Two Halves Whole Page 2

  Tracy lifted a brow. "Doesn't he have his own friends?"

  Gabrielle shrugged. "Apparently they don't hang out with them anymore. Not sure why. He didn't really say." She offered a sheepish grin. "So, it's okay, right? They just look so lonely over there."

  Angelique and Tracy glanced at each other and then like clockwork, their heads turned to Haruna. Haruna stared back, agitated. "Why are you all looking at me?"

  "Well…" started Angelique with no intent to explain as she trailed off and bit down on her milk box straw. She gave Haruna her classic "Captain Obvious" stare.

  What was obvious was that the other half of that duo hovering by the door happened to be Ryu Debiru. Haruna felt a twitch in her eye.

  "He can sit wherever he wants. It's not like we're… enemies."

  Anymore.

  Everything happened agonizingly slow. The boys continued to mull around like ill-matched statues until Gabrielle eagerly waved them over. Seth's freckled face lit up, and his tall, lanky frame bumbled towards them. Ryu skulked behind like a much shorter, very reluctant shadow. Once they had come to the table, things only became more awkward. With Tracy on Gabrielle's left, Seth took the seat to Gabrielle's right. By default there only remained one empty space to Haruna's left, which—as it turned out—wasn't exactly an empty space but a very narrow gap she had left between herself and another student. Haruna felt her cheeks grow hot at Tracy and Angelique’s stifled snickering while Ryu tried, but failed, to maintain that very narrow, virtually non-existent gap beside her. Haruna refused to turn her head in his direction, though she could smell the subtle scent of something woodsy mixed with the not-so-subtle scent of stale tobacco. The many thoughts plagued her at once…

  What’s the point in wearing cologne if he’s going to ruin it with his chain-smoking?

  And how did he go from being the leader among a group of delinquents to sitting beside me—the head prefect—in the cafeteria, thigh against thigh?

  Wait a minute.

  His thigh is touching my thigh?

  Flustered, Haruna wrenched her leg inwards, barely restoring that tiny millimetre-sized gap. She dipped her head and shovelled through the remainder of her parfait.

  "Did I tell you guys? Seth is coming over for dinner," Gabrielle said at random. Or maybe it wasn't so random. Haruna was too busy staving off a meltdown to even hear the conversation that preceded it. Seth grinned brightly, and the two of them adoringly rubbed noses. Haruna felt the urge to puke when she heard a dull snap. From the corner of her eye she spied Ryu digging into a cup of instant noodles, fingers looping around a pair of disposable wooden chopsticks.

  Haruna turned and gawked.

  She wasn't sure how long she had done so, but it was long enough to cause him to stop chewing and stare back at her, cheeks puffed like a chinchilla. He swallowed hard.

  "What's up? You hungry or something?"

  Haruna felt the blush return. She shook her head, feeling embarrassed.

  "No it's just… you make using those look so easy."

  He blinked slowly, giving some pause before pulling his lips into a lazy smirk.

  "Guess there's a lot Grandma didn't teach you, eh?"

  Haruna snorted. "This has nothing to do with her. She's not Asian so obviously she has no clue—"

  "Sure, whatever." His words gave way to noisy slurping.

  Haruna twisted to gape despairingly at the others. Seth had begun to tell some bad joke that Gabrielle was losing her mind laughing at. Angelique was recounting to Tracy some engrossing horror story about a belligerent client at her part-time job. Everyone was busy. Immersed in their worlds.

  Everyone except…

  Haruna glanced sideways. Ryu had placed his cup noodles to the side and was now poking at a weird triangular ball of something cloaked in green. The green looked like it was the sole thing holding it together. Ryu’s dark, narrow eyes flashed upwards. She flinched.

  "Why do you keep watching me eat?"

  Haruna balked. What was he implying? That she was greedy? Wait! Did he think she was creepy? Well she was not either of those things, thank you very much!

  "I don't want your food," Haruna mumbled. She squinted, studying it. "What is that, anyway? Looks… different."

  He rolled his eyes. "It's onigiri. Rice. Seaweed…"

  "Did you make it yourself?"

  "Yeah. It's pretty easy so…"

  "Oh."

  Haruna looked down at her parfait. She had finished it. She hadn't even realised it. But what she had realised, what she became completely aware of, was Ryu’s body heat radiating onto her. His heat, his scent, and a thigh dangerously close to hers. What had she said to Ryu the last time they had spoken? Last Friday? Four days ago? That they should "talk" more? So why did it have to be this awkward? Pushing her empty cup aside, Haruna lifted her head to see ten pairs of eyes on her from a few tables away. Realising they'd been caught, the entire two rows of girls turned or looked elsewhere. Haruna felt a lurch in her chest. Who were these people?

  Not long after the thought crossed her did she feel a light jab from her right. She turned as a giggling Angelique leaned in to whisper, "Now those were groupies, and that look was definitely meant for you."

  The office of Irving-Smith LLP was located in the heart of the city. Like the many offices within the tall buildings that surrounded the firm, it had a modern design. Mahogany and pastel blue tones. Burgundy carpeting that accented high-gloss floors. The walls themselves were plain, beige, actually, but avant-garde paintings and inspirational quotes brought life to an often dull waiting room. Massive panes of glass let in abundant rays of sunshine at daybreak, though they had proven to be the cause of an early grave for one too many a bird. Oh, but it was a brilliant office. The firm had changed for the better over the last few decades, having secured a team of excellent lawyers. It was a shame the man who had founded it hadn't been there to see all it had become.

  Marie gazed out at the city skyline and its grey skies, the beads of a rosary suspended from her palm as she reminisced. It had been over twenty, nearly thirty years since Gregory had passed. Over twenty years since she’d been left to manage the firm, singlehanded. Gregory had been her boss before he became her rock, her partner in love and life. Now her rock was Jesus Christ. But that was fine. She was no stranger to losses, anyhow. That was the way things were. That was life.

  The phone rang.

  Marie pivoted and strode leisurely to her desk.

  "Yes? Marie, speaking."

  "Ms. Smith, a client is here to seek counsel. A Mr. Amrit Singh."

  "Does he have an appointment?"

  "Ah, no, he does not."

  "Have him meet with Pamela."

  "But Pamela is just an articling student…"

  Marie scowled. Well. Miss Secretary was being quite the know-it-all tart today.

  "Are you questioning my judgment, Lori? Because I don't believe I pay you for that."

  There was a miffed undertone as Lori replied, "Sorry. You're right, Ms. Smith. Pardon my comment.”

  Marie clicked down the receiver and she sunk into her leather-bound desk chair with a deep breath. She returned the rosary to a pearl-coloured box and placed it in the top drawer. Waiting on the desktop was a small flask of tea she had forgotten to finish. Frowning, Marie checked her wristwatch for the time. Was it so late, already? Afternoon Tea? She fell into a bout of nostalgia—she recalled days past in Leicester; teatime meant the finest Ceylon, trays brimming with china cups and sweets. Now she spent her time staring down a stack of papers and rows of filing cabinets.

  Her mother must have been rolling in her grave, fuming at how greatly Marie had parted with tradition. Aspiring to be a woman lawyer in the 1950s had been Marie’s first departure from common-sense. The second—the Seventies when she had married Gregory Irving, a Canadian of Scottish descent. A devout Catholic. She didn’t even take her husband’s name. But converting in the Eighties must have been M
arie’s most recent infraction.

  Marie sighed, running a hand along her temple.

  She hadn't time for this stroll through memory lane. Not with this hectic schedule.

  Full retirement wasn't far off, but Marie loved her job. She loved to keep things in order. She couldn't imagine Irving-Smith LLP without her, nor dared she envision it. The firm needed her.

  It needed her iron fist.

  Feeling stiff in the back, Marie rose to her feet again and moved to the corner of her office. She flicked on the electric kettle. It wasn't traditional, but she supposed Earl Grey in the ol’ flask would do, regardless of how lazily it was prepared. She thought about Lori's interruption. An advanced articling student was more than qualified enough to casually interview the gentleman, this Singh character. It's not like Pamela would be handling the case directly. The more Marie thought though, the more something didn't sit right with her—something about Lori's tone. And when Marie really considered it, that name, Amrit Singh, seemed awfully familiar. She watched with pursed lips as the kettle gave way to a hum. She lifted it and began to pour.

  Amrit Singh. Mr. Amrit Singh.

  Marie clanked the kettle onto the counter and gaped into space. That's right. How could she have forgotten? That man had been in the news for days, weeks even. And now, of all the firms in the city, he was here? Oh no. Oh no no no! Marie had to see what was going on. This was beyond Pamela, indeed! Marie left her sanctuary, her office, and started up the hall in haste, every click of her loafer heels like the anxious ticks of a clock. As she neared the office, she could hear the faint mumblings beyond the door. She knocked once but didn’t wait for an answer to open it.

  “Marie,” Pamela murmured, looking surprised as she stood hastily to acknowledge her. Marie forced a smile as she remained rigid against the door frame.

  “I was thinking I’d just sit in for a bit. Is that alright?”

  “Oh—n-not a problem at all! Of course.” Pamela turned to the client, who looked similarly confused. She gestured to Marie with a smile. “Er, Mr. Singh. This is Marie Smith. She’s the head of the firm.”

  Marie watched as Singh turned, his surprise slowly shifting to a grin, lukewarm at best, as she extended her hand and he shook it. Smiling tersely, Marie gave a short “how do you do?” before finding herself a chair alongside them. Marie folded her hands in her lap.

  Pamela was still in a fluster.

  “Would you like me to start over with the—”

  “Oh no, right where you left off is fine,” Marie insisted.

  “Very well. So Mr. Singh here, I'm sure you know, his son was tragically killed in the eastern part of our city. Mr. Singh heard good things about the firm and was hoping for some legal advice—possibly representation.”

  Marie gave a nod to show she was listening, and Pamela returned her focus to Singh.

  “So Mr. Singh, you were saying about your son? He was known in the streets as ‘Wild Dog,’ but you say you knew nothing about his, erm, activities?”

  Singh frowned.

  "I had raised him to be different. We are Sikhs. We believe in peace, kindness… this kind of thing is just…"

  "Had he ever shown signs of aggression? Hostile tendencies?"

  "David was a difficult boy at times. I blamed it on 'teenage rebellion,' you know? He had a hard time adjusting. I wish he listened. But I wish… I wish I listened to him more."

  "Adjusting?"

  "We moved to Campbelton when he was thirteen. He had to start over, you know, with the friends. Then there was his mother’s passing…"

  Marie couldn’t help herself. She needed to interject.

  “Er, Pamela, if you don’t mind. Mr. Singh, I couldn’t help but wonder why you’ve come to us. You already have legal representation, do you not?”

  Singh regarded her with a stare Marie thought to be suspect.

  “Certainly. Every business professional has a legal team behind them. But what I need here is something very particular.”

  “Do explain, sir.”

  He knitted his bristled, greying brows, deep contemplation reflected in his expression.

  “I have a theory. I am convinced there is a cover-up, and the police in this town are deliberately not investigating.”

  Once he had spoken, the room fell into an uncomfortable silence.

  Pamela and Marie exchanged looks.

  “Do you have any grounds for making such claims?” Pamela asked.

  “I’ve spent many nights awake. I’ve been unable to sleep, you know. I can’t lie awake in bed doing nothing so I’m on the Internet, searching. Reading news. Old news. That is when I realised—there is a pattern, you see. When you look, there have been incidents in the east end—record numbers in the last ten years. Yet, the number of convictions is low. The cases remain cold. It is a pattern.”

  Marie quirked an eyebrow.

  “You haven’t answered Pamela’s question, sir. Your proof? You still haven’t provided any.”

  “I have none. I only have my theory. Another thing, too. What else happened in the last ten years? I’ll tell you. Mr. Vangelis is a city councillor. His brother-in-law is a detective. My son was murdered in his ward. So many of these incidents are in his ward. No, ma’am, I have no proof proof— but that’s where you come in.”

  “Are you telling me, Mr. Singh, that you actually believe they are responsible?”

  “They didn’t draw the knife, but they’ve purposely turned a blind-eye. Police say there are no witnesses. Not a trace of DNA. My son’s case is unsolvable. How come?”

  "Have you ever considered, sir, that maybe witnesses don't want to come forward? Your people so rarely ever do …"

  Singh's brows shot up. "My 'people’?"

  Right. Poor choice of words. Marie shut her eyes, inhaling deeply before reopening them.

  “Look. I don’t know what you’ve heard about this practice, but we are not one to act willy-nilly based on speculations.”

  Singh groused, running a hand across his forehead. He threw his hands up.

  “Okay! I will confess to one thing. David has a friend. He told me things too.”

  “Who is this friend? A member of the gang?” Marie asked.

  “I… cannot say.”

  “I will be frank with you. Our firm does not represent criminals. It’s just not what we do here.”

  Singh scowled. Defiant, he retorted, "I am not asking for a criminal defence, ma’am—I am asking for justice! My son was a victim!"

  "A victim of what?" Marie shot back. She folded her arms.

  "Hatred. Bigotry. This city's corruption."

  Singh’s anger was transparent, but he did hide it. At least he tried. And he didn’t wait long before lumbering to his feet and storming off, opening, then slamming the door with a vigour that caused the walls to shake. Pamela batted her lashes, evidently taken aback.

  “Bigotry and corruption? Bold claims…”

  “Rubbish,” Marie sniffed.

  “But what if he’s right?”

  Marie regarded Pamela with a blank stare. She laughed dismissively.

  “We don’t know what that gentleman's motives are,” said Marie, brushing back a strand of white hair from her cheek. “Mr. Singh may well be upset because aside from being a councilman, Mr. Vangelis is an industry competitor. We mustn’t risk the firm's reputation on a case like this, my dear. Watch and learn.”

  Marie gave an assured nod, hands to her side as she rounded sharply and exited.

  Some nerve the man had.

  She knew exactly what it was to be a second-hand victim. She saw crime and corruption, personally. If young David Singh chose a life of crime, he deserved his fate. If that meant the father would be an unintended casualty of the son’s stupidity. Well, c’est la vie.

  As for the Vangelis family, Marie had known them for years.

  Why, her dear friend Annette was Ioudas’ mother-in-law and mother to the officer-de
tective in question, Michel Lacroix. It was thanks to Annette that Marie was able to turn to the church, Holy Eternal Sacrifice, for the support she needed after her own daughter Grace was killed. How ludicrous it was that someone would come here expecting her to support what would amount to a witch hunt against Ioudas? It would never happen, not on Marie's watch! But she wasn’t going to relay those thoughts to Pamela. The less said the better.

  As for Mr. Singh?

  Well, he would have to shop around his little “theory” elsewhere.

  The purposes of a person’s heart are deep waters,

  but one who has insight draws them out.

  – Proverbs 20:5

  CHAPTER two

  cracks along the surface

  It was Tuesday.

  It was also lunch time and the four girlfriends had been fawning over their food and its deliciousness. Angelique had brought something more cultural than the usual—something Haruna didn’t remember the name of, but it included fried plantains—which Angelique gladly shared with all of them and Haruna thoroughly enjoyed. Tracy and Gabrielle got the French fries–chicken fingers combo with a coleslaw side from the canteen. Haruna settled on a classic linguine pasta. It was that prized moment of the day, the short hour between classes to unwind before they had to hit the usual grind again. Except there was one small difference.

  Ryu was there.

  Just Ryu.

  That morning, Haruna arrived to school frazzled. After overexerting herself the night before on a last-minute cram session, she’d overslept. She had made it in time, right before the national anthem and morning announcements. She shared a class with Tracy in first period. As bubbly as Tracy usually was, something about her seemed distracted. Haruna decided not to pry. The next time she saw any of her friends again was in the lunch line. Strangely enough, even the ever-pleasant Gabrielle seemed downbeat. Something was off with her also. But food was the solution it seemed, because everyone was all smiles once they were eating. When they had at last gotten comfortable at the table, Haruna had glanced up and caught Ryu entering the lunch hall. She stared, waiting for Seth to appear at his side. But Seth didn’t. Ryu scanned the room and his eyes met hers. Not knowing what else to do, she gave her usual polite smile. She even lifted a hand to give a small wave. Very Queen Elizabeth-like. Yet, before she knew it, Ryu was sitting at the table too and right in front of her. She hadn’t quite meant to call him over, but there he was. If this was to be the new normal, it surely would take getting used to.