My tutor folded his hands like a preacher. ‘I’m not for one second trying to play down the challenges people of colour face. It’s not fair, and something needs be done about it. But you see, Muzna, the perfect answer to silence the bigots is someone like YOU.’
My eyes began to water. He really, really cared about me. God, how much I wanted to open up to him and tell him all about Jameel’s strange teachings and how I was struggling to find the right thing to do.
Do that, and he’ll have no choice but to report you under Prevent, said Jameel’s voice in my head.
‘I’ll try harder,’ I said in a shaky voice.
In the end, it was all I could say.
CHAPTER 36
I got a bad feeling the moment the Year 8 kid turned up at our classroom.
‘Yes?’ said my history teacher with impatience. Her lesson slides wouldn’t open. She was not a happy bunny.
Looking like she was going to wet her knickers, the messenger held up a beige slip. Ms Simcox waved her forward. The girl skittered along, cheeks growing redder with every step.
Ms Simcox squinted at the note, then looked directly at me. My heart sank deep inside my chest.
‘Muzna Saleem,’ she said. ‘Ms Pawsey wants to see you in her office.’
‘Now you’re gonna get it!’ said Sade, with brazen delight.
‘Allow it!’ said Malachy, getting involved for no reason. ‘Ms Pawsey’s on everyone’s case cos of results and that.’
I left them bickering. In my heart I knew Sade was closer to the truth. Ms Pawsey was the deputy principal, after all.
Stomach lurching like a sack of wet oats, I knocked on her door and entered.
‘Good morning, Muzna!’ she said, brightly. ‘How are you, my love?’ With a nod she indicated the chair opposite.
Obediently I sat down, sinking into the tender leather. ‘Good, thanks,’ I replied. Didn’t need Jameel to tell me an attack was coming. I could feel it in every pore.
Ms Pawsey was both huge in size and personality, but with strangely tiny hands. My eyes were instantly drawn to the gleaming gel nails on her fingertips.
‘New, they are,’ she said, fluttering them at me. ‘Tenner on the Broadway. Cheap as chips, but it’s nice to treat yourself every once in a while.’
She grinned, exposing a mouthful of crooked teeth streaked red with lipstick. Now I was getting piranha vibes.
‘What can I do for you, miss?’ I asked, wanting to be a million miles away.
‘Aw, bless!’ She chuckled, completely ignoring my question. ‘There’s something different about you. Can’t quite put my finger on it . . .’
‘My hijab,’ I said flatly, suppressing an eye-roll.
‘That’s right!’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Weren’t wearing it last half-term, were you? What’s made you change your mind?’
I shrugged. ‘Just experimenting, I guess.’
‘Lovely! When I was your age – cor dear! – I had this thing about David Bowie, God rest his soul. Dyed my hair bright orange and wore it in a feathered mullet.’
I deadpanned. Didn’t sound miles worse than the purple crew cut she was currently rocking. How old was she – sixty?
‘So you’ve decided to make a greater commitment to Islam?’
I shrugged again. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Absolutely not. No, no, no. So long as it is your decision.’
‘No one’s forcing me.’ I noticed her looking at my balled fists and wrenched them open.
‘That right?’ She stroked her chin in the way Ami did when she was about to say something cutting. ‘Not even, say, Arif Malik?’
I looked lasers at her. But her eyes were impenetrable, like sewage water.
‘He’s a friend,’ I said carefully. ‘Malachy and Sarabi are also mates. Why aren’t you asking me about them?’
‘You’re a gentle soul, my love. Arif has a history of intimidating other students into his way of thinking.’
I snorted. ‘Well I’m not exactly the easily intimidated type. Besides, the Arif I know is not a manipulator.’
‘Well there’s evidence on his old school records . . .’
‘Then maybe he’s changed. Or maybe those records were written by an Islamophobe,’ I said pointedly.
She didn’t like that. The flicker in her eye followed by a sharp inhalation of breath told me so.
‘Teachers deal in facts. There are proper checks and balances in place to ensure that.’ Her voice softened. ‘So was it Arif’s views that inspired you?’
‘No!’ I said, bubbling over with frustration. ‘I’m a writer. I research stuff. I just happened to come across some websites on Islam, and I realized I’ve been practising it wrong.’
‘How so?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘My parents mix Islam with Pakistani traditions and random bits of Hinduism.’
‘So what parts do they get wrong, in your opinion?’
‘Well wearing the hijab, for one. Also praying . . . and fasting. It’s all compulsory.’
Her pen zipped across her notebook as if it were a scalpel being raked across my throat.
‘Look – Islam is all about being kind to others.’ I threw out a hand. ‘I volunteered at an old people’s community centre just before Easter. We made them lunch and kept them company for a couple of hours.’
She wanted details. Probably thought I was lying. So I told the cow everything I knew about Khadijah’s group and their community work.
‘Islam’s a great religion,’ Ms Pawsey agreed, nodding. ‘Only there’s this nasty movement on the rise trying to waylay young people. I’d hate to see someone as intelligent as you getting exploited.’
I wanted to jump down her throat, tell her that every religion had its share of crazies, so why-oh-why was she singling out Islam? But going nuclear was the last thing I needed. Prevent had been activated for sure. Pawsey was searching for that one false move; that single sliver of evidence to pass me on to the police.
She was getting nothing from me.
‘Thanks, miss,’ I said, ‘for looking out for me. But I’m all clued-up on religious psychos. I’m looking for a peaceful life. So are my mates. All my mates.’
Ms Pawsey scribbled something down on her pad. Or maybe it was a sketch of me behind bars?
‘Aren’t we all,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you hear or see anything a bit daft, you let me know. My door’s always open. A community has to look out for its own, and it’s my job to safeguard all you wonderful young people.’
I nodded, eagerly rising to my feet. I’d made it all the way to the door before she spoke again.
‘Remember, Muzna: someone like you has a bright future ahead of her. Don’t let anybody spoil it for you, OK?’
‘Wagwan, Muz?’ Malachy said as I walked into the sunny playground. Cracked me up when he spoke patois. But right then, my sense of humour was DOA.
‘Nothing much. Pawsey’s being extra,’ I grumbled.
He nodded. We stood silently for a while, watching excited little Year 7s crowd round a kid with a radio-controlled drone.
‘Man, I hated being in Year Seven,’ Malachy said, his sky-blue eyes following the drone flying across the playground. ‘Kept missing primary school: playtime, potato painting, and that. Now with the exams coming up, I look at the sevens and wish I was back there again. Little shits don’t appreciate what they have.’
‘We’re going to be all right, Malachy,’ I said. ‘Everyone goes up a grade from the mocks. Sometimes more.’
‘Yeah, but I did crap in the mocks. No college’s gonna want one-grade-up-from-a-fail, are they?’
I didn’t know what to say. If niceness was a GCSE, he’d come top of the class.
‘Probably end up working for my old man at his garage.’ He dragged a forearm under his nose. I handed him a tissue. ‘Thanks, bruv.’
‘Look at it this way. You’ve got a back-up plan. How many of us can say that?’ I
said.
His smile was magic for the few seconds it lasted. Then he dropped his eyes.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. Just . . . you’re a good mate, Muz. Don’t wanna see you get hurt.’
I laughed. ‘Failing GCSEs won’t put me on suicide watch.’
‘Nah, I mean . . . Look, I’m worried about you and Arif.’
I bristled. Sarabi, Dunthorpe, Pawsey – now Malachy too?
‘Hear me out,’ he said, reading my expression. ‘You know me. I’m Black Lives Matter. I’m Hug-a-Muslim. But, well, my boy Arif went a bit mental in PE.’ He licked his lips nervously. ‘Missed this shot, right? So Dan opens his stupid gob and says something about Arif being “hopeless as ISIS”. Arif went batshit – trust! Started ranting about Dan being a kafir and going home in a body bag. Took four of us to drag him off.’
‘Sounds like Dan started it.’
‘Dan’s a wasteman,’ he agreed. ‘But you should’ve seen Arif! Can’t explain it proper.’ He chopped the air in frustration. ‘Arif’s my G, yeah? But it was like he really wanted to do it. Like he’d done it before or somethin’.’
‘You saying Arif’s a terrorist?’ I glared at him, lips pursed.
‘N-no. I’m just saying . . .’ Now he was doing The Robot as he struggled to get the words out. Then his batteries died, and his face went lax. ‘Dunno what I’m saying, really. Just wanna protect you, is all.’ He flushed beetroot, his voice cracking.
You couldn’t get mad at Malachy. He was too hopelessly earnest. ‘You worry too much,’ I said. ‘Everybody’s on edge cos of exams. That’s the only reason Arif exploded.’
Malachy nodded, but neither one of us was convinced.
CHAPTER 37
Temperatures in London were soaring, with the first wave of GCSE exams set to take place in five weeks. The hall would become the centre of our existence. Endless rows of collapsible desks, prison-guard-style invigilators, and us packed in like battery hens. If the weather held, the stench of BO and cheesy feet would add to the fun.
I sat on a bit of wall staring suspiciously at my cheese and tomato sandwich. A fly landed on it. That decided me. I flung the sandwich in the bin.
‘Hey, could you do us a flavour?’
Shading my eyes from the glare of the sun, I gazed up at Arif. A flick of his hand sent sweat splattering to the tarmac, where it sizzled. Today was a scorcher.
‘Only if it’s of the smoky-bacon variety!’ I stuck out my tongue, making him laugh.
‘One of Jameel’s mates brought Zamzam water back from Makkah. But I got football practice after school, innit? Couldn’t deliver a bottle to my uncle, could ya? Lives right next door to Victoria station. You wouldn’t hafta go far or nothing.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ After my conversation with Mr Dunthorpe, I was worried stiff about my grades. Enough to spend all of break up in the library designing a new study schedule. He seemed to think I was a shoo-in for uni.
‘Oi, dutty bwoy! You’re needed back in the game, my son!’ shouted Malachy, chugging a sports drink. His topknot had come loose, and his sweaty hair hung in his face like Cheestrings.
Arif ignored him. ‘Please, Muz,’ he said, putting his hands together and kneeling in the dirt. ‘Chuck in a bottle for your family too. Holy water from the holy land. Vampire ever turns up at your door, fill a Super Soaker, and give him what for.’ He clutched his throat: a vampire in the throes of death. Hammy as hell, but it did the job and had me in fits.
‘Go on then,’ I said.
‘Get in!’ He pumped his fist. ‘Only thing is, I don’t have it on me. Jamjamz is coming round after school. I’ll text him to give it you instead. Safe. You’re a life saver!’
He kissed my hand, then ran off back to his game of footie. Arif’s smiles were infectious. They gave me face ache in the best possible way.
I leaned against the main gate after school, trying to remember the different types of chemical bond. I sucked at chemistry. Plucking out my colour-coded revision cards, I flicked through. Ionic, covalent, metallic – how was I meant to remember this crap?
The white Micra turned in at the top of the road, bringing my street-side revision session to a close. But instead of stopping by the gates like any normal person, Jameel drove further along. I tried not to get angry as I trekked the extra distance. Difficult, since chemistry already had me feeling like a baited grizzly.
The window slid down. ‘Assalaamu alaykum, sister,’ he said. ‘I have a little time, so I’ll drive you down to the station.’
Quietly I got in the back. The AC was turned on full blast, and it was a relief to be out of the heat.
‘The bottle is on the seat beside you,’ he said, giving the indicator and pulling out. ‘Just under that cloth there. Have you found it?’
‘Pretty hard to miss!’ I said, glaring at the bottle. It was one of those giant five-litre deals from Tesco, complete with reinforced handle. ‘Arif said it was a bottle, not a vat.’
His face twisted. Whether grimace or smile, the jury was out.
‘Generosity is the way of our beloved Prophet,’ he replied.
That shut me up. You couldn’t argue with the Prophet.
‘Why can’t you deliver it?’ I asked, trying to sound curious instead of bolshie.
His black eyes locked on to mine in the rear-view mirror. ‘I am speaking at a gathering in Harrow in exactly three-quarters of an hour. But please tell Abdi-Aziz that I will make time to come and see him at the weekend. This is your stop.’
I glanced out of the window. Further up the road stood a line of ticket barriers marking the entrance to the station. I clambered out of the car, struggling with the large bottle.
‘It weighs a ton!’ I complained, swinging it for emphasis.
His face coloured. ‘Be careful with that!’
I flushed. Who the hell did he think he was, shouting at me in public: my dad?
‘The handle is not as strong as it looks, my sister,’ he added in a mollifying tone. ‘It will break if you’re not careful, and all your rewards for doing this task would be taken away by Allah.’
I turned away, pulling out my Oyster card. I trudged over to the station, pausing to study the screens overhead displaying arrival and departure times. The next train was due on platform three in seven minutes.
As I rode the train to Victoria, I wondered why Arif and Jameel had that chalk-and-cheese dynamic going on. Was it the large age gap that put them at odds? Or were brothers always like that? I hoped to God Arif didn’t grow up to be like Jameel. That would suck.
I was distracted from my thoughts by that creepy feeling you get when people stare. Opposite me sat an old couple, their eyes flitting back and forth between my hijab and the water bottle. Islamophobes. Getting nasty looks for wearing my hijab in public was something I was finally getting used to. Irritating as hell, but it didn’t hurt like it once had. What was eating them anyway?
Think I’ll blow you up with a bottle of H2-Whoa?
The sarcastic smile faded from my lips, my last thought rebounding round my skull. My palms turned slick, and my mouth went dry. Suddenly the walls of the coach ran together like melting ice cream, and the old couple’s faces stretched into nightmarish leers. I closed my eyes, telling myself to breathe.
When the driver announced the train was about to terminate and reminded us not to leave anything behind, it was the biggest relief. The second the doors hummed open, I was tearing down the platform. Legs pumping like mad, I dodged commuters, heading straight for the ticket barrier.
‘Excuse me!’ shouted a station guard.
Busted.
My bladder throbbed, as if I was about to wet myself. I measured the distance to the exit with my eyes. Too far to make a run for it. So I forced myself to turn round.
‘Cor, where’s the fire?’ The bald station guard smiled at me. A tribal tattoo crawled out of his collar, tucking itself behind an ear. ‘Dropped this, love.’
My eyes fell on t
he Oyster card he was holding out. ‘Oh . . . thanks!’
I was more relieved than he could ever know.
I sat on the park bench, feeling numb. The five-litre bottle stood at my feet. The park was deserted but for a couple of ducks and a diseased seagull bobbing along on the choppy surface of the lake.
‘I’ve got to know,’ I told myself.
Bending down, I pressed the safety buttons on the side of the cap, and unscrewed it. Hesitantly I pitched forward, sniffing. Nothing. Even with my nostrils hovering directly over the mouth of the bottle, there was no incriminating odour.
I placed the lid back on, thoroughly confused. I’d been wrong. Good.
So why couldn’t I let it go?
I closed my eyes and tried to recall what my chemistry teacher had taught us. Just like practically every other chemical we ever used in experiments, hydrogen peroxide was boringly colourless and odourless. I remembered being partnered with Malachy, and him claiming his mum kept a bottle of the stuff in her medicine cabinet to disinfect wounds. Thinking he was having a laugh, I asked our teacher if it was true.
‘Actually, yes!’ Dr Daire said. ‘At different concentrations, it can be used for disinfecting, bleaching, promoting plant growth. But it can be also be used as an ingredient in bomb-making.’
We’d all laughed. But I wasn’t laughing now.
I stared at the fluid, willing it to give up its secrets. Zamzam or peroxide – water of life, or water of death?
What was wrong with me? Why did I keep looking for terrorism where there was none? Just because Jameel was a devout Muslim who was critical of the West, didn’t automatically make him into a crazy militant. Man, I’d been conditioned into becoming an Islamophobe.
But the niggling feeling wouldn’t shake.
Then it hit me, the one way I could put the stupid suspicions to rest. I poured out some of the water into the cap. Reaching under my scarf, I pulled out a few strands of hair and dipped them in the liquid.
I’m not sure how long I left the hair in for, but it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds. I pulled out the dripping strands and stared.
I Am Thunder Page 18