raps out.
'Yes. She's here. In my flat.'
'How come?'
'Because...' Iris has to think about this. It's a good question. Why is she here? 'Because I couldn't leave her in the crack den.'
'What are you talking about?'
'The hostel.'
'What hostel?'
'Never mind. Look,' Iris presses her fingertips to her forehead and does a few circuits of the kitchen table, 'what am I going to do?'
There is a pause. In the background of Alex's office, she can hear the bleep of telephones, someone shouting something about an email. 'Iris, I don't get it,' Alex says. 'What is she doing in your flat?'
'I had to do something with her! There's nowhere else for her to go. What was I supposed to do?'
'But it's ridiculous. She's not your responsibility. Get on to the council or something.'
'Al, I—'
'Is she dangerous?'
Iris is about to say no when she realises that she has no idea. She tries not to think about the words she saw upside-down in Lasdun's file. Bi-polar. Electro-convulsive. She looks about her. The knife rack on the wall, the gas-rings, the matches on the work surface. She turns her back, faces the blank wall. 'I ... I don't think so.'
'You don't think so? Didn't you ask?'
'Well, no, I ... I wasn't thinking straight.'
'Jesus Christ, Iris, you're harbouring a lunatic you know nothing about.'
Iris sighs. 'She's not a lunatic'
'How long was she in that place?'
She sighs again. 'I don't know,' she mutters. 'Sixty years, something like that.'
'Iris, you don't get banged up for sixty years for nothing.' She hears someone in the office calling his name. 'Look,' he says, 'I have to go. I'll call you later, OK?'
'OK.' She hangs up and places both hands on the counter. She hears the creak of a floorboard, a light step, a throat being cleared. She lifts her head and glances again at the row of knives.
Iris wonders sometimes how she would explain Alex, if she needed to. How would she begin? Would she say, we grew up together? Would she say, but we're not related by blood? Would she say that in her bag she carries a pebble he gave her more than twenty years ago? And that he doesn't know this?
She could say that she first saw him when he was six and
she was five. That she has barely known life without him. That he came into her sights one day and has never left them since. That she can recall the first time she ever heard his name.
She was in the bath. Her mother was there, sitting on the floor in the bathroom, and they were talking about a girl in Iris's class at school, and in the middle of the conversation, which Iris had been enjoying, her mother suddenly asked if Iris remembered a man called George. He took them out the other week and he showed Iris how to fly a kite. Did she remember? Iris did, but didn't say so. And her mother then said that George would be moving into their flat next week and that she hoped Iris would like that, would like him. Her mother began to pour water over her shoulders, over her arms.
'Maybe,' her mother said, 'you'd like to call him Uncle George.'
Iris watched the streams of bathwater fork into tiny rivulets as it coursed over her skin. She squeezed her flannel between both hands until it was a hard, damp ball inside her palms.
'But he's not my uncle,' she said, as she sank the flannel into the hot water again.
'That's true.' Her mother sat back on her heels and reached for Iris's towel. Iris always had a red towel and her mother had a purple one. Iris was wondering what colour George would have when her mother cleared her throat.
'George is bringing his little boy with him. Alexander.
He's almost the same age as you. Won't that be nice? I thought you could help me clear out the spare room for him. Make it look welcoming. What do you think?'
Iris was watching from under the kitchen table when George and his son arrived. She had pulled the cloth down low and she sat cross-legged, waiting. In the folds of her skirt she had hidden three ginger snaps. In case George was late. Because she was not
'Yes. She's here. In my flat.'
'How come?'
'Because...' Iris has to think about this. It's a good question. Why is she here? 'Because I couldn't leave her in the crack den.'
'What are you talking about?'
'The hostel.'
'What hostel?'
'Never mind. Look,' Iris presses her fingertips to her forehead and does a few circuits of the kitchen table, 'what am I going to do?'
There is a pause. In the background of Alex's office, she can hear the bleep of telephones, someone shouting something about an email. 'Iris, I don't get it,' Alex says. 'What is she doing in your flat?'
'I had to do something with her! There's nowhere else for her to go. What was I supposed to do?'
'But it's ridiculous. She's not your responsibility. Get on to the council or something.'
'Al, I—'
'Is she dangerous?'
Iris is about to say no when she realises that she has no idea. She tries not to think about the words she saw upside-down in Lasdun's file. Bi-polar. Electro-convulsive. She looks about her. The knife rack on the wall, the gas-rings, the matches on the work surface. She turns her back, faces the blank wall. 'I ... I don't think so.'
'You don't think so? Didn't you ask?'
'Well, no, I ... I wasn't thinking straight.'
'Jesus Christ, Iris, you're harbouring a lunatic you know nothing about.'
Iris sighs. 'She's not a lunatic'
'How long was she in that place?'
She sighs again. 'I don't know,' she mutters. 'Sixty years, something like that.'
'Iris, you don't get banged up for sixty years for nothing.' She hears someone in the office calling his name. 'Look,' he says, 'I have to go. I'll call you later, OK?'
'OK.' She hangs up and places both hands on the counter. She hears the creak of a floorboard, a light step, a throat being cleared. She lifts her head and glances again at the row of knives.
Iris wonders sometimes how she would explain Alex, if she needed to. How would she begin? Would she say, we grew up together? Would she say, but we're not related by blood? Would she say that in her bag she carries a pebble he gave her more than twenty years ago? And that he doesn't know this?
She could say that she first saw him when he was six and
she was five. That she has barely known life without him. That he came into her sights one day and has never left them since. That she can recall the first time she ever heard his name.
She was in the bath. Her mother was there, sitting on the floor in the bathroom, and they were talking about a girl in Iris's class at school, and in the middle of the conversation, which Iris had been enjoying, her mother suddenly asked if Iris remembered a man called George. He took them out the other week and he showed Iris how to fly a kite. Did she remember? Iris did, but didn't say so. And her mother then said that George would be moving into their flat next week and that she hoped Iris would like that, would like him. Her mother began to pour water over her shoulders, over her arms.
'Maybe,' her mother said, 'you'd like to call him Uncle George.'
Iris watched the streams of bathwater fork into tiny rivulets as it coursed over her skin. She squeezed her flannel between both hands until it was a hard, damp ball inside her palms.
'But he's not my uncle,' she said, as she sank the flannel into the hot water again.
'That's true.' Her mother sat back on her heels and reached for Iris's towel. Iris always had a red towel and her mother had a purple one. Iris was wondering what colour George would have when her mother cleared her throat.
'George is bringing his little boy with him. Alexander.
He's almost the same age as you. Won't that be nice? I thought you could help me clear out the spare room for him. Make it look welcoming. What do you think?'
Iris was watching from under the kitchen table when George and his son arrived. She had pulled the cloth down low and she sat cross-legged, waiting. In the folds of her skirt she had hidden three ginger snaps. In case George was late. Because she was not
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