by Helen Black
‘You are going to get your head mashed,’ Raffy shouted.
The guard dragged the skinhead out of the room and Raffy slumped back into his chair.
‘Fucking pussy.’
Lilly sighed. ‘My advice is to keep well out of any racial stuff.’
‘Did I ask for your advice?’
‘Nope, but I’m paid to give it,’ she said. ‘When it kicks off in here it’s not safe.’
Raffy shrugged. ‘Me and my brothers are perfectly safe.’
‘When are you going to get it into your head that Lilly is trying to help you?’ Taslima’s words were quiet but clear.
‘I don’t need no help from a kafir,’ he said.
‘Do you put your trust in Allah?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, how do you know he hasn’t sent Lilly to help?’
Raffy sneered at his lawyer. ‘Allah has sent me a white woman?’
‘Allah intended that women are equal to men,’ said Taslima.
‘I don’t have a problem with women,’ said Raffy. ‘My sisters are the sword of the Prophet.’
Taslima cocked her thumb at Lilly. ‘Then show this sister some respect. Unless you and your brethren are enjoying yourselves so much you don’t want to get out.’
Raffy’s shoulders slumped. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine,’ said Taslima.
Lilly nodded. ‘Fine.’
‘Let’s start again,’ said Lilly. ‘Are you a member of the Purity Task Force?’
‘I’ve never even heard of them,’ said Raffy.
Aasha feels sick. She’s slept on and off throughout the day but now she feels as though her stomach is pushing up into her mouth. She needs something to eat and drags herself to the kitchen.
Imran looks up from his iphone. ‘You look like shit.’
She ignores him and opens the fridge, searching for something bland and starchy. She pulls out a bowl of cold rice from the bottom shelf, punctures the cling film with a spoon and shovels it into her mouth.
Imran scowls. ‘Gross.’
She doesn’t even look up at him but takes both the bowl and the spoon and heads back to her bedroom.
‘I need to use your laptop,’ he calls after her.
‘No,’ she says over her shoulder.
‘What did you say to me?’
Aasha walks away.
Back in her own space, she takes a gulp from the mug of tea that has sat by her bedside all day, then propels another mouthful of rice down her throat. She gags a little but manages to keep it down. She takes another swig of cold tea and makes a decision: she won’t sit around any longer feeling sorry for herself. She’ll go over to see him and ask him outright what it is exactly that she has done wrong.
She’s in the middle of pulling on her trainers when there’s a knock at her door. Imran opens it before Aasha can answer.
She carries on tying her laces. ‘What do you want?’
‘You are acting very weird.’
He’s right, she is acting weird. Well, not weird exactly, but definitely out of character. He’s used to her bowing and scraping to him, just like Mum, but not any more.
She stands up and smooths her shirt down over her hips. It could do with an iron but she doesn’t much care how she looks.
‘I thought you were ill,’ says Imran.
‘I am,’ she replies, and grabs her jacket.
‘Mum’s not going to like your attitude,’ he says.
‘Mum’s not here.’
He blocks the doorway. ‘I don’t like it either.’
She doesn’t answer, but pushes past him. At first he resists and for a moment she wonders if he will physically stop her from leaving. They tussle for a few seconds but he soon relaxes and lets her past.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to,’ he says, ‘but you’re bringing a whole heap of shit down on your head.’
She does up the buttons on her jacket and slams the door behind her.
Aasha knows from Lailla that Ryan lives in a bad part of town but she’s still shocked. Bury Park isn’t exactly Hollywood but the Clayhill Estate is horrible. There are smashed bottles and dog turds everywhere. The Spar is already closed even though it’s only seven. Its iron grille has been pulled down and locked.
Imagine living here. Poor Ryan, no wonder he’s a bit loony sometimes.
She strides to his door with her chin in the air but when she finally gets there she panics. What does she think she’s doing? What on earth is she going to say?
She thinks she might just slink back home, forget all about it. But then what? She can never go back to who she was before all this started. Ryan has changed her—whether he meant to or not.
She knocks gingerly at the door, hoping no one’s at home, but if she’s honest she can hear the TV blaring inside. She knocks again.
A figure comes to the door. It could be Ryan. What can she possibly say to him that won’t make her sound totally lame? She doesn’t want him to think she’s some mad stalker but how else can she explain why she’s standing on his doorstep?
She flicks a glance over her shoulder. If she runs away now, would she get to the walkway before he had a chance to see it was her? Maybe. But Ryan’s just the sort to get pissed off by that and chase her. If he caught her she’d look even more stupid.
Perhaps she should act all angry with him? She could tell him that she’s vexed, ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing messing her around. If he didn’t want to be with her any more than why not just say so? It’s not like they’re kids or anything. Can he not just grow up or whatever?
She’s seen Lailla giving Sonny a complete mouthful when he hasn’t been able to pick her up from school or cancelled her at the last minute.
‘If you’re bored with me, Sonny, then just let me know,’ she tells him, ‘’cos I can easily hook up with another boy who might enjoy my company. You get me?’
Then she hangs up on him and refuses to take his calls until he comes running, usually with a box of chocolates or a CD for her.
Aasha puts her hands on her hips and prepares to cuss Ryan out.
When the door swings open and it’s a woman, Aasha’s lost for words.
The woman is beyond thin and is wearing an ancient Comic Relief T-shirt, which seems a bit odd because she’s not even smiling.
‘Yes?’ the woman whispers.
Aasha opens and shuts her mouth, slides her hands to her sides. ‘Is Ryan there?’
The woman’s hands shoot up to her mouth and she presses her lips shut. Aasha sometimes does that when she wants to scream at her brothers but she knows she can’t.
They stand like that for a minute, Aasha rocking uncomfortably, the woman shaking, her mouth sealed.
At last Aasha feels compelled to speak. ‘Is he out?’
Relief floods the woman’s eyes and she nods.
‘OK,’ Aasha stutters, and heads away. When she hears the door close she sprints to the walkway and takes the stairs two at a time.
‘Make us a cuppa.’
Lilly plonked heavily onto the sofa next to Sam. She had changed into some of Jack’s old pyjamas but the bottom three buttons didn’t reach and her bump poked out like a football.
‘You are so fat,’ said Sam.
‘And you are Prince Charming.’
Sam rolled his eyes but headed to the kitchen and began clattering for tea bags. Lilly padded after him.
‘Where’s Jack?’ asked Sam.
Lilly shrugged. ‘Working, I expect.’
‘He’s pissed with you for taking on that case.’
‘Don’t swear,’ said Lilly, ‘or if you must, don’t use American slang.’
Sam pulled a face and poured boiling water into a mug. It amazed her how that tiny boy who couldn’t sleep through the night without SuperTed was now so capable. Time had passed too quickly.
‘I love you,’ she said.
Sam pulled another unreadable face.
‘Anyway,’ said
Lilly, ‘Jack’s fine with me working.’
‘That’s a lie and we both know it,’ Sam sighed. ‘But he’s going to have to suck it up, like everyone else.’
Sam reached into a cupboard for the biscuit tin. Lord, he didn’t even need the chair.
‘Is there anything you want to talk to me about?’ Lilly asked.
‘Don’t start, Mum.’
‘I’m not starting,’ she said. ‘I just want to know if there’s anything or anyone on your mind.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, unconvincingly.
Lilly was annoyed with herself that she’d let the day run away with her and hadn’t made the call to Manor Park. She’d do it first thing tomorrow.
‘So is your client guilty?’ he asked, cramming a Hobnob into his mouth.
‘That is the million-dollar question.’ Lilly took a handful. ‘My assistant doesn’t think so.’
Sam spat out a mouthful of oats and chocolate chips. ‘Since when do you have an assistant?’
‘Since Taslima talked me into hiring her,’ Lilly smiled.
‘Taslima?’ Sam rolled the name around his tongue. ‘Weird.’
Lilly thought about the young woman with her black outfits and her earnest expression.
‘Weird she’s not.’
Then she remembered her smile and her quiet dignity, the way she had taken Raffy to task.
‘She’s different.’
‘Well, you two should get along then,’ said Sam.
Lilly laughed. Their companionable chat reminded her just how much she enjoyed Sam’s company. He might be growing up fast, but he was still the same little boy underneath.
‘Actually, we do get along.’
Sam reached for another biscuit, dunked it in Lilly’s tea and brought it to his lips. Lilly was about to comment when a light flashed across the kitchen window.
Her heart hammered in her chest. ‘What was that?’
Sam shrugged. ‘What was what?’
Lilly pulled herself up and peered out of the window. In the gloom she could only just make out where the garden ended and the field beyond began.
There it was again. Definitely a light.
‘Someone’s out there with a torch,’ she stammered.
‘Chill out, Mum.’ Sam joined her at the window. ‘It’ll be the farmer walking his dog.’
Lilly craned her neck, her pulse still racing.
‘You’re right,’ she smiled weakly. ‘Since the fire I’m getting paranoid.’
Mark Cormack jumped back in his Ford Mondeo and reached for a packet of Benson & Hedges. He thumbed the packet lovingly. He was trying to quit but couldn’t resist.
He plugged a fag into his mouth and sparked it up, exhaling a long stream of smoke out of his nose.
He checked his brief and scribbled a note. He hadn’t liked this job from the off.
He avoided Pakis whenever he could: they were bad payers, always arguing the toss. Arabs were the same. What did they think? That he was running a charity?
As soon as this pair showed up in his tatty offices he’d demanded five hundred quid up front, expecting they’d haggle like old women at a market stall. But they’d paid on the nose. And in cash.
Now he’d found who they were looking for, and he didn’t feel great about himself and the trouble it would cause when he passed on her details.
But beggars couldn’t afford to be choosers. He was the wrong side of fifty, divorced and had a passion for the gee-gees. He dealt in information. What other folk did with it was down to them.
Chapter Five
October 2007
‘Tahira Begum is getting married.’
Yasmeen and I are in the New Muslim Book and Gift Shop on Crompton Street. She’s rifling through a pile of bonnet caps when she tells me about Tahira.
‘She must be very happy,’ I say.
Yasmeen seesaws her hand. ‘She wanted to go to college and make something of her life.’
‘Service to the family is service to Allah,’ I say.
She picks out an ivory-coloured bonnet cap and matching hijab in the Egyptian style. The colour will suit her skin.
‘I just hope her husband is good to her,’ she says.
‘En sh’Allah,’ I reply.
She tries on the headwear, first tucking her thick hair into the tight cap, then laying the hijab on top and tucking it under her chin. She checks her appearance in the small hand mirror provided.
‘Good?’
I cock my head to one side. She knows I prefer my sisters to wear black. The Koran is very clear about how women should not seek to draw attention to themselves, something all Muslim women would do well to keep in mind.
Yasmeen sticks out her tongue.
I wander over to the books and pull out a favourite. One True Religion.
‘Haven’t you read that?’ asks Yasmeen, the hijab draped over her arm.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I thought I might get a copy for you.’
She rolls her eyes at me.
‘Don’t you want to expand your mind?’ I ask.
‘And end up like you?’ she laughs. ‘No, thanks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not exactly a barrel of laughs any more, are you?’ she says. ‘You’re either at the mosque or you’ve got your nose squashed in one of your books.’
‘I take my duty to Islam seriously.’
‘So do I,’ she replies.
I shake my head. ‘You don’t have any interest in your brothers and sisters around the world.’
‘Yes I do.’
‘OK then,’ I say, ‘tell me what’s happening in Gaza right now.’
‘Like duh.’ She rolls her eyes again. ‘The Israelis have set up a blockade.’
‘And what does that actually mean, Yasmeen? What is actually happening to Palestinians as we speak?’
She sighs. ‘Well, I don’t know all the details, do I?’
I turn back to the books.
She nudges me with her elbow. ‘So what is happening? You know, right now.’
‘Innocent men, women and children are dying. They have no food, no water, no electricity. The hospitals have run out of medical supplies and the schools have had to close.’
‘Is that what you talk about at those meetings you go to?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘and the plight of Muslims all over the world.’
We make our way to the till and she hands over the money for her hijab.
‘You should come along,’ I say.
‘Maybe I will.’
The keys rattled in the lock as Lilly opened the office. When she stepped into the reception she couldn’t contain a smile. The transformation was unbelievable. In a few short days Taslima had cleared away the files, boxes and post so that the area now looked clean and efficient. She’d even worked her magic on the dying plant, which was now shooting fresh green leaves.
Lilly smiled and walked through to her own room where the photograph of Sam had been dusted and a Twix had been placed on her desk.
Her new assistant was a wonder.
In an attempt not to scoff the chocolate she tossed it in her drawer—she’d had two croissants for breakfast and didn’t need the calories. Eating for two was one thing, but Lilly found herself scoffing enough food for five.
She picked up the phone and called Manor Park, determined to find out what exactly was troubling Sam.
The sound of Mrs Baraclough’s voice made Lilly cringe. The mono-browed secretary of the head teacher was notoriously difficult. The other mums called her the Gatekeeper.
‘It’s Miss Valentine,’ said Lilly. ‘I’d like a word with Mr Latimer.’
The tone she used was ridiculously breezy. It didn’t fool the Gatekeeper.
‘He’s in a meeting.’
‘What time will he finish?’ Lilly asked.
‘I couldn’t say. He’s very busy all day.’
Lilly bit her tongue before she was tempted to mention the fifteen grand a year s
he handed over in school fees.
‘Perhaps you could call back tomorrow.’ Mrs Baraclough’s voice made it clear this was an order, not a suggestion.
Under normal circumstances Lilly would have capitulated, but guilt at having already wasted time galvanised her.
‘I really do need to speak to him today.’
‘As I say, he’s very busy,’ Mrs Baraclough snapped. ‘It’s a full-time job running a school, you know.’
A full time job? thought Lilly. Well, bully for him. Didn’t every normal person have a full-time job?
‘He can’t be busy all day,’ she tried to argue.
‘He is.’
‘Not every second of every minute of every hour,’ said Lilly.
Mrs Baraclough was, for the first time, speechless.
‘He must stop for lunch, or at the very least a cup of tea,’ Lilly continued. ‘And even he needs to use the loo.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Granted.’ Lilly was on a roll. ‘Just get him to call me.’
She hung up, feeling unstoppable, and pulled out a legal pad. Full-time job? The man didn’t know he was born.
She made two columns. The first set out all the evidence that pointed to the fact that Raffy had murdered his sister.
His fingerprints were found on the can.
A box of OxyContin was found in his locker.
He spoke to Yasmeen on the day she died.
He refuses to explain himself to the police, the court or even me.
He would have been furious to discover his sister was in a sexual relationship—a motive.
She sighed. Things were starting to stack up pretty high.
Chewing the end of the biro, she tried to fill the second column: evidence that pointed to Raffy’s innocence.
1. He said he didn’t do it.
Not much to go on.
She reached into the drawer and retrieved the chocolate bar. She would eat just the one stick and save the other for later.
‘Hello, Boss.’ Taslima stuck her head round the door. ‘You’re in early.’
Lilly looked up. ‘I wanted to make a start on building our defence.’
‘And?’
Lilly pointed to the near-empty second column. ‘Not what I’d call watertight.’