The Blasphemer: A Novel (31 page)

‘I can’t remember,’ Nancy said. ‘It’s like living with a stalker. He follows me from room to room. Sometimes he sits there staring at me. Do you know what I mean? There’s that fine line that separates eye contact and the piercing stare of a psychopath. He often crosses it.’

‘Are you sleeping together?’

At first the question floated between them as lightly as a dandelion seed. It was innocent and appropriate. Now its implications began to weigh on Nancy. ‘You can’t ask me that,’ she said with a shake of her head that set her dark locks tumbling around her strong-boned face. ‘Not you.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘I can’t at the moment.’

The ambiguity hung between them.

‘Can’t what?’

‘He wants to.’

‘But you don’t.’

‘Don’t know what I want. Sex between us was always great.’

‘Freud once said the sexual life of adult women is a “dark continent” for psychology.’

‘And what do you say?’

‘I reckon men and women aren’t so different sexually.’

‘We haven’t had sex since the crash. Dan wants to but … The trouble with being together for so long is that you become wholly known. Nothing I could ever do could surprise him in the bedroom, or he me. We’ve become too familiar. Too used to each other. Too tender. Too predictable. I suppose that’s the reason a kiss from a stranger feels a thousand times dirtier and sexier and more exciting than the dirtiest sex imaginable with someone you know.’

Tom shifted in his seat. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s funny, we used to try and make each other jealous by talking about the lovers we had before we met. It would always end in an argument and it made the reconciliation sex afterwards so much better. So much rougher. So much sluttier. It made me feel as if I was the mistress and he was being unfaithful with me.’ Without losing her train of thought, Nancy leaped up to whack a wasp with a rolled-up magazine. ‘That’s the trouble with Englishmen. Never jealous enough. I’ve been out with Spaniards and Italians and they are too jealous. But Englishmen aren’t jealous enough.’

‘Don’t look at me, I’m Scottish.’

Though Nancy smiled at this, tears appeared in her eyes. Tom comforted her with a pat on the back and, when she leaned into him, with a hug long enough to constitute an embrace. He cancelled his next appointment and offered to walk her back to her car. As he linked her arm with his, he asked her gently whether she thought she might benefit from some time away from Daniel. She did not answer, but when they parted she gave him a kiss on the cheek and he returned it with one on her mouth. It happened so fleetingly she felt uncertain about whether it had happened at
all. If she felt shocked, it was mostly with herself because the kiss did not make her feel guilty.

The two men at the door were not in uniform. The younger one had a shaven head and was wearing a T-shirt and stone-washed jeans. The older was wearing a suit but no tie. He had closecropped hair, military style. ‘Geoff Turner,’ he said, holding up an ID card. ‘I’m with the Security Services.’

‘Haven’t we met?’ Daniel asked, with a tilt of his head.

‘I know your father.’

‘Oh, OK … So what’s up?’ Daniel still had a knife in his hand from chopping garlic and mushrooms for a soup he was making. The sound of Charlie Parker’s alto saxophone carried through from the kitchen.

‘Is that Bird I can hear?’ the younger man said with an American accent.

‘Yep.’

‘With his quintet?’

‘Sextet. Dizzy Gillespie. Teddy Wilson. Specs Powell … I’m sorry, did you say the Security Services?’

‘We wanted to ask you a few questions.’

‘Come in … Coffee?’

The two men sat at the kitchen table while Daniel put the kettle on.

‘How is Philip?’ Turner said.

‘Fine, fine. Remind me, how do you know him?’

‘He saved my life. Kuwait.’

‘Really? That’s where he won his MC.’

‘I know.’Turner rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal an area of dark scar tissue that looked like a map of Australia. ‘I would have burned to death.’

Daniel turned the music down using a remote. ‘You were one of the ones he saved?’

‘One of them, yes.’

‘He’s never talked about it to me. What happened?’

‘He risked his life to save ours.’

‘Yes but how? What actually happened?’

‘He’s never told you?’

‘Not really, no. Said something about the Official Secrets Act.’ Daniel poured steaming water into two mugs. ‘Instant OK?’

‘Fine,’ Turner said. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

‘Same,’ the American said.

‘If Philip has never told you then I probably shouldn’t,’ Turner said.

‘Oh,’ Daniel said. ‘No worries … What was it you wanted?’

The American fanned out photographs of Hamdi on the table. ‘You know this man?’

‘Yes. He’s my daughter’s teacher.’

‘You sent him some CDs.’

‘Is that a crime?’

‘He was asked to go to Karbala. Has he said anything to you about that?’

‘How do you know?’

‘We know.’

‘Well then, you’ll know why I sent him the CDs as well, and why he came to see me. It had nothing to do with …’

‘With what?’

‘When you say Security Services do you mean … ?’

‘Counter-terrorism,’ Turner said.

‘You suspect my daughter’s teacher is a terrorist?’

‘We didn’t say that. But he was seen at …’

‘He was at the protest. I know. I was there too. Does that make me a suspect? He was passing by, like me. Curious. He told me. I’ve never met a less likely terrorist in my life.’

The shaven-headed American gave Daniel a patient look. ‘He’s what is known as a “person of interest”. It’s routine.’

Daniel shook his head. ‘No, what’s that term you guys use? Clean skin? He’s a clean skin, isn’t he? You’ve tried but you can’t get any dirt on him.’

Turner gave a flicker of a smile. ‘Clean skin means there is no trace of him on police records. But yes, he’s a clean skin. And my advice to you is keep away from him. I tell you this as a friend.’

‘This really is routine,’ the American said. ‘Can you let us know if you see or hear anything suspicious? That is my direct line.’ He handed over a card.

‘You know I’m going to tell him, right?’

Turner looked at the American and gave his tight smile again.

Daniel rang Hamdi as soon as he closed the front door behind the two men. ‘I need to tell you something – and if anyone is listening in on this conversation, my name is Daniel Kennedy and I don’t care if you know – you are on a watch list. I’ve been questioned about you. You’re what’s known as a clean skin.’

‘Cleanliness is something to which Muslim men aspire.’

‘Did you know you were under surveillance?’

‘Every young Muslim I know is under surveillance,’ Hamdi said carefully. ‘But thank you for telling me. I reported a fault on my phone the other day and an engineer came round to fix it almost immediately. Normally it takes weeks. I’ve heard they can create the fault … Thank you for warning me.’

‘The least I could do. And thank you again for saving me in the refectory. I was really choking there. I must have exhaled just before swallowing because I didn’t seem to have any air left in my lungs. Then I had black spots appearing before my eyes. Never a good sign.’

‘Anyone would have done the same.’

‘But not everyone knows the Heimlich manoeuvre.’

‘All teachers have to learn it. It is part of our first aid training.’

‘You were very calm in the way you did it, even if you did nearly break one of my ribs! No fuss. No panic.’

‘It was Allah’s will that you be saved.’

Daniel laughed. ‘Well, Allah be praised.’

*

His bike safely parked and padlocked,Wetherby checked his watch. Twenty minutes early. He looked across the car park to the polished chrome and pale wooden entrance of
DR NANCY PALMER’S DENTAL STUDIO
. With its mood lighting and its discreet neon bulbs advertising ‘cosmetic consultancy’, ‘facial aesthetics’ and ‘teeth whitening, veneers and implants’, it looked more like a wine bar than a dental surgery. It also looked expensive. Scowling to himself, Wetherby walked around the corner and entered the east gate of Battersea Park. He was wondering whether Nancy would recognize his name in her appointments book. They had met a couple of times and on both occasions he had thought her intelligent, beautiful and a little frightening. When he had told her about how he hated the gaps between his teeth, she had suggested he come and visit her. But that had been three years earlier.

As he headed towards a bench overlooking the boating lake, he saw her fifty yards away, unmistakable in a white coat, walking towards him arm in arm with a man he did not recognize. As she hadn’t seen him he considered changing course but, realizing she was too deep in conversation to notice passers-by, continued walking towards her. She was not only talking animatedly but also smoking – taking urgent, agitated jabs and barely pausing to hold the smoke down before exhaling, presumably so that she could finish her thought. She dropped her cigarette on the pavement half smoked and ground it out with her foot, causing a jogger behind her to swerve. There were big gestures from her now; arms spread wide, fingers open. Her hair looked vivacious in the sun, painted by a Pre-Raphaelite. She undid a hairclip and, holding it between her teeth, shook her head, regathered, coiled and reclipped. The man held out a hand to stroke her hair. With his other hand he rubbed her arm. Hello, Wetherby thought. What’s this? When the man removed a lash from her cheek she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him.

Wetherby was only a few yards away from them and, as he walked past, he saw that Nancy was crying. He glided on for twenty yards before turning to see her checking the man’s watch and saying something he could not hear. He presumed she had realized she
was going to be late for her next appointment: him. She kissed the man on the cheek and he took hold of her hand briefly before letting it slip from him as she pulled away, trailing her fingers like a lingering fragrance. As she walked briskly towards the exit gate, putting in extra steps, the man stood staring at her. Once she had disappeared from view he checked his watch but did not move. Wetherby began walking back towards him. ‘Hello,’ he said with a double-take when they were level.

The man looked confused. ‘Hello?’

‘Sorry,’ Wetherby said. ‘Have we not met?’

The man studied his face. ‘Not sure.’

Wetherby frowned. ‘London University perhaps? I am the vice provost at Trinity College.’

‘I know a professor there, well, know of him.’

‘His name?’

‘Kennedy, Professor Daniel Kennedy.’

‘Perhaps that is it. Though I believe he is not a full professor yet. Are you an academic?’

‘No, I’m a trauma counsellor.’

‘So you’re Daniel’s therapist?’

‘I’m sorry … client confidentiality. Actually, it’s his wife Nancy I know.’ He held out his hand. ‘Tom.’

‘Ah yes, the crash.’

‘You know about that?’

‘Through Daniel. I am a friend of his. How is Nancy? Do you see her regularly?’

Tom hesitated. Wetherby sensed a shadow of guilt play across his face. ‘Next time I see her I’ll mention … sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Wetherby. Actually, I am about to see her now. She is my dentist. You should be careful.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Patients often fall in love with their therapists.’

The shadow of guilt again. ‘I’m not a therapist, I’m a counsellor. And I didn’t say she was my patient. Besides, that’s a myth.’

‘Really? She seems very fond of you.’

Tom looked confused again. Made as if to speak. Checked his watch again and gave a half-salute. As he walked towards the bandstand in the centre of the park, Wetherby checked his own watch and walked off in the direction taken by Nancy. He was smiling to himself, his thin version of a smile.

‘That Muslim friend of yours seemed pleasant.’

Daniel jumped. Though the refectory was almost empty, he hadn’t heard Wetherby approach.

‘He
was
a Muslim, I take it.’

‘Yeah, he’s a Muslim, unfortunately for him.’

Wetherby silently placed his empty tray alongside Daniel’s. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘MI5 have been hassling him. They even came round to my house asking questions.’

‘Did they say why?’

‘Because he’s a Muslim, I guess. Because they are all fascist bastards.’

‘What did you tell them?’

‘Nothing. There was nothing to tell.’ Daniel shunted his tray along. ‘Might try the soup.’

‘Did the MI5 officer give a name?’

‘Think his name was Turner. Geoff Turner. Why?’

‘The provost has asked me to be police liaison for his new emergency policy. Thought I might know him.’

‘I’m just glad Nancy wasn’t in.’

‘How is she?’

‘Fine.’ Daniel nodded distractedly as a woman wearing a green apron and hair net gestured with a ladle at two soup tureens. ‘Well, as fine as can be expected. Tomato, please. Still seeing her counsellor.’

‘Yes, I had heard. I gather she is seeing a lot of him.’

Daniel looked at Wetherby, trying to read his face. In his
confusion he gave a short laugh. ‘How do you know that?’

‘We only have onion left.’

Daniel looked at the woman holding up the ladle. ‘Fine,’ he said.

‘I tell you as a friend.’ Wetherby didn’t so much speak these words as breathe them.

‘What do you mean, you tell me as a friend? Tell me what exactly?’

‘Careful, it’s hot.’ The woman in the apron was holding up a steaming bowl of onion soup.

‘I am sorry,’ Wetherby said, ‘it is none of my business.’

‘What
is
it you are telling me as a friend?’

Before Wetherby could answer, a short man in a black silk shirt, black denim jacket and black jeans set his tray down between theirs. Though the thick hair that came down to his shoulders was silver, the skin on his hands and face was smooth, like a teenager’s. A smile tugged gently at the corners of his mouth and, as he examined what hot food was on offer, he hummed to himself.

‘Ah, Professor Sang-mi,’ Wetherby said. ‘You two met?’ He looked across at Daniel, talking over the top of the professor’s head.