A Half Forgotten Song (39 page)

“You know what I mean. What happens when I leave here? Is that it, over?”

“Are you leaving?” she said. The question caught him off balance, and he realized he’d given no thought as to when or whether he might be finished in Blacknowle.

“Well, I can’t stay here in a room above a pub forever, can I?”

“I really don’t know, Zach,” she said, and he wasn’t sure which of his questions she was answering. He drew his finger through several drops of beer on the tabletop, linking them up into a shape like a starfish.

“I know you’re keeping secrets,” he said quietly. Beside him, Hannah went very still in her seat. “I know you’re involved in . . . something.”

“I thought you were here to research Charles Aubrey, not me?” she said, her voice turning hard.

“I was. I am . . . and I think you know, the two have . . . closer links than we’ve discussed yet.” They locked eyes; Hannah didn’t blink. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” said Zach, eventually. Hannah looked down at her hands, and gouged a strip of dirt out from under one thumbnail. She frowned.

“Don’t push it, Zach,” she murmured.

“Don’t push it?” he echoed incredulously. “That’s all you’ve got to say to me?”

“Zach, I like you. I do. But . . . you have no idea what I’m involved in—”

“I might have more idea than you think—”

“No.” She shook her head. “Whatever you think you know, you don’t know the full story. And I can’t tell you, Zach. I
can’t
. So don’t push it, because if we can’t be together without you having to know, then we can’t be together. Do you understand?” She stared into his eyes, and her expression was sad, but tempered with steel. The flare of anger Zach had felt died down to nothing, melted into confusion.

“How can we be together if you won’t let me in? Are you saying this is over?”

“I’m saying . . . trust me, if you can. Try to forget about it.”

“And if I can’t?” he said, and in reply she only watched him with that adamant expression.

The sound of raised male voices from the bar interrupted them, and Hannah looked away with visible relief. One voice in particular, loud and aggressive, was rising above the rest. Hannah got to her feet.

“No, I’ll be bloody well damned if I’ll wait while you serve this piece of shit before me!” The man’s voice had a note of outrage that carried throughout the room. Gradually, all other conversations in the pub quieted. “I live here, mate—I
belong
here. Where the hell do you belong?”

“Oh,
good
. Our favorite xenophobic tosser has decided to drop by,” Hannah said, as loudly as she could. Zach cursed inwardly as she strode towards the bar. She was almost a foot shorter than all the men, but walked ten feet tall. They parted before her just like her flock of sheep did.

“Now, Hannah, there’s no need for you to come wading in, making things worse,” said Pete Murray.

“Why don’t you keep that rough tongue of yours still for once? I got here first and this Polish stooge of yours tried to barge me out of the way. Personally, I don’t think he should be served in here at all.” The man speaking was about fifty years old, tall and bald with a soft, wide belly hanging over worn jeans. His skin and eyes were pink, his blood rising with alcohol and anger.

“Well, luckily nobody in here gives a shit what you think, Ed,” Hannah said sweetly. Ilir was glowering at the other man, his face black with fury. He muttered something in his own language and Ed recoiled from him, and from the anger in the words.

“Hear that? I know a threat when I hear one, even if it comes from a monkey who can’t even speak the language. Are you going to throw him out, Murray, or am I going to have to do it myself?”

Pete Murray looked from Hannah’s livid face to Ed’s; then he said to Ilir, unhappily, “Perhaps you’d better call it a night, mate. Not worth the bother, eh?”

“No! Why should he have to go just because this drunken idiot says so?” said Hannah.

“Oh, hark at her, calling
me
a drunk! Go on, run back to the barn, dog.” The bald man waved his fingers at Ilir, oblivious to the hostile expressions aimed at him from around the room. There was a short, loaded silence. Zach thought about putting a placatory hand on Hannah’s shoulder, but she was trembling with anger and he half suspected she might turn around and hit him. When nobody moved, Ed looked at Ilir again with spite and feigned surprise. “Are you still here? Go on, get out before I call immigration.” The effect these words had on Ilir was visible. Blood rushed into his face, and his eyes widened. Zach heard Hannah take a sharp inward breath, and a wide smile broke out over Ed’s ruddy face. “Oh, really?” he said gleefully.

Ed cast a staggering, unfocused glance around the pub, looking from face to face, trying to mark them. “You all saw that, didn’t you? Hit a nerve, did I? Is it possible that if PC Plod paid you a visit, your papers might not all be in order? Eh, sunshine?” He tapped Ilir on the chest with one finger, and Zach realized just how drunk he must be, to be so oblivious to the murderous look on the Roma man’s face.

“Of course his papers are in order, you arsehole.” Hannah ground the words out.

“Well, then there won’t be a problem if I give the fuzz a quick bell tomorrow and tell them to check, will there?” Ed’s face was alight with triumph.

“Now, Ed, why not forget it and enjoy your drink? What goes around, comes around. No sense causing trouble for folk . . .” Pete said weakly, putting a fresh pint on the bar for him. Ed grinned up at Ilir, snide and happy.

“You’d better pack your things tonight. I understand they don’t give you much time before they whiz you off back home.” He turned away, picked up his glass, and tried to drink without spilling it; and in the next second, Ilir flew at him.

The first punch glanced from the side of Ed’s head, and did little more than make him lurch and drop his pint. The beer exploded into a cloud of froth and glass splinters on the floor. Ilir stepped forwards and grabbed Ed by his shirt, pushing him back against the bar, teeth bared in pure fury. Zach heard Hannah gasp, and while he stared, dumbstruck, she rushed forwards and tried to pull Ilir away. Ed was the drunker, but he was taller than Ilir and had a longer reach, and he managed to drive his fist into the Roma man’s eye before Ilir hit him again, a short-range punch to the stomach that forced the air from Ed’s lungs but wasn’t hard enough to double him up, or stop him.

“Ilir! Don’t!” Hannah shouted. Several men came forward to grasp Ilir’s arms, and then Ed’s, too, as he came after his assailant, chin thrust out and eyes bloodshot, all clumsy belligerence. Ilir looked like he could kill the man, and as Zach stepped forward to stand beside Hannah, between the two of them, he was glad that their arms were being firmly held.

“Hannah!”
Pete Murray shouted, leaning his hands on the bar, arms straight, as though he might vault over it and get involved.

“Yes! We’re going!” said Hannah tersely. A reddish bruise was blooming on Ed’s cheek where the first punch had glanced from the bone.

“You all saw that! You all saw! He attacked me! Don’t think I won’t press charges, you illiterate shit! I’ve got witnesses!” Ed’s voice was shrill with outrage.

“Now, just calm down, Ed. All sorts of things happen in the heat of the moment. I’m sure we’re all too confused to remember who swung first, aren’t we?” The landlord looked around at a few of his regulars, and got some curt nods in reply. Ed sneered, gasping for breath.

“You’re pathetic! All of you!”

“Lucy, call a taxi for Ed, would you. He looks a bit under the weather. And you”—Pete jabbed a finger at Ilir—“let it go, and get off home. Right now.” Ilir swore at length in his own language, pulled his arms free from the men holding them, and stalked to the door, grabbing his boots as he passed. “You too, Hannah. I think that’s enough for one night.”

“Fine by me,” said Hannah. She glared at Ed, eyes snapping.

“Right, well . . . Night, all,” said Zach, following her out of the door.

Ilir was walking away up the middle of the lane, in the wrong direction for the farm, weaving slightly and with his boots on the wrong feet, crumpled awkwardly at the ankle.

“Ilir! Wait!” Hannah struggled with her own boots under the covered porch of the pub. The rain was coming down in gray waves. Ilir had nothing on his head, and in the wan glow of the streetlight his hair was shiny and slick. “Ilir!” She ran after him, caught him up and gently took his arm. Zach watched, unsure what to do, hunching his shoulders against the damp night air. He could hear Hannah talking to the man, but couldn’t tell what she was saying; and then, to his surprise, Ilir sank to his knees in the road. “Zach!” Hannah called to him. With a curse, Zach jogged out into the rain. There was blood seeping from the corner of Ilir’s right eye, mixing with the rain to drizzle down his face. The eye was closing, the lid swelling shut.

“Jesus—does that need stitches?” he said. There was rain on Hannah’s hands as she cradled the man’s face, examining it. Ilir shut his other eye. He was breathing hard and kept swallowing convulsively.

“No, just . . . help me get him up, will you? Ed must have hit him harder than I thought.” They each took an arm, hauled Ilir to his feet, but his steps were spongy, legs like jelly.

“I’ll get the car. Hold on.”

“Wait—how drunk are you?” said Hannah.

“Stone-cold bloody sober after that little incident. And I’d be pretty unlucky to get Breathalyzed between here and the farm. Or would you rather try and walk him home like that?”

“All right, go on,” she said, as Ilir sat down again, putting his hands over his head in pitiful supplication. Hannah crouched down and put her arms around him, rested her chin against his streaming hair. A tender gesture unlike any Zach had seen her make before, and in spite of himself he felt jealousy needling him.

They managed to coax Ilir into the backseat of Zach’s car; then Hannah climbed into the front, and Zach pulled away, the steering wheel slipping through his wet hands. Focusing his eyes through the sheeting rain was difficult, and he was glad when they turned off the road onto the farm lane, and there was no chance of meeting any other traffic.

He pulled the car as close to the farmhouse as he could, but they still got drenched as they helped a shaky Ilir out again. The rain was implacable. Between them, Hannah and Zach half carried him through the kitchen and upstairs to his room, dodging piles of detritus and abandoned furniture. Opening the door was like walking into another house altogether. Ilir’s room was spotlessly clean and tidy. The bed was neatly made up with sheets and blankets tucked in tightly; the curtains were laundered and drawn to; no clothes or shoes lay around on the floor; a bottle of deodorant and a comb sat unobtrusively on the mantelpiece below the wall mirror, and the carpet was immaculately vacuumed. Hannah caught Zach’s incredulous gaze.

“I know.” She threw up her hands, let them fall. “Believe me, I told him he was welcome to tackle the rest of the house, but he says only this room is his, and the rest is not for him to interfere with.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“No, he didn’t mean it like that. He was being considerate. Tactful.” She sat down on the edge of the bed beside Ilir and wrapped the bottom of the blanket over his feet.

“I am not dead. Do not speak like I have gone,” Ilir muttered. Hannah smiled.

“Of course you haven’t gone. We thought you’d passed out.” Gingerly, Ilir sat up a bit straighter and touched his fingers to the cut above his eye, which was still oozing blood.

“I will pass out if I do not have coffee,” he said.

“I’ll make us some,” said Zach.

“And I’ll get some cotton wool and wash that eye.”

“Don’t nurse me, Hannah. I am not a baby.”

“Then don’t act like one, and take your medicine,” she said flatly.

Down in the kitchen Zach put the kettle on and watched Hannah digging around in cupboards and drawers for a glass bowl, salt, cotton wool.

“Is Ilir here . . . illegally?” he asked. Hannah scowled, and didn’t look up.

“Technically. Maybe. But does he have a right to be here? You bet he does.”

“Can’t he get a visa or something?”

“Oh, gee, Zach, we hadn’t thought of that. Look, if there was a quick and easy way to get the paperwork sorted out, we’d have done it, okay? He doesn’t even have a passport.”

“Jesus, Hannah—what if that Ed bloke really does call the police? You could get in trouble, couldn’t you?”

“
I
could get in trouble?” She turned, squared up to him fiercely. “Ilir used to live in the Roma Mahalla in Mitrovica. His whole community was persecuted out of their homes after the war, and forced to live in refugee camps. The one where he was put was built on the spoil heaps of a lead mine. A
lead
mine,
Zach. Cesmin Lug, it was called. It’s shut now, but they left them living there for
years
. It killed his parents. The children there grow up with lead poisoning. Now the UN has rebuilt some of their homes in Mitrovica and is trying to move them back—to a city where they will still be discriminated against, and live in fear of racist attacks. To a city none of them have called home for a generation. And you’re saying
I
could get in trouble, if he’s sent back?” She shook her head incredulously.

“I just meant . . . Well, you can get a huge fine for employing an illegal.”

“An illegal? Doesn’t he have a name anymore?”

“That came out wrong . . . I didn’t mean—”

“What are all our little fears, compared to what he faces if he gets deported?” she said. “What does the price of my lambs matter, or you finishing your book, or putting a name to this
relationship
? How big is any of that, compared to what he’d have to live with?”

“Did he get you into it? Into whatever you’re involved in? Smuggling . . . selling fake pictures . . . I guess he must have more contacts in that world than you would.” Hannah stared at him, dumbstruck for a moment, and then anger made her eyes blaze.

“Drop it, or leave right now. I mean it.” She raised her arm and pointed to the door, and Zach saw that the finger at the end of that arm was not quite steady. It trembled.