Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

It was only then, as she sank onto the bench, that Gemma realized just how shaken up she was.

Good God, what might those two have done to her if Rashid Kaleem hadn’t come along? She told herself that it had still been daylight, that it had been a residential street, that the Gilles brothers were bullies and had only meant to frighten her, but none of those logical reassurances helped.

She’d seen too many knife crimes and muggings; she knew how quickly things could flare out of control and how badly people could be hurt.

And now she knew how it felt to be a victim.

The rage that shot through her was so intense it made her feel sick. The pain in her head grew worse. She forced herself to breathe, to focus on something besides the nausea. She gazed out, watching the patterns of sunlight made by the leaves of a tree in a planter, and after a moment she realized she was looking out into the old brewery yard.

On the expanse of concrete stood a double-decker bus, an old Routemaster, with tables and umbrellas in front of it, and the name ROOTMASTER painted cheerfully across its side.

The pun made her smile, in spite of her anger and her headache, and then she remembered where she had heard the name before.

This was where Naz was supposed to have met Sandra and Charlotte that Sunday afternoon, the afternoon Sandra had disappeared. This was where Naz had waited for the wife who had never come.

Rashid returned, and she tore her gaze from the bus, glancing at the mug he’d set down on the table before her. She groaned. “That’s not coffee. Don’t tell me-it’s hot, sweet tea. I hate sweet tea.”

“I didn’t think coffee was a good idea with that bump on your head. You’ve got enough bruising without a big jolt of caffeine increasing your blood flow. So, tea”-he held out his other hand-“and ice.” He’d cadged a plastic bag filled with ice cubes and wrapped it in a somewhat bedraggled tea towel. “Put this on your head, and drink up. Believe me, they didn’t like parting with the ice, but I know the owner.”

Gemma obeyed, finding that the searing heat of the tea was comforting, and the ice felt good on her pounding head.

“Now,” said Rashid as a waitress in shorts and a midriff-baring T-shirt brought him a cup of espresso, “tell me about those unsavory characters.”

“Unsavory?” Gemma suppressed a slightly hysterical laugh because it hurt her head. And suddenly she realized what a fright she must look, damp and shaky, with a lump on her forehead and water dripping down her face.

The thought of Kevin and Terry sobered her quickly enough, however, and as she drank a little more of her tea and held the ice pack to her head, she told Rashid as much as she dared about Charlotte and about her visit to Gail Gilles. She left out any mention of Kincaid and the Narcotics investigation, finishing with, “So, you see, I can’t report them, because if I do I’ll have to identify myself, and I’ll be admitting that I visited the grandmother under false pretenses.”

“But you didn’t actually lie.”

“No, but I’m afraid my interference will bugger up the custody issue.”

“And you don’t think the caseworker needs to know that those louts threatened you?” Rashid’s dark eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl. “This little girl is mixed race, then? The father was Pakistani, the mother white?”

Gemma nodded, not adding the speculation that Sandra’s father had been at least partly Afro-Caribbean.

“You know those two will use her as a punching bag, if they get their hands on her.” Rashid’s face was hard. “And from what you’re telling me about the family, no amount of oversight is going to keep them from having contact with their mother.”

“I have been trying to convey that,” Gemma said, attempting to keep her frustration in check.

“And the scrawny one is a user,” Rashid added. “You see it on every Bangladeshi estate. After a while you can’t miss the signs, whether the kids are white, black, or brown. Acne. Twitching. That charming, vacant stare.”

“Dealers aren’t usually users, though,” said Gemma, thinking about the Narcotics investigation.

“Not if they’re any good at it. But I wouldn’t discount the other brother. The talker.”

“Kevin.” The thought of Kevin’s face made Gemma press the ice pack to her head again.

“You okay? Any dizziness?” Rashid was half out of his seat, looming over her.

Gemma inched back on her bench. “You should work with live people. Great bedside manner.”

Rashid subsided onto his own bench, looking sheepish. “Sorry. Too many years of looking after neighbors and aunties and cousins who don’t take me seriously.”

“But you’re a doctor,” Gemma said, surprised.

“I’m a snotty-nosed kid from a housing estate.” For just an instant, Gemma could see the boy Neal Weller had described.

“Not anymore.” Gemma smiled at him, and he returned it. Then she asked, “Do they come to you for advice, these neighbors and aunties and cousins?”

“Only in a very roundabout way. Medical degree or not, I’m still a male, and they’re not comfortable talking to me.”

She thought about the clinic in Rivington Street. “Would they talk to other women?”

“Maybe. If they felt safe.” Rashid finished his coffee, then cast a disapproving glance at her half-drunk tea. “You should finish that. And it might not be a good idea for you to drive. I should see you home.”

There was something so charmingly old-fashioned in the way he phrased it that Gemma found herself beginning to blush. “No, really, I’m fine. My head just hurts a little.”

“They don’t know where you live, those two? You shouldn’t be on your own.”

“No. I’ve got kids-and my partner-waiting at home for me.” She felt stupidly awkward, wondering why she’d felt the need to explain her situation, and the flush intensified. “I really should go. Thanks for your help.”

Tentatively, she felt the tender spot on her forehead. It had just occurred to her to wonder how on earth she was going to explain what had happened to Duncan. He would want Kevin and Terry Gilles’s heads on platters, and that would not be good at all.

One of the few sentiments which unites all generations of the Bangladeshi community is the feeling that white families fail to protect the interests of needy members… Even though their successful children may now want to live separately from their parents when they marry, and even leave home when single in a few cases, most still believe in the moral solidarity of the family and the importance of putting family interests before those of the individual. Indeed, in most situations individual interests are seen as best served by the family.

– Geoff Dench, Kate Gavron, Michael Young, The New East End

It was Toby who noticed it first. “Mummy, what happened to your head?”

She was putting away the groceries she had picked up at the supermarket on her way home, having taken advantage of the fact that she had the car, but now she felt a little queasy at the thought of eating.

Kit looked up from the fantasy novel he was reading at the kitchen table. “Ow. You do have a lump.”

“I went to get some things for Charlotte, and I bumped my head in the loft.”

“What did you get for her?” asked Toby, who was picking through her shopping bags like a puppy looking for treats.

“Some art pencils.”

“We went to visit Charlotte today,” Toby informed her. “Wes took us.” He abandoned the bags as unrewarding. “Can I draw with the pencils?”

“No, they’re Charlotte’s. You’ll have to ask her first.”

“When? When are you going to give them to her?”