Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

  Mia smiled. ‘Why, Mr Stark. Of course we are.’

  Zara hurried along Bow Road, past her old school towards Thames Magistrates’ Court. As a lawyer, she used to stride down here, adrenaline pumping and nerves dancing. She used to tell herself that she was making a difference with her school visits, in giving speeches and handing out certificates to wide-eyed immigrant offspring. Soon she became too busy to give up the time. Eventually, she just stopped trying. She could encourage these malleable young women to aim high and rise above their stations but eventually and inevitably, they would hit the glass ceiling – race, class, sex – and succumb to prosaic dreams. It was inescapable and so she had given up – not just on them but on herself too. Now, the school was just another building.

  She walked past it and approached the rust exterior of the Magistrates’ Court. A grey-haired man with thin-rimmed glasses and a weak chin stood against an orange banister. He stepped forward, thrusting his phone inches from her face. ‘Ms Kaleel, as a Muslim woman, what do you say to all the people who claim that this is a Muslim problem?’

  Other reporters gathered around them. ‘Have you seen the Facebook groups, Ms Kaleel?’ asked a reedy woman dressed in sports leggings and a winter fleece.

  Zara pushed passed them with gritted teeth. As a tenant in chambers, she had completed several levels of media training but had never had call to use it. Now more than ever, she needed a lawyer’s poise. She stepped through the glass doors as a final question snaked its way in behind her. ‘Is it true that Jodie sent Amir love letters through Snapchat?’

  Zara smoothed her scowl and greeted the security guard. With practised speed, she emptied her pockets into a small blue tray and stepped through the metal detector. With thanks, she headed to courtroom five. Inside, she took a seat in the public gallery. Magistrates’ courts were the opposite of everything she had imagined of the law as a child. There were no grand Edwardian designs, no elaborate wooden fixtures, no sense of importance or occasion, just a surgical white and battered brown, more fit for a factory than a sanctum of law.

  The first thing she noticed when the boys filed in was the sheer immaculacy of their dress. In the muted tones of expensive suits, the four were clean-shaven with fresh haircuts and manicured nails. Even Farid, the greengrocer’s son, looked like a Tom Ford model. Zara glanced at Amir’s father who sat rigidly in the gallery and wondered if he had dipped into his pockets to burnish the boys’ credibility.

  With little delay, district judge Anthony Brewer marched into the courtroom and asked the assembly to take a seat. The judge’s clerk addressed Amir first and took his name, address and date of birth.

  ‘You have been charged with rape, contrary to section 1(1) of the Sexual Offences Act 2003. The particulars of the offence are that on the twenty-seventh day of June 2019, you intentionally penetrated Jodie Wolfe, the said Jodie Wolfe not consenting to the penetration and you not reasonably believing that Jodie Wolfe consented. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

  Amir’s green eyes shone clear and bright. ‘Not guilty,’ he said without pause or tremor. Hassan was next, his reedy voice strong with conviction as he echoed Amir’s plea. Mo stood unsteadily, his hands gripped behind him, one fist balled into another. He too pleaded not guilty. Finally, it was Farid’s turn. He faced the lesser charge of secondary liability for rape, but was visibly more anxious than his fellow defendants. His voice cracked just a touch when he echoed the plea of innocence.

  ‘Very well,’ said Judge Brewer, noting the expected result. ‘In that case, I suppose we’d better set a trial date, no?’ From a big grey folder, he fished out two sets of papers and ran through the case formalities: issues in the case, witness and exhibit lists, estimated length of the trial and availability of witness and counsel. He was pleased to note that there were no quarrels or contests.

  ‘Perhaps the case will run smoother than expected,’ he mused. With praise for the counsel’s diligence, Brewer set a trial date for 2 December, just over four months away. He reiterated conditions of the police bail – 8 p.m. curfew, electronic tag, and no contact with the complainant – and then adjourned the hearing. The assembly stood and waited for Brewer to exit.

  Zara closed her notebook and watched the boys leave. As they filed out, she caught a low whisper, hissed in her direction. ‘Khanki.’ Whore.

  Her gaze snapped towards the voice. She hadn’t met the four defendants but in catching Hassan’s amusement, she knew it was he who had tossed her the insult. With no pause for good judgement, she marched to the boy.

  ‘What did you say to me?’ She had spent her entire life listening to men brand women as whores. She’d be damned if she was going to let this sixteen-year-old weasel spit the ugly word at her now.

  Hassan looked at her sweetly. ‘I didn’t say anything, Miss.’

  She hovered there for a second, her face next to his. Then, with her lips curled into a cold smile, she said, ‘I thought so.’ She stepped back and glared at his lawyer. ‘If your client has something to say to me, perhaps it’s best he does it through you.’ With that, she turned and strode away.

  Later, out of earshot in a holding room, Amir elbowed Hassan in the rib. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’

  Hassan shoved away the arm. ‘Do what?’ he asked, boorishly tugging his tie. The windowless room felt stale with four of them stuffed inside.

  Amir threw up his hands. ‘Why did you call her a whore? You think that’s gonna make us look good?’

  Hassan shrugged, the lift of his shoulders jerky and aggressive. ‘I called her a whore because she’s a white-trash wannabe. Look at the way she dresses: skirts up to her arse, heels high like a whore’s. She needs to be told.’

  Amir scowled. ‘I don’t care what she wears. Don’t talk like that. It makes us look like idiots.’

  ‘Ah, I forgot.’ Hassan sniggered. ‘We can’t let Amir the angel’s halo slip, not for one second.’

  Amir flinched in surprise. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, firming his tone as he spoke so that the emphasis lay on the last syllable.

  Hassan smiled coldly. ‘If only they knew the truth.’

  Farid took a step towards them. ‘Alright, guys, that’s enough.’ He, the unelected arbiter of the group, knew to quash conflict before it began. ‘Come on, just sit down.’ He pushed a chair in their direction but both the boys ignored it.

  Amir squared his shoulders. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Hassan curled his lips in spite. ‘We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you.’

  Mo spoke now too, emboldened by Farid. ‘Come on, lads. This ain’t the time or place.’ The lack of conviction was clear in his voice, wary of reprisal. Mo was used to being ridiculed. Hassan’s sharp retorts and swipes to his chest had taught him to be quiet and follow. Now ignored, he sank into his seat, handing back the mantle.

  Hassan sneered at Amir. ‘You and Jodie. You loved the attention. You’ve kept her sniffing around you like a fucking lapdog for years. None of this would have happened if you’d just put her down like the dog she is.’

  Mo stiffened. ‘Come on, Hassan,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s not an animal.’ He teetered on the edge of saying more but was afraid to draw his ire.

  Amir clenched his fists. ‘You know as well as I do that I’ve never hurt Jodie.’

  ‘Oh, right! Never!’ jeered Hassan. ‘Just like you never hurt Sophie Patel or Yasmin Madani or even Kristal Lim. All those sluts just dying to be the one that gets Amir Rabbani. No, you never used any of them to get you off. You’re just a seeda saada beta, aren’t you?’

  Amir rushed at Hassan and grabbed him by the collar. He shoved him against a wall, dislodging flecks of peeling plaster. ‘You’re a fucking prick,’ he spat.

  Hassan bucked against the wall in a struggle to free himself. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat back. He wrestled with Amir’s wrists now clamped against his throat, but failed to evade the stronger boy.

  Farid marched forward and wrenched them apart, ho
lding each at an arm’s length. When they lunged for each other, Mo sprang up to restrain Amir, grabbing a fistful of his expensive shirt. ‘Calm down, mate. Come on, calm down,’ he urged.

  Farid stood between them, one hand on Hassan’s shoulder, firmly holding him back. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  Hassan raised a finger at Amir. ‘None of this would have happened if you hadn’t entertained that dog.’

  Amir lunged forward. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ He strained against Mo’s grip but was tightly held in place.

  ‘Why? She’s a dog, isn’t she?’ taunted Hassan. ‘A fucking ugly dog.’

  ‘Hassan, stop it!’ Farid’s voice was high and strained. ‘Seriously, just shut the fuck up for once in your life.’

  ‘Oh, you want to be a leader now?’ said Hassan. ‘You’re nothing but a bystander, Farid. Even in Jodie’s twisted little tale, you’re still just a bystander. No one gives a shit about you.’

  Farid drew a deep breath and stepped back, his palms held up in surrender. ‘Fine. Gouge each other’s eyes out for all I care. I’ll stand by and watch.’

  ‘Yeah, you do that,’ spat Hassan. ‘It’s what you do best.’

  A leaden silence settled on the room. Mo released Amir, leaving clammy marks on his crisp white shirt. It was mercerised cotton poplin, he noted, with genuine mother-of-pearl buttons. Italian, he guessed. His mother would know for sure.

  Years ago, he had looked up a tailor’s glossary and delighted over the words: a bodger, a bushelman, a skiffle and a kipper. He had vowed to use them – and not just tongue in cheek – when he set up his own cat’s face on London’s Savile Row. As the years passed, however, he realised that striking out on one’s own was not for men of meagre means, so he surrendered his dream, never realising how poignant this was at the mere age of fourteen. He chose then to follow Farid and now here they stood on opposite sides of the same room, facing the same predicament: an accusation of a terrible crime and two friends who were pulling apart. They couldn’t fracture now, or point fingers outward. They had to stick together if they were to survive this. And yet, as he stood there among his friends, he couldn’t shake the sense of aloneness. Amir and Hassan lashed out at fear while Farid withdrew to his thoughts. Where did that leave Mo? They were heading to trial and he couldn’t survive alone. The prospect made his scalp feel tight and his heart beat hard in his chest. He leaned on a wall for support, grimacing when the sweat on his back seeped into his shirt. He ran a weary palm across his face, from chin to forehead as if shedding old skin.

  Farid watched him from across the room and grappled with fears of his own. Their future, once so bright and bountiful, was irreversibly tarnished by the words of one girl. Their deferral requests had been denied and now none of the four had a place in college. They had no jobs, no prospects, no future – and it had all happened so dizzyingly fast.

  It was this single thought that would cross his mind again and again over the next four months. How did it come to this? It would settle cold and thick over his throat at night. It would snake through his sinuses as he lay in his bath, it would pitch him over on the football field, webbing itself across the balls of his feet. By the time it was December, days before the trial, he had become a virtual shadow. His feet were soundless as he walked home at night, his family silent as they shared a meal. Had that one summer evening ruined his entire life? Soon, he would know. Soon, it would begin.

  Chapter Seven

  In theory, autumn was Jodie’s favourite season: chocolate browns and bright blue skies, bracing air that misted breath through knitted woollen scarves. In reality, London’s autumn was an endless taunt of anaemic rain and blustery nights, curling inwards beneath a damp grey sky – just as it was now.

  Jodie let the curtains fall shut and picked up the letter once more. Funny how neat black letters could cause such turmoil. Jodie’s mother had refused to pay the council tax, livid at the latest hike. I don’t care about bailiffs! she had shouted at Jodie last night. If you’re so fucking worried, go and get a fucking job!

  Jodie twisted the sheet in her hands as she recalled the last visit from the bailiffs two years ago. She had opened the door to a heavyset man with reed-thin hair greased rigid on his head. His dark leather jacket was pungent on the doorstep as he reached forward and stuck his black boot in the doorway. He flinched when he spotted Jodie, her face in shadow from the falling sun. It started as a stuttered demand for the late electricity bill. Twenty minutes later, Jodie’s mother was kicking at the door, bashing it against the bailiff’s foot. In her hands was a kitchen knife which she waved in the air, threatening to stab it through the bailiff’s boot. It was another twenty minutes before she realised her threats would do no good. Slowly and in stages, she calmed down. Eventually, she retrieved her chequebook and bitterly wrote out an amount of over two hundred pounds: the initial bill of £62 added to the warning letters – £32 per copy – and bailiff visits that had passed unanswered.

  We’re just doing a job, insisted the lead bailiff but Jodie saw his relish as he reached for the cheque. It was the first time she felt hatred towards another person. After the incident, she took charge of the bills, diligently filing them away in a red plastic folder stored above the kitchen sink. Most months, Christine paid without complaint; on others, Jodie had to dip into the pot of money she skimmed from her alcohol fund. Some months, there was nothing. Today, three bills were overdue. She had called the council for yet another extension but this time, they refused. It made her throat feel prickly and her stomach feel too small.

  She set down the bill and restlessly thumbed her phone, eager for distraction. She opened Snapchat and checked the yellow circle in the corner of the screen. Two hundred and twelve notifications. She stared at the number for a few seconds and then gingerly pressed it with a fingertip. The screen burst into a blur of activity. A few names immediately stood out. She spotted a message from Nina and opened it before the others.

  ‘Jodie, seriously, enough is enough. Amir’s family is going to kill him. Tell the truth – it’s not too late.’

  She clicked through to the next message. This one was a note of support from Han, a sweet Vietnamese girl who had recently moved to England. Jodie had bonded with her until Nina cruelly disposed of her, airily stating that there was only room for one freak in the crew. Jodie recalled how Han had said nothing, just walked away with a quiet dignity. In that moment, she had felt a sudden and forceful hatred for Nina. Beautiful, nubile Nina whom all the boys loved.

  Jodie opened a browser and watched the cursor blink. One by one, she typed the letters of her name and then clicked search. The top result was ‘Justice 4 Jodie’, a Facebook group with over sixty-seven thousand members. She clicked on the link. With her skin burning hot, she scrolled down and read the updates. Message after hateful message was directed at the four boys. She paused on one with over a thousand likes. It read, ‘If someone raped and murdered one of those Paki scum, I’d buy him a drink before shopping him to the police.’ Another message read, ‘I would say hang the ragheads but it’s far better to put them in prison so all the convicts can take turns fucking them up the arsehole.’ Yet another, ‘I’d love to shove a broken bottle up Farid Khan and film it. See how he likes being watched. First I’d glass his arse, then I’d glass his throat.’

  Jodie closed the browser in disgust. She had seen Farid on Higham Street two weeks ago. She had slipped into a side street and watched him walk by listlessly. He had lost his emerging athleticism and now looked thin and weak. Jodie had felt a stab of guilt as she watched him turn the corner. She wished she could talk to him, to explain that she hadn’t wanted him involved. But they were legally bound to stay apart and so she had waited for him to pass, then followed in his wake.

  She thought back to the party that summer, to the moment she slipped her hand into Amir’s. She wished she could take it back. She wished she could rewind time and just take it all back. She set down her phone and lay on her bed. Wrapping the sheets arou
nd her tight, she buried her head beneath them. Amir’s face flashed through her mind. She felt a surge of excitement, quickly followed by a flood of shame. She squeezed her eyes to shut him out.

  Zara stood outside the Old Bailey and cycled through her voice messages. The trial was starting in two days and she wanted to make sure there were no last-minute loose ends that had threaded their way free this freezing Friday afternoon.

  The tone clicked through to the first message. When she heard the pleading ‘Zara’, she immediately pressed delete. Luka had called every week since summer. At first she listened with morbid interest. Then, she deleted the messages mid-way. Now, she could barely stand to listen. She didn’t know what bothered her more: the sharp pain of betrayal when she heard his voice, or the sick satisfaction of knowing he still wanted her.

  She hurried through the remaining messages. All seven were from journalists keen for a quote before the trial, desperate to spin this into a Muslim vs Muslim tabloid sensation: she, the beautiful crusader of justice in one corner and the boys, malevolent and remorseless, in the other. She wanted no part in it. All she wanted was justice for Jodie.

  She smiled wryly at her unintentional use of the epigram. Justice 4 Jodie. What a fucking circus. She entered the building, cleared security and strode across the concourse.

  The Great Hall lay in the heart of the Old Bailey, directly beneath its dome. The Baroque ceiling of elaborate arches and friezes featured a number of paintings commemorating the Blitz. A series of axioms ran across the length of the hall: ‘The welfare of the people is supreme’, ‘The law of the wise is a fountain of life.’ Half-moon frescos fanned out above the entrances to the courts, symbolising four mainstays: God, the Law, the Establishment and London.

  Jodie was waiting beneath an arch with Mia by her side for the court familiarisation visit. Together, the trio headed to courtroom eight. Inside, four rows of wooden desks sat atop a spotless green carpet. The desks faced the clerk’s bench and, above it, the judge’s. Directly opposite the judge was the dock, protected by a large pane of bulletproof glass. The press gallery and jury box sat to the judge’s right and the witness box and public gallery to the left.