by Jacqui Rose
As Tariq continued to look at Laila, still sobbing, he knew she didn’t know how thankful she should be to be getting married.
Her life wasn’t over; though it would’ve been, if Uncle and the family had had their way.
Their Uncle was from a certain mindset. A small, but dangerous one. A dark sinister part to the otherwise warm, friendly Pakistani community they’d always lived in. His Uncle believed in punishment, not forgiveness; revenge instead of mercy. And according to their Uncle, like the father who’d recently been found guilty of killing his daughter after finding text messages from her boyfriend, bringing dishonour to the family had to be avenged.
Tariq had found himself having to beg with his Uncle and other relatives, pleading for leniency on Laila’s behalf. Trying to make them see the punishment didn’t fit the crime. Eventually they’d backed down, but on one condition; that Laila get married.
‘Is everything in order?’
Tariq’s thoughts were broken as his Uncle spoke to him in a gruff tone. Putting his head down, Tariq muttered in reply, wishing what was about to happen didn’t have to. ‘Yes, everything’s sorted; just like you asked.’
Mahmood Khan looked at his nephew. There was a lot to do before tomorrow. He was feeling tired but he prayed he would be given strength to deal with the next few hours.
He glanced quickly at Laila as he reached for another helping of rice. Girls were a curse. Especially beautiful ones. The more beautiful, the more of a curse.
Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure what wrongs he’d done to deserve to be blighted with three nieces. But then, Mahmood knew he shouldn’t question what he’d been given – only make the best of it, which if he were to be honest, was very hard to do.
Laila had always been spirited. Her two sisters, who were older than her and already married, had been different. They’d been quiet and willing to please. Understanding what it was to be a woman. Neither of them had the brains nor the dazzling beauty of Laila; they’d been blessed with simplicity and plainness.
From the moment Laila was born, Mahmood knew his youngest niece was trouble. As a baby she’d had the cry of a lion, roaring with discontent. When she was little she’d suffered with stomach problems, no doubt caused by the fire of the warrior in her belly fighting to get out. She absorbed knowledge like the Jacaranda tree absorbed water. Her defiance whirling and gliding like a Middle Eastern Sufi dancer.
It was all too much. She was nothing like her mother who’d been a good wife to his brother, although admittedly he’d sometimes needed to show her his word was final. Nevertheless, his sister-in-law was silent and attentive. Two traits a woman should possess, but two traits his niece didn’t come close to holding. Thankfully though, by this time next week, Laila would be someone else’s problem.
It felt to Mahmood that all he’d done for the past few years was battle with his niece to keep her in her place. With each passing year it became more of a struggle as he fought against her unwelcome curiosity of the world. When his brother, their father, had died, the responsibility of looking after them had fallen on his shoulders. Neither Laila or her brother had liked the changes at first but it’d been necessary. His brother had been soft; far too soft for a man who carried the Khan name. Often Mahmood had disapproved at the freedom his brother offered his wife and children, giving them leave to argue, question and educate. He’d often chastised his brother but the admonishment had been wasted, falling onto deaf ears. But then his brother had passed away and everything had changed.
Under Mahmood’s guidance, everyone including Laila and Tariq’s mother had been shown the error of their ways,. And though the changes had come up against long faces and the occasional question, they’d all eventually accepted the way it was going to be under his rule. All except for Laila.
Mahmood looked at his watch. ‘We better go Tariq, time is short.’
Mahmood pushed his chair away and looked once more at Laila. Her face was marked not only from her tears but also from the fresh bruise now forming on her cheek. Tomorrow when they went out, he’d make her wear her burka, to hide it. By next week the bruise would be gone, and then maybe, for the first time in his life he could be proud of her. Proud to give her away.
Laila’s eyes widened as she watched her older brother and Uncle. She was terrified, but she had a rising suspicion something worse was about to happen. Her Uncle rarely ventured out at this time of night, preferring instead to have his friends come to him.
Mustering up some courage, Laila directed her question at her brother. ‘Is everything alright Tariq?’
Before Tariq had a chance to say anything, Mahmood snarled at her, his strong accent punctuating the words.
‘You bring dishonour on this family, then you ask if everything’s alright?’
Laila sat up in her chair, her face reflecting the puzzlement in her tone. ‘Dishonour? Tariq, what’s he talking about? I don’t know what he’s talking about.’
Mahmood banged his fist on the table. ‘Laila, don’t pretend to be the innocent, it’s too late for that … I’ve heard the talk. The whole of the community has. You’ve brought shame on us. On me. Well, it stops right here.’
Laila’s face was drawn and her fear was apparent. It made Tariq feel uneasy and he turned away, not wanting to see the terror in his sister’s eyes.
‘Tariq, please …’
Mahmood’s arm shot out, sweeping the supper dishes off the table, sending Laila’s untouched plate of food to stain the beige carpet rug.
‘Don’t make a fool of me. Do not make me your enemy Laila … I know all about you and the English boy.’
‘English boy?’
Mahmood clenched his fist. His niece was a liar. He’d always known it. He’d seen the slyness in her large almond eyes the moment she’d been delivered into this world. It put him in mind of what his grandmother had always told him when he was a boy; ‘the larger the eyes of a woman, the easier for the devil to dance into them.’ And looking at Laila now, Mahmood knew the wise woman who’d lived in a tiny house on the outskirts of Turbat in Pakistan had been right. Mahmood leant forward, leaning his arms on the table; ignoring the fact he’d just put his hand in a pile of cold rice. ‘Raymond Thompson. Ring any bells Laila?’
Laila Khan swallowed hard. She knew the name. She knew the boy. But not in the way her Uncle was trying to imply.
He sat next to her in class. Yes, she’d talked to him. He made her laugh. They were friends; special friends. She’d even given him a CD of her favourite song, covering the case with pink smiley stickers. But it’d all been innocent.
He hadn’t been at the school long, moving up north from London to come to live with his mother on the south side of Bradford. He was popular and handsome, his cockney twang adding to his appeal, though it wasn’t just the girls who flitted around him and swooned over his six foot frame. The boys wanted to be his friend too. They seemed to respect him, understood he could handle himself. That he wasn’t going to be messed with. Even Mrs Rigby, the sixth form maths teacher, blushed when he went to talk to her.
So she’d been surprised when Raymond had moved his desk next to hers, though quietly pleased. At first she’d ignored him, but slowly she’d started to smile when she’d heard his jokes. Then the smiles had turned into laughter and they’d become friends. Good friends.
Laila didn’t know why he’d chosen to be her friend but she’d cautiously welcomed it. She loved it when he teased her as his blue eyes twinkled back at her. A smile. A laugh. A tease. That’s all it could be. Even she’d wanted to take it further, she couldn’t. She knew that more than anybody. But what they had was still special to them and no-one could take their special away.
There hadn’t really been any physical contact, apart from that one time. That once. The day she’d decided to forget she was Laila Khan; respectful and dutiful daughter of the late Zarin Kahn and niece of the ever-present Mahmood Khan. That day last summer she’d chosen to walk to the bus stop with him instead of with her
friends and they’d held each other’s hands.
‘Laila, your Uncle will kill you if he sees you.’
‘He won’t though will he?’
She could hear the conversation now between her and her best friend and she’d been right; her Uncle hadn’t seen them. Nobody had. But she hadn’t needed to be seen had she? All it had taken were words and as Laila sat at the table, trying to ignore her Uncle’s cutting stare, she knew her friend had talked. Not intentionally, but talked all the same. Probably to her sister who in turn had no doubt talked to her mother or an elder before the words had found their way back to her Uncle. And it was this talk which had her Uncle staring at her with so much contempt. ‘Uncle … it was nothing. Nothing happened … I was …’
The look on her Uncle’s face made Laila stop talking. The rage which was already there in his eyes had turned into something else. Hatred. But worse still, when she looked at her brother and saw what looked like disappointment on Tariq’s face, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear to have her brother, who she loved more than anyone in the world, look like she’d let him down .
She watched as her Uncle nodded his head to her mother – who’d sat silently throughout -gesturing to her to leave the room. Laila could feel her legs trembling as Mahmood walked round the table towards her. He pulled her up as he grabbed her arm, painfully squeezing it as he did so. She saw Tariq step forward, then stop. Her Uncle’s face pressed onto hers as he spoke in a hiss. ‘There is no place in this life for little whores. So understand this; if it wasn’t for your brother pleading your case Laila you might not have had a tomorrow.’
Laila pulled back, terrified by what her Uncle was insinuating. Though it wasn’t an insinuation was it? It was an outright threat. Clear for her to understand. She knew her family respected their cultural teachings, as she did. But this? She knew this wasn’t part of it. Couldn’t they see she hadn’t done anything wrong? She’d tried so hard to be obedient for her Uncle but the harder she tried, the angrier he seemed to get. The more she asked questions about things, the more infuriated he got. She’d heard time and time again about what happened to girls in the community who brought shame and dishonour on their family. But she hadn’t brought shame. She’d walked less than the length of the high street with Raymond. Refusing his requests to go to McDonalds. Refusing his requests for him to walk her all the way home. It’d been innocent.
Mahmood dropped her arm and walked towards the door, deciding not to bother with a jacket. He turned to Laila as Tariq opened the dining room door.
‘You might have been lucky, but your boyfriend’s not going to have such an easy ride.’
Laila ran to her Uncle, grabbing at his sleeve. ‘What are you going to do? … Uncle, please. He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘For someone who’s so innocent you seem to care an awful lot what happens to him? You’re a disgrace.’
‘I don’t care … I mean I do care but not like that, I care because he’s done nothing … Uncle, please, don’t touch him.’
Mahmood grabbed Laila’s hair, pulling her head back. ‘Try stopping me.’
He let go of her hair and started for the front door, but Laila refused to let him walk away. She grasped hold of him, trying to pull him back. She was beside herself with anguish and the tears rolled down her face as she cried. Her Uncle sneered. She was out of control and he was going to enjoy seeing Raymond Thompson squeal. ‘Izzat, Laila. Honour. Doesn’t it mean anything?’
‘It means everything to me Uncle, you know it does. But not like this. It isn’t about this.’
She let go of her Uncle and ran to Tariq, pulling on him and hearing his shirt tearing as he tugged it away from her grip. ‘Tariq … no, stop. You can’t do this, leave him alone.’
The fear in Laila’s heart was mirrored in the look on Tariq’s face. He spoke in an urgent hush to his sister. ‘What do you want me to do Laila? I’ve got no choice.’
‘For me, please Tariq. Do what you want with me but leave him alone.’
Tariq couldn’t listen any more. He didn’t want to hear his sister like this. Couldn’t she see what harm she was doing by acting like this? It was just making their Uncle more determined. More angry. And it made Tariq afraid his Uncle would go back on his word and instead of just marrying Laila off, something worse, something more permanent would happen to her. Pushing Laila to one side, Tariq walked out of the dining room.
‘Tariq, no!’ Laila shouted after her brother. She needed to stop them but she didn’t know how. No one would help her. No one would get involved. This was family business; family honour and most people she knew would either think her Uncle was doing the right thing or be too afraid to say anything.
She didn’t even have Raymond’s telephone number to warn him but she couldn’t let them hurt him. Not because of her. Without thinking, she picked up the phone.
‘Police, please.’
The phone went dead. Laila turned round. The first thing she saw was Mahmood come back into the hallway with the telephone wire he’d pulled out of the socket in his hand. The second thing she saw was his fist coming towards her. A moment later, Laila Khan blacked out.
2
Raymond Thompson or ‘Ray-Ray’ as his friends and family called him, looked in the mirror and smiled. He’d been blessed with good genes. His natural sun-kissed blonde hair tumbled onto his forehead, falling short of his dazzling blue eyes. And his big white smile gleamed out cheekily, charming both old and young.
He didn’t have to search far to see where his looks came from. His parents were a handsome couple. In his youth, his father, Freddie, had made Robert Redford look plain. His mother, Tasha, had been a hostess in one of the Soho clubs, persuading the punters to part with their cash for expensive glasses of champagne, whilst keeping their straying hands away. But she’d turned her back on it when she’d fallen in love with his father. And even years later, he knew his parents still turned heads.
Thinking of them made Ray feel sad; taking the edge off his good mood. He sighed heavily. His missed his father. He missed his old life. He wasn’t used to being up north. He was born and bred a Londoner, spending his whole life growing up in Soho. And then ten months ago, everything had changed. His father had been given a stretch and everyone, including the police, had been surprised when he’d actually been sent down.
His father was Freddie Thompson. The biggest face in London. One of the untouchables, or so he was supposed to have been, until the coppers had come knocking.
Almost three million in stolen jewellery had been found in one of the hundreds of lock-ups his father owned. Of course, everyone knew it was a set up. A sting.
It hadn’t mattered that the coppers on the case had been bent, or that the evidence had been tampered with and the jury members been squeezed. The powers that be had just wanted to get him off the streets, and the end result was the same. They had Freddie Thompson. The most dangerous man in London. The biggest villain in the south. But to Ray-Ray Thompson, they had his dad.
The eight-year sentence had been bad enough, though the barrister and his father’s highly paid legal team had put in an appeal based on a technicality, getting his sentence reduced. So at worst they’d said his father would be walking free by Christmas.
That had been the plan and everyone had been happy. A couple more months inside had been do-able. What wasn’t good was what happened after his father’s successful appeal. That was where the real problem lay. And that problem had added a life sentence to his prison term.
Ray-Ray shrugged his shoulders, trying to get rid of the sadness he felt. He didn’t want to think any more. It was summertime, and he refused to let another month go by when all he did was mope around.
Only this morning his mother had told him the best news he’d heard in a long time. They were moving back to Soho. By the end of the summer they’d be back in London amongst their friends and family. They could finally try to start to get some of their life back.
Neither his mother
or him had wanted to come up to Bradford, but his father had insisted, and no one argued with Freddie Thompson. Not even when he was sat behind a bulletproof screen in Belmarsh prison. They’d moved to the north for two reasons. Firstly, his Dad hadn’t known exactly who else besides the coppers were behind the set-up, so he’d wanted to get them out of London whilst his men sounded out the danger; if of course there was any. The second, and the reason they’d ended up specifically in Bradford was that one of his father’s friends had moved to the north a few years ago to get his daughter away from the drugs scene and his Dad had asked his friend to keep an eye out for them
Putting on his black Alexander McQueen shirt, Ray-Ray knew he should’ve been more excited about the move back down South than he was. Yes, it was good news, but each time he thought about it, within a few moments the shine had been taken off his excitement. And two small words told him why. Laila Khan.
It was stupid. She hardly even talked to him. It was him who did all the talking. Bunnying away ten to the dozen whilst she just sat and listened. Staring up at him with her beautiful eyes. Ray-Ray felt soft admitting it but she was special. What they had was special even though he didn’t quite know what really they had. Even when he’d walked with her to the bus stop together,. all she’d really done was occasionally glance at him with her huge brown eyes and smile, holding his hand gently but fearfully. But that had bben enough for him. Just being in her presence was enough.
She was shy. He liked that. But more than that, she was different from any of the girls he hung around with in Soho. Instead of legs and tits, blow jobs free and paid for, Laila covered up wearing long skirts and loose tops. She fascinated him. And as his father always said, he knew how to appreciate real beauty. She was stunning and the more she covered up, the more alluring to him she was.
She had long jet-black hair which touched the base of her spine. Big almond eyes pooled with warmth and kindness. To Raymond, Laila was perfect. And as his father used to say about his mother, ‘she was a diamond ring in a muddy football pitch.’