Apart from the whole thing about Dennis Gimball being murdered, and the news breaking on Twitter midway through, the evening at the library had gone passably well. The answer he’d given on the likely impact of Brexit on the local hospitality industry would, under other circumstances, have caused chatter; as it was, his talk had been eclipsed, and all attention drawn like iron filings to Twitter’s magnet. Utter confusion. As usual with social media, rumour had the inside lane, and by the time official confirmation came through – death; cause still unknown – it had been definitively stated by observers as far away as Texas that Gimball had been attacked by burkha-clad suicide bombers. But facts could wait. The immediate aftermath was a deliciously stunned sense of news happening; of the dark heart of political conspiracy being exposed once more.
What Jaffrey needed to know was where Tyson was; what his bagman had done.
He’d escaped as soon as possible – easy to claim he was needed elsewhere – but waited until he’d reached home before calling.
‘Were you there?’
‘I’m in the car, boss.’
‘I appreciate that you’re in the car, Tyson.’ He could hear the usual ambient noise: the humming of the engine; the swishing of traffic. ‘That’s not what I asked you. Were you there?’
‘… Was I where, boss?’
There was something he’d noticed about youngsters who’d lived on the criminal margins; who’d dipped a toe – both feet, sometimes – in a lifestyle which prided itself on disregarding the civilised norms, and it was this: they were incredibly fucking childish. They thought widening their eyes proof of innocence.
‘Come to the house, Tyson. When you’re back.’
‘I thought maybe in the morning, boss?’
‘No, Tyson. Tonight.’
So he’d waited in the dark; a gradually strengthening sequence of gin and tonics for sustenance. Gins and tonics? Gins and tonic, he settled on. The gin element was well past plural; the tonic still coming from the same half-bottle. He was a bad Muslim, he knew, but there were limits to how strong one could be, how good.
Earlier, he had spoken to his mother. She had wanted to know what she always wanted to know: how many had been in attendance, what questions had been asked, whether anyone mentioned Karim. Always that last question, and still Zafar didn’t know why, precisely. Was she worried his younger brother, the Syrian ‘martyr’, had forever scuttled Zafar’s political career? Or did she just want to know he wasn’t forgotten? Sometimes Zafar wanted to tell her that his own public life, far from being hampered by his brother, had been made by him; his own awakening germinated by the news of Karim’s death. It was true that there were those for whom his sibling connection would ever bar him from political credibility, and sections of the media which would fan those flames every chance they got. But the deeper truth was, if not for Karim’s wasted life, Zafar would never have entered the public arena. As it was, he felt the need to eradicate the stain left by his brother’s unwise choices – and prove, too, that being Muslim did not mean being an enemy in his own country. It was shameful that there was a need to prove such things, but that was how the world spun.
But he hadn’t known how long-lasting the tremors of one Hellfire missile could be; how they would continue to churn the ground beneath his feet so many miles and years away from their detonation point.
Tyson arrived at last; late enough that it was clear he’d been dragging his wheels. Zafar poured him a coke and sat him on the sofa. An interviewing arrangement, not dissimilar from the one he’d used when he’d first met Tyson Bowman, and seen in him a young man worth saving. There were many who wouldn’t have looked past the tattoo.
‘Did you speak to Mr Gimball?’
‘… Kind of.’
‘Kind of yes? Or kind of no?’
Tyson was frightened. That was something else it was important to remember about the young: they were often frightened, because there was always the chance they’d be sucked down into an abyss they’d only gradually become aware of. And they always tried to hide this fear, but it never went away.
‘It’s all right, Tyson,’ he said. ‘Whatever happened, we can fix it.’ This was a lie. ‘But I need to know what it is I have to fix.’
He’d become the shining light in these youngsters’ lives: the only one to show faith, offer support, without demanding their souls in return. But this meant a lot of them thought him capable of any manner of impossibles, including fixing things that couldn’t be mended.
‘I wanted you there to observe,’ he reminded Tyson now, hating himself for doing so; hating that he was making sure his own essential innocence was part of Tyson’s story. But he’d started, so he’d finish. ‘To talk to him if the opportunity arose, but not to force the issue.’
‘Didn’t force the issue, boss.’
‘I just wanted to know what he planned to say.’
