Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

  Sophie smoothed a crease in her blouse.

  Stark waited a beat. ‘When he started to insert his finger into your vagina, did you say no then?’

  ‘I—it was—yes, that’s when I said it.’

  ‘Before or after?’

  Zara looked on and simmered with anger. It was a common refrain among lawyers that ‘the law is a blunt instrument’ and nowhere was this more obvious than in cases of sexual assault. It was obvious to any discerning observer that Stark was being hostile but he was allowed to continue because a neat little tick box said he could.

  ‘Ms Patel, before or after?’ pushed Stark.

  ‘After.’

  ‘And what was Mr Rabbani’s reaction?’

  ‘He told me to relax.’

  ‘And when you didn’t?’

  ‘He got angry.’

  ‘So he stopped what he was doing – just as you asked – and then he got angry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stark nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, in essence, you asked him to stop. He asked you to relax and as soon you refused, he stopped?’

  Sophie’s voice trembled as she answered. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So that moment, those few seconds between you saying “stop” and him saying “relax” – was that sexual assault?’

  Leeson stood, aware that Stark was within his right but needing to interject. ‘My Lord, we all know rape isn’t as overt as my learned friend suggests. A woman doesn’t have to be repeatedly bleating “no” to deny consent.’

  Stark turned on him. ‘And we expect a fourteen-year-old boy to be able to tell when a woman’s body language says no? How can we accuse a fourteen-year-old boy of sexual assault in this situation? A boy who stopped when he realised it wasn’t what Ms Patel wanted?’

  Judge Braun raised a hand. ‘Let’s all just calm down please.’

  Leeson persisted, ‘My Lord, Ms Patel’s testimony shows that Amir Rabbani has a history of this type of behaviour.’

  ‘What behaviour?’ snapped Stark. ‘Sexual behaviour? Like every other man on the face of the Earth?’

  ‘Enough!’ The judge’s voice rang high across the room. ‘Mr Stark, you have made your point. Are you finished with the witness?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ he said, suddenly obsequious.

  ‘In that case, Ms Patel, you’re free to go.’

  Zara watched Sophie leave the courtroom. Stark’s spiel about respecting women was pure artifice. Zara – and Stark – had worked enough rape cases to know a woman didn’t always say no. She may be scared of getting her head bashed in or a hip caved in. It was unbearably unfair that these crimes were tried by such broad brushes. It was little wonder that Sophie’s family chose to move away instead of pursuing justice like Jodie.

  A morose silence settled on the courtroom. It was clear that no one had won today. Leeson stood with his head bowed low. ‘The prosecution rests, My Lord.’

  Judge Braun shifted in his chair. ‘Very well. I’m informed that a member of the jury has an unavoidable engagement tomorrow so I think this is a good time to adjourn for the week. We shall reconvene on Monday to hear from the defence.’ With that, he dismissed the court.

  Zara felt leaden from the day’s proceedings. She pulled on her jacket and wearily left the courtroom. Outside, she was surprised to find Erin waiting.

  ‘Come with me.’ Erin grabbed her arm and led her into a small room off the main corridor. She pointed to a plastic chair which stood forlornly beneath the sole window. ‘Sit down.’ Erin reached into her jacket and pulled out her iPad. ‘Today’s lead story on Visor.’ She slid it across the table.

  Zara read the headline. SEXY MUSLIM LAWYER BRANDED A ‘TRAITOR’ declared the front page in large block letters. She felt winded when she saw what lay underneath: a video thumbnail picturing Zara and Michael Attali in Potters Fields Park, his lips on hers and hands resting lasciviously on the curve of her arse.

  Zara felt a swell of anger. She reached for the tablet but then drew back her hand. ‘How did they—’

  Erin, as cool and aloof as ever, took a seat opposite. ‘I thought you should know before you went outside.’ She gave the tablet a gentle shove. ‘It’s not good but you should watch it.’

  ‘I—’ Zara searched for words. ‘Why would they do this?’ She drew the tablet near and pressed play with fingers that were suddenly clumsy. The video report opened with a montage of newspaper headlines from Jodie’s case. The unseen narrator – an English accent with an American twang – spoke over the graphics, ‘It has emerged that Zara Kaleel, the lawyer-turned-rape-counsellor on the Monsters of Bow Road case, has a few skeletons of her own. The seductive young Muslim used all her powers of persuasion to win the support of the public.’

  The report cut to a picture of Zara, her black hair flowing around a comely scowl. The narrator continued, ‘Pictured regularly on the steps of the Old Bailey, Kaleel has been a vocal critic of the culture of omerta that keeps secrets festering inside the Muslim community. But now,’ the voice grew ominous, ‘her motives for speaking out have been called into doubt.’

  The footage cut to Zara and Michael in the park, he pulling her up and giving her a kiss. Zara’s stomach rolled with the knowledge that someone had been watching her, filming her, possibly even stalking her.

  The narrator’s tone grew righteous: ‘Ms Kaleel was filmed getting amorous with a white man of Jewish descent, prompting people to ask: is she crusading for justice or taking revenge on a community she hates?’ The report cut to a cleric on the steps of East London Mosque, her family’s chosen place of worship. The cleric, dressed in a long white robe and a patterned white skullcap, brayed with sanctimony, no doubt handpicked and primed by Visor’s production team.

  ‘Zara Kaleel says she represents Muslims but she doesn’t,’ said the cleric. ‘She is a saboteur posing as a Muslim to poison public opinion.’ He raised his hand and counted out his fingers. ‘One: she had an arranged marriage that lasted only weeks. Two: she has taken up this case against four innocent boys. Three: she is doing things in public with a non-Muslim.’ He raised a fourth finger. ‘I could go on. My point is, Zara Kaleel is angry with a community in which she’s not accepted. She has no business in this case. She has no objectivity. She isn’t a Muslim. She’s a stain on our people.’

  Zara flinched at the word, then felt a spark of fury that they could still make her feel this way, still make her feel that she was deserving of shame. She stopped the video, noting with horror that it had registered over two million views. A red and heavy dread beat against the roof of her skull, making her feel too hot. She pressed the base of her palms against the sockets of her eyes, trying to still the throbbing within.

  Erin beckoned her up. ‘We should get you out of here … They’re gathering.’

  Zara’s eyes grew round. ‘Who’s gathering?’

  Erin hesitated. ‘Men. Asian mainly. They’re angry.’

  Zara thought of her family with a churning nausea. She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’ Her voice rasped softly like fingertips on paper.

  Erin’s tone was stern. ‘Look, we just need to get you out of the eye of the storm and then you can work out what to do; if you want to make a statement or what.’ She tugged at Zara’s arm. ‘Come on. I’ll get you out of here.’

  Through a glaze of shock, Zara followed her out the door and down the stairs to ground level. Outside, the crowd had swelled to around a hundred. Reporters, spectators and protesters stood behind silver-grey barriers that flanked Zara’s path. She stood still for a moment, seized by disbelief. In her stationary state, she noticed one group of protestors above all others: ten Asian men gathered at the front of the crowd. They were in their late teens or early twenties, all in stylish Western dress with not a fleck of beard between them. There was nothing to suggest they were particularly traditional. In their hands, however, they held a series of placards. In big bold letters along the top were the words ‘Uncle Tom’. The racial slur, crudely borrowed from the black community, acc
used Zara of being servile to whites. Beneath the words, she was rendered in a hijab in various subservient poses. In one, she was on her knees with her tongue hanging out like a lapdog; in another, she was prostate beneath the St. George’s Cross; another depicted her obscenely with a pig, her gown hitched up to the waist and her features arranged in ecstasy.

  The message was a perfect blend of racism and misogyny. Zara Kaleel is a traitor, it said. Zara Kaleel is a whore. Zara Kaleel is a fawning, mewling servant to the whites but disguised as something pure. She inadvertently made eye contact with one of the men. He lunged towards her and she jerked back in alarm.

  ‘You whore! How dare you call yourself a Muslim?’ he shouted. ‘What did they offer you? Thirty pieces of silver?’ A fine mist of saliva marked the violence of delivery.

  Another man dived forward. ‘Uncle Tom!’ he shouted clumsily. Pleased with the cheering of his companions, he repeated the epithet to the tune of a popular football chant. Soon, his friends joined in.

  Zara shrank back from them and felt the brush of a hand on her back. She spun round and was confronted by a group of white teenagers holding a banner with the words ‘Justice 4 Jodie’ in bright red letters. ‘Ditch the bitch!’ they cried in unison. One man reached forward and pulled at Zara’s skirt. ‘I hear you like white man’s cock.’

  She cried out and jerked her skirt from his grip. His fingers still grappled for her and a police guard stepped forward to smack his hand away. She swayed unsteadily as hands grabbed at her and cameras blazed with flash. The photographers jostled and Zara felt a hand of support. Erin was by her side, trying to shield her from the crowd. As they pushed their way through the jeers and insults, Zara felt something hard and heavy slug against her shoulder. She looked down and saw the yellow-white liquid of a raw egg dripping down her suit. She watched another sail through the air and hit the side of Erin’s head, seeping into her cropped black hair. They looked around and spotted the source, a second group of Asian men with bandanas around their faces.

  Erin tugged at her arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  The two of them huddled together and rushed down the path. They reached Erin’s car and hurried inside. Within seconds, they set off into the unforgiving night. Zara closed her eyes to keep her world from caving in. The December air clung heavy on her skin: damp and close and discomforting. A flurry of images blurred inside her mind: sharp fingernails and grabbing hands, the gruesome banners and angry chants, that obscene image of her straddling a pig, Islam’s most impure of animals. Horror at the invasion of privacy spilled into crippling frustration over the timing of the story – right in the middle of trial. Zara was piercingly aware that she had lost the moral high ground. She was no longer a Muslim woman steadfastly pursuing justice, but an imposter posing as such to leaven the blow of Jodie’s accusation. She would be thought an interloper, a traitor, a saboteur. Then, there was family and the cold and heavy dread of confronting her brother and mother. Would they understand how she came to be filmed in public, a white man’s hands gripping her backside?

  When they reached Zara’s building, Erin led her inside. It was only upstairs that she spoke. ‘What do you know about this Michael Attali?’

  Zara sat on her sofa in a daze. Her face was pale and her skin felt clammy.

  Erin paced the room. ‘It seems too perfect. How was it that someone who knew who you were was in the exact right place at the exact right time? Do you think he stitched you up?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Zara’s voice was bitter. ‘They’ve already decided what I am.’

  ‘It matters,’ said Erin. ‘I can help you but I need to know what we’re up against.’

  Nausea churned in Zara’s stomach. How many times had she said those very words to some hopeless victim or guilty executive?

  Erin grew impatient. ‘Here’s how it is: you’re public enemy number one right now. The Muslims hate you because you’re a traitor to their cause. Justice for Jodie hate you because you’re tainting the case. You need to fight your corner. Things like this don’t die easily and it’s going to overshadow Jodie’s case if we say nothing. We need to think of a strategy.’

  Zara wiped the sweat from her brow. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We will. I just—I need a second.’ She stood and took a long drink of water, then walked unsteadily to her bathroom. She closed the door and stood over the toilet bowl. Visions rose again of sharp fingernails and grabbing hands, the vile image of her straddling a pig. Her clammy skin flushed with heat and bile stung the base of her throat. She jolted forward with a violent retch, then vomited into the bowl. She watched it spatter against the shiny white ceramic and the rivulets of yellow trickle down the bowl. She retched again and vomited. With her stomach spent, she leaned on the bathroom sink and took a deep breath. She rinsed her mouth. Then, not allowing herself to think, she shook open a drawer and slid a hand to the back. She felt around for a moment, then drew out a brown glass bottle. Without hesitating, she twisted it open, shook two pills into her hand and swallowed them with a sob.

  Hassan ran down the stairs two by two and threw open the door. ‘Hey man, come in.’

  Amir took off his shoes and placed them neatly in a corner.

  Hassan spotted Rocky nipping at Amir’s heels. ‘Aw, shit, what’s he doing here? Mum’s gonna screw if she sees it.’ As a child, Hassan had been taught that petting dogs was impure. It was only the most modern of Muslims – like Amir’s family – that kept the creatures as pets.

  Amir kneeled down and stroked the dog’s thick honey coat. ‘It is a she – and she’s harmless. C’mon, we’ll just hide her in your room.’ Amir pulled off his coat, tossed it onto a rack and followed his friend upstairs, Rocky in tow. ‘So, have you seen the news?’

  Hassan frowned. ‘No. Why?’

  Amir smiled and handed him his phone. ‘Read this.’

  After a beat, Hassan’s jaw dropped. ‘No way.’ He clicked on a headline from Visor: SEXY MUSLIM LAWYER BRANDED A ‘TRAITOR’. ‘Oh my God.’ His voice was soft and reverent. ‘It says here she picked up the guy in a city bar. I knew she was a slut.’

  ‘Keep going,’ urged Amir. ‘There’s a video.’

  Hassan howled with delight as he watched the clip of Zara in the park. He listened to the cleric and screeched with glee. ‘Do the others know?’

  Amir nodded. ‘Yeah, Mo couldn’t believe it. I told Farid too but you know how he gets.’

  Hassan rolled his eyes. ‘He needs to chill the fuck out. He’s got nothing to worry about.’ He turned back to the phone and zoomed into a picture of Zara and Michael. ‘Jesus, she has an amazing arse.’

  Amir laughed. ‘Pervert.’

  Hassan narrowed his eyes. ‘Please, like you wouldn’t jizz all over her pictures.’ He made a small keening sound. ‘Just look at that arse. She’s so fucking hot. I’d give anything to have her on her knees.’

  Amir grabbed back his phone. ‘Well, you can look at porn in your own time.’

  Hassan gestured at his empty bedroom. ‘On what exactly? My loopy mother chucked my laptop away.’

  ‘Man, I still can’t believe she did that. It’s so harsh.’ Amir sat in a chair and Rocky curled contentedly by his feet. He ran his fingers through her fur as Hassan flopped down on the bed opposite.

  With the strange mix of levity and gravity that defines the friendship of teenage boys, they spent the evening trading insults and woes until darkness thickened outside the window and Amir’s curfew beckoned.

  The steady rev of the sewing machine drifted down the hall. Mo closed the bedroom door and the sound dulled to a hum. It was comforting, this soundtrack to his life. It told him that everything was as it should be, in spite of the truth.

  He turned to Farid and tossed him a can of Coke. ‘Come on, man. Cheer up. This news about the lawyer is good for us.’ He took a seat on a stool, clearing it first of his sketchbook.

  Farid set aside his can. ‘Cheer up?’ he asked. ‘You saw what they did to Sophie in court. You think she deserved
that?’

  Mo faltered. ‘No, she didn’t, but it had to be done.’ He watched Farid shrink with doubt. ‘Listen, you’re the one who told me to worry. You told me that we’re just “four darkies in the dock”. You were right, so we have to use everything we’ve got. Amir never lied about what he did with Sophie and that was proven in court.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not as simple as that, is it?’

  Mo flicked a hand in the air. ‘But it is that simple, man.’ He bit down his impatience, not yet mature enough to navigate this challenge. He hadn’t the skill to lead his friend through this fog; wanted instead to yank him from its midst. Farid was possibly the only person in the world with whom he could be himself. He didn’t have to mask his gawkish manner or the high notes of his voice. He didn’t have to worry about the way his wrists lay limp in their natural pose, giving him a foppish, effeminate look. Mo relied on Farid’s steadying force, and the fact that his friend was drifting from his reach filled him with the thick red tulle of anxiety.

  Farid closed his eyes and listened to the hum next door. His under-eye circles were now dark and deep and his jawline had receded, giving him a sombre, haunted look.

  Mo swallowed his stirring angst and searched for a way to help him. ‘What are you worried about?’ he asked. ‘That we’ll be found guilty?’

  When Farid opened his eyes, Mo saw that they were wet. It made his chest smart with fear and his scalp feel strangely tight. Despite their years of friendship, he’d never seen Farid cry. He was serious and studious, but rarely melancholic. To see him in distress was deeply unsettling. Mo took off his glasses and twisted them in his hands as if this might somehow churn the words he needed.

  Farid gazed up at the ceiling and tried to stave his tears. ‘I’m scared that we’ll have to live with this regardless of the verdict.’

  Mo shook his head. ‘It’s four of us against one of her. We’ll be found innocent and move on with our lives.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Farid’s words were short and bitter. ‘You think we’ll just carry on and everyone will forget what happened? That’s not how it works. Not for men like us.’