Those people next door, p.4
Those People Next Door, page 4
‘Fine,’ she agreed.
‘Okay, well, I need to get ready for my shift. Will you feed Molly?’
‘Yeah. Course.’
Bil gave her a quick kiss, then went upstairs to change. Salma smoothed a crease in the banner, ignoring her unease. It was strange how childhood hang-ups stayed with you. When Salma was eleven years old, she got caught up in the excitement of a World Cup match – 1990 she thought it was – and mocked up a St George’s Cross, which she taped to their living room window. When her dad came home from work, he ripped it down with an urgency she had never seen before.
‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he said. ‘We’ll get a brick through our window.’
Salma was frightened by his ferocity and though she didn’t understand it, she obeyed straight away. Even now as an adult, she didn’t know if he thought that the danger lay in her claiming the flag as her own, or because he simply associated it with violence. It broke her heart that her father, who couldn’t read English words, recognised danger in that single image.
Salma hoped that Bil was right. Sometimes we all did silly, inexplicable things like killing an ant as a child or kicking an empty bottle instead of putting it in the bin. Perhaps it was a momentary lapse. Perhaps Tom would be mortified if he realised she had seen him. Perhaps he did deserve the benefit of her doubt.
Zain leaned around the brick and reached for the piece of paper. A neat list of names was printed in a column: Heard. it, Synco.phy, Sign.ly.
Zain read them sceptically, then handed back the sheet. ‘I’m not sure, man.’
‘Really? I thought they were good.’
‘They’re difficult to communicate. We need something simpler.’
Jamie was crestfallen. ‘Oh, man. I worked on those for ages.’
‘Well, why don’t we brainstorm some better names?’
Jamie brightened. ‘That would be amazing.’ The two of them planned to apply to a startup fund aimed at diverse founders, but had to choose a name beforehand.
Zain stubbed out his cigarette and gestured over his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come over?’
Jamie jumped up on his wall, then carefully side-stepped the protruding column between the two balconies. Zain led him inside and felt a little embarrassed by the neatness of his room. His technical guides – Swift, Python, JavaScript – were stacked on his desk, their white spines all aligned. His shoes were in a neat row and even the smell – a faint lemongrass from the oil his mum liked – seemed overtly girlish. It didn’t quite fit the image of a technical genius. He watched Jamie from the corner of his eye but he didn’t seem to notice or care. They sat side by side at the desk and began to brainstorm names.
InSync?
—Like the boy band?
Ah, maybe not.
—Hear Hear?
Too generic. What about ListenIn?
—Who are we? The NSA?
Grapevine? As in ‘I heard it through the’?
—Oh, that’s actually good.
As they shaped a shortlist, Zain looked across at Jamie. ‘What’s it like for you? Your hearing loss?’
Jamie set down his pen. ‘What’s it like for you not having hearing loss? It’s just a different way of being in the world.’
Zain grimaced. ‘Sorry. I should have asked if you mind talking about it.’
Jamie shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Is it hard? Like being out and about?’
Jamie considered this. ‘I mean, yeah, I guess so but you have to get over it. I used to try and hide it when I was like twelve or thirteen, but I met this tutor who said it’s easier if you’re upfront about it. Sometimes it’s not nice when waiters and people get impatient with me but if I point out my hearing aids, then usually they’re nicer.’
Zain leaned forward to look at Jamie’s aids. ‘You can barely see them.’
He adjusted one self-consciously. ‘They’re new. In primary, I used to have these humongous ones. It was so embarrassing.’
‘And now?’
‘I mean, sometimes I’m embarrassed, but not as much. I’m okay in restaurants and cinemas and ordering stuff, but I still don’t really…’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘Talk to girls and stuff.’
Zain laughed but with kindness. He drew back and squinted at Jamie. ‘Is there one in particular we’re talking about?’
Jamie’s gaze shifted shyly. ‘I mean, yeah.’ He blushed. ‘Her name’s Camilla. I knew her in primary and she was always nice to me, but in secondary she’s been a bit… off.’
‘In what way?’
Jamie tensed. ‘Well, like if I mishear something in school, she used to be nice but now she laughs along with the rest of them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, like if the teacher asks, “Is this A or B?” and I answer, “Yes” because I haven’t understood her. Sometimes, I have to fill in sentences; guess at the bit I missed, hoping that I’m right. When I get it wrong, they laugh.’
Zain felt angry on Jamie’s behalf. ‘Mate, you’re better than this Camilla.’
Jamie puckered his lips in doubt. ‘Yeah, but you haven’t seen her.’
Zain felt a protective instinct. Jamie was missing an edge and if he wasn’t careful, life would cut him open. He wanted to reach out and touch him somehow – an arm around his shoulders, a squeeze of solidarity – but their relationship did not have that fluency. Instead, he punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Well, let’s see how Camilla likes you when Grapevine earns us millions.’
Jamie pretended to pop his collar, and the awkward, self-conscious way that he did it filled Zain with affection.
‘Hey, do you want to make it official? Like sign a contract and be proper business partners?’
Jamie lit up. ‘That would be amazing.’
Zain extended his hand. ‘This isn’t exactly Menlo Park, but maybe we can work with it.’
Jamie shook it firmly. ‘What’s Menlo Park?’
Zain laughed. ‘Mate, we have a lot of work to do.’ He stood. ‘But first: snacks. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He left Jamie in his room and headed downstairs to the kitchen. As he walked past the lounge, he saw his mum pull away from the window. Tacked onto the lower left square was his Black Lives Matter banner.
Zain frowned. ‘What’s going on?’
She smiled. ‘Oh, nothing.’ She rubbed the nape of her neck, a nervous tic he recognised.
‘Oh-kay,’ he said suspiciously. He nodded at the banner. ‘So I won you over then?’
She laughed, jittery. ‘Yeah. You did.’
‘Mum, is everything all right?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Okay, well, is it all right that Jamie’s upstairs?’
‘Jamie?’
‘From next door?’
She stiffened. ‘From next door?’ She glanced at the stairs. ‘When did he come over?’
‘Just now. I met him yesterday. Is that all right?’
‘I’d like to meet him.’
Zain sighed. ‘Mum, don’t be weird about this.’
‘I’m not being weird. I just want to know who my son is consorting with. Is that too much to ask after—’
‘This isn’t the estate, Mum. Isn’t that why we moved here?’
‘Zain, please don’t talk back to me.’
He sighed dramatically. ‘Okay, but can we have some food then, so he doesn’t feel like he’s being interrogated?’
‘Of course. What do you want? Nachos? Chips? I have some samosas in the freezer and some of that amazing Bonbibi sauce.’
Zain couldn’t help but laugh then. She could be a bit of a tiger mother but when it came to food, she was a hostess through and through. ‘I’ll do the nachos, Mum. Please just don’t be weird.’
He headed upstairs and fetched Jamie. ‘Hey man, my mum said we can pop downstairs and eat. That cool?’
Jamie stood and smoothed his T-shirt. ‘Yeah, sure.’
Zain led him downstairs. In the kitchen, his mum was waiting with an eerie grin. He gave her a look of warning and she relaxed a little, rolling her shoulders with the effort.
‘Mum, Jamie. Jamie, Mum.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs…’
‘Khatun,’ she said and shook his hand. ‘But you can call me Salma.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
‘You’re in Year 11, aren’t you, Jamie? You must be busy with exams?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Are you off to college in September?’
Zain prepared the nachos and listened to his mother quiz Jamie. He could tell she wasn’t impressed with his choice of A-Levels: art, graphics and IT. With her encouragement, Zain had chosen maths, physics and chemistry – but it all amounted to nothing.
‘I believe your father leads a big team at Sartre & Sartre,’ she was saying. ‘He must be quite the disciplinarian?’
Jamie nodded. ‘Yeah, it can be hard.’
‘Is he quite conservative?’
Jamie shifted uneasily. ‘Um, I guess so.’
Zain threw his mother a look. ‘We’ll be in the living room, Mum.’ He ushered Jamie towards it, then turned back and gestured at her. What’s going on?
She forced a smile. Nothing.
He shook his head, then turned back round and wondered why she was lying.
Willa leaned against the doorframe and tweaked her pose here and there for maximum effect. She didn’t usually try this hard – full make-up, big hair and heels – but the pregnancy was already making her unwieldy and she thought she needed the help.
Her patience began to dwindle as Tom continued to rummage in the shed. Waiting for him was spoiling the mood. Jamie had texted earlier to say he was at a friend’s, so Willa had taken this opportunity to put on her favourite dress. She ran her palms down the fabric and wondered if she would ever fit back into it. When she had Jamie, she was young enough to regain her shape but now, at thirty-eight, she wondered if motherhood would destroy her body for good.
She heard a clatter in the shed and, finally, he emerged. When he saw her, he froze mid-step on the path. A wide grin spread on his face.
‘Well, look at you.’ He came over and circled his arm around her waist.
She pushed his hands away. ‘You’re dirty.’
He raised a brow. ‘And you’re not?’
She smiled, doe-eyed, and led him inside. At the dinner table, she sipped from her glass coyly.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, glancing around the room.
She raised the glass a little. ‘I’m drinking lime and soda,’ she said pointedly. ‘Instead of wine.’ She leaned an elbow on the table. ‘Because I can’t drink wine.’
He looked at the glass and it took him a moment to catch her meaning. ‘No…’ he said in disbelief.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘But… are you sure?’
Willa nodded, her eyes shining. ‘A hundred per cent.’
Tom leapt off his chair and dropped to his knees beside her. He drew his arms around her and pressed his face to her torso. ‘How long have you known?’
She shifted guiltily. ‘A week.’
‘A week!’
‘I wanted to be sure before I said anything.’ She looked at him shyly. ‘Are you happy?’
He didn’t speak, only nodded, and Willa knew that he didn’t trust his voice. She leaned into the heat of his body and softly kissed his hair. At first, he relaxed against her, but then she felt him tense. He pulled away a little.
‘Wait, you’ve known for a week?’
‘Yes.’
‘But…’ He released her. ‘You were drinking at the barbecue.’
Willa gestured at her lime and soda. ‘This was just for show. I can drink for the first few weeks.’
‘What? No, you can’t.’
Willa rolled her eyes. ‘Tom, who knows more about pregnancy? You or me?’
‘Come on, Willa. Don’t be glib. You were smoking as well.’
‘Only one.’
‘Sweetheart, I’ve seen you smoke every day.’
Willa sighed, loud and theatrical. ‘Fine. I’ll give up.’
He took her hand in his. ‘I know it’s not fair but we’ve got to do this. We’ve got to keep our baby safe.’
‘I know that,’ she said sourly.
‘Tell you what. I’ll give up drinking too. For the whole nine months.’
She shuddered. ‘Oh, God, don’t do that. We don’t both have to be bores.’
He smiled lopsidedly. ‘Okay, but you promise?’
‘I promise.’
He twisted round and plucked her cigarettes from the mantelpiece. ‘So these are gone?’
She waved nonchalantly. ‘Gone.’
He aimed them at the wastepaper bin and landed the shot easily. ‘Gone!’ He poured her more lime and soda and opened a bottle of beer. ‘Things will be so much better this time. We have a garden. A car. A spare bedroom!’
Willa felt something knot in her stomach. Jamie’s early years weren’t easy with the three of them crowded in her Camden flat but the thought of raising a child here, in Blenheim, felt like a sort of surrender. ‘Don’t you miss those days though?’
He scoffed. ‘What? Hitting my head on the ceiling every time I went downstairs? And your dad lording it over me that he was paying your rent? No, thank you.’
Willa sighed. ‘But don’t you miss being part of that life?’
‘We’re parents now. We have different priorities.’
‘But it might be good for our child. To be part of something that isn’t so… stationary.’ She pictured herself pushing her baby along Primrose Hill, stopping at a café to meet Sato, Sophia and Amelia. She imagined strolling the streets, pausing to photograph an interesting door to upload to her Instagram.
Tom laughed. ‘I don’t even know what that means, but I think you’re being romantic.’ He sipped his beer. ‘Things are so much better here.’
Willa’s picture changed: now, she was standing on the lawn watching Tom push a little pink bicycle carrying a pigtailed blonde girl.
Willa pushed away from the table and tugged at her neckline, feeling claustrophobic.
‘Why don’t you head upstairs?’ said Tom. ‘I can do the dishes.’
Willa nodded. On her way out of the kitchen, she paused by the wastepaper bin. She hovered there for a second and then, with a backward glance at Tom, plucked her pack from the bin. She tucked them at the very back of a drawer that no one ever went through. She didn’t plan to smoke them, of course, but why should Tom tell her what to do? It was a purely symbolic act of defiance. She covered it with old batteries and coolly left the room.
Salma woke up before her alarm, roused by the bedspring that dug into her side. She curled like a foetus to try and avoid it, but could still feel its knotty claw. She and Bil had talked about replacing the mattress, but moving home had cleaned out their savings. Right now, they had two mortgages: on Blenheim and Jakoni’s. They had tried to rent out the space while they looked for a buyer but couldn’t find a taker. It was a terrible time to start a business. They had taken a mortgage holiday but that was just a Band-Aid. Maybe they should have cut their losses with this house, but what was the alternative? To stay in Selborne Estate and watch Zain veer off course? Salma wanted better for her child.
When she was younger, she believed that progress would happen naturally; that their children, by dint of being third generation, would do better than they did. But then she saw her neighbours’ children fall into the same jobs: gruelling schedules for low pay on zero-hour contracts. She wanted Zain to have a choice. Staying in Selborne Estate would have culled his chances.
People often asked her why she had never had another child. Perhaps she would have in a place like Blenheim, but raising one child in Selborne Estate was challenging enough. There, they slipped away alarmingly fast. She had seen it with Zain’s peers and wanted something different for him, even if it stretched them financially. She and Bil would get through this. They always did.
She closed her eyes and willed her mind to quieten, but soon gave up on sleep. She crept out of bed, careful not to wake Bil, and went downstairs to the living room. Sunlight streamed through the window, bathing the room in butter. She set the coffee to brew and tidied up a few bits and pieces: the throw that Zain always left in a heap, the magazine he used as a base for his laptop so the pouffe wouldn’t get too hot. She plumped the cushions and listened to the gentle putter of the coffee. She neatened the curtains and, then, she froze.
At first, she thought she was mistaken; that the light was just hitting it strangely. She reached forward and pulled the banner from the window. A hot poker of shock sank into her chest. The bottom-left frame of her window was daubed with white paint – not haphazardly but in neat, deliberate strokes, filling the entire pane. Her mind filed through the possibilities – an innocent prank, a coincidence, an accident – but landed on a dreadful truth: this was Tom’s work. For a moment, she stood there at a loss, her mouth moving silently as if working loose her thoughts. Finally, she set down the banner and went upstairs to wake Bil.
He rubbed his eyes like a child and followed her down to the living room, snapping awake when he saw it. He rubbed two fingers across the pane.
‘Surely not.’ He met her gaze and, before he could smooth it away, she caught the flash of dread. He shook his head to chase it away, then put on his slippers and went outside, Salma trailing behind. They stood side by side and stared at the neat square of white. She touched it and felt her anger mount.
‘It’s dry.’ She turned to Bil. ‘What should we do?’
He chewed the inside of his cheek. ‘There’s some white spirit in the shed.’
Salma balked. ‘No, Bil. We shouldn’t just clean it.’
‘Well, we can’t leave it like it is.’
‘But we can’t not say anything.’
‘We don’t know who did it.’
Salma exhaled sharply. ‘I think I have a good idea.’
‘Come on, Salma, it could have just been some kids.’
‘It wasn’t just kids.’
Bil angled his head in doubt. ‘We can’t just go accusing someone without any proof.’
