‘May I help you?’
‘Thank you. I’m OK.’
‘You are hurt.’
‘No, no, not hurt. I’ll be fine.’
‘I could take you to hospital?’
‘No, like I said, I’m fine.
‘We will go to the light.’
And he helped her up with a cool insistence she was unable to resist, leading her by the arm towards the dull glow of the street lamp. He was middle-aged, neatly though casually dressed, only an inch or two taller than her, with sorrowful dark eyes, grey black hair, heavy brows and a strong broad face, at once fleshy and furrowed. He too could be a mugger, though now she had nothing he could take. He could be a rapist. But she doubted it. He was a kind stranger who had stopped for her and she wanted to weep at the sweetness of it. Holding her by the shoulder, he inspected her with detached professionalism.
‘No damage. I think you are good. But there’s dirt on your face and scratches.’
‘They threw me down.’
‘They are animals, worse than animals.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Not a doctor. But I understand such things.’
‘That’s good,’ she said, not knowing what she meant.
Then suddenly, apropos of nothing he said, ‘I am Palestinian.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She hadn’t asked where he was from, but it was something he needed to say, perhaps even some connection with what she had endured. Had he fled war and occupation? His powerful Arab features broke into a smile. She sensed understanding, even compassion. He asked nothing of her, simply greeted her as a fellow human being, a fellow survivor.
‘Would you like me to call the police?’ he asked.
‘I’ll call them later. Right now, I need to get home.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Close. It’s OK. I can walk.’
‘I will walk with you.’
‘Really, it’s OK.’
‘It is not OK. I will come with you.’
He was determined, like her attackers, but careful, where they had been careless. A voice in her head added ‘good where they had been bad’. But had they been bad? She had defended boys like that and she knew they were never wholly bad.
‘Show me,’ he said.
As they walked, he told her his name and how it was spelt: Sami. She wanted to ask him about his story but sensed it could be too momentous for her to respond to adequately. So, for most of the way they walked in silence. They reached the door. Should she ask him in? What was the etiquette?
‘Your husband is here?’ he asked.
‘No. My son,’ she replied. ‘He’s sixteen,’ she added, as if she were trying to warn him off, though that was not what she intended. And before ringing the bell she added, ‘What I said just then, about them throwing me down. Please don’t say anything to my son. I don’t want to frighten him.’
‘I understand,’ said Sami.
She rang the bell. Jacob opened the door. She almost told him off for failing to use the chain but stopped herself and said, ‘This is Sami. He helped me. I was mugged.’
Jacob stared at her, then at the strange man standing next to his mother. She read a chaos of reactions in his face. It was surprised, transparent with anxiety. The person he relied on had proved vulnerable.
‘What happened, Mum?’
‘I’ll tell you.’ She turned to Sami, thanked him. ‘You’ve been very kind. I won’t forget it. I’ve interrupted your evening. Do you have far to go?’
‘No, not far.’
She was curious. Did he have a family, children? But it was not her business.
‘Wait a moment, please,’ she said. He stood at the door as she went into the flat and picked up a pencil and page from a notepad. She wrote down her mobile number.
‘Here,’ she handed it over. ‘If you need ever help, I’m a lawyer.’
Was she making a mistake? She wasn’t there to solve everyone’s problems. And why should she assume he had problems? He might be anything, a professor, a diplomat, a banker. She could hear Alisha’s voice. ‘Don’t tell them you’re a barrister. Don’t hand out your number. You’ll just get hassled.’ This was different. She wanted to show her appreciation and if he did need help she could always refer him to the right people. That was all. He took the paper, folded it, placed it in a pocket and said, ‘Thank you. I hope you feel better soon.’
‘Goodnight,’ she said.
He smiled and nodded slightly. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Night,’ said Jacob.
* * *
Once inside she bolted the door and put on the chain. She would need to have the locks changed, would need to cancel her cards, ring her phone provider.
‘Want to tell me?’ asked Jacob.
‘In a bit.’
He went through to the kitchen, began to heat some milk, setting out two mugs. She walked in and looked at him. He was reaching for the hot chocolate, focusing on what he was doing. She came up behind him, put an arm around his waist and gave him a hug. He was taller than her now, had been for almost a year. His body was solid, unfamiliar. She felt afraid that she might be losing him. He turned. ‘Sorry, Mum.’
‘Why sorry?’
‘You had a rough time.’
‘It could have happened to anyone. And I’m all right now.’
‘You’ve got blood on your face.’
‘Just a scratch. I fell over. They pulled off my bag and I fell over under the bridge. But it’s OK – I’m not really hurt.’
She knew that tears were rising behind her eyes, could see that he too looked like he might cry, though she suspected some struggle to stop it. Perhaps he felt he needed to be strong for her. She held him close.
They sat together on the sofa, with their drinks, feeling each other’s warmth. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. There was too much to say and nothing to say. They skipped the news.
‘Choose something nice,’ she said, as he searched through the recorded programmes.
‘How about Planet Earth?’
How well he knew her. He set up the programme and settled back with her on the sofa as the familiar voice took them to a world beyond the human. They sipped their hot chocolate and sank deep beneath the oceans. She was still trembling as she felt the warmth of Jacob’s body beside her.
Chapter Eight
Natasha
The applicant in the witness box looked angry rather than depressed. Natasha decided to temper her questions accordingly. A delightful shiver ran through her body as she stood up to speak.
‘You say he criticised you.’
‘Yes, all the time.’
‘That’s incorrect, isn’t it, Mrs Driver?’
‘It bloody isn’t. He never let off.’
‘You fabricated this story to get him out of the house.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘You wanted him out of the house, so you could bring in your lover.’
There was nothing but the husband’s word to go on here, but it was part of his case and needed to be put. Besides, winding up the wife would be a good tactic.
‘That’s rubbish.’