“Could you find me an ATM, please?”
He sighs and pulls over in Knightsbridge, blocking one lane. Elizabeth crosses the pavement to a cash machine, where she inserts her card and follows the instructions.
Nothing happens.
The card emerges from the slot. She tries again, slowly retyping her PIN. The result is the same. Choosing a credit card, she requests a cash advance. The screen freezes for a moment and then says, “Transaction Canceled.” This time her card doesn’t reappear.
Each card. Every account. How is that possible?
Elizabeth glances over her shoulder at the cab driver. She can feel his impatience growing just like the cold creeping into her toes. There is a helpline number on the ATM screen. Elizabeth opens her mobile and follows the automated instructions. In the meantime, she searches the pockets of her coat and the compartments of her purse, hoping to find cash.
A voice answers, an Indian accent, half a world away. Elizabeth tries to explain. The operator wants her password. The cab driver toots his horn. Elizabeth holds up two fingers and shouts, “Two minutes.”
“Your accounts have been frozen, Mrs. North.”
“But we have sufficient funds.”
“It has nothing to do with the account balances.”
Elizabeth can hear her voice growing shrill. “What about my credit cards?”
“Suspended.”
“Who did this? Let me talk to your manager?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to visit your branch.”
“But I need money now.”
“Talk to your branch.”
“It’s nearly ten o’clock at night. I have a cab fare to pay.”
The call center operator apologizes for the inconvenience. Elizabeth argues, demands, yells down the phone, but the line is dead.
The cab driver is standing on the pavement now, hands on hips, tattoos on his forearms.
“The machine just ate my cards,” she explains. “I only have fifteen pounds and thirty-five pence, but I’ll find some money at home. Polina will have some.”
“Polina?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just take me home.”
The driver gets back in the cab, not bothering to open the door for her. They travel in silence along King’s Road, which is still busy on a Wednesday night. Elizabeth once worked in a boutique here during a summer holiday. One jacket cost more than a week’s wages. She wishes she had that money now.
They cross Putney Bridge and turn along Lower Richmond Road. A group of young men spill from a pub. One of them jumps into the road, waving his arms. The driver swerves. Misses. Takes his hand from the wheel.
“Morons!” he yells, and then to Elizabeth, “Idiots!”
Familiar streets now, turning left and right. There are more vehicles than usual parked in Elizabeth’s street. The cab pulls up, engine running. A dozen car doors open in unison. Reporters, cameramen and photographers close around the black cab like baying hounds on the scent of a fox. The cab driver is shouting at them to “watch the motor” and “give the lady some room.” He opens the passenger door for Elizabeth and shields her, shouldering people aside as she makes her way along the front path.
Someone grabs at her arm. She pulls away. A tape recorder is thrust in her face.
“Has your husband contacted you?”
“Do you think he took the money?”
“Why has he run?”
Elizabeth reaches the front door. Pushes it closed. There are two suitcases in the hallway. Polina is sitting on the stairs, texting on her mobile.
Elizabeth asks breathlessly, “Do you have any cash? I need twenty pounds.”
Polina pulls a bundle of loose bills from the pocket of her jeans, a twenty among them. Elizabeth notices the suitcases.
“Is everything all right?”
“I’m leaving.”
“What?”
“Rowan is asleep. The ironing is done. I have made his lunch for tomorrow. I cannot stay.”
“Why?”
Polina motions outside. “They have been ringing the doorbell. Phoning. Yelling through the letterbox.”
“I’m sorry.”
The nanny shakes her bobbed hair. “I cannot stay here. I cannot.”
Elizabeth follows her gaze. She notices a dustpan and brush. Broken glass. The bay window has been smashed. A broken paver sits on the phone table, along with a single-page note. Three words.
Bankers are scum!
Polina squeezes past her, struggling with her suitcases. The cab driver gives her a hand. The reporters and photographers step aside.
“Please don’t go,” says Elizabeth. “What about your money?”
“You can owe me.”
25
The old motel is boarded up with plywood on the barred windows and padlocks on the doors. The Courier waits for the young men to arrive, watching from a distance. One of them will be late-Taj. He’s older and more level-headed than the others, but he lacks conviction.
The one called Rafiq has shown promise. He killed when he was asked. Held his nerve. Pulled the trigger. He has been quiet since then, looking at himself in the mirror as though expecting to see some visible change in himself like the notch between his eyes grown deeper.
Two of the young men have arrived. They are arguing and joking, throwing fake punches and kicking at a soft-drink can in the gutter. How many others are there like them-white, black, Asian, rich, poor, educated, uneducated-praying in Madrasahs, surfing the internet, dreaming of Jihad?
Syd is the youngest. He runs his fingers over the contours of the dark-colored BMW parked at the rear of the motel screened by an overgrown hedge.
“This would be such a sweet ride, you know. I reckon Jenny Cruikshank would go out with me if I had a ride like this.”
“Jenny Cruikshank still won’t do the business,” laughs Rafiq, “not even in a BMW. She’s a prick-tease, man.”
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
Rafiq laughs even harder, his cheeks etched with tiny acne scars like needle marks. “Don’t let the Courier catch you leaving your prints on that thing.”
Syd bunches his sleeve in his fist and begins wiping the car.
Built on either side of a tarmac courtyard, the red-brick motel has two stories with an open walkway along the upper floor. The Courier lets himself into the dining room, which is stripped of furnishings except for a dozen chairs and a tea-urn. There are boxes of donated clothes and blankets-some for disposal, some for sale.
Rafiq and Syd are in Room 12, setting up a digital camera. Folding a magazine, Rafiq jams the pages under one leg of the tripod, which is shorter than the others. Syd sits cross-legged on the floor wearing cargo pants, trainers and an Arsenal strip.
“Should the light be blinking?” he asks.
