Something You Are (31 page)

‘Did they ever find out... anything?’

‘No, nothing. It’s not like anyone saw anything so...’

Jensen put the kettle on, pushed up the sleeves of his over­sized shirt and turned to face me. ‘Ah, that’s a fucking shame, I’m sorry. I mean, you’d think they’d have found something. They spoke to everyone round here: me, the Williams kids—’

‘They spoke to you? Who spoke to you?’

‘Well, most people had uniforms come round to ask them questions. A couple of us had the guy in charge, a guy in plain clothes.’

‘What did you say?’

An apologetic expression. ‘Uh... nothing. He did ask if I’d seen you that day and stuff so he must have known I was lying, but I just didn’t want to have to write up a statement or anything and... Sorry, I don’t think it would have affected their case. I just didn’t fancy telling this guy I’d seen you, that’s all. Sorry, I know you shouldn’t lie to the police and stuff, especially when it’s about important—’

‘What did he look like?’

I knew straight away whom Jensen was referring to, and my stomach turned with unease.

He frowned. ‘Black hair, really greasy, like. Old. I didn’t like him, but then who likes police, I suppose? All miserable bastards. All corrupt too, you know.’

‘A comb-over? Did he have a comb-over?’

‘Yeah, a really shit one.’

Now I was on edge, as though someone might be listening to us.

‘I’m sorry I lied. It wasn’t cool,’ he said, raising his voice over the roar of boiling water.

‘No, I don’t mind.’ I indicated my head across the flat in the direction of my old home. ‘What about the Williams kids?’

‘Oh, they all wrote statements. Even the younger ones were asked questions. They’re still living there if you wanna go speak to them, except... Oh, shit, this is sad. You know Nate? The oldest? He died not long after.’

‘What?’ I wanted to drag Jensen away from pouring fucking tea. ‘How?’

‘Drive-by. Reckon he was mistaken for someone else. They got the kid that did it though; he’s in juvie. Fuck, it’s like your place is cursed!’

Without saying a word, without saying goodbye, I turned away and walked out of the flat.

‘Um...’

I heard him, dumb with confusion, as I slammed the door.

‘Um... nice to see... you.’

There was one relative in the Relatives’ Room. One relative sit­ting in silence, picking my nails and chewing my lips. The other two people were police officers. Both had given up trying to speak to me a long time ago.

The Relatives’ Room appeared more like a haphazard staff­room, with a cupboard and sink full of mugs, a small plastic kettle and boxes of tea left out on the side. A used tea­spoon was hanging over the sink, dripping.

I looked down at my hands again, now clean of blood, and observed the yellow foam showing though the frayed royal-blue fabric of my chair.

Drip.

I’d stopped panicking by then. My breathing had slowed and I held my hands still. My face was stiff and my emotions had stopped, rigid. I tore off a piece of nail from the side of my thumb and gnawed at it, obsessing over the tag of loose bleeding skin.

My sister had called something to me as I’d left the flat.

‘Kiki, look!’

I hadn’t stopped or looked, just said I’d be back soon and left to go to Jensen’s because I’d been so bored. All the time. So fucking bored. Crawling with boredom. Boredom that made me want to claw off my own face just for the entertainment.

Kiki, look!

One of the officers kept glancing sideways down my top.

I hadn’t been allowed to see my family. Not again. I was already finding it hard to remember walking into my flat and seeing them.

Drip.

A nurse came in, smiled at us, and efficiently made some tea with the plastic kettle and used teaspoon by the sink. She stirred a West Bromwich Albion mug and returned the spoon to where it had come from.

I kept forgetting in the midst of these micro-episodes, things existing and people going about their jobs and their lives, why I was here. Even my memories, erratic and infused with static like shit TV reception, didn’t seem like my own.

Thinking back, I could see myself only as an observer. In my memories, I was watching myself enter the flat from behind.

I saw myself stare, throw up, fall, and I followed myself out
...

I could see the broken bottle of Asahi, not far from my dad’s hand.

The hand was split down the centre, fingers parting from each other in their attempted defence against the
blades like this
. His hands were in pieces around what was left of his wrists
...

I rocked forwards and I saw the officers recoil a little.

‘There’s a sink,’ one of them said.

I remembered throwing up on one of them on the way here and the other one had started laughing and apologizing.

Drip.

The nurse left.

The officers left.

A man walked in.

At first, I didn’t see anything strange in both the officers leaving.

The man introduced himself by his intention rather than by his name, badge or rank. He introduced himself by his vile black comb-over and deep-set eyes that looked as though at any moment they could be swallowed up by his face.

He pulled one of the bright blue chairs away from the wall and rotated it until he was sitting adjacent to me.

‘Miss Ishida? Kiyomi.’

I hadn’t fucking said that he could call me Kiyomi.

‘I’m here to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right with you?’

It was just the two of us. I wished that the other officers hadn’t left.

At the time, I nodded.

‘You didn’t directly witness anything, I understand? You were out?’

Yes.

I said it first in my head, before I managed to take the breath needed to speak.

‘Yes.’

‘Where were you?’

There was still boiling water in the kettle. The teaspoon was still dripping.

I saw the top of Jensen McNamara’s head, felt the flutter of words against my cunt
...

‘The shops.’

‘Really?’

He wasn’t asking. His tone was oiled with cynicism. He knew I was lying. I knew that he knew I was lying. What’s more, I could tell he’d expected me to lie.

‘You didn’t have anything with you when you returned,’ he said.

‘I know. I forgot my money.’

I picked at the yellow foam instead of my lips, eyes down, tapping the leg of my chair seven times, seven times
...

‘You were apparently shouting at some children in the stair­well of your building. A few eyewitnesses have mentioned them. Can you give me their names so I can take their statements?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You don’t remember.’

‘No.’

‘Do they live nearby?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Kiyomi.’ He leant forwards, linking his fingers on his lap. ‘Anything you can remember, anything at all, could be crucial in finding out who did this. If anyone saw anything, we need to be able to speak to them. Do you understand?’

I wanted to ask him if I could see his ID, but it seemed too aggressive. I felt as though, if I asked him that, he’d have licence to confront me with the lies I was telling.

‘I don’t remember who they were,’ I said, ripping out some of the yellow foam and dropping it on the floor. ‘I didn’t know them. They were just hanging around.’

They could put it down to shock, maybe. If I faked a lack of memory
...

‘They could give us a lead, Kiyomi.’

‘I...
didn’t know them.’

‘Could you identify them in a line-up?’

In my mind I could only see their hands, showing the lengths of the blades.

I wouldn’t identify them, not to this guy, but I nodded anyway.

‘And you didn’t see anyone?’

I looked at him. If something happened, if he moved too suddenly, I had an idea that I could maybe reach the kettle and throw the boiled water in his face.

‘No.’

He put his hand over mine and I nearly vomited again.

‘I’m truly sorry for your loss, Kiyomi,’ he said.

Then he left.

That was it. My loss. That was what had just happened to me, condensed conveniently down into a fucking four-letter and one syllable word. My loss.

I sat there, aware only of my own breathing.

The officers didn’t return.

For a second, I considered cutting my wrists with one of the blunt unpolished knives in the cutlery drawer. Then this, my loss, could all be over. Just like that
...

But no.

I hadn’t seen anyone, I thought.

I hadn’t seen anyone.

I left the chair and ran out of the Relatives’ Room into the hospital corridor.

But there was no sign of him.

There was no sign of him but I never forgot his face.

I called the number from the business card with no name and arranged to meet Mark Chester the following evening, as I’d always been intending to. He didn’t sound surprised to hear from me; the fluency of his speech was unnerving.

I found him sitting in the window of the café he’d suggested in Covent Garden, on an artfully tacky leopard-print stool just out of the sun. On the counter next to him was a brown leather satchel, like the ones public schoolboys carried.

Something by Roy Orbison was playing. It was the sort of tearoom designed to attract hipsters with iPads.

‘I was pretty rude the last time I saw you,’ I said, sitting down next to him. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, you were hilarious. I wasn’t offended; I expected that sort of reaction.’

The stool was so high that my feet didn’t touch the floor, so I sat there swinging them back and forth in the air like a toddler.

When Mark spoke to me next he had his business face on.

‘So, did you think seriously about what we talked about?’

I snorted. ‘That’s a bit of an understatement, but yeah, I thought about it.’

‘Would you like a smoothie?’

‘Er, no, I’m good.’

‘So what do you think?’

It took concentration to become used to his rapid-fire ques­tion­ing, especially when I was still unsure of my intentions. ‘Look, I’m going to be straight with you. This isn’t the sort of offer where you say you’ll do something for free and then suddenly a few months down the line some hidden
charge appears, is it?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Well. . .’ I couldn’t find a reply that didn’t sound like childish cynicism.

Out through the window I could see a guy in a flat cap was setting up for some sort of show. He was staring at the bare legs of every woman that walked by.

‘I totally understand why you wouldn’t trust me,’ Mark said. ‘My flatmate says that I make people uncomfortable.’

‘No, it’s not that. You seem pretty trustworthy. According to Noel you’re up there with the most trustworthy people I’ve met in months. I think he fancies you, to be honest; he got way too excited when we were talking about you. I could
smell
the man-love.’

‘Well, naturally.’ A wistful smile.

‘I just haven’t really thought about all this since it happened,’ I continued. ‘I haven’t thought about any of them. It’s weird even entertaining the idea that you could do something about it now.’

‘Well, if you don’t mind me writing stuff down like a hack. . .’ he said, going through his bag for a notebook and pen. ‘Can you just tell me what happened? No, wait, tell me about your parents first. Their names, what they did, where you lived, any personal stuff you think is relevant.’

I noticed he was wearing eyeliner.

‘OK, that’s easy. My mother was called Helena and my dad was Sohei.’

It was easy to talk about my parents like this, as if I was reciting their resumés.

He nodded.

‘He worked for a company called Importas. He was man­ager or something, but he kept moving us between London and Tokyo every few years. We lived in Hampstead in London and Toshima-ku in Tokyo, and then when he lost his job we lived in Tooting. Shit-hole.’

‘And Tooting. . .’

‘That’s where it happened, yeah.’

I paused. For a moment the single high-definition image came back to me. Always my sister. The five-year-old skull cleaved in two. I didn’t remember much of Mum or Dad. If I concentrated really hard I could sometimes see the broken bottle, stained red, that my dad must have raised to try and defend them. The glass was embedded in his hands. I’d seen it as I’d fallen to the floor in shock.

Mark was watching the street performer outside. He didn’t persist in his questioning, so I answered the silence and the vast expanse of blank space on his notepad.

‘I was at this guy’s house, Jensen McNamara. He lived just across the road from us. But I got bored. I went home and bumped into these kids in the stairwell. I can’t remember any of their first names, apart from the oldest one, Nate. They were just kids in the building. Little scabby boys. All Williamses.’

Blades like this.
 
.
 
.

‘They stopped me and said there had been a fight or something upstairs. The oldest one had seen these guys go up. I don’t think he said how many. . . Two.
A couple
, he said. With
blades like this
.’