“Why not?” I said. “He doesn’t know you guys. He’s not going to go to the police and have all this come out. What do you say, Val?”
Valentin was less keen, being a gentle creature with what seemed like a priest’s desire for denial and suffering. But he wouldn’t let his best friends down. After a time, he said what we were doing was “morally right”; apparently it was “good” as Socrates understood “the good.” Surely, if it was good enough for Socrates, it was good enough for me.
My friends were set. The warning would be administered as soon as I gave the word. I waited for Ajita to tell me when she’d be out. I knew it would have to happen in the next few days, before we lost enthusiasm. The event would be straightforward enough if we knew the family’s moves. When Ajita said she and Mustaq would be out, we planned “the surprise” carefully.
We were almost asleep, or near-catatonic, when we heard a car. There was little traffic in that neighbourhood. I turned and looked.
“It’s him,” I whispered.
“Let’s go,” said Wolf. “Calm. Only the business.”
We slipped down in our seats.
Once Ajita’s father was there, everything began to happen quickly. The garage doors opened and he drove in. Now he was unable to see us. We crept out of our car and entered the garage by the side door he would exit from, a few feet from the kitchen.
We were in. I shut the door behind us. Valentin had brought a torch, which he switched on and rested on a bench. There was enough light for us to see our victim. We were standing around him as he got out of his car.
With his open hand, Wolf slapped the father twice on the side of his head, just to let him know we were there. Valentin stepped forward and punched him in the stomach, surprisingly hard.
Meanwhile I whispered fiercely, “Leave her alone, your daughter, never touch her again, she’s your child, you do not have sex with her, do you understand? We will cut your balls off.”
He tried to nod as he fought for breath. He was terrified, and his terror was so great it seemed to make him unaware of what I was saying or what we were doing there.
He did this strange thing. Valentin had knocked him against the car, where he was struggling with something. For a moment, I don’t know why, I thought it might be a gun. Then I grasped that he had taken off his watch, which he gave to me with trembling hands. I slipped it into my pocket.
When I grabbed his lapels in order to elaborate my diatribe at closer quarters, he tried to give me his wallet.
“What do you want of me?” he repeated. “I know you! I’ve seen you before! What’s your name? What are you doing here? Help! Come, police!”
I couldn’t take the wallet because by then I was determined he would stop yelling and hear me properly-I was pulling one of Mother’s kitchen knives out of my jacket. It was intended to scare him into sense. It did scare him.
When he saw it, he started to hyperventilate, gasping so much he couldn’t get any more words out. His hand was clutching my wrist; I had to prise his fingers from me.
He collapsed, shaking and clutching his arm and chest, making dreadful noises, begging for help as he fell to his knees, before toppling over onto his side.
I stepped back. I was ready to kick him in the head when Valentin said “Enough!” and pulled me away.
We picked up the torch and got out.
Before I shut the door, I could hear the father choking and gurgling. Or perhaps I imagined that. I’m sure Wolf said, “It’s done,” and shook my hand. “That dirty bastard has taken it.”
“He learned his lesson,” Valentin said.
Wolf thumped one black leather glove into the other. “We did him. The business.”
We drove away, none of us looking at the others. Not a word said. We were not exhilarated or high, but exhausted and frightened. At least the job was done. “Only the business.”
Wolf and Valentin left for London, dropping me off on the way. I walked for a long time, often in circles and back on myself, stopping at various pubs for a half pint in each. I couldn’t move normally; the different parts of my body seemed to have become disconnected.
At home, I washed the knife in the bathroom sink-there was no good reason for this-dried it, put it back in the drawer and turned to look at Mother, who had come into the small kitchen. Tonight I was glad to see her.
As always in the evening she was wearing, under her dressing gown, a pink bri-nylon nightie, which crackled with static when she got up from watching TV. I didn’t understand it then, how she could sit there, sober, her eyes bright, hour after hour, year after year, utterly absorbed by this passion for the flickering figures in front of her.
Before the nine o’clock news, she liked to eat cheese and pickle on cream crackers. I would, at least three evenings a week, sit in the house with her, listening to music, reading, but ultimately, just keeping her company in her gloom.
Tonight, I became convinced she was looking at me with more attention than usual. I must have seemed wary; perhaps I blushed or my eyes flared.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Coming to sit with you,” I said. “What’s on telly? Can I bring you a cup of tea?”
However unnatural this sounded, I didn’t believe that Mum suspected I’d returned home after beating my girlfriend’s father to the ground. Yet, unsurprisingly, my body kept reminding me something was awry. When I brought Mum the tea, I had to hold on to the cup, saucer and spoon with both hands, for fear of them vibrating.
The knife remained with Mum, of course. She kept it for years; perhaps she still has it.
Sitting there watching the adverts, I could feel the watch in my jeans pocket all that evening. Later, I hid it in my bedroom. After a few months, I began to take it out and look at it, thinking over what had happened. I began to wear it in the house occasionally, telling Mum I’d liked the look of it and had swapped it for some records. I wore it outside a few times. I changed the strap. I took it with me to my new digs, hating it and needing it at the same time.
The morning after the attack I didn’t know what to do. I had been walking about the house since five. At nine I went into the garden. At last I thought I’d go to college and see if Valentin was there.
I was leaving the house; the phone rang; I ran to pick it up.
“Dad is dead,” Ajita said. “I’m at the hospital.”
“Who killed him?” I said.
“The strikers. They came to the house when we were away and scared him to death. His heart was weak already, he was having tests.”
There was a pause. I think I was expecting some kind of pleasure, or relief, in her voice. Hadn’t I done her a favour?
“He looked,” she said, “when Mustaq and I found him, not at all peaceful, as they say the dead do. But anguished, contorted, frightened, with bruises on his head and blood coming out of his nose. Why would anyone do that to a man?”
“Oh God,” I said.
“I’m going to wail now.” She was already sobbing. “It’ll be horrible, you don’t want to hear it. I’ll ring you again,” she said, putting the phone down.
I rang the boardinghouse and told Wolf and Valentin that the man was dead. I said nothing else, not wanting to give anything away on the phone. I would be in touch later.
The next time Ajita called, that evening, it was to say her father had been murdered by people from the trade union who had discovered his address and attacked him. She told me two people had been arrested. She called them “racists,” adding, “Who else would do such a thing?”
“Burglars?”
“But nothing was stolen. His wallet was there on the floor, undisturbed.”
I had no way of knowing whether Wolf and Valentin had been arrested. I rang their place several times, but there was either no reply or the landlady said they were out. When I called round, she said they’d left. “Good riddance too. They owe me money.”