Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

Dexter tugged at his tie, too tight around a neck already tinged pink in the heat. ‘But it’s naive to think that desire plays no part at all.’

  Zara scoffed. ‘So what are you trying to say? Ugly girls don’t get raped?’ She pushed the laptop towards him. ‘There are plenty of handsome men who rape women; plenty of successful and wealthy men who rape women; plenty of politicians and celebrities who rape women – it’s not about them being unable to find anyone else to screw.’

  The colour deepened in Dexter’s face and he looked to his partner for help, but Mia was busy reading the file. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Dexter swiped at his brow. ‘I’m a man – a normal one – so I don’t understand why someone would want to sleep with a woman unless he was attracted to her.’

  ‘And that’s what scares me,’ said Zara. ‘There will be men on that jury – “normal men” as you say – and maybe Jodie doesn’t have a hope in hell.’ Her voice edged louder and she caught herself with a grimace, fully aware that force in this case was useless. She was annoyed with Dexter – baffled how a police officer could take such a narrow view – but also aware he was just telling the truth. Jodie’s case was complex with mounds of delicate nuance. Dexter didn’t understand it and neither might a jury, but shouting at them was not the way to fix it. Instead, they needed an expert – and Zara knew just the person.

  She held a hand up in surrender. ‘Look, I didn’t come here to attack you. I’m just worried about the case.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Dexter. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Zara accepted the truce, then tore a page from her diary and scribbled down two names. The first was Dr Tilda Bussman, an expert on sexual behaviour that she had used in previous trials. She was good with juries, said Zara, and could clearly explain the complexities of a case. The second name was Barbara Grant, the teacher from Bow Road Secondary who could testify to the boys’ bad character. Dexter accepted the note with thanks, his tone no longer frosty.

  The three of them sat in the room, windows beating with mid-summer sun, and thought of the troubles ahead. They had a collective four decades of experience in the law and could predict when a case would explode. This one here was going to be one of them.

  Zara stepped from the lift with two bags of groceries and searched her bag for her keys. As her fingers brushed against the cool metal, she stopped mid-stride in the hallway. Luka stood by her door, leaning against the cream corridor wall. His eyes were weary and the dark circles beneath them told her he hadn’t been sleeping. She felt a sudden rush of affection. She walked to him and, standing on tiptoe, leaned in and kissed his lips, possibly the first loving kiss of their relationship.

  He blinked in surprise.

  She nodded at the door. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  He took the bags from her, his climber’s arms flexing beneath the weight. Wordlessly, they unpacked her groceries, he more natural in her kitchen than she. When they finished, he turned to her solemnly.

  ‘I’m leaving for Nepal in two weeks and I want to say something to you before I go.’ He tensed for a moment, expecting a rebuff. When there was none, he continued, ‘When I started training, I was completely focused. I was in the best shape of my life. I was fit and ready and couldn’t wait to get out there. And then I met you. I know you joke and call me “sorbet” – your palate cleanser or whatever – but this isn’t casual for me anymore.’

  Luka grasped one of her hands. ‘I don’t want to be five thousand miles away wondering what we’ll be when I get back. I don’t want to wonder if you’re with another man. I don’t want to worry. I want to know that I’m with you and that you’re with me and I want to know that you’ll wait.’

  Zara’s eyes felt hot with emotion. She felt a tug of tenderness and was thrown by his honesty, overwhelmed by this man and his rugged but gentle manner, his soft Colorado drawl and unimpeachable sense of right and wrong. Dormant emotions hummed to life, beseeching her to yield. But darker instincts kicked into play when she recalled the last time they met: yes, and even he couldn’t stand you by the end. The shock of those words and the painful truth that lay beneath came to her with startling clarity. She took a step back, physically repelled by the sting.

  ‘Luka.’ She swallowed hard and met his gaze. ‘I’m happy the way things are.’ Why was it that men could say those words with impunity but women always sounded so cold?

  ‘You’re happy the way things are?’ Luka searched her face. ‘Zara, what I said to you last week was fucking awful. I acted like an asshole and I’m sorry. I—I’m just …’ A low groan of frustration rose from his chest. ‘I just wanted a reaction. I don’t know how to explain this, but ever since we met, I—I feel like I’ve been looking at you sideways, like if I get too close and dare to look at you directly, you’ll flee. And so I’ve been here, by you but not with you.’ He ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. ‘I want that to change.’

  She was silent for a moment, the words still ringing in her ears. Even he couldn’t stand you by the end. She looked at him impassively. ‘I understand, Luka. I want you to know that I’m invested in this but I think we should let it take its natural course instead of trying to define it or mould it into something that may not be right.’

  He blinked. ‘Don’t do this, Zara. Don’t be an automaton.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said, shoulders squared and jaw set rigid. ‘I’m telling you what I think.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s the problem,’ said Luka. ‘Stop thinking for a second and tell me how you feel.’

  Zara laced her fingers on the kitchen counter. ‘I can’t tell you how I feel because I don’t know how I feel.’ She searched for words to soothe him but none seemed right or honest.

  ‘I see.’ A muscle flexed in Luka’s jaw, his injured ego sounding a retreat. Well, I’ll leave you alone so you can figure it out.’

  She grimaced. ‘You don’t have to go.’

  ‘I want to.’ He stepped back from her reach. ‘Call me when you work out what it is you want.’ With that, he turned and left.

  Zara stared at the door, gleaming white in the swelling chasm between them. She swallowed hard, dousing emotion with cold practicality. She turned back to the counter and folded the grocery bags neatly into the recycling bin. Then she sat at her desk, turned on her lamp and immersed herself in work.

  Fozia Khan stood on her chubby legs and waddled towards the front door. Farid grabbed her by the back of her collar and gently pulled her back just as the bell rang again. He put a finger to his lips and turned down the volume on the Only Fools and Horses rerun. On screen, Rodney and Del Boy continued to argue in silence.

  Farid pointed to the sofa and told his sister to sit. Their father was still at the market stall. Evening trade picked up before Eid so he usually stayed on to make a little extra. Their mother was at her weekly English class at the library down the road, leaving Farid in charge of his siblings.

  The doorbell rang again. ‘Police! Open up! We can hear you in there!’

  Farid turned to his three siblings assembled on the living-room floor. ‘Get up and sit on the sofa. Don’t say anything.’

  He walked down the dimly lit corridor and paused in hesitation. With a deep breath to brace him, he gently opened the door. There stood two police officers, one in uniform and one whom Farid recognised as DC Dexter, the craggy redhead who had questioned him six days earlier.

  Dexter held out his badge. ‘Miss me?’ he asked. He handed over a piece of paper. ‘We’d like to collect these items please.’

  Farid gingerly read the sheet. The police had come to his home last week and taken his phone, computer and the family camera, and now they wanted more? On the list was the brown jumper Farid’s father had handed down to him three years ago and a pair of beige trousers from his cousin Bilal. The trainers listed were his only pair. He grimaced when he saw that they also wanted his socks from that night. All his pairs had gaping holes.

  Dexter pushed the door wider. ‘Do you mind?’ He took a step inside. ‘Who else is in
the house?’

  Farid stood aside. ‘My sister and my two brothers.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the living room.’

  ‘Tell them to stay there please.’

  Farid nodded, nerves needling in his stomach.

  Dexter did a walkthrough and saw that the flat was tiny. There were two bedrooms: one that obviously belonged to the parents and another stuffed with two double beds, occupied by the four children. The bathroom was so small you could touch opposite walls by stretching out your arms. Mould sprouted along the edge of the tiles and the wallpaper puckered with damp. The kitchen reeked of stale spices and fried onion. The living room was the only one that had a bit of space. He could imagine that most of the ‘living’ happened here where there was room enough to breathe.

  Dexter turned to Farid, ignoring the children on the sofa. ‘Let’s have it then, son.’

  With only the briefest pause, Farid led them to his bedroom. He hovered by his closet door. ‘Do you have to take my trainers? They’re the only ones I’ve got.’

  Dexter smiled without kindness. ‘You should have been careful what you did in them then.’

  Farid said nothing in response. He opened the closet door and leaned down to a small crate stacked atop another just like it. He rifled through and pulled out a few pieces of clothing. He retrieved his trainers and handed them over. ‘Do you know when I’ll get them back?’

  Dexter shook his head. He inspected the items carefully: one jumper, one pair of trousers, a pair of trainers and a pair of brown socks with yellow polka dots. He nodded to the officer who bagged the items and left the room.

  Dexter turned to Farid with a weary wisdom. In a low voice, he said, ‘Listen, son, I don’t know what you boys got up to that day but we know you only watched. If you tell the truth, we can arrange a deal for you.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ve met your father. I know a good man when I see one.’ He waved a hand at the room. ‘I know he deserves better than this. You do too, but things are going to get worse for him if you don’t come clean. Much, much worse.’

  Farid swallowed. ‘I told you – nothing happened that night. Not the way Jodie said it.’

  ‘Well, how did it happen?’

  ‘Exactly how I told you.’

  Dexter sighed. ‘It’s a damn shame to see you do this to your parents out of some misguided loyalty to your friends. You think Hassan, Mohammed or Amir would do the same for you? Had they been spectators, they would have sold you down the river by now.’

  Farid took a step back, distancing himself from Dexter. ‘That may be true but I can’t sell them down the river because they didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the truth.’

  ‘I see.’ Dexter nodded curtly. ‘Well, thank you for your cooperation. Expect us to be in touch.’

  When they left, Farid sank to his knees by his bed and reached for a box beneath it. His fingertips brushed against cardboard and he tugged at the bulk with effort. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Please. Please. Please.’ He rifled through the heavy box and pulled out piles of clothes and squares of threadbare sheets. He pushed apart a bobbled scarf and its matching woolly hat. At the very bottom of the box, he found a plastic bag wrapped around a pair of trainers. He pulled it out with a heave of relief. The trainers were falling apart and now half a size too small, but at least he didn’t have to ask his dad for money to buy a new pair.

  Farid had barely looked him in the eye since the police took their computer last week. Hashim had worked two months straight to fund it: a great big hulk of a Dell that helped Farid get As in all his mock exams. He had promised himself that one day he’d pay his father back, but now the computer was gone with no promise of its return. Farid held the muddy trainers and felt a sense of defeat. Amir had said it would soon blow over, but really it was only beginning.

  One Canada Square twinkled in the early evening light: 3,960 tiny bright windows all spoke of promise and gain. Flanked by broad blocks of steel and glass – home to hedge funds and investment banks – the iconic tower was a call to arms, a gleaming chalice, an artful promise that were you born poor, you could now be rich.

  As a child, Zara would watch the tower’s gentle green beacon sweep across the sky, steady like a metronome. She would curl up on the windowsill against the thick plate glass and imagine the life to come: a corner office with a view; a natty assistant, loyal, efficient and somehow always male; a life of strife, yes, but also wealth and laughter. She’d had so much hope, so much expectation as she watched that light at night. Strangely, now with a better vantage, she never seemed to see it shine.

  She dwelled on that fact until her landline rang, the trill high and heavy. She sat for a moment, wanting to ignore it, but knowing it would ring and ring. She strode over and snatched up the receiver, sure of who was calling.

  She cradled the heavy brass with her shoulder and said, ‘Hello, Assalamu alaikum.’ The two-part greeting used to make her cringe as a child if it was a non-Muslim person calling. She feared they would think it gibberish.

  ‘Walaikum assalam.’ Sure enough, it was her mother on the line. ‘I’ve tried calling you,’ she said. ‘Why did you storm off last Saturday?’

  Zara pulled the cord taut. She was tired of being the prickly one, the fractious one, the one that nursed a temper. ‘I left because of Rafiq,’ she said evenly. ‘Why does he think he can talk to me like that?’

  Fatima tutted. ‘What does it matter? They’re only words.’

  Zara sat on the sofa and gazed up at the posters on her wall: legal victories won only when they gained the favour of men. ‘They’re not just words, Mum. He thinks he can tell me what to do, that I should shut up and listen because I’m a woman. I won’t let him treat me like that.’

  Fatima sighed. ‘How can you be this age and still not have learnt that our power as women lies in words – in using them wisely but also in ignoring them? When you become angry over every little thing, you give over your power. Don’t you see that?’

  Zara released the cord, letting it twirl and kink. ‘Yes, but I don’t agree.’

  ‘You don’t agree.’ Fatima’s tone was clipped. ‘That is your response to everything.’

  Zara shook her head. ‘Don’t make this about me. Why don’t you address the way he acts?’ She knew what her mother was thinking: that she was childish, churlish, spoilt by choices already threefold that of the elder generation, but Zara refused to be grateful for these small scraps of progress.

  An edge crept into Fatima’s voice. ‘You are so smart, Zara, but you don’t see the simplest things.’ She paused. ‘You think that women of my generation have never questioned a man’s right to lecture us on our lives. You think that we married a suitable boy and let him control us, and never considered the cost of tradition. You think that, to us, saving face is the most noble act of all.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘We sacrificed our best years not to please our husbands, but to raise our children; for you, so you could be educated and build a better life and have the means to change it if you wished.’

  ‘Then why were you so angry when I did?’ Zara’s fingers curled into fists. If her mother had truly considered the cost of tradition – of marrying a suitable boy – then why ask it of her very own daughter? Why expect the same sacrifice?

  Fatima faltered. ‘You were a barrister,’ she said, the last word soft and reverent. ‘And you gave it all up with no explanation. I deserved to be angry.’

  Zara closed her eyes, certain her mother had wilfully misunderstood. They both knew it wasn’t leaving her career but her marriage that angered her mother the most.

  Fatima cleared her throat. ‘Listen, I didn’t call to argue with you. You made your decision and that is that. The past is in the past.’

  A distant memory rose in Zara’s mind. She, perhaps twelve years old, seated on the living-room floor with her homework scattered across their ersatz Persian rug while Fatima on the sofa read a Bengali newspaper. She made a small, amused sound and Zara glanced up inqui
sitively. ‘Listen to this,’ said her mother. ‘The reporter is talking about last year’s election and writes, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”’ She beamed. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?’

  Zara smiled too, surprised to see her mother – her unsparing, abstemious mother – take such delight in language. For the first time, she experienced the strange sensation that her mother was not just a parent; that perhaps she too had interests and ambitions beyond the realm of their home. Her mother was right of course: the past is never past, yet here she was quoting the very opposite.

  Zara traced a circle on the soft fabric of her sofa. ‘And words are only words, right?’

  ‘Precisely.’ Fatima sounded relieved as if they had crossed a minefield without injury.

  Zara’s eye caught the clock on the wall. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but I have to go.’ For once, it was true. ‘I’m meeting a friend for dinner.’ She hung up with a promise to visit and a cursory goodbye.

  She was in no mood to be social, but fetched her bag nonetheless, pulled on her boots and headed out the door to dinner. At the restaurant, she was restless on arrival. She shrugged off her jacket and accepted a table, glancing around as she did so. The dark wooden floors, Chesterfield chairs and green bankers’ lamps gave the distinct impression of a gentlemen’s club. As she waited, she swapped her cutlery so that her fork sat to the right and her knife to the left – a point of poor etiquette she could not overcome. As a child, she’d been taught that Muslims ate with their right hand because the left was impure, used for unsavoury tasks like cleaning oneself in the bathroom.

  There were dozens of these rules that came to her at different times. Don’t cut paper – it will bring you debt later in life. Don’t step over your sister’s legs – she’ll stop growing and stay that size. Thunderstorms invite spirits, so shut the window and say a prayer. Don’t swap seats while eating or you’ll end up marrying twice. Thinking of them now, in the impatient tone of her mother’s voice, Zara felt a viscous unease. What would happen if she heard about Jodie’s case? Would she understand, or would this be yet another source of contention? The prospect bristled on Zara’s skin, making her tense and edgy. She took a long drink of icy water. The polished glass was cool, and her touch left little patches of shrinking condensation. She watched them disappear and tried to still her jangling mind. She glanced at the door and the tables nearby, then slid a hand in her bag and found the sturdy shape of a bottle. Wrapping her fingers around it, she used her thumb to open the lid. Carefully, she tipped two pills into her hand. Using her ring finger and little finger to hold the pills in place in her palm, she placed the lid back on and pressed it shut with a click. She drew out her hand and with her hair shielding her profile, slipped the pills in her mouth. She swallowed them without water and briefly closed her eyes, waiting for them to work.