Aminatta Forna - The Memory of Love

‘A lecturer.’

‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘I hope this will not make you late for classes.’

I replied that classes were over for the holidays. I relaxed slightly, relieved to hear the civil tone he was taking. I had begun to let my nervous imagination get to me. I smiled back to signal my cooperation.

‘Good,’ he replied.

From his pocket he drew a pencil and opened the folder. I watched while he wrote my name in capital letters across the top of a piece of paper. At his request I supplied my address.

‘What is your position at the university?’ he asked.

‘I am a lecturer in modern history.’

‘And how long have you taught there?’

I told him. He wrote the information down. He seemed to write at an interminable pace, like a child copying his letters.

‘If I am to make a statement, could I perhaps write it?’ I offered.

‘It is quite all right, Mr Cole.’ He glanced up, surveyed me momentarily. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Something in the glance, the way he seemed to enjoy enunciating the syllables of my name, stopped me persisting. He added, ‘This is not a formal statement. Just some notes for my own records.’

He asked me details about my life. The time I had lived at my present address, my landlady’s name. Where I had been born and where I had studied. Which courses I taught at the university. At the mention of European history he stopped writing in order to share with me some observations on the Jacobean Wars, in which he claimed to have an interest. Amateur, naturally, he smiled. Guy Fawkes. Catholic Spain. The Gunpowder Plot. He’d become interested after observing the rituals of Bonfire Night while training in England. I could not see the relevance of any of this to my case. Though because he seemed friendly enough, I made a pretence of listening and kept my knees pressed together. I yearned for a cigarette, but I had none on me. He resumed writing. Broke off again to ask me about the contents of the box on the table. I told him the box contained a cake. His pencil lead broke, he called for a replacement. The minutes ground by.

After over an hour he had still not asked me anything of substance. I knew the time because I glanced at my watch.

Without looking up or interrupting his meticulous transcription of my answers, he said, ‘Do you need to be somewhere?’

I replied that I did not, however I did need to use the bathroom.

He continued to write.

‘I need to use the toilet,’ I repeated.

He looked up at me appearing to focus, like a small creature emerging out of the darkness: ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Thank you.’ I stood up. He waved me back down again.

‘This won’t take a minute. Please, Mr Cole, be patient. As soon as we are done here I will have somebody show you to the bathroom. You can relax. Enjoy some breakfast.’ He smiled, indicating the cake with a nod.

And so it went on, the asking and careful annotating of one banal question after another. I answered as evenly as I could, repeating my answers once, twice as he struggled to write them down verbatim. Then, without warning, the nature of the questions altered. I had answered a question about which campus activities I supervised.

In the same opaque tone, he asked, ‘Are you aware of any illegal activities taking place on campus?’

‘What?’ I said. ‘No. I mean, what sort of activity? Students drinking? That happens all the time.’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I am not talking about drinking.’ He waved his hand dismissively.

‘In that case, no.’

‘What would you say if I told you the reason you are here is because we believe that you are.’

‘Well, I would have to say I’m not. I don’t even know what you are talking about.’

‘So you deny it?’

‘No, I’m not denying anything, I’m just saying I don’t know.’

‘So you are not denying it, then?’ He fixed me with a hard stare, at the same time holding up his pencil and giving it a triumphant twirl. He sounded almost cheerful. I wondered if, in his world, this was what passed for a sense of humour.

‘I am simply saying I don’t know.’ The words came out louder than I had intended. I was frustrated, unamused by this petty wordplay. I could feel the beginnings of a headache. I watched as he added my most recent words to the bottom of my lengthy and growing statement. He was either an idiot or he was amusing himself with this pretence of being a boneheaded policeman. I suspected the latter.

‘May I ask what this is about?’ I said presently.

He looked at me for several moments and blinked as if trying to make sense of the string of sounds I had just uttered. ‘What this is about?’ he repeated.

‘Yes,’ I retorted somewhat testily. ‘Why am I here?’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you. At this time we do not know whether you have any information, so we cannot say.’ He was at it again.

I said, ‘You’re saying you don’t know what this is about?’

‘We are making enquiries, you understand.’

‘You must know why you are making enquiries.’ I tried to maintain my composure, but the obtuseness was grating on me. I smiled to hide my anger. He smiled back at me. There followed a deadly silence.

‘Mr Cole,’ he said. ‘I am sure you have nothing to fear. Please let us continue.’ He bent to his paper, as if reading the next question from it.

‘You are a friend of Dr Kamara?’

‘Which Dr Kamara?’ Pathetic, but I couldn’t help myself.

‘Dr Julius Kamara. He teaches engineering. I am told he is a friend of yours.’

‘I know him, yes.’ I crossed my legs.

He asked about Julius. How long had I known him? Who were Julius’s other friends? What might I know of Julius’s background? I resisted any further temptation to parry with him, keeping my answers to a minimum, not least because of the intense pressure in my abdomen.

‘Dr Kamara uses your study at the university.’

‘From time to time, yes.’

‘How often?’

‘Not often.’

‘Once a week, twice a week?’

‘Once a week. No more.’

‘And when was the last occasion you allowed him to use your study?’

‘I can’t recall exactly,’ I said. I knew precisely. It was the day I had gone to see Saffia; though I recalled neither the day nor the date, I had them written down in my notebook.

‘This week, last week?’

‘During the exams, I believe. The Dean knows all about this. He was perfectly happy with the arrangement. There’s a shortage of space for faculty on campus.’

He nodded and looked at me, a long-considered gaze before applying his pencil to the pad once more.

With sudden desperation I said, ‘If I could use the toilet before we continue.’

Nothing, save the scratch of pencil upon paper.

‘Perhaps I could have your name.’

He looked up. ‘Johnson.’

‘Mr Johnson. I am happy to help you in any way I can. But I would like to use the facilities before we continue.’

He put down his pencil. ‘The problem is this,’ he explained slowly, as if he was talking to a moron. ‘The toilets on this floor are reserved for staff use. Somebody will have to take you to the correct floor to use the ones there.’

‘Perhaps, then, I could have your permission to use the staff toilets?’

He stared at me, before replying, deadpan, ‘I am afraid I do not have the authority to allow that. It is better we continue here,’ he tapped the paper with the end of his pencil, ‘and finish. Then you can go.’ He continued to gaze at me. The man was a small-time sadist, pedantry his weapon of choice. I felt a trickle of rage in my belly. I wanted to hit him.

For an hour more he questioned me. I hid nothing. I had nothing to hide. Eventually he put away his pencil and his notes, opened the door and called somebody. I was led to the toilets. The junior officer who accompanied me insisted that the cubicle door remain open. I turned my back on him, unzipped my fly and urinated. I had held on so long there was as much pain as relief in the act. At first the piss was slow in coming; when it hit the bowl it was lurid and evil-smelling.