The Truth (25 page)

Silla drained the last of her red wine with a flourish.

‘Enough apologies! Ron’s come good and you’ve come good and I’ve come good. I call it the Melville Effect. Another glass?’

When they parted, shortly after three, Mabbut felt lost. He crossed Tottenham Court Road. There were buses and trains that would have taken him home, but instead he followed a vaguely northerly route, walking through the back streets around the university and the big sober squares south of Euston station. Something was nagging at him and he needed time to pin it down. The fact was that beneath the elation of having completed the book there was an element, quite a strong element, of fear. Fear that deep down nothing in his life had changed. That these last few months had merely been a happy aberration before normal service resumed.

Sullom Voe, with all its compromises and inadequacies, had taken up almost two years of his life. The Melville book, during which he had rediscovered the joy of doing something relevant and valuable, hardly seemed to have started before it was over. It had brought satisfaction, but was it enough to change him permanently? Had it been enough to rout the despair gene? Or whatever it is you do to genes?

Mabbut found himself in Gordon Square. He remembered that Virginia Woolf had liked to sit in Gordon Square Gardens. Virginia, the doyenne of despair. He had read her diaries from cover to cover and advised all his students to do the same. Her books were classics, yet for her too the fear of failure had been stronger than the solace of success.

He carried on across Euston Road, past the British Library and the curious Levita House, an incongruous public housing block inspired by the architect’s trip to Vienna in the 1930s. It had turned into one of those fresh spring evenings. A clear sky, a wind from the north-west and even the most mundane buildings seemed dramatised by the evening sunshine. Mabbut noticed things he’d never seen before. A modern art gallery tucked under a railway bridge in Kentish Town. A Somali barber’s shop, full of tall graceful men arguing fiercely, an old-fashioned ladies’ dress shop, squeezed between two supermarkets, a young man, grimacing wildly, being patiently accompanied down the road by what looked like a
grandparent. His mind went back to India and the people he’d passed on the sacred slopes of the Masoka Hills. He’d been lucky enough to feel some sort of connection to these people. To be touched by lives so utterly different from his own. Which was another reason why, despite the long hours and the eye-aching research, he’d enjoyed writing the book so much. It was his way of paying something back to those whose way of life had been saved by Hamish Melville. He wandered along the back streets of Camden and Tufnell Park and it was nearly six by the time he turned into Reserton Road.

The house was quiet, and threatened to darken his mood, so, after a shower and a celebratory glass of wine, Mabbut scanned his notebook, found a number and, after a moment’s pause, pressed ‘call’.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Mae.’

For a moment there was silence. Then a voice, guarded at first.

‘Keith?’

‘How are you, Mae?’

‘Oh, I’m fine. Just fine. How are
you
?’

‘I’m very happy, Mae.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I just wanted to ring and tell you that. You used to worry about me.’

‘Oh, aye. The despair gene.’

He heard her laughter down the phone.

‘I’d be much better company now.’

‘You were always good company, Keith. You were the only one who didn’t think so.’

‘I’ve finished a new book, and it’s quite good. I’d like to send you a copy. See what you think.’

‘Well, that’d be an honour indeed.’

Outside he heard a booming noise, deeper and more resonant than the usual passing plane. It sounded like thunder.

‘I might bring it up to you. In person.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Why not? I’ve handed it in today. I’m due a fair bit of money, so I could afford the crazy airfare. And I’d like to see you again.’

‘What sort of book is it?’

‘It’ll be a surprise.’

‘There’s no oil terminals in it, then?’

‘No. There’s an aluminium refinery, though.’

Mae laughed again.

‘Unputdownable!’

There was a pause, as if neither of them knew exactly where to go from there.

‘I’d like to be up there with you, Mae,’ Mabbut said cautiously. ‘I’ve been going stir crazy here. Eyes locked on a screen twelve hours a day.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘A bit of Shetland air’s just what I need.’

He realised that this had come out with more of a slur than he’d have liked.

‘You sound as though you’re celebrating, Keith.’

He peered out of the window. It had begun to rain and two figures were racing across the street towards the house.

‘Now how could you tell that, Mae?’

With some relief, he heard her laughter again.

‘This, if you must know,
is
my first,’ Mabbut protested. ‘Since four o’clock, that is. And the strange sound you can hear in my voice is happiness. And when I think of happiness I think of you.’

He heard a key in the front door.

‘I’d better go. I’ll call you again, Mae, if that’s all right.’

‘OK. Bye! And congratulations.’

He put down the phone as his daughter and Shiraj came in from the hallway. They had one umbrella between them and it didn’t seem to have done much good.

‘You look cheerful, Dad. And dry.’

‘I am, my dear daughter. This has been a good day. How about you?’

Jay threw down her bag and shook her wet hair. Mabbut, sensing something in the air, looked at Shiraj, who had collapsed the umbrella and laid it carefully by the door. The boy smiled back,
politely, inscrutably, but Mabbut could see that something was bothering him. Jay headed for the kitchen.

‘Tea, Shiraj?’

‘Yes.’

Mabbut followed his daughter, rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a towel, then went back and handed it to Shiraj.

‘Sit down. You look tired.’

Shiraj dabbed himself with the towel.

‘The news from home is not good.’

‘Ah.’

In the kitchen the kettle began to hum. Mabbut looked at Shiraj, expectantly.

‘What’s happened?’

After a moment Shiraj spoke, quietly, almost reluctantly.

‘We have heard that two more of my family have been arrested. My uncle and my younger brother. We don’t know where they’ve gone or what they have been charged with.’

Despite the physical appearance of youth, there was a remarkable maturity about Shiraj. He was a tad serious, sometimes over-earnest, but bearing in mind the trauma he had endured he remained remarkably self-assured. It was a characteristic he shared with Mahesh and Kinesh. And like them, he had brought Mabbut face to face with a very different kind of life.

Jay had filled two mugs with tea – both, he noticed, bearing the imprint of the NorthOil canteen at Sullom Voe. She set one down in front of Shiraj, lightly brushing her hand through his hair as she did so. He made a quick movement away with his shoulders, which Mabbut noticed.

‘So you’ve heard the latest?’ Jay asked her father.

Mabbut nodded. ‘About the family? He’s just told me. I’m really sorry.’

‘The latest about Shiraj?’

‘No.’

‘He has to go before another review panel . . . If he doesn’t get an extension he’ll be sent back.’

Mabbut moved towards her and put a protective arm around his daughter’s shoulders. She took a breath.

‘He’ll be sent back . . .’

She stopped, reached for a tissue and blew her nose.

Shiraj looked away, his expression showing a mixture of embarrassment and wounded pride.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jay blurted through her tears. ‘This is so stupid.’

‘There must be something we can do,’ Mabbut said soothingly.

‘I asked Rex to help. He knows all these people on committees and stuff.’

Jay sniffed and reached for another tissue.

‘And . . .?’

‘Well, you know. Mum’s not seeing him as much, and if I try to ask her if he can do anything for Shiraj, she just sort of, well, she gets quite snappy. So I don’t
know
.’

She drew out the last word like a wail of desperation.

‘Look, I’ll have a try,’ said Mabbut. ‘I may have a contact or two myself.’

‘Whatever you can do, Dad.’

‘In the meantime, is there anything I can do to help your family, Shiraj?’

‘No, thank you, sir. You’ve been very kind already, letting me stay in your home.’

Jay exchanged a glance with him.

‘There is something . . .’ she began.

Shiraj shook his head firmly.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s nothing, sir. Thank you.’ He rose. ‘I think I shall go and do some study. The immigration people will ask me many questions.’

When he’d gone, Mabbut looked with concern at his daughter. He hadn’t seen her like this for a long time. When the children were growing up, it was always Sam who had the crises.

‘Come on, love. What can I do?’

‘I can’t tell you. He won’t let me talk about it.’

‘He doesn’t have to know.’

Jay puffed out her cheeks. Her eyes were red rimmed beneath the blotchy mascara. She cast a quick look out into the hallway then spoke softly and urgently.

‘The only way that they can get any information about what’s
happened to his uncle and brother and where they’ve been taken is to pay money to the local prosecutor’s office. Everyone does it, but Shiraj has this stupid male pride thing about being different from everyone else. He says paying bribes keeps a bad system going. But if it’s that or never seeing your family again, what would you do?’

‘How much does he need?’

‘I don’t know exactly. It’s something like two thousand pounds for each of them. But it’s no good, he won’t take charity.’

‘I’ll give him four thousand.’

He raised his hands, anticipating her reaction.

‘I want to! I’m in the money, darling. I handed in the book today.’

‘Dad, you don’t understand. There’s a huge amount of pride involved.’

‘Just tell him it’s a loan and he must pay every single penny back. Or else!’

Jay took his arm.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

Then she giggled.

‘Down payment on the wedding, Dad.’

‘What?’

‘Well, you never know. I do adore him.’

She left the room with a little skip of happiness. It was infectious. As Mabbut poured another glass of wine and pulled open the fridge, he marvelled at how different the world looked when you could give something back. From now on he was going to stop worrying and learn to enjoy good fortune. He scattered a few biscuits in Stanley’s dish, filled up his water, and settled down to watch football.

THREE

I
t was the start of the weekend and Reserton Road was as quiet as the grave, save for Mabbut’s exercise-obsessed neighbour, Grant, who emerged into the street in shorts and a tight yellow running vest. He rolled his head this way and that, stretched first one leg, then the other, against a low brick wall, then set off up the hill towards Archway. A milk float purred across the intersection, then all was quiet again.

A short, sharp buzzing noise woke Mabbut from some rambling dream. He opened his eyes and squinted at the clock. It was a quarter to eight. His first thought was one of surprise and pleasure – for the last six months he’d have been well awake by now, worrying about the book. The phone rang again. He pulled himself up on to one elbow and picked it up.

The voice was familiar.

‘
Mister
Mabbut.’

‘Mr Latham.’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘I was sort of dozing . . . What can I do for you, Ron?’

‘I’ve read your book.’

‘Oh, that was quick. I wasn’t expecting—’

‘There’s a lot of work to do.’

Mabbut transferred the phone to his right ear.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The book’s not there yet. There’s work to do.’

‘What do you mean? I’ve been putting in eighteen-hour days to finish it, Ron. You’re the one who gave me the deadline.’

‘I can see you’ve put in the hours. It’s impressive. India’s very good. But it’s a one-note book.’

Mabbut was wide awake now. He pulled himself up and leant against the headboard.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I mean it’s a one-note book. The guy’s a saint.’

‘With respect, Ron, I’ve met the man, I’ve worked with him. You haven’t. I’ve spent six months researching every fact about him, meeting all his friends, talking to anyone who knew him. The fact that he comes out as a good guy doesn’t mean I haven’t done my job. It means he might
be
a good guy.’