The air smelt of cassava leaf, palm oil and fried fish – I wondered how many people she was catering for.
‘So where’s Dad?’ I asked, because my mum never leaves my dad on his own overnight. He might be in his seventies but my mum still remembers that mad bad jazzman she married – and what that led to vis-à-vis addiction and self-neglect.
‘E dae na di Folly,’ she said in Krio. ‘Thomas and Molly dae watch am for me.’
‘You can’t just dump Dad on my boss,’ I said, but of course she could. Mum was a world-class exponent of the it’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission school of interpersonal relations. Not that she ever begged forgiveness, either.
‘E nor dae tay,’ she said, and then banged her ladle on the edge of one of the bubbling pots.
One of the foxes came running in and skidded to a halt in front of her, claws skittering on the tiles.
‘Tell Abigail to lay the table,’ said my mum.
‘Yes, boss,’ said the fox and, turning, scampered out.
My mum turned back to me.
‘You dae hep me for cook?’ she asked. ‘No? Then why don’t you go and see what Max has done in the garden – he’s very proud.’
Apart from anything else, Maksim had laid the groundwork for an occupying army. Half a dozen pop tents had been pitched next to the patio, their nylon flysheets glistening in the drizzle.
Beyond them, I found the man himself surveying his handiwork.
At least the JCB had been sent back to the rental agency – assuming Maksim hadn’t just ‘borrowed’ it off a construction site. Maksim had been a professional criminal in both Russia and London, and he had the tattoos to prove it. Occasionally he forgot that he’d given all that up in favour of being Beverley’s Mr Fixit.
‘It was quite an easy job,’ he said. ‘You dig hole, pour in floor, concrete blocks for the walls and render on top. It should have taken longer because of drying but Beverley did her miracle thing and speeded it up. Then I put in the fittings, the pump, the drain and finally paint. What do you think?’
I thought it looked more like a slipway than a pool – although it was painted a nice sky blue. It ran twenty metres – half the length of the garden – and was six metres wide, not counting the flagstone border path. There were white Perspex dome lights fitted along the sides and textured navy non-slip tiles along the border. At the end nearest the house it had a gradual slope like a kid’s pool, and the far end was open to the river. As a result, the water in the pool was full of algae, twigs and other unidentifiable bits of urban river debris.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Maksim. ‘We take care of that when the time come.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We block off the end,’ said Maksim, ‘build sauna, and next time it snows we can have a proper swimming party.’
I was almost certain he was joking about the winter swimming parties, but the sauna sounded like a good idea.
‘Where is Bev?’ I asked. Maksim always knew.
‘She’s bringing her sisters.’ Even as he said it, spring arrived – sort of.
It had been late evening when I walked out of the kitchen, and under the low clouds it darkened quickly until the garden was lit only by the patio lamps and the muted glow of the underwater pool lights.
Then a very localised dawn broke at the point where the pool met the river. Pale sunlight filtered through deep water, as if the sun was coming up somewhere under Beverley Brook.
It only lasted a moment, and I wasn’t even sure if it had been real light made from real photons, or some artefact my brain had conjured up in response to a magical stimulus. Two small shapes came shooting like seals up the pool towards us, slowing only when they reached the shallow end. Two black girls in expensive pink and yellow neoprene wetsuits broke the surface and came up the incline towards us. The youngest, Brent, who was seven, leapt into Maksim’s arms. I was glad to see that even he staggered under the momentum.
‘Uncle Max!’ she yelled. ‘Are we sleeping out?’
The other girl, Nicky – a too sensible twelve to show enthusiasm – gave me a wave and walked sedately out to join us. Behind her came Beverley in her specially adapted wetsuit. I stepped forwards to help her out – chill water sloshing into my shoes. She kissed me; her lips were cool from the water. But she refused a hug.
‘Your clothes,’ she said. ‘You idiot.’
She handed me a yellow waterproof holdall to carry back to the house. We walked hand in hand past where Maksim was showing Brent her pop tent while Nicky followed on, asking about supper.
What with Nicky, Brent, Abigail, Maksim, various hangers-on and my mum, we’d had to lay the extra gateleg table and use a couple of folding garden chairs to get everyone seated. Not that Mum ever sat down for more than five minutes – instead, she bustled around dishing out rice and soup and making sure the less habituated, like Maksim, ate from the less spicy pot. This, I might add, means ‘less spicy’ by West African standards, so the big man’s face went an interesting red colour at one point.
The sacrifices people will make for their religion, I thought, and felt a twist in my stomach. It must have shown on my face because I caught Mum giving me a strange look.
I caught her looking at me again when we were clearing up.
I don’t like overloading the dishwasher, so I was doing the big pots and crockery by hand when I turned to grab the next dish and found Mum staring at me. This is unusual. Growing up, most of my interactions with my mum were done in the teeth of some other distraction – football, cooking, cleaning, family gossip, EastEnders … my dad. I’m not used to getting the full force of her regard. It was unsettling.
‘Why are you upset?’ she said. ‘Is this not a beautiful home? Is Beverley not a beautiful woman? Are you not about to be a father?’
‘What makes you think I’m upset?’ I asked, but even as I said it I realised I was.
‘Because you had that face when you were a boy,’ said Mum.
‘Well, that’s hardly surprising, is it?’ I said. ‘It’s my face. I only got the one.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘So what is the problem, hey? Is it this case? Or this?’ She waved her hand to encompass a house full of relatives, foxes and shouting.
‘I think I might have to kill someone,’ I said.
Mum took an involuntary step backwards and her hand flew to her mouth.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No – please say this is not true. God nor wan mek you kill porsin. You did not become a policeman to kill.’ She stepped closer to me again and stared up at me. ‘Who is this someone?’
‘There’s a woman who believes herself to be an angel of death,’ I said. ‘She’s killed two already, and she has five more on her list.’
‘Is she a witch?’ asked Mum, who has pretty culturally specific notions about right and wrong.
‘No,’ I said. ‘She was made this way by wicked men. And I don’t think I can stop her without killing her.’
‘Let someone else do it,’ said Mum. ‘Let Thomas kill this woman. What would one more killing be in his life?’
The last straw, maybe, I thought, but Nightingale was not Mum’s concern.
‘It doesn’t matter who pulls the trigger,’ I said. ‘It will be my responsibility either way.’
Mum shook her head.
‘You must find another way,’ she said.
‘If I don’t stop her, she will kill again.’
Mum picked up the mop and bucket and headed for the back door.