I Know What I Saw

27 Tuesday

I’m back in Hyde Park. Alone again. I have found a dry patch in a dense clump of bushes on the outer edges even though I shouldn’t be here in the dark after the Squire thing. What if he ends up back here again and starts bothering me? Could that get me into trouble? I beat the thought away. Squire’s playground patch is at the other end of the park, and I need to be near number 42B – that is the most important thing right now.

The bushes are thick enough to shelter me from wind and rain, and from other people. In the deep blue of the night, I venture out to forage for food and packing material. I get dry boxes from the front gardens of houses I pass. The world has become a place where everything is delivered to the door and there is no shortage of boxes. Food is harder to come by. In the end, because I am desperate, I simply walk into the supermarket and ask for any expired sandwiches. The young woman at the till tells me that they aren’t allowed to give me any for health and safety reasons but that if I happened to take them, she wouldn’t stop me. I thank her, and take three packets and a wrapped slice of currant cake.

Then I think about Amit and the danger I led him into. For what? And at what price to me? I am unsettled now by this responsibility I seem to have for him and the uncomplicated way in which I completely failed him.

As I walked with him he replayed the encounter. He told me how he’d been allowed to wander freely through the house as Ebadi, interested only in ensuring he didn’t steal anything, lazily followed him. But Ebadi could tell from Amit’s voice, his uniform, his kind of school, that he was safe. I imagined how Ebadi would have relaxed when he was sure there was no threat from Amit. This genuine young man with eyes brimming with life.

‘But then I got talking to him,’ Amit said, those same eyes flashing now. ‘I asked him how long he’d been at the house.’

‘And?’

‘He’s only been there a few months, he said. He has a family in Yemen – a wife and two children.’

‘Okay.’

‘And I tell you what. That place is immaculate. There’s no dead body smell in there at all.’ He was eyeing me to measure my reaction.

‘The hall. The floor. Did you notice it?’

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘The grouting. Was it new? Did it look like it could have been recently done?’

He looked up as if searching. ‘The floor?’

‘I think it’s a new floor. It’s a long story but I think he’s just had it laid,’ I say.

‘Oh. I don’t think so.’

‘Did it smell damp or of cement?’ I said, pressing him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was normal. Clean. And there was one other thing,’ he continued, excited.

‘What?’

‘He was really nice.’

‘Amit …’

‘No, wait. He was. He asked me what I was studying and I told him English and History and French.’

‘So?’

‘So, he went over to a bookcase and gave me this.’ He pulled a small hardback from his pocket. I took it from his hand. It was similar to the school copies I’d had once: L’Étranger.

‘He gave you a cheap Camus, that doesn’t change anything,’ I said.

‘Xander,’ he said, looking around. ‘I don’t think it was him. He even told me I could pop round tomorrow and he’s going to dig out some more books for me. For free!’

My heart dropped. ‘No – Amit. You can’t go back there. You don’t know what I know,’ I said. ‘You don’t know what he’s capable of. Sure, he can act nice. Just as he must have done with the police. He might even be nice, most days. But he killed a person, Amit. Stood over her and strangled her.’ I snatched the book from his hand and flung it high into a neighbouring garden.

Amit’s face hardened and he ran quickly in the direction I had thrown it. He returned empty-handed. ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said and stormed off.

The cold night passes slowly and I fall asleep not long before dawn. When I wake it’s with the terrifying idea that someone has killed Amit. Of Amit being rolled up in a curl of turf.

When I reach out with my hand and touch the hard, icy ground, I am pulled back into wakefulness. I need to move. I gather up the flattened boxes. I don’t want to leave them here. If I leave the den whole, it will become cuckooed, and places like this one, safe and dry and obscure, are hard to find. I fold the cardboard before pushing it deep into the bush, out of sight.

It is still too early for there to be many people around. I get up and walk into the lifting sun. My thoughts cycle back again and again to this question: where is she? I need to find out where he has dumped her body. She can’t have just vanished. She is somewhere. For now. Until she surrenders to disintegration.

After some minutes of walking, the blood has warmed my muscles through. By the time I get near, the traffic on Park Lane is in full commuter flow. A right down South Street and I am on the road heading straight towards Farm Street. The building is washed in golden morning light and it makes a fraud of what happened in that house. There is only one thing to do now and that is to confront him. If I challenge him, what can he do? I will present him with what I know. That I was in the house at the time he killed her. That it was I who made the noise that startled him. That it was my strange smell that caused them to comment. And that I watched as he strangled the life out of that poor woman.

Some twigs cling to me and I brush them from my clothes, marching straight to his front door. The brass numbers shine in the morning light as I approach. Now I am here, in touching distance of the bell, I hesitate. How will he react? Will he let me in or will he just shut the door on my accusations? In the end it doesn’t matter. I have to do it. But then, just as I am about to knock, there is the sound of movement coming from within. I back down the front path and walk a little way up the road. When I am at the next house along, I stop and look. My heart is beating. I don’t understand this sudden skittishness that has overcome me. Am I afraid of him, or of what I might do? Ebadi emerges between next door’s laurel hedge and the wall. I watch as he leaves, taking care to double-lock his door. The Yale and then the deadbolt. And then he is out of his paved area and on to the street, walking away from me.

I turn and follow him. Initially I convince myself that I am still settled on confronting him but then as I get closer, I find I’m curious about where he is going. Before long we have reached Park Lane. The traffic has begun now to slow to a drip as he turns right and carries on towards Marble Arch.

I am ten or fifteen feet behind him, unnoticed. The other pedestrians are dressed for work. Suits and polished shoes join ranks with smart dark jeans and pea coats. The weather is still cold enough to bring plumes of vapour from their mouths. Ebadi is wearing dark jeans and an olive suede bomber jacket. From the edge of a cuff, I can see a heavy silver watch. As he walks I see flashes of red from the soles of his basketball shoes. I expect him to start threading through Edgware Road but instead he stops at the Tube and descends into the station.

Should I turn back? His house is empty now, and maybe there is a way of getting in that I haven’t had time to properly consider. But then – two locks. The crowd carries me forward so that in seconds I find myself in the guts of London, pushing in behind an alarmed elderly man as he goes through the barriers. They open automatically at the swipe of his card and I manage to squeeze through with him. I apologise when he tuts at me and then I glare at the barriers as if they’re at fault. I turn around to find that I have lost Ebadi.

I plough on through the crowds on to the escalator, and then see the flash of his red soles on the Central Line platform heading west. It is crammed full. This platform lined with people under its curved walls makes me dizzy.

Please stand behind the yellow line.

A gust of hot, oily air passes so close that I wonder that they are not drawn into the track by the pressure differential. The Bernoulli principle. I shake that thought off. I still have my eye on Ebadi who is on his phone, sandwiched between commuters. A train screeches along the platform and stops. We all bundle on, squeezing into every available space. In the crush I lose sight of him for a moment until I see him through the glass in the doors dividing the carriages. He seems carefree. He checks his expensive watch and then lets his arm dangle by his side.

It’s when we approach North Acton that I see Ebadi patting himself down unconsciously, waiting for the doors to open. I hang back until the last possible moment and then I jump off too. I pick up a Metro newspaper from a bench and hold it close to my face as I follow him. I don’t want him to get a good enough look at me to risk him causing me a problem. If l look down at my newspaper, he won’t see me. He presses an expensive wallet against the pad and walks through the barriers.

The daylight is disconcerting. I need to push through the gates behind somebody else but I am exposed by all the light. As I approach them my heart begins to kick up a beat. I can’t easily shadow someone through here. There is a member of staff by the front exit. Ebadi will see immediately if there is a commotion. I shuffle forward slowly, eyes searching out the best option. Then, with relief, I remember the Oyster card Seb gave me is in my pocket.

Outside the sun has vanished from the sky, leaving it steel grey. A few seconds later, as if to confirm the change, it begins to spit out a fine drizzle. Up ahead I see Ebadi, red soles lighting each step. His head is down against the wind. I follow until he reaches a fork in the road – Park Royal Road. Along the left side are some pitiful-looking houses, broken and unloved. To the right there is what seems to be a large park edged by a low brick wall topped with iron railings. He crosses over towards the park and stops at the entrance.

What is he doing here? In a park, miles away from his home? I approach the curve in the pavement, announcing the brick pillars of the park gates. There is a sign affixed to the left pillar which reads MAIN ENTRANCE. And then I see in green letters two words immediately above them and my heart stops.

ACTON CEMETERY.