by S. M. Hall
Mariam’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Khaled hates violence. He hates what the Islamist extremists are doing but . . . actively working against them, that’s very risky.’
She let go of the pendant. The crescent moon gleamed softly against her olive skin while she sat twisting and untwisting her fingers, thinking deeply. Then her face sharpened. ‘Khaled has a good heart, a keen sense of justice. I can imagine him reporting on Omar if he felt it was justified. But now, if Omar’s kidnapped your mother, Khaled could be in great danger.’
Maya tensed. ‘It’s possible, but Mum won’t give him away.’
Every emotion registered on Mariam’s face – fear, worry, sympathy. She moved over to sit beside Maya and took her hand. ‘I can’t believe it, it’s almost too much to take in. I’m shocked, horrified – and you, you must be shattered. Dreadful, so dreadful.’ She made a soft, clucking noise in her throat. ‘And Khaled. If it’s true, I’m frightened for him.’
She folded her hands round Maya’s and held them tight. ‘If Khaled’s safe, he should be here soon; he always comes to eat with us. Let’s hope he arrives with some good news.’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘Oh, my dear, this isn’t a job for you. Omar’s obviously a wicked man.’
‘I know. I found that out the hard way.’
‘You must be tired. Let me get you a drink. I’ll make some tea.’
‘Just a glass of water, please,’ Maya said.
Mariam’s long purple skirt swished as she walked out of the room. Everything about her was warm and bright, and Maya felt comforted. When she’d gone, Maya looked about her and saw how the room reflected the aunt’s personality: the walls decorated with tapestry hangings, richly-woven cushions scattered on the red upholstery and, on the floor, beautiful and intricately patterned rugs. Even the smell of the flat seemed reminiscent of her – a heady mixture of spice and flowery fragrance. Maya couldn’t believe that when she’d first seen her, she’d thought her plain and harsh-looking.
A tap ran in the kitchen, a door opened and closed and Mariam returned, smiling and holding a glass filled with iced water and lemon.
‘Thank you,’ Maya said, taking the glass.
Crossing the room to switch on a mock log fire, the aunt brushed some dust from her skirt, straightened her blouse and smoothed back her hair. Her movements were unhurried and precise; she seemed to have recovered quickly from the shock of Maya’s news, but seeing her so regal and composed was suddenly too much for Maya. Something in her snapped.
‘I want to know why,’ she demanded.
‘Why?’ Mariam asked, puzzled.
‘Why Omar’s planning to blow up buildings and kill hundreds of innocent people. What’s driving him?’
Maya saw Mariam’s shoulders tense, she drew in her chin, her eyes were startled. ‘Omar’s going to plant bombs?’
‘Yes. Well, his followers are.’
Mariam blinked. ‘Then he has to be stopped.’
‘I know. But why? Why does he want to do it?’
Slowly Mariam moved round the armchair, pushed one of the big cushions aside and sat down on the sofa. ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand men like Omar. My religion is one of love, not hate.’ She clasped her hands together and sighed. ‘Many Muslims came here to escape difficult regimes, they don’t want to cause trouble. They want to build a peaceful life, to contribute to society. Unfortunately, it only takes a few Islamic fanatics to give us a bad name.’
‘But what they do – what Omar’s planning to do – is terrible.’
‘Yes, it is. And we all get the blame. 9/11, the London bombings – people look at me with suspicion. They don’t understand that I’m afraid too. They move their children away from me in shops and buses. One woman actually spat at me, called me a “Muslim murderer”.’
‘That’s horrible,’ Maya said. ‘People are ignorant; a boy on the train called me “Paki”.’
‘I’ve had to get used to that,’ Mariam said. ‘And I was born in Turkey.’
Maya leaned her head back on the soft red cushion and rubbed her eyes. ‘My family were from Albania,’ she said.
‘What happened?’
‘War.’ Maya set her jaw firmly against any further questions and sat in silence for a moment. Then she turned to look at Mariam. ‘If I can find out where Omar’s holding my mum, I can get help to rescue her and Omar’s mission will fail.’
‘I’ll help you in any way I can, but you must be careful.’
‘I know.’
Mariam put her hand on Maya’s arm. ‘You love your mother very much, don’t you?’
‘She’s amazing, she. . .’ Maya’s bottom lip started to tremble. How could she explain what Pam meant to her? Pam who’d rescued her, who’d coaxed her to speak after weeks of silence, who’d fought to adopt her after having chosen to have a life without children.
‘Is there anybody you want to phone?’ Mariam asked.
Maya nodded. ‘I have to contact Simon.’
‘Use the phone in the hall.’
Slowly Maya got up, but when she held the phone in her hand, she realised it was Khaled she needed to talk to. When she had the information Pam wanted, then she’d phone Simon.
Mariam paused as she went through to the kitchen. ‘Did you get through?’ she asked.
‘No. He wasn’t there.’
‘I’m going to get food ready. Will you eat with us?’
Maya nodded, although she didn’t feel much like eating.
Before she walked away, Mariam put her hand lightly on Maya’s shoulder. ‘Don’t forget,’ she said, ‘we’re not all terrorists.’
‘I know,’ Maya answered. ‘But I still don’t understand why people like Nazim want to blow up innocent civilians.’
‘I’m sure he could give you many reasons,’ Mariam said. ‘We’ll talk about it at dinner. But you’re tired. You need a rest.’
Holding Maya’s arm, she guided her back into the sitting room and over to the sofa. Picking up a throw from the armchair she tucked it round Maya’s shoulders. ‘There, it’s growing cold.’
Maya leaned back into the corner of the sofa. In the warmth of the cosy sitting room it was almost possible to believe the kidnapping had been a horrible dream. She thought of Helen back at the cottage, and then her mum. She hoped they knew she was thinking about them and sending them love. Sliding a big cushion under her head, she settled against the arm of the sofa. For the moment she felt safe. She just had to stay strong, and when Khaled came, perhaps he’d have some news.
Her eyes closed and she sank into an uneasy sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Waking with a start, Maya found three other people in the room: Mariam pouring tea, Khaled opposite her in an armchair, and a bearded man standing near the door. The man was holding a plastic carrier bag and looked as if he’d just come in. Maya eyed him suspiciously, but as she uncurled herself and sat up Khaled introduced him as his uncle Ali, Mariam’s husband.
‘Soraya wants to learn how to be a good Muslim,’ Khaled told him. ‘She’s studying at the centre.’
A look passed between Khaled and his aunt. Maya reached for her headscarf, arranging it as Lubna had taught her and tucking her hair underneath.
‘She has nowhere to go tonight, so she’s staying here,’ Mariam said.
Uncle Ali smiled. ‘Always taking in strays,’ he said, patting his wife affectionately. He turned to Maya. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. Will you make salah with us?’
Maya blinked and hesitated. She didn’t know what salah was, but she said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then we must wash,’ Mariam said. ‘Come with me.’
When the women returned, Uncle Ali had laid four prayer mats out on the floor and he and Khaled had put on small white hats. Following their example, Maya removed her shoes, stood to attention and raised her hands to the side of her head.
‘Allahu Akbur.’
The lilting words chanted in Uncle Ali’s rich tones were hypnotic.
‘A
shaduan la ilaha illa hlah.’
The phrases were repeated, flowing softly, gaining power, soaring, then falling to a whisper. Their clothes rustled as they moved from standing to bowing, to kneeling; the age-old words resonating in the room filled Maya with peace and hope. She closed her eyes and let the words flow through her. ‘There is no God but Allah. Muhammad is the messenger of God, praise be his name.’
Her eyes opened as the other three fell forward in unison, pressing their foreheads down until they touched their prayer mats. There was something mysterious and yet so simple and unaffected about their devotion, that Maya envied them their faith and certainty.
Everything is God’s will, nothing is random, everything is an integral part of God’s eternal plan. Muslims don’t ask God for anything, because what happens is fate.
Maya remembered Lubna’s words, but she couldn’t help asking and praying fervently, ‘Please let it be God’s will that I find my mum, please God, let me find her alive and well’.
Uncle Ali’s last words faded and shivered in the corners of the room. There was a soft, fluttering silence, then Mariam rose to her feet. She stood for a moment, head bowed, before walking over to the door. ‘Now we’ll eat,’ she said, and went out of the room followed by her husband.
Maya, still kneeling, watched as Khaled began carefully rolling up the prayer mats, his hands moving in precise, familiar patterns. She shuffled to one side so that he could take hers, leaned back, then moved up onto the sofa. When the mats were stowed away he sat down, and Maya was aware of his eyes on her.
‘You’ve caused me a lot of problems,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a big problem,’ she shot back at him.
‘I know, but you should have waited. These things cannot be rushed.’
‘That’s what everybody says.’
Khaled looked down at his hands resting in his lap, then back at Maya. ‘It’s imperative that Omar trusts me, and now you’ve muddied the waters. He’s suspicious, and that makes it more difficult and dangerous for me to operate.’
Maya was unfazed. ‘My mum thought she could trust you.’
Khaled clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘My mission is to stop Omar’s plans.’
‘But you knew they were going to kidnap my mum. Why didn’t you stop them?’
‘And give myself away?’
Maya could see his point. She leaned back on the cushions, her eyes were still heavy with tiredness, but there were important questions she had to ask.
‘Where do you think Omar’s taken my mum?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But Lubna told me you’re one of the leaders, you must know.’
‘I don’t.’ He pulled irritably at the collar of his shirt, then leaned forward clasping his hands. ‘Omar’s happy for me to run the bookshop, to be the respectable face of the Brotherhood, the teacher, but I’m not one of his soldiers.’
Maya stared into his green eyes, as though trying to see into his soul. ‘Your photo is marked,’ she said. ‘You’re one of the suicide bombers.’
He sighed. ‘A way to make Omar trust me.’
Maya understood what a dangerous game Khaled was playing. If Omar discovered his betrayal, he was a dead man walking. She had a sudden, urgent thought. ‘Will Lubna give you away?’
He smiled. ‘No, I made sure of that.’
Maya didn’t ask him how. She’d seen the way Lubna acted around him, but she was worried for her safety. ‘What if Omar finds out she set me free?’ she asked.
‘Lubna’s a valuable soldier. They won’t hurt her. She’ll be re-educated.’
Sinking back into the sofa, Maya tried to think what she should do next. It was still light outside, a summer’s night, but the street lamps were glowing yellow and time was passing, using up her chances. She turned and looked at Khaled. ‘Will you help me rescue my mum?’
He spread his hands, palms upwards. ‘First, we have to find out where she is. Then we have to act quickly, before they persuade your mother to give the name of her informant.’
‘Mum won’t tell, not unless they. . .’
Under the thick dark lashes Maya’s eyes were full of alarm.
Khaled nodded. ‘My life, your mother’s life and those of many others hang in the balance. We have to find her quickly. You have to be brave. We all have to be brave.’
Maya looked over at the rolled prayer mats, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
Please keep Mum safe, please don’t let them torture her, she prayed. Briefly she closed her eyes, but the horrible images from her dreams came back to haunt her. She blinked and shook her head, and was relieved when the door opened and Mariam came in.
‘Go and wash,’ she said. ‘Food’s ready.’
On the table a feast was spread. Maya couldn’t imagine eating anything, but when she sat down Mariam coaxed her with delicious pastries, savoury rice and small fragrant pieces of meat, until, despite all her worries and the aching tiredness, she began to enjoy the food.
Uncle Ali poured tea for her and gently persuaded her to take more, praising his wife’s cooking. ‘Come, come, you are a guest. Try some of this. Nobody makes this like Mariam – it’s delicious.’
His hospitality was hard to refuse and Maya ate hungrily.
‘So, Soraya. . .’ Uncle Ali said.
Maya started. She’d almost forgotten her adopted name.
‘You want to learn how to be a good Muslim?’
‘Yes.’
‘First, you have to give up some of yourself, to learn humility.’ He munched slowly, leaning over the table. ‘You’ve been brought up in the West. Yes?’
Maya nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Then it won’t be easy for you. Western society is based on money, commercialism, greed – everybody out for themselves. That’s not the Muslim way. A Muslim is one who submits to God’s guidance by obeying His laws; he learns to think of God first and himself last.’
‘I understand,’ Maya said.
‘A Muslim lives by the Divine Decree.’
‘And does that include killing and fighting?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Maya knew she’d made a mistake. It had been a stupid thing to say, but she was so tired. Khaled shot her a warning look, his face clouded with anger, his green eyes flashing.
It was Mariam who smoothed things over. ‘Soraya was asking me why some Muslims are militant extremists.’
Uncle Ali put down his spoon and wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘The reasons are complex. It is partly to do with history, going all the way back to the time of the Crusades, when Christians invaded Muslim lands. Throughout time Britain has been an aggressive nation, plundering and conquering, drawing lines on a map, dividing people; causing suffering and conflict in Ireland, making thousands of Palestinians into refugees by creating Israel.’
‘But that’s all in the past,’ Maya said.
‘You think so?’ Uncle Ali said. ‘Palestinians are still being abused, denied basic human rights. And recently Britain joined the US to invade Iraq.’
‘But that was to help the Iraqi people.’
‘Perhaps, but many didn’t see it that way. They thought it was more about the control of oil.’
‘And it hasn’t helped Iraq?’
‘Not really.’
‘So, is that why young Muslims feel angry?’
‘Partly. There are many reasons – social and cultural. Young Muslims have big identity issues. Tradition dictates they honour the old ways, yet the Western way of life is attractive. Then, every day on the news there are images from the Middle East – fellow Muslims living in poverty, being blown up. All these things create tension.’
Maya felt her head beginning to whirl, the food on the plates started to bob and dance. Uncle Ali’s tie became a swirling pattern of yellow and purple. She struggled to concentrate on what he was saying but his words faded and her eyes started to close.
Mariam’s voice startled her. ‘Ali, I think you’ve said enough. Sor
aya’s very tired.’
Maya blinked and shook her head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’
‘I apologise,’ Uncle Ali said. ‘I’m apt to get carried away when I start talking.’ He let out a roar of laughter and despite her worries, Maya laughed too.
The rest of the meal passed in light banter between Mariam and her husband. Khaled joined in, but mostly he was quiet, and a few times Maya caught him looking off into the distance, a brooding expression on his face.
It wasn’t easy for Maya to sit out the meal. She constantly looked at the clock on the wall, aware of time passing, feeling she should be doing something. When Mariam rose to clear the table, she was glad to move and offered to help.
They carried dishes through to the kitchen and while Mariam ran hot water into the sink, she asked Maya about her life at home. The questions were difficult to answer because it seemed to Maya she had no life other than this aching mess of confusion. She couldn’t believe that Helen was back at the cottage in Derbyshire, just a couple of hours away. It was like a life she’d left years ago.
When Mariam saw that her questions were causing Maya pain, she steered her back to the sitting room where Khaled and Uncle Ali were watching TV.
‘You settle down there and I’ll make up a bed for you,’ Mariam said. ‘I won’t be long, then you can sleep.’
Film credits scrolled down the screen as Maya nestled on the end of the sofa. There was a trailer for a travel programme, then the kidnapping of Pamela Brown was headline news. The Home Secretary appeared, warning the public to be vigilant.
‘The country is on critical alert,’ he said. ‘Intelligence officers warn that terrorists are planning to bomb tourist attractions throughout Europe.’
He was replaced by a reporter telling of a breaking news story.
‘Security Forces are surrounding a farmhouse in the Buckinghamshire countryside where it’s believed terrorists are holding Pamela Brown, the top security expert who was kidnapped yesterday morning.’
Maya leaned forward, her attention riveted. Her stomach twisted into knots as the camera panned across a row of police marksmen. A close-up of the farm filled the screen.