The silence only lasted a moment but it seemed to expand, as time always did whenever Kulwinder encountered Tarampal. She knew it would be easier to tell Tarampal the truth: I’ve given up. I can’t prove anything – the police and the lawyers told me as much. Now I can’t even go for walks without receiving a threatening phone call afterwards. But Kulwinder couldn’t allow it. Every now and then she opened her Barclays diary, relived the details, allowing the hope to build that she had simply missed something, some way yet to recover the past.
She still refused to believe what the police had told her. It couldn’t be so simple. This was her Maya! Just one week before she died, Maya had been promoted at work. She had bought tickets to a concert. She had probably reserved books at the library, made plans with friends, found a recipe she was keen to try. The last time Kulwinder saw her, Maya had been playing with the neighbour’s dog that had wandered over to her driveway. He nearly toppled her when he tried to lick her face and Kulwinder had shouted in fright but Maya thought it was hilarious and buried her face in the dog’s fur, telling him what a good boy he was. How could anybody believe she would do such a ghastly thing? And why was Kulwinder getting these threats if Maya’s death had been so straightforward? But the police had said no foul play; they had testimonials confirming that Maya had been very upset and guilty and it’s understandable to want more answers when you’re grieving, the lawyer had said before warning her it would take many billable hours to build a case. As the inevitable doubts and frustrations crept into her mind, Kulwinder remembered this: God had witnessed it all. Sarab always said that this was what mattered in the end.
‘Thank you, Tarampal, but these days I prefer the company of my husband,’ Kulwinder said. ‘Have a good night.’ God sees everything, she thought. It gave her enough strength to walk away from Tarampal. Then, when she got home, she buried her face in a couch cushion and sobbed into it while Sarab watched, the colour draining from his cheeks.
The pipe gurgled so loudly it sounded like a motor. Before leaving for her shift, Nikki added it to a growing list of repair requests, which included a mysterious damp bulge in the ceiling and a wireless internet connection so weak that it only worked if she held her laptop over the sink. The most recent items were squeezed at the bottom of the page in minuscule handwriting. Nikki had promised herself to tell Sam O’Reilly about these problems once she ran out of space, but after their awkward encounter last year, she avoided requesting anything of him.
It had started innocently enough, with Nikki requesting some overtime hours. Sam asked if she was saving up for a holiday. ‘Mary Poppins musical tickets,’ Nikki had said. Mary Poppins had been her favourite childhood movie, and, aged seven, she had once followed a woman out of the shops because she was carrying a large umbrella and wearing a full skirt. ‘I was convinced she would sail into the air and land in one of the chimneys. I wanted to give her directions to our house.’
Sam’s eyes had sparkled with amusement. His face, normally lined with weariness, made him look a decade younger when he smiled. Nikki teasingly told him so. Garry, one of the Russian kitchen workers had been passing by. His eyes darted back and forth between Sam and Nikki and, later, there were snickers between him and the other kitchen hand, Viktor. The next day, when Nikki arrived at work, Sam presented her with two tickets to Mary Poppins. ‘If you’d like to go with me on Friday,’ he said.
Nikki stared at the tickets, blushing furiously. Had he and the other men thought she was flirting? Asking for overtime and mentioning the musical hadn’t been intended hints but Sam had obviously taken them as such. ‘I can’t accept these,’ she managed to say. ‘I don’t think it would be appropriate.’
Sam had understood right away. His lips, pulled to a near grimace from the strain of his gesture, broke into a big grin. ‘Oh, of course,’ he said, hiding his embarrassment in a sudden flurry of activity. He ran his hands through his hair and began sorting out the glasses behind the counter. Garry and Viktor began making remarks in Russian every time Nikki was around. Sanja, a fellow barmaid, confirmed the remarks were about Nikki offering sexual favours in exchange for training and quick promotion. How depressing, Nikki thought – if she was to be accused of sleeping her way up a professional ladder, she would have hoped that bartending at a crumbling Shepherd’s Bush pub was not its highest rung.
Nikki folded up her list and put it away. After travelling to Southall twice a week, she was grateful for the thirty-second commute down the stairs from her flat to O’Reilly’s. Besides, they always had a good turnout for Trivia Night so she knew it would be a busy and tiring shift. In the pub, Nikki slipped past a group of men crowded near the television and waved at a few regulars. Sanja was vigorously wiping down a table in her usual punishing way. Another barmaid, Grace, often asked after Nikki’s mum as if they were old friends. Grace was easily moved by contestants’ backstories on Britain’s Got Talent and had once arrived to work puffy-faced and sleep-deprived because the little boy magician who had been bullied didn’t win.
‘Nikki!’ Grace called from across the pub. ‘How’s your mum, luv?’
‘She’s well,’ Nikki said.
‘Is she keeping warm?’
Mum’s temperature moderation was of utmost importance to Grace for some reason. Grace looked at her expectantly. ‘She’s got good insulation at home,’ Nikki assured Grace.
‘Bet it’s not as warm as the old village in Bangladesh though,’ Steve with the Racist Grandfather called out.
Nikki wished she had a clever comeback but all she said in reply was, ‘I was born in England, you fuckwit.’ Steve grinned as if she’d just paid him a compliment.
It was a relief to see Olive weaving her way through the tables. Nikki poured Olive a beer and called out, ‘I have a present for you.’ She drew a folder from her bag.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Olive asked.
‘Yes,’ Nikki said. ‘This one’s written in English.’ It was Sheena Kaur’s tale.
The Coco Palm Resort Hotel