Marvel drove the suspicious dog to the flat and left it in its cage with food and water in the kitchen, where Debbie would see it as soon as she got home.
He hoped she would understand that this meant they were finally quits for Valentine’s night.
As he shut the cage, the little dog licked his hand with a surprisingly strong pink tongue – as if to say thank you.
Marvel was almost fooled.
But when he got back into the BMW he found the dog had also left him the gift of a small turd on the back seat. He had nothing to pick it up with, and had to drive through drizzle with the windows open all the way to Lewisham.
So he was already in a bad mood when he pulled into the parking garage back at the station.
As he got out of his car, DS Kominski glanced down at his bumper sticker and said, ‘Lost your dog, sir?’ in a tone that was so bland, so neutral, so completely inoffensive, that Marvel just knew he was taking the piss.
He told DC Kominski to fuck off, but instead of following orders, Kominski stopped and said, ‘There’s no need for that, sir.’
‘What?’ said Marvel angrily.
‘I said, there’s no need for that language, sir.’
‘Come here and say that!’
Looking a bit bewildered, Kominski did.
Marvel threw a punch and missed, then Kominski threw one back and missed too. There was a split second of relief on both sides that they hadn’t connected – and then they just grabbed each other by the sleeves and fell on the ground and rolled around in the dirt for a bit until Marvel got lucky when Kominski caught his funny bone on the wall. It allowed Marvel to roll to his knees and scramble to his feet while Kominski was still shaking his arm and going ‘Shit!’ – thus affording Marvel the victory.
He helped Kominski to his feet and told him to let everyone know that he would do the same thing to any bastard who gave him shit.
‘Shit about what?’ panted Kominski.
Marvel didn’t dignify that with an answer, just strode away.
‘Shit about what?’
15
ANNA HADN’T CLEANED the flat, and it was shocking how fast the germs took over. They started in the kitchen sink, where the dishes piled up and where food dried and hardened in the pans until cleaning them would have meant cleaning the last of the nonstick right off them too.
The germs overflowed from there and ran along the counters, down the cabinet doors and across the floors – out of the kitchen and into the lounge and from there to the bathroom.
And every time the germs met a wall, they bounced off and colonized a different angle, another corner, a new space.
Even James noticed how fast things got dirty when you didn’t keep them clean.
Eventually – after three days of eating cereal from a mug – he did the washing up. Afterwards he went into the bedroom where Anna was still in bed and said, ‘What about the baby?’
‘What about him?’ she said dully.
‘Aren’t you afraid he’ll get sick?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not afraid of anything any more. What could happen to us that’s worse than losing Daniel?’
James stood at the door for a while, wondering whether there was anything he could say that would cheer her up. Or get her out of bed, at least. But there was nothing. Anna was right: nothing could be worse.
‘Are you going to church again?’ he asked tentatively.
‘No.’
He nodded slowly. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. I thought it would help, but it didn’t.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’ He was sorry. Even though he was relieved she wasn’t going to church again, he was sorry that she had found no comfort there, or anywhere.
He slowly drummed his fingers on the bedroom door and said, ‘When I get home I’ll clean the house.’
When James got to work, Ang’s sleeping bag was still unrolled on the bench. There was water on the floor where he had used the tiny handbasin to wash himself, and on the table were little bits of wire, a pair of pliers, and a bottle of aftershave with the face of a famous footballer on it.
James felt awkward – as if he’d walked into Ang’s home without knocking.
‘Sorry,’ he said, as Ang edged past him to roll up the sleeping bag.
‘Is good,’ said Ang.
He used to have a mattress, but Brian had bitched about it taking up all the space in the kitchen, until Ang had dumped it in the old inspection pit, where it leaned uselessly against a wall, while he slept on the bench.
‘You want some tea?’ said James.
‘Yes, please.’
James put the kettle on and picked an intricate piece of wire-work off the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘Car,’ said Ang. ‘See?’ He picked up a second piece and showed James how they would fit together to make bodywork and a chassis.
James grinned. ‘Clever,’ he said. ‘Daniel would love that.’
There was a loud silence, until the kettle switched itself off with a click.
‘You should make more of this stuff,’ said James. ‘Sell it, you know? Get some extra money.’
Ang shrugged at the car in his hands. ‘Is not for money,’ he said. ‘All Hmong make this.’ He put it down and opened the old broom cupboard next to the sink, and stuffed the sleeping bag on the high shelf.
‘Did you make that too?’ James pointed at a broad strip of colourful material that was pinned to the inside of the door.
‘No,’ said Ang. ‘My mother.”
‘What is it?’ said James.
‘Paj ntaub,’ said Ang. ‘Umm, iiiiiis … Story, umm … cloth.’
‘Story cloth?’ James opened the door wide so that the light fell more fully on the material. It was beautiful. A foot wide and two foot long, it had a dark-red background, with intricate curlicues and spirals and zig-zags sewn on to it in repeating patterns of wildly clashing pinks, oranges, magentas and greens.
‘That’s great,’ said James.
Ang grinned proudly and his slender brown finger pointed out various symbols, as he struggled to tell James their meanings. ‘This iiiiiis … snail. This iiiiiis … I don’t know English. This iiiiiis … flower …’
‘Very beautiful,’ said James.
‘You want?’ said Ang, and started to peel off the sticky tape at one corner.