London Sleeps

Tuesday 5th of September 2023, 17:45

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          “Do you think you’ll go to the sentencing?” I ask Gabi, setting her latte before her and slipping into the opposite seat. She starts suddenly, appearing surprised by my arrival, even though I left her alone for less than a few minutes while I bought our drinks. It seems that during that time, she had completely lost herself in thought while staring out the window of the coffee shop. Before I can ask her if she is okay, she responds to my prior question with a brisk shake of her head, then distracts herself by ripping open a sugar packet and tipping the contents into her coffee. When picking up a spoon to stir it in, she pauses just before it breaks the surface of the frothy milk.

          “Do you mind if I add two?”

          “Sugars? Do you need my permission?”

          “You’re very dramatic about sugar in coffee. The first time I asked for two sugars, you said it was vile.” That does sound like something I would say, although I have to agree with her that it’s a dramatic statement to make. “I had never heard that word before, but I could tell from your face that it was bad. I didn’t know until I looked it up later how over the top you were being.”

          “Whatever, have as much sugar as you want, I don’t have to drink that garbage.”

          "One will probably be fine.” She decides, finally dipping her teaspoon into the coffee and stirring it a few times. I can tell she is only partially present with me, still lost in whatever musings had taken over while I was at the counter. I would be perfectly comfortable sitting together in silence and leaving her to her thoughts, if not for the fact that I am sure she will have plenty of time to dwell on today’s events by herself later. Right now, I want to keep her focus on the practical issue ahead of us, so I steer the conversation back to the trial that just concluded and the upcoming sentencing.

          “You sure you don’t want to go? I can give you a lift if you need it.”

          “No, that’s okay, thank you. You already took too many days off work for this.”

          When I used to work as a security manager in a notorious East London housing block, I was called to court to give evidence on three occasions. Each time, just like today, it was as a witness. Usually, I would do my part and leave, but due to my investment in Gabi’s case, I took two weeks off work to attend the entire trial.

In contrast to my relatively light grilling, Gabi endured a gruelling, three-day cross-examination. It was uncomfortable, yet surprisingly satisfying in some ways, and she even waived her right to speak remotely in favour of facing her ex-boyfriend in person. As always, she held up under pressure, and when I saw the number of jury members in tears, I felt assured of the inevitable guilty verdict.

          “Anyway, I don’t care too much about the sentencing. I don’t think it will make much difference to my life now. Thank you for being here, though, you’re a good friend.”

          Her smile flickers briefly, a shadow of unspoken sadness lurking beneath the surface. Some people would think she isn’t suitably pleased for someone who has just reached the end of a case that dragged on for over a year, but I know her better than that. Despite how lacklustre it sometimes appears, Gabi’s smile always holds a special place in my heart. She once told me that one of the things she likes the most about her life now is not having to smile anymore. No more putting on a mask for hours every day; if she feels sad, she is free to look as miserable as she wants. It seems like a small thing, given how drastically her life has changed in the past couple of years, but knowing her for a while has taught me not to be surprised by these kinds of quirks.

          As I lean back in my chair, the heavy beat of the rain against the streets of Central London blends with the hum of conversation enveloping the cafe. The mood is far from celebratory, but when I asked Gabi about her plans after the verdict, and she told me she had none, I thought coffee was the least I could do for a girl without a single friend or family member coming to court for her.

          The police were pleased with the outcome, and if I had known previously that this would be the eventual result, I would have been thrilled. As it stands, I’m happy today, but sitting here with Gabi and seeing exactly how unchanged her life is right now is humbling.

          “I’m not being very good company,” She mumbles apologetically, drawing my gaze back to her. “I’m so sorry. I know it seems like I’m not happy, but I really am. I just don’t know what to feel at the moment. I’ve been thinking about this for so long, and now I don’t know what’s next.”

          I nod my understanding because, in a sense, I feel the same way. We proved our point: she is a victim, and he is guilty. So what comes next? No sentence will undo the damage, I have no idea where to even start with that. While he may get a few years in prison, she is serving a life sentence of her own. Regardless, I have no regrets about getting personally involved in Gabi’s case, even though it started as a professional obligation. Watching her slowly reclaim her life on her own terms has been more satisfying than the guilty verdict.

          “Are you going to stay here?”

          “London?”

          “England.”

          “Yes, for now.” She nods. “There’s nothing for me at home. I’ll stay here until I finish studying and work out my next step.”

          “Sounds like a good idea. How are things at the moment?”

          “Not great,” She admits. “I’ve been stressed about the trial, so it was a bad couple of months. But I hope it will be better now. I’m sorry, you probably want to celebrate.”

          “It’s boring sitting here and listening to you apologise over and over again,” I tease, knowing that lightening the atmosphere is the best way to avoid a spiral into negativity. “You can’t control whether you’re happy or not.”

          “I know.” She falls silent for a few seconds, finally picking up her coffee cup as she takes her turn to watch people scurrying into tube stations and office buildings to escape the rain. I know she has something to say, and silence is an almost infallible way to draw information out of somebody, so I watch her for a while without saying anything. I make a detailed examination of her side profile, picking up on the red vein pronouncing itself on her eyeball and her dry, cracked lips as she raises her cup to them. When the silence goes on for longer than she can handle, her gaze snaps back to me.

          “Why are you staring at me?”

          “Wondering why you’ve not been sleeping.” She raises a questioning eyebrow. “You look exhausted, and that’s the third coffee I’ve seen you drink today.”

          “Did you sleep well the last few days?” She challenges, sidestepping my interrogation with a question of her own.

          “Of course not. But I know the difference between not sleeping for a few days and not sleeping well for months.”

          “Of course you do, you always looked tired when I met you. You were so secretive, all the sleepless nights that you wouldn’t talk about.” That used to be the case when Gabi first got to know me, back when I had barely entered my twenties and sleep seemed trivial. If anything, it was little more than an annoyance that got in my way. A lot has changed since then. These days, I hardly ever stay up throughout the night. “I’m glad you don’t do that as much, you actually look your age now. I thought you were older when I met you, but maybe that’s because you were always so serious.”

          “What, I’m not serious to you anymore? Must be doing something wrong if you think I’m a joke all of a sudden.”

          “Stop it, you know I don’t. You’re just more relaxed since you changed jobs. Do you miss it?”

          “Sometimes.”

          I went into a management role in private security straight out of university. Even though I wasn’t doing frontline work, I was never hesitant to get involved when needed, so I had my fair share of late nights and adrenaline-fuelled situations. It was fun for a few years, but after climbing a few steps up the chain and feeling myself stagnate, I transitioned to a consulting firm in favour of a higher salary and a more diverse work portfolio.

          “What do you miss about it?”

          “I miss you answering my questions instead of changing the subject. Tell me what’s been going on.”

          “Just the same things as usual.” She sighs. “My house got raided by the police two days ago, and I barely slept since then.” It’s impossible for me to conceal my surprise, especially since we spent the last two days together, and she mentioned nothing about this.

          “Are you joking?”

          “I wish. Some of the people in the room downstairs were always doing drugs, it was awful. And there’s a family living in the room next to mine, I felt horrible about the kids being near that stuff. So we reported it to the landlord, he told the police, and they kicked our doors down.”

          I feel a sense of dread begin to blossom in the pit of my stomach as I realise that these issues did not materialise overnight. From the moment she was placed in emergency accommodation, Gabi’s focus instantly became how to move out from there and look after herself. She hated feeling like a burden, always insisting that other people needed the help more than she did. Although her support workers and I were quick to advise her that she should stay in the women’s shelter for as long as required, she was incredibly stubborn about leaving. She moved out as soon as she got a job and found herself somewhere to rent, but has always been evasive about the situation. All she told me was that the rent is low enough for her to cover it through part-time waitressing, and she is sharing a house with a lot of people. That alone was enough to signal to me the kind of place it probably was, but I had no idea it was that bad.

          “What kind of drugs? Weed or…?”

          “A lot worse than weed.”

          “Fucking hell, why didn’t you tell me?”

          “I didn’t want you to worry. And it was okay for a while. It was one thing when I could lock my door, but now it’s broken, and the landlord is taking forever to fix it. I’m scared to sleep and…” I can’t believe Gabi never told me about this, and it makes me wonder what other recent difficulties she might have been keeping to herself.

          “This is ridiculous. Come and stay with me for a few weeks while you find a new place.”

          “No, thank you. I’d rather sort things out myself. I’m looking for somewhere to move to at the moment.”

          “How’s it going?” The pause she takes before answering tells me that she clearly hasn’t made much progress on that front.

          “Most places want the deposit and rent upfront, so I just need to save a bit first.” I’m familiar with the difficulties of securing a flat in London’s current rental market, but that is a problem I can easily solve for her.

          “If I give you a couple thousand today, do you promise to move out now?”

          “Please, don’t offer me money.”

          “It’s fine, I can afford it.”

          “Stop it,” She snaps firmly. “I don’t want money from you or anyone else.”

          I can hardly blame her, and I try not to take it personally, even though it stings a little that after knowing each other for two years, she still struggles to trust me. But it makes total sense. After how Gabi has been treated, no one can blame her for being wary of people's intentions.

          “Okay, no money. But I have somewhere you can stay. Not straight away, but I can have it free for you in about a month. It’s nothing to shout about, and it’s small. When I say small, I mean tiny, but it’s an okay little place. Not somewhere you’d want to live forever, but at least you’d have your own space.”

          “Is it another shelter?”

          “No, this is my place. Not the one I live in, it’s a rental property.”

          “You own two flats in London? You’re not even thirty, where did you get the money from?”

          “Family. I used to live there, but I rent it out now. Short-term stays mostly, for people visiting the city.” She nods, cradling her cup as she mulls over my suggestion.

          “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think I can pay more than what you’re making renting it.”

          “I’m not asking you to, you don’t have to pay anything.”

          “Don’t be stupid.”

          “I’m not. Here’s what’s going to happen: after you finish your coffee, I’ll drive you home, we’ll pack your stuff, and you can come and stay with me temporarily. I’ll tell the agent not to accept any more reservations, and once the flat is empty, it’s all yours. You can stay there as long as you need to. As I said, it’s not somewhere you would want to live the rest of your life. The bed folds down from the wall, which isn’t glamorous, and the kitchen is…well, it’s not much more than a sink. But it has one of those tiny ovens, and there’s a hot plate you can plug in. It even has a mini dishwasher. It’s fine for one person, and I know you like to be on your own, so it’ll work better for you than a flat share. Plus, you can save up some money.” She frowns at me, appearing wholly unconvinced.

          “What about your mortgage?”

          “It’s tiny,” I inform her. I bought the studio in a rundown condition several years ago and worked on renovating it. As such, I got it at a reasonable price. “Don’t worry about that. Anyway, it means less time for me to spend dealing with agents and accountants. Just see it as looking after the flat for me.”

          “That isn’t much different from giving me money.” She shakes her head. “I’m not going to do this, no one’s ever going to own me again.”

          “It’s not like that. I want to help, you let me help you before.”

          “It was your job before.” She isn’t wrong, and a large part of me can’t believe I am making this offer. I know I’m crossing a boundary from which I can never return, but letting Gabi live there seems like such a small thing that could make a real difference to her. More importantly, there is no question in my mind about allowing her to stay in what is evidently a volatile and dangerous environment.

          “I understand if you don’t trust me,” I tell her truthfully. “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust anybody. It’s your choice. Just think about it, okay? I know you want to be independent, but it’s fucking hard to make it on your own.”

          “I don’t know, I…” She grabs a napkin from the table and presses it to her eyes, hiding her face from view for a few seconds as she starts to cry. “I don’t know what to do. You’ve always been so nice to me, you’re the only person who’s ever been truly nice to me and…” Despite her best efforts, her tears do not slow down. “No one is nice for nothing.”

          “You’re my friend Gabi.”

          “I’m one of your friends. You’re my only friend, you’re the only person I trust, you’re all I have. I know that’s so pathetic when I’m just some girl you see once a month out of pity, but I can’t risk losing you.”

          I have seen Gabi cry plenty of times, so I am more than used to it. She cried periodically while she was giving evidence, and it sounds horrible to say, but I thought she looked very pretty. It was those gentle, moving tears that play perfectly with a jury, touching people’s hearts without getting so out of control that it makes them uncomfortable. Maybe she was able to hold back because she had to focus on finishing her testimony, but now that she is unburdened, she can bury her face in her hands and heave loud sobs into them. I don’t interfere since I am un-embarrassed by the judgemental stares of nearby customers, who seem to think I have said something horrible to upset her. I wait patiently for her to finish, taking a sip of my coffee and calling the waitress over to request a glass of water.

          Gabi takes several minutes to emerge, her napkin soggy to the point of dissolution and her eyes puffy. I push the box of napkins closer towards her and nod at it, and she plucks a fresh one out, using it to blow her nose as the waitress arrives with her water.

          “Drink it,” I suggest, edging that across the table to join the napkins.

          “Sorry for crying.”

          “Don’t be sorry. You cry a lot, I’m used to it.” She nods her agreement with a hint of a smile. “Think of it like this: I don’t pay a mortgage on the flat I live in, and the one for the studio isn’t big. I can afford it, and it’s easier for me to have someone in it permanently rather than strangers who might trash the place. Just look after it for me, then it’s one less thing to deal with. You can pay the bills, okay?”

          “Of course I’ll pay the bills, but that isn’t enough.”

          “It’s enough. Maybe you could do me a favour and spruce it up a little. Decorate it however you want. If you have a boyfriend, he can come over. There’s no conditions, no rules or anything.”

          “A boyfriend? Don’t be ridiculous,” She scoffs. “It’s a really kind offer, but I meant what I said. I would sooner be homeless on the street than be owned by someone again.”

          “Why are you being so dramatic? Just take this as an opportunity. Save up the money you don’t have to spend on rent; that way, if you decide to leave, you can.”

          She leans back in her chair, tugging down the sleeves of her jumper until they cover her hands and folding her arms across her chest. Just when I am on the verge of asking her for a response, she suddenly jumps out of her chair, pushing it back so rapidly that the wooden leg screeches against the floor. We both wince at the unpleasant noise, but it doesn’t cause her to hesitate.

          “I need the toilet.”

          She disappears before I can even say anything to acknowledge her comment, and I mentally chastise myself as I stare at her retreating back. I obviously pushed her too far with the suggestion, and now she is panicking. I can’t say whether it is because she doubts my motivations or she is just overwhelmed by the thought of making such a sudden change, but I definitely should have been more sensitive in my approach.

          It has been almost two years since I met Gabi, and even though I have seen her situation vastly improve in that time, my protective instincts haven’t faded in the slightest. It usually takes everything in me not to pry into the details of her life and try to offer her solutions for the problems that I know are lurking under the surface. But doing so too aggressively can cause her to retreat, and that is what has clearly happened today.

          I tap my fingertips against the wooden surface of the table while I wait for her to return, filtering through the chatter surrounding me in the noisy coffee shop. I can tell that the woman at the table next to us has been straining to overhear our conversation since Gabi burst into tears, and when I glance over at her, she swiftly averts her eyes back to her laptop screen. The reaction is almost comical, and I don’t really mind her listening in, but I know it will bother Gabi if she realises we are being observed.

          “Okay.” Gabi’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts as she returns to her seat. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, maybe I can stay for a couple of months while I save up.”

          “Sure.” I had been on the verge of apologising for pushing her too much, but it seems she has had a change of heart. “However long or short you want.”

          “I really can’t thank you enough. You’re always so kind to me.”

          “It’s nothing. Come on, finish your coffee and let’s get going. Are you okay with cats, by the way?”

          “You have cats?” Her face lights up more than I have ever seen it do so at the mention of a human.

          “Only one.”

          “I love cats, but is your cat okay with people?”

          “I’m sure he won’t mind you,” I answer, and she finally gives me a less inhibited smile. It is still subtle and tame, but her dark eyes crinkle at the edges, which is how I know she means it.