Beauty flinched at the insult. ‘Have some fucking respect!’
George Taylor winced. You didn’t cuss Delford Johnston and get away with it. The girl didn’t know who he was.
Delford laughed off Beauty’s reproach. ‘Bismillah hir Rahmaanir Raheem,’ he said.
‘Yeah, yeah. You’re a good Muslim,’ said Beauty and tugged her scarf down.
She remembered his sort from Hackney.
He’s a gangster, aynit. A gundha, sharabi and a pervert ganjuri.
‘Sorry, Colin. Do carry on,’ Delford said, with exaggerated politeness. ‘I won’t be staying long anyway,’ he added. He laughed and slapped the table. He’d like to see this bearded prick try and stop his benefits. He looked round at the younger men, used to hearing laughter when he said something funny.
Mark Aston stayed under the peak of his cap. He’d been padded up with niggers like this before.
Thinks ’e’s ten men.
Fair play to the Paki bird though! Nice one!
‘Good to have you back with us, Delford,’ said Colin. We were just about to have a look at your curriculum veetees.’
‘You ain’t looking at my teepee!’
Delford nudged Beauty and laughed at his joke.
While the man explained what it was, Beauty returned to picking at her jacket, throwing quick glances at the others in the room.
What was it like to be one of these people?
If she stayed out, would she become like them?
At least they didn’t have to worry about marriage stuff. They were free from that.
She studied the tall Somali woman. Her scarf was done in a bun at the back, and she wore a long beige skirt with flat-soled boots and a loose red polo neck jumper. She caught Beauty’s eye and smiled.
Pretty lady.
Big, too.
That’s how they are sometimes, hallahol.
At eleven o’clock Beauty hurried out of the building and headed along School Street to the hotel she’d been told about. As she walked across its carpeted lobby she felt the eyes of the uniformed receptionists on her. What would they think, seeing an Asian girl on her own?
Nothing. They’re white. They aynt gonna think nothing.
‘How can I help?’ asked the older one, looking down from the raised platform behind the counter. The other woman disappeared through a side door.
‘I need a room for a few days,’ Beauty said.
‘Certainly. Would that be a single, or a double?’
‘Single or double what?’
‘Room.’
‘A single,’ she said, and reddened. I am dumb.
The woman tapped computer keys.
‘We have a single room free. That will be sixty pounds a night, payable in advance.’
‘Sixty pounds? For one night?’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
She didn’t have enough, and the woman was waiting for an answer.
‘I’ve only got fifty pounds,’ said Beauty. ‘Less now.’ She blushed. Why did she keep saying things aloud? Was she going loony?
‘Have you tried the George on Darlington Street?’ The woman’s voice was friendly. Beauty shook her head.
‘Maggie, how much does the George cost a night?’ the woman called to her colleague.
Beauty’s cheeks burned. Did she have to shout?
‘Forty-five pounds,’ came the loud answer.
The woman looked at her sympathetically.
‘Have you tried a B&B? They’re usually cheaper. I can …’
‘Thanks, I’ll find one,’ Beauty said and turned away.
As she shuffled through the revolving door and out into the street she felt light-headed. She didn’t even have enough money to stay out for two nights. How could she go home after two days? Better to go now and avoid getting beaten up.
The noise of the traffic streaming round the island was too loud. She stood on the pavement, the wind fluttering her salwar around her legs.
When she got back to the first-floor room the only person there was Horace, an old Jamaican. She twitched the corners of her lips in greeting, kicked her bag under the chair and unwrapped the chips she had bought. The smell of vinegar rose with the steam and filled the room.
‘Wh’appen, me girl?’ Horace greeted her.
‘Mm-huh,’ she answered, through hot chips.
‘Ya ahright now? Ya have somewhe’ f’ tahn?’
Beauty swallowed. ‘Eh?’
‘Somewhe’ to live?’ Horace repeated.
Al-lh – how does he know?
That white lady must have told him.
‘People aal tahk ’bout you,’ he added.
Horace looked from Beauty to the food.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.
She picked up a chip, and his eyes followed her hand. Was he hungry? She noticed his battered shoes and shiny trousers, and the sagging pockets of his old black jacket.
‘Aren’t you having lunch?’ she asked.
‘Me nah gat no money till me giro come tomorra.’
Beauty put the chip down. ‘Take these, I can’t eat any more.’
‘Nah, yar ahright.’
‘Go on.’
Horace got to his feet slowly.
‘No sense makin’ them go to waste,’ he said, and took the food back to his chair.
Beauty watched as he raised a trembling hand to his mouth and began to eat.
She looked away, sorry for embarrassing him.
Al-lh, how can people do that?
He’s hungry and old.
Eating someone else’s food! I’d rather die.
He aynt eaten.
I should have given him some money for chips.
He was smoking outside earlier. If he’s got money for fags, he could eat.
He’s Jamaican, though, aynit? Cigarettes and drink – that’s what sharabi spend their money on.
Where’m I gonna stay tonight?
There was no one outside the building. Beauty walked up to the empty churchyard at the top of the street and sat down on one of the wooden benches. She looked around at the graves and wondered what the words said.
As the clock moved towards half-past twelve the other clients drifted back from surrounding streets and through the churchyard. Some nodded to her. The large Somali woman with the red jumper stopped at the bench.
‘I hear you leave home,’ she said.
Everybody knows.
The woman sat down next to her.
‘That is very difficult. I leave my husband and boy and come to this country.’ She gestured around the churchyard and the brown-brick council offices in the square beyond the railings.
‘Have you got place to sleep?’
She asked Beauty if she had any money, and told her not to waste it on a hotel. She could stay with her for a few days, if she wanted.
‘You don’t go to hostel,’ the woman continued. ‘They are terrible place, full of drugs people. It’s not safety.’
The woman told Beauty her name was Hana. She took out her purse and passed Beauty a photo of a small boy, sitting on his mother’s lap.
‘Sweet,’ said Beauty.
‘It’s two years I don’t see him. He seven now. So, you stay with me?’
Beauty looked at her, and the people passing, going somewhere. Home, maybe. Could she trust the lady?
‘I take you to Civic Centre now. It’s here.’
Hana pointed to the building across the plaza in front of them.
‘You make appointment to see Housing Officer, and say you have no home.’
The woman walked slowly across the square and talked about how hard it was in Somalia for her husband and little boy, of the wars with countries Beauty had never heard of. But she felt safe with the lady, and it would only be for one night.
12
At three o’clock she was on the bus going back to Parkfields. Hana lived in the tall tower block across the road from Beauty’s family. Perhaps it was a good thing she would be close to h
ome. Her brothers wouldn’t think to look so near. As long as she wasn’t seen going in or out of the building, it might be all right for a few days.
Hana showed Beauty round her clean and simple flat, and took her to a bedroom so she could phone home. She closed the door and told Beauty not to worry. Things would be OK.
Beauty didn’t want to ring yet, dreaded saying the words:
I aynt coming back.
She went to the window and looked out over the dual carriageway and the estates of Parkfields.
How high they were!
Was her ama really down there?
She don’t deserve this.
And I didn’t deserve that infection the mullah’s brother gave me with his dirty fingers. Say it:
I aynt going back!
Beauty picked up the phone. Her heart pounded in her ears as she waited for someone to answer.
‘Hello? Who’s that?’
Faisal.
‘Ami,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’
‘Where are you? And what are you doing with my phone? Bhai-sahb’s gonna go mad when he gets up. It’s half-past four.’
‘Just shut up and listen. Is he awake?’
‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘Go and wake him.’
‘No fucking way! He’ll kill me.’
‘I aynt messin’ about. Go and get him.’
‘You better come back before he gets up or they’ll be a fight.’
‘I aynt coming back.’
Silence.
Then, ‘They’re gonna go mad! They’ll fucking kill you. Wait there while I get Bhai-sahb. You better come back or Allah’s gonna punish you big time. Allah guna diba.’
‘Let Him. I aynt coming back. Go and wake Bhai-sahb up. I aynt talking to you.’
She hung up.
‘Al-lh!’
How long would it take to for Dulal to call back? Faisal would be running up the stairs two at a time, bursting into his brother’s room.
The phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Sis, what’s going on?’ Dulal Miah’s voice was heavy with sleep. Beauty struggled to speak.
‘I can’t do it.’
‘You can’t do what? What’s happened?’
‘I can’t live with the mullah. Or go to that place.’
‘Where the fuck are you?’
‘At a friend’s house.’
‘What friend?’
‘It’s a girl’s house. Somebody I met on that course. She’s Muslim.’
‘You with some other fucking prostitute?’
‘Don’t swear at me, Dulal.’
She’d never used his name before. She pictured him standing in the hall downstairs in his underpants and vest, which she had washed.
‘Come back, sis. We can talk about this,’ he said.
‘I aynt coming back, Bhai-sahb. I can’t take it no more. I’m getting out.’
She leaned against the window and looked down at the flats below, and thanked Al-lh she wasn’t at home.
‘Be back here in an hour and we won’t say any more about it. I know you been through a lot. I won’t tell the old man.’
‘Bhai-sahb, I aynt coming back. Don’t you get it?’
She could never have spoken to him like this if she had been at home. He’d have punched her across the room.
‘Be back in an hour or there’ll be trouble!’ he shouted. ‘This is a fucking zinna!’
Beauty sat down on the bed and held her knees between her hands to stop them shaking. She’d told him! Her mouth felt dry and her chest still hurt.
He thinks I’m gonna go back.
I aynt!
I’m out!
But she knew it wasn’t over. He’d phone again and then come looking for her.
She went to the bathroom to wash, returned to the bedroom and tried to recite the sunset namaz.
‘Alhamdo lillahi rabbil aalameen ar rahmaanir …’
What was she supposed to do?
‘Maaliki yaomid deen iyya kana budoo wa iyya kanastaeen ihdinas siratual mustaqeem …’
Was she turning her back on Him too?
‘Siratual lazeena an amta alaihim ghairil magh-doobe alaihim walad dualleen. Ameen.’
Was He listening?
Beauty went back to the sitting room. It was better to be with someone, until her brother phoned back.
‘What he say?’ Hana asked. She’d changed into a knee-length denim skirt, white woollen tights and a white jumper.
‘That I was doing a zinna.’
Hana laughed.
‘Why is it zinna?’
Beauty didn’t know. ‘What happens if I do other bad stuff?’ she asked.
‘Like have a boyfriend?’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
The woman smiled at her. ‘Why not? You can have a boyfriend.’
‘Don’t you get pregnant?’ Beauty asked. Was it a stupid question?
‘You don’t have to be pregnant. You can use condoms.’
Beauty blushed. What little she knew had come from cousins, giggling about what a bride could expect on her wedding night, and from things the black girls used to say at primary school that she’d never understood. Her mum had warned her that just being near a man was enough to get pregnant.
What if I was pregnant? What would Bhai-sahb do then?
‘Yeah, I know about that,’ she said.
I am dumb.
She touched her cheeks. It wasn’t good to be talking like this already.
*
Beauty looked round the sitting room. The flat was clean and warm. If Hana could live like this, why couldn’t she?
How much did it cost?
Three or four hundred pounds for a deposit and the same every month for rent.
‘Can you get it?’ Hana asked. ‘Have you got things to sell?’
‘I might be able to get my sister to bring some of my jewellery.’ It was wrapped up in a sock at the bottom of her bag, with her passport.
Beauty felt guilty for lying to someone who was helping her.
‘You can sell all things in Wolverhampton,’ said Hana. ‘How much money you got now?’
She had about thirty pounds.
‘OK, that is enough for five people to eat. I give you money back when the boys are coming.’
Beauty started. What boys?
‘It’s OK,’ said Hana. ‘It’s my friend, and two his friends. They just coming for eat and after we go out maybe. You come too?’
Beauty didn’t want to be in a house with men.
‘Where are they from?’
‘Dudley.’
Was that a country?
‘What are they? Pakistanis? Somali?’
‘They Muslims, Kurdish,’ Hana said. ‘You can stay here if we go out. Anyway, maybe you like one of them?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Beauty looked down and felt her face flush.
What’s Kurdish?
‘Don’t worry. They just friends,’ said Hana. ‘It’s good to have friends. They can help you when you need.’
Maybe the woman was right. Why was it so bad? If she didn’t think it was wrong, why should Beauty? The lady was married with a kid. As long as the ‘boys’ weren’t Iraqi.
But she wished she’d found a B&B instead.
Muslim women don’t have men friends that visit at night.
13
Mark Aston sat with his feet on the dashboard of Bob’s K-reg Transit pick-up on the way back from weighing in the metal they’d collected. A day spent scrapping with Bob never brought in less than forty quid. They’d just picked up nearly two tonne around the streets of Bilston and Bob had split the money evenly with him, fifty quid each, even though it was Bob’s van, diesel, insurance and everything. Mind you, Mark had done most of the heavy lifting. It was good work when he could get it, which wasn’t that often. Bob’s nephews usually went with him, or Karen’s brother Mick. Fair play to him though.
Mark had often heard more concern for his welfare in B
ob’s voice than in his own mother’s – she never phoned him on his birthday or at Christmas. Bob was a sound bloke. He put work Mark’s way whenever he could, either fence-building, looking for scrap metal or fixing cars for Bob’s friends and relatives, which was near enough everyone in the city. Mark had met Bob through his ex-missus, and had immediately taken a liking to the short man, his pot belly and cheeriness. And he was still a hard bastard, despite his size, his greying hair and good nature. Mark had seen him sort out a couple of loan sharks in a pub toilet and knew he did unofficial evictions for Asian landlords with troublesome tenants, and he was forever dealing with the messes his extended family members made for themselves. He’d nearly taken a swing at Mark once with a crowbar for winding him up about something when they’d been laying paving outside a house in Codsall. He was one of ten brothers and sisters, and if you needed anything he was the best person to see. He worked hard to look after his ex-wife and kids and had a hand in all sorts, from greyhounds to scrapping metal, car boot sales and building. His house and garden were piled high with useful things. Most of what Mark possessed had come from Bob. He looked up to the older man, and wanted to become like him one day – a pillar of his family and community.
‘Get yer fookin’ feet off the dashboard will you,’ Bob said as they reached Wolverhampton. ‘D’you wan’ us to get pulled, wi’ that fookin’ hat on as well?’
‘Sorry, mate,’ said Mark. ‘The van’s clean though, ay it?’
‘I can do without the hassle. You coming down the club for a pint?’
The Transit bumped up onto the pavement outside the All Saints Working Men’s Club on Earl Street. Mark slammed the ill-fitting door and followed Bob into the building: a low, red-brick square with two lounges and a function room at the back.
He tipped his cap back on his head and greeted Tony and the ageing and suited Gerald behind the bar. Mark liked walking in with Bob, filthy from scrapping metal. It showed others he was trusted enough to work with, and had become part of the clan.
They sat down on the fixed padded benches near the bar and sipped their pints. Mark rolled a cigarette and Bob eyed him.
‘They’ll kill you them things will, one day,’ he said.
Mark raised his eyebrows as he licked the paper and nodded in agreement.
Beauty Page 9