I turn and follow him. Initially I convince myself that I am still settled on confronting him but then as I get closer, I find I’m curious about where he is going. Before long we have reached Park Lane. The traffic has begun now to slow to a drip as he turns right and carries on towards Marble Arch.
I am ten or fifteen feet behind him, unnoticed. The other pedestrians are dressed for work. Suits and polished shoes join ranks with smart dark jeans and pea coats. The weather is still cold enough to bring plumes of vapour from their mouths. Ebadi is wearing dark jeans and an olive suede bomber jacket. From the edge of a cuff, I can see a heavy silver watch. As he walks I see flashes of red from the soles of his basketball shoes. I expect him to start threading through Edgware Road but instead he stops at the Tube and descends into the station.
Should I turn back? His house is empty now, and maybe there is a way of getting in that I haven’t had time to properly consider. But then – two locks. The crowd carries me forward so that in seconds I find myself in the guts of London, pushing in behind an alarmed elderly man as he goes through the barriers. They open automatically at the swipe of his card and I manage to squeeze through with him. I apologise when he tuts at me and then I glare at the barriers as if they’re at fault. I turn around to find that I have lost Ebadi.
I plough on through the crowds on to the escalator, and then see the flash of his red soles on the Central Line platform heading west. It is crammed full. This platform lined with people under its curved walls makes me dizzy.
Please stand behind the yellow line.
A gust of hot, oily air passes so close that I wonder that they are not drawn into the track by the pressure differential. The Bernoulli principle. I shake that thought off. I still have my eye on Ebadi who is on his phone, sandwiched between commuters. A train screeches along the platform and stops. We all bundle on, squeezing into every available space. In the crush I lose sight of him for a moment until I see him through the glass in the doors dividing the carriages. He seems carefree. He checks his expensive watch and then lets his arm dangle by his side.
It’s when we approach North Acton that I see Ebadi patting himself down unconsciously, waiting for the doors to open. I hang back until the last possible moment and then I jump off too. I pick up a Metro newspaper from a bench and hold it close to my face as I follow him. I don’t want him to get a good enough look at me to risk him causing me a problem. If l look down at my newspaper, he won’t see me. He presses an expensive wallet against the pad and walks through the barriers.
The daylight is disconcerting. I need to push through the gates behind somebody else but I am exposed by all the light. As I approach them my heart begins to kick up a beat. I can’t easily shadow someone through here. There is a member of staff by the front exit. Ebadi will see immediately if there is a commotion. I shuffle forward slowly, eyes searching out the best option. Then, with relief, I remember the Oyster card Seb gave me is in my pocket.
Outside the sun has vanished from the sky, leaving it steel grey. A few seconds later, as if to confirm the change, it begins to spit out a fine drizzle. Up ahead I see Ebadi, red soles lighting each step. His head is down against the wind. I follow until he reaches a fork in the road – Park Royal Road. Along the left side are some pitiful-looking houses, broken and unloved. To the right there is what seems to be a large park edged by a low brick wall topped with iron railings. He crosses over towards the park and stops at the entrance.
What is he doing here? In a park, miles away from his home? I approach the curve in the pavement, announcing the brick pillars of the park gates. There is a sign affixed to the left pillar which reads MAIN ENTRANCE. And then I see in green letters two words immediately above them and my heart stops.
ACTON CEMETERY.
28
Tuesday
I don’t get on with cemeteries. The ghost of Rory lingers around every hallowed space. He is hard enough to escape on good days when I am busy surviving. Even on those days he comes through, snaking in through cracked veins. And when he does it takes all my effort to shut him out.
But here, he flies straight at me from every corner. He is everywhere. Smiling. Reproachful.
The ghosts press hard against the shell of my skull but I push myself ahead. Ebadi is hunched uncertainly against the cold, but there’s no uncertainty in his route. He skirts the old chapel at the foot of the path and then makes straight for the field of graves. He weaves through the headstones, picking over the uneven ground. The wind bites as I go, forcing my face down.
Ebadi is heavier-set than I remember, but he moves smoothly despite his weight. I pause to watch where he goes and as soon as I do, he stops too.
As the wind cuts through me, he plunges his hands into his pockets to bring out fistfuls of petals. The wind carries them away to land on broken ground. As he releases the last of his confetti and touches his hand to chest, I realise something with a jolt. Maybe he has buried her here. Maybe he’s managed to remove her body to this graveyard. What better place for a decomposing dead body? A sanctified space for a woman he no doubt loved. Of course, when I think of it now, in this cold light, he couldn’t have, wouldn’t have simply dumped her in a river or some waste ground. He would have wanted to be able to commune with her. He would have needed a place to exorcise his grief and beg for redemption. Or at least to hide her in plain sight.
I fix my eyes on the gravestone. From this distance it looks smooth like marble, similar to the marble that now paves his hallway. The coincidence begins a furious sadness in my chest. Even in death she couldn’t avoid being possessed by him. Ebadi looks up to the sky and then makes his way back to the path. I look past him, feigning a casual glance before heading off at a tangent. I circle round behind him so I can watch his back receding towards the exit. I keep looking until he is just a dot and has passed through the gates. Then I make immediately for the smooth gravestone.
What am I expecting to see engraved there? Her name? Would he be that bold? And then other questions begin to rain down around me. How did he get a space here? Would there have been a death certificate? What about a ceremony? A service of some kind? Immediately behind me I feel the weight of a person, not quite pressing, but following. There is no sense in turning around.
I know it’s Rory.
I stand before the stone and stare.
It has started to drizzle again and the mist feathers my face as the wind blows. Droplets trickle down the lettering and the engraved dates:
MISHAL ALI
1971–2019
I remember. The name he called out at her as she lay there, dead – was that Mishal? There is something below it in what looks like Arabic lettering but could just as easily be South Asian. But it’s that name, Mishal, that stills me. She has a name. Whatever else he might have done to her, he didn’t bury that.
When I crouch to touch the stone, I notice how clean the grave itself is. There is a slab on the ground matching the headstone. But where the other graves are fringed in grass, this one isn’t. There is only bare soil, darkening in patches as the rain continues to fall. This grave is newly dug.
My head is spinning as I walk towards the path. There are gaps in my understanding of what has happened. I don’t know how exactly he has managed to bring her, Mishal, here. I don’t know whether it was money or influence or subterfuge. At least I know she is here, and I know who she is. I just don’t know what to do about it.