by Joe Layburn
I heard a noise, and looked up to see Albion slinking in through the back door. Her friend Lulu’s place was only three houses away and she spent most of her time there.
“All right?” she said to me.
“All right.”
“I hear you had another funny turn or something.”
“I’m fine now. Pretty much back to normal.”
“Normal, Georgie boy? There’s no such thing as normal in this house.”
Albion pulled a face at Dad, which made her look like a sulky Barbie doll, then she flounced through the kitchen and headed up the stairs to her room. I waited for the clatter of her heels to fade away, then I glanced up at Dad. Should I say it or not? He was my father, after all.
“Erm, I’m pretty sure I heard that girl’s voice in my head again. That Fatima.”
Dad put his half-eaten sandwich down on the plate. Then he jabbed at me with a stubby index finger.
“Don’t start up with that nonsense, Georgie. You made a fool of yourself in Barking. The boys couldn’t get over all that Fatima stuff. It was bad enough you talking about hearing voices without them getting the idea it was some Muslim girlie you were daydreaming about. I don’t want that name mentioned in this house again. Not ever.”
He pushed his stool back and stomped off to his den, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Fatima,” I whispered, after he’d gone.
FATIMA
People often ask me if I can see something. Anything. Like little points of light that dance about or blurry shapes that move as slowly as fish in a darkened aquarium. They find it hard to imagine seeing nothing at all. “Is it like at night when there are no stars and everything’s black?” Omar asked me once, when he was six or seven. I said, “Yes, sweetest, it’s just like that.”
But I wasn’t really being truthful. I’ve never seen colours: black and white and everything in between mean nothing to me. Take an orange, my favourite fruit. I can tell you what it feels like when I sink my teeth into the juicy flesh and the sweetness dribbles down my chin. But orange – the colour? I’m never going to get that.
I don’t often feel sorry for myself. When you’re blind, it’s hard to do all sorts of things but your other senses become stronger somehow and much more sensitive. I can tell just by the sound of Sadiq’s footsteps on the hall floor if he’s in a good mood or not. When our mother laughs, I can hear if she’s really covering up another disappointment about her life here in England. When the men from Tower Hamlets come to collect the rubbish, I know them all from their voices. If one of them is whistling, I can say who it is – it’s usually Jermaine! Late at night when my father comes home from the restaurant, I can untangle all the different aromas from his hair and skin and clothes, and tell him the last meal he prepared – usually it’s mutton vindaloo for one of the City workers.
When you’re blind, you have to reach out to the world – you can’t just take it in through your eyes. From the time I was very young I was aware of other minds existing beyond the edges of my own – like distant planets in other universes. I could sense all the millions of brains across London pulsing and bleeping away like a vast computer network. Except that they weren’t linked up together. As a little girl I sent out my thoughts like wispy spiders’ webs floating on a breeze. Then other people’s thoughts started coming back to me, and I never felt lonely again.
Most people can’t hear me and I can’t connect with them. There’s a girl I speak to called Melissa, who says I’m like Fatima FM Radio, but not everyone can tune into it! I don’t want to joke about my gift. I know it’s special and important. I want to heal people with it, though I forget sometimes that it has the power to hurt, too. When I’m desperate to talk to someone, or they’re trying to block me out, I do the equivalent of screaming at the top of my lungs. Then they feel intense pain. Sometimes they just shut themselves down. That’s when I try to soothe them.
My name is Fatima. I know that you can hear me. Please don’t be afraid.
I want to do good with my gift. Along with all the evil in the world there really is a lot of good too, and some of it is where you don’t expect to find it. As my teacher’s favourite poet, John Masefield, said, “I have seen flowers come in stony places. And kind things done by men with ugly faces.” Of course, the way I look at it there is no ugly or beautiful, no fat or thin, no black or white or brown. I may be blind to what you can see, but I know what goes on in people’s heads and hearts. And, of course, that’s what really matters.
My name is Fatima. I know that you can hear me. Please don’t be afraid.
GEORGIE
Lunchtime at Caddogan Hall and the dining area was packed, steamy and noisy. I scanned the room with its oil paintings, traditional wood panelling and modern, cheap-looking, tables and chairs. There was nowhere to sit apart from with a group of girls in my year, so, without asking or making eye contact or anything, I put my tray down and started eating a portion of plain pasta. It was all I could face.
You know how it is, you can’t help earwigging other people’s conversations and though I had no real interest in Emily, Lydia and some new, dark-haired girl who was sitting with them, their chit-chat kept interrupting my daydreaming. The new girl was called Inge – if I’d heard it right – and she was from South Africa. But it seemed she wasn’t just an ordinary South African, she was what she called “a South African with a conscience”. Great, I thought, I’m going to spend my lunchtime listening to some rich white girl whining about how unfair it is that she’s been born with so many privileges while the poor blacks are living in poverty.
Of course, blond-airhead Emily, whose father was from South Africa too, just wanted to talk about the awesome safaris she’d been on, the miles of stunning golden beaches and the fantastic restaurants along the sea front in Durban. If it wasn’t for all the crime in her father’s homeland, she and her family would go back there like a shot.
I sensed that Inge was getting uncomfortable.
“Yah, Emily, but the thing is, for years we whites treated everyone else like second-class citizens. They couldn’t swim from the same part of the beach as us. They couldn’t eat in the same restaurants…”
Lydia looked across and caught me staring at the three of them. A smile animated her pouty little mouth.
“Of course, if Georgie’s dad had his way, this country would be run on the same lines.”
Inge looked puzzled, a slight frown creasing her high white forehead. I decided it might be best if I made the introductions myself.
“I’m Georgie. My dad George Smith is a right-wing politician whose money is good enough for Caddogan Hall but whose political views everyone seems to hate.”
“He’s not just a right-winger,” Lydia said acidly, “he’s the leader of the Fascist Party.”
She flicked back the curtain of red hair that usually hung across her eyes and stared at me triumphantly.
“OK,” Inge said, slowly drawing out those two letters as though she needed some time to think about this unexpected information. “My parents are actually very right wing too. They say things about black people that make my skin crawl. But what about you, Georgie, what do you stand for?”
Lydia was desperate to butt in again.
“You should ask Adam Rosen. He might give you an interesting insight into Georgie and what makes him tick.”
I put my fork down on the tray. The pasta tasted suddenly as if it was made from wallpaper paste. When I finally spoke, I found I was saying stuff I’d never said before.
“The thing is, Inge, you can’t choose your parents, can you? I didn’t ask to have George Smith as a dad. I suppose what’s important is to know your own mind, to be your own person.”
Lydia snorted, her nostrils flaring like a horse’s.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Everyone knows you’re exactly the same as your dad. You don’t hang around with anyone at Caddogan Hall who isn’t white. And you’ve never had any friends who are black or Asian
or whatever.”
I wanted to pick up the tray and hurl it at Lydia, but suddenly I felt a cool, tingly sensation in my head as though my brain was being washed in bubbly spring water. Then I heard the girl’s voice, only this time it wasn’t like a thousand, deafening decibels. It was quiet, barely audible, and soothing.
I’d be happy to be your friend.
Despite everything I’d grown up with, the thought suddenly struck me as a perfectly reasonable idea. So I announced it to the three of them, just as if I was thinking out loud.
“I have a friend called Fatima.”
Emily and Lydia looked doubtful. Inge had this expression on her milk white face that said, “Good for you, Georgie”.
“I don’t believe him for a second,” Lydia said smugly.
“Isn’t that like a Muslim name?” Emily asked.
I stood up.
“I don’t care what you think. I am my own person, and I do have a friend who happens to be called Fatima.”
When I reached the hatch where we scraped off the leftovers and dumped our trays, who should be in front of me but Adam Rosen himself? Could this day get any worse? I was pretty sure he’d seen me out of the corner of his still-swollen eye, but he didn’t acknowledge that I was there.
I coughed.
“Er, Rosen. I mean Adam. Do you have a moment?”
He turned towards me, but I couldn’t read the look on his face. Was he frightened, hostile?
“I never actually shook your hand and apologised – what with me collapsing and everything. I wanted to say sorry for hitting you. And I also wanted to say, don’t judge me on what you know about my father. He’s my dad, so I’m not going to publicly denounce him or whatever it was you said I should do. But I don’t think the same way he does. Not any more. And I’m not sure I ever really did.”
Adam Rosen took my hand and shook it. Then he seemed to remember something and reached into the pocket of his blazer. He pulled out a crumpled booklet and held it out to me. On the front it said The Battle of Cable Street 1936. There was a grainy black and white picture of policemen and local East Enders and a barricade that had been built across the road to stop Mosley and his Blackshirts from marching through.
“I’ll forgive you, Smith,” he said, “But I want you to read this. Don’t just throw it away, read it. Then you’ll see why I have a problem with your father.”
MELISSA
Everything changed for me the day Fatima told me she was blind. We were basically having this row, because she reckoned I had to make more of an effort with people. She said I was rude, which was true, and spoilt, which wasn’t really the case because my mum never gave me anything much apart from sweets. I told Fatima I was sick of having someone so perfect try and tell me what to do.
But I’m not perfect, Melissa. And one day I might need you to support and guide me.
I didn’t believe her. How could I possibly be of any use to her?
I might need you to be my eyes, Melissa. I might need to lean on you.
I suddenly got all panicky and asked her if she was sick or something, but she said she wasn’t ill: she just happened to be blind. I was shocked at first. But then I started to see that maybe I really could help her. Worthless as I was, I might actually be useful to Fatima. That was a good feeling, I swear.
I told her I would change, that I would be a better person. She insisted I had to start with my learning support assistant, Stacey. That wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear because Stacey had broken up with Reece and was all miserable and snuffly when she was working with me in school. Stacey was a real downer, but to be honest, I hadn’t helped. I’d told her I’d seen Reece walking past the Railway Tavern with his arm round another girl, and she’d run out of the classroom in tears. When I said I’d made it up just for a laugh, she wouldn’t see the funny side, and told Miss de Souza she needed a break from me for a bit.
The thing about Fatima is, she sees the good in everyone. She reckons that even people you think of as bad are capable of doing wonderful things. Like some bloke who goes to the football or nightclubs and gets in fights all the time might be the one who risks his life to rescue you when your house is on fire. I can’t say that’s true from my experience, but that’s what Fatima thinks.
Making an effort with Stacey was easier than I thought it would be. I did have to bite my tongue not to say spiteful things, but mostly I managed to be nice.
“You’re bound to get back with Reece or find someone even better,” I told her. “Someone as skinny and pretty as you could have anyone they want.”
She gave me this brave smile and said, “So you was definitely making it up about him and that girl Vicky?”
“I was just having a laugh. You’re so easy to wind up, Stace.”
Thanks to Fatima, now there was no stopping me. I started sitting on the buddy bench at break-times and if people came and sat with me to be kind, I’d try hard to be kind back.
One time I called out to Kele as he was going by.
“Oi Kel, over here!”
“What do you want?”
“I just want to say sorry for being a pain all the time.”
He stopped bouncing his basketball and held it against his hip.
“What’s the punchline?”
“It’s not a joke. I’m trying to change. I really want to be a better person. Innit everyone’s got a right to change?”
Kele chuckled to himself.
“OK, Melissa, I accept your apology. You are weird, though.”
I smiled my dazzling, one-hundred-watt smile.
“Thank you, Kel, I love you too.”
Kele flipped the basketball up in the air and started bouncing it again.
“See you then, Kel.”
“Yeah, Melissa, I’ll see you around.”
He walked off towards the netball hoop, laughing and shaking his head.
See, Fatima, I thought to myself, I hear you and I do take notice of what you say.
OMAR
Everything about that night was different. I remember waking and seeing the red digits on my alarm clock glowing like neon in the darkness: 2:00. That confused me. I was pretty sure I’d never been anything other than deep asleep at two in the morning before. Then I became aware of my big brother whimpering. I’d never known him to cry and he sounded pitiful, like a frightened animal, a young stag, maybe, that had escaped from wolves but might yet die from its wounds. I’m not sure I really thought of predators and prey at the time. It might have been something that came later when Sadiq told me about the beating he’d taken and his fear of what might happen next.
I reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it on. His bed was in shadow against the far wall of the room and his body was turned away from me. He seemed to be lying fully-clothed on top of the covers with his legs pulled up to his chest.
“Turn it off, man,” he groaned. “It’s hurting my eyes.”
I got out of my bed and moved hesitantly across the carpet to him. His left shoulder was shaking and I touched it lightly with my fingers.
“Sadiq, what’s wrong? Please tell me what’s the matter with you.”
He was silent for a few moments, then he whispered, “I’m a dead man, little brother. I probably shouldn’t have come home because I could put you all in danger, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
He rolled over awkwardly to squint up at me, and I remember gasping. He was barely recognisable. In the yellow light cast by the lamp, the blood on his face and clothes was dark, almost black. His nose had been flattened and seemed like it belonged to someone else. I just stared at him with my mouth open.
“You think maybe I’ve lost my film star good looks?” he said finally.
Sadiq hadn’t joked in months – all his talk had been of politics and religion. I tried to smile.
“You were never that good-looking anyway, man.”
He actually laughed then, but it started him coughing so much, it sounded as though he was going to bring up one
of his lungs or something.
“Who did this to you?”
For a second I thought he wasn’t going to say, but then he sighed deeply as though it didn’t matter any more whether he told me or not.
“That guy George Smith, the Fascist, the one in the newspaper cuttings. . .”
“His people did this to you?”
He shook his head, although it clearly pained him even to move.
“Hush, Omar. I’ll explain, but don’t interrupt me.”
I nodded, and sat down on the corner of his bed.
“These men I’ve been hanging out with, they’re extreme, I think you know that. They’re planning to kill him. They know where he lives. They know his habits, where he goes each day. They’ve got this device with a timer, like an alarm clock, that’s going to go off and blow up his car. Kaboom. No more George Smith.”
“Which would be a good thing. . .”
“Which in many ways would be a good thing. He hates Muslims, all of us, even children like Fatima and you. But it’s murder, Omar. I thought I could go along with it but now that it’s actually happening, I don’t have the stomach for it.”
“They can’t make you do anything, Sadiq.”
He shifted his legs, trying to get more comfortable.
“No, they can’t make me. But, as you can see, they’re not happy about me pulling out. I was only supposed to drive them up to Smith’s place in Hertfordshire. I said I couldn’t do it, and to them that’s a betrayal they can’t forgive. I thought they were going to kill me. And they may well yet, but their minds are focused on what’s going to happen tomorrow morning.”
I was desperately trying to come up with a solution, a plan or something.
“What about the police, Sadiq? Why don’t you go to them now and say what these men are going to do?”
“Because they’ll put me in prison for ever. They’ll think I’m just as bad as the others. They won’t thank me, pat me on the back and send me home. They’ll know I’ve been mixing with terrorists. They’ll call me a terrorist too, which I suppose is what I am.”