The Night Ferry (11 page)

She kisses me three times, squeezing me so hard that my breasts hurt.

“Where is Hari?”

“I reminded him. I even ironed his shirt.”

“That boy wil be the death of me.” She points to her temple. “See my gray hairs.”

Her gaze fal s on “New Boy” Dave. She waits for an introduction.

“This is a friend from work. He has to go.”

Mama makes a
pfffhh
sound. “Does he have a name?”

“Yes, of course. Detective Sergeant Dave King. This is my mother.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Barba. Ali has told me so much about you.”

My mother laughs. “Wil you stay for lunch, Detective Sergeant?”

“No, he has to go.”

“Nonsense. It’s Sunday.”

“Police have to work weekends.”

“Detectives are al owed to have lunch breaks. Isn’t that right?”

Then my mother smiles and I know I’ve lost. Nobody can ever say no to that smile.

Smal feet patter down the hal way ahead of us. Harveen and Daj are fighting over who’s going to break the news that Auntie Ali has brought someone with her. Harveen comes back and takes my hand, dragging me into the kitchen. There are frown lines on her forehead at the age of seven. Daj is two years older and, like every male member of my family, is improbably handsome (and spoiled).

“Have you brought anything for us?” he asks.

“Only a kiss.”

“What about a present?”

“Only for Bada.”

Benches are covered with food and the air is heavy with steam and spices. My two aunts and my sisters-in-law are talking over one another amid the clatter and bang of energetic cooking. There are hugs and kisses. Glasses graze my cheekbones and fingers tug at my sari or straighten my hair, without my relatives ever taking their eyes from “New Boy” Dave.

My aunties, Meena and Kala, couldn’t be less alike as sisters. Meena is quite masculine and striking, with a strong jaw and thick eyebrows. Kala, by contrast, is unexceptional in almost every way, which might explain why she wears such decorative spectacles, to give her face more character.

Meena is stil fussing with my hair. “Such a pretty thing to be unmarried; such lovely bones.”

A baby is thrust into my arms—the newest addition to the family. Ravi is six weeks old, with coffee-bean-colored eyes and rol s of fat on his arms that you could lose a sixpence inside.

Cows might be sacred to Hindus, but babies are sacred to Sikhs, boys more so than girls. Ravi latches on to my finger and squeezes it until his eyes fold shut.

“She’s so good with children,” says Mama, beaming. Dave should be squirming but he’s actual y enjoying this. Sadist!

The men are outside in the garden. I can see my father’s blue turban above them al . His beard is swept back from his cheeks and crawls down his neck like a silver trickle of water.

I count heads. There are extras. My heart sinks. They’ve invited someone for me to meet.

My mother ushers Dave outside. He glances over his shoulder at me, hesitating before obeying her instructions. Down the side steps, along the mildewed path, past the door to the laundry, he reaches the rear garden. Every face turns toward him and the conversation stops.

It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, as people step back and “New Boy” Dave faces my father. It’s eyebal to eyebal but Dave doesn’t flinch, which is to his credit.

I can’t hear what they’re saying. My father glances up toward the kitchen window. He sees me. Then he smiles and thrusts out his hand. Dave takes it and suddenly conversation begins again.

My mother is at the sink, peeling and slicing mangoes. She slides the knife blade easily beneath the pale yel ow flesh. “We didn’t know you were going to bring a friend.”

“I didn’t bring him.”

“Wel , your father has invited someone. You must meet his guest. It’s only polite. He is a doctor.”

“A very fine one,” echoes Auntie Kala. “Very successful.”

I scan the gathering and pick him out. He is standing with his back to me, dressed in a Punjabi suit that has been laundered and starched to attention.

“He’s fat.”

“A sign of success,” says Kala.

“It takes a big hammer to hammer a big nail,” adds Meena, cackling like a schoolgirl. Kala disapproves.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, sister. A wife has to learn how to keep her husband happy in the boudoir.” The two of them continue arguing while I go back to the window.

The stranger in the garden turns and glances up at me. He holds up his glass, as if offering me a toast. Then he shakes it from side to side, indicating its emptiness.

“Quickly, girl, take him another drink,” says Meena, handing me a jug.

Taking a deep breath, I walk down the side steps into the garden. My brothers whistle. They know how much I hate wearing a sari. Al the men turn toward me. I keep my eyes focused on my sandals.

My father is stil talking to Dave and my uncle Rashid, a notorious butt-squeezer. My mother claims it is an obsessive-compulsive disorder but I think he’s just a lech. They are talking about cricket. The men in my family are obsessed with the game even when the summer is over.

Most Indian men are smal and elegant with delicate hands but my brothers are strapping, rugged types, except for Hari, who would make a beautiful woman.

Bada kisses my cheek. I bow to him slightly. He ushers his guest closer and makes the formal introductions.

“Alisha, this is Dr. Sohan Banerjee.”

I nod, stil not raising my eyes.

The name is familiar. Where have I heard it before?

Poor Dave doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s not a Sikh, which is probably a good thing. If I’d brought a Sikh home my parents would have kil ed a goat.

Dr. Banerjee stands very straight and bows his head. My father is stil talking. “Sohan contacted me personal y and asked if he could meet you, Alisha. Family to family—that is how it should be done.”

I’m not meant to comment.

“He has more than one medical degree,” he adds.

He has more than one chin.

I don’t know how much worse this day could get. People are watching me. Dave is on the far side of the garden talking to my eldest brother, Prabakar, the most religious member of the family, who won’t approve.

The doctor is talking to me. I have to concentrate on his words. “I believe you are a police officer.”

“Yes.”

“And you live separately from your parents. Very few single Indian girls have property. So why aren’t you married?” The bluntness of the question surprises me. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Are you a virgin?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m assuming your mother explained the facts of life to you.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“No comment means yes.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“In my experience it does. Do you drink?”

“No.”

“See? You don’t have to be so defensive. My parents think I should marry a girl from India because vil age girls are hard workers and good mothers. This may be so but I don’t want a peasant girl who can’t eat with a knife and fork.”

Anger rises in my throat and I have to swal ow hard to keep it down. I give him my politest smile. “So tel me Dr. Banerjee—”

“Cal me Sohan.”

“Sohan, do you ever masturbate?”

His mouth opens and closes like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “I hardly think—”

“No comment means yes.”

The flash of anger in his eyes is like a bloodred veil. He grinds his teeth into a smile. “Touché.”

“What kind of doctor are you?”

“An obstetrician.”

Suddenly I remember where I’ve read his name. It was in the file that Barnaby El iot showed me. Sohan Banerjee is a fertility specialist. He performed Cate’s IVF procedures.

There are 100,000 Sikhs in London and what—maybe 400 obstetricians? What are the chances of Cate’s doctor showing up here?

“We have a mutual acquaintance,” I announce. “Cate Beaumont. Did you hear about the accident?”

He shifts his gaze to the mottled green roof of my father’s shed. “Her mother telephoned me. A terrible thing.”

“Did she tel you that Cate faked her pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“What else did she say?”

“It would be highly unethical to reveal the details of our conversation.” He pauses and adds, “Even to a police officer.” My eyes search his or perhaps it’s the other way round. “Are you deliberately trying to withhold information from a police investigation?” He smiles warily. “Forgive me. I thought this was a birthday party.”

“When did you last see Cate?”

“A year ago.”

“Why couldn’t she conceive?”

“No reason at al ,” he says blithely. “She had a laparoscopy, blood tests, ultrasounds and a hysteroscopy. There were no abnormalities, adhesions or fibroids. She
should
have been able to conceive. Unfortunately, she and her husband were incompatible. Felix had a low sperm count, but married to someone else he may wel have fathered a child without too much difficulty. However, in this case, his sperm were treated like cancerous cel s and were destroyed by his wife’s immune system. Pregnancy was theoretical y possible but realistical y unlikely.”

“Did you ever suggest surrogacy as an option?”

“Yes, but there aren’t many women wil ing to have a child for another couple. There was also another issue…”

“What issue?”

“Have you heard of achondrogenesis?”

“No.”

“It is a very rare genetic disorder, a form of lethal dwarfism.”

“What does that have to do with Cate?”

“Her only known pregnancy resulted in a miscarriage at six months. An autopsy revealed severe deformities in the fetus. By some twisted chance of fate, a reverse lottery, she and Felix each carried a recessive gene. Even, if by some miracle, she could conceive, there was a 25 percent chance it would happen again.”

“But they kept trying.”

He raises his hand to stop me. “Excuse me, Alisha, but am I to understand from your questions that you are investigating this matter in some official capacity?”

“I’m just looking for answers.”

“I see.” He ponders this. “If I were you, I would be very careful. People can sometimes misconstrue good intentions.” I’m unsure if this is advice or a warning but he holds my gaze until I feel uncomfortable. There is an arrogance about Banerjee that is typical of his generation of educated Sikhs, who are more pukka than any Englishman you wil ever meet.

Final y, he relaxes. “I wil tel you this much, Alisha. Mrs. Beaumont underwent five IVF implants over a period of two years. This is very complex science. It is not something you do at home with a glass jar and a syringe. It is the last resort, when al else fails.”

“What happened in Cate’s case?”

“She miscarried each time. Less than a third of IVF procedures result in a birth. My success rate is at the high end of the scale, but I am a doctor not a miracle worker.” For once the statement doesn’t sound conceited. He seems genuinely disappointed.

Aunt Meena cal s everyone inside for lunch. The tables have been set up with my father at the head. I am seated among the women. The men sit opposite. “New Boy” Dave and Dr.

Banerjee are side by side.

Hari arrives in time for pudding and is treated like a prodigal son by my aunts, who run their fingers through his long hair. Leaning down, he whispers into my ear, “Two at once, sis.

And I had you down as an old maid.”

My family are noisy when we eat. Plates are passed around. People talk over one another. Laughter is like a spice. There is no ceremony but there are rituals (which are not the same thing). Speeches are made, the cooks must be thanked, nobody talks over my father and al disagreements are saved for afterward.

I don’t let Dave stay that long. He has work to do. Sohan Banerjee also prepares to leave. I stil don’t understand why he’s here. It can’t be just a coincidence.

“Would you accede to seeing me again, Alisha?” he asks.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“It would make your parents very happy.”

“They wil survive.”

He rocks his head from side to side and up and down. “Very wel . I don’t know what to say.”

“Goodbye is traditional.”

He flinches. “Yes. Goodbye. I wish your friend Mrs. Beaumont a speedy recovery.”

Closing the front door, I feel a mixture of anxiety and relief. My life has enough riddles without this one.

Hari meets me in the hal way. His dark eyes catch the light and he puts his arms around me. My mobile is open in his fingers.

“Your friend Cate died at one o’clock this afternoon.”

11

There are cars parked in the driveway and in the street outside the El iots’ house. Family. A wake. I should leave them alone. Even as I debate what to do I find myself standing at the front door ringing the bel .

It opens. Barnaby is there. He has showered, shaved and tidied himself up but his eyes are watery and unfocused.

“Who is it, dear?” asks a voice from inside.

He stiffens and steps back. Wheels squeak on the parquetry floor and Cate’s mother rol s into view. She is dressed in black making her face appear even more spectral.

“You must come in,” she says, her lips peeled back into a pained smile.

“I’m so sorry about Cate. If there’s anything I can do.”

She doesn’t answer. Wheels rol her away. I fol ow them inside to the sitting room, which is ful of sad-eyed friends and family. A few of them I recognize. Judy and Richard Sutton, a brother and sister. Richard was Barnaby’s campaign manager in two elections and Judy works for Chase Manhattan. Cate’s aunt Paula is talking to Jarrod and in the corner I spy Reverend Lunn, an Anglican minister.

Yvonne is crumpled on a chair, talking and sobbing at the same time. Her clothes, normal y so bright and vibrant, now mirror her mood, black. Her two children are with her, both grown up, more English than Jamaican. The girl is beautiful. The boy could name a thousand places he’d prefer to be.

Yvonne cries a little harder when she sees me, groaning as she raises her arms to embrace me.

Before I can speak, Barnaby grips my forearm, pul ing me away.

“How did you know about the money?” he hisses. I can smel the alcohol on his breath.