Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

“Can I speak to her?”

The officer laughs slightly, as though mocking her concern. “Believe me, she’s fine. She’s actually already in the car. We won’t be long.”

She puts down the telephone and feels as though she could scream with frustration. This morning Sheila had insisted in her usual cold manner that she would go to the hospital by herself, and not wishing to cause any argument she had simply let her sister have her own way. She takes a deep breath and then decides that there’s little else that she can do except put on the kettle and wait for the police to bring her sister home.

Sheila has a huge piece of white gauze on her forehead that is held in place by two broad strips of Elastoplast.

“It’s just where I hit my head when I fell.” Sheila sips at her cup of hot water. “And the bloody wig came off, lot of use that is. They put in some stitches.”

“Some stitches?”

“About a dozen, they said. I don’t remember. But I’m all right.”

“What did he take?” Sheila shrugs her shoulders.

“My bag, but there wasn’t much in it. A credit card, some ID, bits and pieces.”

“Shouldn’t we stop the card?”

“The nurse at the hospital did that for me.” She stands and pours herself another cup of tea, then sits again, this time next to Sheila.

“Has this ever happened before?”

“Christ, this is London, not Afghanistan. It was just a mugging. I didn’t resist, and I got away, okay?”

“But you saw him, right?”

Sheila laughs now. “Oh, I saw him all right. Strapping bastard, and cocky with it.”

“But you’d recognise him?”

“Not really, they all look the same.” She pauses. “Of course I’d recognise him.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sheila takes another sip of her hot water.

“Look, I was a little shaken up. I admit it. And I don’t much like the sight of blood, especially my own. But I’m all right.” Sheila arches her eyebrows. “And, I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.”

In the afternoon, it is a plain-clothes officer who takes a seat in the living room. He is older than the man who brought Sheila back from the hospital, and he seems more business-like. Either he joined the force late, after a false start in another career, or he is simply not very good at his job and promotion has passed him by. He flips open a pad, jams the head of the ballpoint against his leg so that the nib pops out, and then he looks up at the two sisters who sit on the sofa before him.

“Right then, we’ve already got the description from the other officer, but is there anything that you’d like to add.” Sheila shakes her head. “Clothes? Distinguishing facial marks? Voice? What did he sound like? London accent? Jamaican? Anything will help.” Again Sheila shakes her head. The officer sighs.

“He did speak, didn’t he? There must be something that you can remember.” Sheila looks across at the officer.

“I don’t want to press charges. It doesn’t matter.” The policeman seems surprised, but he responds as though he has heard this line before.

“You mean, if you’ll excuse my language, you want to leave the bastard on the street so he can do this to somebody else? Except maybe the next person won’t be as lucky as you were.” Sheila is adamant.

“I don’t want to press charges, and that’s the end of it, okay?” Dorothy looks at Sheila in surprise. The officer senses the futility of the situation.

“Is there some reason why you don’t want to prosecute this man? He knocked you to the ground, he took your bag and left you bleeding. Do you think you owe him something? Or do you know him, is that it?”

“I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before in my life, but what’s going to happen to him when you lot get hold of him? Accidentally fall over and bang his head in the cell, will he? Or by some mysterious process will his belt find its way around his neck? I know what happens to young blacks in police cells. You just can’t wait, can you?” The officer snaps his pad shut and gets to his feet.

“You know, if that’s what you think, then maybe you deserve to have these people loose on the streets.”

“These people?” There is a note of triumph in Sheila’s voice, but the policeman is unperturbed.

“Criminals.” He spits the word out. “Crackheads who’ll dump you down a rubbish chute, or pour petrol through your door, if you look at them wrong. That’s who I mean. Violent bastards who don’t respect the law, and whose only ambition in life is to score some draw and stab people up.”

Sheila laughs. “But you know how to teach them to respect the law, don’t you?”

The officer and Sheila stare at each other. Then the policeman reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. He drops it on the coffee table, and then he turns to face Dorothy. She stands.

“If your sister comes to her senses, that’s where you can find me. Otherwise, enjoy the rest of your day. I’ll let myself out.”

She hears the door slam and she sits again, this time in the chair opposite Sheila. She looks at her sister, who stares blankly at the wall. She can see that Sheila is tired and wants to go to bed, and she has not got the heart to argue with her.

Her sister sleeps right through until the morning. She is sitting at the kitchen table when the phone rings and she grabs it, keen that it should not wake Sheila. She recognises Mr. Jowett’s voice.

“Ah, I didn’t expect you to answer the phone.”

“Mr. Jowett.”

“Well, Miss Jones, thoughtful of you to leave your sister’s number, for as it turns out things have moved ahead rather quickly. We’ve tentatively scheduled a preliminary hearing for you tomorrow. Would this be convenient for you?”

“A hearing?”

“It’s just a formality, but it’s much better if you’re here in person to account for yourself.” She pauses before answering.

“You mean defend myself?”

“I’m merely informing you of the process.” Now it is his turn to pause. He sighs deeply, and then he continues. “Please, Dorothy, there’s really no need for this to become confrontational, now is there?” She wants no more of this discussion.

“What time tomorrow?”

“Two p.m.”

“I’ll be there.” Before Mr. Jowett has a chance to say anything further she puts down the receiver. And then she looks up and sees Sheila in her nightdress, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “I’ve got to go back. That was the headmaster.” Sheila moves towards her and sits at the table.

“Holiday over, then?”

“I’ll be back. I just have to sort something out.” She stands and runs water into the kettle, and then she puts it on the stove. Sheila yawns and leans back in her chair. Her sister slowly pushes her hands in the air.

“I’ll be fine. I might volunteer at the communal gardens.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Of course it’s a good idea. I can’t just lie around here all day.”

“Tea or water?”

“Water, please.”

“Any idea when Maria is coming back from Brighton?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Sheila glares at her. Then she sighs. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with her. We’ve not been getting on too well.”

“Nice timing.”

“I don’t expect her to stop her life just because I’ve got cancer.”

“Isn’t she supposed to want to be here for you?”

“She’s supposed to do whatever she wants to do.”

“Water or tea?”

“I said water, not tea. What’s the matter with you?”

She looks at Sheila, who lowers her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep very well. I kept seeing his bloody face.”

“Whose face?”

“Tony Blair’s, who do you think? The mugger’s of course. I just can’t get it out of my head.”