7.

The course ends. Twenty of us started. Twelve left before completion, in most cases, I think, because they went half nuts and called home, just to hear a friendly voice. That sort of thing is an instant fail.

Of the eight who stuck it through to the end, just three pass. I’m one of them.

I have a one-on-one session with the DCI overseeing the course on the final day. He riffles through feedback forms and test sheets. Weak sunlight comes in from the window behind him. I’m still in my Fiona Grey outfit, YCS fleece and all. I notice that the window needs cleaning. The ledge beneath it needs a good dust, and the keys on the computer keyboard are covered in little hillocks of finger oil and dirt. I could clean this room completely in eight minutes.

‘This is good,’ he says, waving at the paperwork. ‘You probably don’t need me to tell you that.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy the experience?’

A hard question for me at the best of times. Other people seem to have a ready understanding of what they like and what they don’t. I don’t have that easy access. I know I like Buzz, the police service, the investigation of murder, and my family. I like hills and wild places and driving long distances when the sun is setting. Anything else – I don’t really know.

I say, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You know, most of the courses we run, that’s the answer we want. People learn better if they’re having a good time. With this one, that answer always slightly worries me. You should find this stuff difficult. It’s all very well working undercover, but you need to come back into regular service too. The police force will need you back. So will your family, your loved ones. Are you married?’

‘No.’ His face wants more of an answer than that, so I add, ‘I’m in a long-term relationship, though.’

The DCI jabs his chest with his index finger. ‘Divorced. Two kids. They’re only just starting to talk to me again. I’m fifty-four.’

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m either Fiona Griffiths, a police officer. Or Fiona Grey, a cleaner. Neither of me is a marriage counsellor.

The wastebin needs emptying and the clear plastic rubbish sack hangs loose around the lip of the bin. We were taught to tie a knot in the plastic, so it sat tight.

‘What I’m saying is, you need to prioritize your life. Your family life, your friends, your CID career. If an assignment comes up, and you want to do it, then do. But don’t be attracted by the glamour. This isn’t glamorous, it’s hard. And mostly not worth it.’

‘No, sir.’

The officers who do those marathon infiltrations – two years, three years – draw only their regular salary. No overtime, modest bonus. If they have a wife and kids, they’re allowed to visit once a month, no more.

‘Well.’ He stands up. I’m not sure what the purpose of this interview was, or if the DCI thinks that purpose has been accomplished. I stand up too.

‘Congratulations again. We’ve been very impressed.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

I leave.

I could go home straight away. I’ve been given my car keys back, my bank cards, all the stuff that was taken from me at the start.

And I will go back, soon. Buzz is expecting me. But first things first. I drive into Ealing, an ugly estate near Drayton Green. Corrugated concrete walls and brown pebbledash. Rotary clothes dryers standing on balconies. A car without tires.

I don’t park too close – my car is very Fiona Griffiths, not at all Fiona Grey – and walk into the estate, checking the flat number I need from a little handwritten slip of paper.

Amina’s handwriting. Her flat.

She was the one real friend I made at YCS. Neither her life nor mine allowed much leisure, but we liked each other. Hung out when we could.

I ring the bell, but knock as well. Glass door, single glazed.

Amina opens it. That huge smile when she sees me. Baby lying in a cot in the tiny hallway. A man in a purple shirt sits in the front room talking loudly on the phone. A language I don’t recognize, but Somali I assume.

Amina brings me through to the kitchen. The man glances at me, but not for long. The kitchen is a mess. Amina has been barbecuing lamb kidneys using an oven rack laid directly over the gas hob. Everything is splattered with fat. A vegetable broth stands in a large saucepan to the side. Smells of cumin, cardamom, cloves. There is a motorbike standing where you’d expect there to be a table. Tools and rags, but not much sign of action.

I tell Amina I’ve lost my flat. That I’m leaving London.

She doesn’t understand right away – her English isn’t brilliant – but when she does, she looks upset.

‘You can’t go,’ she says, waving a long black finger at me, then hugging me. As she steps back again, she adjusts her headscarf.

‘I have to.’

Amina looks sad. She keeps readjusting her face to hide her sadness, but it keeps coming back.

‘Can you give these back to Mr. Conway? I haven’t told him.’

I give Amina my YCS stuff in a plastic bag. Conway won’t be surprised at my sudden disappearance. His workforce changes with every passing wind.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m not sure yet. Maybe Manchester.’ I shrug.

Manchester: my Fiona Grey legend involves a long-term, but abusive, relationship with a guy in Manchester. The abusive part is good because it means I don’t have to talk about it much. Also because it gives my legend a kind of messy unity. The kind of work I was doing in Wembley is essentially done only by immigrants. I was the only native Briton under Conway’s command, the only one to speak English as a first language. Aside from Milenka, I was the only one with white skin. People like me only turn out to clean toilets at four in the morning if their lives have gone badly astray somewhere. Abuse, in the case of Fiona Grey. God knows what in the case of Fiona Griffiths.

The baby in the hall starts crying. The man in the purple shirt shouts through to us. Amina’s eyes change and I say, ‘I’ll go.’

We hug again.

Amina gets the baby. I open the front door. Amina says, ‘Wait,’ goes through to the kitchen, and comes back with some brown cake wrapped in a piece of kitchen towel. ‘Shushumow,’ she says.

‘Shushumow?’

She repeats the word, gives me that smile again, and closes the door.

Back at my car, I call Buzz.

‘Hey, stranger.’

His voice is warm, full of love. I don’t quite feel as I ought to in return. I feel clumsy and cut off from the person I was.

I act the part though. Act Fiona Griffiths, the one who’s in love with a handsome policeman, and as I get into role, my feelings start to come back a bit. I don’t quite feel like her exactly, but perhaps I might do with a little more practice.

We chat for a while, then hang up.

Plan for tonight is: drive home, get changed, fancy meal, lots of sex. The classic Buzz solution to any complex emotional situation, except that the first three parts of the formula are prone to change or cancellation without notice.

When I’m on the M4, I try nibbling one of the shushumow cakes, but they’re way too sweet for me and I throw them out of the window when I’m crossing the Severn Bridge.

Croeso i Gymru.

Welcome to Wales.