I Know What I Saw

‘So, he went over to a bookcase and gave me this.’ He pulled a small hardback from his pocket. I took it from his hand. It was similar to the school copies I’d had once: L’Étranger.

‘He gave you a cheap Camus, that doesn’t change anything,’ I said.

‘Xander,’ he said, looking around. ‘I don’t think it was him. He even told me I could pop round tomorrow and he’s going to dig out some more books for me. For free!’

My heart dropped. ‘No – Amit. You can’t go back there. You don’t know what I know,’ I said. ‘You don’t know what he’s capable of. Sure, he can act nice. Just as he must have done with the police. He might even be nice, most days. But he killed a person, Amit. Stood over her and strangled her.’ I snatched the book from his hand and flung it high into a neighbouring garden.

Amit’s face hardened and he ran quickly in the direction I had thrown it. He returned empty-handed. ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said and stormed off.

The cold night passes slowly and I fall asleep not long before dawn. When I wake it’s with the terrifying idea that someone has killed Amit. Of Amit being rolled up in a curl of turf.

When I reach out with my hand and touch the hard, icy ground, I am pulled back into wakefulness. I need to move. I gather up the flattened boxes. I don’t want to leave them here. If I leave the den whole, it will become cuckooed, and places like this one, safe and dry and obscure, are hard to find. I fold the cardboard before pushing it deep into the bush, out of sight.

It is still too early for there to be many people around. I get up and walk into the lifting sun. My thoughts cycle back again and again to this question: where is she? I need to find out where he has dumped her body. She can’t have just vanished. She is somewhere. For now. Until she surrenders to disintegration.

After some minutes of walking, the blood has warmed my muscles through. By the time I get near, the traffic on Park Lane is in full commuter flow. A right down South Street and I am on the road heading straight towards Farm Street. The building is washed in golden morning light and it makes a fraud of what happened in that house. There is only one thing to do now and that is to confront him. If I challenge him, what can he do? I will present him with what I know. That I was in the house at the time he killed her. That it was I who made the noise that startled him. That it was my strange smell that caused them to comment. And that I watched as he strangled the life out of that poor woman.

Some twigs cling to me and I brush them from my clothes, marching straight to his front door. The brass numbers shine in the morning light as I approach. Now I am here, in touching distance of the bell, I hesitate. How will he react? Will he let me in or will he just shut the door on my accusations? In the end it doesn’t matter. I have to do it. But then, just as I am about to knock, there is the sound of movement coming from within. I back down the front path and walk a little way up the road. When I am at the next house along, I stop and look. My heart is beating. I don’t understand this sudden skittishness that has overcome me. Am I afraid of him, or of what I might do? Ebadi emerges between next door’s laurel hedge and the wall. I watch as he leaves, taking care to double-lock his door. The Yale and then the deadbolt. And then he is out of his paved area and on to the street, walking away from me.

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.