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  “What you mean, supposing?”

  Sam props herself up on her elbow. “I mean, if I was desperate to save my child there’s nothing I wouldn’t say if I thought it would... And this is me, not even a mother yet.”

  “Yet.” My hand moves instinctively to her flat stomach. Hers follows and holds me there, as much to stop me roving while she finishes what she has to say.

  “I might be wrong. I mean, quite possibly she was raped – Ali’s an evil... But the point is Hassan believed her. And it was only then that he stopped what he was doing. If you ask me, that was more about him, about his own pride, or warped sense of honour, whatever you’d call it, not about her. Otherwise he wouldn’t have abandoned her in the first place, would he?”

  “Guess not. So you think she’ll leave him, then?”

  “Who’s to say? Probably not. She loves him, that’s obvious. Women are stupid like that.” She pecks me on the cheek. “As you know.”

  I’m a wee bit hurt by the link Sam’s making. “Hey, it hardly compares...”

  “I know, I know.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “You’re a paragon of virtue, relatively speaking.”

  “And a hero. Don’t forget that bit.”

  “And a hero, of course.” She pulls back a little on the pillow. I can feel her watching me, and I’m reminded of the last time we lay together in this bed. Last time I kept my eyes firmly closed. This time I open them and turn to watch her studying my face. Sam meets my eyes, and smiles. “I have forgiven you,” she says.

  “Completely?”

  “Completely.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you made a mistake. You were offered the chance of free and easy sex with a good-looking girl, and, because you had quite a lot to drink, you couldn’t resist the temptation. I hated you for it. Even when I came back, I wasn’t ready to forgive you, not fully – there was always going to be that resentment. Then I had to get my head around the thing with Edona.”

  “I didn’t go there to...”

  “Don’t, Marc...” She brings her cool fingers up to my lips and rests them there. “Don’t start again with the excuses. We’ve moved on. I’ve moved on. What I say to myself is, however you ended up in that place, you faced the same temptation that you had with Anji. But this time you made the right decision. More than the right decision. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life calling you a hero, bighead, but it’ll do for tonight. You done good.”

  “Thank you. Can we make love now?”

  “No. Later.”

  “You might be too drunk later.”

  “Excuse me,” she says, pretending affront. “I haven’t had one drink tonight. I told Oliver I would take him home.”

  I let my head roll back on the pillow. “Hell, I forgot about Ollie. Why don’t we just put him in a taxi?”

  “No, I promised his mam. Anyway, I want to pop in and see how she’s managing, if it’s not too late. I don’t mind, honestly. Come on.” She springs up off the bed, straightening her dress. “You’ve got a speech to make before you’re incapable.”

  “Speech?”

  “Yeah. We’re all going to give Edona our presents, and you’re going to do a speech, make her feel special.” Sam stretches both hands to me. “And if you do a good job...” She leans over to haul me from the bed, allowing me a good view of her cleavage. “I’ll let you make babies with me later. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  For a party it’s quite a modest gathering. Edona has not been here long enough to make many friends, so we’ve had to pretty much make up the numbers. Nobody from work – Debbie would be the only likely candidate, but she’s standing in for Sam while we’re on R&R, as my new best buddy Neville called it. Fern is here, of course, upsetting my assumptions by bringing along her husband, Dominic. She introduces him to me for possibly the third time this evening – memory loss induced by an inordinate number of margaritas – and says, patting my backside, “This man, friends in high places.”

  “Only temporarily, I expect,” I say, grinning at Dom, because our conversation opener about half an hour ago went along similar lines.

  “No, on the up,” Fern says enigmatically then, clutching my shoulder, “You’re not one of those frigging masons, are ya?”

  “Definitely not, no.” At which Fern places her finger at the side of her nose, and winks conspiratorially. “Actually, Fern,” I say, spotting another guest on his way through the hall from the kitchen, “This is the man you really need to thank. Come and take a bow, Liam.”

  “What’s the crack?”

  “Fern here has been going around giving me credit for the police changing tack on the Warkworth Street girls. But I think that one’s down to you.”

  “No, not really,” says Liam. He speaks pleasantly to Fern as she tries to keep her eyes focused on him. “Word came down that one of our colleagues had got the wrong end of the stick, that’s all. Mr Finch asked me if I would help sort it out, so that’s what I did. I’m glad it’s all worked out well for little Edona, eh?”

  “Do you know this man?” says Fern to Liam, as she grabs at my arm again. “This is a man with friends in high places.”

  “I’m off to have some of what’s she’s having,” I say to the guys, on the move to the kitchen. I find Oliver in there, perched on a stool by the bench, scooping out a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. It’s the first time I’ve seen him with a tee-shirt that doesn’t have our station logo on it. Whether lilac is his colour is debatable, but it’s new and clean, or was before he dripped strawberry ice cream on it. I give Fern’s cocktail selection a miss once I notice that there’s still nearly half a bottle of Laphroaig on offer.

  “Can I get you a drink, Ollie?”

  “Yes thank you, Marc,” he says, surprising me. “Can I drink what’s the same in your bottle?”

  “You sure?”

  “What is it?”

  “Malt whisky. It’s called Laphroaig. Only it’s quite strong.”

  “That’s OK. I’ll have that, then.”

  “Fair enough.” I find a spare crystal glass in Chrissie’s top cupboard and rinse it out before pouring as short a nip as I dare without insulting Ollie. “Would you like water with this?”

  “Are you having water in yours, Marc?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t like water in mine neither.”

  I bring both glasses across to Ollie’s stool and hand one to him ceremonially. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” I say, saluting him with mine.

  “He’s looking at you, kid,” Ollie says, twinkling, and we drink off together. I let the whisky linger on my tongue, a smoke signal of peatiness rising to my palate as I watch Oliver. The effect on him is extraordinary. It’s as if the whisky is playing on the inside of his face like a flame-thrower. His eyes redden and prick. When he opens his mouth with a gasp I fully expect to see dragon fire. “Pgghwah!” is what comes out instead.

  “What do you think?” I say, not quite keeping a straight face. His is contorted, his cheeks tweaking at the sides of his mouth, preventing him from saying anything at all for several seconds. When the effect wears off he stares at me through watery eyes, blinks twice.

  “It’s quite strong, isn’t it, Marc, that. What frog’s it called?”

  “Laphroaig. Would you like some more?”

  “I think inside me mouth’s burnt off. I done that one time with extra strong mints. Have you ever sucked extra strong mints, Marc? It’s like them, except it’s a drink.” He hesitates, thinking about this, then adds, “And not really minty, more mediciny.”

  Sam pops her head round the kitchen door. “It’s present time. Everybody’s in the front room.” Oliver follows her through and I do too, after a sneaky refill. The music has been turned down low. Edona is sitting in pride of place, looking happy but a little bashful as the centre of attention for guests standing, cradling their glasses, waiting for something to happen. She’s wearing a long but very simple white cotton dress, tied at the waist with a gol
d cord to match her sandals, like a handmaiden for the Ancient Greeks. A touch more make-up than she’s been used to wearing around Chrissie’s house helps her look just about old enough to be up so late at an adult party. She smiles when she sees me coming through the crowd, and I can’t resist bending for a soft kiss and a squeeze of her hand before I start my speech.

  “Friends, I feel a bit presumptuous standing here when it’s Chrissie who’s the hostess with the mostest,” (cries of ‘get off, then’ ‘better-looking than you’ and ‘well done, Chrissie’ from the guests, smattering of applause) “But I’ve been asked to say a few words before we all say goodbye to Edona who, I have to say, looks absolutely gorgeous tonight.” (‘Hear hear’ and more applause as Edona’s cheeks pinken around her smile.) So far, so predictable, but I’m gaining confidence from the whisky. “As some of you know, Edona has had to endure some hard times, as young as she is, especially over the last few months, and now is not the time to dwell on the past, except to say this.” The guests detect the change of tone and quieten down for me. “From the moment I first saw her, as frail and delicate as she was and is, I could sense a spirit there, a greatness of heart, that would keep Edona going, help her survive.” The room is hushed, reflective. “After all, the first time I saw her she was pelting across a car park in bare feet, trying her damnedest to out-run a BMW.” There’s laughter, but of a different quality than before, enriched with the admiration I want them to feel for Edona, and tinged with British middle-class collective guilt.

  “I’m so grateful to have made a friend of Edona – I trust and believe she’s made me a better person – and I know she’s grateful for the help of the friends she’s made here. Sam and especially Chrissie, who have done so much to make her stay here a pleasant one. Of course, Fern,” (she raises her glass in acknowledgement at the name check) “who’s been tireless in investigating the best possible route for Edona’s secure return home. A couple of people from Save the Children who I know are here tonight – apologies, I have forgotten your names,” (some of the crowd turn to thank the pair standing at the back of the room) “And lately, Liam, the friendliest copper I’ve ever met, who helped us out with a little local difficulty even though he has rather a lot on his plate at the moment.” (‘Top man, Liam.’) “I’m pleased to tell you that, as a result of all your efforts, Edona will be repatriated initially to a shelter in Tirana – I’m assured it’s a lot more comfortable than it sounds – and from there we have every expectation she will be going back as soon as possible to her own village and her own family, in safety. So, on behalf of Edona, thank you all for your help.” Everyone applauds noisily while Edona, radiant, mouths her thankyous. Sam moves towards her, carrying a small parcel, which she holds up to me as a reminder. I raise my hands to try and get a bit of hush before I speak again.

  “Even better news, folks, is that Edona has not only promised to come back and see us as soon as she can, but she also plans to come back and study here, and eventually hopes to find work in this country. With that in mind, and to keep Edona to her word, Sam and I have chosen our gift carefully.”

  Sam places the parcel on Edona’s lap and encourages her to open it. Inside she finds a silver charm bracelet, with a few charms already hanging there, and plenty of space on the chain. Sam has spent days searching out one contemporary and stylish enough to please, and Edona seems genuinely delighted by it. I explain to her. “The bracelet and the charms we’ve chosen for it are for you to remember us, Edona, after you go home. But our promise to you is that every time you visit us we’ll be adding one more charm to your bracelet. We hope you’ll come and see us so often that the chain will be full before very long.”

  “Thank-you,” says Edona simply. “I will.” She smiles affectionately at me, then up at Sam as she bends to give her a kiss. Soon there’s a crowd of people around Edona’s chair and the discarded gift wrappings begin to mount.

  “I still preferred the adoption idea,” I’m saying, sitting at Sam’s feet a little dopily, while guests are starting to drift off from the party.

  “We would never have got approval. Anyway, you’re not allowed to have a crush on your own daughter,” says Sam. “Just kidding,” she adds as I squint up at her, and she leans over to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Besides, we’ve already got another adoptee, practically.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  Sam nods towards the chair Edona was sitting in earlier. It’s occupied now by Oliver, head on one side, eyes closed, his bottom lip quivering slightly with the suggestion of a snore. “Poor lamb,” she says. “I’m going to have to wake him up for his lift.”

  “I’ll take him.”

  “Oh, yeah, ‘course you will.” Sardonic Sam. “You know, I’m sure you’ve drunk that whole bottle of whisky on your own.”

  “Not at all. Ollie had some. Well, I’ll come along for the ride.”

  “There’s no room.”

  “’Course there is, I’ll squeeze in the back.”

  “Oh, best of luck, mate. You’re welcome to it.”

  If there’s one time, and one time only, to be in the back seat of a TT coupé, it’s when you’re drunk enough to find it hilarious, and too drunk to mind the discomfort. I may as well be on a rear window-shelf for all the space I have, lying diagonally with an overspill, my feet dangling dangerously close to Sam’s head as she drives us to Oliver’s place. Keen to get back before Chrissie goes to bed, Sam makes no concessions to my precarious position, nipping along pretty smartly even on the tight bends. It’s alarmingly like the solo ride I took on the waltzer at the fairground as a ten-year-old; having nobody on the ride to prop myself up against, I ended up lying full length on the curved seat, hurtled between exhilaration and panic, praying not to lose my grip on the safety rail as the car jerked one way then another. Just as I did then, I feel now as if I’m in some Buster Keaton movie, but unlike The Great Stone Face at least I can laugh out loud about it, courtesy of Laphroaig.

  The trouble comes at the other end, once Sam pulls up at Kielder Close. Maybe it’s the twisting and turning I have to go through to extricate myself from the back of the car, maybe it’s the strangeness of terra firma under my feet after all that swishing round, like a sailor just back from a long voyage – whatever, as soon as I try and stand up straight at the kerb, I feel distinctly woozy.

  “’Scuse me, I’ll just be... just be one second,” I say to the pair of them, spastically waving them away as I wander up the road in search of a hidey-hole to vomit in. A misguided neighbour on the corner has tried to relieve the sameness of brick and concrete by planting a thick evergreen shrub in a tiny square of garden, bordered by a low wall. I’ll hate myself for this tomorrow – tonight, necessity trumps decorum. I bend over the wall, pressing the bush back with my arm. The stench tells me I’m not the first to find this spot convenient, and it’s enough to prompt my heaving into it.

  When I’ve done, my eyes are watering like Ollie’s were earlier, and I’m dabbing at spittle with my hankie when I see a group of dark shapes further up the cut. Sober, I would have cleared off sharpish, away from trouble; drunk, I stand there foolishly, trying to pick out who’s who. It’s the estate mob. There are five, maybe six of them, congregating like vagabonds for a hand-out around one thick-set guy, obviously better-groomed. Just as I’ve come to the conclusion this must be the muscular sun-bed fan who sold me back my mobile, the guy makes with a few high fives around the group and breaks away, ambling in my general direction, unthreatening.

  I turn and start making my way back to Oliver and Sam, still waiting for me at the end of the cul-de-sac, next to the car. Hang on, no, the car’s just here, on the other side of the road. Sam must have... No, they are with ours – this is another TT coupé, not NIV. Hmm, same colour and... What a coincidence, you wouldn’t have thought anybody round here... Fuck. I look over my shoulder and peer at the guy walking in the same direction as me. No through road for pedestrians. He’s coming back to his car. Not a silver BMW, the police m
ight be looking for that. He’s changed it. Nice car. What sort of car is this? I’m bending down, looking to see if Stefan’s in the driver’s seat. Not there.

  “Hey!”

  Christ, he’s seen me inspecting his car, thinks I’m going to nick it. He’s starting to run. Light from the lamp post reflecting off his shiny black bullet head. Can’t run, he’ll chase me for a thief. Nowhere to go. “It’s all right, mate, just looking.” Backing off. “It’s cool, really.” Maybe he won’t know me. He stops. He’s staring. He knows me. He’s running.

  “Call the police!” I’m shouting at Sam. Fuck, her phone is with the police – evidence. I’m searching through my pockets, can’t find mine. Sam’s running to the house. Ollie’s still standing there, like a dummy. “Go with her, let her in!” He’s still standing there. “Oliver!”

  “Oliver!”

  That shout comes from Emmanuel. Him to me.

  “Oliver!” he yells again, a thunderclap of menace booming down the street. I’m turning at his call. I’m in the middle of the road. He’s in the middle of the road. Who is the fugitive here? He stands like a gunslinger, but it’s a knife he has in his hand. I can’t go back. People in danger. I stand my ground.

  “What good will it do?” I’m howling at him. “What good will it do? Get in your car, why don’t ya? Fuck off out of here. The cops are coming.”

  He’s looking at his car. He realises I’m right. He’s the fugitive, hold on to that. Pile the pressure on.