The Dangerous Kind

by Deborah O'Connor

  ‘You invited me.’ Sunny squares up to him. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Not you.’ He gestures at me. ‘Her.’

  Sunny shrugs. ‘I wanted to show you I’m good. For what we agreed.’

  ‘Are you a total moron?’ Leo drops his voice to a whispery hiss. ‘My wife is here.’ He looks back towards the privet hedge and the party beyond.

  ‘The vote on my planning bid is next week. I wanted there to be no doubt I’d fulfil my side of the bargain.’ Sunny sounds calm, jokey even, but as he talks he pushes his thumb against his bruised fingernail. I notice that the dead nail, thickened and black, has started to come away. ‘In the same way I wanted to be certain you’d fulfil yours.’

  Leo opens his mouth to say something but then he stops, thinking.

  Sunny sees his chance and takes it. ‘Introduce me to your friends, the ones on the council, and then we’ll leave.’

  I look at Sunny in his Burton’s suit and shiny slip-on shoes and notice how different he looks, how shabby, compared to Leo and all of the other people here. I wonder if Sunny sees this too, if he knows he’s not one of them and, if he does, whether this bothers him.

  Leo’s gaze slides down to where I stand and Sunny lets go of his grip on my arm, presses his hand into my lower back and pushes me forward. ‘This is Rowena.’

  Leo screws up his face and I think he’s going to throw us out but then he seems to soften. ‘Fine.’ He sets off towards the gap in the privet. ‘You’ve got one hour. But she waits here.’

  *

  I sit in the dark on a bench underneath the trees. It’s been ages since I last saw Leo and Sunny, and I need the toilet. I’m trying to decide whether I should go in search of one or whether I could squat behind the trees when Leo appears through the gap in the privet. He is carrying two glasses of pale yellow liquid. He gives me one and sits down.

  ‘Rowena.’ He takes a sip and smacks his lips. ‘It’s an ancient name, did you know that?’ He relaxes back and looks up at the night sky.

  I bring the glass to my mouth. The fizz rises up and wets my nose.

  ‘Rowena was the daughter of a Saxon chief and was considered one of the most accomplished beauties of that age. It comes from the Old English for joy, pleasure or bliss.’

  No one has told me what my name means before. I feel a strange flush of pride.

  ‘How do you know our friend Sunny?’

  I look to the floor, my pride gone. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’ I stop, not sure how to put the rest into words.

  ‘Is he kind to you?’

  I hesitate, not sure whether this man is to be trusted.

  On the other side of the privet the sounds of the party have all but disappeared. He glances around to make sure no one is looking, then reaches across and strokes my hair. One side has fallen forward and covers my face but now he tucks it gently behind my ear. The action is so tender and unexpected that, for reasons I can’t explain, I start to cry.

  ‘There now.’ He pulls me in for a hug and my tears blot his shirt. Underneath the material I can feel the warmth of his body.

  ‘Time to go.’

  I look up to see Sunny. He tries to grab me, but before he can get close Leo stands, blocking his way.

  Sunny thinks it’s some kind of mistake. He steps around Leo and tries again to grab me. This time I step back and place myself at Leo’s side.

  Sunny stops, confused. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Leave the girl,’ says Leo. ‘I’ll make sure she gets home safely.’

  Sunny laughs. ‘Sure you will.’ He shoulders Leo out of the way and grips my wrist. ‘Come on, Ro.’ But then he flinches and lets me go. ‘Fuck.’ He brings his hand up to his face and examines it. The index finger has a white space where the bruised nail used to be, the newly exposed skin puckered and dry.

  ‘Your bid will be approved,’ says Leo, once more positioning himself between me and Sunny. ‘I guarantee it.’

  Sunny sucks his finger. ‘Fine. You’re welcome to her.’ He starts to walk away, but after a few steps he stops and returns to where we are. He bends in close so that his face is almost touching mine. ‘You think I’m bad,’ he says, his lemon and mint smell from earlier now replaced by a meaty stink, ‘but these people . . .’ he gestures to Leo and the fading party ‘ . . . what you’re getting yourself into, you have no idea.’

  With that he’s gone, back through the privet and away, into the night.

  Wednesday 14 December

  Present day

  Jitesh

  Evening prayers at the Mandir, and Jitesh Ganguly couldn’t breathe. He tried to calm himself with the exercise his therapist had taught him. Inhale, hold for five seconds, then exhale for ten. Repeat. But the air in the temple was warm and cloyed with burned ghee and every time he took a breath he felt as if he was being choked. He tugged at the neck of his kurta. If he couldn’t relax soon he’d have to make a bolt for the exit or, worse, risk hyperventilating and passing out on the floor. Not for the first time, Jitesh wondered if physics would ever come up with a device to teleport him instantly from situations like this.

  The source of his breathing difficulties was Kishor Patel, Kish to his friends. Jitesh usually tried to avoid him, but a few minutes earlier he’d spotted him sitting four rows in front. Kishor was eighteen, six feet tall and broad of chest. Jitesh had last seen him on the final day of their A levels. Now in his first year of a geography degree at Cambridge, Kishor must have come home for the Christmas holidays. Jitesh’s parents said Kishor was a nice boy, polite, clever – ‘He rows for his college.’ Jitesh knew otherwise.

  He studied the back of Kishor’s head. Unlike the coarse thicket that curled from his own scalp, Kishor’s hair was a shiny oiled black and fell from his crown in neat lines that ended in a naped curve, just above his kurta. The pillared hall was packed with devotees hunched forward, arms wrapped around their knees, all trying to take up as little space as possible. Kishor, though, had stretched his legs across the under-heated floor as if there was room to spare.

  Jitesh switched his gaze to the monks at the front of the congregation and focused on counting the seconds as he breathed slowly in and out. Gradually, the tightness in his chest began to loosen.

  His breathing stabilised, Jitesh checked back on Kishor. His head was turned towards the women’s side of the temple where Jitesh’s younger sister, Anisha, was sitting with his mother, aunts and cousins. Anisha was barely sixteen but she sat with the poise of a grande dame: legs crossed, spine erect, her purple sari edged with gold. Once more, Jitesh felt his heart jump and twitch. Was Kishor looking at her or some other girl?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp pain in his ribs. An elbow. He turned to see his father, next to him, clapping and singing. He nodded, urging Jitesh to join in. Jitesh heeded his prompt.

  This part of the ceremony was supposed to be a meditation, a chance to clear your mind. He had always enjoyed the ritual and the still, centred feeling it gave him, but now, with Kishor there, it had the opposite effect. Emptying his brain made space for thoughts he wouldn’t otherwise allow, thoughts he usually worked hard to keep at bay.

  January, and the gentle thwap of post landing on the doormat.

  His mother’s scream when he’d ripped open the envelope and read what was inside.

  The day Jitesh had received an offer to study at Cambridge was supposed to have been one of the best of his life. Instead it had marked the beginning of a chain of events he’d much rather forget.

  After a morning at home with his overexcited parents (at one point his father had picked him up and jigged him around the living room like he was a little kid), he’d gone to school. There he’d learned that he and Kishor had been the only two boys in their year group to be offered a place, both at the same Cambridge college, Kishor to read geography, Jitesh natural sciences. Word spread, and that lunchtime Kishor had approached him in the common room and volunteered his congratulations. His face had darkened a little when he’d discover
ed that Jitesh’s offer was unconditional (he could totally balls up his exams and they’d still let him in), but he’d been nice, friendly. He was having a house party that weekend – his parents would be away – and wondered if Jitesh would like to come. Jitesh had been delighted.

  On Saturday night Jitesh had put on his best jeans and T-shirt and shown up on Kishor’s doorstep at eight p.m. sharp. At first it had been okay. The door opened and he was swept into a living room full of teenagers. Some were slouched on sofas, others dancing and drinking. He grabbed a Coke and stood in a corner, watching, not sure what to do next. He soon spotted Shanae Roberts, also alone in a corner but on the other side of the room. Shanae was in the lower sixth and had recently moved to the area. Small, with curly brown hair, she was on the school fencing team, and Jitesh often saw her lugging an enormous kitbag on and off the bus. He thought she was cute but had yet to say hello.

  Now the music in the temple rose in a crescendo, the Mandir’s marble cupola vibrating with the sound of four hundred voices united in song. Jitesh watched Kishor clap along in time, his shoulder-blades pumping up and down beneath his lilac kurta. As the monks began to circulate their lamps around the deities, he noticed Kishor shift on his haunches and sneak another look at Anisha. He cocked his head to the side, predatory, like a tiger assessing a kill. Jitesh tensed. Anisha, sensing she was being watched, tilted her head slightly, and for a moment, she met Kishor’s gaze . . .

  At the party Jitesh had just plucked up the courage to go over and talk to Shanae when Kishor appeared. Jitesh watched as he offered her a drink. She accepted and they stood chatting, Kishor leaning towards her, his right hand planted high on the wall just above her head. The stance had cast Shanae’s face and upper body into shadow. It made her look like a half-person, nothing more than skinny jeans and a pair of fluorescent pink and yellow Nikes . . .

  The ritual was almost at a close. The saffron robes of the monks blurred with the moving flames. Jitesh watched the corner of his sister’s mouth lift. A faint smile. She was flattered that Kishor was looking at her. It was the tiniest movement but Jitesh saw it and so did Kishor.

  For the second time that evening, Jitesh’s chest was being squeezed. He tried to restart his breathing exercises but it was impossible. The air was too thick, his lungs too small. Light-headed, he lurched to his feet and staggered towards the exit. He made it outside just in time and crouched on the ground. There, with his head between his knees, he gulped at the cold night until his throat hurt and his eyes watered.

  He recovered in time to see his parents emerge from the temple. They joined him at the bottom of the marble staircase.

  ‘You okay?’ asked his mother.

  Jitesh nodded and pushed his scarf up to cover the lower half of his face.

  Somewhere during the process of collecting their shoes and coats his parents had lost sight of his sister so they stood to one side of the path to wait. There was always a sense of release after prayers, and as the crowd streamed past, laughter and chatter mixed with the thump and wail of music from departing cars in the street. In the near distance, Wembley’s latticed steel arch curved into the night, its shape picked out in lights. There was a sudden roar from the football fans, a surprise goal, and as the sound rippled out of the stadium, the lights turned red.

  His parents were soon approached by another couple, friends of theirs. A girl trailed in their wake. She was tall and slim, her hair cut into a short bob. A ruby studded her left nostril. He’d never seen her at temple before but she seemed familiar.

  While his mum and dad exchanged greetings, Jitesh hovered in the background and scanned the steps, waiting for Anisha. He searched the mouth of the building for any sign of her purple sari but she was nowhere to be seen. He was just starting to wonder if she had stayed behind deliberately, to chat to Kishor, when he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. He guided him forward, into the conversation. ‘Jitesh, this is Mr and Mrs Desai.’ He gestured at the thin man in a suit and tie and the woman, currently preoccupied with positioning a pair of furry pink earmuffs on her head. ‘Mr Desai is an old friend.’ At the mention of the name he grinned, revealing the bright white teeth that had earned him the nickname ‘Smiler’. People often speculated that it wasn’t possible for a man of his age to have such perfect teeth and would enquire as to his secret. Bleaching? Dentures? Implants? His father would put them straight: ‘No coffee, no smoking, and I floss and brush twice a day.’

  ‘Your dad says you have an internship,’ said Mr Desai.

  ‘The BBC,’ said his father, squeezing Jitesh’s shoulder.

  ‘Impressive. Doing what?’

  Jitesh looked to his father, waiting to see if he was going to answer for him. He often did, whether Jitesh wanted him to or not. It was easier that way. At other times his dad would hold back, as though he’d decided that his son should learn to speak for himself. This was one of those times.

  Jitesh dropped his scarf away from his mouth and took a breath to prepare. ‘S-s-s-s-s—’ He tensed. If he wasn’t careful he’d seize up, like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. He stopped, took another breath, a single shallow sip, and tried again. ‘S-s-s-sound engineer.’

  ‘We thought it would be good for him to take a gap year,’ said his father. ‘Get some life experience. Before he goes up to Cambridge.’

  Desai reached for the girl with the ruby nose-stud and pulled her near. ‘My youngest, Meera. Medicine at Durham. Just finished her first term.’

  Meera caught Jitesh’s eye and pulled a face, making fun of their parents’ bragging. The collusion was unexpected and he blushed.

  He retreated back into his scarf and then, once he was certain she’d looked away, he braved a glance at her face. Heart-shaped with high, sharp cheekbones, her eyes were ringed with thick black liner.

  ‘Ganguly! Long time no see!’

  Jitesh turned to see Kishor, Anisha by his side. His breath huffed white on the cold air and Jitesh noticed how, instead of dispersing, it seemed to linger by his mouth, like a cloud.

  ‘Kishor,’ said his father, ‘how is college? How is the rowing? Will we see you in the boat race?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Kishor. He lifted his arm and clenched his biceps. ‘I’m training hard.’ He offered it to Anisha. She patted it and giggled.

  That night at Kishor’s party, Jitesh hadn’t lingered in the living room. Venturing out to the relative quiet of the kitchen, he’d been headed for the conservatory when he’d heard a strange noise. It was coming from a cardboard box on the floor next to the bin. He lifted the flap and peered inside. Huddled in the corner was a frog. A dirty brown colour, it was perfectly still, the underside of its mouth ballooning in and out.

  A boy passing through paused and peered over Jitesh’s shoulder. ‘Kish found it in the garden earlier.’ Jitesh could smell the boy’s breath. Weed mixed with whisky. ‘Said he’s going to keep it as a pet.’

  Jitesh studied the creature for another minute before closing the flap and continuing on his way.

  In the conservatory he edged around the weed-and-whisky boy, now locked in a kiss so vigorous it looked like his and the girl’s jaw might dislocate, and carried on through to the garden. There he settled on a bench and sat listening to the sounds of the party. He was delighted to have been invited but he felt out of place. He’d use the bathroom and then he’d leave.

  He returned inside and went upstairs. On the landing he was faced with five identical doors, all closed. The one to his left was in roughly the same position as the bathroom in his own home. He pressed down on the handle . . .

  Now, outside the temple, Kishor had turned his attention to Meera. Nudging Anisha out of the way he stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Kishor Patel.’ He smiled. ‘Everyone calls me Kish. And you are?’

  Jitesh remembered how he knew her. They’d been at primary school together. Meera was one of the few other Bangladeshis in a class of largely Gujarati children.

  ‘It’s a relief to hav
e seen you all,’ said Mr Desai to his father. ‘We’d heard . . .’ He trailed off, clearly unsure how to continue. ‘People had said . . .’ He was trying to find a way to put what he knew into words. He seemed to be going for a third attempt but shrugged his shoulders in defeat. He turned to Jitesh. ‘It’s good to see you looking well.’

  Jitesh’s father blew on his hands and rubbed them together. ‘We’d better be going.’ He guided his family to the stone arch. There was another roar from Wembley. They felt the sound come towards them, then ricochet off the walls of the Mandir. His father waited for the noise to subside, then gave the Desais another flash of that toothy white grin. ‘Take care.’

  Jessamine

  Jessamine leaned against the roof-garden wall, breathed in the freezing night air and stared out at the London skyline. To her right were the Gherkin, Tower 42 and St Paul’s. The outline of the buildings was like the ECG dip and spike of a patient about to go into cardiac arrest. To her left, much closer to home, was Canary Wharf’s triumvirate of towers, her preferred view, the blocks of metal and glass, with the Hawksmoor spire of St Anne’s just across the road from where she stood.

  She came up here whenever she had something to muddle through. Tonight it was Cassie Scolari. More specifically, that Cassie’s friend had asked her to look into her disappearance. After her disastrous lunch-date at the Riding House Café Jessamine had returned to work and spent the rest of the afternoon with the package containing Cassie’s file beside her on the desk. She must have looked at the contents of that envelope another three or four times.

  In theory, the women’s refuge address in Cassie’s diary shouldn’t have made any difference to her interest in the case. Her friend had already told her that Cassie was in an abusive relationship. But there was something about seeing it written in black and white that she found utterly heartbreaking. That, and the fact that trying to leave was the single most dangerous thing an abused woman could do.