Truth Be Told

They hurtled closer to Paddington and as the world outside pressed against the glass, Kamran felt his nerve desert him. He leaned forward, the seatbelt catching on his shoulder. ‘Actually, I’m sorry, sir, but can you please take me to Hampton School instead? It’s on Hampton Hill.’

The cabbie met his eyes in the mirror, then pecked his chin at his GPS. ‘The address here says Paddington.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I can pay you extra.’

He frowned. ‘Fine,’ he said and reached out and started the meter.

Kamran leaned back in his seat, feeling the forceful lift of relief. He’d been mad to think that reporting the rape was the correct thing to do. Gripped by mania in the small hours of the morning, he was convinced that the only way to exorcise this feeling was to spew it into the world; to cleanse himself through confession. Now, turned away from Artemis House, he willed himself to draw upon sheer brute force. Happiness, after all, was a wilful act. ‘Faber est suae quisque fortunae,’ his father liked to say. ‘Every man is the architect of his own fortune.’ Kamran believed that was true and with enough strength and patience, perhaps he could correct his life back to its original course.

At Hampton, he headed straight to West Lawn, walking briskly to avoid being stopped. As he entered the building, he heard a voice from the housemaster’s office.

‘Busy morning?’

Kamran looked up and halted. He stared at the shock of blond hair, the easy smile and gleam in his eye. ‘Yes,’ he replied, a visible heat rising in his cheeks. His gaze dipped to the floor, then back up to Finn.

‘Good to hear.’ His smile widened lopsidedly. ‘I had fun the other night.’

Kamran flinched. ‘“Fun?”’

Finn laughed ruefully. ‘You’re right. We did get a bit “tired and emotional”.’

Kamran hovered there for a beat, reaching for something appropriate. ‘I should go,’ he managed and headed for the stairs.

Back in his room, Kamran examined past contact with Finn, casting a searchlight over fields of memories to find the one that mattered; the one that sent the false message.

Finn had an easy, roguish charm that manifested as flirtatiousness. Had Kamran reciprocated unwittingly? He thought of their last meeting before he left for the party and held each word to scrutiny: ‘tired and emotional’, ‘have fun’, ‘see you later’. There was no hint of suggestion.

‘I certainly hope so’ and that winning grin. Had there been a deeper meaning that Kamran hadn’t caught? What really happened on the night of the party? Would he ever know?

Erin Quinto slid a sheet of paper across the desk, the spikes of her cuff glinting in the sun. ‘I have the boy’s home address in Belsize Park, his school address in Hampton and a landline number for his family, but no direct details for him. They don’t list them in the school database.’

Zara scanned the piece of paper. ‘So there’s no way to contact him?’

Erin raked a hand through her short black hair. ‘Not via official channels.’

‘And unofficial ones?’ Zara knew that Erin, freelance investigator at Artemis House, was notoriously resourceful.

‘Just a protected Instagram account. You could add him on there, or… I could dig further.’

Zara recognised the code for ‘something illegal’. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll add him on Instagram but I’ll have to check with Stuart first. I’m already on thin ice with this.’

Restive with guilt yesterday, Zara had called the Paddington SARC to check on Kamran’s case but Lisa, her contact there, said he hadn’t attended. Zara had searched for ‘Kamran Hadid’ online and found an article on Tatler.com picturing him and his elegant family at a black-tie gala – but still no contact details. She told herself that a boy like Kamran had a support system in place but she knew that wealth and privilege were no fit antidote to corrosive shame.

‘HadidMajor is his Instagram handle,’ said Erin, adding a scrawl to the sheet of paper. ‘And Hadid M is his name.’ She stood. ‘Let me know if you need more help.’

‘I will. Thank you.’ Zara studied the piece of paper, tracing a finger across the creamy texture. She remembered the look in Kamran’s eye: the cold drain when he realised she wouldn’t help him, the monotone politeness of his quiet goodbye. Haunted by the dire statistics around male mental health, she knew she had to check on him.

She stood and marched to Stuart’s office.

He looked up, his unruly blond curls bouncing with the motion. ‘Oh no, I recognise that look.’

Zara held up a palm. ‘Hear me out.’

‘Lawyers,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘God, they love to talk.’

‘We,’ she corrected, for Stuart was once a lawyer too. He had left the bar eight years ago to found Artemis House, initially using family money but now reliant on external funding.

‘What is it?’ he asked good-naturedly.

Zara sat down. ‘I mentioned yesterday that a seventeen-year-old boy came in to see me. I put him in a cab to Paddington, but he didn’t turn up there. I’d like permission to follow up with him.’

Stuart frowned. ‘If he didn’t turn up, it means he wasn’t ready to talk.’

‘But he did turn up,’ said Zara. ‘He was ready to talk but we turned him away.’

‘You put him in a cab to where he needed to go. You couldn’t have done more.’

‘That’s not true, Stuart. I could have done more if we weren’t throttled by rules.’

Stuart sighed. ‘The rules are there for a reason.’ He pushed back his chair to face her more squarely. ‘Zara, you’re on the frontline and I know that that’s where the work happens, but without all the rules and bureaucracy, there wouldn’t even be a frontline. We get funding from twenty different women’s groups. They would be up in arms if they knew we were misdirecting funds and they would be well within their rights. We can’t do it.’

Zara felt a spike of frustration. ‘But Stuart—’

‘No.’

‘Okay, well, what if I did it in my own time?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s blurring the lines. How do we separate the two? If you receive a desperate email from him at 10 a.m., would you not answer it till six? What happens if we get audited? We can’t mix the two.’

Zara scowled. ‘He was ready, Stuart. He was ready for help and we turned him away. He didn’t show up at Paddington so where is he? What’s going through his head? What’s he going to do? That will be on us – not some unseen bureaucracy but on you and me.’

Stuart exhaled. He studied her for a moment, then held up his hands in surrender. ‘The best I can do is grant you unpaid leave and you work as a truly independent ISVA.’

Zara immediately rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, Stuart. I’ll confirm my leave as soon as I speak to him.’

‘Zara.’ He stopped her at the threshold. ‘What is it about this kid?’

She pressed a hand against the doorframe. ‘You know what’s strange? I’m so critical of tribalism. I think it’s such a base instinct but I see in him the men I grew up with and I know what something like this would do to them.’ Her lips formed a mirthless smile. ‘It would erase their sense of self, their honour, their worth. I need to show him that these aren’t lost.’

Stuart nodded and righted his tie. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Off you go.’

Zara arrived at Hampton late on Thursday and paused at the gates in her silver Audi to give the guard her name. Kamran hadn’t responded to her request on Instagram and she had grown increasingly worried. It had been two days since her meeting with Stuart and though he swore he couldn’t involve himself, he had pulled some strings to get her in.

The guard checked his tablet, sliding a pout from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘Ah, there it is.’ He opened the gates and waved her through.

Zara drove across the crunchy gravel, a rose-yellow sweep of California Gold. She parked by a stretch of manicured lawn, noting the Bentley and Rolls Royce. From her car, she had a clear view of Hampton House: a colonnaded entrance approached by a grand symmetrical staircase that traversed three levels of terraces.

Inside, she was met by a silver-haired man in rimless glasses – MR LISMORE, his nameplate said.

‘May I help you?’ he asked with a perfunctory smile.

‘Yes. I’m here to see one of your pupils.’

He glanced down at his list. May I take your name, please?’

‘Yes, of course. Zara Kaleel.’

‘K,’ he said, tracing his finger down a printed list. ‘K. K. Ah, there you are.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘Ah, but Ms Kaleel, it says you are here to see Kamran Hadid but he’s on authorised leave.’ He tapped the piece of paper. ‘I’m surprised no one thought to inform you.’

Zara frowned. ‘Leave? Does that mean he’s at home?’

‘I expect so. Perhaps if you tell me what business you have, I can call Mr Morewood and—’

‘That won’t be necessary. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘But—’

‘Thank you,’ she said, flashing him a smile.

He returned it instinctively. ‘You’re welcome. Thank you for coming all this way.’

Back in her car, Zara considered her options. She could drive to Artemis House and forget about Kamran, she could wait a few days and revisit Hampton, or she could visit him at home. And what? she thought. Tell a Muslim family she was there to discuss the rape of their son?

Maybe he was fine, she reasoned. Maybe he had called a helpline and was working through the trauma. She recalled the spike of doubt, however, when she had told him to go elsewhere. Zara grimaced, then keyed his address into her GPS and headed to Belsize Park.

There, she drove along streets of stucco townhouses that rose in storeys of three. Uniform black doors were flanked by fluted pillars, each marked with discreet numbers. She turned into Kamran’s street and parked by number sixty-two. She climbed the three stairs to the door, then rang, waited and rang again.

After a moment, a woman opened the door. She was tall and elegant, dressed in a white silk blouse with a pussy bow collar and pale grey trousers that tapered at the ankle. Zara recognised her from Tatler as Kamran’s mother.

‘Ms Hadid, my name is Zara Kaleel. I’m here to talk about your son, Kamran.’ It only lasted a second but she saw how the woman looked her over, assessing Zara’s neat high bun, slimline trousers and light cream jumper, deciding in an instant that she was one of them.

She opened the door wider. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Hampton usually call.’

‘I’m sorry to drop in on you like this.’ Zara was careful not to lie.

‘Please come in.’ The woman stepped aside.

Zara walked in, hit by the fresh scent of coffee and bergamot. She followed her host into a large living room, tastefully decorated in fawn and cream, with snatches of brass and verdigris blue.

‘Ms Hadid, I—’

‘It’s Mrs, but please call me Sofia.’ She gestured at a sofa. ‘And please take a seat. Would you like some tea?’

‘No, thank you. I—’

‘Coffee? Water? Juice?’

Zara smiled politely. ‘No, thank you.’ She pointed at a chair. ‘Won’t you join me?’

Sofia Hadid took a seat. ‘I informed the registrar that Kamran hasn’t been feeling very well. I know absence is regarded poorly but he really is in a bad way. Just a few days should do it.’

Zara nodded. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’ They exchanged banalities for a minute or two, then Zara began amiably. ‘Sofia, I should say that I haven’t come from the school to see how Kamran is.’ She picked her words carefully, knowing they gave her plausible deniability if she were accused of lying her way in. ‘I’ve come to see him about an incident involving a fellow student.’

Sofia bristled. ‘What incident?’

Zara waved a casual hand. ‘Just some tomfoolery that happened last week.’

‘But how does it involve Kamran?’

‘I’m not sure it does. I’m just trying to get a full picture.’ She paused, her voice light and casual. ‘He probably wouldn’t have seen anything, but I’d be remiss not to ask.’

Sofia nodded thoughtfully. ‘In that case, I’ll see if he’s able to join us.’

‘I’m happy to pop up and see him,’ Zara offered quickly. ‘It’s important not to strain him if he’s feeling unwell.’

Sofia hesitated. ‘Oh, he won’t be presentable up there. I’ll just go and bring him.’

Zara nodded, not wanting to push. ‘Thank you.’

She marvelled at the vagaries of this job – and indeed this city. She thought of her last big case and Jodie’s cramped quarters at the Wentworth Estate. The acrid smoke, the slushy stairs and the stale smell of urine. This was practically a different world – one of tasteful accent walls and vintage mandolins, early years classics and grand wooden beams. Zara wandered to the mantelpiece, clearly invited to do so by the various awards and trinkets. She looked at photographs of Sofia, ten years younger, with a seven- or eight-year-old Kamran. He brandished an award proudly, his legs draped over his father’s shoulder. A younger boy, presumably Kamran’s brother, stood glumly by their father’s thigh. Next to the photos was a neat line of greeting cards. She glanced behind her, then picked up the first one.

‘Dear Kamran. I was very sorry to hear that you’re unwell. I hope these flowers will cheer you up,’ it read, signed by ‘Aunty Rana’. Another, also from Rana, congratulated him on his interview at Oxford.

Zara heard footsteps on the stairs. She set down the card and turned around. Kamran appeared behind his mother, dressed in a grey T-shirt and navy blue jogging bottoms. His hair was dishevelled and dark circles pooled beneath his eyes. He greeted her with a polite smile, but then recognition hit: a lance of fear cut across his face, the press of panic clear in his stance. His gaze darted to Sofia but when he saw no worry or anger there, he fell smoothly into character.

‘Hi, Ms Kaleel.’

‘Hello, Kamran. I’m sorry to disrupt your morning. I wanted to have a quick chat.’

‘Of course.’ He sat in the chair furthest from the window, his wan face falling into shadow. He turned to Sofia. ‘Mum, my throat’s feeling a bit sore. Do you mind making me a honey tea?’

She beamed. ‘Of course, my love.’ She glanced at Zara. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you something?’

Zara nodded as if acquiescing. ‘I’ll agree to a cup of tea – thank you.’

‘Is Earl Grey okay?’

‘Yes, wonderful.’ She waited for Sofia to leave, then turned to Kamran.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a savage whisper. He flung an arm at the door. ‘I haven’t told my mother.’

Zara held a finger to her lips. ‘Kamran, the Paddington SARC told me you didn’t go there. You need to have a medical exam.’

He sighed, a harsh plosive of frustration. ‘I changed my mind, okay?’

‘Why?’

‘Why should I bother? What’s the point?’ A frantic note rose in his voice.

‘Kamran, you need help.’

‘Yes, and that’s why I came to you.’

Zara flinched. ‘I’m sorry for sending you away. My hands were tied, but I’m here now.’

‘Why?’

She blinked. ‘Because I want to make sure you’re okay.’

‘I am. Now go!’

‘Kamran, will you at least come in for a medical exam?’

‘No. Please go!’ He glanced at the door, the note of panic notching higher in his voice. ‘Please.’

‘Will you give me your email address so I can send you some material?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t need any material.’

‘You can ignore it if you want to but I promise it will help.’

Sofia’s footsteps sounded in the hall.

‘Please,’ pressed Zara.

His eyes flicked to the door and back. Panicked into relenting, he recited it to her in an urgent whisper.

Zara exhaled. ‘Thank you.’

Sofia entered the room with a tea tray, an ornate silver confection with delicate leaves adorning each corner. She set it down and took a seat next to Kamran, draping an affectionate arm around his shoulders. ‘He’ll be back up and running in no time. Won’t you, Kamran?’ She placed a palm on the nape of his neck. ‘Nothing keeps you down for long.’

Kamran nodded brightly. He answered Zara’s cursory questions and confirmed that he knew nothing of any incident.

Zara studied him as he spoke. The haunted look had lifted and he now looked bright and hopeful. Here was a family play-acting for each other. What would happen if the pretence failed?

She took a sip of tea and heard the front door open. Footsteps in the hall approached the living room. A man, tall and powerfully built, paused at the threshold. He was in his early fifties and dressed in khaki trousers and a dark green jacket. ‘Oh hello,’ he said, spotting Zara. His baritone voice came from deep in his throat. ‘I’m Mustaque Hadid – Mack.’

Zara stood to greet him, but he interrupted.

‘Oh, no please sit. I hope you’ll excuse me. I just need to…’ He indicated the item in his left hand.

Zara balked, noting the long black barrel of a hunting rifle.

‘I like to lock this away as soon as I’m in,’ he said, giving her a little bow before trudging down the hall. She heard a door close in the bowels of the house.

‘Please excuse Kamran’s father,’ said Sofia smoothly. ‘He goes hunting every Thursday in the Wessex Hills. Gets insufferable if he cannot.’

Zara nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘The boys go with him sometimes. Adam can’t stand it, of course, but I suppose you know that given his stance on Hampton’s fox-hunting.’ She laughed. ‘Such sensitivity is not becoming in a man.’

Kamran pulled away from her. ‘They laugh and have fun, Mum, and don’t respect their quarry. You can’t blame him for not enjoying it.’

Sofia smiled stiffly. ‘We all have to do things we don’t enjoy. The sooner Adam understands that, the better.’

Zara returned her smile politely. ‘Well, I have what I need.’ She drained her tea, though it was still too hot. ‘Thank you for your time.’ She stood up to leave.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Sofia. ‘Of course, if you can warn us next time, I can make sure Kamran is more… presentable.’

‘Of course. I do apologise.’ She promised Kamran she’d be in touch and followed Sofia to the door where they exchanged a final goodbye.

Outside, Zara glanced up at the house. It was strange; it wasn’t envy she felt but pity. How tiring it must be to be perfect.

Inside the house, Kamran sipped his tea and watched his mother clear away the tray.

‘They usually call before they send someone,’ she said absent-mindedly. ‘The house is a state. What must she think of us.’

‘The house is fine,’ he told her.

‘It’s not.’ She gestured at the rug. ‘Magda cancelled yesterday. Her granddaughter’s ill again.’ She tutted. ‘Why don’t people take responsibility for their own children?’

Kamran’s hands tensed into fists as he listened to her fret. Part of him wanted to tell her out of spite, just to shut her up. Kamran loved his mother, thought highly of her class and grace, but was exhausted by her pedantry. ‘I’m feeling a bit cold so I’m going to head back up,’ he said.

‘Do you want a hot water bottle?’

‘No, Mum, I’m fine. I just want to rest.’ He softened his tone to add, ‘Thank you.’

He headed up to his room and burrowed in his bed, the expensive sheets cool on his skin. He threw off his duvet, walked to his wardrobe and pulled out a thick fleece blanket. He lined the inside of the duvet with it and curled up underneath. He knew it would make him sweat but maybe that’s what he needed: to bleed out all the rage buried beneath the surface.

Why had he given Zara his email address? He’d decided, hadn’t he, to move on? How much pain could it possibly cause when he wasn’t even sure what had happened? He willed himself to remember but could recall only snatches: inky movements in the dark of night, strong arms that made him feel safe, a careening feeling of loss of control and in the morning, that shock of blond hair in his bed. Finn’s strong jaw peaceably asleep, his bare chest rising and falling. Kamran’s own body naked beneath the sheets. His head, thick and blurry; his tongue, stale and cottony. The mêlée of emotions: confusion, disgust, revulsion, but beneath it all, a morning erection that didn’t die away. He had fled the scene, practically running to the gym where he headed straight to the showers. He’d questioned his basic convictions; thought of Maya on the cruise and her long, dark legs. He knew what he was and what he wasn’t, so why had he woken with a boy in his bed?

His thoughts jangled in the spin of his mind as he stood beneath the shower and scrubbed until his skin bloomed red, great patches of colour that spoke of rabid shame. All those times he’d paused at the housemaster’s desk; all the smart rejoinders and their witty repartees. Had it all been flirting? The thought of it made him retch with guilt.

Chapter Three

Zara sagged on the mat and swiped a string of hair from her face. It stuck there stubbornly and she pinched it with her nails to peel it away. She watched the pair in the centre: a willowy redhead and Barry, their instructor. He, a heavyset man with a bullish neck, squeezed an arm around the woman’s waist, a vein straining beneath his flesh.

‘Hi-yah!’ she yelled dramatically and slammed her elbow into his liver, bending forward as she did so to slip from his grip. She whooped, then turned and high-fived him.

Zara glanced at her sister. ‘Really?’ she mouthed.

Lena pressed the air with a palm, asking her for patience.

Zara rolled her eyes. She knew that this class with its shouty statement of female empowerment was merely a means to make money. The truth was that a ten-week course on self-defence couldn’t teach you to protect yourself. She had felt the unbridled power of a man who hadn’t pulled his punches, hadn’t shown mercy, had held every inch of his strength against hers and she’d known she couldn’t fight him.

Lena had enrolled them in the fortnightly class when Zara had recovered. Months later, she remained unmoved. She – five feet four and slight – could go to all the classes she liked but she could never overpower a man.

Women could fight for equality in boardrooms and courtrooms but at the basest level – in hand-to-hand combat – men would always win. Perhaps this was why so many used soothing words and revealed their skin to manoeuvre the men in their lives.

What would happen, wondered Zara, if appeasement were offered earlier? If society treated men more gently, perhaps they would be gentler. Instead of placing them in the hard, small cage of masculinity, could we allow them to feel more deeply? She remembered Sofia’s words: ‘Sensitivity is unbecoming in a man.’ Hadn’t Zara thought the very same thing? Hadn’t she dumped Sameer at uni because he was too needy? Because he followed her around like a dog, wouldn’t let her go alone to the campus shop to collect painkillers for her period? She remembered the exact moment she decided to leave him: when she tried to adjust her hair and his hand went with hers, not wanting to lose her grip. He had cried when she told him and hadn’t that made her feel queasy? Hadn’t she wondered why she’d wasted five months of her life on him?

Even now, she felt a shiver of distaste when dining with a nervous date: his hand shaking as he poured the wine, a film of sweat on his forehead, nervous chatter as he perused the menu – and so wasn’t she part of the problem too, feeding the fragile egos that had slammed her against that wall?

Barry now had the woman on her knees, standing beside her and gripping her neck. There was a gleam in his eye. He was enjoying this. The redhead struggled and he held her there a moment too long, before letting her unseat him. This was a charade. Put them both in a deserted alley and there was no way she would fight him off.

Kamran stared at the name on screen: Zara Kaleel. The message had arrived last night and he’d sent it straight to the bin, but found himself returning to it. He thought of her in the news last year, so quick and confident. He had confided in her because he knew she would understand. She – like him – couldn’t just be who she wanted. She had to answer to her community. It’s true he was cocooned from the sharpest edge of it, but he still felt its pinpricks poised on his skin. He had to be discreet and despite turning up at his home, Zara understood this. With the dredge of distress in his stomach, he held his breath and opened the message.