Twenty-seven #2
The bell chimed as they left, Ivy handed over the wrapped book and turned to deal with the next customer, relieved to see the queue had dwindled to just Margaret and Mabel.
Once she’d dealt with their order, Ivy restocked the drinks fridge, then carried a box of books to the shelves.
Unpacking the books, she noticed a gap in the antique poetry section.
Her fingers traced the usual resting place for the gorgeous volume of Amy Levy’s poetry she had admired when she’d unpacked it and had often drifted to.
Reading those verses transported her. There was a gap.
Perhaps the book had found its way to someone who would cherish it as deeply as she would have, someone who would understand the delicate beauty of Levy’s words.
She heard the bell again, looked up and a warmth rushed to her skin.
Robby. He shook the rain from his coat with efficient, economical movements, the café’s warmth quickly putting the flush back into his cheeks.
His eyes swept the room in a brief, automatic assessment before settling on Ivy.
He nodded stiffly in her direction – polite, practised, his posture too upright for the casual setting.
But today, she saw him differently. She knew the human cost of the sleek watch on his wrist and the designer coat that hugged his shoulders.
The men he defended, the ones whose crimes she had prayed for deliverance from, funded the charity he served.
But that charity was a lie. Behind the polished facade, people profited from unspeakable horrors: trafficking innocent lives like commodities, breaking families apart and stealing futures in the darkest corners of the world.
And in return, Robby wore their money like a second skin, pretending the good outweighed the rot beneath.
Was there anything she could say to persuade this man to help them expose the evil crimes being perpetrated under the guise of training teachers?
They needed someone in London to expose what was going on, and Fred was correct – Robby was the obvious choice.
Deciding to try shock, she straightened, her voice sounding sharp.
‘Still hiding from what’s happening in your own workplace? ’
Robby took a deliberate step forward. His eyes landed on her dismissively. ‘A retired vicar should be careful what they say in public places.’
‘We know who you’re protecting. It’s Fowler, isn’t it,’ said Ivy, putting a steadying hand behind her on the bookshelf
For a second, Robby’s smirk faltered. Then he laughed, low and mirthless.
‘Oh, very clever. You’ve Googled who the charity is named after. Do us all a favour; convince Omar to go home.’
Deducing that shock wasn’t the right tactic, Ivy tried embarrassment instead. ‘Why? I’ll tell you why – so you can keep protecting people traffickers?’ Ivy shot back.
Robby recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing as if the accusation had knocked the breath out of him. For a heartbeat, he looked genuinely stunned.
Ivy caught the shadow of disbelief crossing his face and couldn’t tell if it was horror at the idea, or guilt. Did he know what the charity was really doing?
‘Is that what Omar has told you? My, my, he’s got a powerful imagination.’
‘Why not work with us instead of against us? You’re just doing this to keep your cushy job, aren’t you? At double the salary you’d get anywhere else. Expose Fowler, Robby. Do the right thing.’
Robby shrugged, but there was a tightness to his jaw now.
‘Fowler says that despite what Omar’s done, he can get the charges dropped.
The Taliban will leave him alone.’ He took a step closer and, his voice dropped to a cruel whisper.
‘Besides, it’s not like he’s really in danger.
These asylum seekers all tell the same stories, don’t they?
Anything for a free ride on British taxpayers’ money. ’
Ivy flinched. ‘That’s not true,’ Ivy hissed. ‘Omar deserves to be here. He’s earned the right.’
‘Oh, has he?’ Robby said, shrugging again.
‘No one deserves to be here,’ he hissed.
‘Another sob story, another “victim”,’ his fingers made air quotes around the word, ‘claiming they need protection. They all blend together after a while. If the charges are dropped, he has nothing to fear. We don’t need the likes of him sponging off us. ’
She let go of the bookshelf and glared at Robby. For a man who worked for a charity, he had little compassion. ‘How long have you worked in the charity sector?’
‘Four years.’
‘Where’s your sense of charity?’
‘You really think sheltering him is charity? It’s weakness. This country isn’t some sanctuary for every stray who wanders in. He should go back to where he came from.’
‘And you think throwing him out is justice?’
‘Do you want chaos? Crime? Strangers who don’t belong. He’s a criminal.’
Ivy’s jaw jutted out. She’d tried every way she could think of to persuade Robby to help.
She had one final thought. She caught Robby’s eye and locked onto it as she spoke.
‘Omar is not a criminal, and he can’t go back.
Believe me, he wants to. It’s his homeland, and his sister and nieces are there.
But he was an interpreter for the British Army – if he went back, they’d kill him. ’
As the words left her mouth, the lights in the café flickered.
A breath of silence. Then, as if the village itself had cast its vote, the bulbs flared back to life, brighter than before.
Ivy knew it was just a quirk of the rural electricity supply, ‘arcing’, the tree surgeons who worked for the National Grid had told her, as they trimmed the branch of her apple tree which nudged the overhead electricity line.
Robby blinked. ‘The Army?’ he murmured. He closed his eyes briefly, before turning and stalking out.
Ivy let out a puff of relief that he was gone.
But she was left with a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Had what she said convinced him to help them expose what was going on at the charity?
Or had she just put Omar’s sister and her family in terrible danger?
Ivy’s cottage was warm and inviting. It was nearly Christmas, and she could feel the excitement pulsing through her veins like a five year old.
Pine branches filled a copper vase on the table, their sharp scent mixing with the smell of fresh cake from the kitchen.
A few needles had already fallen, scattered on the surface below.
In the hearth, logs hissed and popped while Jez lay close by, snoozing off his dinner.
The bell rang, and Ivy threw a hurried glance around the room, wondering again whether it had been wise to throw a party at such short notice: this was the first impromptu Christmas gathering she had ever hosted.
She opened the door to findFredon the step, wearing his festive snowman tie, a bottle of red wine tucked under one arm, andOmar, right behind him, cheeks pink from the cold.
‘I kidnapped him on the way,’ Fred said grinning. ‘Hope we’re not too early.’
‘Perfect,’ Ivy smiled, stepping aside. ‘Come in, and let’s get you both something to drink.’
Fred ushered Omar inside, then followed, leaning in slightly as he passed her. ‘You’ve made it all look rather magical,’ he said, his eyes catching hers for a moment too long.
Ivy flushed. Proud of himself , she thought, and rightly so . It was Fred who had put all the pieces together: the fraudulent donations, the shell companies. It was his moment, really.
Omar made a beeline for the sofa, glancing around the room with a faint smile. ‘This is nice,’ he said.
As Fred passed Ivy the bottle, his hand grazed hers. ‘Thought this might suit the occasion. Pinot Noir.’
She gave him a polite nod. ‘Thank you. Very thoughtful. And well earned, after all your digging.’
He looked momentarily puzzled, then gave a lopsided smile and went to sit beside Omar.
Pouring the wine, Ivy asked, ‘Any word from Farid?’
Omar took a glass and grinned, clearly bursting with something to share. ‘He was already looking into it. He was relieved to have someone he can trust with whatever he finds. He thought Helen’s call was a trap.’
‘He’s brave,’ Ivy said, and meant it.
Omar leaned forward, ‘He also gave me news about Laila. Her mother-in-law died not long after I left Kabul. She’s been trying to come here under the same relocation scheme I am here on, but the process is crawling.’
Ivy paused, the wine bottle halfway to the table. ‘After admitting they leaked people’s details in ‘22 you’d think they would have sped the process up wouldn’t you – especially for female interpreters.’
‘She’s tough,’ Omar said, trying to sound casual. ‘And she’s keeping her head down.’
Ivy met his gaze. ‘She must be to have been a female interpreter in a Muslim country. But she shouldn’t have to be tough.’
Fred raised his glass. ‘To Laila, then. And to brave women everywhere.’
The bell rang a second time; Fred answered, letting in Helen and Trish, both armed with a bottle of icy-cold Prosecco. Helen held out a small speaker ‘I thought this might come in handy.’
For the next two hours, Fred, Helen, Ivy, Omar and Trish drank Prosecco and danced – albeit Trish mostly jiggled.
When Ivy heard the bell ring for a third time, she thought it was someone complaining about the noise and dashed to answer, Jez hard on her heels.
She pulled the door wide, words of apology forming on her lips.
A man stood on her porch, the last person she’d expected, and he wasn’t calling to complain about the noise.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said, trying to sound friendly.
Robby stepped inside. Over the jazzy music, Ivy heard four sharp intakes of breath. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she offered.
‘Yes, please. And then I’ll tell you what I came here to say.’
Helen killed the music, and Ivy poured a fresh glass of Prosecco, conscious of the silence pressing in around her.
Robby took up station by the fireplace, his untouched drink fizzing in his hands.
He stared into the flames, fingers tightening around the glass until his knuckles turned white.
When he finally spoke, his voice was croaky with suppressed emotion.
‘When my regiment pulled out in 2021,’ he twirled the glass in his hand absentmindedly, ‘we left an interpreter behind. We knew what that meant.’
Silence settled like dust.
Fred straightened in an armchair. ‘Wait, you were military?’ His voice rose a note, a mix of disbelief and something edging toward anger.
Robby didn’t look up. His gaze stayed on his drink, as if it could drown out the memory. His voice was rough, raw.
‘I followed orders. That’s what we were trained to do.
No questions, no second-guessing. Finish the job and move on.
’ He gave a strained smile. ‘Only some things don’t move on.
I see his face every time I close my eyes.
He was called Mustafa. He could cook a perfectly spiced dal in the middle of the desert.
He once told us a very rude joke about a camel.
He had a daughter who had got into an American university on a scholarship –he was the proudest father.
And every time someone says, “collateral”, like it’s only a word . .. well. I think of him.’
Robby didn’t look up. He continued to stare at his drink and then, almost too fast to register, he downed it in one gulp.
Omar stepped forward from the window, and Robby looked at him, respect in his eyes. ‘You should have told me about your past. That way I’d have known Fowler was lying about the charges against you. You left because you couldn’t risk exposing your past.’
Omar spoke, his voice firm. ‘Yes. But also, because I’d discovered something at the charity that I suspected might put me in danger.’
Robby nodded, jaw tight. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
Ivy saw the truth of it: not guilt, exactly, but the unbearable weight of knowing better, and being too late.
Ivy could see him unravelling, the cracks in his composure deepening into fissures.
His grip tightened on his empty glass until it seemed it might shatter.
‘Christ!’ The word came out as a prayer and a curse.
Robby swallowed hard. When he looked up, his eyes were wet with unshed tears. ‘Do you think Fowler knows what you did before you joined his foundation?’ The question came out like an accusation.
‘Why do you think he’s pressuring Omar to go back?’ said Helen, her eyes flashing. ‘He knows Omar has information that could destroy him, and he knows exactly what happens to interpreters for the British Army. He’s counting on it.’
It felt as though the world outside had ceased to exist, leaving the moment suspended in time, the only sound the crackling fire.
Steel entered Robby’s expression. ‘I’m not protecting Fowler anymore. I’ll help you to expose him.’ The words rang with finality as he set his glass down with a decisive thud.
For a beat, the cottage was still, the moment crystallizing around them.
Suddenly, Fred stood, crossing the room to clasp Omar’s shoulder.
Helen followed with a fierce hug and soon they were all on their feet, the small space filled with voices and movement.
Fred turned to Ivy, his face bright with relief, eyes shining.
‘We did it,’ he whispered, as if afraid to break the spell.
She smiled, her throat tight with emotion. They had done it. Against all odds, they had done it.