Ventriloquists (3 page)

‘You’ll be leaving the child, son,’ said the man in the middle – Maggie’s dad’s workmate, perhaps. They might have arrived back in the van together.

‘She’s not yours,’ Yasser replied.

‘She’s not yours either.’

‘And she’s not Maggie’s,’ Yasser continued. ‘I’m taking her back to her parents in Luton.’

Eloise squealed.

The oldest man spoke next.

‘You’ve got two choices, my boy,’ he said, his eyes following Yasser as he executed the short crossing from the steps to the car.

Trying to ignore the implied threat, Yasser pointed his fob at the door; the locks clunked open. ‘My choices are stay here or do what I came here to do,’ he called across his car roof.

‘Your window was open a crack,’ said Tommy the Brazilian.

‘…What?’

‘The passenger side,’ Tommy explained. ‘This came in handy.’ He brandished the crowbar. ‘ –widen the gap a bit, you know what I mean?’

Yasser shook his head – and the man who had spoken first shook the petrol can at the car.

‘No!’ Yasser shouted.

The three men burst into laughter. The man with the can tipped the vessel upside-down; no more than a few drips fell out.
They were bluffing. They’d been bluffing the whole time. So why…

‘You soft bollocks,’ said the oldest man.

…so why could Yasser still smell petrol?

‘Leaving your
window
open? Around
here
?’ the man continued. ‘You never know what might fall in, son…’

Yasser opened the driver’s side door. Sure enough, a weak puff of fuel vapour exited.

‘You’re talking about murder,’ he told the men.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Tommy. ‘Depends how many people
get in
the fucker, don’t you see?’

Yasser shook his head; Eloise squealed again, her breath having deteriorated into desperate little sobs.

Petrolcan Man explained.

‘If you get in that car on your lonesome, then I dare say not one of us’ll fancy a fag and let our sparks fly willy-nilly. At the other extreme, though, it’s two oyiz getting into a car that’s been soaked in a gallon of petrol. And nature’ll take its course.’ He shrugged.

Yasser experienced a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

‘People know where I am.’

‘
Accidents will happen,’ the old man told him, also shrugging.

‘And they know where this little girl is too,’ Yasser continued. ‘You think you’re hated
now
? Just
imagine
the persecution when the locals find out you incinerated a baby!’

For the first time the older gentleman smiled. ‘You’ve got spirit, son. Go on about getting in your wheels, why don’t you. Before I change me mind.’

‘Da?’ protested Tommy.

‘I wanted to be sure you meant it,’ said the elder. ‘A test of your convictions, if you care to call it. Go on now. Don’t make me beg.’

As swiftly as he had with his cousin’s offspring in the back seat of her four-by-four, Yasser strapped the wailing Eloise into the child’s seat he had attached to his passenger side chair. Seconds passed; Yasser felt hot with panic, but his preparations at least had been thorough. When he sat down (he didn’t bother with the belt) an ice-cold shower of sweat passed from his skin to his shirt and back again.

The engine started reliably. Were they really going to let him go so easily? To test the question Yasser engaged reverse and squelched away from the trailer, trying not to make eye contact with any of the committee.

He swung the car on to the smooth driveway and headed for freedom.

3.

Standing on the landing, Bahrati wagged a finger and said, ‘You’ll eat some breakfast before you leave ho.’

Yasser was sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling on a white sock. So far he had dressed only in his boxers.

‘Get out, Mum! I’m getting my kit on !’

Bahrati chuckled as she stepped into the bathroom. ‘Aho! You think I haven’t seen my own boy in the nip? Eh?
Eh
?’

‘I’m twenty-three!’ Yasser protested.
For fuck’s sake,
he added under his breath. Leaning forward, he tapped the door closed and resumed his preparations for work.

Before his mother locked the bathroom door she called out a parting shot – a reminder.

‘And eat some breakfast ho! Your father and I don’t want you wasting your earnings on a bloody Mickey D innit!’

Yasser clipped downstairs when he was ready, trailing a wash of aftershave and hair gel. His mother had left him a bowl of Coco Pops on the breakfast bar; but how long ago? Yasser’s stomach squinted at the sight of the cereal congealed in a puddle of filthy brown milk.
No thanks, Mum.

In sweats and found hundred-quid trainers, Yasser jogged to his Saturday job: to the market in Luton’s High Town, two-and-a-half miles away.

By eight o’clock, an hour after his arrival, the market was in full swing. Not even a sandalwood sky threatening a cloudburst could keep the local Saturday shoppers away this morning... The plot where Yasser sold gardening equipment, under the wing of his Uncle Wafiq, stood next to a stall brightly-coloured with herbs, fruit and vegetables, and the aroma of berries was sweet in Yasser’s nose. If he had to work anywhere at all, this was as good a patch as any to fritter away the lion’s share of his weekends. Before he’d ordered his first bacon sandwich of the morning he had personally swapped two shovels, a set of green waste sacks and a pair of sturdy gloves for hard cash. His mood was buoyant.

The snacks van that he frequented was one of three clogging up High Town Road. Its competitors sold Polish and Caribbean food, but it was too early in the day for cabbage or curried goat for Yasser. He queued patiently for Snow White’s attention. Behind the counter, Snow White, a hyperactive, septuagenarian Rasta who claimed to have studied under Steve Biko back in the old country, finished preparing a sausage-and-egg baguette for the guy who sold paperbacks of dubious provenance, and Yasser tapped his toes to the disco beat slamming out from Snow White’s iPod. Snow White dished out the man’s change and clocked his next customer. So wide was his welcoming grin that Yasser was able to see past his tan-coloured large front teeth, right to the back of his mouth, where the gold was buried.

‘Yo, Yass! Usual innit?’

‘Safe, man. You okay?’

‘When it don’t rain it shine, blood. You’s onions?’

‘Nah. Too early for onions.’

Yasser took a step back from the counter when Snow White turned his concentration to his grill plate. Without looking up while he flipped bacon, Snow White asked Yasser if he wanted a coffee. Yasser lit a smoke and declined politely. Then Snow White added: ‘Woah, boy!’

‘What?’

‘Them creps, man! They the shit!’ And he pointed his dripping tongs at Yasser’s new footware. ‘You win the Lotto or sumpin?’

‘Been saving for a rainy day.’ Yasser smiled, delighted that his investment had been noticed.

‘They cost you what?’

‘Four ton.’

Snow White whistled, then revealed his teeth once more. ‘Someone
paying
you too much, Yass!’ he declared.

‘Well it ain’t Wafiq!’ Yasser replied.

‘Then who is it?’ said a voice behind Yasser’s left shoulder. Yasser turned. Immediately he felt prickly with anxiety. The face was familiar – more familiar than that of any regular Saturday morning market-haunter.

‘You don’t tell me that’s your babysitting money paid for that,’ the man went on.

‘...What do you want, Tommy?’ asked Yasser.

It was the Brazilian, from the camp. Close up, closer than he’d been three mornings earlier, the man held about him the odour of swamp and sweat. He was dressed in the same clothes as he’d worn then.

‘I owe you a freebie, son,’ Tommy replied. ‘Never let it be said I don’t honour me word.’

‘You owe me nothing,’ Yasser told him. ‘The business is concluded.’

‘Can I help you?’ Snow White called from behind a crackling hedge of silver fat fumes.

Tommy asked Yasser: ‘What is it we drink? You got any petrol, mate?’ he asked Snow White.

‘Any
what
?’

‘I asked you what you wanted, Tommy,’ said Yasser, his voice level but his heart ranting.

‘And I told you, boy: I tear strips off poor cunts, and you qualify.’

‘The baby’s well, by the way. Eloise.’

Tommy shrugged. ‘I don’t give a fuck. That was none of my business. You think I ask their permission to scratch me bollocks?’

‘No. And there was no petrol on my passenger seat either,’ said Yasser. ‘The smell receded as I drove away. It was the can I could smell.’

‘Oh it
receded
. You college boy...’

Yasser turned his head by twisting his neck. To Snow White he said: ‘Have you got your camera with you?’ When Snow White nodded, his dreadlocks whipped like horses’ tails. ‘Get a picture of this prick, would you then?’

Malice leaked through Tommy’s features. ‘You’ll not be taking my photo,’ he stated flatly.

‘Then get away from me.’

‘Why? I’m here to buy a wheelbarrow,’ Tommy answered. ‘I hear you’re doing em cheaper than Homebase.’

Yasser shook his head. ‘We reserve the right not to sell to psychopaths. How d’you find me?’

‘No, son. How did
you
find
me
? Is the question. See, it had to be here. No other connection.’

‘Well, well done, Inspector Morse.’

‘You bacon is ready,’ said Snow White.

‘Do you sell trowels?’ Tommy asked, grinning.

‘Yes. But not to you.’

‘We’ll see what your Paki boss thinks about that opinion, so we will.’ Tommy laughed as Yasser took possession of his bacon sandwich. It was wrapped in kitchen roll. ‘That looks good,’ he added. ‘Can I have a bite?’

‘Buy your own.’

‘Maggie sent me.’

‘What? I have work to do,
Tommy
.’

‘Maggie sent me. To retain your skills for finding things. Mainly children.’

‘What are you on about?’

Tommy nodded towards Snow White. ‘Are you sure you want Bob Marley to hear this?’

‘Yes. I’d like a witness,’ Yasser answered.

‘The only reason she took the white girl is she had her own girl stolen from her. And she would like to pay you to find her. You
impressed
her, boy.’

Yasser’s heart was calming and steadying. A cauldron of questions bubbled in his mind, but one in particular made a much louder pop and flashed an image of a pair of Gucci loafers.

‘How much is she offering?’ Yasser asked.

4.

Maggie was early. Yasser knew she was early without needing his wristwatch: he was early himself and she arrived only a few minutes after him. Without so much as a word of invitation from Yasser, Maggie entered on his passenger side.

‘Not a bare hint of petrol,’ she said by way of a greeting.

‘They were bullshitting me.’

‘They were
testing
you. There’s a big difference.’

‘How did you get here?’ Yasser asked.

‘How do I get anywhere? The 61 bus... Thanks for meeting me.’ Maggie had yet to meet Yasser’s eyes; her focus was straight ahead. ‘I’d’ve understood if you told me no.’

Yasser started the engine. ‘Where to?’

‘Do you know Hockliffe?’

Yasser moved the car towards the car park’s exit ramp. ‘It’s a name on a sign,’ he told her. He reached out the window to feed his ticket to the machine. The barrier rattled erect to let them out.

‘I’ll direct you... A prepaid ticket, eh? Man of means.’

Yasser indicated left. ‘I paid for thirty minutes. That’s all I was gonna wait,’ he said.

Maggie laughed. ‘Treat em mean and keep em keen, eh Yasser? What happened to a woman’s prerogative to be late for everything?’

‘What happened to a child’s – to live like a child?’

‘Amen to that,’ Maggie whispered, and turned Yasser’s way for the first time. She only saw him in profile – he was watching for a space in the Dunstable traffic on West Street – but perhaps he had sensed her. ‘We need to turn right, by the way,’ she said, blinking back tears. ‘Then left at the crossroads, up the A5...’

After nearly a minute a works van and a motorcycle allowed them to cross the thoroughfare and ease into traffic. Having negotiated the manoeuvre, Yasser experienced a failure of patience with Maggie. ‘Tell me about your little girl,’ he said. ‘Where did you lose her?’

‘I didn’t
lose
her. She was
stolen
.’

‘Where was she stolen?’

‘In Hockliffe.’

‘...Are you serious? You’re taking me to the scene of the crime?’

A red light at the crossroads held them still. For the first time in this vehicle their eyes met. Something nervous but mischievous tinkered with the left side of Maggie’s mouth.

‘Where else did you have in mind to start the search?’ Maggie wanted to know.

‘I haven’t
agreed
to anything yet!’ Yasser protested.

‘Yes you have, Yasser. You turned up.’

‘To
discuss
it!’

‘Baloney... The light’s green. And besides, I’ve got something in my handbag for you. It’ll soothe your doubts, to be sure.’

5.

Hockliffe is a pleasant Bedfordshire village, smeared a brown-chrome combination this morning, about eight miles from the camp where Maggie lived. She knew the way adroitly: as though she were directing Yasser to her own refrigerator.

For Yasser’s part, he had believed he was being led to a house or a pub – either of which would have fit. But
this
?

‘A
dog-grooming
shop?’