‘What kept you?’ she asks.
Ryan is still panting but laughs. ‘I’ve just eaten, you cheeky cow.’
‘Maybe you should change your diet,’ she says.
Ryan stands and pushes his hair out of the sweat on his forehead. ‘Maybe I should kiss you,’ he says.
She looks at him, crippled by embarrassment. She has no idea what to do next.
Ryan cocks his head to one side. ‘So you going to let me then?’
‘OK,’ she says slowly.
Ryan smiles, his eyes greedy.
‘But you’ll have to catch me first.’ Aasha laughs and sets off at a run.
Raffy banged his head against the cell wall.
‘Stop,’ Lilly said.
He didn’t register that she was there, let alone that she had spoken. Instead he continued to headbutt the wall with frightening ferocity.
‘Raffy,’ Lilly shouted, and pulled him by the shoulders.
The grey plaster was smeared with blood, Raffy’s forehead grazed and angry.
‘You need to listen to me.’ Lilly held his shoulders tightly.
His eyes were blurry, his face contorted.
‘They are going to charge you with murder,’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’
Raffy didn’t answer. A drop of blood trickled between his eyes.
‘You must not say anything else,’ she said.
She led Raffy from his cell to the custody sergeant’s desk, where DI Bell was hovering.
The sarge nodded at Raffy’s head. ‘Is that one of them bindi things?’
‘No,’ Lilly sighed. ‘It’s a cut.’
‘How did that happen?’ asked the sarge.
‘Don’t ask.’
The sarge shrugged. If the boy’s solicitor wasn’t worried that was clearly good enough for him.
‘Raffique Khan,’ he said, ‘I am charging you with the murder of Yasmeen Khan.’
He read out the caution and looked towards Lilly. ‘Does your client have any reply?’
She shook her head and was about to sign the documentation when Raffy stuck out his chin.
‘I do not accept the jurisdiction of British law,’ he said.
‘Say what?’ the sarge laughed.
Raffy’s nostrils flared. ‘You asked me if I had anything to say and I replied that I do not accept the jurisdiction of British law.’
Lilly couldn’t believe it. She had advised Raffy to say nothing at all. Didn’t he realise that his answer to the caution was on the record?
‘I am a Muslim and I do not bow to your rules of evidence,’ Raffy continued.
Lilly closed her eyes. This was an utter disaster.
‘Are you having me on?’ asked the sarge.
‘Just write it down,’ Bell instructed, rubbing his hands together.
Smoke hung in the air. Lilly coughed and felt her way down the office stairs to the old cellar where the fuse box was located.
After her hideous day she had decided to set up the espresso machine for a coffee. Jack had stopped drinking caffeine, said that she should try it, that her energy levels and concentration would increase tenfold. Maybe he was right, but Raffy’s performance at the nick had left her with no willpower. A tiny, brutishly strong espresso with at least two sugars was definitely in order. No doubt the pregnancy police would be up in arms but millions of Italian women survived, didn’t they?
Instead there was a fizz, a bang, the fishy smell of wires burning, then the office had been plunged into darkness.
Lilly patted her hand along the cold plaster of the cellar wall. It felt moist and crumbly to the touch. Rising damp. Fantastic. There wasn’t enough money in the kitty to decorate, let alone deal with mould.
Her fingers searched for the control board, hoping against hope that she had simply overloaded the system and tripped it. When she finally found the row of switches she crossed her toes and flicked.
The lights came on.
‘There is a God,’ she muttered and ambled back to the stairs, studiously ignoring the dark wet patches that scaled the cellar walls and the telltale lines of mice droppings that littered the carpet.
Back in the reception she surveyed the complete disarray. What had she been thinking of, setting up her own firm? She had never been any good at organisation. The only reason Rupinder hadn’t sacked her was that she admired Lilly’s unwavering commitment to her clients. And in the end, even that had proved too much, leading to chaos and disaster for all concerned.
When Rupinder retired due to ill health there was no question of the other partners allowing Lilly to continue and she had been left with the choice of getting another job or working for herself.
Now her decision was beginning to look somewhat rash.
She had promised both Jack and Sam that things were going to be different, that she would stay well away
from any children who happened to find themselves in the centre of terrible crimes. Hell, she had promised herself that she would no longer put herself on the line. The emotional fallout was simply too great let alone the danger that she seemed to attract.
Yet here she was again with another fifteen-year-old charged with murder. But what was she supposed to do? The kid had no father, and his mother wasn’t exactly a rock. Could she really turn her back so easily?
Lilly sank into a chair, exhausted. What Raffy had said in answer to that charge played through her mind on a loop. Any jury that heard it would conjure up, not a frightened boy devastated by the loss of his sibling, but a cold and arrogant youth, capable of committing a terrible act to uphold his family’s honour. Perhaps that was exactly what he was. In which case he was hardly the vulnerable child she was painting him.
Then there was Bell. Ambition radiated from him and Raffy was fuelling his fantasies. Did Lilly really want to get into a fight with him?
Lilly poked at the unopened post. How on earth could she take on a high-profile and difficult case when she was incapable of even the smallest of tasks?
‘Impossible,’ she muttered to herself.
‘I was brought up to believe everything is possible.’
Lilly turned to the voice. In the doorway was the face of an angel.
‘Sorry,’ said Lilly, ‘we’re not open.’
The angel smiled. Her caramel skin was so even it was as if she had been dipped in liquid silk. Her features were so perfect, so timeless, it seemed the most natural
thing in the world that they were framed by a circle of black chiffon.
‘I can see you’re in a bit of a muddle,’ she said.
Lilly laughed. ‘There are ship wrecks tidier than this place.’
‘You need help,’ said the woman.
‘Have you been talking to my shrink?’
The angel smiled again, her eyes twinkling. She stepped into the reception and Lilly could see she was tiny, no more than five feet. Even the jacket of her black trouser suit, which fell past her thighs, couldn’t disguise her doll-like frame. Not even an angel then, but a cherub.
She looked around the room and nodded as if unpacked boxes were commonplace in solicitors’ offices.
‘You really do need an assistant,’ she said.
She let a surprisingly long finger slide across the pile of envelopes.
‘My name is Taslima.’ She handed her CV to Lilly. ‘I have a degree in law.’
As tempting as it would be to have anyone, let alone this beautiful young woman, helping out, Lilly knew there was no way she could afford another member of staff.
‘I’m in no position to hire anyone,’ she said, and popped the CV in her bag.
‘I can answer the phone and use a computer.’
Lilly shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Taslima gestured to the espresso machine. ‘I could get that working in a jiffy.’
‘I think I broke it,’ said Lilly.
‘Not at all. You’ve just overloaded this adaptor plug.’
Lilly frowned and tapped the plug. ‘I followed the instructions.’
‘Electrics can be tricky,’ said Taslima.
‘You’re telling me.’ Lilly pushed the adaptor away in disgust.
The office was once again plunged into darkness.
‘Oh dear,’ said Taslima, her voice honey in the shadows.
Lilly took a deep breath. Hadn’t Rupinder said she wouldn’t be able to do everything on her own?
‘When can you start?’ she asked.
Taslima stabbed the button for the lift.
There was no response. It was out of action. Again.
She took a deep breath, picked up her heavy bag and began the six-floor ascent.
She pinched her nose against the smell of urine in the stairwells and tried to ignore the graffiti.
Pakis Go Home.
Taslima shook her head. ‘I’d love to.’
Home. Taslima tried not to think about the house where she grew up on a tree-lined street in West London with a breakfast room where the sun streamed in and a study where the walls were shelved floor to ceiling with books. As a child she would sneak in to sit at her mother’s feet while she prepared her lecture notes, the smell of all those dusty pages filling the air.
She deliberately quickened her pace. All that was behind her. This was her home now.
When she got to her landing the next-door neighbour was waiting for her and scowled. Whoever said
Jamaicans were laid-back had never met Evelyn Roberts.
‘You get a job today?’
Taslima smiled and nodded. She was about to give details but Mrs Roberts had already turned away, her ample bottom sashaying down her hall to the kitchen.
Taslima followed her, her heart pumping as she crossed the threshold.
The kitchen was filled with steam as an oversized pan of rice bubbled on the gas ring. Taslima’s stomach growled.
‘How much they going to be paying you?’ asked Mrs Roberts.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Taslima admitted.
Mrs Roberts kissed her teeth.
‘It should be pretty good,’ said Taslima. ‘I’ll be working in a solicitor’s office.’
In fact she hadn’t discussed money but Lilly Valentine had come across as a decent woman. Dizzy and disorganised, but decent.
Mrs Roberts seemed unimpressed.
‘I’ll pay back everything I owe,’ said Taslima.
Mrs Roberts didn’t answer but took a pinch of salt from a bowl and tossed it into the pan.
Taslima could see the white rice studded with kidney beans like glossy, mahogany jewels. She smelled the air appreciatively.
Mrs Roberts pointed an accusing finger at Taslima. ‘You look half starved.’
‘I didn’t get time for lunch,’ Taslima lied.
Mrs Roberts narrowed her eyes. ‘You want some?’
Taslima nodded. ‘Please.’
Mrs Roberts ladled rice and peas into one Tupperware box, curried ackee into another. Taslima could almost taste the spices on her tongue. Mrs Roberts wrapped the boxes of food in a clean tea towel and handed them to Taslima.
‘Things are on the up, Mrs R.’ Taslima gratefully took the boxes. ‘This time they really are.’
Aasha washes the plates without a sigh. The dahl is stuck to the edges like grey cement and she has to pick at it with the edge of her thumbnail. Her brothers have been told a thousand times to run them under the tap when they’ve finished but why should they bother?
As soon as Aasha put her key in the door they were on her case. Why wasn’t she wearing a hijab? Why was she so late?
Aasha could feel her heart in her chest. Had they noticed her sweaty shirt? Her dirty shoes? Her brothers seem to know everyone in Luton, perhaps the owner of the café has called them, told them what she did?
She told them she’d been kept late at school. Described the extra maths session in detail. Even offered to show them her notes. It was a surprise how easily the lies slipped off her tongue. Her brothers soon drifted away to the television, leaving her to the dishes. They don’t care about her life as long as it doesn’t affect theirs.
As she rinses the last plate, Aasha wonders what it would be like to be a boy. She’d be able to come and go freely without anyone checking up on her. She’d sit with
Imran and Ismail, have a laugh with them. They’d have to listen to what she has to say. Notice her.
Because they don’t do that. They don’t actually look at her. Aasha is sure that if someone asked them what colour her eyes were, they wouldn’t even know.
Ryan knows. He says they’re beautiful.
She checks her reflection in the back of a spoon.
He says he likes the way they sparkle in the sun, and her long black lashes.
‘What are you smiling about?’
Aasha looks from the spoon to see Imran, leaning lazily against the counter. His hands are in his back pockets, pulling his jeans down so she can see not only the elastic of his Calvin Kleins but most of his hipbone.
Dad is always on about it. ‘Do you need to display your backside?’ he says. ‘Are you a gorilla?’ But he doesn’t actually do anything about it, does he?
Aasha can just imagine what would happen if she went about showing her pants. She’s not even allowed hipsters or skinny jeans.
‘Make us a cup of tea, Ash?’ Imran says.
‘I have to do my homework,’ she sighs.
‘It’ll take you ten seconds.’
Aasha shakes her head but is already filling the kettle. She wishes she could just tell him no. One day she will. One day soon.
‘Me too,’ Ismail calls from the other room.
She makes the chai and takes refuge in her room. As she logs on to her computer she already knows that her English assignment can wait and eagerly dives into MSN.
Within seconds a message arrives.
Ryan says:
Are you in training or wot?
Aasha laughs and types her answer.
Aasha says:
I’ve always been fast.
She bites her lip as she waits for his next message.
Ryan says:
Why did you run away?
Aasha doesn’t want to admit how nervous she was in his company. The thrill of being with him made her heart beat faster than not paying for their food. But she’s not going to just tell him that, is she?
Aasha says:
I had to get home.
Ryan says:
You won’t get away from me so easily next time.
She bites her lip so hard it hurts.
Aasha says:
Maybe I don’t want to.
December 2005
‘Merry fucking Christmas.’
A middle-aged man pushes past me to get off the bus. His breath smells of beer and cigarettes. He’s wearing felt reindeer antlers with bells that tinkle annoyingly.