For a moment, none of them moved. Then Svritsky stepped back, coolly tapping out a cigarette from a soft box. Bernberg bent over and started coughing dramatically. Richard lifted himself up, his side bruised and aching. Bernberg glared at him but kept an appreciable distance between them.
‘You be very, very careful, Bernberg,’ Richard said. ‘I’m warning you right now. You stay away from me and don’t even think of mentioning …’ His voice trailed off as he tried to find the right word for Abayomi; that he could not find one confirmed the disastrous position into which he had been lured.
‘Well, as nice as that would be, Calloway,’ Bernberg replied, ‘I don’t see how we can keep
her
out of it. Truth is, you are having a torrid affair with the wife of the chief state witness. It seems that you are a bit close to the action in more ways than one. Who knows what pillow talk has taken place.’ Despite the bravado of the response, Bernberg retreated from Richard and the retort was delivered from halfway up the passage.
‘Bernberg, you lunatic! Can’t you see I’m being set up? Svritsky told me about her. He’s the one who put me in touch with her in the first place.’
‘No, Calloway. Stefan has already told me how this came about. He happened to have a massage with this lady. On one occasion. He thought she was quite good and suggested you give her a try. He has no connection to her. But you seem to have taken that a bit further, or
lower
, shall we say. Nasty coincidence for you.’
Bernberg took a few more steps back as Richard advanced. Svritsky intervened, pushing his barrel chest in Richard’s path. Bernberg carried on from behind the protection of his new client: ‘My client had no idea your morals were quite so … flexible. And I think the Law Society may be equally surprised to hear about your loose ethics.
‘One last thing, Calloway,’ Bernberg added. ‘Let’s just remember the little matter of attorney-client privilege. I think you’re in enough trouble without breaking that ethical rule as well. So whatever Svritsky might have told you, it all stays confidential.’ Richard started to protest but Bernberg held up his hand. ‘Look, my client doesn’t want to report you to the Law Society. But if you break the privilege, well then I don’t see my way clear to leaving them out of this.’ Bernberg smirked. ‘I think you’re pretty sewn up on this one.’
Richard walked seething into the magistrate’s office. Bernberg followed, positioning himself behind the safety of a chair. There was no need; Richard’s fury was doused by the look on Abrahams’s face. ‘Do you both want to be struck off, gentlemen?’ she asked. ‘Because I assure you that if I report what I just witnessed out there, that will be the end of it, certainly for you, Mr Calloway.’ Richard saw Bernberg make some gesture. Abrahams turned on him with venom. ‘Do not think, for one moment, Mr Bernberg, that you are innocent in this disgusting display. It is intolerable. Both of you ought to be ashamed. We might have to deal with the lowest of humanity in these courts, but God help us if we sink to those depths ourselves.’
Richard mumbled an apology, but Abrahams was not appeased. ‘I don’t want apologies, Mr Calloway. And I don’t want to know what’s going on between the two of you either. I am not your headmistress. Just sort it out and get it under control.’
Bernberg cleared his throat to speak, but Richard beat him to it. ‘Your Worship, I will have to withdraw as Mr Svritsky’s attorney and Mr Bernberg will be taking over as his legal representative. It is unfortunately unavoidable. I cannot give you an explanation for my withdrawal now. But I understand that Mr Bernberg will be launching various applications. I have no doubt that the nature of my compromised position will be apparent from the content of those applications.’
Abrahams’s eyes narrowed at this information and she looked first at Richard and then at Bernberg, slowly assessing the situation. ‘If you’re looking for a postponement, Mr Bernberg,’ she said thinly, already accepting his role as Svritsky’s legal representative, ‘then I suggest you rethink your strategy. Fundamentally.’
‘No, Your Worship,’ Bernberg squeaked obsequiously, as if such a tactic had never occurred to him. ‘To borrow your words, it is something more fundamental. We will be applying for a stay of prosecution. A permanent stay.’
Abrahams’s eyes became slits. ‘Indeed, Mr Bernberg. Indeed. I will see you in court in ten minutes then.’
Richard thanked her and turned to leave. ‘Mr Calloway, a moment of your time.’
Bernberg raised his eyebrows and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Abrahams softened and offered Richard a chair. He sat down gratefully. ‘Richard, you are a good lawyer. You have always had the respect of this bench. I don’t know what happened today, but you look terrible. And your career almost hit a wall this morning out there. Don’t throw away what you have worked so hard to create.’ She looked at him almost tenderly and Richard had to suppress the urge to burst into tears.
‘Thank you, Your Worship. I deeply regret what happened this morning. And I appreciate your words. Perhaps sometime I will be able to explain to you … but unfortunately that day will have to wait. It seems that despite all my experiences in the criminal courts, I have remained naive. People have turned out to be far more devious than I had ever imagined.’
‘In my experience, they almost invariably are, Richard.’ She smiled. ‘I am sorry to lose you in this case, but I’m sure that I’ll see you again soon enough in others.’
Richard thanked her and stood up slowly. He still felt dizzy and he waited for a moment before walking to the door. Bernberg and Svritsky were standing in discussion in the corridor.
‘So?’ Bernberg queried as Richard walked past them.
Richard waved his hand dismissively at the lawyer and turned to Svritsky. ‘You really are a piece of work, Stefan. I don’t know how you wangled this one, but I plan to find out. You have lied to me from the beginning: about how the accident happened, about Bernberg, about Aba … the massage lady, everything.’
Svritsky did not move, his hands on his hips and his top lip raised in an ugly sneer. ‘Why you think that you are not a player, huh? Why are
we
all players, but
you
… somehow you are above this? You are bigger than this, yes? More important? Mr Calloway, the big lawyer, hey? Fuck you, you are also a player in this.’
Svritsky jabbed a stiff finger into his former lawyer’s chest. Richard’s bruised ribs smarted at the contact. ‘You, Richard,’ Svritsky said, ‘you have been number one player since the start. Welcome to the game, my friend.’
R
ICHARD
’
S SLK PURRED
while he sat undecided in the front seat. The street was quieter than when he had picked up Abayomi during the daytime. Occasionally, someone entered the foyer of the building, casting a curious eye in his direction. The southeast wind was blowing hard, and packets and leaves swirled around, skittering off the cement gutter and scattering back into the road. He could hear the particles of sand, blown up from the beachfront a block away, bouncing against the glass of the windscreen. Grit collected along the rubber edge of his wipers and dulled the shine of the bonnet. He switched off the engine and killed the headlights. The darkness was startling and he realised that the streetlights were off; instead an eerie light from the fluorescent tubes in the foyer was cast over the road and pavement. A man emerged from the building, immediately throwing a hood over his head as the wind blasted him with litter and grime. He walked out of the light, stooped down against the force of the wind.
Richard burned with frustration, but still could not focus his emotions on any particular subject. The absence of a clear perpetrator dissipated his fury and left him feeling weak. It was a lethargy born of a sense of unfairness; the world had turned against him, but he did not have the will to fight back. The exoticism of the world he had touched upon had exhilarated him. Now it left him feeling suspicious and persecuted. The leather of the steering wheel felt greasy and he wiped his hands along the sides of his trousers. He had not been home since his failed court appearance and he smelt of smoke and old sweat. His side ached where Svritsky had rammed into him. He longed for a cold beer, perhaps a swim in the pool. Just the thought of the tingle of cool water on his body made him close his eyes.
The sound of footsteps broke his reverie. A male figure passed close to the car and then crossed over the road towards the building. As the light caught him, Richard saw that it was Ifasen.
By the time Richard had reached the foyer, he could hear Ifasen’s slow footfall in the stairwell, already two or more flights above him. He waited for the sound to recede before he started climbing after him. The stairwell reeked of overcooked vegetables and seeping damp. Graffiti had been sprayed over the flaking paint and cracked cement of the walls. The railings were rusted and the side struts were missing in most places. The top rail may once have been wood, but it had long since been ripped off, leaving the bolts exposed, standing up like lost soldiers along the metal rim. Bags of rubbish met him at every landing, some torn open and spilling their foul contents onto the ground. On the third-floor landing the smell was so powerful that he had to cover his nose with his shirt to avoid gagging. He reached the sixth floor and rested for a short while, trying to regulate his breathing before pushing the stairwell door open and walking into the passageway.
The fluorescent lighting in the passage was sparse, leaving patches of darkness interspersed with strobing white flashes as the long bulbs tried to light up. Many of the doors had no numbers, but he found the flat three doors down. The door was slightly ajar and he could hear voices from inside.
‘You are not welcome here,’ a voice – Ifasen’s – announced. Surprised that his presence was already known, Richard pushed at the door, revealing more of the interior. Then he saw that Ifasen was not talking to him, but had directed the words at a thickset black man: Mandla, from the nightclub. Mandla was pointing his finger at Ifasen and was about to say something in response when he became aware of the opening door. Richard stepped into the living room. His appearance was met by shocked silence. Ifasen stared at him in disbelief. Abayomi appeared at the kitchen door and stood rooted, her mouth comically open.
Mandla reacted first: ‘Hmmm, it is you. Join the party. I was just leaving.’ His finger was still raised toward Ifasen and he held it there, looking back at him fiercely. ‘Just remember, Obeyi. Just remember who you are.’ Then he pulled the two edges of his leather jacket together and pushed past Richard. The remaining three stood in silence, Mandla’s footsteps echoing on the hard floor outside as he strode away.
Abayomi – her voice taut – said something to Ifasen in Igbo, barely articulating the words. Her hands had started to tremble and she put one hand over the other to try to calm the movement. She kept looking at her husband, willing him to take control.
Ifasen started to reply, but cut himself short. He looked genuinely puzzled to see Richard. ‘Why are you here? I have been released and I did not have to pay any bail in the end. I reached an agreement with the prosecutor. The charges were taken away … dropped, you say. Do I owe you money for this perhaps?’ His English was cautious and polite.
‘No, Ifasen, you don’t owe me money; you owe me an explanation.’ Richard’s eyes darted from Abayomi to her husband and back again. She would not look at him. She waited, fearful, for her husband to understand. ‘He has no business here, Ifasen.
Chei!
Not in our home. He must go. Now.’ Ifasen frowned in irritation at her poor hospitality. ‘Please Ifasen,’ she begged. ‘Khalifah will be brought home soon. This man must leave.’
Richard held up his hand in a gesture of appeasement, although he could feel his anger mounting at the sight of the two of them together. ‘I haven’t come here to fight. I just need to know what is going on. My life has been turned into an ugly mess. And I can’t work out why. Or how. And you two have the answers to this. That is why I’m here.’
Ifasen looked more perplexed. ‘You told me that you had given money to Abayomi, for bail. How much did you give? Is it that money that you need back, now that I have been released? Is that why you are here?’
‘No,’ Richard said, also confused. ‘I never paid any bail money. I paid money that Abayomi needed for her refugee renewal.’ As he said it, he realised that he had forgotten about the money he had given to Sunday. He felt a renewed surge of anger. ‘That’s not why I’m here, although I would like that money back as well.’
Abayomi laughed incredulously. ‘Money for my refugee renewal? What are you talking about? My refugee status is valid for another eight months.’
It was Richard’s turn to look at her in disbelief. He started to stammer, but she cut him off with a single word: ‘Sunday?’
Richard nodded. Ifasen cursed under his breath. But Abayomi began to laugh, turning her head upwards to look at the ceiling. She laughed hard and tears started to streak down her face. ‘Oh my God,’ she spluttered, ‘oh my God.’
‘It’s all smoke and mirrors with you people,’ Richard erupted. ‘Do you think it’s funny? So Sunday conned me out of my money. I only paid it because of you. Because of us. And now you think it’s funny! For fuck’s sake!’
Ifasen moved in front of him, shaking his head. ‘No, no, no.’ His finger wagged back and forth like the tail of a dog. ‘You can’t come here into our home and speak like that. You must please leave. Sunday is a thief, it seems. We have now realised that he has stolen from us too. We will get your money back.’
‘I want my fucking life back, not just my money.’ Richard was bellowing, spittle flying from his mouth. Abayomi was still laughing, hysterical. Mocking him, Richard thought, laughing at his stupidity, his gullible European existence. For a moment, he imagined smashing his fist into her face to shut her up.
‘Who is your boss, Abayomi? Start there: is it that thug who was here just now? Is he the one pulling strings here? Tell me.’