yet, but we both know it’s coming.’
Farid looked at her quizzically, his thick, dark brows furrowed in confusion. ‘Who are you? How do you know Amir?’
‘I’m working the Jodie Wolfe case.’ She watched him stiffen. ‘I know that Amir and some of his friends did something stupid and they’re about to get into some serious trouble. I’m trying to help him.’ She paused. ‘You do know Jodie, right?’
Farid’s gaze fell to the floor.
‘Is she a friend?’
He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
Erin studied his face. ‘Did you see Amir with Jodie at Kuli’s party?’
‘Amir doesn’t talk to any of the ugly girls.’ Farid caught Erin’s expression. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call her ugly – she just … well, she is, right?’
‘Farid, I’d like to talk to you about what happened that night.’
‘Nothing happened.’
‘Were you drinking?’
He scoffed. ‘I don’t drink.’
‘What time did you leave the party?’
He looked at her sideways. ‘Are you from the police?’
Erin smiled. ‘No, I’m a private investigator. When someone’s in trouble, I go out and find the truth about what happened. If it turns out that whatever they’re accused of is an exaggeration or misunderstanding, then I help them. I know you didn’t do anything wrong that night, but you’re going to go down for it unless you tell the truth.’
‘Nothing happened,’ Farid insisted.
‘Then why does Jodie say it did? She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would accuse you for kicks.’
‘She’s just trying to get his attention.’
‘Is that so?’
Farid sighed. ‘She’s not right in the head. She’s always sending him secret messages, even leaving notes in his locker. Amir is kind enough to ignore it. If she was anyone else, she’d be made a fool.’
Erin watched him carefully. There was no hint of a quiver in his voice, no nuance of doubt, nothing to suggest his guilt. She shifted to face him. ‘You’ve got to listen to me, Farid. What Jodie has said about Amir is serious. Really fucking serious, and you’re about to get sucked into it. If you tell me the truth about what happened, I can help you.’
Farid’s fingertips traced the grain of his beard. ‘Listen, I’ve known Amir since we were both five. He plays the big man around town because he can, but he’s a good bloke. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. This is just Jodie messing with him. I told you – she’s not right.’
Erin took in his quiet assurance, his polite manner, his steadfast gaze. She could spot a liar at ten paces and this boy wasn’t lying.
‘Okay. Can you think of any other reason why Jodie would want to get Amir in trouble?’
‘There’s nothing else I can think of. He’s always been polite to her. He has a thing about the underdog and he cares about things in ways other people don’t.’
‘Is that so?’ Erin’s tone was sardonic.
Farid picked up a stray twig and spun it slowly in his hands. ‘When we were eleven, we went down to Vicky Park late one evening. It was just gone spring and it was still a bit too chilly for all the Hackney hipsters. Me, Amir and these other boys were there. This boy Omar had a pellet gun. We were arsing about with it, trying to hit trees and bins and stuff. And then, one of the boys dared him to shoot a swan on the other side of the lake. Omar was laughing about it and we were goading him, calling him chicken and all that. Finally, after about ten minutes of this, Omar takes aim. We didn’t think he was going to do it. We really didn’t. But then he pulled the trigger and hit the thing square in the chest. I’ve never heard a sound like it. It was like a young kid squealing in pain. It was kicking its legs, trying desperately to stay afloat, fighting desperately for its life. We all turned a shade of pale I’ve never seen before. That sound still loops in my nightmares. Five minutes passed and it still fought, still desperate, still screaming. Finally, Amir grabbed the gun and aimed it at the swan’s head. The look on his face was …’ Farid paused.
‘That’s the only time I saw him cry. He did what needed to be done, what none of the rest of us could do because he cared about that animal. It’s not just a one-time thing neither. Two years ago, he brought home this mistreated dog. His parents gave him hell for it but he kept her; named her “Rocky” because she’s a fighter. That’s who he is. He cares about things weaker than him.’ Farid shook his head. ‘Whatever Jodie’s saying about him, it’s not true. It’s not.’
Erin studied him for a moment. Then, she stood and thanked him. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you.’
Farid shrugged, then watched her disappear into the distance. He picked up his muddy ball and turned wearily towards home.
Mo uncapped the seam ripper and slid it beneath the delicate blue thread. He flicked up the blade and broke the stitch. With practised fluency, he moved across the Banarasi brocade material, unpicking his mother’s mistake.
Mo had served as her assistant for years, both of them cramped into the draughty storeroom that she had turned into a tailor’s studio. In July, with wedding season in full swing, her work was seemingly endless. Still, at least Mo’s exams were now finished. In April, he used to stop studying at three and spend the next two hours sewing. Bushra would insist he return to his studies, but he could see the worry creasing her brows as the work stacked up outside. It was slow and intricate and could not be rushed, but she took on too much, for the money. On a shelf above her sewing machine, she kept meticulous records of all activity: clients, jobs, transactions and leads, every single pound colour-coded into bridal wear, casual wear and Western wear.
As a young child, Mo learnt to think in colours and textures: nylon was frustration, brown was honesty, blue was freedom and silk was carefree whimsy. He had been so proud of their bridal creations: the diaphanous golds and glittering reds and thousands of shiny stones. At age seven, he had unwittingly told his friends about one such garment and was ceaselessly teased for weeks. He came home crying one day and Bushra wrapped him in her soft arms.
‘I can’t tell you to ignore them,’ she said. ‘You will always care what people think of you – that’s just the way of the world – but you can decide how you act in return. You can choose to be cruel like them to make yourself feel tall, or you can treat others with kindness to balance out the shortfall.’ She sat him on her lap. ‘There will be moments in your life when you must decide in an instant. What you do is up to you, but I hope you never choose to be cruel.’
He watched her now and marvelled at her sleight of hand. Where other parents were pushy and dogmatic, she steered him with the lightest touch. She told him what she believed to be right and let him set his own course. With this skill and subtlety, she weaved him with a sense of justice.
Lanced with
