Chapter Text
The sun glared, reflecting off the dreaming spires, the golden buildings. Down among the dreaming spires, and far less dreaming and very grey 1960s and ‘70s monstrosities, the concrete and the crowds, the traffic and the tourists, the everyday, any town, shops and offices, the shoppers and the workers, the many, many buses, the air thick with carbon monoxide, a girl gazed from her tutor’s window.
*
Ayesha stared out of the window blank eyed, not noticing the busy rush hour traffic of The High solid with buses and people. The sun shone relentless and bright, glinting off the yellow stones of the buildings opposite. Gargoyles glared back menacingly. She was so horribly aware of the other’s presence in the room, his room! She twisted the soggy tissue in her hand and looked down at the growing pile on her lap. She needed to look down in her lap, out of the window, anywhere but at him. She thought he liked her. Well, he did, she supposed, but she meant liked her as in respected her, thought she was clever. He’d liked her essay. He always liked her essays. Was it all an excuse? She was so confused.
He watched her through cold eyes, waiting. When the girl had finished her ridiculously hysterical sobbing, quietened down to a snuffle and a few hiccoughs he spoke.
“You’re a highly intelligent young lady. I know you are quite capable of the first you so obviously crave. It would be a shame to come out with a third after all your hard work, or worse...to be sent down. It’s quite possible you know.”
Ayesha forced herself to turn to look at him, hiding her features in her long, loose black hair.
“I’m sure you know when it’s profitable for you to keep your mouth shut.”
“Why should I?” She had wanted to sound firm, aggressive, angry, in control. She sounded frightened, quiet. She wasn’t used to speaking to men in the best of circumstances, she came from a very traditional family.
“As I have said, it would be a shame not to get a first.” He slowly and deliberately picked up her essay from the desk and ripped it in half, dumping it in the bin. Ayesha stared in disbelief; she’d worked so hard on that essay. Okay, she had it on her laptop’s memory, but that was beside the point. It was the symbol that mattered. He could destroy her work, he could destroy her... If he hadn’t already. Ayesha felt sure she wasn’t the first to be treated like this, to be...
Holding back a sob with her hand over her mouth she nodded. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Do you want me to print out another copy of the essay?” she mumbled into her hand, looking down.
“Just at the end of term, with the rest of you work. I knew you’d see sense Ayesha. You’re a good girl.”
What choice did she have? Who could she go to? The Master? The police? Would they believe her? Even so, she wouldn’t. The knowledge would kill Ama. As for her father... Ayesha grabbed her bag and fled the room, walking with as much dignity as she could, barely concealing her discomfort.
*
On the very outskirts of Oxford, to the north, where the A40 and A34 met in a mess of roads, junctions, traffic, car parks, service stations and new build houses, a lorry turned into the huge truck park next to Oxford’s biggest park and ride, historically the original park and ride in the UK. As it turned, the lorry, Russian number plates and logos glinting in the sunlight, was cut up by a fast red Golf GTi swerving in from the traffic and screaming past into the park and ride.
A few moments later, the car pulled fast but neatly into a space next to a grey Citroen. An elegant woman in a floral dress and shrug had just climbed out, so she pulled in to her car, closing its door, to avoid being hit. Another woman climbed out of the red car, dressed in bootleg cut jeans and heeled boots, a grey sleeveless smock completing the look. She grabbed a pale grey cardigan and handbag and slammed the door. She turned to the other woman.
“Hi Maddy. Bloody awful traffic all the way down. The others here yet?”
“I don’t know. We agreed to meet over there,” Maddy waved vaguely in the direction of the bus terminus. “Traffic can’t have been that bad, as I’m so early I thought I’d try there for a coffee.” Maddy pointed in the other direction of the truck stop, to a tea shack with signs written in Russian then Polish, with English a very small third. She turned and smiles. “Sorry, bit of a caffeine head. Bloody awful traffic up from London too.” She held her arms out and air-kissed her friend. “Hi Mandy. Good to see you. Do you think the others will come?”
“Ceris is definitely up for it. Spoke to her last night.” Mandy held out her arm for Maddy, “Let’s get that coffee.”
*
In their office Hathaway looked up sharply from his coffee as he heard Lewis laugh on the phone. He carefully arranged his features into neutral indifference as he listened.
“Yeah. Right. Well, providing the criminal classes behave themselves we should finally see it.
“No, no. Glynbourne would be best.
“Look, I’ve not had the time to look up the trains.
“Good. 1803? I should be able to...
“Meet you at the station.”
Lewis laughed again, then said his goodbyes and terminated the call. He stared pointedly at Hathaway.
“You want something?”
“Another date Sir? With the irrepressible Dr. Hobson?”
Lewis sighed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but it isn’t a date. Just two friends going to the opera. The Fairy Queen. It’s now at Covent Garden. I’d take you, but I didn’t think you like opera.”
“I don’t Sir.”
“Well, a recital, a concert, the theatre...?”
Hathaway looked confused for a moment before resuming his neutral look. “Are you asking me out Sir?”
“Would that be so terrible?” Lewis asked with a smile, before grabbing his jacket and breezing out. “See you Tuesday, murder permitting,” he called over his shoulder and then was gone.
Hathaway looked down, chewing his thumbnail. “No,” he muttered to himself, “no, it wouldn’t be so terrible.”
*
Ayesha sat on her friend’s bed, the tears once again pouring from her face. She twisted the ends of her chemise – worn over skinny jeans and not a shalwar – while her friend sat silently by her side, tissue box on her lap, shoulder pressed to Ayesha’s.
“Blow your nose,” her friend, Maryam, said, after a while, passing her a tissue. It took several tissues and a few deep breaths, before Ayesha was composed.
“I wish you would go to the police. I’ll come with you.”
“I can’t!”
“Why? That bastard doesn’t deserve to get away with it.”
“Aagh! God! You’re like a newborn babe. I can’t, my Dad’ll freak and it would break my Mum’s heart. How could I get married?”
Maryam, white with scruffy light brown hair and glasses, scowled, trying to understand, trying not to get angry at such a sexist, patriarchal interpretation of Islam. She breathed out, hard. “Okay. So what do you want to do?”
“Can I stay here? I can’t bear to go home. My Mum will see instantly something’s wrong, and I can’t tell her, I can’t, I can’t...” Ayesha burst into tears again.
“That’s fine. Of course you can stay here.”
Ayesha blew her nose, and momentarily composing herself, pulled her phone from her bag. It was a difficult conversation. She lived in Cowley, and although her parents had been so proud that she, a daughter of an immigrant factory worker and taxi driver had got into Oxford, she’d not been allowed to live in. She’d not even been allowed to go to sleepovers at school. It was so unfair! She had no intention of getting a boyfriend, going clubbing or drinking. She just wanted a bit of peace and quiet from her four brothers and baby sister, all the aunties popping in when she was trying to study, pinching her cheek and telling her she was pretty and clever and wasn’t it about time she got married. First, Ama wanted to send her father to bring her home in his taxi when he started his night shift driving a cab in Oxford. Apparently that wasn’t possible without her father getting in trouble. A three-way row between her parents and Ayesha began. Maryam calmly took the phone.
“As salaam alaykum Mrs Khan. Ayesha just needs a quiet space to study, she’s so behind with assignments. She came to my room with a headache, the library was so busy. My staircase is all female, it’s quiet. She can pray with me, get an early night and we can study all weekend. Most of the students are going away this weekend, those of us who haven’t gone down for the summer already. Okay. Fine. I’ll meet him.” Maryam turned to her best friend. “Your Dad’s meeting me at the Porter’s Lodge, just to see you’re safe. Your Mum’s packing you a bag. She says she doesn’t know how to explain your absence to the family, but you can stay with me all Bank Holiday providing your Dad likes me.”
Despite her despair, a big smile broke out on the girl’s face, making her seem younger, showing how pretty she truly was, “Oh thank you, thank you!” She flung her arms around Maryam.
“ No problem what so ever. What’s the big family do then?”
“Oh, nothing, its every weekend. Family poking their noses in, cousins in and out, aunties telling Mum to arrange my marriage. Oh God! How do I cope? You see why I can’t go to the police.”
Maryam smiled wryly. “No, not really. But if you’re going to insist on not going to the police, how about a hot bubbly bath?”
“You angel Mary-Jane!”
“It's Maryam now, remember?”
*
Hathaway walked to his car, furiously dialling his phone. Again, there was no answer.
“Jonjo. Why don’t you get back to me? Look, I just want to talk. I need to talk to someone else. I know we haven’t talked since Zoe... Look, I need to talk to someone I trust, I just... Oh hell.” He hung up.
*
At the bus terminus at Pear Tree Park and Ride three women sit on a bench: Maddy, Mandy and a slightly younger women, perhaps early forties rather than later. She is dressed entirely in pink, from the long fake talons at the end of her fingers to thin, high stilettos at the end of feet with the short, satin, low cut sun dress in-between. The designer pink handbag completes the ensemble. As they are about to give up and catch a bus a fourth woman rushes up to them. She appears to be shorter than the others, but then she wears flip-flops rather than heels, along with an ethnic print dress over raggedy jeans, her long fair hair flyaway and pulled off her face with a chiffon scarf.
“Hi. Hi. Sorry. Sorry. Mega accident on the M25. Thought I’d never get here. Don’t have hands free so couldn’t call.”
“No probs. You’re here now,” Mandy says, standing up, pulling the woman into a hug. “Good to see you Alice. How’s Lucy? Still together?”
Alice laughs. “Of course we are!” She turns to Maddy and Ceris and lots of air kissing and hugging ensue.
“Shall we go?” suggests Ceris, the pink wonder, and she teeters off to the bus. The others follow.
A man follows them on the bus, a man with cropped blond hair and a hard but not unattractive face. He asks for his ticket to Oxford city centre with some kind of eastern European accent.
*
Hathaway was on the phone again, this time at home, as his paced back and forth, glass of red wine in the other hand.
“Please Jonjo. I don’t know who else to talk to. It’s... Well it’s about time I was honest with myself. I just need... Oh shit!”
He threw the phone on to sofa, and putting down his glass picked up his guitar and sat down, lying back to strum a few cords.
“You’re a detective, James Hathaway,” he told his ceiling, “think!”
*
Professor Sebastian Charles walked into the dining room a little late, having missed grace. He sat down next to his colleague, Doctor Andrew Mortimore.
“Where’s the beautiful young terrorist today?”
“Mary-Jane Hartwell you mean? It’s a Bank Holiday weekend, perhaps she’s gone home. Perhaps she’s already gone down for the summer. How should I know? What’s the interest?”
“Had another delicious terrorist today, couldn’t get enough of me. A real doe eyed exotic Eastern dusky beauty.”
“I think you are something of a fantasist, Seb. A dirty old man. What could any young woman possibly see in you? I take it you are referring to Ayesha Khan. Neither she nor Miss Hartwell are terrorists. And as for Cowley, I know it’s east of here, but exotic?” Mortimore leaned in close, “Are you a closet Islamaphobe, Seb?” he whispered conspiratorially .
*
Maryam – or Mary Jane – Hartwell was in fact at the Porter’s Lodge, meeting Mr. Khan. She led him up to her room, patient with him whilst he stared at the buildings, the quad, taking in the history. All his adult life he’d lived in Oxford, but never been in a college. He’d never visited his daughter, he had no need. She lived at home. He knew Ayesha blamed him for that, but really, secretly, it wasn’t he who wore the trousers in their family. He just worked all the hours Allah sent to provide the money. Making cars by day and driving taxis by night. It was so beautiful and calm, like the inner court of the mosques he’d visited on his brief holiday following his much longed for Hajj. He could see why his daughter wanted to stay here to study, away from four noisy brothers and goodness knew how many boy cousins and neighbours in and out.
Maryam stood discreetly by the door while Mr. Khan and Ayesha hugged. He seemed really nice, with warm, twinkling, friendly brown eyes she’d noticed before she’d remembered she was a Muslim now and shouldn’t be staring into men’s eyes, not even older ‘uncles’. She thought he could tell Ayesha was hiding something, but that Ayesha couldn’t tell. Parents always know, Maryam decided. One day, when she’d completed her studies, Allah would provide a lovely Muslim convert man and she could have lots of children and be wise herself .
“Your mother worries Ayesha.”
“I’m fine, Abu, you can see that.”
“Beti, you look pale, maybe I should take you home and pay the fare?”
“Don’t be silly, you still might get told off. You know what a slave driver Uncle Hamza is. You’ll be late Abu.”
“Mr. Khan, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s nearly black outside and I must say Magreb.”
“Hm?”
“Namaz, Abu. Maryam never misses one.”
“You’re a good girl, little sister Maryam. Maybe she’s have an influence on you, Beti, maybe you’ll start covering your head too?”
“Abu!”
“I could never make someone do that. You should never make hijab except love of Allah, not for a big identity badge or anti west statement or to please a man, father or husband!”
“Such passion Miss Maryam. I was just teasing my little one. Sleep well Beti. Salaam Miss Maryam, Khudafiz Beti. Can I go out on my own?”
“You remember the way?”
As soon as her father had gone, Ayesha burst into tears again. Maryam ripped off her scarf and sat down besides her friend, hugging her tight.
*
Following dinner, Seb Charles left the college, for his usual tipple at his usual local. He and the night porter exchanged their usual banter regarding his habits and he walked up the High. He walked past a derelict sitting on a bench crooning to himself as a group of elderly Americans wandered by. Funny, the tramp looked like, oh what was his name, that crime writer, the name was on the tip of his mind! Just as he approached the pub he had to step into the road to avoid an attractive women in sort of hippy attire whiz by in her powered wheel chair. A scruffy child of perhaps 11 or 12 stood on the back of the chair, on the battery case, shouting something about missing the last bus. The mother was making soothing noises, pausing only to say a sorry and a thank you for his timely step into the road.
As Charles ordered his drink at the bar he turned to watch four rather attractive women in their forties enter pub. The barman commented on what handsome women they were, but secretly, for Seb, they were far to old. He murmured some innate comment as a reply and wandered off with his drink.
The women struggled into a corner table, private, and then Mandy went to get the drinks. As she approached the bar she bumped into a tall, skinny but not unattractive blond lad. They both apologized to each other, and he giggled nervously and his eyes scanned the bar desperately. He seemed very distracted. As she left the bar, precariously carrying four drinks – two pints, a white wine and a G&T – she heard him ask the barman after someone.
“Gosh, what a dishy boy, you should have asked him to join us,” Maddy giggled.
“You dirty old woman!” laughed Alice.
“Well, sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose and so on. It works for my husband, chasing skinny girls half his age!” Maddy retorted in a light tone, to show it was a joke, that nothing hurt.
“Sorry to disappoint,” replied Alice, “but a boy wearing that much foundation is not going to be interested in older women.”
“Yup,” agreed Mandy. “And mascara too.”
“Have to, a natural pale blond like that,” pointed out Alice, waving vaguely at her own eyes. They all burst out in hysterical laughter, the way good friends can over nothing.
“He is yummy, though” agreed Ceris, “ask him to join us. Buy him a drink. A bit of eye candy to stare at.”
“We have things to discuss. Professors to chat up. Not pretty gay boys to seduce,” snapped Mandy, ruining the mood completely.
“He’s leaving anyway,” Alice pointed out, as they watched him storm out of the bar, shoving something in his back pocket as he did. For a second Mandy thought she saw the glint of Thames Valley CID ident before the small wallet case was back in the pocket, but she breathed out, calming herself. She was getting paranoid in her old age, she decided.
*
James Hathaway entered the Communion. The last time he’d been here had been with Zoe Kenneth. He paused, centring himself, pushing down bad memories. A long time ago, but still the occasional target of gossip or comment. The butt of office jokes in a quiet period, when all DCs were bored and restless. He’d have thought the whole Mortmaigne business would have been seized upon, but instead everyone danced around it. The tabloids just wouldn’t leave it alone though, one even running with that fact that an investigating officer had been one of the many, many victims of the ‘paedo lord’, as the red tops christened Augustus Mortmaigne. If he was being accurate, he could have called the gleeful gossip of one and the studious avoiding of the other bullying. Instead, he ignored it, brushing off any suggestion it hurt every time Lewis wanted to tear his men off a peg or two about the gossip. The murder case had already come to court, both Hopkiss and Scarlet in prison. The sexual abuse had been handed on to DI Laxton. She didn’t want to just prosecute for Briony, she was pursuing as many victims as possible, stretching over 40, 45 years. But finally she’d accumulated as much as she could. You could say this for Angie, she was very thorough. And gentle. She couldn’t have been more patient and kind, taking his statement, pulling out buried memories, things he’d taught himself never, ever to remember.
He shuddered now, biting down all kinds of painful memories, and scanned the club, looking for Jonjo. He walked past a tall, well built man, taller than him. Something about the man suggested he wasn’t English. Hathaway didn’t mean to look back as the man checked him out, but somehow he did. All thoughts of the foreigner were driven out of his head as he saw Jonjo.
Friends, both male and female, surrounded Jonjo. Two blonde women, who looked like sisters but who were in fact narcissistic lovers who dressed alike for a kick, and happened to be two of Jonjo’s best friends. Hathaway didn’t even recognise anyone else. Two men gave him appraising looks as he came up to them. Since Will’s death, his father ran a gay night the last Friday of each month, ‘the Will McEwan memorial night,’ those in the know called it.
“Jonjo. Hi. I’ve been trying to call you..”
Jonjo was more than a little drunk. “I know,” he laughed. “Well don’t tell me, you’ve finally come out to yourself. A little late in the day, don’t you think?”
“No! Yes! You don’t understand...”
“Too late for us James. Far too late. If you need help getting over that Catholic guilt of yours, try the Samaritans,” he snorted, very drunk. Perhaps in the morning he’d regret his cruelty. He turned his back. James grabbed his arm, desperate. The friends watched, interested, drunk, laughing.
“No! You don’t understand, it’s not just that, it’s something... I don’t know...”
“What?” interrupted Jonjo. “That you’re in love with your boss, old enough to be your father? Bit obvious, James, saw that the first moment I saw you with him.” With that he walked away, followed by his friends, all laughing in the over the top way you do when you’ve had too much to drink
Hathaway stood there, on the edge of the dance floor, stunned, hands on his head, trying desperately to keep control. Was it really that obvious? If it was, who else had noticed. Is that why Hooper and Davis sniggered at him behind his back, set him up for increasing cruel practical jokes. Feeling impossible to bite down some intense emotional reaction, he turned to run out of the club, not noticing he was followed.
“Hey. Hey, my friend. Stop.” The foreign man who had appeared to check him out stopped him by grabbing hold of his arm. “You look sad, er, I mean upset? You need tea. Good, strong, sweet tea.”
“Sorry, don’t drink tea.”
“My friend, you are safe.” He pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket and lit Hathaway’s cigarette. “I come to Oxford sometimes. I need to talk, to make my English better, yes? You have row with boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, someone you want to be boyfriend? I don’t know, but you are ... Shocked? Is that the word? You need tea. Good, sweet Russian tea. I know the place. You tell me your problems, I make better English, I go back to Russia, I know not your life, your friends. We talk, hey? Talking is good with friends. I think sometimes you English, you do not know this, yes?”
“Where? Where do we get this Russian tea?”
“We get bus. To park and ride. Afterwards, I drive you home maybe, or I put you on bus, or..?”
“I’m telling you now, there’s definitely no or! Tea and English conversation, that’s okay, maybe. Isn’t being gay illegal in Russia?”
“Yes, and the Mother Church, she hates it too.”
Hathaway snorted. “Not just in Russia!”
*
Seb Charles had found himself, after all , with the four older women. Not that they were old, of course, far younger than him, but beyond his interest. However, a chance remark regarding Dickens had led to a pleasant evening discussing English literature and a few drinks bought for him. Far more than he usually imbibed, so that when he got up to leave he stumbled.
“Hey, be careful there,” the Manchester woman said, catching him. “I think we’d better see you home.”
“Thank you Mandy, that would be charming.”
*
Sergei and Hathaway walked down the High, heading for the bus stops on St. Aldates. Full of red wine and emotion, Hathaway had linked arms with his Russian companion, feeing quite safe. He seemed to be an old fashioned gentleman; perhaps he’d come to the nightclub out of curiosity alone. Something so open couldn’t exist in Russia. He was charming, his accent, his gentle humour, his comments on English life, his patience on whether Hathaway would talk about the scene in the club or not.
Laughing at one of Sergei’s many wry jokes, looking at him rather than where he was going, Hathaway stumbled into a tall woman with cascades of curly brown hair.
“Sorry.”
“We must stop meeting like this,” she laughed. Hathaway realised it was the same woman he’d bumped into in the pub.
“Hands off ladies,” Sergei said, “I found him first. Is he not pretty?”
“I said no ‘or’, only tea,” snapped Hathaway.
“Yes, yes,” agreed Sergei mildly.
They walked on. Mandy stared after them thoughtfully.
Alice touched her arm lightly. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, perhaps a work thing. Forget it.”
“Well, that didn’t work,” said Ceris. “What do we do now?”
*
The place for Russian tea was little more than a shack, a small hut of a cafe serving Russian, Polish and greasy English all day breakfast, on the end of a truck park, 10 minutes walk from the actual park and ride. On the bus, for reasons Hathaway couldn’t now figure out, he’d poured out his struggles with his sexuality and his Catholism, how he tried to be happy alone and celibate, how he’d just been happy to work with his boss, that was, until his boss seemed to come out of his lonely widower mode and start dating. If he was surprised by Sergei asking if he was still a virgin, he didn’t show it.
When they got there it was obvious that the girl serving knew Sergei. They flirted in Russian, although she was Polish, then Sergei turned to Hathaway.
“Forgive me James, but maybe you like to wash your face. Your eyes, you have cried, your make up, it run, not good, hey? Good make up, people they don’t see, messy make up, makes for men to want to... um, queer bash? That is how you say? This a place of rough straight men. Anya says you can use staff bathroom, yes? I get tea. Proper Russian tea from samovar. No milk like you English, just lots of sugar. Or Polish coffee, maybe?”
“Tea will be fine, thanks.” Hathaway said as he followed Anya to a toilet behind the kitchen. Its hygiene was somewhat lacking, but he availed himself of the facility and than splashed lots of cold water on his face before returning to the cafe.
Meanwhile Sergei had found a table and Anya brought the tea. He put three sugars in Hathaway’s tea glass, before fishing something out of his pocket. Checking Anya was busy with another customer he emptied a sachet of powder into the glass, mixed it with the sugar and returned the crumbled paper to his pocket. From his jacket pocket his took a hip flask and put in a splash of vodka to dissolve both drug and sugar, poured on the brewed tea and stirred vigorously. He was preparing his own tea more traditionally as Hathaway sat down.
“I have poured your tea, James,” he said, draining his own tea glass in one go. Hathaway did likewise, almost choking.
“Vodka?” he gasped.
“Perhaps. A little,” said Sergei, making a small gesture with finger and thumb, raising his glass and winking. “I did say Russian tea,” he said with a smile, emphasising the word Russian. “Now James, tell me. What will you do about your boss, hey?”
*
Hobson and Lewis walked down the steps at Covent Garden, laughing.
“Good?” asked Lewis.
“Well, I would have preferred Glynbourne.”
“So would I. And your choice of hotel sounded good. Fancy a drink?”
“You know, I could murder a Chinese. I know its hardly romantic, but...”
“Laura...” Lewis began. Dr. Hobson caught the warning sound of his voice. She looked distraught, Lewis noticed. He smiled. “Chinese sounds good. I’m starved. I’ve eaten nothing since lunch.”
“Good, I know just the place.”
Once at their table, Lewis tried again. “Laura, we are here as just friends, you do know that?”
“Oh, well, I did hope...”
“I like you Laura. I like you a lot. As friends. I value our friendship a lot, but...”
“I know a brush off when I...”
“No! It’s not like that.”
“I know. Val. But don’t you think enough years have...” Hobson stopped herself at the sight of Lewis’ stricken face. “I’m sorry.”
Lewis sighed and rubbed his eye. “When Val died maybe I went a little crazy. No. I know I did. And I said to myself that I’d never love another woman, ever. Then over the years...”
“Robbie?”
“Well, I tried dating and that, but I was right, however crazy, I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love with another woman.”
“Robbie, our friendship matters to me. Don’t think it’ll stop because...Well, you’re lonely, and so I am I, sometimes, and I like you. You’re kind. Thoughtful. Sweet.” Lewis snorted in disgust at ‘sweet’. “What I’m saying is you can trust me, you’re not breaking my heart. What? What is it? ”
“Well, without contradicting my first statement, I have fallen in love. Quite sometime ago, probably, only I was too blind to see.”
“If the two statements don’t contradict...”
“Yes?”
“Then you’re in love with a man?”
“Yeah.”
“James?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh God. Robbie.”
“This is in confidence, mind.”
“Of course it is.”
They sat in silence, hands still held lightly across the table. Finally Hobson broke the silence.
“What are you going to do?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
*
Ayesha couldn’t sleep. Maryam had given up her bed and was asleep on the floor in her sleeping bag. None of her other friends would have a sleeping bag, but then Maryam wasn’t your average Muslim girl. She’d only been one for four months, before that she’d been a wild festival going hippie chick. Carefully, so not as to wake her friend, Ayesha climbed out of bed and looked out of the window. Four women, in their forties or fifties were walking away form the Porter’s Lodge. Three were very stylish, the fourth, a kind of hippy chic, she supposed. Perhaps they were lost, asking for directions?
*
Hand in hand Hobson and Lewis ran down the platform at Paddington, hopefully trying to reach the fast accelerating train. It was hopeless. They ground to a hold, laughing, Dr. Hobson bent double with a stitch and puffing like an old steam train herself.
“We better get ourselves over to Victoria for the Tube,” Lewis said practically, “though God knows we won’t be home ‘til gone four.”
“We’ll go to Marble Arch. It’s nearer. The Oxford Tube and the Esspress stop there. I always get the Tube when I need to shop in Oxford Street. Faster and easier than the train.”
“Aye. And full of rowdy students and backpackers. Come on then, we better get going.”
*
Sergei walked James across the car parks to the bus terminus. James was beginning to regret declining the offer of a lift. He must have drunk far more than he’d realised, although apart from a glass of wine before he came out and the vodka in the tea just now he didn’t think he’d drunk anything that day yet he was feeling very wobbly. In fact all he wanted to do was sleep. He started to feel dizzy and began to worry how he’d get home. Should he call a taxi? He started to stagger and stumbled in a woman walking away from the bus. She caught hold of him.
“Careful there lad. Oh, its you again. This really is becoming a habit.”
James giggled nervously. “Not deliberately. I’m sorry.” The world seemed to be going fuzzy at the edges and he seemed to be hearing everything from a long way, like down a tunnel. He felt the woman let go as Sergei caught him. Her friends called to her and she walked away, but when she reached them turned back thoughtfully. She said something to them and walked back towards him and Sergei. As far as James knew she never made it. The world went from fuzzy and muffled to black and silent. He knew or remembered nothing else.