I nodded.
‘I remember. Working on all the days when they did not want to work,’ I said. ‘Working at Christmas. Working on Sundays.’
‘And in the end they accepted me. All right, Arnold, mate? They called me mate. They called me Arnold. And now I know I have to win their acceptance again.’
‘You might have to work a bit harder this time.’
‘I know.’ He hung his head. ‘After everything that has happened on this street. After all the misery and death caused by my sons. But that is them, not me. I have to show my colleagues that I am still the same man.’
I said nothing. It seemed unlikely that he would win hearts and minds by driving the number 73 from Victoria Bus Station to Stoke Newington Common. But what else could he do?
I saw his hands shaking on his Tupperware lunch box.
‘The alternative is to hide in shame and fear,’ he said, answering my question.
He didn’t want me watching his back. He didn’t want a lift to work. He simply wanted to return to a life that I knew – and perhaps he did too – had gone forever.
So Stan and I walked with him to the tube station.
He paused at the ticket barrier with his Oyster card in his hand.
‘Why are you trying to help me?’ he said, his eyes sliding away and then finally meeting mine.
‘Because you don’t deserve to die,’ I said.
And then Ahmed Khan went to work.
Early in the afternoon I waited for Scout outside the Everyman cinema in Hampstead, checking the progress of Ahmed Khan’s bus on the news.
The press had been waiting for him at Victoria Bus Station and his return to work was the lead item on the news for most of the morning. But by the time Stan and I were waiting for Scout to come out of a private birthday girl screening of My Neighbour Totoro, the interest in Ahmed Khan’s return to work had started to wane.
The number 73 is one of the great London bus routes, crossing a vast swathe of the city from west to north and taking in some of the main attractions – Hyde Park, Park Lane, Marble Arch, Oxford Street, the British Library – before veering north at King’s Cross for Angel, Islington and beyond, ending its journey at Stoke Newington and then making the trip back across town.
When Ahmed Khan left Victoria Bus Station he was carrying a busload of reporters and photographers. They took their pictures of the slight, serious, painfully thin man settling himself at the wheel of the big red bus, and he could do nothing to prevent that, but when they barked their questions, he resolutely failed to reply.
When I looked at the news on my phone as I waited for Scout, Ahmed Khan was halfway through his Sunday shift. Already the reporters were drifting off, called away by deadlines and a man who, they saw, just wanted to be left alone to do his job.
There were no incidents with members of the public.
Scout came out of the cinema with Mia, breathless with excitement.
‘Can I go rowing on the Thames? Can I do that? Is it all right? Is it? I want to do the rowing thing, Daddy.’
Mia’s mother confirmed the invitation. The family lived in Pimlico, down by the river, and these sunny, summer Sunday afternoons were spent on the water. So Stan and I found a dog-friendly café – Hampstead was full of them – and he settled at my feet to nibble happily on pieces of toasted buttered bagel.
My ex-wife called just as I was paying the bill.
And I stared at her incoming call, deciding if I should answer it or not, wondering what fleeting fancy it was this time, what new disruption to our daughter’s settled life she was planning, and how much more I should take before calling an end to it forever.
Scout was a happy child but it was a happiness that had been hard-won, as happiness is always hard-won for the children of divorced parents.
But I answered Anne’s call, reflecting that maybe I should have deleted her number by now.
There was silence, and the sound of a child in the background, echoes from another life in a different home. And then finally my ex-wife spoke.
‘I think Scout should live with me now,’ she said.
I waited at the tube station for Ahmed Khan, a knot of sick dread in the pit of my stomach. It was early evening now and the heat of the day had built into something oppressive, the dust and fumes of the fag end of the hot weekend in the city wiping away the memory of that crisp clean early Sunday morning.
I heard the screams before I saw him.
The men and women in their summer clothes came before him like heralds, running from the tube station, faces aghast with disbelieving horror. They leapt the ticket barrier and shoved past the ticket collector as if they were fleeing a fire.
And then I saw him.
Ahmed Khan staggered towards the ticket barrier.
A space had opened up around him, as if what ailed him was contagious, as if he was diseased, as if he brought death with him.
His face looked bewildered.
This is how it ends?
The knife had been plunged into the base of his neck where it met his left shoulder blade. It is exactly the point where the subclavian artery pumps blood to the arms and neck. The subclavian is a large artery, difficult to miss if you know what you are aiming at. You cut it when you want to kill. An arterial spurt of blood had drenched Ahmed Khan’s left arm and the front of his bus driver’s uniform.
And as I reached him, I saw the knife itself.
The blade was buried two inches into his body, but I could still read the inscription on the blade. Blut und Ehre, it said. I saw the nickel-plated pommel, and the grip of black Bakelite with the gold-etched black swastika on a red-and-white diamond.
He opened his mouth to speak and a thick bubble of black blood escaped his throat.
‘Layla,’ he gasped. ‘Who will take care of Layla?’
Then he collapsed into my arms and we sank to the ground together, holding each other. I could hear the sirens coming for him above the screams.
They were there in five minutes.
But Ahmed Khan was dead in my arms before then.
It was TDC Joy Adams who saw the graffiti.
The tube station was a murder scene now. The CSIs were all over it. The Divisional Surgeon had pronounced Ahmed Khan dead and the mortuary van had taken his body away. I covered my blood-stained T-shirt with a fleece I got from one of the local coppers. By the time Edie and Joy arrived there was nothing to do but notify his next of kin. The three of us walked to Borodino Street.
I rang the doorbell and Layla answered, the fear already on her face. It is always the same when someone opens the door and police are standing there. They look at you and they are afraid. And they are right to be afraid. The news we bring is never good.
‘Is your grandmother home?’ I said.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, and I was struck by how different she sounded to her grandparents. All I heard in her voice was the accent of the East End, all I heard was the sound of someone who knew no other home. ‘I heard the sirens. Is it my Papa-Papa?’
‘Please, Layla,’ Edie said gently, her face white with concern, her hands resting on the girl’s arms. ‘Get your grandmother for us.’
Joy Adams had remained on the street. She was staring at debris in the tiny front garden.
‘You need to see this, Max,’ she called to me.
One of the floorboards had been propped on its side and separated from the rest. There were numbers, five of them, written with some kind of thick black magic marker, carefully etched into the ruined wood. Next to the ramshackle pile, this floorboard looked posed, as if the world needed to see this message. Had I seen those numbers this morning when I met Ahmed Khan as he left for work? Were they there already? Had I stared straight through them?