“If we try to leave the country together the people who work for your father will know.” At his puzzled look: “MI5. They listen in on my phone calls, they monitor my messages, my Internet history. You think they’ll think it’s innocent if I board a plane to Bali with the home secretary’s son?”
It was a mark of his love for her that he felt nothing other than protective about the Muslim paranoia she’d revealed the previous day. Gently he said, “My love, I promise you MI5 isn’t watching you because of your father.”
“I know. They’re watching me because of my brother. Ever since he went to Syria, to Raqqa, last year.”
“I don’t understand,” he said automatically.
“Yes you do.”
He rubbed at the cherry mark on his leg. It was something to do while his brain sat inert in his skull, offering him nothing that would make this explicable.
“He’s fighting there?”
“Parvaiz, fighting? God, no! He’s with their media unit.”
Their. The black-and-white flag, the British-accented men who stood beneath it and sliced men’s heads off their shoulders. And the media unit, filming it all.
He stood up, walked to the edge of the roof. As far from her as it was possible to go. In his life he’d never known anything like this feeling—rage? fear? What is it, make it stop. He kicked out, knocked over the kumquat tree. Shoved with his hands, toppled the cactus plant. The kumquat fell straight, flower pot shattering as it hit the ground; for an instant the root-entangled soil held its shape, then the plant leaned forward and collapsed, orange fruit rolling around the garden patio. The cactus, by contrast, wheeled in the air, upturning itself as it fell, never before so anthropomorphized as with arms outstretched in a headfirst plummet, its neck snapping in two on impact.
He became aware of everyone in the communal garden looking up to see the madman on the terrace, the woman in a dressing gown stepping forward to take him by the hand and pull him toward the window. He allowed himself to be led, but once indoors he shook himself free of her, strode into the kitchen area, and opened a bottle of beer, which he downed in two long drafts, maintaining eye contact with her the whole while.
“Fight like a man, not a boy,” she said.
“That the kind of advice that gets passed down from father to son in your family?”
The words hung horribly in the beer-stenched air. He put down the bottle and hunched onto a stool, looking at the cherry stains on his hands. Through the open window he could hear the raised voice that was his neighbor coming outside to see the carnage on his patio. Aneeka sat down on the stool facing him, the long room with its tasteful decorations extending behind her, its track lighting in the ceiling, its expensive art. All of it his mother’s handiwork. Every part fitting seamlessly together except this woman whom he’d allowed in.
“He wants to come back home,” she said.
“Well, he can fuck off and stay in the desert he chose, can’t he?”
“Please, Eamonn.”
“Please, what? Oh, god.” His thumb bit into the corrugated edge of the bottle cap, deep enough to draw blood. “Why did you get into the tube with the home secretary’s son that day?”
She took his hand and placed his thumb in her mouth, drawing his blood into her. He pulled away with a No.
“I got into the tube because I thought you were beautiful.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He slammed his hand on the kitchen counter, making the fruit bowl jump, making Aneeka jump.
In a voice so low he could barely hear it she said, “I got into the tube because I thought the home secretary’s son could help my brother come home and avoid charges.”
No pain had ever felt quite like this. “That’s what this has all been about?”
“No!” She tried to take his hand again, and this time he physically pushed her away from him. “I know you don’t have reason to believe me, but the truth is . . . the truth is . . .”
“Give me enough respect to avoid the ‘From the first time we kissed I fell in love with you’ line. Do that much for me.”
“You were hope,” she said simply. “The world was dark and then there you were, blazing with light. How can anyone fail to love hope?”
“A love that’s entirely contingent on what hope can do for your brother.”
“I couldn’t have done this, for all these weeks, if my feelings for you weren’t real. You’ll have to choose whether you believe that or not. No words I say here will convince you.”
“Get out.”
She went, without another word. He could hear her in their—his—bedroom, and could imagine too clearly her body as she unbelted the bathrobe and bent to open her drawer of silky underwear. He put on a shirt, walked downstairs with a dust pan and brush, and rapped on his neighbors’ door. He had accidentally knocked over the plants, he said to Mrs. Rahimi, surprised to hear how ordinary his voice sounded, and yes, it was fortunate he hadn’t fallen himself, and yes, she had warned him that he needed to build a proper terrace or this kind of accident could occur. Despite her protestations he insisted on helping her unprotesting husband clear up the mess on the patio. Even with his vigorous, concentrated sweeping it took longer than he expected, shards of pottery and clumps of soil everywhere. The kumquat plant was recoverable, Mr. Rahimi said, but the cactus, poor thing, was for the compost. There followed a conversation about the absurd smallness of the compost bin the council had provided, which Eamonn threw himself into with great verve. They moved on to kumquats after that—there was a Persian tangerine stew that might work very well with kumquats, Mrs. Rahimi said. Eamonn told her there was an old Notting Hill saying, “If you drop a tree on your neighbor’s patio, all the fruit it ever bears is theirs by right—particularly if that stops them from suing you.” Even Mr. Rahimi was won over by that, and Eamonn remembered how easy it was to be a social being, well liked, surrounded by uncomplicatedness.
Eventually Mr. Rahimi said he was returning to watch the test match, and would Eamonn care to join him. Eamonn said he would. He still hadn’t heard the sounds telling him she’d left the flat.
“When I first arrived in England as a student I decided I had to understand cricket in order to come to grips with the subtlety of English character,” Mr. Rahimi said, ushering Eamonn into the TV room. Holding a finger to his lips he withdrew two bottles of beer from a mini fridge, and handed one to Eamonn. “Then I encountered the figure of Ian Botham and discovered that the English aren’t nearly as subtle as they want the world to believe. You Pakistanis, on the other hand, with your leg glances and your googlies.”