What Came Before He Shot Her (52 page)

“Oh, you may find him amusing,” Majidah told them. “But he will be laughing out of his posterior should that woman walk off with—”

“An orthodontist,” he finished. “Ah, what dangers there are when one’s wife is a dentist. Beware. Beware.” He kissed his mother loudly on the cheek. “Let me look at you,” he said. “Why have you not come for Sunday dinner all this month?”

“And eat her dried-out chicken tikka? You must be mad, Sayf al Din.

That wife of yours needs to learn how to cook.”

He looked at Ness, “She’s a record playing a single song, my mum.”

“I got that ’bout her,” Ness agreed. “Only the song’s diff ’rent for everyone she knows.”

“She’s clever that way,” Sayf al Din said. “It makes one think she actually possesses conversation.” He put his arm around his mother’s shoulders and squeezed. “You’re losing weight again,” he told her.

“Are you skipping meals, Ma? If you keep doing that, you know, I shall be forced to strap you down and feed you May’s samosas till you burst.”

“You might go ahead and just poison me instead,” Majidah said.

“This is Vanessa Campbell, as you have guessed, Sayf al Din. She has come to assist me, but you might show her your studio first.”

Sayf al Din accommodated his mother with pleasure, like any man might who enjoys his work. He showed off a loft of organised chaos, where he designed and fashioned headwear for the Royal Opera, for West End theatrical productions, for television and film. He explained the process and brought out sketches. In these, Ness recognised the finished hand-coloured drawings and their penciled notes as very similar to the framed pieces that hung on Majidah’s sitting-room walls. She said, “Oh yeah, I seen these at your mum’s. I wondered ’bout them.”

“What did you wonder?” he asked.

“Who did ’em, I s’pose. An’ why they ’as on the wall. Not that they ain’t—”

“‘Are not,’ Vanessa,” Majidah said patiently.

“_Aren’t _ pretty, cos they are. Just not what you ’spect to see . . .”

“Ah. Yes. But she’s proud of me, aren’t you, Ma? You wouldn’t think so, considering how she goes on, but she’d not have it any other way.

Is that not the truth, Ma?”

“Have no misconception about it,” Majidah said. “You are the most troublesome of my children.”

He smiled, as did she. He said, “As that will be. Rand, of whom you so disapprove, will help you gather up the materials you want. And while you do that, I’ll show your companion how the drawings get themselves made into the headgear.”

Sayf al Din was as much a talker as his mother. He gave Ness not only explanations of what he did but demonstrations as well. He offered not only demonstrations but gossip, too. He was as amusing a companion as he looked, and part of his pleasure in his work was to try his millinery on others. He beckoned Ness to put on everything from turbans to tiaras. He perched hats and headdresses on his workers, who chuckled and continued with their sewing. He put a sequined Stetson on Rand’s veiled head, and for himself he chose the hat and plume of a musketeer.

His enthusiasm got directly into Ness’s blood and filled her with what she had least expected upon setting out on this jaunt with Majidah: pleasure, interest, and curiosity. After several days reliving in her mind the experience in Sayf al Din’s studio, Ness took action. She went to the offices of the Youth Offending Team on a day when Fabia Bender was not expecting her.

Ness was different from what she’d been at their last meeting, and Fabia Bender had no trouble seeing this, although she couldn’t put a name to what had altered the girl. She learned soon enough when Ness introduced the reason for her call. She finally had a plan for her education, she said, and she needed the approval of the magistrate.

So far the matter of Ness’s schooling had been a dicey one for Fabia Bender. Holland Park School had refused to take the girl back, using as their excuse the lack of places for the autumn term. Every comprehensive nearby had told the same tale, and it was only on the south bank of the Thames that the social worker had finally found a school willing to take her. But an inspection of it had given Fabia pause. Not only was it in Peckham, which would have necessitated more than an hour’s commute by bus in either direction, but it was also in the worst part of Peckham, acting as a blatant invitation for Vanessa Campbell to fall in with the sort of young people most easily available to a troubled adolescent, which is to say the wrong sort of young people altogether. So Fabia had made a plea to the magistrate for more time. She
would
find something suitable, she told him, and in the meantime Vanessa Campbell was taking a simple course in music appreciation at the college and fulfi lling her community-service sentence without a complaint from the Meanwhile Gardens Child Drop-in Centre.
Surely
that had to count in her favour . . . ? It had done, and a reprieve was given. But, she was told, something permanent had to be arranged before the winter term.

“Millinery?” Fabia Bender said when Ness told her what she wanted to pursue. “Making
hats
?” It wasn’t that she thought Ness had no ability to do this. It was just that out of every possible line of work that the girl might have come up with to define her future, millinery seemed the last of them. “Do you fancy designing for Royal Ascot or something?”

Ness heard the astonishment in the social worker’s voice, and she did not take it well. She shifted her weight onto one hip, that belliger-ent pose so common to girls her age. “Wha’ if I do?” she asked, although designing the huge and often nonsensical pieces of headgear worn by posh white ladies during that annual period of horseracing was the last thing on her mind. Indeed, she hadn’t even considered it and barely knew what Royal Ascot was, aside from a source of tabloid pictures of champagne-drinking, skinny females with titles in front of their names.

Fabia Bender was hasty in her reply. She said, “Forgive me. That was completely inappropriate of me. Tell me how you arrived at millinery and what plan you have to pursue it.” She examined Ness and took the measure of her determination. “Because you
have
a plan, haven’t you?

Something tells me that you wouldn’t have come here without a plan.”

In this she was correct, and the fact that she’d acknowledged Ness’s farsightedness pleased the girl. Assisted by Majidah and Sayf al Din, she’d done her homework. While she didn’t answer the first part of Fabia Bender’s query—her pride prevented her from admitting that something
good
might actually be coming out of her stint of community service—she did tell her about courses offered at Kensington and Chelsea College. Indeed, she’d discovered a veritable treasure trove of opportunities at the college to explore her newfound interest in millinery, even a yearlong national certificate course that she pronounced herself “dead keen” on taking.

Fabia Bender was pleased, but cautious. This change in Ness was sudden enough to give her pause and to remind her not to count her chickens. But since hers was a difficult and often thankless job, to have one of her troubled clients actually taking steps to alter what would otherwise have been the unswerving course of a life heading towards perdition did make her feel that her own career choice had perhaps not been in vain. Ness needed encouragement. Fabia would provide it.

She said, “This is outstanding, Vanessa. Let’s see where you need to begin.”

A FTER HIS FUTILE confrontation with Neal Wyatt, Joel found himself at what he believed was the point of no alternatives. He heard the clock ticking, and he needed to do something to stop it.

The irony of his situation was that the one change in his life that he had once so feared was now the one change he most desired. If Toby could be sent away to a special school, he would be safe. But that possibility did not seem likely, which meant that Toby would not be leaving the near clutches of Neal Wyatt.

That put Joel on constant alert. It also necessitated never letting his brother out of his sight unless someone else was with him or he was at Middle Row School. As the weeks wore on—weeks in which Neal and his crew went back to following, hooting, snickering, and making low-voiced threats—this constant vigilance took its toll. His schoolwork suffered, and his poetry dwindled. He knew things could not go on like this without his aunt finding out and taking steps to deal with the situation in a way that would only make it worse.

So he had to deal with it himself, and there appeared to be only one avenue left open. He could feel it in the weight of the flick knife that he carried in his rucksack or in his pocket. Neal Wyatt, he decided, wasn’t going to listen to reason. But he would very likely listen to the Blade.

Daily, then, after Joel took Toby to the learning centre, he sought out the Blade. He began by asking Ness where he could find her erstwhile lover, but her reply was unhelpful. “Wha’ d’you want wiv
dat
blood?”

she asked him shrewdly. “You gettin up to trouble or summick?” And then more pointedly, “You smokin weed? Shit, you
snorting
?”

To his protestations that it was “nuffink like dat,” she said, “Better not be,” but that was all she said. She wasn’t about to tell him how to locate the Blade. No good had come out of
her
knowing him, so how could good come out of her brother’s having anything to do with the man?

Thus, Joel was on his own to find him. Hibah was no help. She knew who the Blade was—who, with eyes and ears in North Kensington, didn’t know who the Blade was?—but as to where he might be found . . . It was more a case of the Blade finding you than you finding the Blade.

Joel knew of only one place that the Blade actually went, so he went there, too: to the block of flats on Portnall Road, where Arissa lived.

Having found him there once, it seemed reasonable to conclude that it was only a matter of time before he might find him there again.

Cal Hancock would be the sign. Joel would not have to knock upon doors. He would merely have to wait until he saw Cal lounging in the entryway of that building, doing guard duty.

Once Joel made this decision, it was three more days before he had a payoff. On an afternoon that blustered with the promise of an autumn rainfall, he finally saw Calvin in position, toking up on a spliff the size of a small banana, his knitted cap pulled low on his brow. He was stretched across the red and black tiles, his legs the only thing prevent-ing anyone’s entrance to the building. A closer look, though, showed Joel that Cal meant business after his own fashion: A length of chain was wrapped around his wrist and the butt of what appeared to be a pistol stuck out from the waistband of his jeans. Joel’s eyes widened when he saw this last item. He could not think it was real.

Joel said to him, “Happenin, mon?” He spoke from a few feet away, having come up the path from the pavement without Cal’s knowledge.

So much for guarding, was what Joel thought.

Cal came around from his meditative state. Dreamily, he nodded at Joel. “Bred,” he said. He toked up again.

“You s’posed to be guardin him like dis? I could’ve jumped you, blood. He see you . . .” Joel let his voice drop meaningfully.

“’S cool man, innit,” Cal replied. “Ain’t no one vexin the Blade while Calvin’s watchin. ’Sides, he ain’t in a mood to cause me aggro, he don’t like wha’ I do.”

“Why’s ’at?”

“Know V’ronica over Mozart Estate?” And when Joel shook his head, “She popped out a kid f’r him dis morning. A boy. His third, dis is. He tol’ her to get rid ’f it months ago, but she wouldn’t an’ now he’s pleased as punch. Three sons make him the
mon
, innit. He celebratin with Rissa.”

“She know about V’ronica, den?”

Cal laughed. “You mad all th’ way? Course she don’t know. Dumb bitch prob’ly t’inks he jus’ happy to see her. Well, I ’spect he’s happy enough. She got rid ’f hers like he told her.” Cal took another hit and held it in. “So what you want?”

“I got to talk to the Blade. I got summick for him.”

Calvin shook his head. “Bred, dat ain’t a good idea. He don’t like remindin ’bout you and yours.”

“Cos Ness—?”

“Le’s not go there. Less said ’bout your sister, better it is. Bu’ I tell you dis,” Cal leaned forward, drawing up his legs and resting his elbows on his knees as if to emphasise his next words. “No one throws the Blade over, bred. He the one does the throwin when he feels like the throwin time’s come, y’unnerstan what I say? ’F some woe-man makes a move on her own,
an’
turns out there’s another swack involved and she lie about it . . .” Cal tilted his head to Joel, a movement that said
Finish the thought for yourself
. “You jus’ keep distance ’tween you and the Blade. Like I say, dis ain’t a good place for you to be.”

“Ness di’n’t have no other bloke,” Joel protested. “The Blade t’ink she did?”

Cal flicked ash off the spliff. “Don’t know, don’t want to, don’t intend to ask. And don’t you neither.”

“But he
got
Arissa,” Joel pointed out. “Can’t she take Ness’s place?”

“Ain’t ’
bout
taking nobody’s place. Dis’s about respeck.”

“Dat’s how he sees it?”

“No other way.” Cal played with the chain wrapped around his wrist, moving it to wrap around his knuckles. He flexed his fingers to see how they worked thus bound. “So right now . . . ?” he said. “Best not to break up the party, y’unnerstan. Long as he’s doin Arissa, he’s gettin b’yond Ness Campbell, and dat’s a very good place for him to be.”

“But dat was
months
ago!”

Cal sucked his teeth. There was nothing more to say.

Joel’s shoulders dropped. The Blade was the only real hope he had.

Without his help, Joel didn’t see how he could manage to keep Toby safe. If Neal had been after him only, he would have trudged back where he’d come from, knowing that a serious battle with the other boy was inevitable. But the fact was that Neal knew his real weakness, and it had nothing to do with his fear for his own safety and everything to do with Toby.

Joel thought about his alternatives. They came down to one thing.

He said, “Okay, but I got summick for him. You give it him from me?