Affairs of State

Prologue

A mutton stew simmers in a cast-iron pot, filling the air with the aroma of tomato and spices. The kitchen is clean, with a sink, white units, a big fridge and a wooden table in the centre of the room. A hanging light gives out a warm yellow glow. The window is closed against the night and the heat is suffocating. The father, a stocky man with a furrowed face and grey hair, crashes his fist down on the table:

‘Not the theatre … Not my daughter.’

‘I’ll do as I like.’

His fist strikes her temple and he roars: ‘I forbid you …’

The girl’s head lolls backwards, a crack, a red veil in front of her eyes. She reels and clutches at the table. Her mother sobs, wails, pleads and tries to step between them. The two brothers push her into a corner. The younger children have taken refuge in another room, the TV turned up full volume so the neighbours won’t hear.

The girl leans forward, resting both hands on the table:

‘No one is ever going to forbid me from doing anything, ever again. In two months I’ll be eighteen and an adult …’ Tensely, almost spitting: ‘An adult, you hear …’

‘An adult …’

He chokes with rage, grabs a chair and brandishes it as he edges round the table bearing down on her. She feels the heat behind her, turns around, seizes the pot with both hands and throws it at his head. The sauce splashes out in all directions, splattering the walls, the floor and the furniture with streaks of orangey-red fat. She doesn’t even feel the burns on her hands, arms and legs, she doesn’t hear her mother screaming. Her father raises his hands to his head, sways, slides down and collapses in a heap on the floor amid the chunks of mutton.

The eldest brother rushes over, slaps her, twists her arm behind her back, lifts her, carries her to one of the bedrooms and locks her in. The men are arguing in the kitchen, voices loudly raised. The father doesn’t want to call a doctor. A tap’s running. Her mother sobs noisily.

They’re going to lock me in. They’re going to kill me. Her temples are throbbing. She walks over to the window and opens it. The air is cold, the housing estate ill-lit, silent, three storeys down. Don’t think. Get out. Fast, before they come back. There are two beds in the room. She grabs hold of a mattress, leans over the windowsill, concentrates, aims, lets go. Quick, the other one, repeat exactly the same movements with accuracy. It lands on top of the first. A woman’s screams in the kitchen. Quick. Don’t think, do it; don’t think. Jump.

She straddles the sill, tensing her muscles like at the gym. She gazes at the mattress, focuses on it with all her energy, takes a deep breath and jumps.

She hits the ground hard and her right ankle cracks. She struggles to her feet. She can stand on it. She runs slowly, limping, into the night, zigzagging between the apartment blocks, avoiding the well-lit areas, listening out. How long for? She stops, her heart in her mouth. She’s lost. She sits on some steps, concealed by a dustbin, clasping her knees and her head buried in her arms. Slowly she catches her breath. Her heart’s still pounding slightly. Cold, very cold. Her left eye’s closed up, there’s a sharp pain in her right ankle and the burns on her arms and legs are excruciatingly painful. No ID, no clothes, no money. One thing’s for sure: I’ll never go back home. And another: They won’t come looking for me. As far as they’re concerned, I’m dead. Dead.