I Know What I Saw

I look around on the street for something to hold. Something heavy like a brick is what I need. I can knock on the door and when he opens it, I can clump him with it. Force myself in. Or, better, smash an upstairs window with it and lure him outside to investigate, and maybe that will get him or Mrs Wilbert from the main house to call the police.

After a hurried search I quickly learn that there are no spare bricks in Mayfair. I begin to pace in small circles as desperation takes hold of me. I don’t have a mobile so I can’t make a call even if I wanted to. And the phone boxes, once on every street corner, have vanished over the years.

I take a breath and cross the street towards the house. There are no windows on the ground floor that I can look through. The windows at this level must look out on to the high-walled garden at the back. But there is a letter box.

Through the flap my vision is blocked by a fringe of bristles. I put my ear to it and listen. Nothing. Until I hear the noise of a door being unlatched and the faint drift of voices being chased by their makers. They are coming back. He’s safe. I drop the flap and run back to the car and crouch.

A minute later the door opens and to my relief there is Amit, framed in light. He is shaking the man’s hand. Ebadi. He waves as Amit turns to leave, and slowly the door shuts.

I breathe again.

On my feet I beckon to Amit, who is twisting his neck, looking for me. He catches sight of me at last and runs over. I scrutinise his face for signs of harm or alarm until, at last, he reaches me.

Smiling.

‘Amit. Are you okay?’ I say, staring into his expression.

‘What? I’m fine,’ he says, putting a hand through his hair.

‘What the hell happened? When you went inside I thought you might have been killed!’ I am losing control over my voice.

‘It’s fine, Xander,’ he says, laughing. I find myself relaxing a little but my throat is still tight.

‘So how did you get in?’

‘Oh. I told him I used to live here when I was a kid and if it was okay could I see my old room again,’ he says, straightening up.

‘You did what?’ I can’t quite believe how brazen he had been.

‘I found something out you’re definitely going to be interested in,’ he said and nodded at me to follow him down the road.

27 Tuesday

I’m back in Hyde Park. Alone again. I have found a dry patch in a dense clump of bushes on the outer edges even though I shouldn’t be here in the dark after the Squire thing. What if he ends up back here again and starts bothering me? Could that get me into trouble? I beat the thought away. Squire’s playground patch is at the other end of the park, and I need to be near number 42B – that is the most important thing right now.

The bushes are thick enough to shelter me from wind and rain, and from other people. In the deep blue of the night, I venture out to forage for food and packing material. I get dry boxes from the front gardens of houses I pass. The world has become a place where everything is delivered to the door and there is no shortage of boxes. Food is harder to come by. In the end, because I am desperate, I simply walk into the supermarket and ask for any expired sandwiches. The young woman at the till tells me that they aren’t allowed to give me any for health and safety reasons but that if I happened to take them, she wouldn’t stop me. I thank her, and take three packets and a wrapped slice of currant cake.

Then I think about Amit and the danger I led him into. For what? And at what price to me? I am unsettled now by this responsibility I seem to have for him and the uncomplicated way in which I completely failed him.

As I walked with him he replayed the encounter. He told me how he’d been allowed to wander freely through the house as Ebadi, interested only in ensuring he didn’t steal anything, lazily followed him. But Ebadi could tell from Amit’s voice, his uniform, his kind of school, that he was safe. I imagined how Ebadi would have relaxed when he was sure there was no threat from Amit. This genuine young man with eyes brimming with life.

‘But then I got talking to him,’ Amit said, those same eyes flashing now. ‘I asked him how long he’d been at the house.’

‘And?’

‘He’s only been there a few months, he said. He has a family in Yemen – a wife and two children.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I tell you what. That place is immaculate. There’s no dead body smell in there at all.’ He was eyeing me to measure my reaction.

‘The hall. The floor. Did you notice it?’

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘The grouting. Was it new? Did it look like it could have been recently done?’

He looked up as if searching. ‘The floor?’

‘I think it’s a new floor. It’s a long story but I think he’s just had it laid,’ I say.

‘Oh. I don’t think so.’

‘Did it smell damp or of cement?’ I said, pressing him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was normal. Clean. And there was one other thing,’ he continued, excited.

‘What?’

‘He was really nice.’

‘Amit …’

‘No, wait. He was. He asked me what I was studying and I told him English and History and French.’

‘So?’