Page 86 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘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’sa 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 hisfestive 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 forfemale 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.’
