“What? And why?” When Narissa didn’t reply, Deborah went on with, “Why should you anything?”
Narissa paused and seemed to consider this for a moment. She finally said, “Because I bloody want to.”
“So? Look, I know nothing about making documentaries, but perhaps you’re looking at this the wrong way round? It sounds like you want the outrage to come from the girls. But shouldn’t it come from the film’s viewers? And shouldn’t the filmmaker have faith that the viewer will actually feel the outrage? I mean, isn’t outrage something that builds over the course of a film? Isn’t how the girls tell their stories—the simplicity of their telling—going to speak more loudly than . . . I don’t know. Tearing out their hair? Beating their heads against the wall? Sobbing? Weeping? You know, you might be getting in your own way, Narissa. It’s like you’ve got all these voices in your head, telling you not to bother because you’re going to fail.”
“I don’t like amateur psychologising. And frankly? You’re fucking patronising me, so stop it.”
“I won’t. I’m white and you’re Black and I get that we live in a racist world. But I’m saying this anyway: I think you’re setting yourself up to do badly because you don’t have faith. Not in the girls and how powerful their stories are, not in the viewers’ ability to understand what you’re doing with your film, and definitely not in yourself.”
“I’ve got piles of faith in myself, and you’re talking like there’s something wrong with wanting to make a difference,” Narissa said hotly. “These girls who come here . . . ? They face pressure like nothing your sort have ever seen. From birth they’ve been taught that women have to be transformed into vessels of chastity and purity for men. It’s all about becoming worthy of some bloke who’s willing to shoot his semen inside you. Doesn’t that make you want to bloody well scream? And it continues to go on and on and on with virtually no one doing a thing to stop it.”
“How can you say that? Zawadi is. You are.”
“Brilliant. Two of us.”
“I am,” Deborah said. “And there’re others who, I expect, feel the exact rage you’re looking for and probably belong in your film as well.”
“I’ve got several,” Narissa admitted, rather grudgingly, after a moment. “Before I started filming here.”
“Who are they?”
“Some coppers trying to end all this.”
“And?”
Narissa walked through the pedestrian gate and onto the pavement beyond which the traffic roared ceaselessly up and down Mile End Road. “They were good, the coppers. They were ready to talk, spread the word, crack skulls together, whatever. They put me on to a surgeon who’s working on this as well.”
“Was there outrage? I can’t think a surgeon wouldn’t be outraged.”
“I expect she is, but I didn’t get an interview. I barely got a returned phone call. She would’ve been brilliant on film, but she won’t do it. Which is too bloody bad because I could use her just before the film finishes. One of the coppers ended up saying that stopping everything that’s being done to women is like trying to bail out a canoe with a teaspoon, so it would be nice to end with a bit of hope.” Narissa looked at the traffic. Her expression became thoughtful. Deborah wondered what she was contemplating. She learned soon enough when Narissa went on with, “In fact, you should talk to her for your project, the surgeon. Her name’s Philippa Weatherall. I got the impression she’s paranoid as hell, so she probably won’t let you take a photo of her, but an interview with her as an introduction or a conclusion to the book you’re planning . . . ? Or both introduction and conclusion? She might go for that.”
Deborah shifted her weight from one leg to the other and observed Narissa Cameron. She said, “Hang on. Have you just handed me a way to structure the photo book I want to do? Bookended with interviews with this surgeon?”
“Christ! Have I? What does it mean? We’re trying to help each other? You and me? Why the hell would we do that? We’ve got nothing in common. We can’t be friends. I don’t even like you.”
“And I don’t like you. So we have something in common after all.”
Deborah smiled and Narissa laughed. Her mobile phone rang. She looked at the caller. She said, “My sponsor. She was looking for a meeting nearby. AA or Narc-Anon. I need to take this.”