The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  THE STORY OF US

  BARBARA ELSBORG

  COPYRIGHT

  The Story of Us is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Barbara Elsborg

  Cover design by B4Jay

  Edited by Deco

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or transmitted in any manner without written permission from Barbara Elsborg, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For all enquiries please contact Barbara Elsborg at bjelsborg@gmail.com

  Image/art disclaimer : Licenced material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licenced material is a model.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Rita, Katerina, HL, Ali, Dawn, Laurie and Claire for all the advice and encouragement I received while writing this book. I should thank Google too! There was a lot to check when covering a period of ten years!

  The Story of Us is a new adult contemporary romance. It deals with family and social issues, physical violence and cruelty to children, sexual situations but not sexual abuse, and has dark elements and suspense. The events and locations are a mixture of real and fictional. The characters are fictional.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  THE STORY OF US

  Two boys. One love. Ten summers.

  Are you okay?

  The first words Zed says to Caspian, and the first time someone has cared about the answer. On a hot summer’s day, the lives of two boys are changed forever. A rebel and a risk taker, Caspian doesn’t give a damn for the consequences. Studious and obedient, Zed is the good boy who is never good enough.

  The two couldn’t be more different, but there’s one thing they share, a need to belong to someone who understands them, someone who cares. Their friendship goes deeper than either can possibly imagine. They’re young, in love, and planning their future when an act of betrayal tears them apart.

  Fate deals its hand. Seasons pass. Zed’s words follow Caspian through pain, fear and into the darkest of places. Friendships can last a lifetime, even when the world conspires to crush them. But this is more than friendship. This is love and they’re not going to let it slip through their fingers.

  The Story of Us is a tale of love and survival, and the triumph of good over evil against the odds.

  SUMMER ONE

  Chapter One

  2010

  Zed handed over his school report, then fidgeted as his father read it.

  “Stand still, boy.”

  He curled his toes inside his shoes. Would he ever be something more than boy to his father? Their family name was Zadeh—hence his nickname Zed, though his father never called him that. Nor did he use Zed’s proper name, and although it was a mouthful, Zed doubted that was the explanation for his father’s reluctance.

  Does he dislike me that much?

  Zed’s name was Hvarechaeshman, which meant having eyes like the sun, but who had yellow eyes? His were blue which was unusual for someone who was half Iranian. Instead of inheriting his father’s brown eyes, Zed had his mother’s blue ones, though the rim of brown around the blue was probably from his father. His mother had chosen his name and she’d used it, calling him Hari for short. No one else ever had. He’d never wanted anyone to call him Hari after she died.

  “Forty-three percent in religious studies?” his father bellowed. “Did you make no effort at all?”

  He’d not been well that day due to his father having beaten him the night before, but it was pointless offering any excuses.

  “Hardly better in history.” His father shook the report in Zed’s face. “Needs to learn to answer the question.”

  Seventy percent and he’d come fourth. One question he’d slipped up on, misunderstanding the meaning of aberration. His teacher pointed out he’d explained the word in class only a week before but hadn’t remembered Zed had been absent that day. Zed had bunked off school because of the bruises on his arms which would have been seen when he changed for football. Zed wondered if his father would make any comment about his attendance record, wondered what to say if he did. It’s your fault. Yeah, well he could imagine how that would go down.

  His father picked fault with everything, ignoring all the praise and concentrating on the negatives, though Zed was hoping his music teacher’s comments would be passed over. Talented. Confidence beyond his years when performing. Hard-working. A pleasure to teach. He’d come top of the class, but this was the final year he could study music. Not just because it was haram, forbidden in Islam according to some, but also because his father considered it a waste of time.

  Sometimes Zed felt his father was Muslim when it suited him, which made it difficult for Zed to gauge how to behave, to work out how much he could get away with. His father believed wine was haram but the verse in the Quran that forbade it only talked about drinks made with dates or grapes, so whisky was okay. Not all Muslims believed that, but Zed had seen his father drinking whisky in his study. The bottle was hidden in a cupboard which suggested he didn’t want anyone to know he drank it.

  Once, when his father had said not to disturb him because he was praying, Zed had been passing the study window and caught a glimpse of him watching naked women on his laptop. But then his older brother Tamaz did that too. Not the whisky, Zed didn’t think, but the women.

  Their mother had converted to Islam before she and his father had married, and Zed presumed they’d loved each other at some point, but once he was old enough to notice, he hadn’t seen much affection between them. Sometimes he’d thought his mother was frightened of his father. He knew the feeling.

  His father had been a Sunni Muslim in Iran, a country where almost everyone was a Shi’i Muslim. The reason his father had left. Zed had been brought up as a follower of Islam, but he didn’t believe anymore. He just pretended. There was a lot he pretended to be. Happy, when he wasn’t. Obedient when he wasn’t. Straight when he wasn’t. He didn’t want to get sent abroad or maybe killed, either of which was a possibility if his father found out he was gay.

  Two more years until he was sixteen and could leave home and not be forced to return. Two more years putting up with physical and mental hell. If he could survive that long.

  “Doesn’t always hand his homework in on time. Why not?”

  Zed bit his lip.

  “I asked you a que
stion.”

  “Sometimes I fall asleep before I’ve finished my schoolwork.” Because you’ve made me do the ironing or washing or cleaning.

  His father’s face fractured with anger. “Then set your alarm to wake early and do your homework in the morning.”

  Zed nodded.

  “Doesn’t mix well with other pupils.”

  That was true.

  “Why not?” his father snapped.

  What was the point trying to make friends when Zed would never be allowed to go to their house or go out with them? He was never permitted to go bowling, or to parties, or the cinema, or visit a theme park.

  “I work hard. They mess around.” Not a complete lie.

  His father grunted. “Is reluctant to speak out in class or volunteer.”

  Safer to stay under the radar of teachers and pupils. He was already bullied. He didn’t want to do anything to make that worse.

  “His woodwork projects rarely resemble his designs.”

  The design and technology teacher had also said that Zed tried hard, was a delight to have in his class and his ambition was admirable.

  “He is easily distracted, often by nothing more than himself.”

  Read on Zed wanted to shout. I’m good at English.

  His father glared and threw the report on his desk. “Not good enough. I’m more than disappointed.”

  Oh fuck this. Sometimes Zed had to fight back even though he knew the consequences. “It’s not a bad report. There are nice comments too. Mr Carter said I was—”

  “You have let me down.” His father’s eyes hardened into glittering pebbles. “Your brother works much harder. He will get four A grades this summer. Your marks are not acceptable. How can you expect to be an accountant?”

  I don’t want to be an accountant. He wanted to be a musician. He’d said that once to his father and would never say it again. Zed had locked up his hopes and dreams tight in his heart and maybe they’d have to stay there forever, but at least they were his and no one would make fun of him or deride him or condemn him for them.

  His music teacher had been shocked Zed wouldn’t be taking a GCSE in music, and he’d asked Zed to try and persuade his father. The idea of persuading his father to do anything might have made Zed smile but disappointment swamped any chance of that. He picked his battles carefully and one over music was doomed to fail. Most of his battles failed. The war would only be won when he left home.

  “You’re lazy.”

  I am not! “I came seventh in the class.”

  “To be first is better.”

  Zed bristled. He took a deep breath and looked his father in the face. “I’m not lazy. That’s not fair. Seventh is good.”

  “Do not dare to argue with me.”

  Zed gulped when he caught the deepening anger in his father’s gaze, the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. “I did my best.”

  “Not good enough.”

  His brother popped his head around the door. “Dinner’s ready. Time to get cleaned up.”

  Zed waited for his father to let him go. When he nodded, Zed fled.

  Since his mother had died three years ago, the three of them took it in turns to cook, though much of what they ate was from the freezer, bulk-bought from an Asian supermarket, defrosted overnight and stuck in the oven the following evening. Only if his father was working late could Zed eat what he liked. Tamaz sometimes drove to get fish and chips. Zed’s mouth watered at the thought of hot chips smothered in salt and vinegar.

  But last week, Tamaz had moved out. He’d gone to live in a student house in Canterbury and had only come back today to pick up more of his things. He’d landed a summer job taking tourists for trips on the River Stour, and in September, he’d be studying biochemistry at Canterbury University. Zed was going to miss him. He had the feeling Tamaz wouldn’t come home much, which would leave Zed doing even more around the house, more cleaning, more washing and ironing, more gardening and preparing more meals, including food his father liked but he didn’t.

  Tamaz had made a cucumber, pomegranate and tomato salad that Zed loved, but the other dish on the table was zaban with carrots and potatoes. Beef tongue.

  “Sorry,” Tamaz whispered. “Dad wanted it tonight.”

  Last time Zed had tried to eat zaban, he’d thrown up. His stomach was already churning at the smell of it. He didn’t much like meat although he wasn’t vegetarian. But he particularly didn’t like anything that looked like the original animal, nor anything with a name like tongue or cheek or heart, and he had a pathological hatred of eating anything on a bone.

  Once the bowls of food were on the table and they were seated, his father’s and brother’s lips moved in silent prayer. The du’a was a way of feeling a connection to God at any time of the day and because it could be done silently, it was one of the easier things Zed could pretend to do. If he was ever challenged over anything, he claimed to be talking privately to Allah.

  Though that didn’t always work.

  “So…last day of school,” Tamaz said.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do for the next six weeks?” his brother asked. “Apart from redecorating the living room and my bedroom?”

  Zed looked at him in shock. “What?”

  “Joking. There’d be more paint on the carpet than the walls. Hey, maybe you could move into my room. It’s bigger and—”

  “He can stay where he is,” his father said. “You’ll be coming home sometimes. You should keep your room.”

  Tamaz shrugged. “It was just a thought. So what are your plans for the holidays?”

  Zed opened his mouth but his father spoke first. “His school report was terrible.”

  “It wasn’t,” Zed whispered.

  His father reached out and smacked the back of his head so hard it brought tears to Zed’s eyes. He screwed his hands into fists wondering if he’d ever dare hit him back.

  Tamaz kicked him under the table, warning him to be careful. “What did you come in the class?”

  That question wasn’t going to help. “They didn’t tell us, but a couple of boys worked it out. I was seventh.”

  Tamaz turned to their father. “That’s good, particularly when he’s not yet doing subjects he’s chosen.”

  “He was only seventh because he did well in subjects that are irrelevant and have no use.”

  “Such as?” Tamaz asked.

  “Music.” His father spat the word out as if it didn’t deserve to be said.

  “He’s still young,” Tamaz said.

  “He only came third in maths!”

  Four percent had separated him from first place and Zed still thought he was right and the teacher wrong about one of the answers which would have given him extra marks and put him equal first. He helped himself to more salad because he wasn’t going to be eating any tongue if he could possibly avoid it. He just had to put up with his father’s sharp tongue instead. He started to smile, then looked at his plate and gulped. How am I going to eat this?

  “I’ve ordered workbooks for you to do this summer,” his father said. “You can get ahead of the class.”

  Zed chewed the inside of his cheeks. He needed a rest, not more schoolwork.

  “There’s a place in Canterbury running a course over the holiday for Muslim teenagers,” Tamaz said. “I’ll look into whether they have a space.”

  What? No! “I don’t want to go on a course. I’ll be too busy with the workbooks.”

  His father patted Tamaz on the shoulder. “You’re a kind brother.”

  Sometimes. Zed kept his mouth shut and his gaze down. The one good thing about moving to this small village four years ago had been that it was no longer possible to go to the London madrasa he and Tamaz had attended each day after school. His father still went to the mosque every Friday but Zed and Tamaz were only able to go in the school holidays. Though Tamaz had been going a lot since he’d finished his A levels. But Zed wondered if he was actually going or doing someth
ing else.

  “Say thank you,” his father snapped.

  “Thank you,” Zed mumbled.

  His father spooned more zaban onto Zed’s plate and passed the dish to Tamaz.

  Oh God, I can’t eat it. One sniff and he gagged.

  “It only runs a couple of days a week.” Tamaz helped himself to the zaban. “If I can get you in, you can stay with me overnight and I’ll bring you back the next day.”

  Zed slumped, then reared back when it brought him closer to his plate.

  Tamaz laughed. “Don’t look as if you’re being sent to work in a sewer.”

  Zed would rather have worked in a sewer and done the workbooks.

  He did his best with the food, tried to bring a piece of the meat to his mouth and failed.

  By the time his father and Tamaz had finished eating, it looked as though Zed hadn’t started.

  “Oh Allah! Bless the food You have provided us and save us from the punishment of the hellfire. Bismillah.” His father smiled at Tamaz. “It was delicious. Thank you.”

  Zed tried one more time and heaved before the zaban met his lips.

  “What was that noise?” His father’s smile had vanished. “Clear your plate.”

  “I can’t eat it.” Zed’s heart pounded, and he kept his gaze fixed on his lap as his father pushed to his feet.

  “Eat it.” His father loomed over him like a big black crow.

  Don’t bring up the starving people who’d love to be fortunate enough to be able to refuse perfectly good food.

  “You ungrateful, selfish boy,” his father hissed. “There are people around the world who are starving and—”

  “I can’t eat it.”

  Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. If he continued to refuse, he’d be beaten. If he ate it—which would be a miracle—he’d vomit and he’d be beaten for vomiting. He thought he might as well choose not to eat.

  His father smacked the side of Zed’s head again, made his ears ring and his hand fluttered to where he’d been struck.

  “This is your last chance.”