and deleting, typing and more deleting, I checked my emails for distraction.
There was one from Xav with biog details of Hadi Kattan, which I perused quickly. He was a fascinating man. He was born in Iran. His parents and sister had been incarcerated under the Shah’s regime; he was the only survivor from his immediate family, thanks to being away at school in Britain. After their deaths he’d stayed here for some time, under an uncle’s wing, educated first at Rugby and then Cambridge. He had famously denounced Islam in his thesis, part of which was published to great acclaim and controversy in The Times, after which he’d rejected the literary career so many had predicted and had gone on to make his reputation as a brilliant but ruthless trader on the London and New York stock exchanges. He briefly headed the Equities division of the World-Trident Bank before moving into the art world and retiring early with a huge fortune. His wife, Alia, had died five years ago, leaving him two children. The rumours of political intrigue, and an al-Qaeda connection seemed unlikely to me, given Kattan’s political and religious background.
Below Xav’s email was another, forwarded from Tina at the Chronicle.
‘ASH KATTAN: HOPE FOR THE FUTURE,’ the header said, and there followed a message from Tina: ‘Hadi Kattan is hosting a party at his place on Tuesday to mark the launch of his son’s political campaign: we’re invited. Perfect opportunity to ingratiate ourselves. Grab that lovely husband of yours and get a babysitter.’
I contemplated it for a moment. I felt the adrenalin begin to course through my veins, and I knew, as I’d known all day, that I wasn’t going to be able to resist chasing the story.
UNIVERSITY, OCTOBER 1991
Sweet roses … Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
Sonnet 54, Shakespeare
Despite Dalziel’s apparent – if rather lackadaisical – enthusiasm for my help in the pub that night, I didn’t hear from him again. I was hugely disappointed, but not that surprised. Along with the realisation my brief encounter with him had been just a drunken fancy of his, my nebulous hope of acceptance into the upper echelons slowly died.
The Student Union put on a do on Saturday for Hallowe’en; resolutely I bought my ticket. Moany Moira was going home for the weekend, and I saw my chance. I had to make some proper friends. The theme was ‘Spooky ‘60s style’; I eschewed the normal array of ghosts and werewolf costumes, and went for a pretty spectacular multicoloured Mr Freedom jumpsuit I found in the local Oxfam and some plastic fangs. After an hour or so of pretending I was having a good time with a few people from the Poetry Society, bobbing around to the Bee Gees and Mama Cass, James arrived looking rather handsome as a be-fanged vampire in a Beatles suit, a besotted freckle-faced girl dressed as Twiggy in tow. James waved but didn’t come to say hello, and I felt a faint lurch as I watched the pair kissing passionately beneath fake cobwebs in the corner.
Surprised at myself, I drank too much cider, ending up cornered by an over-enthusiastic rugby player, a tall sandy-haired boy called Peter whose long hair had a nasty slick sheen, and who was so drunk he kept calling me Rosemary. Eventually I relented and let him kiss me outside the girls’ loos, but when he started to paw at the zip of my jumpsuit with a large sweaty hand, I pushed him away gently.
‘Com’on, Roze-mary,’ he slurred, swaying dangerously. ‘You know you want to really.’
‘Actually, I really don’t,’ I insisted, but he was heavy and drunk, and horribly persistent. His breath a cloying mix of beer and peanuts, his wet pink mouth leered above my face before closing down on mine.
‘Please!’ I pushed him away harder this time, his lips leaving a trail of smelly saliva and peanut crumbs across my cheek. ‘Get off!’
‘Fucking Christ,’ he snarled. ‘You bloody plebs are all the same.’ He lunged forward, slamming me against the wall as he pinioned me there, so hard that I hit my head on the skeleton hanging behind me. ‘Little prick-tease.’
‘Ow,’ I clutched my head as the plastic bones rattled, a little stunned. Before I could move, Peter lunged forward again – and then, as if an invisible wire had pulled him, suddenly he flew backwards, landing on his arse on the beer-stained floor.
‘Didn’t you hear the lady?’
Startled, I gazed at a glowering James.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes. Fine, thanks.’ Together we stared down at the crumpled Peter. Greying Y-fronts were visible above his ill-fitting brown cords, large sweat-patches staining the underarms of his striped shirt. I shuddered. I was drunker than I realised.
‘I don’t think she was enjoying that very much.’ James was absolutely nonchalant, but his fists were both clenched. ‘Were you, Rose?’
‘Not much,’ I agreed, nervously.
‘Who the fuck … ?’ Peter scrambled inelegantly to his feet, a mottled red suffusing his clammy complexion. ‘Who the fuck asked you?’
‘No one,’ James shrugged pleasantly, turning away.
‘Oi!’ Peter pulled James round by the shoulder. ‘I said, who asked you, you jumped-up little twat?’
‘Let go, mate.’ I could feel the tension rising in James as he stared at Peter’s hand.
‘You’re one of those Society X morons, aren’t you? Licking bloody St John’s arse.’
James punched Peter square on the nose. There was a nasty crunch and an almost immediate spurt of blood. The taller boy crumpled forwards again, clutching his nose. James just stared down at him, and the blankness on his face chilled me.
‘James!’ The pale girl he’d been canoodling with in the bar stood in the doorway, her red beret pulled down over her curls, false eyelashes like spider-legs framing her huge shocked eyes.
‘Yeah, all right, Kate.’ James shook his hand ruefully. ‘Ouch. His nose was harder than it looked.’
I gaped at him.
‘You might want to think about leaving now,’ James said softly, propelling me back towards the bar. ‘We could walk you …’
‘James!’ The girl was scowling. She was very young, fifteen or sixteen maybe. Younger than we were. Peter groaned on the ground.
‘I’ll be fine.’ I sensed her hostility. I’d had enough aggro for one night. ‘Honestly. Thank you, though.’
As I left the bar, I glanced back at James. He was holding his companion’s arm, apparently soothing her as they gathered their coats to beat a retreat themselves. Catching my eye, he held a hand up in farewell. I was utterly confused.
The following day was the anniversary of my French grandmother’s death. I spoke to my mother on the phone in the morning; she tried valiantly to mask her sadness.
‘Light a candle, love, if you get the chance. She’d like that,’ she said, but I knew it was unlikely I’d be near a church. I mumbled something placatory, and promised to write soon.
Around four o’clock, after a day spent struggling with Blake’s Songs of Innocence, I was desperate to get out of my stuffy little room. I
