A Traitor to Memory

She fetched Mrs. Newland's wig from the back of the shop and brought it out on its Styrofoam stand. Ashaki said, “That doesn't look like—”

Yasmin interrupted. “It's a new one. I think she's going t' like the style. You ask if. She doesn't, you bring it back and we'll do the original for her. Right?”

Ashaki's face gleamed with pleasure. “That's real nice of you, Mrs. Edwards,” she said as she scooped the wig stand under her arm. “Thanks. Mum'll have a surprise this way.”

She was out in the street, with a bob of her head towards the constable, before Yasmin could do anything to prolong the conversation. When the door shut behind her, Yasmin looked at the man. She found that she couldn't remember his name, which was a delight to her.

She looked round for further employment in the shop, the better to continue ignoring him. Perhaps it was time to catalogue any supplies she now needed in her make-up case after having worked on those six women earlier. She brought the case out again, flipped the catches open, and began sorting through lotions, brushes, sponges, eye colour, lip colour, foundation, blushers, mascaras, and pencils. She laid each item on the counter.

The constable said, “Could I have a word, Missus Edwards?”

“You had a word last night. More 'an one, as I recall. And who are you, anyway?”

“Metropolitan police.”

“I mean your name. I don't know your name.”

He told her. She found that she was irritated by it. A surname that spoke of his roots was fine. But that Christian name—Winston—showed such a groveling wish to be English. It was worse than Colin or Nigel or Giles. What were his parents thinking of, naming him Winston like he was going to be a politician or something? Stupid, that was. Stupid, he was.

She said, “I'm working, as I expect you c'n see. I got another appointment coming in in”—she made a pretence of looking at her diary, which was, thankfully, out of his range of vision—“ten minutes. What d'you want, then? Make it quick.”

He was big, she noticed. He'd looked big last night, both in the lift and in the flat. But somehow he looked even bigger today in the shop, perhaps because she was alone with him, with no Daniel there to offer a distraction. He seemed to fill the place, all broad shoulders and long-fingered hands and a face that looked friendly—pretended to be friendly because that's what they all did—even with that scar on his cheek.

“Like I said, a word, Missus Edwards.” His voice was scrupulously polite. He kept his distance, the shop counter between them. But instead of going on with the word he wanted, he said, “Real nice that a new business opened up on a street like this. Always sad, you ask me, to see shop fronts boarded up. It's good to have a business go in, 'stead of some bloke buying up all the properties, bringing in a demolition crew, and putting up a Tesco's or something like.”

She gave a mild snort. “Rent's cheap when you're willing to set up shop in a rubbish tip,” she said, as if it meant nothing to her that she'd managed to actually achieve something she'd only dreamed of during her years in prison.

Nkata half-smiled. “I 'xpect that's the truth. But the neighbours must feel it a blessing. Gives them hope. What sort of work you do in here, then?”

It was more than obvious what sort of work she did. There were wigs on Styrofoam heads along one wall and a work room in the back where she styled them. He could see both the wigs and the work room from where he stood, so his question was maddening. It was such a blatant attempt to be friendly where friendliness between herself and someone like him was not only impossible but dangerous. Thus, she offered him her scorn, saying, “What you doing a plod?” with a contemptuous glance that took him in from head to toe.

He shrugged. “It's a living.”

“At brothers' expense.”

“Only if that's how it plays out.”

He sounded as if he'd resolved the matter of possibly having to arrest one of his own a long time ago. That angered her so she jerked her head at his face, saying, “Where'd you get that, then?” as if the cicatrix that formed a curve on his cheek was his just reward for abandoning his people.

“Knife fight,” he said. “Met some blokes on the 'llotments in Windmill Gardens when I was fifteen and full of myself. I was lucky.”

“And I s'pose the other bloke wasn't?”

He fingered the scar as if trying to remember. He said, “Depends on how you think luck works.”