Dishonour

by Helen Black

  Some days he feels like going to the shops and never coming back, but then he’d be just as much of a cunt as his dad.

  Aasha thinks he should tell someone at school about his mum. She says they’ll help him and that at his age they won’t put him in care.

  ‘And if they did you’d just get the bus home.’

  She knows he’s scared but she doesn’t take the piss. Instead she says she’ll go with him, that they can talk to Mrs Blake together.

  He leans over Aasha’s face. Her skin is totally clear, no spots, not even any freckles. It’s like a mirror or one of the blank canvases he loves. Sometimes he nicks paper from school so he can draw at home. He thinks Miss Black might know but she don’t seem to care. When he puts them on the table they’re completely fresh, waiting to suck up his imagination.

  He looks at her lips and would love to kiss her, but he’s afraid to wake her and spoil this fantastic moment. It’d be like breaking some spell. He wonders if he just grazes her lips with his own, she might sleep through it.

  He hovers over her, his mouth millimetres from hers.

  When the doorbell sounds he jumps back like a kid caught stealing biscuits. Aasha stirs but doesn’t wake, so he prises away his hand as gently as he can and sprints for the door. This had better be fucking urgent.

  When he sees the copper standing there Ryan could cheerfully smack him one. Why is this man in his face again?

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks.

  ‘Nice to see you too.’

  The copper has some weird accent, like maybe he’s Scottish or something. He’s wearing some Sean John jeans and Timberlands, thinking they make him look young.

  ‘My mum ain’t in,’ says Ryan.

  ‘No worries,’ the copper says. ‘I’m looking for a girl.’

  ‘Perv.’

  The copper gives a small laugh through his nose to show he’s got a sense of humour. They all do it. They think it makes them seem friendly, or whatever. Like they’re a mate. Pathetic, really.

  ‘Her name’s Aasha Hassan,’ he says.

  Ryan feels a small shockwave in his stomach. How has he worked out she’s here?

  ‘I ain’t seen her,’ he says.

  The copper nods slowly but doesn’t take his eyes off Ryan’s face. He’s trying to work out if he’s telling the truth. Ryan doesn’t blink. He knows how to lie.

  ‘If you see her be sure to tell her to get in touch,’ the copper says.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ says Ryan, and closes the door.

  The little shit was lying, of that Jack was certain. He knew exactly where the girl was hiding. She might even be inside the flat.

  He needed to speak to the chief super and get permission to enter. There was nothing stopping him doing it off his own bat right now. He surely had reasonable suspicion. But there was no way Ryan would let him in and kicking the door off its hinges, only to discover Aasha wasn’t there, didn’t appeal. Ryan was just the type to start a case against him, say he was traumatised. Kids like that knew the law inside and out and they could smell a claim for compensation a mile away.

  No, this one would need the belt-and-braces approach with the nod from a senior officer.

  Jack looked at his watch. The chief would still be at the nick and might be prepared to deal with this over the phone. If backup came quickly they could have the girl home for supper.

  She might even drop Ryan in it, give Jack cause to nab him. Now wouldn’t that finish the day off beautifully?

  He was salivating at the thought of sticking the little shit in a cell when his mobile rang.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  Jack was pleased to hear Mara’s voice. The way things were working out with Ryan wasn’t exactly what she’d planned but Jack was sure she’d understand. They’d tried to give the kid a hand but he’d refused to take it. This mess was entirely of his own making.

  ‘I’m afraid there’ve been some developments,’ he said.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she breathed. ‘Should we meet to discuss it?’

  Jack looked at his watch again. Come to think of it, the chief super would be on his way out and wouldn’t welcome a half-cocked request. Far better if Jack went to his office in person, first thing in the morning, and set out the situation in detail.

  ‘That would be really helpful,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t I make you some supper?’ Mara suggested.

  Jack paused. Enjoying Mara’s attention was one thing, but going to her home was another. Lilly was an easygoing kind of woman but he was sure she’d draw the line at a cosy night in. And with a baby on the way shouldn’t Jack be spending all his free time trying to patch things up with Lilly, not making them worse? Then again, Lilly didn’t seem to care too much these days whatever Jack said or did. She fought him at every turn.

  ‘Jack?’

  Supper at Mara’s house was stepping over the line.

  ‘That would be grand,’ he said.

  Chapter Six

  January 2009

  ‘From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.’

  The crowd chants the same words over and over, the effect intoxicating.

  I smile at Yasmeen and we join in.

  When she asked if she could come to the demonstration I resisted. These events are small but hard core. I’m known as a radical, an uncompromising Islamist, and I don’t want my reputation spoiled by association with some giggling girl.

  We walk up Kensington High Street to the Israeli Embassy and I nod at a sister from the East London Mosque. She is pushing a buggy, the baby smiling out under his I ♥ Al-Qaeda bonnet.

  There are rumours that her husband has gone to Gaza to help with the struggle.

  ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ she says.

  I swell with pride that she has deigned to speak to me. ‘Wa alaikum assalaam, sister.’

  She moves ahead to catch up with a group of women in full burka and they unfurl a ten-foot banner declaring, ‘We are all Hezbollah.’

  I can tell Yasmeen is impressed by the way she adjusts her hijab. I smile secretly. She is learning.

  When we reach Palace Green we form a ragged crowd and a group of young men wearing long linen tunics over their jeans and trainers push to the front where they begin to pile up wooden boxes.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Yasmeen whispers.

  ‘Erecting a stand,’ I say, ‘then we’ll take it in turns to speak.’

  Yasmeen looks shocked. ‘Will you speak?’

  ‘I might.’

  In truth I stand up at most meetings I attend at the mosque but I’ve never had the courage to do it on a demo. I worry that my mind will go blank.

  When the makeshift platform is ready, one of the men climbs up. He puts a loud hailer to his mouth.

  ‘The State of Israel has turned into the new Nazis,’ he shouts.

  The crowd claps.

  Someone passes up a Palestinian flag and he waves it in exaggerated strokes. Over the green, white and black stripes someone has stitched a swastika and a Star of David.

  ‘Bomb, bomb, USA,’ he chants. ‘Bomb, bomb, UK.’

  We soon take it up.

  ‘Can they hear us inside?’ Yasmeen asks.

  ‘En sh’ Allah,’ I answer.

  The young men take their turns with the megaphone until it becomes clear that people have begun to talk among themselves.

  ‘Morning, Comrades.’

  Yasmeen and I turn to a white man with unbrushed hair and an earring. He’s wearing a T-shirt depicting George Bush in a skull cap. I’ve seen him before selling copies of Socialism Today.

  I wave away his offer of a leaflet but he presses it into Yasmeen’s hand with what he no doubt believes is a cheeky grin.

  ‘Thank you,’ she smiles back at him.

  ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he says.

  I stare hard at him, making it clear his presence is not welcome, until he moves on.

  Yasmeen takes a glance at the leaflet.

  ‘Bin it,’ I say. />
  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s communist progaganda.’

  Yasmeen frowns. ‘But isn’t everyone here on the same side?’

  I smile patiently. She still has a lot to learn.

  ‘The hard left support us because they think we are the victims of racism and capitalist oppression.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but the answer is not to turn the whole world into an atheist state.’

  Yasmeen pouts. I can tell she’s finding this hard to follow.

  ‘So what is the answer?’ she asks.

  ‘That we turn our face to Allah,’ I say, ‘and accept the one true religion.’

  Lilly heaped two spoons of coffee into a mug, then added another.

  She’d barely slept all night, snatching twenty minutes here and there between long periods of staring out into the night.

  Despite her efforts to reassure herself, the man taking photos of her office had spooked her and she was beginning to wonder if it was more than a coincidence that she’d also seen someone creeping around the cottage with a torch.

  Her mother, Elsa, had been a fond of sayings, some traditional, some entirely of her own making. Lilly recalled one of her favourites: ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.’

  Though a firm pragmatist, Elsa taught her daughter to watch her back.

  Lilly replayed the moment when her cottage was firebombed over and over in her mind. She could still see the flash of orange, still smell the smoke.

  When Jack finally came home in the early hours he’d slid between the sheets and fallen instantly into a deep sleep.

  She was glad he was getting stuck into his work again. He habitually went through periods when he questioned whether there was any point to what he did. And she loathed that.

  At these low points it wasn’t just the cynicism she balked at but the fact that since she told him she was pregnant Jack redirected all his energy towards her. Lilly just wasn’t used to that level of attention and found its glare uncomfortable. She certainly wouldn’t confess her unease to Jack or his attention would refocus in a nanosecond.

  She stirred her coffee and sipped, watching morning unfold in her garden. The rabbits were out in force, nibbling and crapping, like a scene from Watership Down, and a little chaffinch tapped rhythmically on the window with his beak.

  She needed to be in court in an hour and a half, and certainly needed a shower beforehand, but she couldn’t summon enough energy to rush.

  Jack strode into the kitchen, a heady purpose in his step. If he noticed the dark circles under Lilly’s eyes he didn’t comment.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready?’ he asked.

  Lilly leaned against the counter. ‘I’m psyching myself up.’

  ‘Right.’

  He whistled as he poured hot water over a slice of lemon.

  Lilly watched him over the rim of her mug.

  ‘I’ve got to go into school today,’ she said. ‘Mr Latimer wants to speak to me about Sam.’

  ‘Right,’ he repeated.

  Was he not going to ask why?

  Jack drained his cup and headed to the door. ‘See you.’

  Obviously not.

  Too late she noticed his mobile lying on the counter. It skipped through her mind that she should run after him, but she didn’t. She knew her response was linked to his lack of interest.

  She wasn’t sure exactly how she felt. Though grateful not to be the target of his all encompassing anxiety, she would have liked a small enquiry as to her health. She was pregnant, after all. And although Sam wasn’t Jack’s son, he’d always looked out for him, so his indifference was unsettling. She was being utterly irrational and she knew it. She could put it down to hormones but hadn’t she always been this way? She fingered the keys on his phone. He’d probably come back for it.

  The chaffinch came knocking again. He hovered briefly, then tap, tap, tap.

  Sam had once told Lilly that birds saw their own reflection in the glass and thought it was an interloper.

  Lilly knew how they felt: she was a past master at fighting with herself.

  Ismail Hassan was nervous. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, like just before an exam. Or even worse, just before the teacher gave you the results.

  He and his elder brother, Imran, were meeting some men in this café on the High Street. They called themselves the PTF and were supposed to be some sort of religious group.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Ismail asked.

  Imran shook his head, his disgust obvious. ‘Do you want to get Aasha back or not?’

  Ismail let his arms drop to his sides. Mum had already spoken to Jack McNally—the policeman who came to the house yesterday—and he hadn’t even managed to speak to Aasha, let alone bring her home.

  Mum had been crying all morning.

  Two men arrived and Imran shook their hands.

  ‘Assalamu alaikum, brother,’ they said in turn.

  ‘Wa alaikum assalaam,’ Imran responded.

  Ismail wondered if he should greet them but the words caught in his throat.

  They took the seats across the table and waited. One was much larger than the other, his neck thick, his chest bursting out of his polo shirt. He folded his hands in front of him and Ismail could see scratches crisscrossing his knuckles. The smaller one had a wiry intensity, and a nervous tic in his left eye.

  ‘You want our help?’ the bigger man asked.

  ‘We’ve tried the official route,’ said Imran, ‘but the police don’t want to know.’

  The man nodded. ‘Why should they care if a Muslim girl disobeys her family?’

  Ismail couldn’t help think that they didn’t seem religious. They looked more like those men you saw outside pubs. Bouncers. He had a very bad feeling about getting them involved.

  ‘They did say they’re looking into it,’ he ventured.

  The man grunted. ‘And how long will that take? A week? A month?’

  ‘They didn’t say.’

  ‘And in the meantime you’re being dishonoured.’ The man splayed his fingers on the table. ‘We need to deal with this matter ourselves, before she makes a laughing stock of you.’

  Imran gave one short nod and the men left.

  ‘I still think we should leave this to the police,’ said Ismail.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ said Imran.

  ‘What if they hurt her?’ Ismail asked. ‘She’s not a bad girl, she’s just made a stupid mistake.’

  Imran had always expected Aasha to do exactly what he told her and didn’t stand for any backchat, but surely he still cared about her. She was their sister, after all.

  Imran didn’t look at Ismail. ‘She needs to be taught a lesson.’

  Lilly met Taslima outside court one in Luton Crown Court.

  ‘Looking good,’ Taslima grinned.

  Lilly glanced down at the buttons of her white shirt straining over her bump. She tried to cover it with her gown but the ends wouldn’t meet.

  ‘At least I don’t have to wear a wig for full comedy effect.’ Her hands went to her hair where a ponytail was disintegrating, tangles of curls escaping on all sides. ‘On second thoughts.’

  Taslima tapped her hijab. ‘Never a bad hair day for us Muslim sisters.’

  Lilly laughed until the sight of Kerry Thomson thundering towards them cut her short.

  ‘What are the defence asking for?’ she snapped.

  ‘Good morning to you too,’ said Lilly.

  Kerry wrinkled her nose.

  Lilly sighed. ‘I want all the unused material.’

  ‘You have it.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Lilly asked.

  Kerry rolled her eyes and went into court.

  Lilly followed and found Saira Khan sitting patiently at the back of the room, her hands resting neatly in her lap.

  ‘Anwar couldn’t come,’ she explained, ‘and Mum isn’t well.’

 
; Lilly smiled kindly. ‘It’s fine, Saira. I’m sure Raffy will be very glad to see you here.’

  Saira gave a stiff nod as if she remained unconvinced.

  Lilly felt a wave of sympathy for the girl and her elder brother, both forced to act as unofficial parents.

  Judge Francis Chance glided in. He was newly appointed and new to Luton. Lilly hoped that he wouldn’t be trying to make a name for himself. Bell’s ambition and Kerry’s animosity were more than enough to contend with. Lilly shuffled to her place.

  ‘Good morning,’ he smiled.

  ‘Good morning,’ Lilly smiled back.

  ‘By all means take a seat, Miss Valentine.’ The judge waved at her bump.

  Excellent. Not only was he reasonable but thoughtful into the bargain. This should be painless.

  Kerry made a tutting sound. ‘Your Honour, I would like to set this matter down for trial at the Court’s earliest opportunity.’

  The judge put up his finger. ‘Indeed, Miss Thomson, but first I wish to speak to the defendant.’

  He took off his glasses. It was an affected gesture, reminiscent of a hundred ITV dramas. But the judge was new so Lilly wouldn’t hold it against him.

  ‘Young man,’ he frowned at Raffy, ‘you should know that this is not the youth court and I will not tolerate any outbursts from you.’

  ‘I didn’t say nothing,’ said Raffy.

  ‘You do not speak to me except through your solicitor, and if you do not show this Court the respect it deserves I will have you taken back down, do you understand?’

  Raffy didn’t respond.

  ‘Do you understand, young man?’

  Lilly coughed. ‘Your Honour just told the defendant not to speak directly.’

  ‘Don’t play semantics with me,’ the judge ordered. ‘Now does your client understand what has been said to him or not?’

  Lilly sighed. Her hopes of a reasonable judge had been well and truly dashed. She nodded at Raffy in the dock.

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Then let’s get on,’ said the judge. ‘Are there any applications?’