A Traitor to Memory

At the back of the shop, Katja raised her head. But for some reason, rather than smile a greeting immediately, she looked beyond Yasmin to the door. And then she looked back at Yasmin and smiled.

It was the sort of thing anyone might have done, the sort of thing Yasmin once wouldn't have noticed. But now she found that she was acutely attuned to everything about Katja's behaviour. There were meanings everywhere; there were meanings within meanings. And that was down to that filthy detective.

She said to Katja, “Forgot to ask about your tea this morning,” with a wary glance at Mrs. Crushley.

Mrs. Crushley snorted, saying, “Asking her about her tea, is it? In my day we ate wha' was put on our plates with no one out there taking requests.”

Katja approached. Yasmin saw that she was soaked through with sweat. Her azure blouse clung to her torso like hunger. Her hair lay limply against her skull. But she'd never looked like this before—used up and bedraggled—at the end of a day since working at the laundry, and seeing her so now when the day was not even half over fired all of Yasmin's suspicions once again. If she never came home looking such a mess, Yasmin reasoned, she had to be going somewhere else before returning to the Doddington estate.

She'd come to the laundry just to check up on Katja, to make sure she hadn't bunked off and put herself in a bad place with her parole officer. But like most people who tell themselves they're merely sating their curiosity or doing something for someone else's benefit, Yasmin received more information than she wanted.

She said, “Wha' about it, then?” to Katja, her lips offering a smile that felt like a contortion. “Got any thoughts? I could do us lamb with couscous, if you like. That stew thing, remember?”

Katja nodded. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve and used her cuff against her upper lip. She said, “Yes. This is good. Lamb is good, Yas. Thank you.”

And they stood there after that, perfectly mute. They exchanged a look as Mrs. Crushley watched them both over her half-moon glasses. She said, “Go' the information you 'as wanting, Missie Fancy Hairdo, I believe. Then best take your leave.”

Yasmin pressed her lips together to keep herself from making a choice between saying, “Where? Who?” to Katja or “Shit yourself, white cunt” to Mrs. Crushley. Katja spoke instead. She said quietly, “I must get back to work, Yas. See you tonight?”

“Yeah. All right,” Yasmin replied, and she left without asking Katja what time.

What time was the ultimate trap she could have set, the trap that went beyond having a look at Katja's appearance. With Mrs. Crushley sitting there, knowing what hour Katja got off work, it would have been easy to ask exactly when Katja would return from the laundry that evening and to watch for Mrs. Crushley's expression if the time didn't match up with Katja's hours of employment. But Yasmin didn't want to give the nasty sow the pleasure of drawing an inference of any kind about her relationship with Katja, so she went on her way and drove to Wandsworth.

Now she stood on the street corner in the frigid wind. She examined the neighbourhood, and she set it down next to Doddington Grove Estate, which did not gain from the comparison. The street was clean, like it'd been swept. The pavement was clear of debris and fallen leaves. There were no stains from dog urine on the lampposts and no piles of dog shit in the gutters. The houses were free of graffiti and displayed white curtains in the windows. No laundry hung dispiritedly from balconies, because there were no balconies: just a long row of terraced houses all well taken care of by their inhabitants.

Someone could be happy here, Yasmin thought. Someone could make a special life here. She began to walk cautiously down the pavement. No one was about, but she still felt watched. She adjusted the button at the top of her jacket and pulled out a scarf to cover her hair. She knew it was a stupid thing to do. She knew it marked her: scared, less than, and worried about. But she did it anyway because she wanted to feel safe, at ease, and confident here, and she was willing to try anything to get that way.

When she reached Number Fifty-five, she hesitated at the gate. She wondered at this final moment if she could really go through with it and she asked herself if she really wanted to know. She cursed the black man who'd brought her to this moment, loathing not only him but herself: him for passing her the information in the first place, herself for making something out of it.

But she had to know. She had too many questions that a simple knock on the door might answer. She couldn't leave until she'd confronted the fears that she'd too long been trying to ignore.