Лиз Мистри – Last Request (страница 10)

‘Weather in the north set to remain sunny if cold, with winds of forty …’

It wasn’t often that she had a late start and she was determined to take advantage of it. She’d pampered herself for once. She looked down at the boxes scattered on her floor; her ongoing hobby – the ‘Stalk the Stalker’ project as she liked to call it – could wait. The last three weeks had been hectic, with three murders and a suspicious death to contend with, and now she needed to unwind and recharge her batteries. So, instead of her usual quick shower, she soaked in a bubble bath, turned the radio up full volume and used some of the smellies Charlie had given her for Christmas. She got dressed in her usual jeans and T-shirt – an upmarket whore with downmarket tastes! – and was just beginning to brush her still-damp hair when the faint echo of the doorbell disturbed her. She rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror and ignored it, studying her split ends. Maybe a trip to the hairdresser’s was in order.

There it was again, the damn doorbell. Couldn’t they take a damn hint? She stood up and walked over to the window, parting the blinds with her fingers and straining to see who was at the door, but the angle was wrong. Whoever was ringing the bell with such persistence was standing too close to the door. She backed away from the window and waited. If they didn’t ring again, then she’d ignore them. She didn’t want her valuable time eaten up by one of her neighbours with their never-ending problems or one of the men from the mosque wanting donations to some Islamic charity or another. She’d just about decided that her would-be visitor had given up, when the ringing started again – longer and louder and more insistent. Gonna have to disconnect the damn thing!

She ran down the stairs, nearly tripping on a pair of trainers placed halfway up. Ruby! That child was going to be the death of her. Reaching the bottom, she could see a male shadow behind the frosted glass of her front door. Not recognising the figure, she hesitated. Maybe he’d give up now. But no. The buzzing was really doing her head in. In two strides she was at the door, wrenching it open, not bothering with the safety chain, her mouth open to tell her visitor to take his damn finger off the bell.

Gripping the door handle, she glared at the man. Pale skinned. Middle Eastern? In an instant, she was transported back fifteen years. Her breath caught in her throat. This couldn’t be. Nikki blinked, her mouth closed, her words dried up, ashes in her throat. Her fingers left the handle and flitted up to her scar, fluttering over it briefly, before re-establishing their grip on the door. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. Heart thudding like a stampede of wildebeests, she eyed the intruder. How long had she waited for this? How many years? The plastic edge of the door dug into her hands, sharp and real. It was like seeing a ghost, an apparition. She wanted to yell, to rage, to raise her fists and hit him. All the frustration she’d experienced before incapacitated her again now and she hated herself for it. Just for a second, she’d tricked herself into seeing what she wanted to see.

A gaggle of thoughts drifted through her head, trying to make sense of this situation. And then it hit her. Khalid! Something had happened to him.

With eyes the colour of a burnished chestnut, the man on the doorstep held her gaze. His brow furrowed, creases spreading out from the corners of his eyes like a shattered window. His skin, wizened, his body hunched and skinny. He leaned with both hands on a walking stick, positioned between his feet. The urge to jump to her feet and push him backwards down the three steps was strong. Ignoring the prickles all over her skin and her sweaty palms, she returned his stare.

The old man took one hand off the walking stick and wobbled a little as he rummaged in his pocket. Nikki’s hand went out to steady him and then she snatched it back, her shoulders tensing. She needed to be on her guard. Khalid had always told her how devious and manipulative his dad could be.

Pulling out a cloth handkerchief, he raised it to his face with a liver-spotted hand and wiped his eyes, one at a time.

For fuck’s sake, is he crying? Nikki exhaled, long and slow. Whatever he wanted, this meeting was not going to go his way. Ignoring her wobbly stomach, she straightened her back and pursed her lips. Was it her imagination or had it got darker, chillier? She was being fanciful, yet her entire body was reacting.

‘I am surprised you weren’t expecting me, Nikita.’ His voice was weak, but his English was good. Almost as good as Khalid’s had been, but still there was that telltale accent. The slight hesitancy over some of the consonants. ‘Especially when what you did all those years ago has come to light. You didn’t expect that, did you? Well, you’ve been caught out.’

Nikki strained to catch the words. It was as if they floated on a puff of air that snatched them away as soon as they left his lips. Each word seemed to be delivered on vibrato – shaky and tremulous. What was he on about? What she’d done all those years ago? His frailty should have softened Nikki’s heart, but she wasn’t giving an inch. After what he did, what he plotted … He could say his piece here on her doorstep and then be gone. It would be as if she’d never seen him. She’d push it to the farthest, darkest corners of her mind and leave it there to fester beside the memories of his son.

‘I’m in a rush. Say what you have to and then go and never, ever come back.’ Her voice barely wobbled, her words clipped. Saying them gave her a surge of power. She had this. It would be over soon, but she was in control.

The old man’s lips trembled and he wiped his eyes again. For God’s sake, he was crying. It must be something bad. Her resolve splintered. Did she really want to deal with this on her doorstep with Mrs Shah earwigging from her garden next door and Mr Khalifa from opposite twitching at his curtains? She stepped back from the door, pulling it wide. ‘Come in.’

Her voice couldn’t have been any more unwelcoming if she tried, yet the old man lifted his stick and placed it on the doormat, using his other hand to grip the door jamb as he manoeuvred himself inside. Nikita, wanting to avoid touching him, pressed herself against the wall until he had moved far enough into the cramped hallway for her to close the door, with a little wave to each of her nosy neighbours. It’d be all round Listerhills by lunchtime that Nikki Parekh had entertained a strange man in her house whilst the kids were at school.

Aware that he was looking at her home – judging it too, no doubt – Nikki turned and slipped past him. Why did the kids have to leave all their shoes heaped at the bottom of the stairs and why hadn’t she spent five minutes hoovering instead of spreading smelly lotion over her feet?

Without uttering a word, she marched down the hallway and into the kitchen, leaving the door open for him to follow. She walked straight over to the sink and filled a glass of cold water. As she gulped it down, she heard the tap, tap of his stick on the wooden floor. She turned and leaned against the sink, cradling her glass in both hands. Again, his eyes flitted round the room, taking in everything, scouring her life. At least the breakfast dishes were done. Nikki followed him with her eyes as he edged closer to the table and, with an enquiring glance in her direction, pulled out a chair and flopped into it, a heavy sigh leaving his mouth as he took the weight off his feet. He seemed in no hurry to speak, his eyes continuing their survey, until they landed on the fridge.

Nikki’s heart sputtered. The photos!

He pulled himself to his feet again and stepped over to study the magnetic photos that hung on the fridge door. He reached out a hand and with one finger traced Charlie’s face. ‘She’s his, isn’t she? Khalid’s? She’s got his eyes. How could you do that to him when he has a daughter? How could you?’

Do what? Nikki wanted to snatch the photo away from him, hide all evidence of her daughter and send the old man away. ‘She’s mine.’

Favouring his right leg, he hobbled back to his chair. He was so much older than he’d looked in the photos Khal had shared with her. Older, shrunken and somehow diminished.

‘Can I have some water?’ He nodded to the glass she was holding.

Nikki grabbed a glass from the drainer, filled it with water, plonked it down on the table and pushed it towards him, spilling some as she did so. ‘Look, Burhan, you don’t want to be here and I certainly don’t want you here, so why don’t you just say whatever it is you’ve flown over two and a half thousand miles to say and then go.’

Khalid’s dad lifted the glass and took a long drink, gulping the liquid down as if it would give him strength. Was he playing for time? Was Khal poorly? Didn’t matter to her, she couldn’t care less. He could be dead for all she cared. Fifteen years and no word from him. Barely married and then he fucked off back home to Palestine. No, Khalid Abadi, meant nothing to her.