by Helen Black
She’d given up everything. Home and family. Was it worth it? She missed her mother so much it hurt.
‘You had no choice,’ she said to herself, and picked up her pen.
At last the howling calmed to an insistent sobbing and she began to work. She had barely read the first paragraph when there was shouting outside. What now? She went to the curtains and peeped outside.
In the car park below two youths sat on the bonnet of an ancient BMW smoking cigarettes and knocking off each other’s baseball caps. They could have been any teenagers larking about until the arrival of a skinny white girl, scuttling like a beetle towards them, confirmed what they were. Dealers. Bold as you like.
Though she had lost a lot of weight and her hair was now scraped back in an unflattering ponytail, Taslima recognised the white girl as a noisy resident of one of the ground-floor flats.
When Taslima had first moved in she’d asked Amber to stop throwing used nappies out of her window. It was a health hazard and the bins were only at the end of the walkway.
The white girl had spat at Taslima’s feet and called her a ‘rag head’.
The nappy throwing had stopped a few weeks ago.
‘The social done take them kids away,’ said Mrs Roberts. ‘And not before time.’
Taslima felt a stab of sympathy as she watched the girl grasp something from the teenage boys and totter unsteadily back to her flat. They laughed openly at her but she didn’t seem to care. Where was her self-respect? Did she hate herself so much?
Once again Taslima gave thanks that she knew how much God loved her and how much she was cherished. With that understanding everything else was easy. And if not easy, then at least bearable.
She went back to the sofa to work. As she reached for the first statement her mobile rang and she snatched it up.
Lilly held the phone in the crook of her neck as she hovered over the evidence she had spread across the kitchen table. Jack was working late so she’d been able to take the place over.
‘Hello?’ Taslima’s voice was barely above a whisper.
‘Sorry to call so late,’ said Lilly, ‘but I’ve just finished reading my stack of paperwork.’
‘I’m nearly there too.’
‘Great,’ said Lilly. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘I’m not really qualified to decide that,’ said Taslima.
‘Fair enough,’ Lilly laughed.
There was a low wail in the background.
‘Is that crying?’ asked Lilly. She could hear Taslima moving about and closing doors.
‘No.’
‘Is everything OK?’ asked Lilly.
There was a pause.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Taslima laughed. ‘It’s the baby next door.’
‘Blimey, your walls must be thin.’
‘Like paper. So did you find anything interesting?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Lilly searched for the document she’d marked with a highlighter. ‘I’ve checked through the telephone records for Yasmeen’s mobile and on the day of her death she made a lot of calls.’
‘To who?’ Taslima asked.
Lilly scanned the list. ‘Friends, her mum, her uncle, her sister, Saira, Anwar.’
‘Any to Raffy?’ asked Taslima.
‘One,’ said Lilly.
‘That’s good,’ said Taslima. ‘She wouldn’t have called him if he was at home.’
‘I see where you’re going but this was in the morning. He would still have had plenty of time to make his way over there and bring his sister a can of Coke.’
‘What was the last call she made?’ Taslima asked.
‘That’s the interesting thing. About an hour before she died she called a women’s centre in Luton. The Free Voice Collective.’
‘We’d better find out why she got in touch.’
‘You bet,’ said Lilly. ‘Which is why we’re paying them a visit first thing in the morning.’
The old man lifted his finger skyward, his voice reverberating around the school gym.
‘Make no mistake,’ he told the assembled parents and teachers, ‘the Muslims in this community will no longer nod their heads while the police and the education authority tell us how to behave.’
There was a mumbled assent.
‘We do not believe in drinking, dancing and Celebrity Big Brother,’ the old man spat out.
‘No one is saying that any Muslim should take part in those things,’ said Mara, with a tight smile, ‘but it is my responsibility to ensure that all the pupils in this school have equal opportunities.’
The old man sneered at her. ‘The opportunity to do what? Run around the town taking drugs and having sex? Excuse us if we don’t want that for our girls.’
‘Nothing I have suggested includes drugs or sex,’ Mara replied. ‘I’m simply trying to introduce a broader curriculum. Philosophy, debating, music. Nothing untoward.’
‘Muslim girls have no interest in your broader curriculum.’ The old man waved his hand dismissively. ‘Whatever free time they have should be spent with their families.’
Jack had heard enough. The smell of stale trainers—coupled with bigotry dressed up as religious belief—sickened him. He left the gym.
Throughout the seventies and eighties, every two-bit bully in Belfast had declared themselves on the side of God. Masked gunmen had fired rounds of bullets into the air at weddings and funerals. Every religious festival was hijacked by the politicians and the bombers. And he’d had a gutful of it.
Mara slipped outside into the cool night air.
‘I thought you’d deserted me.’
‘I just can’t stand your man in there pretending he’s some defender of the faith,’ said Jack.
Mara’s eyes twinkled. ‘Mohamed Aziz is the bane of my life. He doesn’t even have any children at this school.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Remember the trouble over the school play?’ said Mara. ‘He was one of the main instigators.’
Jack gave a hollow laugh. ‘Why does that not surprise me.’
The doors to the gym opened and the old man came out surrounded by younger men all patting him on the back. Clearly they approved of his rhetoric and clearly he enjoyed the attention.
‘Did you have a chance to catch up with Ryan?’ Mara asked. ‘He wasn’t at school today.’
Jack looked at her and she smiled. ‘Are you trying to change the subject?’ he asked.
Her smile turned to a laugh. ‘Am I that transparent?’
‘Ryan’s at home with his mother,’ said Jack.
‘You met them both?’ Mara sounded impressed. ‘I haven’t managed to get a single meeting with that family.’
Jack thought of the door slamming in his face. ‘Just part of my job.’
‘Well, you must be bloody good at it,’ Mara giggled. ‘Pardon my French.’
Jack couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Things are not what they seem in the Sanders household,’ he said, serious again.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Mara asked.
Jack considered for a moment. He pictured Mrs Sanders’ fear, how her hands shook, how her son had menaced her.
‘We might have to reassess exactly who it is that needs the help,’ he said.
‘Why don’t we sit down and discuss it?’ Mara checked her watch. ‘There’s still time to grab a bite to eat if you’re hungry.’
Jack had no idea how to respond.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mara, ‘I didn’t mean as in a date.’
Now he felt ridiculous. What had he been thinking? Of course she hadn’t meant a date. She cared about Ryan and just wanted to talk things through, like he had wanted to with Lilly.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mara. ‘I expect you have other plans.’
‘No plans at all,’ said Jack. ‘Dinner would be lovely.’
Chapter Four
June 2007
‘The Jews are the enemy of God and mankind.’
The visiting teacher holds his finger in the ai
r as if he is balancing this dreadful truth. I haven’t heard him speak before and have been breathless with anticipation about this meeting.
Every Islamist forum describes him as one of the most fierce politicians in the UK, and the mosque is packed with supporters who have travelled from mosques in Birmingham and Leeds. We sit, cross-legged, our feet tucked under us, our knees touching, and wait for him to continue.
‘Make no mistake that they wish to dominate not only the Middle East but the world.’ He pauses again and nods gently. ‘They worship only power and money.’
A murmur of assent passes through the crowd.
‘And who will stop them?’ He opens his arms. ‘America, Britain?’ He lets the question dance before him. ‘The West will do nothing but stand on the sidelines and smile while Israeli soldiers kill every man, woman and child in Palestine.’
He points to a young boy at the front, no more than twelve, his cap slightly askew. ‘Do you know what they will do when their tanks have flattened Gaza?’
The boy shakes his head.
‘They will turn their sights on another poor Muslim country that cannot defend itself.’
The boy’s eyes are as round as an owl’s. ‘We must stop them.’
The teacher lets a slow smile spread across his cheeks. ‘Indeed we must.’
He rubs his cheek with his right hand, the stump where his thumb should be obvious to us all. He is too modest to admit it but it is common knowledge that he lost it saving a brother in Chechnya.
‘Indeed we shall stop them,’ he says.
When he has finished and the crowd begins to disperse I sidle over to the corner where he is deep in conversation with the imam of the mosque.
‘Excuse me.’ My nerves swallow the words in my throat. I cough. ‘Excuse me, I have a question.’
The imam frowns at me and waves me away. ‘Can’t you see the teacher is tired?’
I’m about to apologise but he smiles at me.
‘The Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, bade us to answer where we can.’
The imam tuts but the teacher is still smiling so I take my chance.
‘I just wondered what you thought about the Iranian president saying Israel should be wiped off the map. Is that not haram?’
The teacher cocks his head. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘The Koran tells us we can use force to defend our Muslim brothers but we must treat our enemies with mercy.’
The imam snorts but the teacher presses a hand upon his shoulder so I can see the stump of his thumb up close, how it ends brutally above his knuckle.
‘Should not every right-thinking person ask themselves what is a sin and what is not?’ the teacher asks him. He turns to me. ‘It is an excellent point.’
I blush with satisfaction.
‘Now Hamas have won the election in Gaza you think Israel will be forced to negotiate with them?’ he asks.
I nod vehemently.
‘And if peace can be achieved we must leave Israel alone?’ he asks.
‘Perhaps,’ I say. ‘Is that not what the Koran tells us?’
The teacher is still smiling but a shadow of sadness passes across his eyes. ‘Israel will not negotiate with Hamas.’
I am shocked. ‘But they’re elected. It’s a democracy, a government.’
‘I have been to Gaza many times,’ he says, ‘and seen the great work they do building hospitals, setting up schools. These are not terrorists, as the Jews would have us believe.’
‘Then Israel will have to negotiate.’
‘No.’ The teacher’s voice is firm. ‘Instead they will bomb those hospitals and schools.’
I am incensed. ‘They couldn’t.’
‘By winter the ceasefire will be broken and Israeli rockets will murder Palestinian children in their beds.’
His words are so certain I have no reply.
‘This is why President Ahmadinejad said what he did.’ He nods with a conviction so final I am rooted to the spot. ‘Israel will not rest until every good Muslim is annihilated, and to allow them to continue, now that would be haram.’
Lilly emerged from her bed to the smell of burned bread. When she got to the kitchen a low fog of black smoke hung in the air. She gritted her teeth at the thought of her freshly glossed woodwork.
Sam scraped the charred surface of a slice of toast into the sink, scattering charcoal crumbs across the work tops.
‘You know you have to watch that toaster,’ she said.
Like every other piece of electrical equipment in Lilly’s life, it worked against her.
‘What’s the point in a toaster you have to watch?’ he growled.
‘Well, it still miraculously transforms bread into toast,’ Lilly pointed out.
Sam scowled at her. ‘The other day you were moaning at me to eat breakfast. Now I’m doing it and you’re still moaning.’
Lilly bit back a retort. Sam was right. She was having a go and he was only trying to help. Not unlike Jack.
She reached into the breadbin and pulled out two fresh slices of wholemeal.
‘I am glad you’re eating,’ she said as she slid them into the toaster. ‘So let’s start again, shall we?’
‘Breakfast, or this conversation?’
‘Both.’
‘What did you do to your face?’ he asked.
Lilly’s hand flew to her cheek. The swelling had gone down but a violent purple bruise had formed during the night. She’d attempted a camouflage job with the lacklustre contents of her make-up bag, but evidently to no avail.
‘Accident,’ she said, and popped up his toast.
‘Jack’s not gonna be happy,’ said Sam.
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘You are a terrible role model.’ Sam waved his knife at her.
Lilly passed him the butter and jam, and watched him slowly chew.
‘Penny will be here in five minutes,’ she said.
Penny collected Sam and took him to school each morning. She’d offered when Lilly had been bogged down in another difficult murder case and the routine had stuck.
‘I feel a bit sick,’ said Sam.
Lilly cocked her head to one side. He looked perfectly fine.
‘Can I stay at home?’ he wheedled.
Lilly paused. Sam was no skiver but there was clearly nothing wrong with him. She touched his forhead to be sure and his skin was perfectly cool.
‘Go in this morning,’ she said, ‘and get Matron to call me if you get any worse.’
He was about to argue when they heard the telltale sound of Jack’s key in the door, followed by the thump of his trainers on the hall floorboards. He was back from his morning run.
‘Here we go,’ said Sam. ‘Prepare to take cover.’
‘Morning,’ said Jack, and padded into the kitchen.
Lilly kept her back to him and busied herself making tea. She knew she was merely putting off the inevitable.
At last she turned to face him. ‘Morning.’
Jack reached out to touch her face. ‘What on earth?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she shrugged. ‘A bit of a bump.’
Jack sighed and dropped into a chair.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ said Lilly.
‘Is the baby OK?’
‘He’s absolutely fine.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked. ‘Or were you hoping I wouldn’t notice?’
That was of course what she had hoped.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘You were working late last night so I didn’t get a chance.’
Jack looked down and reddened. Only Jack could feel bad about working while his girlfriend was pregnant. He was ludicrously over-protective and it was driving her potty, but his heart, as always, was in the right place.
She came close behind him and nuzzled the top of his head, tasting the salt lick of his sweat.
‘A woman can’t help it if her fella stays out till all hours,’ she teased. ‘What’s sh
e supposed to do? Stay up to give him all her news?’
His face fell. ‘I’m so sorry, Lilly.’
She slid around him until she was perched on his knee. ‘Now you really are being daft.’ She kissed him on each cheek and then on the mouth.
‘Bloody hell!’ Penny waltzed into the kitchen. ‘Get a room.’
Lilly looked up at her friend and Penny’s face dropped.
‘What in God’s name happened to you?’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Lilly.
‘You look like you went two rounds with Amir Khan.’
Raffy Khan, thought Lilly.
‘She shouldn’t be working,’ said Jack, his voice heavy with resignation that she would not listen to his wise words.
Lilly ushered Penny out of the kitchen before the conversation could go further. They went to stand by her car, waiting for Sam to get his school bag. The May trees were in full blossom, their boughs impossibly heavy.
‘Have you noticed anything odd about Sam?’ Lilly asked.
Penny frowned.
‘He seems very touchy and he doesn’t want to go to school,’ said Lilly.
‘I heard on the grapevine that some of the older boys had been picking on some of the younger ones,’ said Penny.
‘Bullying?’
Penny nodded.
‘Should I call the Head?’ Lilly asked.
She was no helicopter parent and hated the way some of his classmates were fussed over like bone china, but she would not stand for bullying.
For all the right reasons, Lilly’s mother, Elsa, had insisted she attend a Catholic girls’ school, two bus rides away from the sink estate where they lived. For all its supposed Christian ethos the pupils had taken great pleasure in deriding Lilly’s clothes and accent. The parents were worse. In seven years Lilly had not received one invite to tea, as if poverty were a contagious disease.
Penny put her hand on Lilly’s shoulder. ‘I think you need to get to the bottom of it.’
Aasha has been crying all night, hiding her sobs under her pillow.
She hasn’t felt this sad since her Grandpa died and even that wasn’t this awful because he was, like, eighty and hadn’t been able to get out of bed to go to the toilet.
She knows she’s being silly. Ryan and she have spent hardly any time together. And yet she feels as if he is the only person in the world who listens to what she has to say. He likes her for herself, not whatever he thinks she should be, like her parents, her brothers or her teachers do.