Necessary as Blood

Charlotte‘s birth, as they were both determined to give her the secure childhood neither of them had had.
    Naz had been orphaned, his Christian parents murdered in Pakistan by the swell of fundamentalist Muslim violence in the seventies. Sent to London in the care of an aunt and uncle who felt themselves burdened by the charge, he had grown up adjusting to the loss of both family and culture.
    And Sandra — well, her family didn‘t bear thinking about.
    And now her husband was spending too much of his precious family time on his current case. She would have to have a word with Naz. In the meantime, it was a perfect May day, and there was still time to go to Columbia Road.
    'Ihave a better idea,‘ she told Charlotte, putting the pencils firmly back in the cup. ‘Let‘s go and see Uncle Roy.‘

    Sandra held Charlotte‘s hand as they made their way up Brick Lane through the bustle of the Sunday market. Fall-off-the-lorry day, Naz always called the Sunday market, with a hint of disapproval. He was right, of course. Half the things hawked by the traders had either fallen off a lorry or been smuggled across the Channel in the back of one. But Sandra loved it — loved the tatty chaos of it, the vendors with their makeshift trestle tables selling everything from French wine to cases of oranges (no doubt rotten at the bottom) and old car batteries.
    When they passed the Old Truman Brewery, Charlotte tugged at her hand. ‘Roots, Mummy,‘ she said, pointing into Ely Yard. In the car park behind the brewery, an old Routemaster bus had been turned into a vegan restaurant called Rootmaster. Charlotte didn‘t understand the pun, but loved to eat on its top deck. The bus rocked with the wind and with the waitress‘s tread on the curving stairs, and Charlotte would shriek with joy at every sway.
    ‘Not now, sweetie.‘ Sandra clasped her hand more firmly. ‘We‘ll meet Daddy there in a hit. And when we get to Columbia Road, I‘ll buy you a cupcake for after!
    She waved at her friends in the vintage-clothing shop where she often bought things to use in her collages, but resisted the temptation to go in. The window gave back a distorted reflection of her mop of blonde hair, and of Charlotte‘s, a few shades darker but just as curly.
    It was only as they neared the railway line that Sandra slowed, then stopped. When Charlotte tugged at her hand again, she scooped her up and propped her on her hip. In one of the recessed brick arches under the old railway bridge, an anonymous artist had pasted a black-and-white photo image of a young woman. She was nude, shown from the pelvis up, her torso almost as slender as a boy‘s. The shape of the surrounding brick arch suggested an icon, and the subject gazed out at the viewer with such serene grace that Sandra had mentally dubbed her the ‘Madonna of Brick Lane‘.
    But she was fading, the Madonna, the paper wrinkling, the edges beginning to peel and curl. Soon she would disappear, in the way of street art, to be replaced by another artist‘s vision. Sandra pulled out her camera and snapped a shot. Now at least the Madonna would be preserved.
    The inspiration she‘d had in the studio suddenly crystallized. She would use photo transfers, yes, but fade them... They would vanish as had the women and girls held captive in so many ways over the years. Vanish like the girl with the sari—
    Oh, no, surely not... Sandra tightened her grip on Charlotte. She‘d heard the stories, of course, but had not connected them with anyone she knew. It was impossible. Unthinkable. And yet...
    She must be mad, she told herself, shaking her head. But now that the idea had taken hold, it grew, blossoming in all its permutations into something monstrous.
    Charlotte squirmed. ‘Mummy, you‘re hurting me!
    ‘Sorry, sweetheart! Sandra relaxed her grip and kissed the top of Charlotte‘s curls.
    'Iwant to go. I want to see Daddy,‘ said Charlotte, kicking her trainer-clad toes against Sandra‘s leg.
    ‘We‘ll see Daddy. But—‘ Sandra glanced once more at the Madonna, then turned away, keeping Charlotte on her hip, hurrying now. The suspicion might be mad, but she would have to prove herself wrong. With her free hand she felt in her bag, making sure she had brought her camera. She had an excuse for a visit — she‘d ask to take a photo, for the collage. It wasn‘t far. She‘d just need to leave Charlotte with Roy for a bit.
    She crossed Bethnal Green Road, then made her way through the