before we can step into the airport, Matthew’s hand closes like a vise over my arm again.
“Understand this,” he says, urbane, friendly, “it is not clever to test me. I like being tested. I like to win. I have watched you break a law in the last eighteen hours. You defied me and I let you, but you mustn’t fall into the trap of thinking that means you got away with it. I know enough to destroy you this very minute. I don’t need a further excuse. At any time, I can take away the rest of your life. Tread more carefully in this city, or you will fall. Have I made myself quite clear?”
And before I can reply, before I can shake off the steely hand that has blotted out the sunlight, he delivers his final blow.
“And while we’re on the subject, Eva,” says Sir Matthew conversationally, “what is Blackpool Zoo like these days?”
3
Stranger
I have no appetite. I move my hand mechanically, taking the fork to the pasta and bringing it to my mouth. It’s difficult to swallow. I am aware of every sound. The chink of cutlery, fork on plate. The steady breathing of the people on either side of me: Matthew and a young boy with a lean, pale face and soft, dreamy eyes exactly the same brown as mine. He doesn’t say a word. Matthew’s foot moves against the leg of the dining table, tap, tap, tap, and it’s annoying. There’s the occasional crunch when the youngest person at the table, a little girl of five, bites into her peppers. I keep glancing at her. I can’t help it. I’ve watched her grow from a baby to a little girl from a distance, and it’s surreal to see her in the flesh. She smiles at me without reserve. Her teeth are small and even, and her smile is sweet, her dark hair soft and unruly. People always said Sasha and Amarra looked very alike. Sasha swings her feet to and fro. They don’t touch the floor, she’s too small, and there’s a rush of air every time they swing. Swish, swish.
There’s no conversation at the moment. Even with my head down, I sense their eyes flicking to me and then away again, all of them except eleven-year-old Nikhil, who has a peaceful, faraway look on his face, as though nothing in the real world can shatter him.
It was a long drive from the airport. The house is close to the city center, set on a quiet cul-de-sac flanked by trees. It offers some breathing space in this busy, brightly lit city. Through the window, I can smell the wet trees, and they smell clean and raw and untouched by the city scent, the dust and hooves of town-bred cows that stand in the middle of streets and refuse to budge.
We saw one of those cows on the way. It had planted itself in the middle of the road and stood there peacefully, swinging its tail back and forth. When cars slowed down and honked, the cow did little more than lift its head to note our plight. I leaned out of the window to gawk at it. I was so sure that Mina Ma had been lying the time she told me about this particular phenomenon.
Alisha, Amarra’s mother, met us at the airport. It was a shock to see her brought to life. I had only ever known her in photographs and videos. But there she was.
She stood outside the sliding glass doors of the terminal. Behind her, I could see rain slowing to a halt, the red sign of the airport Coffee Day, the cars in a line waiting to pick somebody up or drop them off.
We saw her before she saw us. She was beautiful, still slender, and didn’t look like she was in her forties. She had a soft, earthy look, with wide brown eyes in a heart-shaped face and thick dark hair. She wore jeans and a blouse open at the neck but made them look more glamorous than most cocktail dresses. As we got closer, I could see her fingers were stained with paint and pencil. It was the only thing that made me smile.
She spotted us as we got to the doors, the blood draining from her face. She was wringing her hands so hard they were nearly white. I couldn’t help noting how familiar the gesture was. How many times had I caught myself knotting my fingers together, knitting