Deborah nodded at the package, which she’d leaned against the sofa. It was wrapped for its protection, a simple covering of butcher’s paper, its ends taped. Leylo made short work of opening it. It was not a typical studio photograph. It was meant for the wall, not to stand on a table or sideboard. Deborah had done it in black and white—as was her preference—and she’d framed it simply, a white mount and a black metal frame. In the picture, Yasir was sitting on the arm of Leylo’s chair. He was looking down at her and she up at him. He was in profile. She was in three-quarters view. Deborah liked this particular shot for the nature of their relationship that it revealed and the way the qualities of their partnership could be identified: patience, devotion, compassion, support.
Looking upon it, Leylo clasped her hands beneath her chin. “This is beautiful. You are so kind to bring this to me.”
“You were kind to allow me to take the photos,” Deborah said. “In fact . . . Would you let me take a few more now? It’s only that . . . The change in you is so marked. Would you mind terribly?”
“Here?” Leylo sounded startled. “Now? Without my husband?”
“If it wouldn’t make you feel terribly awkward. I have my camera. And the light in here is very good.”
Leylo was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed. But then she smiled and said, “Yes. Where would you like me? Here? Right here?”
She was sitting on the sofa, lit in part by a shaft of sunlight. It would have been interesting to have her placed there because of this light, save for the fact of the wall behind her and the art it held. While each piece was worthy of study, having them in the picture would distract the eye. An adjustment to the depth of field wouldn’t entirely solve the problem, but it would have to do. So Deborah said, “If we could move a chair near the window . . . ?”
“Oh yes. That is ever so easy, yes it is.” Leylo moved the chair herself and Deborah positioned her. On a table behind her was a lamp that Deborah lit. She turned it slightly and moved from view the statue along with the case of goldweights that the table displayed.
She stepped back a few feet and looked at the arrangement: the woman with ambient light on her cheek, a glow from the lamp on her hair. She said, “This will be lovely, Leylo. I’ll bring you a copy. Only . . .” She smiled. “I’ll then have to photograph Yasir as well, so you’ll have a matched pair of pictures. And then it will be your children, one by one. Perhaps your parents? Brothers and sisters? I’ll eventually become such a pest that you’ll have no choice but to make me a member of your family.”
Leylo laughed at this idea. It was the moment Deborah wanted. She took the picture.
LEYTON
NORTH LONDON
Monifa knew at once that the long pause before Chinara Sani admitted them into her flat had been taken up with her ringing Abeo and asking him what his wife and his daughter were doing buzzing her flat from outside the building. He’d managed to get from Pembury Estate to this place so quickly that she assumed he’d used Lark’s vehicle or he’d taken a taxi. There was no other way he could have managed the trip so quickly.
He entered the flat with a face set in stone. He shut the door with care. He walked past Chinara to confront Monifa. He spoke evenly, quietly. Monifa was reminded of a cobra. He said, “What are you doing here, Monifa?” And then with a glance at Simi, who had retreated to a corner of the room, “What is Simisola doing here?”
Monifa drew a steadying breath during which she wondered exactly how much of himself he’d be willing to show in front of a witness who was not part of their family. She said quite reasonably, “I’m here to tell this woman that I will ring the police if she touches my daughter.”
“My daughter,” Abeo countered. “At least that is what you have claimed, yes? And if she is mine, I am who decides what will happen to her, not you. You would turn her into what you are: the sour fruit of your father’s tree. Come, Simisola.”
Simi didn’t move.
“Simisola, you must come to me now,” Abeo said. “Do not make me fetch you.”
“Mummy?” Simi looked to Monifa. “What should I—”
This was not acceptable to Abeo. He crossed the room and grabbed her by the arm. He said to Chinara, “So. We will do it now.”
Monifa rushed forward to put herself between Abeo and the cutter. She said, “No! I will not allow—”
Abeo was swift in his release of Simisola and equally swift in capturing Monifa. He shoved her behind him. She stumbled against an armchair and as she was righting herself, he clutched Simi’s arm once more and he thrust her towards Chinara. “Now,” he said.