A Catered Affair (23 page)

On Sunday, I got a call from Nasreen’s boyfriend, Farid. He had just heard from Amnesty. The date and timing of the Free Nasreen Karimi demonstration had been approved by the police. It was scheduled to start first thing Monday morning and would continue all day. It was going to be held in Parliament Square, opposite the House of Commons. I asked Farid how many people were expected to show up. He thought that since Nasreen’s Web site was getting several hundred hits each day, we could expect a pretty decent turnout.

My plan was to get there early and seek out journalists and TV news reporters in order to press Nasreen’s case. I would stay a couple of hours. Had it been a weekend, I could have stayed all day, but Nasreen wasn’t my only client and I needed to get back to the office.

The next morning I was out of the flat before eight thirty. I’d almost reached the Tube when my cell started ringing. The caller display said NANA. She was probably phoning to see how things had gone with Derek. Since I was pretty het up about the demo—there was so much riding on it—I really didn’t feel up to discussing Saturday’s date. I could have switched off my phone, but I didn’t have the heart to do that to Nana.

“Hi, Nana. Look, I’m off to the Nasreen demo. I’m a bit preoccupied right now. Can we speak later?”

“Oh, Nasreen, the Iranian woman. The protest is today?”

“Starts at nine.”

“Right, I’m coming. I’d ask Millie, but her leg’s bad.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t possibly come.”

“Why not? That poor woman needs all the support she can get. You’ve said so yourself enough times.”

“Nana, listen to me. The protest could get violent. All the fascist groups will be there, not to mention the Muslim extremists and any other nutters who might be up for a fight. Send some money to Amnesty if you want to, but please don’t come.”

“Tally, nobody is going to attack an old woman.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Well, I’m coming anyway.”

“OK. Fine. Do what you want, but please be careful. I may not see you there because we’re expecting a big crowd, but promise me that if anything kicks off, you will get out.”

“OK, darling. I promise. By the way, I heard from Millie that it didn’t go so well with Derek. Can you believe the man’s a witch doctor? He comes from the Isle of Wight. She was convinced he was a rich doctor. I told her she needs to get her ears syringed. But she’s so upset. She says she hopes you’re not cross with her and she sends her apologies.”

“Tell her not to worry and that she doesn’t need to apologize. I actually had a very entertaining and informative evening.”

“There you go. This is what I’ve been telling you. You need to get out more. It was just what you needed.”

“You’re right, Nana. A night out with a witch doctor was exactly what I needed.”

By now, I was going down the steps into Notting Hill Gate Tube. I knew I was about to lose my phone signal. I reminded Nana to take care at the demo and we said our good-byes.

On the train, I read through my notes and went over the sound bites I had prepared for the reporters.

Twenty minutes later I was making my way out of Westminster station and back into the morning sunshine. As I reached the top of the steps, Big Ben was chiming the hour. The pavements were rammed with commuters and people heading to work in government offices. Even though it was early, the tourists were up and about and blocking the sidewalk by walking too slowly or stopping at street stalls to buy overpriced I ♥ LONDON T-shirts.

There were metal barricades surrounding Parliament Square. The police presence was tiny—half a dozen uniformed officers maybe. They clearly weren’t expecting trouble. A crowd of supporters—a couple of hundred at least—had gathered by the Churchill statue. People were waving banners. The words on one were particularly chilling: DON’T SEND NASREEN HOME TO BE MURDERED. Others were shouting into megaphones: “Free Nasreen . . . Free Nasreen.” As I got closer I counted three TV crews.

I’d almost reached the statue when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. It was Nasreen’s boyfriend, Farid. “I’m so glad you could make it,” he said. “And what about this turnout? Isn’t it amazing? I can’t believe so many people care about her.”

I agreed that it was truly amazing. Whenever I had doubts about my faith in people’s ability to give a damn, I thought back to events like this. I had known a few in my short career, and I never ceased to be moved and astonished at the sight of people shouting and waving banners in support of a stranger from a distant land.

It turned out that media-wise, Farid had done my work for me. He had lined up all the journalists and TV crews. The only thing I had to do was deliver my sound bites and pray that I had done Nasreen justice.

As I’d planned, I stayed at the demo for a couple of hours, chanting and waving the ASYLUM FOR NASREEN NOW banner that Farid had given me.

I was about to leave when I spotted a small contingent of British National Party thugs with their shaven heads and tattoos. They were waving ENGLAND FOR THE ENGLISH and IMMIGRANTS OUT banners. But they seemed pretty subdued, and so far there hadn’t been any clashes with Nasreen’s supporters. Nevertheless, I felt the need to warn Nana again that there might be trouble. I spent ten minutes or so looking for her, but I couldn’t see her. In the end, I left.

 

 

I was walking through reception when I heard Jill’s voice behind me. “Tally, where have you been?”

I turned around. “At the Nasreen demo. Why?”

“I’ve been phoning and texting you.”

“I’m sorry. There was so much noise. There was no way I could have heard my phone.”

“Henry Dixon is here. He’s been here for over an hour.”

“Who’s he?”

“The Tourette’s chap. From the radio. He rang this morning to make an appointment. I checked your appointments and told him he could come in at ten.”

“Oh Gawd. I’m so sorry. I should have called to let you know about the demo.” I told Jill to give me five minutes and then I’d come and fetch him. “By the way, where is he?”

“I put him in the conference room,” she said, lowering her voice. “He’s a bit odd.”

I told her not to worry. I was pretty sure what to expect. I dumped my briefcase and handbag on my desk, went for a pee, put on a fresh coat of lippy and headed to the conference room.

To look at, Henry Dixon was unremarkable. Early fifties, nice suit, thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “Mr. Dixon? I’m Tally Roth. I’m so sorry to keep you waiting like this. There was a breakdown in communications and I wasn’t expecting you.” I held out my hand, which he took.

“No problem,” he said. “You’re here now. Yabba dabba doo!”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the last comment. Was it a Tourette’s-type outburst that I should ignore or an attempt at humor that I should acknowledge? I decided he was trying to be funny. “Absolutely,” I said. “Yabba dabba doo.”

I led the way to my office. Once we were sitting down, I offered him some coffee, which he politely refused on the grounds that he’d already had two cups.

“Right,” I said opening his file. “I’ve got a few notes here which George Dacre passed to me.”

“Smarter than the average bear!”

I was confused. George Dacre had led me to believe that like most people with Tourette’s, Henry Dixon swore and shouted obscenities. Instead he was quoting from
The Flintstones
and
Yogi Bear
.

“So, Mr. Dixon, maybe you could outline the problem for me.”

He jerked his head. “Sure. I’ve been working for CLR for more than thirty years. Cowabunga! They always knew I had Tourette’s. Now they want to fire me. Cheese-eating surrender monkeys!”

“But isn’t that because you’re a newsreader and your Tourette’s, which I believe started with a few facial tics, has gotten much worse?”

“Whassup, Doc? Yes, but I don’t swear or scream obscenities. All I do is shout cartoon catchphrases. Oh my God, they killed Kenny!”

“I understand that, but surely you realize that the catchphrases are very distracting—especially if you’re reading the news.”

“D’oh! I believe that listeners could come to accept me for who I am. I’m disabled. Why should that be a problem? Eat my shorts! This is about pushing the boundaries of acceptance.”

“You’re absolutely right—we should be pushing the boundaries of acceptance. I’m just not sure that the world is quite ready to push them this far. People aren’t very accepting of these sorts of outbursts.”

“I yam what I yam!”

“And don’t you think that your, er, asides, could be rather confusing for the listeners? For instance, could you imagine delivering a very serious news bulletin? Suppose you had to announce the death of the Queen?”

“Miss Roth, have you any idea how it feels to be me? People laugh at me in the street. Since I got worse, my wife left me. Women run a mile. Now my employer wants to dump me. That’s all, folks! My work is all I have. It’s the reason I keep going.”

“Would you consider an off-air job?”

“I wouldn’t earn as much.”

“OK, suppose we could try to agree to a financial settlement. Would that be acceptable?”

“I just want my job back.” He was leaning forward, beseeching me. I could see he was close to tears. My heart went out to him, but I knew I couldn’t get him his job back. The idea was ludicrous.

“Look,” I said, “why don’t I have a conversation with the other side and see what I can do?”

“Thank you. I would really appreciate that.” He got to his feet and we shook hands again.

“I’ll call you the moment I know anything.”

“Great. Same Bat-time! Same Bat-channel!”

 

 

No sooner had Henry Dixon left than my office phone rang. “Ms. Roth?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Ms. Tallulah Roth?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“This is Sergeant Goldsworthy from Paddington Green Police Station. I’m calling about your grandmother.”

My heart practically stopped. “What about her?”

“Don’t worry, she’s fine, but I’m afraid she’s been arrested.”

“What for? Is she being charged with an offense?”

“She hasn’t been charged as yet, but she is being questioned. It’s regarding her assault on a member of the public.”

“What! She’s a little old lady. She doesn’t go round assaulting people.”

“Well, she did today. Your grandmother was taking part in a political demonstration. The person she assaulted was a member of the British National Party.”

So Nana hadn’t been able to hold back and she’d ended up having a run-in with one of the fascist thugs I’d seen hanging around at the demo.

“Poor lamb. What did she do? Hit him with her handbag?”

“Actually, she kneed him in the groin.”

My grandmother had kneed a Nazi in the nuts! Way to go, Nana. But my pride quickly gave way to fear. What if the Nazi lost a testicle? Or both testicles? No doubt Nana’s courtroom defense would be that she’d prevented this thug from spawning more Nazis, but a judge wasn’t going to see it like that.

“OK. I’ll be right there,” I said.

I put on my suit jacket, picked up my handbag and ran into Jill’s office. “My grandmother has been arrested at the Nasreen demo. Assaulted a member of the BNP, apparently.”

“No! Good for her. Wish her mazel tov from me.”

“Brilliant. Like she needs more encouragement. I told her to keep out of trouble. But she had to defy me. The woman’s eighty-four going on sixteen.”

I said that I was on my way to Paddington Green Police Station and that if anybody needed me I was on my cell.

I was waiting for the lift when Nana phoned. “They said I could make one call. I just wanted to say before you get here, put on some lipstick and a bit of mascara.”

“What?”

“There’s this handsome detective you absolutely have to meet.”

“Omigod. Nana, have you lost your mind? Have you any idea what kind of trouble you’re in? You may have caused this man permanent injury and all you can think about is hooking me up with good-looking detectives.”

“That bloke was a hooligan. He deserved it.”

“I’m sure he did, but you can’t go around—”

“Anyway, this detective, he’s the image of that one on the TV. You know, the one you’re always swooning over.”

“Which one?”

“From that show. What’s it called? You and Scarlett are always raving about it. It’s driving me mad. What’s his name?”

“Nana, I have no idea who you are talking about, and to be quite honest, I don’t really care.”

“The elephant one. That’s it, the Elephant Man.”

“You want me to put on lipstick in order to meet the Elephant Man?”

“Trust me. Just do as I say.”

I took a taxi to the police station. For the record, I did not adjust my lipstick or mascara. What I did do was call Mum.

“Mum, something’s happened. Nana’s been arrested.”

She burst out laughing. “Very funny. Listen, hon, I’m just about to go into a meeting. Can we speak later?”

“It’s not a joke. She’s at the police station.”

“What do you mean, she’s at the police station? What’s she done?”

I explained.

“What was Nana doing at the demo? Why didn’t you stop her? OK, I’m coming to the police station. I’ll get a cab. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Mum, take it easy. Stay where you are. I’m nearly there. Let me handle this. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“You promise?”

“Absolutely.”

Sergeant Goldsworthy took me to the interview room where Nana was being held. She was sitting alone at a table, dunking a custard cream into a cup of tea—apparently oblivious to the trouble she was in. Sergeant Goldsworthy asked Nana what had happened to the detective who had been questioning her.

“I think he got called to the phone,” Nana said. The sergeant left us, presumably to go in search of the detective.