by Ayisha Malik
‘What’s that?’ asked Mariam, seeing the box in Bilal’s hands.
‘Thought you might know? It was on our doorstep.’
‘No note?’ asked Mariam.
Bilal shook his head as she snatched the box, put it on the table and pulled Haaris back.
‘What?’ asked Bilal.
‘You decide to build a mosque, your office gets graffitied, and now we’re left a mysterious box?’
Even Khala dragged her chair back as everyone stared at the potentially offensive item.
‘Do you think … really?’ said Bilal.
He wanted to tell Mariam that she was being ridiculous, except perhaps she wasn’t. She hardly ever was.
‘Maybe it’s a dead rat?’ suggested Haaris. ‘Anthrax?’
‘What’s in it?’ asked Khala.
‘How do you say Anthrax in Punjabi?’ asked Haaris.
‘Khala,’ said Bilal, looking warily at the box. ‘Can’t you … I don’t know, pray Ayatul Kursi and blow over it or something?’
His mum used to say that prayer over him whenever he left the house and since no physical harm had ever befallen him, he imagined there might be a possibility that it worked.
Khala nodded, muttering the prayer before she took a deep breath and blew over the box. Then she blew over Bilal, Mariam and Haaris, he supposed for good measure.
‘This time I’m calling the police.’ Mariam got her phone out.
‘Police?’ said Khala, clearly shocked. She understood words that suggested danger.
‘What will you say? That someone’s dropped off a box?’ asked Bilal.
‘Yes!’ Mariam had the phone to her ear as Bilal watched her, incapable of overpowering his wife’s paranoia.
‘You should’ve done this in the first place. Hello? Oh, hi, Olly? I’m glad it’s someone we know. It’s Mariam.’
Was it the same person who’d graffitied his door? Or someone new? Bilal lost count of how many people were angry with him, and it was distinctly depressing.
Mariam explained to Olly about the box on the doorstep and the reasons behind her suspicion. ‘He’s on his way,’ she said, putting the phone down.
Bilal opened the door, a chilly breeze wafting in as the sun began to set, tinging the sky with a pink and orange hue. Ten tense minutes later and there was Olly with his round face and rosy cheeks, looking like an overgrown baby. His police tractor was parked up behind him as Bilal checked for the twitching of curtains.
‘Bill,’ said Olly, without the usual smile or offering of an apple (he always carried a bag).
Bilal waited. ‘Well,’ he said, finally. ‘Through here.’
They entered the living room and Olly got his notepad out.
‘Hello,’ said Khala.
Olly gave her the smallest of smiles. ‘This is it then?’
‘We didn’t want to open it, just in case,’ said Mariam.
‘Hmm.’ Olly shook the box. ‘Not heavy.’ He scratched his smooth face and put the tin back on the table. ‘You think this is hate mail?’ Olly said, almost as if the very idea was a joke.
‘Well … it could be. Considering,’ replied Bilal.
Olly sighed.
‘I guess I’ll have to take this down to get it inspected at the station.’
‘Yes,’ said Mariam. ‘I guess that would be part of your job.’
Bilal cleared his throat. Olly gave Mariam a look. He picked up the box and turned around as it slipped from his hand and landed with a crash on the kitchen tiles.
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Mariam, looking at the cracked tile and then noticing that the box had opened.
Olly tried to pick it up but Haaris had already grabbed the brown envelope that had fallen out.
‘Don’t!’ said Mariam.
But it was too late – he’d already opened it and for the first time in a while Haaris managed to show a strong reaction.
‘Oh. My. God.’
He looked up at Mariam and Bilal as Bilal took the envelope from him.
‘Oh my God,’ repeated Bilal.
There, in the envelope, was a wad of fifty-pound notes. Bilal looked up at Mariam as he took the wad out.
‘What the …?’ Mariam stared at the cash.
‘Hang on,’ said Haaris. ‘There’s a note.’
‘Who sent that?’ said Khala Rukhsana, staring at the money.
Mariam read the note aloud: ‘Bill – I trust you’ll put this to good use. Yours, A Supporter.’
Olly cleared his throat, looking annoyed. ‘Well. Not everyone’s out to get you.’
‘But this is …’
‘Incredible,’ said Bilal.
‘Mad,’ added Mariam.
‘Could it be Richard?’ Bilal asked Mariam.
‘Richard wouldn’t be secretive – and he doesn’t have this kind of money,’ said Mariam. ‘Could be a hoax.’
Olly cleared his throat again. ‘You’re going to have to declare it. Tax man will want his bit.’
‘Of course,’ said Bilal. What did Olly take him for?
‘Won’t you have to do a write-up of this?’ suggested Mariam after Olly made no sign to leave.
‘Hmm? Yes, well …’ Olly stared at the envelope still in Mariam’s hand.
She handed it to Bilal and led Olly to the door.
‘Did you see how he spoke to us?’ she said when she returned.
Unfortunately, Bilal couldn’t argue with her. But he was thinking: was this a divine sign?
‘He seemed annoyed,’ said Khala Rukhsana. ‘Should we make him zarda too?’
‘This is almost ten thousand pounds,’ said Mariam.
‘Whoa,’ exclaimed Haaris.
‘Das hazaar pounds,’ Mariam repeated for Khala.
‘Hai Allah,’ she replied.
‘I can’t …’
‘I know.’
‘Who would …?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you think …’ Bilal glanced at Khala Rukhsana and switched to his broken Punjabi. ‘God heard me?’
‘What? God dropped off the money?’ said Haaris.
Bilal smiled at his stepson’s logic, yet perhaps a larger force was at play.
‘Baby,’ Mariam said to Haaris. ‘Don’t be so literal. It’s what gives Muslims a bad name. Anyway, it’s not nearly enough to buy a piece of land.’
‘But that’s not the point, is it? This money, Mum’s …’ Bilal stopped short. When would he tell Khala about her sister’s home?
‘What?’ Haaris asked.
‘Nothing,’ replied Bilal.
Khala looked at Haaris and said: ‘Beta, when you ask Allah for something he makes sabbab.’
‘What?’ asked Haaris.
‘A conduit,’ Mariam explained.
‘Allah knows best,’ said Khala, looking up at the ceiling.
Bilal and Mariam also looked up at it. Their respective reverie was interrupted by Haaris.
‘Guess we should find out who the conduit is then?’
‘YES, YES, I UNDERSTAND,’ said Richard into the phone to Mr Pankhurst. He was sitting in the church office, his head in his hands for the second time that afternoon.
Bilal had just called and told him about a mysterious donation. It was so very odd. Richard wondered if someone might be setting his friend up and then shook the notion from his mind. So much doubt was bad for both soul and society. Outside the church window the leaves were beginning to flicker with oranges and red, which would soon be ablaze, much like Mr Pankurst’s temper on the other end of the phone.
‘Do you?’ exclaimed Mr Pankhurst. ‘Planning permission! Heard it from my nephew’s friend’s own cousin. How could they do this? We voted for Mariam and Bilal’s turnip at last year’s fair.’
Richard sighed with exasperation. ‘Well, John, what can I say? Sometimes voting for someone’s turnip isn’t quite enough.’
Silence.
‘Hmph. I suppose we all know how you feel about the whole thing then,’ snapped Mr Pankhurst and put the ph
one down.
Richard rubbed his eyes, wishing he’d exercised more restraint. He would have to apologise. Christmas was still three months away and he was already nervous about the Nativity. Every year, a friend lent his barn for a Christmas party. The place would glimmer with fairy lights and crackle with a logfire. The whole community would sing Christmas carols, drink sherry and mulled wine, perform the Nativity and his heart would feel at ease: celebrating the Lord and the love He wanted us to spread. How would the party fare this year? Richard prayed that news of the money would stay quiet. That they could at least get through the next few months without any more discord.
Of course he hadn’t banked on Olly telling his wife. Their daughter, who also went to Haaris’s school, overheard. She told Sam, who naturally told his parents, until the Pandora’s box of Chinese whispers had overspilled. The irony that Bilal should have got ten thousand pounds – exactly the amount of money they had needed at the beginning for St Swithun’s bell – was lost on no-one. It was a mockery, though no-one was sure of what.
Mariam had left Khala alone that morning and went to see Margaret to find out if she had been their mysterious benefactor. She was sure Margaret would love the very idea: a story to tell her grandkids about how she helped build that mosque in the middle of their village.
‘No, dear, I’m afraid not. Got to keep this farm running, see? Setting up the children with their own homes has quite depleted my funds, even with the subsidies.’ She shook her head. ‘Upkeep’s a bore.’
Mariam looked around the black and white chequered tiles, the sweeping staircase with a gargoyle next to it.
‘Quite the exciting mystery, though, isn’t it?’ said Margaret, resting both hands on her hips. ‘You’ll get that mosque. Mark my words.’
Mariam had given her a weak smile and gone back home to start Googling ‘how to trace money’. She’d gone through the vast websites of serial numbers and databases and security cameras but it was all rather nebulous. This place wasn’t that big – surely it should be simpler than this?
But she had to put that to one side to finish a freelance article about library cuts for an online magazine.
‘What the hell am I doing here?’ she asked herself.
After sending the article she sat on the chair, staring at the laptop.
‘I am from Liverpool,’ came Khala’s strong Pakistani-accented voice. ‘Oh, Mariam, I thought you were out.’ She took her earphones out, the phone in a bumbag tied around Khala’s waist, whistle dangling around her neck. Khala was, after all, a creature of habit and apparently the whistle, like her necklace, gave her comfort. She looked set for an expedition. ‘Where is Liverpool?’
It was incredible – a lifetime in the country and Khala still had no sense of Britain’s geography.
‘Just a few hours north of Birmingham.’
‘I am from Birmingham,’ said Khala, her eyes animated, a smile on her lips. ‘Haina?’
‘That’s right,’ replied Mariam.
She went to make tea when Khala said, ‘No, beta. You work. If Sakeena showed me one thing, a woman must always work.’
Khala ambled towards the hot water dispenser, getting two mugs out while emitting a grunt here and there. Her recovery was slow, but apparent.
‘Don’t you ever regret, you know … not working?’ said Mariam.
Khala’s dupatta slipped off her head, ruching around her neck. She pulled it back up. ‘Beta, I regret many things.’
She said it with a smile but an immense sadness came over Mariam for Khala.
You can only regret the things you could’ve changed.
‘I am from Rawalpindi,’ said Khala as she made the tea.
Mariam wondered why her own mum had never had the same soft voice. Khala gave her the tea, patted Mariam’s head and ambled out of the kitchen, placing her earphones back in. ‘I am from Babbel’s End.’
When Bilal came home that evening Mariam was boiling the rice, her back to him, as she said: ‘Not one person said hello at school drop-off today.’
Bilal sighed. ‘Right. How’s Haaris?’
‘I don’t know because he won’t speak to me.’ She turned around, biting the inside of her cheeks. ‘I think you should hand the money in to the police.’
He looked at her, his brow creased in childish despair.
‘I don’t think Sam and him are speaking,’ she added. ‘Adults aren’t the only ones with issues.’
Mariam was unable to look at Bilal as she took up her phone. She’d download a podcast on guilt and what to do with it.
Bilal sat down and lowered his head in thought. ‘Someone’s made an offer on the house,’ he said.
She paused.
‘And I’m going to accept,’ he added.
‘I see. And where’s Khala going to live?’
He cleared his throat. ‘We’ll sort something, but for now, can’t she just stay here?’
Mariam had a strange twinge of conflict: the principle of being asked to continue to look after Khala, and the growing sensation of comfort in her presence.
‘Doesn’t look like there’s much choice.’
Mariam turned around and stabbed at the dinner.
‘Where is Haaris?’ asked Bilal.
‘Said he wasn’t feeling well. He’s gone to bed.’
They ate dinner in silence. Khala Rukhsana sat with headphones in her ears.
‘Hau-are-youh!’
She looked at Mariam and Bilal, but not as if she actually saw them.
‘I-am-fine.’
Mariam tried to smile.
To relinquish control is to liberate yourself.
Her liberation, however, was beginning to feel too much like resignation.
There had been a lot of shoon shaan about the mystery money this past month. Or, like Mariam had said: hoo-ha. Rukhsana recognised the similarities of language here and it rather excited her. She’d looked on as the case of the mysterious money had unravelled, catching snippets of English, but realised that it took too much concentration, so instead focused on reading emotions: the furrowing of a brow, a small sigh. She feared the way Mariam looked at Bilal and the way he didn’t seem to see it. The policeman didn’t have a friendly tone. She made a note to put extra almonds and raisins in his zarda. If Rukhsana had believed in spirits, she’d think that her sister was sweeping around this village, sprinkling seeds of disquiet.
Rukhsana laid the material for Margaret’s shalwar kameez on the bed. She’d decided the dusky pink chiffon with pale gold embroidery would suit the buddi. She needed her measurements but was too embarrassed to ask, and anyway, she wanted to see the surprise on Margaret’s face when she handed it to her, so she guessed. Rukhsana looked outside her bedroom window at the leaves on the trees that were orange and red, and she smiled at the beauty God bestowed on white people’s land. She never got to see much beauty in Birmingham and as for Pakistan … her life had been as geographically static there as it had been here.
Lately, an idea that had been lurking in her mind was becoming an unexpected yet overwhelming urge. She crept down the passage, even though no-one was home. There was always a spare set of keys hanging by the door. The clouds were overcast and it was spitting, but Rukhsana eyed Mariam’s wellies in the shoe stand. They wore the same size. All she wanted was to walk in that green and open field. Rukhsana put on the anorak, which belonged to Bilal, so didn’t zip up. She tucked her necklace and whistle into the folds of her scarf and grabbed the bannister, easing herself on to the step at the bottom of the stairs to put the wellies on. By the time she had finished she’d broken into a sweat, her legs in greater pain than usual and her back hurting. Plus, her calves weren’t slender like Mariam’s so the wellies ruched, cutting into her flesh. Her urge wasn’t in line with her physical abilities and the fact of her age swept over her like a Bollywood drama. She had spent her youth in mourning and now her youth was another thing she mourned.
Nevertheless she gathered herself.
‘Bismillah,�
� she uttered, pulling herself up.
She walked over to the door, opened it for the first time, and stepped out into the great outdoors.
At first, Shelley wasn’t sure what she was seeing. A bulging figure ambled towards her, head bent low, attire flapping in the wind. She couldn’t help but walk towards it, to take a peek at who it might be. Then the clothes came into clearer view. The loose trousers – which is the only thing she could call them even though they weren’t exactly trousers – were tucked into wellingtons, billowing like Aladdin pants. The top looked far too thin for this chilly weather. It came down to the woman’s knees – a sharp purple colour against the black of her unzipped anorak and Hunters. The woman looked up, as if to see where she was going, and Shelley realised: of course, it was Bilal’s aunt. The vision of this foreign figure only added insult to the injury of finding out about Bilal seeking planning permission. She’d heard about the aunt, but to Shelley she’d become something of a mad-woman-in-the-attic figure – locked up in a room, never seen to leave the house. Shelley was about to turn around when Holly bounded towards the aunt, who backed away, flapping her arms and shooing Holly.
‘Honestly,’ sighed Shelley. ‘Holly! Here, girl. Back. Back.’
The aunt yelped every time Holly barked.
‘You have to stop that or she’ll think you’re playing,’ shouted Shelley, picking up her pace towards them. ‘Holly! Down!’
‘Hai Allah, daffa dur!’
Holly had leapt up at the aunt, who would’ve fallen flat on her bum had Shelley not got there in time to save her.
‘You have to stop waving at her,’ she exclaimed. Shelley grabbed a stick and threw it as far as she could, which Holly dutifully ran after.
‘Kya?’
‘What?’
‘Kutay ne saaray kapre pleet kerdite.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Gandi.’
‘Gandhi?’
What did Gandhi have to do with anything?
‘Haan, gandi.’ The aunt looked like she’d eaten a rotten egg as she tried to wipe her top.
‘Right, well. I suppose you’re all right.’
The aunt looked at Shelley closely, as if observing every wrinkle on her face. Honestly, didn’t these people know not to stare?