Narissa cursed quietly. Deborah said to her, “What about that woman you ring?”
“What woman? What are you talking about?”
“The woman from your meeting?”
“Victoria?” She was silent for a moment.
“Could she keep her for a night or two?”
“If Zawadi finds out I’ve moved her, she’ll pull the bloody plug. Jesus on the Cross, none of this would happen if Zawadi would start using protection orders.”
“Protection orders?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know about them, Deborah. Jesus. Never mind. You’re white, you’ve got buckets of it, so why would you?”
“Buckets of what?”
“Chelsea? Please.”
“All right. All right. I’d say sorry, but we’ve been there, haven’t we? What’s a protection order, please?”
“A weapon against FGM. It puts parents on notice, requires them to hand over their passports, lets them know they’ll be arrested, charged, and probably convicted if they cut their daughter or have someone else do it. Anyone can file one, but Zawadi won’t use them. If she would do, Bolu could go home straightaway.”
“So why won’t she—”
“Because she sees protection orders as just another way whites can pretend to be helping while simultaneously doing sod all to improve anyone’s life. And in case you haven’t noticed, Zawadi does not believe in the ‘good works’ of white people, anyway—inverted commas. Since it was white people who came up with the idea of protection orders—”
“Hang on. Are you saying that protection orders have the support of no Black activists?”
“I don’t mean that. There’re plenty of Black supporters. But Zawadi believes that far too many people are involved in obtaining a protection order, and they’re generally white people. She believes it’s easier and quicker to place a potential victim into the home of a supportive anti-FGM family.”
“For how long, though?”
“Just till social workers can establish a relationship that ensures the girl won’t ever be cut.”
But of course that was exactly what Charles Akin and his wife were refusing to do: establish a relationship with a social worker. It was a matter of principle to them, and so far it seemed that they would not relent.
Because she couldn’t risk bringing Bolu into her home to ease Narissa’s conflict with her parents, Deborah took the decision to speak with Zawadi about Bolu, her parents, protection orders, and the entire situation the very next morning. She managed to get Zawadi’s home address from Narissa, and in advance of going to Orchid House for another photography session, she went early to Kennington.
She found the address she was looking for in Hillingdon Street. It was an immense building of grey concrete, with laundry hanging limply on balconies—hoping for a drying breeze—and satellite dishes winking in the sun. She could have been anywhere in town and she’d find these towers. This particular one was set among four others, a stone’s throw from Kennington Park and perhaps a quarter hour’s walk from The Oval.
Deborah was just getting out of her car when Zawadi drove past her, herself heading towards the tower blocks, not away from them. She braked when, apparently, in her rearview mirror, she saw Deborah waving. She reversed the car, came up alongside her, and lowered her window. Before she had a chance to ask what Deborah was doing there, Deborah herself asked if she and Zawadi could talk about Boluwatife Akin.
Zawadi’s eyes narrowed. “What about her? If you’re here to pry information out of me—”
“Narissa rang me last night. She wanted to bring her to me, but my dad’s siding with Bolu’s dad, and my husband . . . It’s just that I can’t trust either of them.” Deborah gave Zawadi the same information that Narissa had given to her: her parents, the advent of the police, the discovery of Bolu in Narissa’s flat.
Zawadi greeted all this with an admirable stillness. She contemplated Deborah for a good stretch of seconds before she said, “Come with me.” She drove into the car park that served the closest tower. When Deborah parked alongside her, she was grabbing a shoulder bag from her car’s back seat. She gave Deborah a glance and said, “I’ve had to do the school run today. Have you rung the flat?”
“I’ve only just arrived. I didn’t know you had children, Zawadi.”
“Ned. He’s twelve. So what do you want, exactly? If you can’t take Bolu, what’ve we got to talk about?”