The Night Ferry

13

Sometimes London is a parody of itself. Today is like that. The sky is fat and heavy and the wind is cold, although not cold enough to snow. Ladbrokes is offering 3 to 1 on a white Christmas in London. All it takes is a single snowflake to fall on the rooftop of the Met Office.

The bail hearing is today. I’m wearing my court clothes: a red pencil skirt, cream blouse and a short jacket that is cut well enough to have an expensive label but has no label at all.

Shawcroft has been charged with people trafficking, forced pregnancy and offenses under the Child Protection Act. The penalty for trafficking alone is up to fourteen years. More charges are pending, as well as possible extradition to the Netherlands.

Samira is sitting on the bed watching me apply my makeup. An overcoat lies across her lap. She has been dressed for hours, after waking early and praying. She won’t have to give evidence until the trial, which could be a year away, but she wants to come along for today’s hearing.

“Shawcroft is still only a suspect,” I say. “Under our legal system a suspect is innocent until proven guilty.”

“But we know he is guilty.”

“Yes but a jury has to decide that after hearing all the evidence.”

“What is bail?”

“A judge will sometimes let a defendant out of prison just until the trial if he or she promises not to run away or approach any of the witnesses. As a way of guaranteeing this, the judge will ask for a large amount of money, which the defendant won’t get back if he breaks the law or doesn’t show up for the trial.”

She looks astonished. “He will pay the judge money?”

“The money is like a security deposit.”

“A bribe.”

“No, not a bribe.”

“So you are saying Brother could pay money and get out of jail.”

“Well, yes, but it’s not what you think.”

The conversation keeps going round in circles. I’m not explaining it very well.

“I’m sure it won’t happen,” I reassure her. “He won’t be able to hurt anyone again.”

It has been three weeks since Claudia left hospital. I still worry about her—she seems so small compared to her brother—but the infection has gone and she’s putting on weight.

The twins have become tabloid celebrities, Baby X and Baby Y, without first names or surnames. The judge deciding custody has ordered DNA tests on the twins and medical reports from Amsterdam. Samira will have to prove she is their mother and then decide what she wants to do.

Despite being under investigation, Barnaby has maintained his campaign for custody, hiring and sacking lawyers on a weekly basis. During the first custody hearing, Judge Freyne threatened to jail him for contempt for continually interjecting and making accusations of bias.

I have had my own hearing to deal with—a disciplinary tribunal in front of three senior officers. I tendered my resignation on the first day. The chairman refused to accept it.

“I thought I was making it easier for them,” I told Ruiz.

“They can’t sack you and they don’t want to let you go,” he explained. “Imagine the headlines.”

“So what do they want?”

“To lock you away in an office somewhere—where you can’t cause any trouble.”

Samira adjusts her breast pads and buttons her blouse. Four times a day she expresses milk for the twins, which is couriered to the foster family. She gets to see them every afternoon for three hours under supervision. I have watched her carefully, looking for some sign that she is drawing closer to them. She feeds, bathes and nurses them, giving the impression that she is far more accomplished and comfortable with motherhood than I could ever imagine myself being. At the same time her movements are almost mechanical, as though she is doing what’s expected of her rather than what she wants.

She has developed a strange affectation around the twins. Whether expressing milk, changing nappies or dressing them, she uses only her right hand. When she picks one of them up, she slides the hand between their legs, along their spine and scoops them in a single motion, supporting the head with the palm of her hand. And when she feeds them, she tucks a bottle under her chin or lays the baby along her thighs.

I thought for a while that it might be a Muslim thing, like only eating with the right hand. When I asked her, she raised her eyes dismissively. “One hand is enough to sin. One hand is enough to save.”

“What does that mean?”

“What it says.”

Hari is downstairs. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I’m sure.”

“I could hold up an umbrella.”

“It’s not raining.”

“They do it for the film stars who don’t want to be photographed—hold up umbrellas. Their bodyguards do it.”

“You’re not a bodyguard.”

He’s a lovesick puppy. University has broken up for Christmas and he’s supposed to be helping his brothers at the garage but he keeps finding excuses to spend time with Samira. She’ll even be alone with him, but only in the garden shed when they’re working on some pyrotechnic project. The fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night were supposed to be a one-off but Hari has kept that particular fuse burning, for obvious reasons.

“New Boy” Dave is waiting outside for us.

“You’re not wearing black?”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“You look good in red.”

I whisper, “You should see my underwear.”

Samira pulls on her overcoat, which has toggles instead of buttons. It used to belong to Hari and the cuffs have to be folded twice because the sleeves are so long. Her hands find the pockets and hibernate there.

The day is growing brighter, climbing toward noon. Dave negotiates the traffic and parks a block away from Southwark Crown Court, ready to run the gauntlet. Ahead of us, on the pavement, TV cameras and photographers are waiting.

The charges against Julian Shawcroft are merely a sideshow to the main event—the custody battle for the twins—which has everything the tabloids crave: sex, a beautiful “virgin” and stolen babies.

Flashguns fire around us. Samira lowers her head and keeps her hands in her pockets. Dave pushes a path through the scrum, not afraid to drop his shoulder into someone who won’t move out of the way. These are tactics from the rugby field, not a sailing school.

Southwark Crown Court is a soulless modern precinct with less charm than the Old Bailey. We pass through the metal detectors and make our way upstairs. I recognize some of the people holding meetings in the corridors, discussing last-minute tactics with counsel. Dr. Sohan Banerjee has hired his own Queen’s Counsel in expectation of being charged. He and Shawcroft still haven’t turned on each other but the finger-pointing is only a matter of time according to Forbes.

Shawcroft’s barrister is a woman, five foot ten in two-inch dagger heels, with white-blond hair and drop pearl earrings that swing back and forth as she talks.

The prosecutor, Francis Hague, QC, is older and grayer, with glasses perched on top of his head. He is talking to Forbes, making notes on a long pad. DS Softell has also turned up, perhaps hoping for some clue in the search for Brendan Pearl, who seems to have vanished completely. I wonder how many different identities he’s stolen.

Samira is nervous. She knows that people are looking at her, court staff and reporters. I have tried to reassure her that the publicity will stop once the twins are home. Nobody will be allowed to identify them.

We take a seat in the public gallery at the rear of the courtroom with Samira sitting in between us. She shrinks inside her overcoat, keeping her hands in the pockets. I spy Donavon slipping into the row behind us. His eyes scan the courtroom and rest on mine for a moment before moving on.

Soon the press box is full and there are no seats in the public gallery. The court clerk, an Asian woman of indeterminate age, enters and takes a seat, tapping at a keyboard.

Feet shuffle and everyone stands for the judge, who is surprisingly young and quite handsome in a stuffy sort of way. Within minutes, Shawcroft emerges via a stairway leading directly into the dock. Dressed in a neat suit, speckled tie and polished shoes, he turns and smiles at the gallery, soaking up the atmosphere as though this were a performance being laid on for his benefit.

“You wish to make an application for bail?” asks the judge.

Shawcroft’s QC, Margaret Curillo, is already on her feet, introducing herself in plummy obsequious tones. Francis Hague, QC, plants his hands on the table and raises his buttocks several inches from his chair, mumbling an introduction. Perhaps he feels that everyone knows him already or at least should.

The door of the court opens quietly and a man enters. Tall and thin, with an effeminate air, he nods distractedly at the bench and barely raises his polished shoes from the carpet as he glides toward the bar table. Bending, he whispers something to Hague, who cocks his head.

Mrs. Curillo has begun her submission, outlining the many “outstanding achievements” of her client in a “lifetime of service to the community.”

The prosecutor rises fully to his feet this time.

“Your Honor, I must apologize for interrupting my learned friend but I wish to request a short adjournment.”

“We’ve only just started.”

“I need to seek further instructions, Your Honor. Apparently, the director of public prosecutions is reviewing details of the case.”

“With what aim?”

“I’m not in a position to say at this point.”

“How long do you require?”

“If it pleases, Your Honor, perhaps we could re-list this matter for three o’clock this afternoon.”

The judge stands abruptly, causing a chain reaction in the courtroom. Shawcroft is already being led back downstairs. I look at Dave, who shrugs. Samira is watching us, waiting for an explanation. Outside, in the corridor, I look for Forbes, who seems to have disappeared, along with Softell. What on earth is happening?

For the next two hours we wait. Cases are called for different courts. Lawyers have meetings. People come and go. Samira is sitting with her shoulders hunched, still wearing her overcoat.

“Do you believe in Heaven?” she asks.

It is such an unexpected question that I feel my mouth fall open. Consciously, I close it again. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you think Hassan and Zala are in Heaven?”

“I don’t know.”

“My father believed we should live our lives over and over, getting better each time. Only when we’re completely happy should we get into Heaven.”

“I don’t know whether I’d like to live the same life over and over.”

“Why?”

“It would diminish the consequences. I already put things off until another day. Imagine putting them off until another life.”

Samira wraps her arms around herself. “Afghanistan is leaving me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am forgetting things. I cannot remember what sort of flowers I planted on my father’s grave. I once pressed the same flowers between the pages of his Koran and made him very angry. He said I was dishonoring Allah. I said I was praising Allah with flowers. He laughed at that. My father could never stay angry with me.”

We have afternoon tea in the cafeteria, avoiding the reporters whose ranks are starting to thin. Francis Hague and Shawcroft’s barrister still haven’t surfaced and neither has Forbes. Perhaps they’ve gone Christmas shopping.

Shortly before three, a Crown Solicitor finds us. Counsel wants to talk to Samira. I should come too.

“I’ll wait for you here,” says Dave.

We climb a flight of stairs and are shown through a door marked COURT STAFF ONLY. A long corridor is flanked by offices. A lone potted palm sits at one end alongside a rather annoyed-looking woman waiting on a chair. Her black-stockinged legs are like burned matchsticks sticking out from beneath a fur coat.

The solicitor knocks gently on a door. It opens. The first person I see is Spijker, who looks depressingly somber even by his standards. He takes my hand, kissing my cheeks three times, before bowing slightly to Samira.

Shawcroft’s barrister is at the far end of the table, sitting opposite Francis Hague. Beside them is another man, who seems pressed for time. It could be his wife waiting outside, expecting to be somewhere else.

“My name is Adam Greenburg, QC,” he says, standing and shaking Samira’s hand. “I am the deputy director of public prosecutions at the Crown Prosecution Service.”

He apologizes for the stuffiness of the room and almost makes a running gag of his Jewishness, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Let me explain my job to you, Miss Khan. When someone is arrested for a criminal offense, they don’t automatically go to court and then to prison. The police first have to gather evidence and the job of the Crown Prosecution Service is to examine that evidence and to make sure that the right person is prosecuted for the right offense and that all relevant facts are given to the court. Do you understand?”

Samira looks at me and back to Greenburg. An elephant is sitting on my chest.

The only person who hasn’t introduced himself is the man who entered the courtroom and interrupted the bail hearing. Standing by the window in a Savile Row suit, he has a raptor’s profile and oddly inexpressive eyes, yet something about his attitude suggests he knows a secret about everyone in the room.

Mr. Greenburg continues: “There are two stages in the decision to prosecute. The first stage is the evidential test. Crown prosecutors must be satisfied there is enough evidence to provide a realistic prospect of conviction against each defendant on each charge.

“The second stage is the public-interest test. We must be satisfied there is a public interest to be served in prosecuting. The CPS will only start or continue a prosecution when a case has passed both these tests no matter how important or serious it might be.”

Mr. Greenburg is about to cut to the chase. Spijker won’t look at me. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on the table.

“The CPS has decided not to proceed with the prosecution of Mr. Shawcroft because it does not pass the public-interest test and because he has agreed to cooperate fully with the police and has given certain assurances about his future conduct.”

For a moment the shock takes my breath away and I can’t respond. I look at Spijker, hoping for support. He stares at his hands.

“A case such as this raises serious moral and ethical issues,” explains Greenburg. “Fourteen infants, born as a result of illegal surrogacy, have been identified. These children are now living with their biological parents in stable loving families.

“If we prosecute Mr. Shawcroft these families will be torn apart. Parents will be charged as co-conspirators and their children will be taken into care, perhaps permanently. In prosecuting one individual, we risk destroying the lives of many many more.

“The Dutch authorities face a similar dilemma involving six children from surrogate mothers. The German authorities have identified four births and the French could have as many as thirteen.

“I am as shocked and appalled by this evil trade as anyone else, but we have to make decisions here today that will decide what legacy remains afterward.”

I find my voice. “You don’t have to charge the couples.”

“If we choose to proceed, Mr. Shawcroft’s counsel has indicated that she will subpoena all the couples involved who are legally and ethically raising children who belong to someone else.

“That is the situation we face. And the question we have to answer is this: Do we draw a line beneath this, or do we proceed and upset the lives of innocent children?”

Samira sits passively in her overcoat. She hasn’t stirred. Everything is done with such politeness and decorum that there is a sense of unreality about it all.

“He murdered innocent people.” My voice sounds hollow.

Mrs. Curillo protests. “My client denies all involvement in any such crimes and has not been charged in relation to any such event.”

“What about Cate and Felix Beaumont? What about Hassan Khan and Zala?”

Greenburg raises his hand, wanting me to be silent.

“In return for the dropping of all charges, Mr. Shawcroft has provided police with the whereabouts of Brendan Pearl, an alleged people trafficker and wanted felon, who is still on parole for offenses committed in Northern Ireland. Mr. Shawcroft has given a statement saying that he had no involvement in the deaths of the Beaumonts, alleging that Brendan Pearl acted alone. He also maintains that he played no part in the trafficking operation that led to the unfortunate deaths at Harwich International Port in October. A criminal gang took advantage of his naïveté. He admits to commercial surrogacy, but says that Brendan Pearl and his associates took over the scheme and blackmailed him into participating.”

“This is ridiculous! He’s the architect! He forced women to get pregnant! He took their babies!” I can’t hear myself yelling, but no other voices are raised. Focusing my anger on Greenburg, I use words like “justice” and “fairness” while he counters with terms like “common sense” and “public interest.”

My language is disintegrating. I call him gutless and corrupt. Growing tired of my tantrum, he threatens to have me removed.

“Mr. Pearl will be extradited to the Netherlands where he will face charges related to prostitution, people smuggling and murder,” he explains. “In addition, Mr. Shawcroft has agreed to relinquish all involvement in his charities, including the New Life Adoption Center—effective immediately. The center’s license to oversee adoptions has been revoked. The Charities Commission is drafting a press release. Early retirement seems to be the agreed terminology. The CPS will also make a statement saying the charges are being dropped due to lack of evidence.”

There is a tone of finality to the sentence. Greenburg’s job is done. Getting to his feet, he straightens his jacket. “I promised my wife lunch. Now it will have to be dinner. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Samira shrugs me away, pushing past people, stumbling toward the lift.

“I’m sorry, Alisha,” says Spijker.

I can’t answer him. He warned me about this. We were sitting in his office in Amsterdam and he talked about Pandora’s box. Some lids are best kept closed, glued, nailed, screwed down and buried under six feet of earth.

“There is a logic to it, you know. There is no point punishing the guilty if we punish the innocent,” he says.

“Someone has to pay.”

“Someone will.”

I gaze across the paved courtyard where pigeons have coated the statues with mouse-gray excrement. The wind has sprung up again, driving needles of sleet against the glass.

I phone Forbes. Gusts of wind snag at his words.

“When did you know?”

“Midday.”

“Do you have Pearl?”

“Not my show anymore.”

“Are you off the case?”

“I’m not a high-enough grade of public servant to handle this one.”

Suddenly I picture the quiet man, standing by the window, tugging at his cuff links. He was MI5. The security services want Pearl. Forbes has been told to take a backseat.

“Where are you now?”

“Armed-response teams have surrounded a boarding house in Southend-on-Sea.”

“Is Pearl inside?”

“Standing at the window, watching.”

“He’s not going to run.”

“Too late for that.”

Another image comes to me. This one shows Brendan Pearl strolling out of the boarding house with a pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers, ready to fight or to flee. Either way, he’s not going back to prison.

Samira. What am I going to say to her? How can I possibly explain? She heard what Greenburg said. Her silence spoke volumes. It was as if she had known all along it would come to this. Betrayal. Broken promises. Duplicity. She has been here before, visited this place. “Some people are born to suffer,” that’s what Lena Caspar said. “It never stops for them, not for a second.”

I can see Samira now, smudged by the wet glass, standing by the statue, wearing Hari’s overcoat. I want to teach her about the future. I want to show her the Christmas lights in Regent Street, tell her about the daffodils in spring, show her real things, true things, happiness.

A dark-colored car has pulled up, waiting at the curb. Photographers and cameramen spill out of the court building walking backward, jostling for space. Julian Shawcroft emerges flanked by his barrister and Eddie Barrett. His silver hair shines in the TV lights.

He laughs with the reporters, relaxed, jovial, a master of the moment.

I spy Samira walking toward him in a zigzag pattern. Her hands are buried deep in the pockets of her coat.

I am moving now, swerving left and right past people in the corridor. I hammer the lift button and choose the stairs instead, swinging through each landing and out the double fire doors on the ground floor.

I’m on the wrong side of the building. Which way? Left.

Some track athletes are good at running bends. They lean into the corner, shifting their center of balance rather than fighting the g-forces that want to fling them off. The trick is not to fight the force, but to work with it by shortening your stride and hugging the inside line.

A Russian coach once told me that I was the best bend runner he had ever seen. He even had a video of me that he used to train his young runners at the academy in Moscow.

Right now I don’t have a cambered track and the paving stones are slick with rain, but I run this bend as if my life depends upon it. I tell myself to hold the turn, hold the turn and then explode out. Kick. Kick. Everything is burning, my legs and lungs, but I’m flying.

The 200 meters was my trademark event. I don’t have the lungs for middle distance.

The media scrum is ahead of me. Samira stands on the outside, rocking from foot to foot like an anxious child. Finally she burrows inside, pushing between shoulders. A reporter spies her and pulls back. Another follows. More people peel off, sensing a story.

Samira’s overcoat is open. There is something in her hand that catches the light—a glass elephant with tiny mirrors. My elephant.

Shawcroft is too busy talking to notice her. She embraces him from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her left fist against his heart and her head against the middle of his back. He tries to shake her loose, but she won’t let go. A wisp of smoke curls from her fingers.

Someone yells and people dive away. They’re saying it’s a bomb! How?

The sound of my scream disappears beneath the crack of an explosion that snaps at the air, making it shudder. Shawcroft spins slowly, until he faces me, looking puzzled. The hole in his chest is the size of a dinner plate. I can see right inside.

Samira falls in the opposite direction, with her knees splayed apart. Her face hits the ground first because her left arm can’t break her fall. Her eyes are open. A hand reaches out to me. There are no fingers. There is no hand.

People are running and yelling, screaming like the damned; their faces peppered with shards of glass.

“She’s a terrorist,” someone shouts. “Be careful.”

“She’s not a terrorist,” I reply.

“There could be more bombs.”

“There are no more bombs.”

Pieces of mirror and glass are embedded along Samira’s arms, but her face and torso escaped the force of the blast, shielded behind Shawcroft.

I should have realized. I should have seen it coming. How long ago did she plan this? Weeks, maybe longer. She took my elephant from my bedside table. Hari unwittingly helped her by buying the model rocket engines full of black powder. The fuse must have been taped down her forearm, which is why she didn’t take off her overcoat. The glass and mirrors of the elephant didn’t trigger the metal detectors.

The frayed lining of her coat sleeve is still smoldering, but there’s surprisingly little blood. The exploding powder seems to have cauterized her flesh around a jagged section of bone.

She turns her head. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Satisfied, she closes her eyes. Two paramedics gently take her from me, placing her on a stretcher. I try to stand but fall backward. I want to keep falling.

I thought I knew everything about friendship and family; the happiness, simplicity and joy within them. But there is another side to devotion, which Samira understands. She is her father’s daughter after all.

One hand is enough to sin. One hand is enough to save.