Seven Point Eight

by Marie Harbon

  “What am I going to do with you, Tahra?” father often said. “You don’t listen to us and can’t follow rules. You want to climb trees and play football with the boys, and cannot restrain yourself as a girl should.”

  Mother tried to teach me dressmaking and home economics, as she repaired my clothes on a regular basis and hoped I’d be enticed into cooking by baking some delicious cakes. However, I had other plans.

  “I want to do something really special with my life,” I told her.

  “What do you mean?” she said, with a frown.

  “Well, housework is so dull. I want to do something outstanding, something magical, I don’t know yet but there’s more to life than being a mummy and a wife.”

  She looked quite offended.

  “But being a mother is magical, darling.”

  She failed to convince me though.

  “I’m capable of great things,” I protested. “In my previous lives, I was talented and successful, and this one shouldn’t be any different.”

  “There’s no such thing as previous lives,” mother retorted, perhaps upset by my opinions.

  I was aware at a young age that I’d lived before, even though I couldn’t recall any specific facts, or details about who I’d been. This disregard for my dreams and ambitions in this life, and the resentment at the limitations of my gender helped lay the foundations for the path my life would take.

  Unfortunately, my destiny took a different turn when we moved out of the city and into an area dominated by white middle class families. Because of the colour of my father’s skin, people spoke to him differently and were naturally wary of him. The children didn’t know what to think of me either, and in my new school, I soon realised how cruel they could be. Due to my father’s religion, we never celebrated Christmas which was never an issue for me previously, as you don’t miss what you don’t have, but the other children on the street began to create strife.

  “Too poor for presents?” they taunted, flashing their new go-karts, scooters or doll prams on the streets, while I had nothing to show.

  I tried to explain our religion but they continued their heckling anyway, so one day, I got angry and threw a rock at one of them. That provoked my first beating at the hands of other children. Two boys and a girl pinned me down on the ground and punched me in the stomach several times. That day, I realised I didn’t have the physical strength to fight back, even though I tried. I was too ashamed to tell my parents and too defiant to cry, refusing to let anyone witness my humiliation.

  From that point onwards, my life comprised of bullying, taunts, and a strong awareness of being different to everyone else.

  “Go back to your own country,” some children said, spitting at me.

  “But I’m British,” I protested, although it fell on deaf ears.

  The bullying continued no matter. I got stones thrown at me, my clothes scattered around in the PE changing rooms, girls pulled my hair and told me I was ugly because I wasn’t white, boys kicked their footballs into my face…the list goes on. This aspect of my life pushed me into discovering where my strengths lay.

  Thankfully, I had a special friend called Annie, who made those years bearable. We always played games together, such as skipping elastics with a thick tree trunk as the third person, or Knock-a-Door-Run after school, and we were rarely caught out. I vividly recall the day a boy called Edward threw a stone at me, which caught me on the side of my eye and it began to bleed immediately. Without thinking, Annie picked up the stone and hurled it back at him, which made his lip bleed and in response, he pushed her to the ground and she hit her head. I felt so angry, not only because he’d hurt my friend, but I also remembered every act of unkindness that I’d suffered while at this new school. In my mind, I wanted to hurt Edward so bad that he’d cry, and I pushed him hard at the wall, channelling all my emotions into that one act of bravado.

  Then the strangest thing happened. He looked into my eyes, which were by now full of rage, and his face crumpled. We locked eyes and something connected, bursting out of me…a surge of emotion, a feeling of complete power… I’d never experienced this before. Edward began to cry uncontrollably, not due to any physical pain as I’d only pushed him against the wall. No, it had to be the energy, the power that I communicated with my whole being. I could affect the emotions of others.

  This made me realise I could make people do things, especially actions that would get them into trouble. In class, if children threw things at me, I made them feel extremely angry and say swear words out loud, or insult the teacher and they had to stand in the corner. Sometimes they got the cane, which was even more satisfying. I began to feel less afraid, but I noticed the other children started to fear me because bad things happened to them when they upset me.

  Therefore, my childhood became very lonely, and it’s hard to explain how being ostracised over a long period of time makes you feel. Sometimes the sense of powerlessness drives you a little crazy, to the extent that you grab any opportunity to regain that feeling of control. I hated myself for the dark thoughts I had and the impulses to hurt people in retaliation, and this only served to alienate me more. I think this affected my personality but I had one thing that other bullying victims didn’t have…the hidden power to exact some kind of revenge that was undetectable and untraceable.

  In those days, teachers didn’t deal with bullying and I felt too humiliated to tell my parents, although they must have sensed I felt unhappy. Fortunately, I had ways of handling it and without that power, I‘d never have developed any self confidence. This inner darkness excited and disgusted me at the same time. Secretly it scared me though, because once the feeling of revenge took over, it controlled me and gave me pleasure.

  As I got older, I felt my power intensify. I began to wonder what would happen if one day, I got so angry and carried out an incredibly destructive act that I could never forgive myself for. Hopefully that day would never arrive.

  I had a more compassionate side too. If people felt afraid and required courage, or felt despair and needed hope, I had the ability to send positive emotions to heal them. Only those special to me or who deserved my help received this gift. I chose to punish those who hurt me. This light within gave me hope I may not turn out to be evil. So this became my ethos, and I felt comfortable with the status quo again.

  Focusing on enjoying life once more renewed my confidence. Very early in June 1953, Queen Elizabeth was crowned officially and we gathered around our new television, a fine piece of technology in a wooden cabinet. It took a few minutes for it to warm up, so the picture didn’t come on straightaway and sometimes father had to move the aerial around the parlour to get a good signal. It was the first time anyone had seen royalty being crowned, so we were entranced.

  A wonderful street party followed, and father helped the neighbours take out their tables and place them end to end in the road. Bunting hung everywhere, we all wore party hats, and ate sandwiches, cakes, and crisps. I helped my mother tip the crisps into a large bowl and we twisted open the little packets of salt, sprinkling it all over to flavour them. That day formed happy memories for me.

  Annie and I had a penchant for ‘Journey into Space’ too, a wireless programme which scared children because of its creepy sound effects and spooky music. It was set in the future of 1965 and related a tale about man’s conquest of the moon. We were enthralled by this half hour programme, which always ended with a cliff-hanger. The thought of exploring made me feel wistful and adventurous.

  “One day, I want to go into space,” I declared.

  No one ever took me seriously.

  My happiness didn’t last forever though. Annie and her family moved house, they went to live in a town much further west, far away from me. I could still write to her but it wasn’t the same, and I became overcome with loneliness and emptiness in my heart.

  At that low point in my life, I found a new ability. One night, I found myself staring back at my own body on the bed, from the other side
of the room. I realised I could move around my bedroom, completely free of my body and even watch my parents sleep in the next room. Maybe the desire to escape my sad and lonely life gave me some sort of incentive to master this skill as easy as learning to breathe, yet it seemed so natural and automatic. Then it occurred to me I could see my friend again.

  I missed Annie so much that one afternoon, I suddenly found myself standing in front of her. She didn’t see me but I knew I was really there. Annie looked a little older, and she wore her hair short and wavy now. Dolls and teddy bears filled her small bedroom, and when I peered through the window, I saw rows and rows of houses, with children playing hopscotch or skipping games outside. After a while, I came back home because I felt tired.

  This happened again, and I secretly made repeat visits to my old friend. I began to think it was just a dream but then, in a letter, she sent some photographs of her bedroom, her new friends, and the street on which she lived. It all looked exactly like what I saw when I visited her. My strange travels were real after all.

  I started to make trips to numerous places, I don’t know where but I found tranquil retreats in the mountains, or on a beautiful beach with palm trees. To help me remember, I drew some vivid pictures, although I wasn’t very artistic. Mother asked about them and I just told her they were special places. In secret, I looked in my books about the world and found some of the places I drew. One drawing looked like a little village in the Alps, and others looked like beaches in the Caribbean. I also found some temples in China and Malaysia. I had really been there! This was a fantastic way of going on holiday for free! However, I couldn’t share my travels with anyone, it was my secret.

  The strange little talents I developed were kept hidden from my parents, my school, my community, and society. To be honest, I became too complacent and drew attention to myself. I used my talent to help me in my education, and I was accused of cheating in my eleven plus exam. How could I explain to the school why my answers were identical to those of other students, or why some answers were perfectly identical to those written on the answer paper? I remember sitting quietly with my parents, facing my teacher, unable to tell them I was just different. Would they believe me? Would my parents embrace me because of my talents? I began to wonder if I was wicked and immoral, or whether there was a better way to use my talents. For days, my parents were upset with me but still I didn’t explain. I thought about changing their feelings, giving out love and forgiveness, but I questioned if this was right. Finally, I decided to tell all.

  At first, they seemed shocked, because my explanation didn’t seem real. However, the more I told them, the more they believed me. I described my unhappiness here and the bullying I’d endured, how it revealed my abilities, how I visited Annie because I was lonely and I explained that when they felt despair, I gave them hope. I demonstrated my ability, letting my mind travel to other places and describing some key villages in Persia, which father confirmed were accurate. He told me I must use my talent for the good of others, which meant no more cheating in my tests, I must study hard and learn in the same way others do. It’s not wise to show off, or to draw attention to that which people don’t understand.

  Did I heed his words? In parts I did, but I couldn’t give up my advantage. My ability proved useful in studying geography, and in defending myself. As I neared puberty, I realised that my capacity to influence others now had the added advantage of attracting boys. The attention I received felt immensely satisfying. Despite my bloodline and background, I became popular with the opposite sex. Unfortunately, my father restricted me from associating with them and I resigned myself to climbing out of the window again.

  “How I can bring up my Persian princess to be a decent, modest and obedient young woman in this society?” my father despaired one night.

  So we abandoned our life in England, and father took us to live in Tehran for the rest of our lives. The culture shock was beyond belief. I’d become accustomed to tasting some degree of freedom despite the limitations of my gender, however, life for me now became unbearable. I realised how few rights I had as a woman and experienced a life that quickly became intolerable. My education turned into an unhappy episode in my life again, as I had an almost white face among a sea of bronzed, Middle Eastern skin. I couldn’t grasp the language. I couldn’t wear a dress that showed any part of my legs, or shoulders, or arms, and I faced the prospect of marrying and becoming a mother at an early age. This move from England only served to cement my rebellion against authority. My hopes and dreams became a distant thought, and I prayed every day for something to come along and remove me from this repressive life.

  Then finally, on September the 15th 1962, my prayers were answered. A man from England arrived to direct my destiny…

  ***

  The evocative call to prayer resounded over the suburbs of Tehran in the heat of late summer. The distinguished professor performed his prayer duties then relaxed with a book on history, unaware of what a significant day it would turn out to be. He heard a knock at the door, which puzzled him at first. Frowning, he answered it and found a dark haired man standing there.

  “Greetings, Mr Mamoun,” his visitor said. “We spoke on the phone in respect of something I can assist you with. My name is Max Richardson.”

  The door opened wider.

  “Oh yes, of course, come in.”

  His wife, Elizabeth, prepared a pot of mint tea and they sat together in the main living area. Double doors opened out onto a veranda to enable a view of the garden, full of typical regional plants.

  At first, the conversation seemed a little strained with polite chit-chat, but then Max moved the discussion forward.

  “I understand that you have, let’s say… a gifted daughter.”

  Mohammed Mamoun smiled proudly.

  “You are looking for a wife?”

  His comment caught Max off guard and without wishing to offend, he stated, “Actually, although I’m sure she is beautiful, I’m actually searching for special people with talents… exceptional abilities I might add. It is my line of business.”

  “Yes,” said Mohammed, “my Persian princess is a gifted child. She has produced some excellent results at school.”

  Max smiled, and looked him in the eye. “You and I both know that her talents go beyond mere academics.” This was a make or break moment. “I believe your daughter has gifts that are, literally, out of this world.”

  The long silence gave Max the jitters, although he maintained his cool demeanour effectively. Finally, Mohammed sighed with admonition.

  “There are truths about my daughter that I have to hide, things that I do not truly understand. She has never fitted in and sometimes, I just don’t know what to do with her. I’ve tried to make my family happy…”

  Max used the opportunity to reassure him.

  “I do know what to do and as I indicated on the phone, I’m in a position to help her. There is somewhere she’ll fit in. I can channel her in the right direction, and ensure she makes a valuable contribution to society. I can educate her plus give her a home, if you will but let me.”

  Mohammed didn’t appear entirely convinced.

  “She’s my only child.”

  Max refused to be deterred though.

  “I’ll make it worth your while. What is your price?”

  “It’s not a question of money,” Mohammed explained, “but my family…our tradition. My intention is to find her a husband, so that she can fulfil her duties…be happy.”

  Max mulled over what had been said.

  “We can agree a period of time that she’ll spend at my facility, before she returns home to be married. I assure you, she’ll be well cared for.”

  Mohammed wrestled with the conflict, while Elizabeth reached out and took hold of his hand.

  “Maybe this will help subdue her, allow her to mature,” she suggested. “Remember, I studied at university before we married and I believe this helped me become a better person.”


  In a two versus one situation, he struggled to justify refusing Max and Elizabeth. His Persian Princess needed an outlet for her rebellious behaviour, however, he still wanted her to settle down and fulfil tradition.

  “This is not easy for me, but I can see it may tame her and make her more responsible. Then she will make an excellent wife.”

  He finally nodded his approval to Max. Mohammed rose to his feet and called upstairs.

  “Tahra, please come downstairs.”

  They all heard the sound of a door opening and Tahra descended the stairs, book in hand. This tall, elegant, seventeen year old girl had long, dark hair which framed a face with quite prominent cheekbones. Her ethnicity mixed Middle Eastern and Caucasian features, giving her an exotic look. She had her mother’s beauty, with almond eyes that conveyed a sense of emotional power and intensity that was difficult to ascertain. She seemed quite feline, like a panther, and exuded sensuality but she felt uncomfortable in the staid clothes she wore. Max didn’t realise it, but he stared at her wistfully. She looked puzzled on seeing him.

  “Good day,” she said, wary of him.

  Tahra felt a peculiar feeling in her stomach when she saw him. He was handsome…very handsome, and he looked wealthy but she sensed something dark and almost sinister within him. The way he stared at her made her tremble, and she felt her heart skip a beat. What a dichotomy. How could she feel drawn to him, yet feel repelled by him?

  Meanwhile, Max found a pair of dark, wild eyes gazing at him, not with timidity but with a passion and pride he found exciting. He instantly felt a strong connection with her and his mother, Grace’s prediction echoed in his mind.