A Traitor to Memory

“She didn't give you a choice once she lied to me 'bout where she was when that woman was hit. You either went along for the ride and put yourself in danger—’long with your boy—or you told the truth. If she wasn't here, then she was somewhere and f'r all anyone knew about it, that somewhere could've been up in West Hampstead. You couldn't stand by that, keep your mug shut, and take another fall.”


“Yeah. Well, Katja wasn't up in West Hampstead, was she? And now we know where she was and why, we c'n both rest easy. I won't be getting into trouble with the cops, I won't be losing Dan into care, and you won't be tossing round in your bed nights, wond'ring how the hell you're goin' t' stick something onto Katja Wolff when she never thought once of doing it.”

Nkata found it hard to digest that Yasmin would still defend Katja despite Katja's betrayal of her. But he made himself think before he replied, and he saw that there was sense in what the woman was doing. He was still the enemy in Yasmin Edwards' eyes. Not only was he a copper, which would always put them at odds with each other, he was also the person who'd forced her to see that she was living within a charade, one party to a relationship that existed only in lieu of another, one that was of longer standing to Katja, more desired, and just out of reach.

He said, “No. I wouldn't be tossing in bed 'cause of that.”

“Like I say,” was her contemptuous reply.

“What I mean,” he said, “is I'd still be tossing. But not over that.”

“Whatever,” she said. She held the remote at the television again. “That all you come to say? That I did the right thing and be happy, Madam, 'cause you're safe from being called an accessory to something someone never did?”

“No,” he said. “That's not all I come to say.”

“Yeah? Then what else?”

He didn't really know. He wanted to tell her that he'd had to come because his motives in forcing her hand had been mixed from the first. But in saying that, he'd be saying the obvious and telling her what she already knew. And he was more than acutely aware that she'd long ago realised that the motives of every man who looked at her, spoke to her, asked something of her—lithe and warm and decidedly alive—would always be mixed. And he was also more than acutely aware that he didn't want to be counted among those other men.

So he said, “Your boy's on my mind, Missus Edwards.”

“Then take him off of your mind.”

“Can't,” he said, and when she would have made a retort, he went on with, “It's like this. He's got the look of a winner, you know, if he follows a course. But lots out there c'n get in his way.”

“You think I don't know it?”

“Didn't say that,” he said. “But whether you like me or hate me, I c'n be his friend. I'd like to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be somebody to your boy. He likes me. You c'n see that yourself. I take him out and about now and then, he gets a chance to mix it up with someone who's playing it straight. With a man who's playing it straight, Missus Edwards,” he hastened to add. “A boy his age? He needs that pretty bad.”

“Why? You had it yourself, you saying?”

“I had it, yeah. Like to pass it along.”

She snorted. “Save it for your own kids, man.”

“When I have them, sure. I'll pass it to them. In the meanwhile …” He sighed. “It's this: I like him, Missus Edwards. When I got the free time, I'd like to spend it with him.”

“Doing what?”

“Don't know.”

“He doesn't need you.”

“Not saying he needs me,” Nkata told her. “But he needs someone. A man. You c'n see it. And the way I'm thinking—”

“I don't care what you're thinking.” She pressed the button and the sound came on. She raised it a notch lest he miss the message.

He looked in the direction of the bedrooms, wondering if the boy would wake up, would walk into the sitting room, would show by his smile of welcome that everything Winston Nkata was saying was true. But the increase in volume didn't penetrate the closed door, or if it did, to Daniel Edwards it was just another sound in the night.

Nkata said, “You got my card still?”

Yasmin didn't reply, her eyes fastened on the television screen.

Nkata took out another and set it on the coffee table in front of her. “You ring me if you change your mind,” he said. “Or you c'n page me. Anytime. It's okay.”

She made no reply, so he left the flat. He closed the door quietly, gently, behind him.

He was below in the car park, crossing its puddle-strewn expanse to reach the street, before he realised that he'd forgotten his promise to himself to stop at Mr. Houghton's flat, show his warrant card, and apologise for the ruse that had gained him admittance. He turned back to do so and looked up at the building.

Yasmin Edwards, he saw, was standing at her window. She was watching him. And she was holding in her hands something he very much wanted to believe was the card he'd given her.

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