Bye Bye Baby (44 page)

‘And then what happens?’ Hiran asked, his nerves betraying him as he began to feel his throat close, his heartbeat quicken.

‘Well, I don’t know all the surgical terms,’ Namzul said, his voice kind, ‘but you will be in good hands, professional hands. This is England, after all, and you are going to a private surgery. It is a relatively straightforward procedure with few complications as I understand it. I’m sure you know it is performed regularly in Asia. They will remove one of your kidneys and once you are well enough to be released from hospital, you will be brought back to the house you’re staying in now to recover fully. Don’t worry,’ he
continued, seeing Hiran frown, ‘I will look after my fellow countrymen. We are all Banglas, after all.’

‘How long before we are well?’

Namzul tipped his head one way then another as though weighing up his answer. ‘Young men like you, I would say within two weeks.’

‘We’ll be able to work?’

‘Light duties, as they say. In a month you can take on normal work and within eight weeks you’ll hardly know it has occurred. The scar alone will tell you it has been done.’ He tapped Hiran’s hand. ‘Nothing to worry about and then we can get you working in the restaurant, as promised.’ He looked over at Taj. ‘How about your quiet friend here?’

‘I’m not doing it,’ Taj answered as they glanced his way. ‘Anything could go wrong,’ he said to Hiran, ignoring Namzul.

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ Namzul insisted. ‘We’ve done this many times. There are many wealthy Arabs who pay handsomely for a kidney. Tell you what, perhaps I can increase the fee a little bit. You boys have been very good about coming to London and not beginning work immediately. I know you’re keen to start earning and this has delayed things a little bit but it’s a fine way to earn a lot of money in one hit. Your wives will surely be grateful. So I’ll show some appreciation. Let’s say £350 apiece?’ He looked at Taj expectantly.

‘Taj,’ Hiran began, eyes wide, ‘it is a lot of money.’

‘And we’ve already paid all our savings to get here so we can earn. Now they want part of my body.’ He glared at Hiran before shifting his attention back to Namzul. ‘Four-fifty,’ he said.

Hiran gasped in surprise, but the trader smiled. ‘Quiet but cunning,’ he said. ‘All right, my final offer is four hundred each, but the clock is ticking, boys, and my offers stands only until the banks close at 4 p.m.’ He made a point of consulting his oversized watch. ‘So hurry up and make a decision.’ He took them both in with one sweeping gaze, before flinging his uneaten wrap towards the bin. He looked back at them. ‘What’s it to be?’

They nodded together.

‘Excellent. I need to make a quick phone call and then you can follow me home. It’s just around the corner.’

John Sherman was walking his old dog, Rory, around sprawling Springfield Park in north London. He was lost in his thoughts, musing on how much this neighbourhood had changed since he was a boy. He’d lived in the area since birth and had watched it being steadily overtaken by the Hasidic Jewish community, until now it virtually owned all of it. He lived happily among them in Castlewood Road at the top of Stamford Hill, with its great views over the marshes and the meandering River Lea. He had always got on well with the Jewish community, although the Hasidim — ultra-Orthodox followers of the religion — pretty much stuck to themselves, so it was hard to know them intimately. He wouldn’t call any of his neighbours friends, but they were all amicable enough, quiet and considerate people. None followed the British tradition of keeping dogs. Someone once told him it was because dogs were non-kosher animals and having their non-kosher food in the house would
present problems. But he’d spoken with a few of the younger men in the neighbourhood who suggested that dogs were considered dangerous by the community. The cultural dislike evidently harked back to the olden days of persecution when the baying of dogs was the first warning a Jewish community might have of an approaching attack.

John respected this notion and was always careful not to let Rory off the lead around his neighbours. Rory was really too old to bother anyone, but even so John had seen some of the neighbourhood women panic when a dog had wandered into a Jewish family’s front garden. ‘The children, think of the children …’ one of the women had bleated, terrified by the small spaniel nosing around a flowerbed, simply enjoying the joy of sniffing in the dirt. John had been vigilant ever since, but the women’s attitude vaguely annoyed him. Britain was a nation of dog-lovers; look at any British mantelpiece and you’d see photos of various beloved family mutts alongside the kids and grandparents. Yes, the Brits loved their dogs but the Hasidic people’s fear was not John’s gripe … Britain no longer felt British, he thought, as he stepped off the bridge he’d navigated to stride along the riverbank. Rory was already bounding ahead. He loved it down here by the water.

John allowed the familiar thoughts to flow. Britain was such a blend of cultures that it had long ago ceased to have a pure flavour of its own — certainly in London. What tourists saw and what living breathing Londoners saw were entirely different as far as he was concerned. Visitors headed back to comfy hotels in and around central London, not far from where they might have spent a fun day sightseeing and enjoying
the buzz that VisitBritain promised in its promotional material. From this point of view John knew London rarely let its visitors down. But the working Londoner not only had to cope with the gawping, shouting, always-photographing, ever-milling tourists, but he usually had to commute home miles on the Underground — so convenient for the odd tourist excursion between Victoria and Knightsbridge perhaps, but hell itself if you were facing the trek twice daily between Victoria and Cockfosters. No smiles down there then. It’s all so grim and grey, he thought to himself, feeling a spike of guilt that these days he worked shifts and used a car to move against the traffic, travelling out of London, never having to negotiate the bastard M5 that most motorists had to run the gauntlet of daily. He was sure the M5 accounted for many a suicide. And that was his other gripe: London traffic.

Oh, don’t get started, John
, he told himself, shaking his head to dispel the negative notions.

He smiled as Rory looked suddenly like a pup again for a few moments, gambolling beside the river, lost in a happy world of smells and carefree playfulness. It was cold but the sunlight, though thin, was rather nice glittering off the Lea, and John liked the canal boats down here. The bonus was that Rory didn’t trouble anyone because the Hasidic families tended to take the air much higher up in the park. Down here it was mainly runners, and other people letting their dogs loose on the flatlands. That said, he looked up and saw a couple of Hasidic men, so easy to recognise in their long dark coats over white shirts and black waistcoats, their black hats, and with those
unmistakeable ringlets stark against pallid, seemingly sorrowful faces. Just to prove him wrong, one of the men laughed at something the other had said, then both men’s faces glowed with shared amusement. John smiled to himself, almost wishing he knew what had sparked the laughter.

They glanced his way but immediately returned to their conversation. It was time to head back. Rory must be tired anyway. He began to call to the old fellow, who was well in the distance, rooting around in the riverbank. He hoped Rory hadn’t found a rat or a vole to traumatise. He sped up, leaving the pair of men on the bridge talking quietly and chanced a whistle to Rory. The dog looked up, wagged his tail excitedly and then returned to whatever had taken his attention. He looked to be gnawing at something.

John whistled again. ‘Rory!
Rory!
’ he yelled, knowing he would be disturbing others. The dog ignored him as the men had earlier. It was no use. Once Rory got himself into a lather over something he was hard to move and John knew it would be a case of physically dragging the dog off whatever it was that had his interest. He jogged towards his dog, looking at his watch. It really was time to head back and get ready for the movies. He’d promised Cathie he’d take her to see
Ocean’s Twelve
. It had been so long since they’d been to the movies that they were well behind their friends’ dinner conversation. He was, however, still hoping he could persuade Cathie to see
House of Flying Daggers
instead. He loved Zhang Yimou’s work.
Hero
was spectacular and he knew the new release would be just as accomplished, and far more thought-provoking than the heist of a casino.
Besides, Cathie just wanted to ogle Clooney and Pitt! He sighed. ‘Rory!’
Wretched dog
.

John picked up the pace slightly and closed on his excited pet before suddenly stopping short. His breath caught in his throat. Rory was tugging at a hand. There was no mistaking it — those were fingers his dog had between his teeth and was pulling at, growling as he did so. Rory made this sound when he was playing tug o’ war — it was his happy sound, but John felt ready to vomit. It took a couple more seconds for John to override his shock, and then he was reaching for his phone and dialling 999. Police sirens could be heard within moments. John Sherman was impressed, although he finally lost the fight to retain his lunch.