After the End(52)

Downstairs, her dressing gown wrapped tightly to keep out the morning chill, she puts on the kettle and sets out two glasses. She spoons tea from the tin caddy she brought with her from Iran, and watches the dark leaves swirl around the teapot as she adds boiling water. The ritual is calming, its familiarity reassuring. She hears footsteps on the stairs as she steeps her mother’s preferred tea. Not for Habibeh the rich, swirling Persian drink that makes Leila feel at home, but Marks and Spencer’s finest Earl Grey, packaged in bags dangling from labeled strings. It is top of the list whenever Leila asks what her mother would like her to bring home, along with chocolate and vacuum-wrapped cheddar cheese. Leila adds milk until it’s the insipid beige color Habibeh likes best. She makes sheer berenj, a rice pudding only ever made on the morning of Norooz, and when her mother comes downstairs, she makes herself smile.

Habibeh kisses her. “Sad Saal be in Saal-ha, Leila joon.” A hundred more happy New Years. Leila would settle for one.

“I’m not working today, Maman.”

Habibeh lights up. She struggled to understand that Leila could not take the day off for Norooz, that an understaffed, overstretched ward meant the consultants hadn’t taken leave in months.

“Or for a while. I’ve taken some holiday.” A little white lie, settling between them. Habibeh is delighted. Leila is doubly ashamed. In honor of the occasion, Habibeh forgoes QVC in favor of BBC Persian’s New Year countdown, with its array of pop stars, dances, and comedy routines. Leila forces smiles, and listens to Habibeh make plans for their time together—the dishes they will cook, the films they will watch—while inside her anxiety spirals and swoops and swirls until she’s dizzy.

They snack on walnuts and dates as they prepare their Norooz meal. Kofte, Samanoo, a creamy dish of must, with its raisins and rose petals, lemon and olive oil. The table is laid with Leila’s special cloth from the bazaar in Shiraz, a vase of hyacinths, the best silverware. On the television screen, Sami Beigi sings from his greatest hits.

“Asheghetam, Leila joon.”

“I love you too, Maman.”

The doorbell rings. Wilma, perhaps, from next door. Leila goes to answer it, while Habibeh wraps her shall around her head. But it isn’t Wilma.

“Hey.” It is Nick. It is strange to see him here, in Leila’s front garden, and she feels her heart pick up its pace. She closes the door a little—she doesn’t want Habibeh to hear Nick talk of Dylan’s case, or of the newspapers her mother will never see.

“I wondered how you were doing.”

“I’m fine.”

A pause. “Can I come in?”

“It’s not a good time.”

Habibeh comes to the door. She waits to be introduced, but before Leila can decide what to say, Nick coughs. “Um, haletun chetorah,” he says, somewhat self-consciously. “Esm e man Nick ask.”

Leila is as surprised as Habibeh is. Leila looks down at Nick’s hands, which are covered in blue ink. “What else do you have on there?”

He checks his other hand. “Er, dashtshuee kojast?”

There is a brief pause. Habibeh and Leila exchange glances.

“Top of the stairs, on the left. The flush sticks a bit,” Leila says. “If that’s really what you wanted to ask.”

Nick looks embarrassed. “Wrong hand, sorry. I wrote that one down in case of emergencies.”

“But why would you need any of it?” Leila is confused.

“I didn’t know if you’d be here, and I didn’t want to worry your mum by turning up and not being able to say who I was. I took that Iranian porter for a coffee—remember the chap who was always singing? He wrote some phrases down for me.”

“You’d better come in.” Leila is glad of the narrow hallway that means there is no room for them all to stand; glad of the excuse to turn away and hide her face, which flushes with sudden feeling. She makes tea in narrow, tall glasses that slip into silver cases, and watches Nick nod earnestly as Habibeh recites the names of all the dishes on their Norooz table.

“Yesterday’s chip papers,” he says gently, when Habibeh has gone to the kitchen for more food. It takes Leila a moment to understand.

“They’re calling me Doctor Death. They think I’m a monster.”

“It’s a game, Leila.”

“It’s a cruel one.” Leila’s eyes fill. She puts a sugar cube on her tongue, takes a sip of tea, and lets the sweet taste fill her mouth. Nick hesitates, then he takes her hand and squeezes it—just for a second—before letting it fall again. “It’ll all go away after the court case.” He moves away as Habibeh comes back into the room, and Leila feels too hot and too cold, all at once. “Did you hear,” he says, trying to change the subject, “one of our paramedics got marched off the premises today.”

“What? Why?”

“For leaking stories to the press. Do you remember that piece in the Mirror about surgery happening in corridors?”

Leila nods, although she doesn’t really. There are so many hatchet jobs.

“Turns out, that was him. A few weeks later he went to the Mail with the details of an elderly patient whose wife disagreed with his DNR, and they ran a double-page spread on whether it was better or worse than euthanasia.”

Do Not Resuscitate. Leila hears Jim’s voice in her head. His wife called me a murderer . . . there was a bit of me that felt like one.