Shortly after that, I take my leave.
Ultimately, it’s not my call, but I hope we won’t be charging Abdi with anything, and I shall be arguing strongly against it unless there’s clear evidence to support it. A criminal charge wouldn’t be a just outcome for a kid who got sucked into somebody else’s world so very deeply, and who’s dealing with the fact that his own world is a far more difficult and complicated place than he thought it was, by miles.
When I get home, I have a quick phone call with Fraser. When she pulled Abdi from the scene in St. Werburgh’s, she fell badly and broke her wrist. She’s home and in a cast. I hear opera playing in the background. She lets me know that she’s pleased with the outcome of the case and pleased with my work, but also that she’s got a new understanding of painkiller addiction.
“Off my bloody head, Jim, that’s how I feel. There’s no way I can be on these while I’m working. Anyway, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s still the weekend and my husband is cooking me a roast that I’d like to go and partake of if you don’t mind.”
Regardless of the good outcome of my first case back, it occurs to me that next week’s unlikely to be much fun if Fraser’s working with a broken wrist and no painkillers. No matter—I’m fired up for whatever the week brings.
In the meantime, there are a lot of hours to get through before tomorrow. I feel my adrenaline crashing. I want to talk to somebody else about the case, but there’s nobody here.
I call Woodley. It goes to voice mail, and I leave him a message congratulating him on his work on the case. “It was good to work with you again,” I tell him. It’s definitely easier to say in a message than in person.
Perhaps it’s a streak of masochism that makes my finger hover over Emma’s name on my contact list, but I decide that it would be a very bad idea to call her. I don’t even know what I’d say.
I put my work clothes on to wash.
I turn on the TV and turn it off again.
I notice the message light flashing on my landline answering machine. I press play.
“Hi, Jim. It’s Francesca Manelli. Dr. Manelli. I noticed you called on Friday evening and hung up. I wondered if you’re okay. I’m in the office for a few hours today if you want to call back. I’m glad you called. I’m always here if you want to talk.” She leaves me her mobile number before saying goodbye.
I replay the message and note the time stamp. She left it yesterday. I wonder if I’m imagining that her tone sounds warmer than it perhaps should if she was being strictly professional. I replay it again. I don’t think I am imagining it, and I don’t think it’s usual for therapists to give clients their mobile phone numbers.
I don’t call back right away, but I think I might, maybe next week.
I relax a little bit, but I still don’t know what to do with myself.
Late on Sunday afternoon, as afternoon fades into evening, I’m back outside, perched on my parapet under a patchy sky, smoking a cigarette and watching the weekend walkers on Brandon Hill start to head home as the city darkens, when Becky lets herself into the flat.
She says nothing, but makes us each a cup of tea and climbs out to join me. She takes a cigarette from my pack and I light it for her. There’s a strong smell of Sunday dinner from one of the neighboring flats.
Becky’s huddled inside a big parka, but I can see that her wrist has been clumsily bandaged. I don’t mention it.
The blossom on one of the trees on Brandon Hill has burst. As the streetlights brighten against the dying light and paint the blooms with an orange haze, they start to look artificial.
“It’s a pretty view,” Becky says. Her voice sounds rough.
“You can stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you.”
“But he doesn’t come near this building or even this street.”
“It’s properly over this time.”
“I hope so.”
We smoke.
“Why do we want the people who hurt us?” Becky says when the ash on her cigarette’s long enough to droop.
She looks at me as if she actually wants an answer. A tear slips down her cheek.
“Because we’re afraid of being alone.”
Noah Sadler’s funeral is held at a crematorium on the outskirts of Bristol two weeks later. The nondenominational chapel sits in the middle of generous and well-tended grounds, where carefully tended spring planting has been allowed to gently brush and frame the memorial stones of the dead.
Noah’s mourners arrive in large numbers. The car park fills quickly, and the overspill vehicles stack up along the edge of the long driveway, most of them taking care not to track onto the close-cut grass.
Jim Clemo notices this as he arrives on his bike. It’s a late-morning service and he’s come straight from work. At the side of the chapel he hastily ties a black necktie around his neck and removes his cycle clips from his suit trousers. When he enters the chapel, he accepts an order of service from a man whom he assumes to be a family friend, and finds an unobtrusive spot near the back to sit in. From where he’s sitting he notices the headmistress and some of the staff from Noah’s school.
It looks as if a fair few of the students have turned out, too.
Jim doesn’t notice Emma Zhang, who’s found a seat that’s even more discreet than his. She sees him, though, and leans backward to ensure that his view of her is obscured by another member of the congregation.
One of the last cars to arrive is Nur Mahad’s taxi. It travels down the drive and circles around the crematorium.
Abdi, Sofia, and Maryam Mahad get out of the car near the entrance while Nur finds a spot to park in. The only spaces left are a few minutes’ walk away, at the far end of the driveway. He arrives back at the crematorium just in time. His wife and children have been shown to seats near the front of the chapel, reserved for those contributing to the service.
The music playing is a classical piece that Noah chose because he knows his mother loves it. It’s a Dvo?ák piano trio, spare and beautiful. The guests talk quietly, some already weeping. The chapel is packed to capacity.
Abdi Mahad declined to do a reading at the funeral, in spite of Noah’s request that he do so in the notes he prepared with his father. Instead, in agreement with Ed and Fiona Sadler, Abdi will be delivering some of the eulogy. The bulk of it will be given by a family friend of the Sadlers, but they also wanted a young voice to speak for their son.
They asked Abdi to talk for a few minutes, no more, and only if he felt happy to.
According to Noah’s wishes, the mourners hear a reading from The Little Prince and a performance by some of the Medes College students of Abba’s “Super Trouper,” chosen because Ed used to sing it in the car to make Noah and Fiona laugh.
After that, it’s Abdi’s turn to speak. He stands up, steps carefully past his father, who’s on the end of the row, and walks to his place at the lectern, head bowed.
He touches the microphone and clears his throat.