Abeo surged up at that. He drew back his fist.
Tani at last had what he’d so long wanted. He punched his father fully in the face. He’d never enjoyed the pain of his knuckles striking someone’s bone as he did when he heard the crack of his father’s nose. The force of the blow whirled Abeo round. Tani grabbed him then, his arm locked round Abeo’s throat. He began to drag him towards the bedroom door and out of the room. But his father was strong. He wasn’t going anywhere willingly. He kicked and thrashed. He freed himself. He charged at Tani and knocked him onto the bed. But before he could throw himself on top of his son’s body, Tani rolled away so that Abeo’s velocity would throw him onto the bed as well, on his stomach this time.
Tani attacked. He straddled his father. He forced his head into the bedding and the mattress beneath it. He held him there. He shouted, “How does it feel? How’s the power now? How’s the control? You’re shit, you are. You’re what gets stuck on the soles of shoes. And now . . . now . . .” It felt so very good. It felt like being reborn as who he was meant to be from the first: the new flesh of him, the new muscle of him. Such exultation as the body of his father began to go slack, so slack, so justifiably slack . . .
Tani felt himself being lifted away. He swung round to strike whoever would stop him from doing to this man what he so deserved.
For a moment, he was clueless as he stared at the two women who’d pulled him from his father. Who the bloody hell . . . ? But then he recognised them from Orchid House. The one was Zawadi who directed the place. The other was the filmmaker whose name he could not recall.
THORNTON HEATH
GREATER LONDON
“Flats,” he said. “They’re to run the gamut, in accordance with the council’s wishes. So it will be council flats on the ground floor and floors one, two, and three, with luxury on the upper floors. All the mod cons in each flat no matter the floor it’s on, and on the premises an indoor pool, a gym, laundries on every floor, parking beneath the building, bicycle lock-ups, extensive garden behind the building, a children’s play area, a pitch for games, space allowed for a day care centre should that be desired by residents.”
“In other words, gentrification,” Barbara said.
“I don’t think of it that way,” Ross Carver told her.
“Looks to me like a rose by any other name, Mr. Carver. Someone makes a pile of it off buyers and, presto, long-time residents of the area are out on their collective ear.”
“I wouldn’t have signed on should that have been the desired outcome.”
“Right-o. But you’ll be long gone before the ‘desired outcome’ shows its face. Your part is only the structure, eh? Once it’s up, you’re finished with the project.”
“When all is said and done, we’ll meet here—you and I—and see which one of us is correct.”
They were in the sales office where Ross Carver had told Barbara he would meet her. He couldn’t take time away from the job. If she wouldn’t mind coming to Thornton Heath . . . ? Barbara hadn’t been chuffed by the idea—Thornton Heath was nearly the distance to Croydon—but when she arrived, she espied a Domino’s in the High Street. A smallish takeaway （tomato, cheese, mushrooms, and black olives, thank you） was something she could knock back in a tic. Which she did, accompanying it with a Fanta pineapple, enjoying her luncheon as she watched the action in and out of Zenith Halal Butchers.
Now, after a pleasurable smoke as she’d looked for Ross Carver’s workplace, she was gazing at an impressive model of the building that would house Thornton Luxury Flats. Nearby on the walls the various floor plans, styles, and sizes of these flats were displayed, while in another room were posted the differing types of lino, carpet, and tiles being offered. All of it was very impressive, and the project was replacing no housing at all but rather an abandoned factory that had been a long-time eyesore in the neighbourhood.
Before committing herself to the journey, Barbara had quizzed Ross Carver about the missing sculpture. As far as she knew, there had been a good number of sculptures taken by the scenes-of-crime officers from Teo Bontempi’s flat, so how the devil had he known one was missing when he unpacked them?
The answer to that had been simple: He knew it was missing because he’d given it to Teo.
“Couldn’t she have tossed it? Given it to Oxfam or to a consignment shop?”
“She didn’t do that and she wouldn’t do that,” was how he had replied.