Now she was scared. On the few occasions she had ever seen him angry he had been truly alarming — when a neighbour had run over a previous Horace, and when he had surprised some burglars to whom he gave such a beating that the police nearly charged him with GBH. Only Hugh’s measured intervention, and the fact that he and the policeman were both on the board of the football club, had saved him.
She opened her mouth to speak, still not sure what she was going to say. But he put up his hand. ‘Let’s talk about something else — anything.’
She went into conversation autopilot: the neighbours’ flood; the campaign to save the row of poplars that lined the main road, beyond the pheasant woods; the youth club his father had championed, but the locals were opposed to. None of it required him to do anything other than listen — if he was hearing any of it. She couldn’t tell. ‘But all we seem to be talking about at the moment is what’s happening in the cities. Your father says he can’t remember a time like it. Even the miners’ strike wasn’t anything like this, he says. He thinks they might declare a state of emergency.’
‘Where is he, anyway?’
‘Up in town, staying at the club.’
If only Hugh was here, he and Tom could have gone off to the pub and Tom could have unloaded. But she was alone and that made the atmosphere more intense. Maybe she could get him to come back on some pretext.
‘I’m going to get cleaned up, then go and see Delphine.’
She put a hand on his. He flinched slightly but she left it there. He frowned at her.
‘Haven’t you spoken to her?’
‘Her phone was off so — no. Why?’
His voice trailed away: he could see his mother had something to say.
‘Darling, she’s gone home — to France. She came by to tell us. She said she thought she needed a bit of time at home. All the trouble here — and everything else.’
They both knew what ‘everything else’ meant.
‘She didn’t want to just disappear without saying goodbye.’
‘To you! I need to see her.’
‘Darling, I think you should let her be — for now. Just let her know you’re safe. I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear that.’
He got up, his jaw set. Was he even listening?
‘She’s had so much to deal with. Losing the baby — it’s something a woman doesn’t really get over. I’m not saying it doesn’t affect men too. But it can be devastating.’
He stared at her vacantly. No Regiment and now no Delphine. His whole life had just ground to a shuddering stop.
15
Sam was soaked through. His linen jacket and even the T-shirt under it had fused themselves into a sodden outer skin. His backpack was a limp wet lump drooping from its straps. He hadn’t bargained on a walk from the station. At the taxi stand he had given the address and the cabbie’s face had contorted with dismay.
‘You ’avin’ a laugh?’
The second had just taken off.
‘Forget it,’ said the third.
He’d tried waiting for a 42, the bus he used to take to school, but a passer-by told him he was wasting his time. ‘All suspended cos of the riots. Four buses were torched. Where have you been — Mars?’
He didn’t have to walk far to see it: the bright orange glow to the east, and emanating from it, the almost continuous shriek of sirens, though the streets near the station were eerily empty.
Twenty-five rain-soaked minutes later, he reached the foot of Trap Hill. A cordon stretched along the east side of Farley Street. The side door of a police van slid open and a PC in riot gear poked his head out. ‘Oi, you. Get over here.’ After four days of semi-continuous battle pleasantries were unlikely to be forthcoming. Inside the van were several more cops — all in various stages of sleep.
Sam set his face to reasonable, accompanied by a small enquiring smile. ‘How can I help, Officer?’
The cop glanced at one of his mates, who leaned out to look at him, then exchanged glances with his colleagues in the time-honoured fashion, as if to say, We’ve got a right one here.
‘You lost or summat?’
‘No, I’m not, actually.’
‘You’re not from round here.’
Sam pointed to Jimmy’s Kebabs, halfway up Trap Hill, still intact, albeit with a plywood front window. ‘See the kebab shop? That’s where I grew up.’
They stared at him. He knew what they were thinking. His hair was black, but his skin was pale and he’d always made a point of staying out of the sun. The linen suit — albeit drenched — along with the designer backpack, was what he considered to be the uniform of an ambitious young academic. No one round here looked like this.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kovacevic, Dr Kovacevic.’
Sam was a convenient Anglicization. His mother had protested but eventually given way and, apart from her, no one called him Sahim.
The cop raised his eyebrows. ‘Hospital’s that way.’ He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the orange glow. He snorted. ‘They’re a bit short right now.’
‘Not a medical doctor, I’m afraid.’
‘What, then?’
‘Criminology.’
They burst out laughing.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’
They continued to laugh, sharing the news with the others in the van.
‘Here, your mam won’t be at home, son. The street’s been evacuated.’
All he’d had from her was a text from an unknown number. Help — they’ve taken me refuge. Help. Mamina. By the time he’d tried to call back a recording said the number was disconnected.
A cop got out and lifted the police tape for him to go through. ‘Try the Krypt. They’ve put some of them up in there.’
Sam frowned.
‘The church hall, as was.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks for your help.’
Again, the cops looked at each other. Probably the first thanks they’d had in quite a few days, he thought, as he plodded up the empty street towards his old home.
It was six weeks since he had spoken to his mother, a year since he’d seen her, and that was only when she’d got herself admitted to hospital after his brother had taken off. I think it’s her heart — it’s broken, explained a weary houseman, a fellow Muslim, who said he had tried his best to find a medical explanation for her condition. ‘Best treatment? Get your brother back. He’s all she talks about.’
All his life, it seemed, he had been at the mercy of her pleas: help Karza with his homework, fetch him back from friends, help him find a job, get him from the police station. And all the while Sam had got top marks, never got drunk or mixed with the wrong people, and had got into a good university, with no acknowledgement from her. Always it was Karza. What does she still see in him — after all I’ve done? The unfairness was infuriating.
He had been in Oxford when the riots kicked off, giving a lecture on gang culture: how was that for timing? When the community is undermined by the exodus of wealth and skills caused by lack of opportunity, setting off a downward spiral, and the traditional authorities — family, male role models — retreat from their stabilizing role or are absent, gangs fill the vacuum. The young seek protection; ancient concepts of revenge and the preservation of honour become paramount again.
He had been applying for a lecturing post. He’d thought it was his for the taking. He had already made a name for himself with appearances on TV. His lines about self-help and responsibility made good sound-bites, and he had just the right tone to appeal to every kind of audience.