and character.
I’d known her for just over a year, but she was one of those people you instantly warm to, full of energy and an enthusiasm for collecting new experiences. I expect that Pauline’s life would have worked out quite differently, had her husband of twenty-five years not run off with a nineteen-year-old telesales manageress some time before.
Where most women of forty-eight would never have recovered from this devastating occurrence, for Pauline it offered up a whole new lease of life. She started going to her slimming group, and dyeing the grey out of her hair. She’d even taken up with a boyfriend who rode a Harley Davidson, and signed up for self-defence lessons.
That was where I came in, because at that time I was teaching regular classes to groups of women all around the area. She wasn’t quite at the end of her first course when the events of last winter overtook me, and my teaching career had come to a rather abrupt end.
She’d kept in touch while I was out of action, even held my hand at the inquest. I wasn’t always glad to see her, I must admit, but it was difficult to be depressed for long with Pauline around. Afterwards, I felt I owed her one, and house-sitting for her was the least I could do. Even if it did mean braving the little horrors of Kirby Street.
When Pauline had moved in to number forty-one, Kirby Street hadn’t yet started on its downward course. It was one of a maze of streets of ugly brick and pebbledashed semis built in the fifties on reclaimed marshland, down near the River Lune. As far as anyone knew, the area had never been remotely cultivated, despite the picturesque name.
For the past twenty years, Lavender Gardens had been slowly taken over by the local Asian population. Mainly Pakistani, they’d moved into the streets one house at a time as they came up vacant. And, as is so often the way of these things, the more the Asian numbers swelled, the faster the other houses seemed to come up for grabs, and the lower the prices fell.
For as long as I’d lived in Lancaster, the place had been known as Lavindra Gardens. At least, that was one of its more repeatable nicknames.
Pauline wasn’t remotely Pakistani, but she’d stayed put. “I get on all right with them,” she’d informed me stoutly. “I just don’t stick my nose in where it’s not wanted, particularly with the kids, and they leave me well alone.”
She didn’t appear to make any connection between this wide berth and the presence of Friday, who had the run of the house when she was at work. The dog had arrived as an abused puppy not long after Mr Jamieson had departed and, in the long run, Pauline reckoned she’d got the better end of the deal. If nothing else, he was the best home security system you could wish for.
The Ridgeback was big, and totally aware of his own strength. Besides, he had the much-envied local reputation of once having chased an imprudent dustbin man up onto the roof of the shed in the back garden, and kept him up there all morning. Part of the reason I was staying at Pauline’s was so that Friday could stay in residence, and on guard.
So, I’d moved in to make sure his food came in tins rather than in trousers. I’d agreed to keep lights on in the evening, and the curtains opening and closing at the appropriate hours.
I’d also promised not to interfere in local problems. Not to take sides. Not to get involved. After all, I was only going to be there for a relatively short period. The last thing I’d wanted to do was draw attention to myself.
But it looked like I’d managed it, just the same.
***
After I’d let Friday tow me round the block on the end of his lead, my conscience got the better of me. I bundled him back into the house and crossed over the road to go and bang on the faded varnish of Fariman and Shahida’s front door.
It took a long time for anyone to answer. When the door was finally opened, it wasn’t Shahida who stood there, but an Asian teenager. He was one of those beautiful Indian boys with almost androgynous features, flawless skin and a slender body. It was emphasised by the tight, but grubby white T-shirt he wore, along with dusty jeans, ripped at the knees.
I vaguely recognised him, but seeing him out of context, it took me a moment to put a name to the face. Nasir, that was it. His widowed mother, Mrs Gadatra, actually lived next door to Pauline. Although I’d seen and talked to her two younger children, the elder boy was rarely home, and remained aloof when he was.
I realised that he hadn’t spoken, and was eyeing me with apparent disfavour, as though something with a faintly unpleasant smell had crawled onto his upper lip.
“Yes?” he said at last, sharply, and totally without the grace his appearance would have suggested.
“Hello Nasir. I’m here to see Shahida,” I said, somewhat uncertainly, and when that didn’t seem to impress him, I added, “to find out how Fariman is.”
The boy glowered a little more. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll ask.”
He turned and stalked away up the hall, not quite shutting the door in my face, but making sure I knew I wasn’t invited over the threshold. I hovered, uncomfortable, and almost regretted the impulse that had made me come over.
I glanced around and noticed, with a knot in my stomach, the net curtains twitching in the houses opposite.
After less than a minute another figure appeared round the door, almost completely filling the narrow hallway. He was unusually large for an Asian man, with huge callused hands, but he was squeezed into a suit that, if I was any judge, hadn’t come off a market stall.
“Yes?” he said, too, but with less aggression than Nasir had injected. His voice was oddly high-pitched.
I repeated my inquiry about Fariman and he eyed me bleakly for a second.
“You heard about what happened, then?”
“I was there,” I said.
“You are Charlie?” he asked.
When I nodded he paused for a moment, considering, then swung the door open and gestured me in, but laid a heavy restraining hand on my arm before I could advance much further. “Fariman’s condition is not good,” he said quietly. “One lung collapsed and his leg is badly burned, and there is some talk of infection in the wounds. Please do not upset Shahida with your questions.”
I nodded again, and the weight was lifted from my arm.
We went through into the small, neat front sitting room. Nasir was slouched by the netted window, scowling at life in general, and me in particular.
Shahida was sitting on the sofa, looking utterly dejected. She barely glanced up as we came in. Nasir’s mother was sitting next to her. She was holding both Shahida’s hands in her own as though she could impart inner strength that way.
“Shahida,” I said gently, after a few moments of silence, “I’m so sorry.”
She looked up slowly, as though only just registering my presence. “I begged him not to do anything stupid, Charlie,” she whispered.
The sense of guilt rose quickly, had to be swallowed back down. It stuck like dust in my throat. “I tried,” I said, “but when Langford and his bunch joined in, it all got out of hand so fast.” As excuses went, it sounded pretty lame to my own ears.
“So, why did you stop them beating the boy?” Mrs Gadatra demanded suddenly, her normally placid face fierce. “Look what he did to my sister’s husband. He needed to be taught a lesson, or where will it all end?”
Nasir pushed himself away from the window ledge abruptly, as though he couldn’t maintain his silence any longer, and agitatedly raked his hands through his hair. “You think that, but there are others who deserve to be beaten more,” he said with quiet feeling, starting to pace jerkily. “He’s not the one who was behind this attack.”
“Nasir!” protested the big man, his voice more squeaky than it had been before. “Just remember, boy, it wasn’t so long ago when that could have been you.”
Mrs Gadatra paled visibly at the man’s words, but Nasir twisted to face him. “I know who’s behind this,” he said, vehement, “and I’m going to see they get what’s coming to them.”
“Nasir!” It was his mother who broke in this time, her voice hushed with outrage. “Show some respect to
