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why we don’t live in a house.

      ‘Because we live in a flat,’ I said, interestingly. I was tired.

      She said she’d like to live in a house. I concurred in a non-committal grunting fashion.

      Then felt bad about my lack of interest. ‘Why?’ I asked.

      ‘So that when you die I can bury you in the garden and you’ll still be near me.’

      ‘Oh sweetheart,’ I said. ‘Oh.’

      ‘I know it won’t really be you,’ she said. ‘I know it’ll just be your body, and worms will eat it, even your eyes, and your lovely little nose.’

      I looked down at her, and she reached up, and touched the tip of my nose tenderly.

      Oh sweetheart,’ I said.

      ‘But what I really want is a leopard that can read my mind, and knows where to go.’

      Oh my god, I thought. And said: ‘So do I.’

       THREE

       I’m not Canute

      It was seven by the time we got home – time Lily should be getting ready for bed. Harry was sitting on the doorstep, up at the end of the long red-brick balcony that leads to my flat, reading the Independent and ignoring the cold. He looked to Lily first. She seemed to have forgotten all about him – and then remembered.

      ‘Dada!’ she trilled, blinking at him. He stood – unfolding himself as he does, like a camel or a telescope – and picked her up, and her legs hung down as if she were a puppet on his hand. Long dangly big-girl legs. She’s five now. A creature of playgrounds and reading books and the girls’ gang, no more the plump little dimpled thing I used to know. My girl.

      He smiled at me over her shoulder. As you see dads do. Dads in coats carrying big girls in coats. In the park, at the playground. Girls climb up on their dads. My girl, her dad.

      I opened the door and they followed me in. The hallway seemed smaller than usual. So did the kitchen. What with this new identity spreading out all over the place. Of course Harry’s been there many a time before, but Lily’s father hasn’t. And he seems to take up space.

      I’m not complaining.

      I started to make an omelette, automatically. It wouldn’t be a very nice one because I was rather too weary to whisk it up properly the way she likes. I tried to do a little yoga breathing as I whisked. Just because a policeman asks you some questions it doesn’t mean your life has to be upended again. It came out as a sigh.

      ‘Can I do it?’ Harry said.

      I just stared at him.

      ‘Why not?’ he said.

      No reason at all.

      ‘Make up for lost time,’ I said. I have cooked tea for his child seven nights a week for five years; he has never.

      ‘Can I put her to bed too?’ he said.

      ‘You don’t have to ask,’ I said. ‘At least you don’t have to ask me.’

      ‘No you can’t,’ said Lily. ‘But you can read me a story.’

      Harry eyed her.

      ‘You know what?’ he said.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You don’t boss your father.’

      She thought about it. I observed, interested.

      She changed the subject. Enquired about the omelette, wanted milk, carried on with normal business. Much like I’m doing myself, now I come to think of it. My normal business of my family. Of Lily. Of incorporating Harry. And this is going to be such an interesting business. I must keep my mouth shut and let them work it out for themselves even though I know everything much better than they do. She can tell him what she wants; he can learn. I’ll just stand by. Or lie in wait. Or bite my tongue. Or something.

      But I won’t be thinking about Cairo.

      *

      When she was asleep we sat at the kitchen table. Again. This could be turning into a routine.

      ‘Was it OK with Oliver?’ he said.

      I could feel my face falling back into itself. When the child is awake and with you, you tend to the child. And then the moment she crosses the school gate, or sleeps, everything else floods back.

      Of course you can’t keep things in boxes. Of course they must be dealt with.

      ‘Waah – he was OK,’ I said. ‘I think.’ I didn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it affirms it, makes it truer. And me talking about it makes it my business. But Harry has a right to know. I could feel it getting more tangible by the second. And I added, ‘But it isn’t OK.’

      ‘How so?’

      ‘Eddie’s left Cairo. Well, gone off. Disappeared.’

      ‘Off the scheme?’ cried Harry.

      ‘Think so. Assume so. Don’t know how it works.’

      Harry stared at me. Not aghast, but –

      ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ he said.

      ‘Don’t know,’ I said. Why did he tell me?

      ‘But I’m meant to be … fuck,’ he said. ‘Oh fuck.’ I could see what he was thinking. Not informed equals left out. Why? To what end? Fearing.

      ‘Do you think it’s because of me?’ I said.

      ‘Could be,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know. But to tell you and not me – Jesus. How long ago?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      He was rubbing his forehead, adding information to what he already knew, computing visibly. Suddenly he snorted an angry noise and started to walk about.

      So it’s true, it’s happening, it’s affecting things. Am I Canute to try to hold back the tide?

      ‘Apart from what it means for your career,’ I said, ‘and your position on the case, what does it mean?’

      ‘It means he’s a fucking lunatic …’

      ‘We already know that,’ I pointed out.

      ‘… because when he was there, he was safe. He had his ID and a few of the Egyptians keeping an eye on him. But if he goes off, he’s at risk. And he is a risk. Fuck! How did it happen? Do you know any … fucking Oliver. Fuck him.’

      I could understand that he was pissed off at having to ask me. But I wanted his opinion of the situation as a whole – well I did. An idea had occurred to me – ‘Eddie’s done this on purpose to wind me up’. But you see if I entertain thoughts like that, I’m doing Eddie’s job for him. Nurturing seeds of mindfuck. I need Harry to remind me that Eddie is in the past and that none of this means anything to me.

      Yes. And bears shit in the Vatican. What I promised myself, what Sa’id told me, was that if Eddie reappeared I could deal with it. Nobody said deny it, we said deal with it. So deal. Eddie’s actions are touching those who touch me. So.

      It hadn’t been a long respite, had it? What? Six, seven weeks off from him?

      Harry was looking at me. ‘So?’ he said.

      ‘Would you understand,’ I said, ‘if I were to say that I want nothing, ever, to do with Eddie again, to such a degree that I don’t even want to talk to you about this now? Because it’s not me he’s having a go at … Would you understand if I just backed off completely, and said look, you and Oliver do

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