Something to Hide, page 11
“She is Black English,” Abeo said. “She gives me children. There will be more. Children are a man’s proof of who he is.”
“That’s your story, is it? Mum had two but that wasn’t enough, so you went out and . . . what . . . advertised?” When his father said nothing, Tani went on. “You did. You advertised. Internet, I expect. And it wasn’t about having kids, that advert. What does she think about us, then? And where does she think you are when you’re not with her?”
“She knows where I am. And with who. She is happy with the arrangement and it suits me as well.”
Tani felt lightheaded. He wanted to sit, to think things through, but he had to keep walking because he wanted to pull from his father every detail he could use against him.
“What if someone gives Mum the word about . . . whatsername . . . Lark . . . and she walks away from . . . from this, from you, from this whole rotten life? What if Mum divorces you?”
“She will not do that,” Abeo said. “She has no reason. Should she and Lark ever meet, she will thank Lark for her . . .” Abeo seemed to search for the word. He chose, “For her services. And Lark has done them well.”
His father was bluffing. Tani could see it in the way Abeo’s eyes shifted as he spoke, his glances going from Tani to the pavement, from Tani to the vehicles that passed them in the street.
Tani said to him, “Really, eh? Okay, I’ll tell her and we’ll see how she feels.”
“If you must.” Abeo was, it seemed, without embarrassment, shame, or guilt, without anything at all. He merely was. Everything about him was saying to Tani, This is who I am and you can cope or not. It is of little matter to me.
Tani reckoned Abeo was trying to pull whatever wool he could get his hands on. He said, “I’m telling her, Pa.”
Abeo replied, “As you wish.”
“You’ll lose Mum, Simi, and me. You’ll lose half of everything you own. Is that what you want? Because I swear I’m going to tell her. Unless.”
Abeo glanced at him then. He cocked his head, interested to hear what followed unless.
“Unless you swear to leave Simi alone. You swear to it here. Now. You leave her alone, you leave her in London, and no way do you ever sell her to some bloke in Nigeria.”
Abeo crossed the road. Tani followed. In the distance the sun was striking the tops of the tower blocks of Mayville Estate. More and more people were in the streets: on bicycles, in cars, on foot, on motorbikes. Shops would soon open and the market traders would be arranging their wares.
Abeo said to Tani, “That is your price?”
“Tha’s my price. Simi’s my price. Simi staying in London is my price. Simi being left alone is my price.”
Abeo nodded thoughtfully. The right side of his upper lip twitched. “I will think about it if you say nothing for now.”
“Decide by tonight,” Tani told him.
“Tonight,” Abeo acknowledged.
When they reached Bronte House, neither Monifa nor Simisola had yet awoken. Tani expected his father to head to the bathroom straightaway, to wash the smell of Lark and sex and sweat from his body. But instead he went to the door of the bedroom he shared with Monifa. He opened it without ceremony and said, “Nifa, come here.”
Tani could hear his mother stirring. He heard her say, “What is it?”
“I said come, Monifa. Did you not hear me?”
There was rustling from the room, and then in a moment Monifa appeared in the doorway. Her face was swollen with sleep or lack of it. Her eyes looked hooded. She saw Tani, and she looked from him to Abeo as she brought one of her hands to her throat.
Abeo said, “Show it to her, Tani,” and he handed Tani the manila envelope. “You wish so much to do it, yes? So do it now.” And when Tani did nothing, “Tani, I said show it your mother as you said you would do if I did not follow your wishes in this matter.” And still when Tani didn’t move, Abeo snatched the envelope and thrust it at Monifa. “Look,” he told her. “Your son wants you to see this, so look at it.”
Monifa shifted her gaze from husband to son to the envelope she held. She did not have to be told again what to do. She opened the envelope and drew out the paper and her gaze fell upon what Tani himself had seen. Slowly she raised her head and looked at Tani. Slowly she covered half of her face. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I didn’t want you to know.”
Abeo lifted his head and tossed it in a way that unaccountably reminded Tani of a bull. But when he spoke, it was to Monifa. “Make coffee,” he said. “I will be in the bath.”
TRINITY GREEN
WHITECHAPEL
EAST LONDON
Narissa Cameron’s efforts with the girls were not paying off in the way she seemed to desire. Although one of the adult volunteers had done a brilliant job two weeks earlier of demonstrating exactly the storytelling style Narissa was after—indeed, Deborah had photographed her and recorded her words as well in the hope she could use both when she put together her book—there wasn’t a single girl who so far had been able to emulate that. Instead, whether it was rehearsing or filming, the girls depended upon recitation, becoming automatons in front of the camera.
Narissa’s reaction to this was made worse by the fact that with Deborah—a bloody white woman, for God’s sake—the girls seemed natural. Deborah knew the reason was not that she had a magic touch of some kind. It was merely that she had more experience. Part of what she’d learned both in photography school and over the years making portraits was how to draw her photographic subjects out of themselves. It seemed to her that Narissa didn’t yet have that ability, which came mostly from experience, and her frustrated intention was at war with her passionate desire to dig into the girls’ stories.
Deborah paused as she was leaving Orchid House when she saw Narissa on her mobile, at the bottom of the steps. She heard her saying, “It’s bad. It’s truly bad. Hideously bad. Victoria, you must—”
Victoria evidently cut her off at some considerable length, after which Narissa said hotly, “I know what I need. You’re not helping. Are you my sponsor or my mother?”
And then she listened. But she didn’t seem to like what she heard because she said, “I can’t get there. It will take too long. I won’t make it, and—”
More from Victoria and then, “All right. Yes. All right.”
She ended the call. She saw Deborah and said, “What? Why’re you lurking round? Aren’t you on your way home? Go away!” Without waiting for Deborah to cooperate, Narissa strode onto the bone-dry and dying lawn that extended the length of the two rows of cottages. But she stopped in the middle and then swung round. Deborah hadn’t moved, so Narissa shouted, “Do you ever listen to anyone? What’s wrong with you?”
Deborah descended the steps and walked to her. She said, “Is there anything . . . ? You seem . . . I’m just . . . Can I help at all?”
“Do I look like someone who needs your help?”
“To be honest? Well . . . yes.”
“So what are you? Some supercilious Madonna of the . . . Christ. I can’t even think what you’re the bloody Madonna of.”
Deborah chuckled. Then she said, “Oh, sorry.” And then she clapped her hand over her mouth.
Narissa rolled her eyes. “Does anyone ever slap you and your privileged white arse into another time zone?”
Deborah thought about this. There were certainly possibilities. She replied seriously with, “I’m sure there are those who want to, but so far all of them have restrained themselves.”
Narissa began to walk towards the boundary wall and the street beyond. Deborah accompanied her. Narissa shot her a look. “What?”
“The filming seems to be . . . well . . . not going as well as you hoped.”
“Sherlock has arrived,” Narissa said to the sky.
“So if I can say it? You’re having something of a time of it.”
“I’m having a meltdown is what the fuck I’m having.”
“Definitely another way of putting it,” Deborah noted.
“Do you ever curse?” Narissa demanded. “Are you always so nicey-nicey? Forget it. Don’t answer. I need a bloody meeting is what I need. That or a drink. Or a pill. Or something.”
“Conversation?” Deborah offered. “I mean, I know I’m not what you need. And of course I don’t know and can’t pretend to know what it’s like. I mean, your meetings and everything? But I can talk. I mean, I can listen. And you can talk. And I can respond if you want a response.”
Narissa shot her another look. Deborah knew she was being evaluated. There was nothing for it but to wait for the other woman to decide. Finally, Narissa brusquely said, “Oh fuck it. I’m getting everything but the outrage. I keep asking myself why do they show no outrage? We’ve heard about the betrayal, the lies, the loss of innocence, the degradation of and subjugation of women, but why are they not outraged about it? I am. I’m bloody, sodding, bleeding outraged. And that, just there—the outrage—is completely missing when I look at each day’s work. And yet, when the girls talk to you, I can see it then. And why they talk to you like they do . . . I mean, you’re white, you’re lucky, you’re charmed, you’re whatever the hell you are. So what am I doing wrong?”
They continued their walk towards the wall that bordered the pavement. When they reached the end of it, Deborah paused in the shade of one of the mop-headed acacias. She said, “You seem—I don’t know—rather hard on yourself?”
Narissa laughed harshly, without humour. “I’ll recover from that soon enough. Believe me. It’s my stock-in-trade.”
“Joke if you want, but if I can ask: How many documentaries have you made?”
“I’ve worked with my dad and he’s been filming documentaries for something like forty years. So I know what I’m doing if that’s where you were heading. I know the routine. I’ve heard it from the cradle.”
“What?”
Like a long-ago memorised recitation, Narissa said, “That the smoothest route to success lies within the filmmaker’s ability to remain objective, that everything comes down to the filmmaker’s being a disinterested but nonetheless sympathetic witness when shooting.”
“But still, this is your first documentary?”
“That doesn’t matter. I should be able to—”
“What? And why?” When Narissa didn’t reply, Deborah went on with, “Why should you anything?”
Narissa paused and seemed to consider this for a moment. She finally said, “Because I bloody want to.”
“So? Look, I know nothing about making documentaries, but perhaps you’re looking at this the wrong way round? It sounds like you want the outrage to come from the girls. But shouldn’t it come from the film’s viewers? And shouldn’t the filmmaker have faith that the viewer will actually feel the outrage? I mean, isn’t outrage something that builds over the course of a film? Isn’t how the girls tell their stories—the simplicity of their telling—going to speak more loudly than . . . I don’t know. Tearing out their hair? Beating their heads against the wall? Sobbing? Weeping? You know, you might be getting in your own way, Narissa. It’s like you’ve got all these voices in your head, telling you not to bother because you’re going to fail.”
“I don’t like amateur psychologising. And frankly? You’re fucking patronising me, so stop it.”
“I won’t. I’m white and you’re Black and I get that we live in a racist world. But I’m saying this anyway: I think you’re setting yourself up to do badly because you don’t have faith. Not in the girls and how powerful their stories are, not in the viewers’ ability to understand what you’re doing with your film, and definitely not in yourself.”
“I’ve got piles of faith in myself, and you’re talking like there’s something wrong with wanting to make a difference,” Narissa said hotly. “These girls who come here . . . ? They face pressure like nothing your sort have ever seen. From birth they’ve been taught that women have to be transformed into vessels of chastity and purity for men. It’s all about becoming worthy of some bloke who’s willing to shoot his semen inside you. Doesn’t that make you want to bloody well scream? And it continues to go on and on and on with virtually no one doing a thing to stop it.”
“How can you say that? Zawadi is. You are.”
“Brilliant. Two of us.”
“I am,” Deborah said. “And there’re others who, I expect, feel the exact rage you’re looking for and probably belong in your film as well.”
“I’ve got several,” Narissa admitted, rather grudgingly, after a moment. “Before I started filming here.”
“Who are they?”
“Some coppers trying to end all this.”
“And?”
Narissa walked through the pedestrian gate and onto the pavement beyond which the traffic roared ceaselessly up and down Mile End Road. “They were good, the coppers. They were ready to talk, spread the word, crack skulls together, whatever. They put me on to a surgeon who’s working on this as well.”
“Was there outrage? I can’t think a surgeon wouldn’t be outraged.”
“I expect she is, but I didn’t get an interview. I barely got a returned phone call. She would’ve been brilliant on film, but she won’t do it. Which is too bloody bad because I could use her just before the film finishes. One of the coppers ended up saying that stopping everything that’s being done to women is like trying to bail out a canoe with a teaspoon, so it would be nice to end with a bit of hope.” Narissa looked at the traffic. Her expression became thoughtful. Deborah wondered what she was contemplating. She learned soon enough when Narissa went on with, “In fact, you should talk to her for your project, the surgeon. Her name’s Philippa Weatherall. I got the impression she’s paranoid as hell, so she probably won’t let you take a photo of her, but an interview with her as an introduction or a conclusion to the book you’re planning . . . ? Or both introduction and conclusion? She might go for that.”
Deborah shifted her weight from one leg to the other and observed Narissa Cameron. She said, “Hang on. Have you just handed me a way to structure the photo book I want to do? Bookended with interviews with this surgeon?”
“Christ! Have I? What does it mean? We’re trying to help each other? You and me? Why the hell would we do that? We’ve got nothing in common. We can’t be friends. I don’t even like you.”
“And I don’t like you. So we have something in common after all.”
Deborah smiled and Narissa laughed. Her mobile phone rang. She looked at the caller. She said, “My sponsor. She was looking for a meeting nearby. AA or Narc-Anon. I need to take this.”
“Of course. I’m due at home anyway.”
“Where d’you live?”
“Chelsea.”
Narissa hooted and rolled her eyes. “Why, of course you do.”
RIDLEY ROAD MARKET
DALSTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
He told Sophie. Her comments were, “Oh my God. I can’t believe . . . Is your mum . . . ? Do you even know why she . . . ?,” all of which came tumbling out of her. But he had no answers to anything, so it was just as well that she could not even articulate the questions. He’d revealed to her that, yes, there was something in his father’s life and yes, it could have been used to force his father to cooperate except it wasn’t illegal, and his mother knew all about it.
Sophie couldn’t understand it. She couldn’t get her mind round it, she said. Neither could he. But once it became clear to him how pointless it was to threaten his father with blackmail over Lark, he knew he had to start thinking in another direction.
Tani considered bringing Simi into the picture at that point, telling her about Abeo’s second family, about Monifa’s knowledge of the second family, and about the plan to offer Simi to some Nigerian bloke willing to pay a bride price. But he knew there was a risk involved. To reveal all of this to her very likely would prompt her to go directly to their mother and ask her if what Tani had said was true. Monifa would deny it. And that would be that. Simi trusted their mother one hundred percent. It was Tani’s job to create a fissure in that trust, and he had no idea how to do that.
What he could do, though, was to make his sister ready to disappear in preparation for the moment when he made her understand that she had to disappear. That meant first packing up some of her belongings into his old rucksack. He went to Simi’s end of their clothes cupboard and fished there for garments suitable for the summer heat. He went to the chest of drawers and scored underthings and T-shirts. From beneath her bed, he brought out some of the items she used when making head wraps or decorating her charity-shop clothing. In each case, he took just enough so as not to raise Simi’s suspicion should she rustle round her clothing or her decorative supplies prior to his removing her from Mayville Estate. All of this went into the rucksack and the rucksack itself went into his side of the clothes cupboard, pushed to the back, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice.
Then he had to ponder where to take his sister when the time was right. There didn’t appear to be many options. The best seemed to be in Ridley Road Market. Simi knew any number of people there. He merely needed to speak to them carefully in order to ascertain if one of them would temporarily hide his sister until he could come up with a better plan for her safety.
He walked to the market. He understood that he had to be careful. Conversations in the market were water in a sieve, and confidential had never made it into anyone’s vocabulary. He reckoned that the people most familiar with Simi would also be the people most familiar with Monifa and Abeo. It wasn’t likely that those people would help out with removing Simi from her home for the simple fact that doing so crossed a line among them, one that differentiated market business from family business. Thus, he had to cross Talatu off the list as well as Masha and anyone else who worked at the cake decorating place above the party shop.
