The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  Caspian’s chest ached. He couldn’t believe Lachlan had done that.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Yeah, you were.” That was the most terrible thing. Lachlan had known exactly what he was doing. “What did Father say?”

  “That what’s done is done. Told me to go upstairs, shower, put my clothes in the washing machine, hide my shoes in the woodpile. Take two of Mum’s sleeping tablets and go to bed. Try not to be seen. He said he’d report you’d taken the car without permission.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Caspian closed his eyes. What the fuck am I going to do?

  Caspian wasn’t surprised by the speed with which his father brought a lawyer to the hospital to talk to him. Except Caspian wasn’t talking. He listened to Robert Appleby, a tall thin guy with a prominent Adam’s apple, explain everything. Caspian would be charged with causing death by dangerous driving, driving without a licence and insurance, taking a car without the owner’s consent, and Caspian said nothing. His father didn’t know but Caspian had taken his test while he was at school in Scotland. He’d passed first time. He’d been going to surprise everyone to distract them from his inevitably poor CGSE results.

  His father patted his shoulder and Caspian turned away.

  “Are you going to speak?” his father asked.

  Caspian didn’t respond.

  “I suppose it shows he’s in shock,” his father said.

  Appleby sighed. “He’d be better to show remorse.”

  “He’s sorry. Aren’t you, Caspian?” his father asked.

  Caspian wished he was deaf.

  Then the police came in, their faces hard. He could see what they thought of him in their eyes and how could he blame them? As they outlined what had happened, tears rolled down Caspian’s cheeks. The girls were eleven years old, about to go to secondary school. The one under the car had died instantly—decapitated by the impact. The daughter of a policeman. Fuck. One died on the way to hospital. She’d lost a leg. The other died in surgery without regaining consciousness. The lawyer had objected when the police described their injuries, but Caspian wanted to know.

  Tears continued to roll down his cheeks. They were dead and he was still alive. He didn’t think he could speak even if he’d wanted to.

  “He’s in shock,” the lawyer said. “These questions have to wait.”

  There would never be any answers. Caspian wasn’t going to speak, ever again. Let them say what they wanted, he’d admit nothing.

  But he’d also deny nothing. Three girls were dead. His brother’s life would be saved and Caspian’s was over.

  That night, he pulled all the tubes from his arms, tried to get out of bed and fell. He had time to register relief that the world was fading before he lost consciousness.

  Fahid wrapped his arm around Zed and hugged him. “Little brother. You play like an angel.”

  Zed tried to pull away and Fahid tightened his hold. “Let me take you to my home. You can sleep. When you wake, have breakfast, then decide what you want to do.”

  It was three in the morning and Zed was exhausted. Easier to start a new life at the beginning of the day, but he didn’t like Fahid.

  “Tamaz begged me to look after you.” Fahid held him by the shoulders, frowning as Zed winced. He let him go, then reached to touch the mark on Zed’s face. “Did your father take a belt to you?”

  Zed nodded.

  “There is no excuse for striking a child in this way. Islam teaches us to be gentle with our children. Prophet Muhammad—peace be upon Him—advises us to fight our emotions and hold back our anger. Your father is failing in his duty as a parent and as a Muslim. Come, stay with me for a while. Find your feet. London is not a place to be alone.”

  Zed wished he could say no, but to turn down help when he stood at the foot of a vertical cliff with a wild sea behind him would be stupid. He was so tired, so disappointed Caspian wasn’t with him. He followed Fahid out of the station and accepted the coffee Fahid went to buy him. He had no concern that Fahid would chain him up or hit him, but he was worried he’d be challenged about Islam. This was not a man Zed wanted to tell that he was gay and that he no longer had a religion.

  Fahid drove him to Islington and Zed dozed on the way. By the time Fahid had shown him to the room he’d slept in before, with the bathroom next door, Zed could hardly keep his eyes open. It might not be what he’d hoped for, but it was better than sleeping in a shop doorway or on a park bench. He washed, cleaned his teeth, undressed, crawled into bed in his boxers and fell asleep longing for Caspian.

  When Zed came out of his room the next morning, showered and dressed, with his bag packed, he bumped into a guy emerging from a room opposite. Zed had the impression Wasim had timed his exit to intercept him.

  “Al-salaamu ‘alaikum wa rahmat-Allaah wa barakaatuhu.” Wasim smiled.

  Oh shit. “Sabaah al-khayral…salaamu alaikum.” Zed hoped he had the greeting right. Some Arabic had stuck.

  He glanced at Zed’s bag. “Leaving already? Come and have breakfast first.”

  Wasim took the bag from Zed’s hand and put it back in the room. Zed was cross with himself for letting that happen but felt awkward about retrieving it when the guy was being hospitable. Plus he was hungry.

  Fahid and Parvez, the other person he’d met when he’d been here with Tamaz, were sitting in the kitchen. Fahid jumped to his feet and pulled Zed into his arms. “As-salaamu alaikum.”

  Zed repeated the greeting, trying hard not to wince or pull away.

  “A new day. A sunny day. Sit. Eat. There are plenty of cereals. You’re not the only guest with a sweet tooth.” Fahid winked at Wasim.

  Wasim laughed. “And you don’t?”

  Fahid pulled out a chair for Zed to sit down. Zed tipped Sugar Puffs into a bowl and Parvez passed him the milk.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Zed could feel the others watching him and he put his hands on his lap and dropped his head, pretending to complete a du’a, a personal supplication, before he began to eat. What am I doing? Am I so scared of upsetting them? Yeah, he was.

  “So what are your plans?” Fahid asked.

  “Go to the council, tell them I can’t go home and need somewhere to stay. Then I’ll look for a job.”

  “What sort of job do you want?” Wasim poured himself a coffee.

  Playing in an orchestra? Selling tickets for an orchestra? Working in a music shop? “I don’t mind.”

  “It’s not going to be easy. If you had your GCSEs… But Tamaz says you’re clever, that you’ll pass all of them.” Fahid stroked his beard like some cartoon villain, and Zed had the urge to laugh. He managed to rein it back and spooned Sugar Puffs into his mouth.

  “I tell you what.” Fahid beamed as if the idea had just occurred to him, though Zed suspected this had been decided earlier. “Stay here with me for a few weeks. With a stable base, you’ll be in a better position to find a job. A better position to find a place of your own when you have a job.”

  Zed opened his mouth but Fahid continued without letting him speak. “It’s my duty as a Muslim to help a Muslim brother in need. I’d be letting Tamaz down if I allowed you to walk away from a place of safety. There are many bad people in London. You can stay here as long as you like.”

  “I—”

  “Because of your age, the council will probably put you with a family and you have no idea what they’ll be like, what their beliefs will be. You’re much better off here. Or you can go and stay with Parwez and Wasim, though I think they only have a lumpy sofa bed. Parwez works part-time in a convenience store on the Holloway Road. He can ask if there’s a job for you.” Fahid smiled at Parwez, then at Zed. “We also have just two weeks to go before the start of Ramadan.”

  By which time Zed wanted to be nowhere near here. He didn’t intend to fast between dawn and sunset. Children weren’t supposed to fast until they reached puberty
but as soon as his mother had died, Zed had been made to join in with his father and brother. Though when his brother was out and his father at work, Zed had raided the pantry.

  “I would be honoured if you would spend the period of Ramadan here. It’s the perfect time to reflect on life and how we should become better people. A chance to reconnect with faith and religious practices.” Fahid beamed at him. “We will be your family.”

  “Not sure I can refrain from alcohol and sex,” Zed said and wanted the words back the moment they’d come from his mouth.

  But Fahid and Wasim roared with laughter.

  “Funny boy,” Fahid said.

  Parwez was the one who shot him a look of disgust.

  “Tamaz is going to come as soon as he can,” Fahid said. “Wasim, don’t you have a friend who works for Islington Council? Perhaps you could have a word on Zed’s behalf. See what accommodation is available.”

  “I’d be pleased to.”

  The final turn of the key. Zed got what they were doing, being too kind and considerate for him to refuse their help. He wanted to run but knowing the price of a bed and food and safety was little more than mosque attendance and religious compliance inside the house, he’d have been stupid to walk out. He could cope for a few days. It gave him chance to find out what had happened to Caspian.

  Tamaz came in time for Zuhr prayers. He hugged Zed and kissed the welt on his face.

  “No more,” he said. “He won’t touch you again.”

  They walked to the mosque together with the others a few paces ahead.

  “Did you tell him you know where I am?” Zed whispered.

  “He didn’t ask. I won’t tell him. He was pissed off about his phone, though.”

  Zed gave a short laugh. “So apart from the fact that I stole his phone and took money from his wallet, he doesn’t care about me.” He took a deep breath. “You think I might not be his son?”

  Tamaz frowned. “Why would you say that?”

  “I looked for my birth certificate before I left. Yours was there, along with his and our mother’s birth and death certificates. But mine wasn’t. I searched everywhere. Why hide it?”

  “It might not be hidden. He could have put it somewhere you hadn’t looked.”

  “But why not with the others?”

  “Maybe he needed it for something and just put it somewhere else.”

  “I thought he might not want me to see he wasn’t named as my father. He… He treated me so badly.”

  “You really think Mum would have had an affair? Dared to put another man’s name on your birth certificate?”

  Zed sagged. “No. But you were only four when I was born. You don’t know what she was like then. Braver, maybe. Or perhaps Dad insisted because he wasn’t my father. The other thing is a letter should have arrived telling me my National Insurance number, but I never saw it. I looked for that too. I can’t work without it.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be a way to have it reissued. I’ll look into it, okay?”

  “Thank you.”

  Zed coped with the mosque. He was used to going through the motions and if he was being honest with himself, the familiarity and routine were soothing. He knelt between Fahid and his brother, their shoulders touching his and for a short while he wished this was his life, that he wasn’t different, that he could conform. Muslims were kind, honest, generous people, but he was gay and that would never be accepted.

  At the end of the last cycle, Zed turned his head to his brother and said, “Assalam alaykum wa rahmatullah.” Peace and God’s Mercy be on you. Then said the same to Fahid.

  Zed coped less well with the discussion in the café that followed prayers. He stayed quiet and listened in case he was asked a question. He thought he’d got away with his lack of involvement until Fahid tapped him on the shoulder. “Are we boring you?”

  “No. I’m tired. I’m sorry.”

  “Tiredness is a state of mind. The great warrior Muhammad Mukhtar once stayed awake for three days in order to lead his people to safety when they were under attack. He risked his life to carry supplies to a village cut off by an earthquake. He dug with his bare hands to free a trapped child. He fought in Kandahar until his bullets ran out and then he used the butt of his gun to strike his enemies. It took four to restrain him.”

  “A brave man,” Zed said because he thought he needed to say something.

  Fahid nodded. “A man we should aspire to emulate.”

  Day after day, Zed told himself to pick up his bag and leave. It seemed simple and yet it wasn’t. He was rarely left alone except in the bathroom. A succession of guys came and went. Fahid was popular. He liked talking, he could hold people’s attention, though Zed didn’t like what he was talking about. Mistreatment and misunderstanding of Muslims. Public attitude and how to deal with it. Ongoing prejudice. Muslim duty, according to the Quran, which went far beyond anything Zed understood or agreed with. Peace across the Arab world, which of course Zed wanted to see but at what cost?

  He thought he was brave when he dared to condemn terrorism, but Fahid merely smiled and told him terrorism was the wrong word. But he didn’t suggest another.

  Fahid bought him jeans, toiletries, a towel, a shalwar kameez to wear to the mosque. Wasim was waiting to hear about accommodation. There turned out to be no job with Parwez, but Fahid always had promises of another coming up soon, the next day, the one after, perhaps next week. Be patient. Thanks be to Allah. He will provide.

  Zed was extravagantly praised when he cooked meals or cleaned up. There were always guests in the house, many staying the night though he and Fahid were the only two permanently there. He was applauded when he showed any independent effort to be a good Muslim scholar. Anything he did, was done to deceive, his prayers focused on hope they didn’t guess how little interest he had, how much he despised the way he was forced to behave, how much he longed for Caspian. He’d had no chance to try and find out if he was okay. If he tried to go out, there was always something found for him to do.

  Then it was Ramadan and he and Fahid rose well before dawn to eat and drink as much water as they could because not even water was allowed once the sun was up. Nothing could pass the lips until the sun went down. Zed had never fasted so strictly before. Over the last couple of years, he should have but he’d figured his father wouldn’t find out if he had a glass of water or the odd biscuit. It didn’t help that the weather was warm. Fahid was full of praise for Zed’s abstinence but Zed was always hungry.

  Fahid had others in the house quite often. Zed had never known anyone who loved to talk so much. It wasn’t difficult to listen when the subject was history, even if it was about the glorious rise of Islam. Fahid wove tales around how in the early 600s, a religion began in Arabia and inspired by the new faith, Arabs set out on journeys east and west to conquer and convert. He seemed a different person when he spoke like a teacher. He described how Christendom had been horrified by the rise of Islam, a threat which grew in strength until the Ottomans and Mughals made mistakes and lost sight of the true faith. Fahid knew everything. Zed felt as if there was no question the man couldn’t answer.

  Though discussions of what was halal—permissible under Islam, and haram—forbidden, brought out Zed’s argumentative spirit even as he told himself to be careful. The old way of thinking—ironically Zed’s way of thinking once upon a time when he’d believed—had been that everything was permissible unless it was expressly forbidden. The new way, the extreme way, was that everything was prohibited unless there was evidence in the scriptures to the contrary. What joy did that leave in that world?

  Zed had argued for music, after all Fahid had himself said he played like an angel, but Zed now saw those words for what they were—flattery to get Zed to trust him.

  “There must be no more piano playing.” Fahid patted Zed’s shoulder. “The opinion of scholars is that all musical instruments apart from the tambourine are not permitted.”

  The fucking tambourine? Zed’s knowledg
e of the scriptures wasn’t good enough to fight his corner. He’d given a dramatically heavy sigh and nodded. “Allahu a'alam bis Sawaab.” Allah knows best. The most useful phrase he knew. He stayed quiet. He nodded and smiled and tried not to let his hands shake. There was no talk of bombs or acts of vengeance but Zed thought he was being tested. He hoped he failed but he hoped the price of failing wasn’t death.

  I need to leave. He thought it all the time. He woke up thinking it, went to bed thinking it. He thought about Caspian too. When Zed had managed to slip his leash, he’d bought paper, envelope and stamp and written to him. What happened? Are you okay? Send a letter to my brother. He wrote down Tamaz’s address and posted the letter.

  He still couldn’t quite let go of that small molecule of hope, though it was buried deep inside him. Maybe he never would let it go. Caspian’s father might not use force but there were other ways of getting your son to do what you wanted. He could have threatened Caspian to keep him compliant.

  But what threat? What would Caspian have put before me? Who? Perhaps his mother. That made sense, but Zed needed to know. He needed to understand so that he could forgive because along with that sliver of hope, sat a sharp dagger of bitterness.

  Fahid was clever. He knew just how far to push Zed, just when to pull back. Zed thought he was smarter than Fahid because he’d seen through the friendship to what it actually was, but he wasn’t smart enough to leave. When Fahid sensed he was losing Zed’s attention, he’d change focus to talk about the Olympics, in which Zed was interested, or football, in which he was not.

  “You don’t support a team?” Fahid had exclaimed in shock. “Then support my team. Manchester City.”

  Tamaz came and took Zed out to the Tower of London and the Science Museum. Zed felt as if he were being fed treats while the teaching waited in the wings ready to resume. He was old enough to realise this was in part indoctrination. He was being enticed, encouraged, flattered and dragged back to the faith. Belief was the only way for him to learn how to be a better man. Fahid didn’t see any alternative.