Gillian Slovo: Ten Days

The beating of a helicopter swooping low over the Lovelace estate must have been what first shook Cathy from sleep, but what had brought her to consciousness was the much softer click of a door. She stretched an arm out and across the bed. The sheet was warm and she could still feel the imprint of Banji’s body on it, but he had gone.

She’d fetch him back, she decided, pulling on her dressing gown and making her way down the corridor to the front door. By the time she reached it, he had already crossed the landing and was nearly at the walkway.

‘Banji.’

He stopped and turned.

A tall man, toned by the gym, there was something about the way he stood there under the dark rotating blades of the helicopter that made her doubt that it was him. But as the helicopter flew away he seemed to return to the skin of the man she knew. He yawned and smiled, and said, ‘It’s early.’ And yawned again. ‘Go back to bed.’

‘I will if you will.’

He shook his head. ‘Better not.’ He was speaking so softly she could barely make out what he was saying. ‘I’ve got a lot on.’

‘Lyndall was expecting to see you at breakfast. She’ll be disappointed.’ Even in the dim light she could see how his expression softened at the mention of her daughter. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Come back to bed.’

‘Nah.’ He gestured with his arm — half a wave and half a waving of her off. ‘You’re all right. I’ll catch her later.’ A decisive turn and he strode off down the walkway.

Biting back her disappointment, she crossed the landing and went to stand at the edge of the balcony so she could see over the low wall. From there she followed his progress for as long as she could. Which wasn’t long: he was moving at such a pace his brown skin had soon faded into the night.

It was hot there but so much hotter inside; she stayed where she was, looking out on the concrete and steel of the Lovelace buildings and the web of walkways that connected them.

The estate was the last stand of a twentieth-century modernist dream which years of neglect had turned into a dangerous nightmare of piss-stained crevices. It was scheduled for demolition and boards were beginning to take the place of windows and front doors, while neighbourliness was being replaced by long farewells or midnight flits.

She looked out at the separate blocks, each on different levels, which were joined by the spiralling walkways stretching to left and right. Usually so noisy, the estate was now subdued. With every door closed and every window dark, she might almost be able to hear the Lovelace residents breathing in their sleep.

As she stood there, a neon bulb winked out on the walkway opposite. Another that the council would not bother replacing; darkness was heralding the end of the Lovelace. Sighing, she went back inside.

She was halfway to bed when she heard a footfall. Cheered by the prospect of Banji’s return, she hurried into the lounge, dodging the clutter of furniture (two comfy sofas and too many over-cushioned old chairs that she was always promising Lyndall she would prune), to reach the flat line-up of steel windows that faced out onto the estate. She was just in time to catch sight of a shadow flitting by.

Too slight a figure to be Banji. Must be Jayden, who lived with his mother at the other end of the landing. On his way, she guessed, to help out in the market.

Submission to the internal inquiry of the Metropolitan Police into Operation Bedrock

Submission 987/S/1–15: photographic evidence produced by Air Support Unit 27AWZ pertaining to surveillance prior to the outbreak of the disturbances

location: Lovelace estate

subject: routine surveillance

This evidence was collected at 4:01:23 on when Air Support Unit 27AWZ, India 95, passed over the Lovelace estate in Rockham.

In response to an ongoing request by 27AWZ carried out a routine passing surveillance on the estate.

As the ASU passed over Flat 45, Lovelace Block 3, a man, IC3, emerged. Camera facilities were employed to photograph this man, later identified to be the man known as Banji. He turned to address someone (not visible) who stood in the open doorway of Flat 45. The conversation was brief. The man then proceeded unaccompanied down the runway and towards the south-western exit of the Lovelace estate.

A female figure, IC1, stepped out from Flat 45 and watched as the man departed.

The ASU did not continue its surveillance.

Peter Whiteley was just about to leave the bedroom when he heard Frances sigh. He turned to look at the bed. She was lying perfectly still, and although he thought that the sheet, which was all that was covering her, might have shifted, it was too dark to be sure.

Another, quieter sigh, but still no movement. She must be sighing in her sleep.

The burble of a police radio told him that they were gearing up for his arrival. He left the bedroom and made his way downstairs.

The kitchen was even hotter than the bedroom. Not that this stopped Patsy from springing out of her basket at first sight of him and bouncing over, her rasping tongue making a tour of his face. ‘Only time you’re friendly to me,’ he said, feigning affection by stroking her silken back, ‘is when there’s no one else to feed you.’ Her answer was one last slurp of his lips before she raced across the kitchen to stand by her bowl so she could wolf down what he put there in less time than it took him to fill the kettle.

He called out, softly, through the open window. ‘You there?’

The officer, who must have been perched on the stone bench just below the window, popped into view: ‘Morning, sir.’

‘Good morning.’ Peter lifted his gaze to the dark sky. ‘Or almost.’

‘I’ll fetch your driver, shall I?’

‘Tell him half an hour.’

Peter unbolted the kitchen door (strange the habit that had them locking the door at night despite the fact that the windows were open and the house guarded back and front) and stepped out.

Dark and a smell like dry bracken. So dark he could only just make out the cluster of bushes that, once full and green, were now wilting into the cracked soil. He went a few steps further into the garden, feeling the warmth of the spiky grass on his bare feet and the dust that each one of his steps stirred up. The night seemed to press down on him, the air heavier and much hotter than any English night should be. He could just make out the shadowed outline of the beech at the bottom of the garden, with its uneven cankered trunk standing stark against the blackened sky. An ancient tree: he hoped it would find a way to pull in moisture from the thickened air.

It was so quiet that he heard the kettle clicking off. He made his way back into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.

‘Help yourself.’ He fetched down two mugs. ‘One for me as well. No sugar.’

4.20 a.m.

The instant that Joshua Yares woke, he got straight out of a bed that looked as if it had barely been slept in. He nevertheless pulled tight the light-blue sheets, smartening up corners that were already well tucked in, before fetching the neatly folded counterpane from the chair and smoothing it over the top.

He stepped back to survey the result, approaching the bed again to flatten a faint wrinkle on the top left-hand corner. Once it was all perfectly smooth and flat, he took hold of the sweat pants and a T-shirt he had laid out the night before and, having dressed, laced up his running trainers.