all the families of the victims. We feel their pain -’
‘How dare he?’ Theresa asks.
‘We didn’t see it coming. If our son committed this...’ the man swallows hard and takes off his misted glasses, revealing his swollen eyes, ‘then he is not our son.’
‘He didn’t do it!’ the woman interrupts him, passionate and defiant. ‘I didn’t bring him up like that! Ahmed wouldn’t have done this! He wouldn’t! He was a kind, decent -’
Tara points the remote at the screen, and the TV goes blank. ‘That’s enough,’ she says.
‘They’re in denial,’ Jerry comments. ‘You don’t have it in you to believe it, as a parent, you don’t have it in you...’
‘You’d know if Charlie was up to no good – I’d know – it’s a mother’s intuition,’ Theresa contradicts her husband, ‘but, you see, we’ll never be in that place. Charlie would never do anything like that.’
Gillian stops herself from pointing out the glaring flaw in Theresa’s argument. Tara has warned her to say nothing.
XXVIII
Jerry has shoved his and Theresa’s small suitcases into the boot of his estate car, and is sitting behind the wheel, waiting for his wife. Theresa has given Gillian a hearty hug, which made Gillian feel awkward. As usual. She is invariably discomfited by random acts of familiarity and affection from people she considers strangers, which includes almost everyone. She is relieved when Theresa redirects her attention to Tara. They hold each other for a while, their intimacy even more disconcerting to Gillian than the hug she has had to endure. Is she jealous of their closeness? She tells herself she shouldn’t be – at least her daughter is inclined to engage in healthy human interaction.
‘Thank you for having us,’ Jerry smiles from the car.
‘Any time, Jerry. I’ll see you both on Friday.’
‘If that’s OK?’
‘Any time, as I said.’
They are going home for the week, back to work, back to their everyday lives. Charlie is out of danger and on a fast route to recovery. The doctors are delighted with him. His parents can breathe again, live again.
Theresa has let go of Tara and, in one last attempt to evoke some form of an emotive response from Gillian, grabs her hand. ‘I couldn’t wish for a better in-law. Thank you, Gill,’ she enthuses. Gillian winces. She definitely doesn’t like being called Gill. She smiles weakly and waves them goodbye, deep down dreading Friday already. In a mirror reflection of his mistress’s feelings, Corky growls at her feet and simply cannot hold himself back from barking farewell to the house guests. ‘Bad dog, Corky!’ Gillian admonishes him without meaning it. Instantly, overcome by guilt, he flattens his ears and gives his mistress an apologetic gaze. He can read her like a book. He knows she’s growling inwardly and he regrets betraying her feelings like that.
Tara pats the dog on the head, ‘It’s all righ
t, boy’.
Gillian raises an eyebrow, ‘That’s what I’d call giving the dog mixed messages.’
‘I know.’ Tara throws her hands up in a gesture of surrender, ‘Guilty as charged.’ She tenderly touches her mother’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘For everything,’ she shrugs and pulls away. ‘Dad’s coming on Thursday, remember?’
No, Gillian didn’t remember that small fact. ‘Oh,’ she continues growling inside her head. ‘With the wedding off, I thought there was a change of plans...’
‘He still wants to be here for me, and for Charlie.’
‘Yes, of course he does. Let’s go inside before we freeze.’ It is a chilly evening. Frost glistens in the light of a street lamp.
‘I think I ought to go and see Sasha,’ Tara says, unable to conceal her reluctance. ‘I’ve been putting it off. I just don’t know what to say to her... Isn’t that selfish?’
‘Yeah, it probably is,’ Gillian regrets it the moment she says it. ‘I mean -’
‘I know what you mean. It’s all right, Mum. I have to go and see her – as simple as that. I just feel guilty that Charlie is... you know, and Rhys – isn’t.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘I know that, but I just don’t know what to say. What words can I say to her to make it sound meaningful? She’s my best friend and I don’t know what to say to her.’
‘Say nothing. Just be her friend. Just be there.’
Tara kisses her cheek, ‘Words of wisdom, Mum. I’m impressed! Where did you come by them?’
‘Right...’ Gillian knows when she is being mocked, especially when it is her own child who does the mocking. ‘Off you go! Before I charge you for my wisdom.’
When Tara is gone, Gillian decides that rattling around an empty house, and tripping over the cat and the dog, isn’t the best way to spend Friday evening. Work is what she needs. She has been having withdrawal symptoms in the last two weeks of work deprivation, which other people refer to as holiday. She is not due back until Tuesday, but a flying visit shouldn’t hurt anyone. Scarfe won’t be there – he never is beyond three p.m. on Fridays. This will give her a quiet moment to catch up on the latest developments and to speak to Jon about that troubling little doubt that has been niggling at the back of her mind since she spoke to Charlie.