Dishonour

by Helen Black

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Taslima, her voice honey in the shadows.

  Lilly took a deep breath. Hadn’t Rupinder said she wouldn’t be able to do everything on her own?

  ‘When can you start?’ she asked.

  Taslima stabbed the button for the lift.

  There was no response. It was out of action. Again.

  She took a deep breath, picked up her heavy bag and began the six-floor ascent.

  She pinched her nose against the smell of urine in the stairwells and tried to ignore the graffiti.

  Pakis Go Home.

  Taslima shook her head. ‘I’d love to.’

  Home. Taslima tried not to think about the house where she grew up on a tree-lined street in West London with a breakfast room where the sun streamed in and a study where the walls were shelved floor to ceiling with books. As a child she would sneak in to sit at her mother’s feet while she prepared her lecture notes, the smell of all those dusty pages filling the air.

  She deliberately quickened her pace. All that was behind her. This was her home now.

  When she got to her landing the next-door neighbour was waiting for her and scowled. Whoever said Jamaicans were laid-back had never met Evelyn Roberts.

  ‘You get a job today?’

  Taslima smiled and nodded. She was about to give details but Mrs Roberts had already turned away, her ample bottom sashaying down her hall to the kitchen.

  Taslima followed her, her heart pumping as she crossed the threshold.

  The kitchen was filled with steam as an oversized pan of rice bubbled on the gas ring. Taslima’s stomach growled.

  ‘How much they going to be paying you?’ asked Mrs Roberts.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Taslima admitted.

  Mrs Roberts kissed her teeth.

  ‘It should be pretty good,’ said Taslima. ‘I’ll be working in a solicitor’s office.’

  In fact she hadn’t discussed money but Lilly Valentine had come across as a decent woman. Dizzy and disorganised, but decent.

  Mrs Roberts seemed unimpressed.

  ‘I’ll pay back everything I owe,’ said Taslima.

  Mrs Roberts didn’t answer but took a pinch of salt from a bowl and tossed it into the pan.

  Taslima could see the white rice studded with kidney beans like glossy, mahogany jewels. She smelled the air appreciatively.

  Mrs Roberts pointed an accusing finger at Taslima. ‘You look half starved.’

  ‘I didn’t get time for lunch,’ Taslima lied.

  Mrs Roberts narrowed her eyes. ‘You want some?’

  Taslima nodded. ‘Please.’

  Mrs Roberts ladled rice and peas into one Tupperware box, curried ackee into another. Taslima could almost taste the spices on her tongue. Mrs Roberts wrapped the boxes of food in a clean tea towel and handed them to Taslima.

  ‘Things are on the up, Mrs R.’ Taslima gratefully took the boxes. ‘This time they really are.’

  Aasha washes the plates without a sigh. The dahl is stuck to the edges like grey cement and she has to pick at it with the edge of her thumbnail. Her brothers have been told a thousand times to run them under the tap when they’ve finished but why should they bother?

  As soon as Aasha put her key in the door they were on her case. Why wasn’t she wearing a hijab? Why was she so late?

  Aasha could feel her heart in her chest. Had they noticed her sweaty shirt? Her dirty shoes? Her brothers seem to know everyone in Luton, perhaps the owner of the café has called them, told them what she did?

  She told them she’d been kept late at school. Described the extra maths session in detail. Even offered to show them her notes. It was a surprise how easily the lies slipped off her tongue. Her brothers soon drifted away to the television, leaving her to the dishes. They don’t care about her life as long as it doesn’t affect theirs.

  As she rinses the last plate, Aasha wonders what it would be like to be a boy. She’d be able to come and go freely without anyone checking up on her. She’d sit with Imran and Ismail, have a laugh with them. They’d have to listen to what she has to say. Notice her.

  Because they don’t do that. They don’t actually look at her. Aasha is sure that if someone asked them what colour her eyes were, they wouldn’t even know.

  Ryan knows. He says they’re beautiful.

  She checks her reflection in the back of a spoon.

  He says he likes the way they sparkle in the sun, and her long black lashes.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’

  Aasha looks from the spoon to see Imran, leaning lazily against the counter. His hands are in his back pockets, pulling his jeans down so she can see not only the elastic of his Calvin Kleins but most of his hipbone.

  Dad is always on about it. ‘Do you need to display your backside?’ he says. ‘Are you a gorilla?’ But he doesn’t actually do anything about it, does he?

  Aasha can just imagine what would happen if she went about showing her pants. She’s not even allowed hipsters or skinny jeans.

  ‘Make us a cup of tea, Ash?’ Imran says.

  ‘I have to do my homework,’ she sighs.

  ‘It’ll take you ten seconds.’

  Aasha shakes her head but is already filling the kettle. She wishes she could just tell him no. One day she will. One day soon.

  ‘Me too,’ Ismail calls from the other room.

  She makes the chai and takes refuge in her room. As she logs on to her computer she already knows that her English assignment can wait and eagerly dives into MSN.

  Within seconds a message arrives.

  Ryan says: Are you in training or wot?

  Aasha laughs and types her answer.

  Aasha says: I’ve always been fast.

  She bites her lip as she waits for his next message.

  Ryan says: Why did you run away?

  Aasha doesn’t want to admit how nervous she was in his company. The thrill of being with him made her heart beat faster than not paying for their food. But she’s not going to just tell him that, is she?

  Aasha says: I had to get home.

  Ryan says: You won’t get away from me so easily next time.

  She bites her lip so hard it hurts.

  Aasha says: Maybe I don’t want to.

  Chapter Three

  December 2005

  ‘Merry fucking Christmas.’

  A middle-aged man pushes past me to get off the bus. His breath smells of beer and cigarettes. He’s wearing felt reindeer antlers with bells that tinkle annoyingly.

  I hate this time of year. It’s cold and dark, and if you venture out of Bury Park everyone is pissed. English people have given up even pretending they’re celebrating the birth of their saviour. Christmas for them is an orgy of eating, drinking and buying plastic tat from China.

  I watch the man stagger off the bus and vomit in a shop doorway. Revulsion washes over me.

  On the back seat a group of boys are getting rowdy. Fuelled by testosterone and cheap cider, they throw chips at some of the other passengers’ heads. I scowl at the ringleader. His pasty face is liberally scattered with spots. I’d say he’s fond of glue as well as White Lightning.

  If even one chip hits me I’ll punch his ugly face. The Prophet Mohammed, praise be upon him, did not advocate violence, probably wouldn’t approve. But he didn’t live in Luton.

  I’m glad to get off in Browning Street, I can walk from here.

  A freezing wind has got up and the Christmas lights strung across the street by the council wave and shake as if desperate to be free. I remember reading about some argument over them in the local rag, whether we Muslims would be offended by them. As if we care about a few lights.

  I put my head down and walk to the mosque.

  This is not my local one where the family go for prayers, where my father’s body was taken when he died and where the imam tells me I have to be strong for my mother.

  I have to cross town to get to this one, two buses full of kuffar.

  Despite that I
still come as often as I can. I love it.

  My mother doesn’t approve.

  ‘It has a reputation,’ she says.

  She’s right.

  Tonight there is a discussion about the imminent elections in Palestine and I’ve spent all week doing research on the internet. I can’t wait to join in, to feel part of it.

  When I finally enter the great wooden door and slip off my shoes I feel a sense of calm wash over me. It is a wonderful sensation. At last, I am free.

  ‘Sexy or what?’

  Lilly thrust a bloated foot in Jack’s direction. The flesh was so engorged the ankle bone had disappeared.

  Jack didn’t look up from his breakfast.

  ‘Okaaaay,’ said Lilly, and slid two slices of bread into the toaster.

  She waited in silence for them to pop and looked out of the kitchen window. The garden had been a tangle of weeds and overgrown bushes but since Jack had moved in he’d tamed the mess, hacking back dead wood and clearing long-lost flowerbeds. Lilly could see flower heads beginning to peep through, shy of the changing season.

  She slicked butter over the golden crusts and sat down to eat.

  ‘Want some?’ She proffered her plate to Jack.

  He shook his head and sipped what he called his ‘breakfast infusion’. Hot water with a squeeze of lemon.

  The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the sound of Lilly chewing. She knew he must have heard down the nick that she was representing Raffy and that he’d be bloody furious She waited for him to bring it up.

  ‘So how long do I get?’ she asked.

  Jack pursed his brow.

  ‘The silent treatment,’ said Lilly. ‘An hour, a day, a week?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Even the worst villains get a tariff,’ she said.

  Jack put down his cup. ‘It’s not meant to be a punishment.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I just don’t have anything to say.’

  Lilly swallowed and waited. She had known Jack a long time—years before they started dating—and she had never known him short of words.

  ‘The thing is, Lilly…’

  ‘Ha!’ She gulped down the last of her food with a triumphant smile. ‘I knew you couldn’t do it.’

  Jack went to the sink and rinsed his cup.

  ‘It’s not a bloody game, woman.’

  ‘Then don’t act like a child,’ she said. ‘Whatever’s on your mind, just spit it out.’

  ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘Because you’re dying to tell me.’ She pointed a greasy finger at him. ‘You can’t help yourself.’

  Jack put his cup to drain and headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘For a run.’

  ‘Without a word?’

  ‘Like I said,’ his shoulders slumped, ‘no point.’

  The gear crunched as Lilly tried to depress the clutch. With her feet in this state, driving was a very bad idea but asking Jack for a lift to work was not an option.

  She’d known he’d be pissed about her taking on Raffy’s case but the silent treatment was unbearable. Why could men never just say whatever they were thinking and move on?

  Yes, she had said she would take it easy, but she was a solicitor, for God’s sake. Should she really turn down murder cases?

  Jack wouldn’t be happy unless she was tucked up in bed until she gave birth, everything safe and sound.

  She loved Jack very much and wanted to make a life with him, but she was starting to suspect that she couldn’t do what was necessary to keep him happy. He wanted her to give up the work with children. The work she loved. Even Sam, who seemed to lose out so often in terms of her time, had never said that.

  She’d agreed while she was pregnant to avoid the stresses and strains of certain work, and to be fair, when Anwar first walked into her office she couldn’t have guessed she’d be plunged into a murder case. But to turn her back on the Khans now just wasn’t an option. At least not for Lilly.

  Jack wanted to change her and at this moment she couldn’t bear to think what that might mean for them.

  The journey to work was a nightmare of jerking and grinding as her foot slipped off the clutch. She was relieved to arrive outside her office. From her car she waved at Taslima, who was waiting outside, today’s jewelled hijab twinkling in the sun.

  No doubt that would be something else Jack would complain about: taking on staff she could ill afford.

  When Lilly tried to apply the brake, her foot simply would not bend and she overshot her parking spot by three yards, hitting the kerb and a litter bin.

  ‘Shit.’ She yanked on the handbrake.

  Taslima ran to the car, her face full of concern.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Lilly pulled herself out, letting the car door take her weight.

  ‘Can you drive?’

  Taslima had never been to court before and excitement clenched her stomach into a knot.

  After university she’d intended to go to bar school but then she’d been introduced to Kaden by a friend. He had pursued her with an intensity that enchanted Taslima and within months they were engaged. Her mother had warned her to wait, to finish her education before marriage, but Taslima was sure she knew best. In her mind she could have it all, the handsome husband and glittering career.

  Once their vows were exchanged Kaden wanted to start a family. He begged with the same intensity he had used when they first met. Bar school could wait, he reasoned. After all, she could reapply later when they were settled.

  Taslima had been swept along with it like a good wife. She should have known better. She should have listened to her mother. She’d be qualified now, earning her own living, instead of being forced to go cap in hand to Mrs Roberts.

  But there was no point wasting time on regrets. Today was what mattered, and at least she had a job. She was moving forward. The past was exactly that, and there was no reason anyone need ever know about it. A fresh start.

  Lilly led them into the Youth Court at Luton, pointing the way through the crowds of teenagers that shouted to one another across the foyer. Groups of boys, baseball caps pulled down past their eyebrows, jostled each other with their elbows. The atmosphere, though good-natured, felt rowdy; as if it could change.

  ‘All right, miss?’ a young black boy, the hood of both his jacket and his jumper pulled tight over his cap, stood in Lilly’s way.

  ‘You working undercover, Jermaine?’ she asked.

  He formed his fingers into the shape of a gun and pretended to shoot Lilly.

  ‘I’d fall down dead, Jermaine,’ Lilly patted her bump, ‘but I don’t think I could get back up again.’

  ‘Who’s the baby’s father, miss?’

  ‘Brad Pitt.’

  ‘Good one,’ he laughed.

  ‘Never mind me, what are you doing here?’ Lilly asked. ‘Tell me you haven’t been nicked again.’

  The boy stepped back in mock horror and spoke directly to Taslima.

  ‘She’s so suspicious, ain’t she?’

  ‘Given where we are, it’s a fair question,’ Taslima said.

  He shook his head at them both. ‘Women. You always got to be so negative.’

  ‘Years of experience have worn me down,’ said Lilly, and gestured to Taslima that they should move along.

  Taslima was bowled over by Lilly’s easy rapport with the boy. She could never do that.

  ‘Client?’ she asked.

  ‘On and off.’

  ‘Not today?’

  Lilly opened a door marked ‘Crown Prosecution Service’ and ushered Taslima inside.

  ‘He’s not in court for a case today,’ she told Taslima. ‘At least I hope not.’

  ‘So why on earth is he here?’

  ‘To hang with his mates,’ Lilly said. ‘A day out.’

  Taslima assumed she was joking until the woman at the table in the middle of the room spoke up.

  ‘They treat thi
s place like a bloody youth club,’ she said.

  Not a joke then.

  The woman, who Taslima assumed was the prosecutor, sat in a sea of files.

  ‘Nice to see you, Kerry,’ said Lilly. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  Taslima had to swallow a gasp. Lilly was irreverent but surely that was a jibe too far, considering Kerry was at least fourteen stones, her thighs spreading across the plastic chair, the fat melting over the sides.

  ‘Another ten pounds,’ said Kerry.

  Ah, a diet.

  Lilly nodded to her own feet, which were almost square with water retention. ‘I think you’re giving it all to me.’

  Kerry laughed but Taslima was no stranger to animosity and could feel it hovering in the background. This woman was clearly no fan of her new boss.

  ‘So who are you here for?’ Kerry asked.

  ‘Raffique Khan,’ Lilly answered.

  Kerry laughed, but again there was no warmth in it. ‘I should have known you’d be involved in the biggest case of the year,’ she said.

  ‘I’d hardly call it that,’ said Lilly.

  Kerry got out of her chair, the flesh of her bottom making a small sucking sound as it was prised away. She walked to the window and looked outside.

  ‘Being a prosecutor in Luton is not a great job,’ she said, ‘but even I’m getting excited by an honour killing.’

  Taslima too, was excited. On the drive to court Lilly had told her about Yasmeen Khan. At first her family thought she’d committed suicide, which would have been terrible enough, then the police discovered it was murder. Taslima hadn’t been able to speak for fear of showing how inexperienced she was. A murder. It was like something on the telly. And she could imagine how the poor mother was feeling. Not only had she lost her daughter, but now her son had been accused by the police. Unspeakable.

  Lilly joined Kerry at the window. From where Taslima was standing she couldn’t see the view but she knew it would be grey.

  ‘I’m going for bail,’ said Lilly.

  Kerry frowned. ‘On a case like this?’

  ‘I can’t see any harm in making the application,’ Lilly shrugged.

  Kerry tapped the glass with her sausage fingers. ‘Lilly Valentine, you never do anything the easy way, do you?’