he said.
‘Has he?’ The PM’s frown displayed more uncertainty than disagreement – an odd thing to see in a man who was usually so bullishly confident. He swallowed. He leant forward and swallowed again. But if he had been about to say something, a loud knock on the door stopped him. He leant back. ‘Come.’
A man poked his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb, Prime Minister, but you wanted to know when they arrived?’
‘Thank you. I’ll be down in a moment.’ The door closed, and when the Prime Minister looked at Joshua, Joshua thought he must have imagined that earlier uncertainty. ‘Duty calls. I’m truly grateful for your coming at such short notice. Before you go, there is something I need to ask you.’
10 p.m.
The cake had tipped the kitchen from messy into a disaster zone, and she was trying to clear it when she heard Lyndall calling, ‘Mum.’
If she’d told Lyndall once, she’d told her a thousand times: come into the same room as me if you want to speak to me.
‘Mum.’
She ran a pan under the tap, seeing how thick was the crust of congealed food on it.
‘Mum.’
‘I’m in the kitchen.’
‘Mum, hurry.’ There was now no mistaking the urgency in Lyndall’s voice. It got Cathy to the balcony in seconds.
She saw Lyndall at the balcony edge. Not just her but a whole line-up of neighbours were also looking down as the dark sky flashed blue.
‘What’s going on?’ When she went to join them, she saw that the flashing lights were coming from a bevy of police cars. She counted four outside the community centre and one on its way to join them.
‘They drove up,’ Lyndall said. ‘All of them at once. And then all the police rushed in.’
The sound of more sirens rent the air. ‘I better get down.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, don’t.’ Her voice was firm enough to show that there would be no gainsaying her. ‘Stay here.’
As she got to the bottom of the last gangway, four more police cars screeched to a halt and eight more police officers rushed into the centre.
Something really serious. She ran the last few yards only to find her path blocked by a policewoman. ‘You can’t go in.’
‘I’m a member of the police liaison committee. You will let me,’ she said with an authority that came as a complete surprise to her, and to her greater surprise it worked.
She pushed the door open and stepped in.
She could hear the sounds of raised voices and of banging, but there was no one in the darkened entrance hall. She felt along the wall until she had located the light switch, which she flicked on. Nothing. The bulb must have blown.
More shouting: was that Banji’s voice rising above the others?
She knew the centre well enough to feel her way through the dark towards the assembly room that was at the back. More shouting. Something happening which, despite the massive police presence, had not been resolved.
‘Get the fuck off him,’ she heard.
Was that Banji’s voice?
‘Can’t you see you’re hurting him?’
It was Banji.
She pushed through the double doors.
Afterwards she was sorry that she had, because the memory of what she saw would never leave her.
At first she couldn’t make sense of it, because the images she absorbed were so fractured. She saw the room – big and square and windowless. It wasn’t just hot, it was so steaming hot and it stank of mould and damp and sweat that seemed to be coming off the walls. Pushed up against one of these walls were two armchairs whose floral cushioning had been yellowed by age and overuse. Above the chairs, a series of posters, stuck up more to hide the damp stains on the wall than to tell the community how to combat STDs, when the local MP had his surgery and why breastfeeding was best. And near these sofas . . .
‘Let me go to him,’ she heard.
She saw Banji face down on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was still struggling to free himself. He was shouting so loudly that she could hear what he was saying above the din that issued from the corner where a group of people, also all shouting, were penned in by policemen with batons extended. ‘You’re supposed to be the good guys,’ he was shouting. ‘You’re the police. The representatives of the law. You’re meant to help. Can’t you see how you’re hurting him?’
Her gaze moved off Banji and to the middle of the room.
And there was the sight she must have been avoiding, because it was the sight she should immediately have taken in.
A mass of uniforms. Police in a scrum. And the ball that they were struggling for was Ruben.
He was on his stomach, also handcuffed, but in his case two policemen were holding down each arm, while three others had laid themselves across his legs, as a sixth, who had strapped Ruben’s legs below the knee, was tightening a further strap around his calves.
Ruben’s leg twitched, as if he were trying to kick out or to stop the strap biting in. His head shifted a fraction to the side, only to be wrenched back by one of the policemen.
‘Don’t move,’ all the officers seemed to be yelling at once. ‘Don’t move.’
He had stopped moving. Couldn’t. Not with so many of them on him.
But their blood was up. ‘Don’t move,’ one of them yelled, as he pressed down on Ruben’s head.
Poor Ruben, he must be terrified. She had to do something.
‘One more step.’ Where had he come from, this policeman whose face reared so close to hers? ‘And you’ll also be downed.’ He pushed her back, and when she half fell, he held her up and pushed her again until she found herself backed against the wall, with his hand holding her there. ‘Calm down,’ he said, while turning to his officers and gesturing with the other hand at Banji: ‘Get that man out of here.’
As the din in the room continued unabated, two of the officers linked an arm under each of Banji’s arms and hauled him up. ‘Come on, son.’
With huge effort, Banji wrenched himself forward, breaking their lock. She thought he was going to run. He didn’t. He stood stock-still and yelled, ‘Look what you’ve done.’
His shouting ricocheted around the room, silencing all the others.
And again: ‘Look what you’ve done!’
Only one sound now: a guttural exhalation from the centre of the room.
And
