Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

The lawyer gets to his feet, smooths his boot-cut jeans and adjusts his buffalo-skull belt buckle. He glances at Shawcroft. “My advice to you is to remain silent.” He opens the door and swaggers down the corridor, hat in hand. There’s that walk again.

“Penny for the Guy.”

A group of boys with spiky haircuts are loitering on the corner. The smallest one has been dressed up as a tramp in oversize clothes. He looks like he’s fallen victim to a shrinking ray.

One of the other boys nudges him. “Show ’em yer teef, Lachie.”

Lachie opens his mouth sullenly. Two of them are blacked out.

“Penny for the Guy,” they chorus again.

“You’re not going to throw him on a bonfire I hope.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” I give them a pound.

Samira has been watching. “What are they doing?”

“Collecting money for fireworks.”

“By begging?”

“Not exactly.”

Hari has explained to her about Guy Fawkes Night. That’s why the two of them have spent the past two days in my garden shed, dressed like mad scientists in cotton clothes, stripped of anything that might create static electricity or cause a spark.

“So this Guy Fawkes, he was a terrorist?”

“Yes, I suppose he was. He tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament with barrels of gunpowder.”

“To kill the King?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He and his coconspirators weren’t happy with the way the King was treating Catholics.”

“So it was about religion.”

“I guess.”

She looks at the boys. “And they celebrate this?”

“When the plot failed, people set off fireworks in celebration and burned effigies of Guy Fawkes. They still do.” Never let anyone tell you that Protestants don’t hold a grudge.

Samira silently contemplates this as we make our way toward Bethnal Green. It’s almost six o’clock and the air is already heavy with the smell of smoke and sulfur. Bonfires are dotted across the grass with families clustered around them, rugged up against the cold.

My entire family has come to see the fireworks. Hari is in his element, having emerged from the back shed carrying an old ammunition box containing the fruits of his labor and Samira’s expertise. I don’t know how he managed to source what she needed: the various chemicals, special salts and metallic powders. The most important ingredient, black powder, came from a hobby shop in Notting Hill, or more specifically from model rocket motors that were carefully disassembled to obtain the solid fuel propellant.

Torches dance across the grass and small fireworks are being lit: stick rockets, Roman candles, flying snakes, crackle dragons and bags of gold. Children are drawing in the air with sparklers and every dog in London is barking, keeping every baby awake. I wonder if the twins are among them. Perhaps they are too young to be frightened by the noise.

I hook my arm through Bada’s and we watch Samira and Hari plant a heavy plastic tube in the earth. Samira has pulled her skirt between her legs and wrapped it tightly around her thighs. Her headscarf is tucked beneath the collar of her coat.

“Who would give him such knowledge?” says Bada. “He’ll blow himself up.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Hari has always been a favorite among equals. As the youngest, he has had my parents to himself for the past six years. I sometimes think he’s their last link to middle age.

Shielding a pale tapered candle in the palm of her hand, Samira crouches close to the ground. One or two seconds elapses. A rocket whizzes into the air and disappears. One, two, three seconds pass until it suddenly explodes high above us, dripping stars that melt into the darkness. Compared with the fireworks that have come before, it is higher, brighter and louder. People stop their own displays to watch.

Hari sings out the names—dragon’s breath, golden phoenix, glitter palm, exploding apples—while Samira moves without fuss between the launch tubes. Meanwhile, ground shells shoot columns of sparks around her and the explosions of color are mirrored in her eyes.

The finale is Hari’s whistling chaser. Samira lets him light the fuse. It screams upward until little more than a speck of light detonates into a huge circle of white like a dandelion. Just when it seems about to fade, a red ball of light explodes within the first. The final salute is a loud bang that rattles the neighboring windows, setting off car alarms. The crowd applauds. Hari takes a bow. Samira is already cleaning up the scorched cardboard tubes and shredded paper, which she packs into the old ammunition box.

Hari is buzzing. “We should celebrate,” he says to Samira. “I’ll take you out.”

“Out?”

“Yes.”

“Where is out?”

“I don’t know. We could have a drink or see a band.”

“I do not drink.”

“You could have a juice or a soft drink.”

“I cannot go out with you. It’s not good for a girl to be alone with a boy.”

“We wouldn’t be alone. The pub is always packed.”

“She means without a chaperone,” I tell him.

“Oh. Right.”

I sometimes wonder why Hari is considered the brightest among my brothers. He looks crestfallen.

“It’s a religious thing, Hari.”

“But I’m not religious.”

I give him a clip round the ear.

I still haven’t told Samira about what happened at Shawcroft’s interview or, more important, what didn’t happen. The charity boss gave us nothing. Forbes had to let him go.

How do I explain the rules of evidence and the notion of burden of proof to someone who has never been afforded the luxury of justice or fairness?

On the walk home we drop behind the others, and I hook my arm in Samira’s.

“But he did these things,” she says, turning to face me. “None of this would have happened without him. Hassan and Zala would still be here. So many people are dead.” She lowers her gaze. “Perhaps they are the lucky ones.”

“You mustn’t think such a thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because the twins are going to need a mother.”

She cuts me off with a slash of her hand. “I will never be their mother!”

Her face has changed. Twisted. I am looking at another face beneath the first, a dangerous one. It lasts only a fraction of a second—long enough to unsettle me. She blinks and it’s gone. I have her back again.

We are almost home. A car has slowed about fifty yards behind us, edging forward without closing the gap. Fear crawls down my throat. I reach behind my back and untuck my shirt. The Glock is holstered at the base of my spine.

Hari has already turned into Hanbury Street. Mama and Bada have gone home. Opposite the next streetlight is a footpath between houses. Samira has noticed the car.

“Don’t look back,” I tell her.

As we pass under the streetlight, I push her toward the footpath, yelling at her to run. She obeys without question. I spin to face the car. The driver is in shadow. I aim the pistol at his head and he raises his hands, palms open like a mime artist pressing against a glass wall.

A rear window lowers. The interior light blinks on. I swing my gun into the opening. Julian Shawcroft has one hand on the door and the other holding what could be a prayer book.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

“Am I going to disappear?”

He looks disappointed. “Trust in God to protect you.”

“Will you take me to the twins?” “I will help you understand.”

A gust of wind, a splatter of raindrops, the night is growing blustery and bad-tempered. Across London people are heading home and bonfires are burning down. We cross the river and head south through Bermondsey. The glowing dome of St. Paul’s is visible between buildings and above the treetops.