by Kia Abdullah
Approaching footsteps paused by her side. ‘Zar, you look like shit.’ Safran stood above her with an amused smile.
‘Well, fuck you too,’ she replied, accepting his kiss with a tilt of her cheek.
He took a seat and glanced at his watch. ‘Am I late?’
‘No, but I wish you’d stop booking places like this.’ Zara gestured out at the room.
‘What places?’
She shrugged. ‘These places where people wear shoes that cost more than my monthly income.’
Safran frowned. He found it hard to digest that Zara Kaleel was intimidated by a place like Sorbero. She was made for a place like this, or at least she used to be. He took in her white cotton dress and ankle-length boots – imitation leather he noted with disdain – and realised that so much had changed. Perhaps this girl, this chimera of sorts, was now a different person entirely.
Zara caught his strange expression and raised a brow in askance.
He waved away the question. ‘So how are you?’ he asked, catching her stifled yawn.
‘I’m fine. Just tired. I’m working on a difficult case which is driving me down.’
Safran’s eyes glinted curiously. ‘Tell me.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s a sensitive one. Under wraps for now.’
‘Don’t be a tease, Zar. If you didn’t want to tell me, you wouldn’t have brought it up.’
She felt a sweet heaviness in her arms, the first sign that the pills were working. She smiled and said, ‘I can’t.’
‘Oh, come on. I tell you everything.’
She relaxed in her chair, feeling warm and pleasantly calm. ‘Not this one, Saf.’ She blinked languidly, letting her thoughts come to rest. ‘I can’t.’ As the evening wore on, however, and the Diazepam dissolved her resolve, she began to reveal the details of the case. With Safran’s gentle persistence, she told him about her pitiful protagonist and the four villains of the tale. She spoke of Amir, the ringleader, so handsome and respectable. She told him about Mia and Dexter and spoke at length of her concerns.
When she finished, Safran leaned forward with his elbows on the table. ‘Zar, this could be big. This could be really, really big.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you sure you can handle it?’ He pre-empted her sarcasm: ‘Yes, I know you’re Zara the Brave but this could get ugly. Four Muslim boys raping a deformed white chav?’
Zara flinched. ‘Don’t call her that.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Sorry. Jodie,’ he said portentously.
‘Why are you being snarky about her?’
Safran placed his fork on the plate. ‘I’m worried about what this is going to do.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Zara said with a shrug.
‘I don’t mean just to you. I mean to us.’
‘Us?’ she asked stupidly. ‘You and me?’
‘Christ, Zar, I mean to Muslims.’
‘Oh.’ Zara caught on. ‘Right.’ She blinked through her chemical fug. ‘What am I supposed to do? Step away just because they’re Muslim? Jodie deserves her day in court.’
Safran winced. ‘But she can do it without you, no? You’re going to be right in the crossfire.’
Zara shrugged. ‘Look, things have changed. I’m not the fancy barrister spieling soliloquies outside the Old Bailey. I’ll be behind the scenes.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re a Muslim holding the hand of a girl accusing four Muslim boys of rape. You really think you’ll stay in the background?’
She frowned, feeling suddenly sober. ‘I’m not sure that “staying in the background” should be more important to me than securing justice for Jodie. Am I supposed to put my religion ahead of the fact that I’m a woman? Do I owe more loyalty to Islam than a girl who has been victimised?’
Safran sighed. ‘Of course not. I’m just concerned that this will become a spectacle.’
Zara leaned forward in her chair, her right fist on the dark wooden table. ‘Saf, I believe her. I believe that these boys did what she said they did and if I don’t help her, then I don’t deserve my job and I certainly don’t deserve any fucking self-respect. I have to do this.’
Safran said nothing for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he relented. ‘If you need help, I’m here.’
She nodded plaintively. ‘Thank you.’
‘How are you in general?’ he asked. ‘You look …’
‘Like shit. Yeah, you said.’
He offered no platitude to temper the comment.
‘I’m fine. I’m just tired all the fucking time.’ She rubbed a hand over her forehead and felt a film of grease on her fingers. She laughed. ‘What happened to me, eh?’
Safran smiled, partly in consolation and partly in agreement.
‘I had it all worked out and now look at me.’
‘You’re not doing so badly. Whatever happens, remember that it was your choice. You could have all of this—’ he gestured at the expensive decor, ‘but you don’t want it. You’re doing something worthy now.’
They looked at each other for a beat and then started laughing.
‘Being a sincere fucker doesn’t suit me, huh?’ said Safran.
‘Not nearly as much as a cynical bastard.’ Zara smiled, warm in the glow of effortless friendship. She knew that even if she didn’t see Safran for months, it would still be the same when they finally made time. Mainly, it was because there was no expectation, no drama and certainly no sexual history. Safran’s taste in women was comically consistent. His exes were all tall and willowy with honey-blonde hair, inimitable tans and an athletic grace that comes from years of swimming in oceans. They were women that demanded a certain lifestyle and acquired it with ease. He and Zara were more like comrades. They shared some bluster and a bit of bravado but more importantly they had a mutual respect that ran deep and strong. She leaned back now and let him refill her drink, genuinely relaxed for the first time in weeks.
Jodie watched the cigarette ash drift to the armchair, singeing yet another hole in the orange-brown upholstery. A cough racked through her mother’s body.
‘You think I can go in my state?’ spat Christine.
Jodie blinked. ‘Mum, please. It’s past nine and the delivery man comes first thing tomorrow.’ Even as she said the words, she knew they’d be ignored.
‘I’m not going to starve to death just because you’re too busy fucking about on your phone. I swear to God, I’ll trash that thing – I don’t care if you got it for free or not.’ She doubled over and coughed violently, her lungs rasping with the effort. She looked at Jodie with contempt. ‘I’ll do it right now.’
With a cold hand, Jodie reached for the twenty-pound note lying on the cracked glass table. She hadn’t left the house in days. The thought of it triggered pools of clammy sweat in the crevices of her torso. She folded the note carefully and placed it her pocket. A vision of Nina rose in her mind. That’s called the condom pocket, Nina had said, hooking an elegant finger into Jodie’s jeans. You’ll never need one of course. A high-pitched laugh – malice disguised as jest. Jodie had shrugged it off, just as she always did.
Her mother’s cough cut through her thoughts, the harsh vowels almost physical in force. Sensing an onslaught, Jodie turned quickly and left the flat. She closed the door and tugged it hard to make sure the lock would catch. A few weeks ago she had woken to a freezing house, the front door wide open because her mother hadn’t closed it. She ambled down the stairwell, her hands dug deep in her pockets to stave off the evening breeze. Her thoughts wandered to the documentary she had seen on YouTube the night before. It was about women in Pakistan who had been burned with acid by angry men: jealous husbands and would-be lovers. Some were like Jodie – introverted, withdrawn, desperate – but there were others: confident, outgoing women who walked the world as if beautiful and free. Would she ever be like that? Would she ever be free of this feeling?
Hunkering into her jacket, she walked down the lamp-lit street. Balfor Towers loomed on one side, a forty-five-storey concre
te giant slicing into the twilight sky. Its concourse was littered with broken furniture. A pram rested on its side, a broken wheel sitting askew. Next to it, a broken TV, its blue and red wires like earthworms breaking free. And, of course, a soiled mattress. It seemed that as soon as one was cleared away, another would appear in its place, as if an artist had painted a dystopian scene and insisted that a mattress be part of the tableau.
As she passed Higham Street, she listened for whispers from number seventy-two. Fish face, they would call in a hushed singsong tone. Hey, fish face. She never dared to look, never dared to challenge them. She hurried to the top of the street and pushed open the newsagent door. She nodded at Qessar, the Turkish clerk who always treated her with kindness. With basket in hand, she walked down a narrow aisle to the dairy section. She selected a pint of milk and checked the sell-by date. She glanced at Qessar and, seeing that he was staring at her, popped the pint in her basket instead of swapping it with another. She walked on and added a few items to her basket, mentally subtracting from the twenty pounds in her pocket to ensure there was enough for her mother’s cigarettes. She paused at the confectionary section but realised she didn’t have enough for a Milky Way. She headed to the counter instead. Qessar nodded hello and Jodie asked for a twenty-pack of Marlboro Gold.
Qessar glanced right and left, then nodded. ‘We’re out. I have to go round the back.’
‘Okay, thank you.’ She watched him walk to the stockroom, casting a backward glance in her direction. She drummed her fingers on the counter, waiting for his return. After a few seconds, she caught something in the reflection behind the counter. She spun round and stared in horror. Her hand, unsteady with shock, reached forward and picked up a copy of The Sunday Sun. When she heard Qessar’s steps, she stuffed the paper beneath her jacket and spun back to the counter. Qessar slipped the cigarettes into the basket.
‘Twenty pounds thirty-nine.’
She dug around in her jacket pocket, her fingers closing around a fifty-pence piece. She handed it over with the twenty-pound note, fighting to keep her hands still. Outside, she shifted the paper beneath her jacket then walked home as quickly as her gait would allow.
Jodie handed over the cigarettes and put away the meagre groceries. With everything in its place, she walked to her room and closed the door. She sat on her bed and tried to still her jangling nerves. After a full minute, she unzipped her jacket and retrieved the paper.
‘FOUR MUSLIM TEENS RAPE DISABLED ENGLISH GIRL’ the headline shouted in bold black lettering. Jodie’s eyes stung with tears, hot and glassy on her skin as they rolled down her cheeks, paused on her malformed chin and then kamikazed to her lap. She thought of Nina’s reaction: the pity, the anger, the utter miscomprehension. Now the whole world would know. They would all think she was crazy. With trembling hands, she lay the paper across her lap and read the opening paragraph.
Four East London teens have been accused of brutally raping and humiliating a disabled young classmate in an hour-long ordeal. The accused who cannot be named for legal reasons are all Muslim and from Pakistani or Bangladeshi backgrounds of which there are large quantities throughout the boroughs of East London. The teens reportedly indulged in drugs and alcohol before luring their English victim to an abandoned warehouse nearby, subjecting her to brutal rape and assault. Mere weeks after the gang rape by Asian men of a twenty-year-old girl in Bolton, this latest event underlines the fact that parochial views towards women are not restricted to faraway lands; the hate and misogyny have been brought to our very own doorsteps.
One must question the utter savagery of targeting a victim who has suffered physical disability since birth. Psychologist Linda Bauer says assaults of this nature are not motivated by sexual attraction as much as an all-consuming desire to dominate: ‘The fact that the victim is already in a vulnerable position could have actually been more arousing for these boys. They were taking a defenceless creature and using her for their gains. It’s easy to see someone “weak” as your plaything.’
Creature. The word rang in Jodie’s ears. She turned to page five where the story continued. A picture of five men convicted in a sexual abuse case in northern England sat at the top of the page, its contrast darkened to cast shadows beneath their features. Their smiles seemed mocking – almost manic. The caption read: ‘Evil: A ring of Muslim sex abusers in Aylesbury was convicted earlier this year in an eerie precursor to the new case in London.’
The article included her classmates’ immigrant histories and more explanatory quotes from Dr Linda Bauer before its rousing finale.
Action must be taken against these predatory men who choose young, native British women on whom to feast. Their actions are symbolic of a wider epidemic that signals to Asian men: ‘We can have these women; they are here for the taking.’ We must stop them taking. We must call for justice.
Jodie closed her eyes. There was only one person who would have done this. She picked up her phone and dialled Nina. She listened to the phone ring five, six, seven times before it clicked onto voicemail. Nina, dripping with breathy sensuality, explained that she was unavailable to take the call. Jodie hung up in time with the beep. She swallowed, then scrolled through her phone and tried Zara. It rang for a full thirty seconds before it too clicked through to voicemail. There was no personalised welcome message, only the network’s automated instruction to speak after the tone. Jodie hung up and immediately tried again. The phone rang on, its high, shrill notes stirring panic as she listened. She felt it shift like iron filings converging and diverging in the pit of her stomach. How could this have happened? How could Nina have done it? And where was Zara?
Jodie hung up and scrolled desperately through her contacts. Her gaze hitched on a name: Mia. Surely, she would know what to do. Jodie called the number and felt a surge of relief when she answered immediately.
‘Jodie, are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m … I’m sorry to call like this. I just …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Mia. ‘I take it you’ve seen the papers?’
‘Yes.’
Mia exhaled. ‘Have you spoken to Zara?’
‘No. I can’t get a hold of her.’
‘I see.’ Mia’s tone was even. ‘I can find her for you.’
‘No, that’s okay. I just—I didn’t know if I should do anything so I called you.’
‘Don’t do anything for now. Just sit tight. We’re going to find out who leaked this.’
‘I think I know who did it,’ said Jodie haltingly. ‘I think it was Nina, my best friend.’ Jodie’s voice caught on the last two words.
Mia was silent for a moment. ‘There may be reporters …’
Jodie grimaced. ‘I shouldn’t have started this.’
‘You have to be strong, Jodie.’
‘I know. I’m just … stunned.’
‘I understand.’ Mia softened her tone. ‘Do you need me to come over?’
Jodie glanced at the dark sky outside her window. ‘No. I’ll be okay.’
Mia’s breath was audible on the line. ‘Okay. I’ll let you know as soon as we know something more. Please call me again if you need anything.’
‘I will. Thank you.’ Jodie’s voice was flat and featureless. She swept the newspaper to the floor, curled onto her bed and closed her eyes. I want to take it back, rang her sole desperate thought. Please, God. Please. I just want to take it back.
Chapter Five
The first knock didn’t rouse Jodie. It was the second, clinking against the window like ice cubes in a glass, that drew her forth from slumber. She blinked against the backdrop of faraway voices. At first, she thought they had bled from sleep, but they wafted to her now in short, sharp bursts without the blurry edges of nightmares or dreams.
The third knock made her bolt upright. Without thought, she drew aside the curtain above her bed. She jerked backwards in surprise as flashes of light popped outside. Faces loomed behind an outsized camera and shards of speech burst inside.
‘We’ll compensate you for your time!’
‘Protect your identity!’
‘Your side of the story!’
Her first thought was of her mother. If they lured her out, there would be no end to the lurid headlines. Jodie stole out of bed with a quiet urgency and crept across the threadbare floor, head low and shoulders hunched as if they could see her through the sickly lemon walls.
She found her mother sprawled on the sofa, her fleshy grey T-shirt dotted with ash. A pile of crushed cans lay scattered by her feet. Jodie picked up the debris and walked into the kitchen. Pressing the pedal on the bin, she placed the waste quietly inside. Voices wafted through the single-glazed windows but left her mother unroused. There, next to the bin, Jodie slid to the cold kitchen floor and resolutely waited for her mother to wake.
Zara set down the phone with a frown. Jodie had called twice last night: first at 9.33 and again a minute later. Zara had been deep in a chemical sleep and only called back this morning – three times to no avail.
Now, with a sense of disquiet, she switched on her computer and focused on its soothing hum. It was just whirring to life when Stuart marched into her office and dropped a thick stack of newspapers on top of her ordered files.