Kick the Moon

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘A woman after my own heart!’ Dad says, going all dopey.

  ‘Married the wrong girl, didn’t you?’ She chuckles.

  I hurriedly clean up the mess before I add to it with my own vomit.

  ‘Listen,’ says the woman in my ear, nearly making me jump out of my skin. ‘Make your dad proud. He’s a good man, and children always learn too late that parents won’t be around forever.’

  How about you learn not to break bottles and mind your own business?

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ I mumble. Two minutes of bantz with a middle-aged Romeo, and this woman thinks she’s got my family sussed.

  As the morning wears on, Dad works me harder than any of his employees. Then his workers get in on the act too, bossing me around like a sweatshop boy. I think about contacting Childline, but I’m in enough trouble as it is.

  At lunchtime, I go and hide in the stockroom to eat my sandwiches and flip through some rough panels I sketched for my comic. The pictures are fire, but now there’s a bitter aftertaste because PakCore shares faces with Imran – the reason I’m in this mess.

  ‘There you are!’

  For one horrible moment, I think Imran has made a miraculous recovery and is here to deliver the arse-whupping of a century. It’s actually Zaman, his older, less attractive cousin. As he steps towards me, my eyes dart around nervously, searching for an escape route. Or a weapon. Does a can of fly spray count as a weapon?

  He grips my arm.

  ‘Piss off!’ I yell, flapping my arms like a turkey trying to take off.

  He crushes my windpipe between his dry worker’s fingers. ‘You put Imran in hospital. The only reason I’m not choking you now is because Uncle Osman is the boss.’

  ‘Except you are choking me!’ I squeak, pushing a palm at him, imagining I’ve summoned a mystical mandala like Doctor Strange. ‘Plus, it was an accident. Imran tripped over his own bag.’

  Zaman processes this new bit of info, then sneers. ‘Obviously. As if a tiny maggot like you could take my cousin in a fair fight!’

  ‘Everything OK?’ Yunus asks, standing at the threshold.

  Zaman releases me and ruffles my hair in a mildly threatening way.

  ‘All good,’ I lie.

  Yunus gives us some side-eye, then grabs a couple of boxes of soap powder from the shelves. Zaman flashes his eyes at me, then retreats to the shop floor. A minute later, Yunus follows him out.

  My sandwich goes in the bin, the thought of Imran’s return killing my appetite. On that day, I’ll be a sitting duck. I think about asking Dad for help, then remember his answer to everything: Man up!

  Grabbing my navy-blue parka, I head out. Up on the shop floor, Dad is holding a mug of tea, telling dirty jokes in Punjabi to two of his workers.

  ‘Dad, just nipping out to see Amma, ’kay?’ I say, beelining for the door.

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ he says. ‘Can’t go running off to your Amma every time life gives you lemons. Man up.’

  ‘I’ll be right back. Just for lunch, yeah? I need to apologize for letting her down.’

  One of the workers chips in. ‘Ainu jaan dhey – let him go. When his mum greets him with slaps, he’ll come running back.’

  Jogging to the library, I feel ice crystals scrape against my cheeks. I can’t even remember the last time it snowed, like, proper snowed.

  Crossing the street, it comes back to me. Year 6, school playground, me and Daevon having this great idea of building a snow Batman. We were so proud of our sculpture, until Lee Garrison and his mates beat us up for building a ‘snow boyfriend’.

  The memory makes me nauseous. An uncomfortable idea drops into my head. Is this the reason Daevon started making tough mates like Imran and Noah? Did he start seeing me as a bully magnet and a threat to his own safety?

  At the end of the road, the frosted glass apex of our local library pops into view, and as I travel down the decline, the rest of the pyramid appears to rise. Our library was a total tip when I was small. Then Amma got involved, mobilizing a group of shouty parents, who campaigned for renovation and funding, arguing that every child deserved access to books. Amma can be fierce when she needs to be. She bullied the local MP, Theodon Papadakis, to take the war to Westminster. Funding finally went through, and we got our shiny new library.

  The sensors pick me up, and the doors hum open.

  ‘Hey, Ilyas!’ says Mohamud, the security guard. We fist bump. ‘Why aren’t you at school today?’

  Mohamud fled Mogadishu about four years ago after pirates hijacked his family’s house. Came for them in the dead of night with guns and knives and messed-up intentions. Trouble is, things got worse when his family arrived in Britain. He lost his mother and three sisters in a fire started by faulty electrical wiring. Mohamud only escaped that night because he’d been praying Tarawih at the local mosque. The thing is, the guy still has a hundred-watt smile. Whenever he lights the room up with it, I feel guilty for complaining about my own stupid problems.

  I fill Mohamud in on my temporary exclusion.

  He sighs. ‘Mate, why are you doing this to your mum?’

  I shrug, too sad to give my reasons; too exhausted to explain that I’m the victim here.

  ‘Seriously, brother, you don’t know how lucky you are to have access to free education and two loving parents.’

  I’m standing in a tar pit, sinking lower and lower with every word he speaks.

  Mohamud puts a slim hand on my shoulder, and leans in close. ‘Look, I can see you’re sorry. That’s half the battle won. Now go give your mum the biggest, cheesiest hug you can manage. You’re her favourite, you know?’

  ‘Ya think?’

  ‘Ye-ah!’ he says, appearing surprised that I’d doubt this. ‘Auntie Fozia’s always telling everybody about your drawings and how kind you are. She said you look after an abandoned rabbit better than some parents look after their own kids.’

  A jalapeño fieriness spreads across my cheeks. Teenage boys and bunnies aren’t supposed to mix. This gets out, I’m dead.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Mohamud says quickly. ‘Allah placed mercy in your heart. You’re like a young Abu Bakr, the first Caliph of Islam.’

  I give him a seriously doubtful look.

  ‘He was all about the baby camels. Abu Bakr literally means “Father of the Camel”. Maybe we should call you Abu ‘Arnab!’

  Sparkle’s Daddy? I chuckle in spite of my current mood. ‘Thanks, bro.’

  Inside the library, Amma’s sitting on a beanbag in the ‘interactive section’, reading a picture book to a bunch of hypnotized little kids. She’s doing all the voices and everything, just like she used to when I was small. Warm bath first; mad wailing as she’d scrub my crusty heels; then marshmallows and a dope story, snuggling up on the sofa together. Man, I miss those days.

  Amma notices me, blinking behind her large glasses, then asks a worried-looking lady to take over. I raise my hands and shake my head furiously, but it’s too late cos she’s coming over.

  ‘What’s the matter, beyta?’ she asks, taking her glasses off and massaging the bridge of her nose. ‘I thought you were helping Dad at the store today?’

  ‘Yeah, I was. I am. I just … I feel crap, Amma. I don’t want you hating on me.’

  Amma strokes my cheek, her eyebrows dipping. ‘Silly boy. I could never hate you. You’ve disappointed us, and I’m sure we’re partly to blame … but hate you? Don’t ever think that again.’

  I shake my head. ‘This is all on me. Imran’s been pushing me for time. But I didn’t have to get into it, right? I could’ve just walked away and spared you the embarrassment.’

  She nods. ‘They’ve stitched his wounds, and he’s on the mend. Thankfully it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, but his mother is still worried.’

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘Are you?’

  Her questions catches me off guard, and I shake my head.

  ‘He could have died, Ilyas. Or ended up with permanent brain damage.
How would that have made you feel?’

  ‘But he was seriously out of order—’

  ‘You have to stop thinking with your fists. No matter what your father might say, there’s always a better way of handling things.’ She looks over her shoulder. The kids stare back with eyes like fishing rods. ‘Better get back, love. Chantelle doesn’t like doing the voices.’

  I want to say more, want her to help me figure stuff out, but I realize Amma has a life outside of our family.

  She turns back briefly. ‘I want you to go to mosque and think about how you could have handled things differently. And if you get stuck, I want you to speak to the Imam.’

  Wish I could be the son Amma deserves, but every time I think about Imran chatting shit about her, I want to smash his pretty-boy face in with a cricket bat. Truth be told, my life would be a million times easier if he never came back.

  Carrying a ton of self-loathing on my back, I head back to the shop.

  ‘Aren’t you scared for your life, dating the boss’s daughter?’ Yunus asks Zaman, an inch of ash dangling from his cigarette.

  I’m standing on a stool, quietly replenishing the various packets of Laziza Masala mix on the shelf, when this bombshell drops. Shaista and Zaman: my bougie sis and Imran’s ex-gansta cuz? No freaking way … though it would explain the weird call to her phone the other day.

  ‘What’s to be scared of?’ Zaman says, flexing his rotator-cuff muscles with a smirk. ‘I’ll probably marry her.’

  ‘Osman bhai would never allow it. She’s his princess,’ Yunus says, waving his fag in the air like a conductor’s baton.

  ‘Uncle Osman will have no choice when she’s carrying my baby.’

  Yunus stares aghast at Zaman, then shakes his head tutting.

  I grip the shelf, steadying myself. Zaman has to be lying. Shais would never date a gangsta.

  But the idea refuses to go away.

  That afternoon, I pluck up the courage and confront my sister.

  ‘Shais, can I talk to you?’ I ask, hanging in her bedroom doorway.

  ‘Only if it’s not in Street,’ she says, sitting in front of her laptop, designing a flattering thumbnail for her latest video.

  ‘Look, man, this is serious!’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘So is basic grammar. Why are teenagers so obsessed with speaking in increasingly stupid ways, anyway? Soon enough, you’ll have to learn to communicate properly, or nobody’s going to employ you.’

  I shrug. ‘Are you … um …’

  ‘Incredibly beautiful and talented? Why, yes. Do I have over twenty-two thousand followers on YouTube? Yes again. Am I available for Hollywood film roles? Speak to my agent …’ She pauses, like she just got a whiff of something rotten. ‘Unless you’re one of those casting-couch directors, in which case, please hand yourself in to the nearest police station.’

  ‘Shais!’ I snap. ‘This is important.’

  She knits her painted eyebrows together, about to unleash grammatically correct fury when she detects the edge in my voice.

  ‘Are you dating Zaman?’ I blurt.

  She’s searching for a comeback, her false eyelashes fluttering like feathers. Exposure has fried my sister’s brain.

  ‘So it is true,’ I say, shaking my head sadly. ‘Man is talking trash about you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When everyone takes breaks at the store, Zaman sits there boasting about you being his girl. Real personal stuff he ain’t got no business telling others.’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Like what?’

  I look down, my face roasting with shame. ‘Said he was going to get you … um … Make you have his baby, so Dad would have to let him marry you.’ The last bit comes out in a whisper cos I feel dirty just saying it.

  An uncomfortable silence foams around us, worry momentarily flashing over Shais’s forehead.

  ‘You are a terrible liar.’ She dismisses me with a flick of her nails.

  ‘Wallahi!’ I say, placing a hand over my heart.

  ‘Get out. I’ve got work to do.’

  I hover for a moment longer, but she goes back to editing the thumbnail graphic. I feel like the World’s Biggest Arsehole.

  ‘Where’s your sister run off to?’ Amma asks at dinner-time. ‘Her lasagne’s getting cold, and she won’t eat stringy cheese.’

  ‘I’ll get her …’ I grumble, scrapping my chair back.

  I’m about to go up the stairs when a cold draught tickles the side of my face. Glancing to the right, I see a sliver of light, and realize the front door hasn’t been closed properly. Peering into the street, there’s no sign of Shais. About to shut it, I notice two figures on the opposite side of the street, partially hidden by the conker tree. Dropping down to all fours, I slip out in stealth mode, taking up a recon position behind our wall. Now I’m PakCore, engaging the advanced tech in my bodysuit, thin silver lenses clicking into position behind the eyeholes of my mask for some old-school magnification. A giggle cuts my imaginings, and Shaista scampers away from the tree. A hand flies out, gripping her wrist. Instinctively my jaw tightens. A second later, Zaman steps out from behind the tree, pulls her into his arms and presses his lips to hers.

  The gross sight makes me want to gouge my eyes out. Then something worse happens. Zaman’s hand slips inside my sister’s jeans. She tries to pull away, but he’s locked on, like Killer Frost sapping Superman’s powers with a death kiss. Her hands close over his arm, and I can’t work out whether she’s trying to push him off or living her best Bollywood life.

  ‘Ilyas?’ Dad’s voice drifts towards me. ‘You found her?’

  Shais may be Dad’s favourite, but if he catches her now, he’s guaranteed to hit the roof. Switching to Damage Control Mode, I scuttle back inside.

  ‘She’s OK, Dad,’ I say, intercepting him in the corridor, directing him back to the dining room. ‘On the phone to one of her gal pals, innit?’

  Amma raises her eyebrows disapprovingly. ‘What sort of time is this to be phoning a friend?’ She starts to rise, ready to give Shais a piece of her mind.

  ‘Allow it, Amma,’ I say quickly. ‘One of her mates is having a massive meltdown. Shais is giving life-saving advice.’

  ‘That’s my girl!’ Dad says proudly, stuffing a spoonful of lasagne into his mouth, a spatter of sweetcorn and mince raining back on to his plate. ‘Always thinking of others first.’

  I sigh inwardly. Crisis averted. For now.

  Later that evening, I catch Shais on her way to the bathroom.

  ‘Are you in love with Zaman?’ I say with subtleness of a meat cleaver.

  ‘None of your business,’ she says, making scary eyes before stepping past me.

  ‘I saw you guys, by the tree.’

  She freezes, shoulders hunched. I can imagine the expression on her face, a volcano in the early stages of erupting. ‘Are you blackmailing me? Threatening to go public to Amma and Dad?’

  ‘No, never. I just … I need to know he isn’t bullying you into doing stuff you ain’t comfortable with. Cos … that’s what it sorta looked like.’ I twiddle my index fingers nervously.

  She looks at me, sadness tweaking the corners of her lips. ‘Look, appreciate your concern, but not the spying. Do you honestly think there’s a man alive who could take advantage of moi? Razor-sharp wit and vitriolic put-downs, remember? You’re the one who needs saving all the time, ickle Ilyas, not me.’

  Strutting over to the bathroom, she’s projecting power, but I sense fear under the cracks. There’s something about living with a person your whole life – you just know. Without saying a word about it, Shais has just told me everything I need to know about her relationship with Zaman. And that makes everything ten times worse. No point in telling Dad; Shais will only hate me for the betrayal. The only way I can rescue her is to expose Zaman. Shaista’s got to be the one to kick him to the kerb.

  Dad’s trying to talk down an irate customer who’s more wound up than a cuckoo clock. The old man’s ranting in Urdu about cr
edit-card fraud. Like Dad would ever get involved in something like that no matter how bad business might be.

  After a couple of days waiting, I finally see my chance to expose Zaman. While my dad’s distracted, I dart towards the back room.

  A woman blocks my way.

  ‘Can you help me?’ she asks, looking me up and down, the corners of her lips dipping doubtfully.

  ‘Uh, not right now. But—’

  ‘Do you work here?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Then it’s your job to help me.’ She adjusts her glasses. ‘Get me the ingredients for Nkontomire, please.’

  I open my mouth to apologize and tell her I have literally no clue what that is, but I catch the look in her eye and realize going there is suicide. I gulp.

  ‘Er, you wanna sit down while I sort it for you?’ I ask, grabbing her a chair.

  ‘Now that’s a much better attitude!’ she says, dusting the seat with a hanky before sitting down. ‘And don’t take too long.’

  After giving her an ingratiating smile, I dive into aisle three and whip out my phone. Thank God for Google. Nkontomire turns out to be spinach stew. I memorize the list of ingredients, grab a basket, and whip round the store like I’m on Supermarket Sweep, while the woman chuckles on her phone with a mate.

  Spinach, plum tomatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, chilli … What the heck is egusi?

  ‘Yo, Yunus!’ I call. ‘We got egusi?’

  He looks at me like I stuttered. ‘Eggs?’

  ‘No, deffo egusi.’

  He shakes his head.

  I glance in the direction of the customer, and she’s staring right back, nodding forbiddingly with the phone pressed to her ear.

  Seeking refuge in aisle five, I check my trusty phone to see if egusi has an alias. ‘Melon seeds!’ I say triumphantly.

  ‘Don’t need them,’ the woman calls out.

  I proudly present the basket of Nkontomire ingredients with a big smile. The lady points at the floor without missing a beat of her telephone conversation. Placing the basket at her feet, and making sure Dad’s still occupied, I shoot for the back room.