I want to give Darren Goodall the benefit of the doubt because he almost died saving people at Camden Market; and maybe that trauma left him with PTSD, or acute stress or some other behavioural problem, but I can picture Tempe at the shelter, making up a single bed, showering with a threadbare towel, nursing her bruises. He called her a sex worker, and one of his informants. Even if it were true, it doesn’t give him the right to beat her up. My father always told me that any man who raises his hand to a woman is a coward with the devil living in his heart.
I close the combination lock and shrug on my jacket, checking that I have my keys and wallet. Outside, I bury my hands in my pockets and make my way home, knowing that the world isn’t any safer, or cleaner, or fairer because of what I’ve done. Good never prevails. It simply treads water and waits for the bad to show up again.
3
Henry is in the kitchen constructing a sandwich that looks like a work of art. Every jar in the fridge is on the bench, as well as two chopping boards, assorted knives, salad vegetables and sliced meats.
‘What are you doing home?’ he asks, smearing Dijon mustard on a slice of sourdough.
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘Archie has a toothache. I’m taking him to the dentist.’
‘Where’s Roxanne?’
‘She has a meeting.’
‘With her hairdresser or her therapist?’
Henry makes a miaowing noise. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his back. ‘You love me being jealous of your ex-wife. It makes you feel wanted,’ I say.
He points to the sandwich. ‘Want me to make you one?’
‘I could have half of yours.’
He pouts, aggrieved, but slices the sandwich diagonally and plates up. We sit side by side at the kitchen bench, needing both hands to eat.
‘What time are you picking Archie up from school?’ I ask.
‘Four thirty. Roxanne suggested he spend tonight with us.’
‘The wicked witch strikes again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have Margot and Phoebe’s housewarming.’
‘Oh, shit! I totally forgot.’
‘Roxanne didn’t. She’ll be planning her evening as I speak.’
‘We’ll get a babysitter.’
‘At four hours’ notice? Good luck with that.’
I don’t mind that Henry has been married before – or that Archie, aged six, comes with the package. He’s a sweet little boy who sleeps over three nights a week and crawls into bed with us each morning, clutching his battered teddy bear. He doesn’t call me ‘mummy’， which is good, but he does introduce me to strangers in the supermarket as ‘Daddy’s girlfriend’， announcing it in a booming voice.
I didn’t meet Henry until after he and Roxanne had separated. And we didn’t have proper sex until his divorce came through, although we did everything else. We were like teenagers steaming up car windows and getting hot and heavy in the back row of the cinema. The no-sex rule was important because I didn’t want to be accused of being a home wrecker or stealing someone else’s husband. I know women like that, including my friend Georgia, who treats sex like a sport and happily sleeps with married men. I once accused her of being an anti-feminist, but Georgia replied that sisterhood and sex weren’t mutually exclusive.
‘It’s not my fault if some women frump-up after they get married,’ she said.
‘Frump-up?’
‘You know what I mean.’
I have tried to befriend Roxanne; and I would never bad-mouth her in front of Archie, but she is the sort of ex-wife that comedians make jokes about – ‘the good housekeeper who gets to keep the house’; or the ‘hostage taker who stays in touch after collecting the ransom’。
My main complaint is how she uses Archie as a weapon of mass disruption. Whenever I arrange a weekend away, or have concert tickets, or （case in point） a housewarming, Archie will be dumped on our doorstep with his overnight bag and strict instructions about what he’s allowed to eat, wear, watch and do.
Henry tilts his head to one side. ‘So why are you home?’
‘I think I’ve been suspended.’
‘Is there some doubt?’
I make a humming sound. ‘You want a juice?’
‘I’d prefer an answer.’
‘I’m prevaricating.’
‘I can tell.’
Eventually, I tell him the story. Henry asks all the right questions and makes concerned noises, which is why I love him.
‘You’re saying this guy beat up a woman and attacked you, but nothing will happen to him?’
‘Tempe didn’t give us a statement. She was too frightened.’
‘Who is he – Harvey Weinstein?’
‘Not quite.’
I take my laptop from its case and type in a Google search for Goodall’s name. The screen refreshes. There are dozens of stories about the knife attack at Camden Market. A paranoid schizophrenic called David Thorndyke stabbed seven people, three of whom died, before Goodall intervened.
I find the bravery citation:
Sergeant Goodall was off-duty, shopping with his family when he responded to screams for help. Despite having no personal protective equipment, he tackled the knifeman and sustained life-threatening injuries as he wrestled with the attacker and held him until help arrived.
There are more stories and profiles, including a YouTube clip of Goodall on breakfast TV, sitting on a sofa looking stiff and uncomfortable.
‘Do the events of that day feel real to you now?’ he is asked by Susanna Reid.
‘No, it feels more like a dream.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes I wonder if I really did those things. And what could have happened. My wife might be a widow. My children might not have a father.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ says Reid.
‘I guess so.’
Pushed to unbutton his shirt, he shows the scars on his stomach and chest. I recognise the gladiator tattoo and remember the smell of his sweat.
I call up more stories. One has a photograph taken outside Buckingham Palace. Goodall, dressed in a dark suit with his hair gelled into place, has his arm around his wife, a pretty brunette, who is wearing a hat for the occasion and balancing a baby girl on her hip. An older boy, school-age, is holding her other hand.
I don’t know what I should feel. Admiration. Sorry for his wife. Angry. Goodall is doubtless a hero. He saved lives that day; and almost lost his own. It’s also clear that he’s become an important asset for the London Metropolitan Police, to be wheeled out on TV talk shows and featured on recruitment posters.
Henry picks up crumbs with his wet forefinger.
‘Where is his girlfriend now?’
‘At a women’s refuge.’
‘How long are you off work?’
‘A few days, maybe.’
‘It’s a shame I can’t get time off. We could go away.’
Henry is a firefighter stationed at Brixton, a thirteen-year veteran, who is now a crew manager. He works rolling shifts – two days, then two nights, before a three-day break.
He’s tidying up the kitchen, putting jars away and wiping down the benches.
‘You’re almost fully house-trained,’ I say.