The Pupil Read online

  Jacob and Isabel used to be the best of pals. Mel had a file of photos, Jacob on the slide, Isabel beaming at the base; Cornish holidays; Monopoly on rainy days; Isabel in her sixties leaping about the beach with a Frisbee, playing with the boy as she never had with Mel. Then Jacob hit twelve and the games stopped.

  ‘We could do something Saturday night? Maybe a film?’

  ‘I’m going to a party. You know, Nikita. Don’t look like that.’

  ‘I’m not sure about Nikita.’

  ‘Just ’cos his dad’s an arms dealer.’

  She remembered Nikita’s mother, Yelena, with her purple claws, hair like candy floss, eyes a-glitter with a palette of pink and turquoise.

  ‘It’s not Nikita personally. Of course not, he’s just a kid.’

  ‘Just a kid.’

  ‘It’s… I’m sure they’re nice people but I came to pick you up once when you were only thirteen and the parents had gone away some place and the house smelt of dope.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Jacob, you were thirteen. Too young to smoke dope.’

  ‘I’m sixteen now.’

  Chapter Seven

  Mel

  It was almost nine p.m. when she set off for East Finchley station, the sky a deep cobalt blue fading to faint charcoal in the west. She had slung on a fleece but quickly realised she was under-dressed for the cool spring evening. There was no one at the bus stop so it was likely she had just missed a bus. Rather than wait in the cold for twenty minutes, she continued on foot, enjoying the soft bounce of her trainers, the ease of walking with only a light handbag. Exercise was the answer. She should try to get to the gym. If it had been earlier, she would have taken the old railway path that cut down between straggly trees and bushes from Alexandra Palace to the tube station. But she was not looking to buy or sell either drugs or sex, so it seemed wiser to use the pavement.

  Unlike many of her acquaintances she had no fear of walking in the London streets at night. She faced directly ahead, strode fast and with purpose and had never had any trouble. She would get to the car park by nine forty, jump in the car and be back by ten. Then a long bath, a book or a TV drama on the iPlayer. She would skip the news. It was too depressing.

  A few pedestrians passed her, workers trudging home, a mother and baby in a pram, a group of youths. A couple of kids about Jacob’s age swerved around the corner on bikes without lights. A stray dog crossed her path to snuffle in the gutter. An urban fox stood silhouetted by a street lamp against a dustbin.

  It was as she was walking underneath the old railway bridge that she sensed the presence behind her, footsteps echoing along the Victorian brickwork. She increased her pace. Soon she would get to where there were shops, restaurants, bright lights and people. She avoided the temptation to look back. It would be a perfectly innocent Londoner going about his or her business just as she was. There was no reason to fear. She must keep walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run. The footsteps were speeding up. She was coming to one of the entrances to the railway path, a small metal gate and steps rising from the road to the rough vegetation that fringed the cutting. On one side of the steps there were overgrown bushes, on the other, a small patch of guerrilla garden. Whoever had been behind her was still there.

  The arm around her neck was firm, determined. When she tried to scream there was the sensation of rough wool, a large gloved hand on her mouth. She could smell hot, sour breath and thick sweat. She tried to bite through the wool till her teeth hit something firm that must have been flesh.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ squealed a young male voice and the hand dropped away. She kicked out and her trainer made contact with a leg. She was about to shout but before the sound came out there was pressure on her back and she was propelled through the gateway to the wooden steps that led up to the cutting. Someone pushed her to the ground. It was soft from last night’s rain but there were scratching stones, the weeds were coarse, and nettles stung her face. Despite her fear, part of her wanted to laugh. It was ridiculous, like something from a film. She heard a car go by, voices from the street. She was less than twenty-five yards from the nearest house. But she was pinned to the ground and could hardly breathe, let alone shout. When she tried to lift her face a hand behind her clamped her down. She felt for her bag. It was gone. They had ripped it off. She tried once more to raise her face but again the hand pushed her down, though she managed to twist her neck to one side to gasp air.

  ‘Keep quiet, you bitch,’ said the voice.

  She could see no one, but she was conscious of two, maybe three of them behind her, holding her down. Boys, men, she didn’t know, didn’t care; it made no difference. A fourteen-year-old, younger than Jacob, was as likely to stick a knife in, rape her, as a thirty-year-old.

  ‘Stop it,’ she shouted, realising she was echoing her mother whose strident upper-middle-class tones always sprang up inside her in moments of tension. It sounded weak and stupid, as useless as the efforts of a junior teacher in a room full of adolescents. The hand pushed her face down again and she was choking on earth and stone.

  ‘I said, keep fucking quiet.’

  The hold was loosened, and she was silent. She felt the hand again, gloveless now, under her shirt, round the top of her jeans.

  ‘Leave her, GJ,’ a different voice now, deeper, calmer. ‘She’s older than your mum.’ And the barrister in her, not quite extinguished, made a mental note, GJ.

  The pressure eased, and the hand fell away. She continued to hear their murmured voices though not what was said. For a few moments it was as if she were as far away, watching the actions play out in a film: the woman on the ground, the ruffians holding her down, mumbling among themselves. Then she saw something flash in the half-light, what looked like a small kitchen knife. She shifted her head to look at the face above her, just visible beneath his hoodie. He was about seventeen or eighteen, neither black nor white but somewhere in between, with regular, gentle – almost feminine – features.

  And she wanted to say, ‘Why? Why you? Why me?’ But he continued to hold the knife and she dared not say it and the question remained unanswered.

  ‘Cunt,’ he spat. It was his parting shot. He turned, and with his faceless companion, disappeared, two long dark figures running up the steps to the path.

  She remained in the dirt, unable to move. She was not badly hurt, scratched a little and probably bruised, but she had been felled, trashed, hurled to the ground like a piece of rubbish. The terror which she had kept at bay now struck and she was trembling, cold, immobilised. But she was here, she was alive, she was unharmed.

  She tried to stand but her strength failed her, so she lay and waited. It was cold and dark, and she could hear the cars and then a bus. People talking on the streets. She could have called out, but something stopped her. She pulled herself up to all fours and crawled towards the wooden steps, letting herself down backwards until she reached the railings where she managed to haul herself upright.

  Dazed, she attempted to focus. She was free and unharmed, but she felt invaded by the brutality of the contact, seeing stars as if she had been concussed. At first, she clutched the railings for support but when her legs would no longer hold her, she half slid, half eased herself down to the pavement. Instinctively she felt for her bag although she knew it was gone. Her old friend, her ancient cheap handbag, gone, together with her phone, her wallet, her Oyster, her cards, her keys.

  Tools of her life. At least they would have no way of knowing where the car was. She reminded herself how much worse it could have been. They had snatched a bag. It happened every day on London streets. She had been lucky. Nothing was broken. In a minute she would stand and walk home. But she was conscious of rising anger and a battering inside her head.

  Among the random thoughts there rose the image of a middle-aged woman with tired grey eyes and wispy hair and Mel heard a sad voice chanting, ‘Breathe in, breathe out’. Mechanically, she started to do just that: in and out. Her whirling thoughts
subsided, and she was out on the ocean, an unmoored vessel with neither motor nor sails. Navigation aids, oars, they too had been stolen. She was ten minutes from home, but the horizon was a thousand miles around her. She sat on the cold pavement and waited.

  When the man came up to her, she had no apprehension. She couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but his voice was gentle, accented and sincere.

  ‘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.’

  ‘No one witnessed this so-called criticism.’

  ‘How could they? He was sweet as pie when there were people around.’

  ‘Mrs Driver, you’re a strong woman.’

  ‘Was a strong woman. I’m a wreck now.’

  ‘You give as good as you get.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Not only were you yourself critical of Mr Driver, but on several occasions, you lashed out at him.’

&
nbsp; ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘What you call criticism was nothing beyond the usual marital disagreement.’

  ‘More bullshit.’

  The judge intervened. ‘Mrs Driver, please refrain from using foul language in court. It does little to assist your case. A simple “yes” or “no” would serve you better.’

  ‘Sorry, Your Honour, but she’s talking crap.’

  ‘Please proceed, Miss Baker.’

  ‘Your husband has already apologised for upsetting you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He is prepared to overlook your behaviour in the interests of your daughter.’

  Mrs Driver was red-faced and shaking.

  ‘Don’t you bloody bring my daughter into this.’

  It was going well. She might not have destroyed the evidence, but she had angered the witness. The judge could see this wife was no helpless victim. He allowed the husband back into the marital home, ordering him to confine himself to a separate living area. It was a crazy solution, but her client was delighted.

  ‘Thanks, Miss Baker, you did a great job. I’ll get my solicitor to ask for you if I need another brief.’

  ‘Let’s hope you don’t,’ said Natasha, smiling and shaking the client’s hand. ‘But if you do need help, she’ll know where to find me.’

  Or would she? The tenancy interviews were two months away. Andy had told her they were looking for people who could bring in the work. It sounded like the client would be giving a good report to his solicitor, and Andy would be sure to ask.

  * * *

  The following day she was shadowing Mel on an Interim Care application for a Miss Felicia Gonzalez who had a child called Pedro. She spent most of the two hours at court sitting with the unhappy Felicia as Mel ran in and out of the conference room, negotiating visiting arrangements for Pedro with the social workers. They were only in front of the judge for five minutes. It was disappointing. She’d had more fun watching commercial disputes with her other supervisor.

  Mel looked tired and there was a red mark on one side of her eye. Natasha decided not to mention it, even when she had to grab Mel’s arm to stop her walking in front of a bus on the way back to chambers.