A minute or so later, stepping out on to the ground floor, Hendricks said, ‘You two make a good pair.’
Thorne waited.
‘You’re both off your tits.’
FIFTY-NINE
Prostrate, he muttered in Arabic. ‘Glorified is my Lord, the most great.’ He said it three times, but on another day it might have been five, or seven; always an odd number.
The clearly prescribed movements and recitations of the prayer ritual were, by now, second nature to Ilyas Nazir, but, as always, he carried out each one with strong purpose and feeling, with devotion in his heart. Now, after almost ten minutes of prayer – of bowing low to await God’s orders, of speaking verses from the Quran aloud and of silent supplication – he lifted his face from the floor and sat on his knees to ask for the Lord’s forgiveness. Half a minute later, he moved again until he was sitting with his feet folded beneath him. This was the position demanded for the salam, the salutation; the concluding moments of the final rakat or round of late afternoon prayers.
Nazir turned his head to the right and spoke the prescribed greeting to the angel who recorded his good deeds. He turned to his left and spoke the same words in acknowledgement of the angel who recorded his wrongdoings.
‘As-salaam alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu.’
May the peace and mercy of Allah be upon you.
He stood and turned, and, straightening his gold skullcap, he saw that Jad Hakim was watching him. Hakim was near the back, as usual, standing very still with his prayer mat carefully rolled beneath his arm. Nazir met the man’s eyes and nodded twice, enjoying, as he always did, the soft and honeyed babble of those around him who had not yet finished praying.
All praise is to you.
Show us the straight path.
Forgive me…
He nodded once to let Hakim know he had seen him, and once towards the exit.
Outside, Nazir ignored the overtures of several people who seemed keen to discuss business of one sort or another with him, and walked away across the car park. He guessed that Hakim would follow, and just as he had predicted, the newcomer had caught him up by the time he reached his shiny black Audi.
Nazir unlocked it and they climbed in.
‘Nice car,’ Hakim said. He ran his fingers across the walnut dashboard, the leather of his seat. ‘Very nice.’
‘It does the job.’ Actually, Nazir’s business as a self-employed IT consultant had been going very well for several years and he could easily have afforded a model with even more bells and whistles than this one. He did not, however, believe in being overly ostentatious. He was an ordinary man who was good at his job, who believed that spiritual rewards were of rather more value than material ones. He was also a man with extremely generous pension provisions.
He said, ‘How are you, Jad?’
The drift of the man’s chin towards his chest and the set of his shoulders answered Nazir’s question. Told him that Hakim’s situation had not improved since they had first spoken three days before.
‘No better, then?’
‘Worse,’ Hakim said.
Nazir nodded, serious. ‘I read the diary.’
‘So you know. Last night, she…’
‘What?’
Hakim raised his hands and pressed them hard against the sides of his head, as though they might stop it shaking.
‘You can talk freely, Jad.’ Nazir reached across and touched his passenger’s shoulder. ‘I have a daughter about the same age as your sister, so I know how difficult it can be, and whatever you want to say to me, I promise that I won’t be judging you. OK?’
Hakim nodded.
‘I mean, I don’t have the wisdom of the imam, but —’
‘I’ve already tried talking to the imam.’ Hakim raised his hands, then let them drop into his lap. ‘Several times I’ve spoken to him about all this and I do what he tells me to do. I pray for guidance, any kind of guidance, and all I’m left with are these… thoughts.’ He turned to look at Nazir. ‘Thoughts that no loving brother should have rattling around in his head. And I do love my sister, you need to know that.’
‘Of course you do,’ Nazir said. ‘That goes without saying.’ They both stared ahead for a while, watched as other cars left. It had begun to rain and the windscreen was steaming up a little. Nazir started the car and turned on the heater to clear it. ‘So, what did Raheema do last night?’
Hakim let out another long sigh that rattled in his chest. ‘It was just the way she was talking to my father, the things she called him. Called both of us. We were trying to reason with her, you know? Letting her know what she was doing to the family.’ He turned to look at Nazir. ‘My mother died a couple of years ago, so it’s just the three of us now. I don’t know, maybe that’s why she changed. Up until then she’d been fine, working hard at school and showing respect. A bit wild now and again like any teenager, but basically being a good daughter, and then she just started to go off the rails. It’s not like my dad’s been strict with her, not really, but she’s always known what’s been… expected of her, same as I have. It’s not always easy, but you just get on with it, right?’
Nazir nodded.
‘She was talking to us like we were filth. Like we were destroying her life, when she’s the one who’s destroying ours. My friends have started to say things about her, and my dad can’t cope with any of it any more. It’s not been easy for him the last few years. Since my mum, you know?’
‘Hard enough raising a family when there are two parents.’
‘Her language was just…’ Hakim shook his head again. ‘Spitting these words at us like she was drunk.’
‘You think she was?’
‘I couldn’t smell anything, but I know she drinks. And there’s this boy. This man… older than her. We’d thought she was seeing someone… we’d heard things, and there was what she wrote in her diary. So we tried to talk to her about it, to reason with her. That’s when the argument really started.’
‘You know this man?’
‘No.’
‘Married?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘A Muslim?’
Hakim shook his head.
‘You think she has been intimate with him?’
‘I know she has.’ Hakim’s voice was raised now. ‘She told us all about it. Bragging about it, wanting us to know everything.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Nazir said. He tapped his fingers against the leather steering wheel. ‘I’ve heard stories like yours many times before, but it’s still so… shocking. I can’t imagine what it must be like putting up with it.’
It was raining harder now. Nazir flicked on the wipers.
‘We don’t want to put up with it,’ Hakim said. His fist was bouncing against his leg and his chin was quivering. ‘Not any more.’
Nazir nodded. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I know.’
‘Have you spoken to your father about this? About a course of action?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good.’
‘But —’
‘You should not be ashamed of these thoughts you are having. It’s very clear to me which member of your family should be ashamed. It would be clear to anyone.’
Hakim nodded and let the tears come. ‘I know it should be me that sorts all this out. My dad isn’t strong enough. I know it’s down to me to make things right, but I’m not sure I can do it. I’m so bloody scared.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Too weak.’
‘No.’
‘If anything went wrong, if there was… prison or whatever, what would my dad do? I don’t think he could manage on his own.’
‘It’s OK,’ Nazir said. ‘I know people who can help you.’
For half a minute or more there was only the sound of the wipers, and the sobbing of the man hunched in the passenger seat. Eventually he sat back and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He said, ‘Thank you.’
N
azir leaned across once more to lay a hand on Jad Hakim’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’ He squeezed. ‘I’m so sorry you and your father are having to go through this.’
SIXTY
Thursday, August 17th
It’s like having a split personality, like one of those psychos you see in scary films, except I don’t want to kill anyone. Well, sometimes I’m tempted. Ha! At work, I’m the Raheema who everyone seems to like and even if my boss – who’s a prick – has a go at me now and again, nobody’s giving me a hard time because I’m good at the job and I get on with everyone. I can say what I think and LOOK HOW I LIKE and nobody’s throwing up their hands in horror and telling me how much I’m letting them down. Nobody’s ashamed of me.
Then, there’s RAHEEMA AT HOME…
It’s OK when I’m in my room I suppose, but I can’t hide away up there all the time. I don’t want to hide away. And my brother’s such a computer nerd that he can always find out where I’ve been online and who I’ve been talking to. It’s just a break from them, really. Otherwise, I’m downstairs with them and then they want the girl who does all the cooking and cleaning up and never complains. The girl who sits quietly and presents herself correctly. Who dresses appropriately and lowers her head when her father has something to say. I’m ACTING when I’m that girl and the truth is I’m a rubbish actress and I’m getting more sick of it every day.
My brother knows all this because I’ve told him, but he seems to think it’s just a phase, like I’m twelve or something and I haven’t grown up yet and seen the error of my ways. He thinks I’ll change and learn respect and he says it’s all just because I’m hanging around with the wrong people. Like I’m being brainwashed or something.
They’re the ones doing the brainwashing, him and my dad.
What makes me angriest is that I know Jad doesn’t believe a lot of this stuff any more than I do. But he doesn’t have to, does he, because all these rules suit him just fine. It’s perfect for him, and all because of what he’s got between his legs. He gets to do what he likes while I’m bringing dishonour into the house because I’m not ashamed to use what’s BETWEEN MY EARS!
I don’t mean brains either, because he knows I’m the smart one, I mean who’s the one that got a job straight away after we’d moved, and him and dad never say no to the money I bring in from working my backside off. I’m talking about having the imagination to CHOOSE.
What I wear.
Where I go.
Who I sleep with if I feel like it.
Talking of sleep, I need to go to bed. I’m wiped out, because tonight I cooked dinner and washed up as soon as I got in from work. Period’s arrived as well, which doesn’t help, but at least it gets me out of praying!
So enough for now.
I’m sure if there was some way for them to decide what I could and couldn’t dream about, they’d do it.
SIXTY-ONE
Thorne carried the box over and laid it down by one of the trestle tables. A middle-aged woman in an elegant green sari was busy arranging bhajis in concentric circles on a large metal plate. She smiled at him.
‘Is it OK if I leave this here for a while?’
The woman looked around, as though searching for someone from whom to seek permission and unable to find anybody.
‘I’m sure it’ll be all right,’ Thorne said. ‘It’s not for long.’ He slid the box underneath the table, then straightened up and nodded towards the food. ‘Looks good.’
The woman leaned across and made subtle adjustments to her layout. She seemed a little uncomfortable at having her food scrutinised.
‘Can I have one?’
‘No.’ The woman clearly needed nobody’s say-so to make this decision. ‘No food until afterwards.’
‘Shame.’ Thorne shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to watch as people began taking their seats, picking up the leaflets that had been left on every chair, in case they had not all been given one on the way in. The meeting was a lot busier than the one he had been to with Tanner. There was a crowd outside, too, though not one comprised of people who would be welcome in the hall. These were the very people the meeting was about, and though Thorne had been unable to stop on his way in – lugging that stupid cardboard box from the car – those who did had plenty to say before the police on duty moved them towards the entrance, wary of the conversations becoming too heated.
‘So, what do you think?’ Thorne asked.
‘Excuse me?’
He stepped closer to the woman, saw her step back a little. ‘What do you think should be done about these hate crimes? The attacks.’
The woman wrung her hands. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’ve listened to the speakers, right?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What do you think about them?’
‘They are very good speakers. They all have nice voices, I think.’
‘What about what they’re saying, though?’
The woman instinctively turned towards the stage, in front of which Bannerjee, Dhillon and Mansoor were deep in conversation. When she turned back, she looked nervous. Or perhaps, Thorne thought, she was just shy. He felt a twinge of guilt at putting her on the spot.
‘These attacks are terrible,’ she said. ‘Something definitely needs to be done.’ She looked at him, unblinking. ‘But that’s not why you’re here, is it?’
‘Why do you think I’m here?’
Another glance towards the stage. ‘Honour killing.’ The words were almost whispered. ‘Someone heard you talking to the imam and the others. You and the woman. We were all talking about it after the meeting.’
‘Do you mind if I ask what you were all saying?’
‘What do you think we were saying?’ She looked at him as though it were a very stupid question. ‘Sometimes our children do things we wish they hadn’t. Sometimes they do very bad things, but they’re our children. They were given to us by God and only God can take them away.’ She nodded and opened her hands. ‘Only God.’
‘There are people who don’t agree with you,’ Thorne said.
The woman shook her head quickly, pointed a finger. ‘Nowhere does it say that this kind of thing can ever be allowed. Not in the Guru Granth, not in Hindu scripture and certainly not in the Quran. Nowhere, you understand?’
Thorne nodded.
‘Same as in the Bible. Thou shalt not kill. I really don’t think it could be any simpler.’
‘Neither do I,’ Thorne said. ‘Personally, I’m not that bothered by what the Bible says. Too much stuff about coveting and taking names in vain. But the law is something else.’
Now the woman nodded. ‘Of course, and you must catch the people who disobey it.’
‘Simple, like you say.’
‘I know some people are afraid to speak up and say what they really think. I know it makes your job difficult. But trust me, we want the people who do these terrible things to be caught and punished.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ Thorne said.
‘These men who beat their wives and daughters because they feel dishonoured, who think they have the right to murder them, they are not men of God.’ She half turned away towards her arrangement of platters and trays, then looked back at Thorne, eyes wide and fierce. ‘They are not men at all. They are animals.’
Thorne watched as she glanced once again towards the stage and thanked her for her time. Seeing that he was about to leave, the woman nodded towards the table, and said, ‘I’ll save one for you.’
Thorne thanked her again and walked away. Looking across, he caught Bannerjee’s eye. The businessman waved and Thorne waved back. Dhillon and Mansoor were looking at him, too, as was Bannerjee’s son; scowling from the platform as he arranged the microphones, while a couple of his friends laid out water jugs and glasses, and emptied sweets into decorative bowls.
Thorne summoned a decent scowl of his own and the boy looked away. He picked up one of the leaflets, then sat down at the end of a row. He checked the messa
ges on his phone, then played Temple Run for a few minutes while he was waiting for the meeting to start.
Dhillon, the Sikh community leader, was the first to address the audience. He spoke with sadness about the recent arson attack on a temple in Hendon and the abuse, both verbal and physical, levelled at several shopkeepers near his home. Bannerjee followed him, as charismatic a speaker as always, though when he spoke about the need for a measured response he struggled to make himself heard above the noise of those trying to shout him down and appeared to cut his speech short. The imam, Mansoor, waited for silence, but found it no easier to make his points than his predecessor had done. By the time he sat down again after only a few minutes, and Bannerjee got back to his feet, the meeting was threatening to get out of hand.
It was understandable, Thorne thought. He had been expecting nothing less. Considering the recent rise in the number of attacks and the crowd of ‘well-wishers’ waiting outside.
Bannerjee held out his hands and urged the audience to settle down.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I have something very important to say.’
The noise slowly began to abate and Thorne watched those who were on their feet return reluctantly to their chairs. He looked across to check that his box was still there beneath the trestle table, then sat back to let Bannerjee say his piece.
‘We have a police officer with us this evening.’
Bannerjee had to raise his hands high again and called repeatedly for quiet above an outburst of boos and catcalls. Many of those not shouting out or pointing angrily towards the stage were looking around, searching faces in the hope of identifying the officer in question, while those sitting close to Thorne glared openly at him, having clearly decided that he was the most likely suspect.
Thorne raised his hands in mock surrender.
Got me.
‘Detective Inspector Thorne is here tonight to ask for our help,’ Bannerjee said. ‘I know that much of your anger this evening is understandably directed at the police, but this is something altogether different. This is something very urgent, so I’m asking you…’ he nodded towards Mansoor and Dhillon, ‘we are all asking you to hear him out.’ Clearly well aware of exactly where Thorne was sitting, he looked across and beckoned him forward. ‘Please…’
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