Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

‘It’s fine,’ her husband had said. ‘Don’t get hysterical.’ But she had heard the horror stories. She had heard how Muslim boys were shot in raids and evidence planted in computers. She had to protect her son.

  When the bath was full of clothes, she took an armload and stuffed it in the washing machine. The rest she hosed down with two cups of detergent. She hurried back and gathered all the electronics strewn across his room: his laptop, his dusty old Xbox, a mobile phone with a shattered screen and several USB sticks. She took them to her room and scanned her furniture for a lockable hiding place or secret cavity. She thought desperately of a place to deposit the loot.

  Finally, she rushed to the kitchen and located the large piece of Tupperware her husband used for leftovers from the restaurant. Inside, she lay the items in layers: first the laptop, then the console, then the phone and USB sticks slotted around the sides. With everything neatly inside, she shut the lid, wrapped the box in several bags of plastic and took it out to the garden. Gathering a fistful of her sari, she bent with a trowel and began to dig. When she had a hole almost two feet deep, she pressed the container inside and covered it with soil. She patted it down and scattered stones and leaves across the top to disguise the fact that it had been disturbed.

  She stood over the spot in silence until the evening breeze made her shiver with cold. A vision of a nine-year-old Hassan crept into her mind, up in his room one sunny afternoon, standing over his cousin as quiet as a mouse. Her hands began to shake. She was doing this to protect her son.

  Back inside the house, she laid a fresh set of sheets on his bed and then gathered an armful of her husband’s clothes. Carefully, she arranged the garments around Hassan’s room: a jumper askew on the back of a chair, balled socks at the foot of the bed, a pair of trousers at the bottom of the closet. It was only when the first wash cycle spun to a close that her heartbeat began to slow. What would those kafir do to her boy?

  She unloaded the machine and was crouched down beside the basket when she heard the first knock. She froze for a moment, flinching when it came again, hard and insistent. She crept down the stairs and peeked through a window, coming face to face with a uniformed policeman. He pointed to the door.

  ‘Open up please, madam.’

  Sameena stepped back from the window, her head thumping with dread. A heavy fist hammered on the door, the calls loud and impatient. She couldn’t just leave them on the doorstep, rousing Jahanara’s mum and Mrs Patel across the road. She gathered up her nerve, stepped forward and turned the latch.

  A heavyset man, too fat to be a policeman, held up a black wallet with a badge and ID. He spoke to her with surprising calm and then, without invitation, he stepped inside. Two other men followed. They asked her questions she did not understand, the only familiar word her son’s name said over and over. Hassan, Hassan, Hassan. What fate had he drawn to this house?

  The men marched upstairs, making her stomach lurch with each staccato step. She had checked everything carefully but what if they found something she missed? What if her efforts had all been in vain? In advancing hysteria, she hurried upstairs after them, standing sentry as they rummaged through her home and gathered up its pieces in evidence bags.

  Every so often, one or the other would pause, asking her questions she couldn’t understand. One mimed the act of tapping on a keyboard but Sameena simply shrugged, pretending not to understand their search for a laptop. She caught the exasperation edging into his tone, the subtle roll of his eyes, the silent implication: Stupid woman. You stupid old woman.

  They spent an hour meticulously combing her home. The fat policeman handed her a pile of papers, emphasising some lines of small black text. With a final sigh of annoyance, he gathered the last bag and walked out the door, leaving it open behind him.

  Sameena shut it with trembling hands. She made herself some tea and sat on the sweaty leather sofa, mindlessly swirling the cup in her hands. In a low voice, she recited prayers of gratitude, thankful that she’d had time to clear his room and hide his sins.

  It was when the clock struck nine that she heard the front door whine open. Her husband, Irfan, walked in, his thin frame hunched against the falling darkness. Hassan trailed in behind him. Sameena hurried to the corridor, biting down her anguish. She embraced her son and wrapped a protective arm around his head.

  ‘What is happening?’ she asked.

  ‘Kuthain-okol.’ Irfan swore, a low growl that rippled with anger. ‘A girl from his school is accusing them of such besharam things. And these police – they just believe anything she says.’

  Sameena’s nails dug into her palms. ‘What things? What’s happening?’

  ‘Mum, calm down,’ said Hassan. ‘It’s nothing to worry about.’ His voice sounded strangely hollow as if reading from a script. ‘Some girl at school said she got pushed around by me and the boys. It’s not true, so it’s fine. There are four of us and one of her. It’s our word against hers. And everyone already knows that she’s crazy.’

  ‘But why is she saying these things?’

  Hassan shrugged. ‘I don’t know why but you don’t need to worry about it.’

  Sameena threw up her hands. She cooked, cleaned and ran the home but every time there were important decisions to be made, she was told ‘you don’t need to worry’. Well, she did worry. And when her son was dragged to the police station in broad daylight with no stronger defence than his kitchen porter father, she most definitely worried.

  ‘Why would she say such a thing? The police don’t just barge into someone’s home without reason!’

  Hassan’s voice rose a register. ‘They were here?’

  Sameena gripped his shoulder. ‘Yes, but don’t worry. They didn’t find anything.’

  He jerked out from under her hand. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jahanara’s mum told me what these police do, so I took all your things and washed all your clothes. If they say they found something, I will know they planted it.’

  Hassan sucked in a short breath. ‘What did they take?’

  ‘Your TV and some of your father’s clothes. Everything else I took from your room.’

  Hassan almost laughed – a sound that was strange and strangled. ‘Mum, you’re crazy. What did you hide?’

  She pictured the items in the Tupperware box. ‘Your laptop, that old games machine, a broken mobile phone and the small silver sticks from your drawer.’

  ‘Where did you put it?’

  Sameena watched him closely, noting his sharp relief. She held his gaze and said, ‘I’ve thrown it all away.’

  He flinched. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I’ve thrown it away.’ Her voice was calm and firm. ‘In the canal. I didn’t want the police to find it.’

  Hassan reared away from her. ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Your phone was broken anyway. You don’t play games on that machine anymore and you’re always complaining about your laptop. We can buy you a new one now.’

  Hassan’s eyes grew narrow. ‘Mum, there’s no way you’ve thrown my stuff away. Where is it?’

  She gestured at her sari, the hem muddied brown by soil. ‘I walked to the canal and threw it all in.’

  Hassan’s jaw fell slack. ‘But I need my stuff. It’s got my pictures, my files, everything.’ He turned to appeal to his father. ‘Aba, she’s got to be joking. Tell her I need my things.’ His voice was whiny to even his own ears.

  ‘Hassan, go up to your room. Let me talk to your mother.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go,’ he repeated.

  Hassan’s face burned red but he knew better than to defy his father. Saying no more, he turned and walked upstairs.

  ‘Sameena, what did you do?’ Irfan’s voice was low.

  She held up a hand to calm him. ‘Don’t worry. His things are safe but he’s not getting them until this is over.’

  Irfan sighed. ‘The boy needs his things.’

  ‘Why does he need these things?’ she asked. ‘His exams are finished.’<
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  ‘Boys need ways to keep busy. Do you want him out on the streets?’

  ‘Do you want him in jail?’ she shot back. She watched a rift of anger crack open across his face. ‘I’m just protecting him,’ she insisted. ‘You look at your son and you see a nice religious boy and Hassan is a good boy, but a mother knows the nature of her son and she protects him no matter what.’

  Irfan scowled. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  Sameena smiled serenely. ‘Please – just trust that I did the right thing.’ She patted on the sofa. ‘Sit down. I’ll make you some tea.’

  He began to protest but she had already turned towards the kitchen, using three quick steps to end the conversation.

  At the top of the stairs, Hassan strained to hear but caught only murmurs. In silence, he crept to his parents’ room and dialled Amir’s home from the landline.

  ‘Jesus, what a fucked up day.’ Amir’s voice was weary.

  Hassan took a shallow breath. ‘Have the feds been round?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Amir paused. ‘You?’

  ‘Mate, you won’t believe this. The feds at the station took the phone you lent me, but my mum threw away the one that got broken. She’s chucked all my stuff away. My laptop, my games. Even my stash has gone. The feds got none of it.’

  Amir whistled. ‘Mate, your mum’s a gangster.’

  ‘She thinks she’s done me a favour.’

  Amir laughed. ‘Well, she has, hasn’t she?’

  ‘How can you be so chilled about it?’ said Hassan. ‘We got arrested. She told them we raped her, for fuck’s sake.’

  Amir was silent for a moment. ‘Mate, I have to be chill. Mum’s hit the roof as usual.’ He sighed. ‘She’s been going on about it for hours: all the tutoring she’s spent money on, all the school reports, all the parents’ evenings and meetings and on and on. I have to be chill or else I’ll go mad.’

  Hassan tightened his grip on the phone. ‘But aren’t you worried?’

  ‘No,’ said Amir. ‘Jodie won’t go through with this. It’s a fucked up situation for sure, but once she calms down, she’ll take it back.’

  Hassan slid onto his parents’ bed. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. Just be cool. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.’

  Hassan swallowed his weaving nerves. ‘Okay, man.’ He hung up the phone and sat motionless, unable or unwilling to return to his room.

  Farid Khan let the ball fall from his grip and watched it roll away. Shoulders slumped, he sat on the wooden block by the path and felt his sweat cool, sending chills down his spine. Shivering, he sat still, not quite ready to leave.

  He spotted the slim woman with cropped hair walking purposefully towards him. Instinctively, he lowered his gaze. It was only when she stopped directly in front of him that he looked up and met her eyes.

  ‘Hi.’ Her voice was husky but soft. It made him think of warm sand slipping through his fingers.

  ‘Hi,’ he echoed.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  He looked at her leather jacket, her skin-tight jeans and knee-high boots. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.’

  ‘Ha!’ She sounded amused.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked less certainly.

  ‘Can I sit?’

  Farid looked over her shoulder, then back up at her. He shrugged.

  Erin sat and curled her graceful legs beneath her. ‘I’m a friend of Amir’s. I know that he’s in some trouble.’

  Farid smiled faintly. ‘Amir never gets in trouble.’

  ‘Not yet, but we both know it’s coming.’

  Farid looked at her quizzically, his thick, dark brows furrowed in confusion. ‘Who are you? How do you know Amir?’

  ‘I’m working the Jodie Wolfe case.’ She watched him stiffen. ‘I know that Amir and some of his friends did something stupid and they’re about to get into some serious trouble. I’m trying to help him.’ She paused. ‘You do know Jodie, right?’

  Farid’s gaze fell to the floor.

  ‘Is she a friend?’

  He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  Erin studied his face. ‘Did you see Amir with Jodie at Kuli’s party?’

  ‘Amir doesn’t talk to any of the ugly girls.’ Farid caught Erin’s expression. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call her ugly – she just … well, she is, right?’

  ‘Farid, I’d like to talk to you about what happened that night.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Were you drinking?’

  He scoffed. ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘What time did you leave the party?’

  He looked at her sideways. ‘Are you from the police?’

  Erin smiled. ‘No, I’m a private investigator. When someone’s in trouble, I go out and find the truth about what happened. If it turns out that whatever they’re accused of is an exaggeration or misunderstanding, then I help them. I know you didn’t do anything wrong that night, but you’re going to go down for it unless you tell the truth.’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ Farid insisted.

  ‘Then why does Jodie say it did? She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would accuse you for kicks.’

  ‘She’s just trying to get his attention.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Farid sighed. ‘She’s not right in the head. She’s always sending him secret messages, even leaving notes in his locker. Amir is kind enough to ignore it. If she was anyone else, she’d be made a fool.’

  Erin watched him carefully. There was no hint of a quiver in his voice, no nuance of doubt, nothing to suggest his guilt. She shifted to face him. ‘You’ve got to listen to me, Farid. What Jodie has said about Amir is serious. Really fucking serious, and you’re about to get sucked into it. If you tell me the truth about what happened, I can help you.’

  Farid’s fingertips traced the grain of his beard. ‘Listen, I’ve known Amir since we were both five. He plays the big man around town because he can, but he’s a good bloke. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. This is just Jodie messing with him. I told you – she’s not right.’

  Erin took in his quiet assurance, his polite manner, his steadfast gaze. She could spot a liar at ten paces and this boy wasn’t lying.

  ‘Okay. Can you think of any other reason why Jodie would want to get Amir in trouble?’

  ‘There’s nothing else I can think of. He’s always been polite to her. He has a thing about the underdog and he cares about things in ways other people don’t.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Erin’s tone was sardonic.

  Farid picked up a stray twig and spun it slowly in his hands. ‘When we were eleven, we went down to Vicky Park late one evening. It was just gone spring and it was still a bit too chilly for all the Hackney hipsters. Me, Amir and these other boys were there. This boy Omar had a pellet gun. We were arsing about with it, trying to hit trees and bins and stuff. And then, one of the boys dared him to shoot a swan on the other side of the lake. Omar was laughing about it and we were goading him, calling him chicken and all that. Finally, after about ten minutes of this, Omar takes aim. We didn’t think he was going to do it. We really didn’t. But then he pulled the trigger and hit the thing square in the chest. I’ve never heard a sound like it. It was like a young kid squealing in pain. It was kicking its legs, trying desperately to stay afloat, fighting desperately for its life. We all turned a shade of pale I’ve never seen before. That sound still loops in my nightmares. Five minutes passed and it still fought, still desperate, still screaming. Finally, Amir grabbed the gun and aimed it at the swan’s head. The look on his face was …’ Farid paused.

  ‘That’s the only time I saw him cry. He did what needed to be done, what none of the rest of us could do because he cared about that animal. It’s not just a one-time thing neither. Two years ago, he brought home this mistreated dog. His parents gave him hell for it but he kept her; named her “Rocky” because she’s a fighter. That’s who he is. He cares about things weaker than hi
m.’ Farid shook his head. ‘Whatever Jodie’s saying about him, it’s not true. It’s not.’

  Erin studied him for a moment. Then, she stood and thanked him. ‘I guess I’ll be seeing you.’

  Farid shrugged, then watched her disappear into the distance. He picked up his muddy ball and turned wearily towards home.

  Mo uncapped the seam ripper and slid it beneath the delicate blue thread. He flicked up the blade and broke the stitch. With practised fluency, he moved across the Banarasi brocade material, unpicking his mother’s mistake.

  Mo had served as her assistant for years, both of them cramped into the draughty storeroom that she had turned into a tailor’s studio. In July, with wedding season in full swing, her work was seemingly endless. Still, at least Mo’s exams were now finished. In April, he used to stop studying at three and spend the next two hours sewing. Bushra would insist he return to his studies, but he could see the worry creasing her brows as the work stacked up outside. It was slow and intricate and could not be rushed, but she took on too much, for the money. On a shelf above her sewing machine, she kept meticulous records of all activity: clients, jobs, transactions and leads, every single pound colour-coded into bridal wear, casual wear and Western wear.

  As a young child, Mo learnt to think in colours and textures: nylon was frustration, brown was honesty, blue was freedom and silk was carefree whimsy. He had been so proud of their bridal creations: the diaphanous golds and glittering reds and thousands of shiny stones. At age seven, he had unwittingly told his friends about one such garment and was ceaselessly teased for weeks. He came home crying one day and Bushra wrapped him in her soft arms.

  ‘I can’t tell you to ignore them,’ she said. ‘You will always care what people think of you – that’s just the way of the world – but you can decide how you act in return. You can choose to be cruel like them to make yourself feel tall, or you can treat others with kindness to balance out the shortfall.’ She sat him on her lap. ‘There will be moments in your life when you must decide in an instant. What you do is up to you, but I hope you never choose to be cruel.’

  He watched her now and marvelled at her sleight of hand. Where other parents were pushy and dogmatic, she steered him with the lightest touch. She told him what she believed to be right and let him set his own course. With this skill and subtlety, she weaved him with a sense of justice.