Wolf, Valentin and I were sitting in a borrowed car, parked beside the garage.

I had become a void. Nothing spoke within me.

I may have wondered whether the clocks had stopped, but we had been there at least two hours that evening, suspended in the silence, not moving, hardly breathing, but smoking, sighing, whispering and twitching, and all the cocaine gone, as it always is.

The longer we waited, the more agitated I became. I was even hoping that Ajita’s father wouldn’t come home, that he’d be with his mistress, if he had one, rather than have to “meet with” the three of us. Yes, it would be a grand night for him to visit this imaginary woman, since his son and daughter (my beloved) were staying with friends in Wembley.

Two nights previously Wolf had said to me, “What’s up, my friend? You’re looking gloomy again.”

“So would you, if someone was fucking with your woman.”

“You believe it’s still going on? Is it really true? But who could it be, man? When does she see him?”

“I can’t tell you. She begged me not to talk about it. It’s deadly serious, Wolf.”

“You do know who it is?”

“I do now. I found out, at last.”

“Yeah? You’ve got to tell us, your buddies, your pals,” Wolf said. “She’s a great girl. She comes to the house. She cooks for us. We really love her. If you weren’t with her, I’d make a move on her—like that.” He snapped his fingers.

They persuaded me to go to the pub, where I recounted what she had told me.

“Jesus, that’s serious,” said Wolf.

I said, “I can’t have her go through this one more night. We’ve got to do something. If this was a film, we’d just go in and shoot him up. It would be a pleasure.”

“You’re right. We should teach that father a lesson,” Wolf said. “Give him a little polite warning. It’s easy to do.”

“Why not?” I said. “He doesn’t know you guys. He’s not going to go to the police and have all this come out. What do you say, Val?”

Valentin was less keen, being a gentle creature with what seemed like a priest’s desire for denial and suffering. But he wouldn’t let his best friends down. After a time, he said what we were doing was “morally right”; apparently it was “good” as Socrates understood “the good.” Surely, if it was good enough for Socrates, it was good enough for me.

My friends were set. The warning would be administered as soon as I gave the word. I waited for Ajita to tell me when she’d be out. I knew it would have to happen in the next few days, before we lost enthusiasm. The event would be straightforward enough if we knew the family’s moves. When Ajita said she and Mustaq would be out, we planned “the surprise” carefully.

We were almost asleep, or near-catatonic, when we heard a car. There was little traffic in that neighbourhood. I turned and looked.

“It’s him,” I whispered.

“Let’s go,” said Wolf. “Calm. Only the business.”

We slipped down in our seats.

Once Ajita’s father was there, everything began to happen quickly. The garage doors opened and he drove in. Now he was unable to see us. We crept out of our car and entered the garage by the side door he would exit from, a few feet from the kitchen.

We were in. I shut the door behind us. Valentin had brought a torch, which he switched on and rested on a bench. There was enough light for us to see our victim. We were standing around him as he got out of his car.

With his open hand, Wolf slapped the father twice on the side of his head, just to let him know we were there. Valentin stepped forward and punched him in the stomach, surprisingly hard.

Meanwhile I whispered fiercely, “Leave her alone, your daughter, never touch her again, she’s your child, you do not have sex with her, do you understand? We will cut your balls off.”

He tried to nod as he fought for breath. He was terrified, and his terror was so great it seemed to make him unaware of what I was saying or what we were doing there.

He did this strange thing. Valentin had knocked him against the car, where he was struggling with something. For a moment, I don’t know why, I thought it might be a gun. Then I grasped that he had taken off his watch, which he gave to me with trembling hands. I slipped it into my pocket.

When I grabbed his lapels in order to elaborate my diatribe at closer quarters, he tried to give me his wallet.

“What do you want of me?” he repeated. “I know you! I’ve seen you before! What’s your name? What are you doing here? Help! Come, police!”

I couldn’t take the wallet because by then I was determined he would stop yelling and hear me properly—I was pulling one of Mother’s kitchen knives out of my jacket. It was intended to scare him into sense. It did scare him.

When he saw it, he started to hyperventilate, gasping so much he couldn’t get any more words out. His hand was clutching my wrist; I had to prise his fingers from me.

He collapsed, shaking and clutching his arm and chest, making dreadful noises, begging for help as he fell to his knees, before toppling over onto his side.

I stepped back. I was ready to kick him in the head when Valentin said “Enough!” and pulled me away.

We picked up the torch and got out.

Before I shut the door, I could hear the father choking and gurgling. Or perhaps I imagined that. I’m sure Wolf said, “It’s done,” and shook my hand. “That dirty bastard has taken it.”

“He learned his lesson,” Valentin said.

Wolf thumped one black leather glove into the other. “We did him. The business.”

We drove away, none of us looking at the others. Not a word said. We were not exhilarated or high, but exhausted and frightened. At least the job was done. “Only the business.”

Wolf and Valentin left for London, dropping me off on the way. I walked for a long time, often in circles and back on myself, stopping at various pubs for a half pint in each. I couldn’t move normally; the different parts of my body seemed to have become disconnected.

At home, I washed the knife in the bathroom sink—there was no good reason for this—dried it, put it back in the drawer and turned to look at Mother, who had come into the small kitchen. Tonight I was glad to see her.

As always in the evening she was wearing, under her dressing gown, a pink bri-nylon nightie, which crackled with static when she got up from watching TV. I didn’t understand it then, how she could sit there, sober, her eyes bright, hour after hour, year after year, utterly absorbed by this passion for the flickering figures in front of her.

Before the nine o’clock news, she liked to eat cheese and pickle on cream crackers. I would, at least three evenings a week, sit in the house with her, listening to music, reading, but ultimately, just keeping her company in her gloom.

Tonight, I became convinced she was looking at me with more attention than usual. I must have seemed wary; perhaps I blushed or my eyes flared.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Coming to sit with you,” I said. “What’s on telly? Can I bring you a cup of tea?”

However unnatural this sounded, I didn’t believe that Mum suspected I’d returned home after beating my girlfriend’s father to the ground. Yet, unsurprisingly, my body kept reminding me something was awry. When I brought Mum the tea, I had to hold on to the cup, saucer and spoon with both hands, for fear of them vibrating.

The knife remained with Mum, of course. She kept it for years; perhaps she still has it.

Sitting there watching the adverts, I could feel the watch in my jeans pocket all that evening. Later, I hid it in my bedroom. After a few months, I began to take it out and look at it, thinking over what had happened. I began to wear it in the house occasionally, telling Mum I’d liked the look of it and had swapped it for some records. I wore it outside a few times. I changed the strap. I took it with me to my new digs, hating it and needing it at the same time.

The morning after the attack I didn’t know what to do. I had been walking about the house since five. At nine I went into the garden. At last I thought I’d go to college and see if Valentin was there.

I was leaving the house; the phone rang; I ran to pick it up.

“Dad is dead,” Ajita said. “I’m at the hospital.”

“Who killed him?” I said.

“The strikers. They came to the house when we were away and scared him to death. His heart was weak already, he was having tests.”

There was a pause. I think I was expecting some kind of pleasure, or relief, in her voice. Hadn’t I done her a favour?

“He looked,” she said, “when Mustaq and I found him, not at all peaceful, as they say the dead do. But anguished, contorted, frightened, with bruises on his head and blood coming out of his nose. Why would anyone do that to a man?”

“Oh God,” I said.

“I’m going to wail now.” She was already sobbing. “It’ll be horrible, you don’t want to hear it. I’ll ring you again,” she said, putting the phone down.

I rang the boardinghouse and told Wolf and Valentin that the man was dead. I said nothing else, not wanting to give anything away on the phone. I would be in touch later.

The next time Ajita called, that evening, it was to say her father had been murdered by people from the trade union who had discovered his address and attacked him. She told me two people had been arrested. She called them “racists,” adding, “Who else would do such a thing?”

“Burglars?”

“But nothing was stolen. His wallet was there on the floor, undisturbed.”

I had no way of knowing whether Wolf and Valentin had been arrested. I rang their place several times, but there was either no reply or the landlady said they were out. When I called round, she said they’d left. “Good riddance too. They owe me money.”

That night I received a reverse-charges call from a phone box on “the coast.” Wolf, typically talking in a whisper, said they’d packed their things, left the boardinghouse, got into the old Porsche they’d bought with the money from the robbery and were heading for the South of France. It was a good idea, Wolf said, for them to “lie low” for a while. They had been looking for an excuse to get away.

Their careers had hardly been prospering. So they ran and were not pursued, except by their consciences, if they had any. But from my point of view, they had disappeared for good.

“I cannot believe my papa is not coming back,” Ajita said when she called the next day.

“At least you’ll be able to sleep at night now.”

“What are you meaning?”

“You know what I mean.”

“But I can’t close my eyes at all! The racists are chasing behind us now, Jamal. We are all in great danger here.”

This was not only paranoia. We didn’t know, in those days, which way the “race question,” as it was called, would go. My father had often said “the persecution” might begin any day. When it did, he’d come and get us. “Thanks, Dad,” I said.

“Where else can we possibly live?” I asked Ajita. “Can’t I come with you?”

“I’m being looked after by my uncle. Darling, I will be in touch.”

The next thing I heard from Ajita, ringing from the airport, was that she, Mustaq and the uncle, accompanied by the aunt who lived in the house, were taking their father’s body to India for burial. The house would be put up for sale.

“Goodbye,” she said. Before I could ask her when she’d be back, she added, “Wait for me, and never forget that I will love you forever,” and put the phone down.

I followed the case in the news, reading all the papers in the college library. Eventually, the charges against the so-called murderers were dropped. There was much speculative talk of a racist attack by white thugs, and the Left condemned the police for not taking racist attacks seriously. But there were no clues. Apart from the watch, we took nothing with us. There were no fingerprints or blood.

The factory was closed down; the pickets went away. I was amazed by the inability of the police to find me. I guess I’d have confessed pretty easily, but there was no evidence to connect me with the dead man.

The upshot of this nifty piece of criminality was that I never saw Ajita again. She had gone to India, where I didn’t know where to find her. I waited, but she didn’t contact me, though I told Mum that if she rang she was to take her number.

Ajita was gone; I hadn’t realised she was saying goodbye for good. There was only silence, and I had lost my three closest friends.

I was in shock for another reason: I didn’t kill the father with my bare hands, but without my assistance he’d be walking around, even now perhaps.

I had done for him, and called myself “murderer.”