Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

  A thick hand clamped around her mouth and an arm grabbed her waist from behind. She shrieked but the sound was swallowed by skin. They dragged her into an alley and slammed her against a wall. Her head ricocheted off the brick, sending giant black flowers blooming in her vision. She held up two hands and shielded her face.

  ‘Fuckin’ whore,’ said the smaller of the two men. His Mancunian accent held an Asian twang.

  The bigger of the two slapped her across the face. Still in a daze, her head snapped to one side and her cheek hit brick with a sickening crunch. Horror rendered her inert, unable even to scream. A heavy fist punched her in the gut, jolting her body upward. She doubled over with a strangled cry, then crumpled to the ground. A kick to her stomach sent a wave of pain strafing through her body.

  The smaller man pulled her hair, lifting her head off the ground. He waggled it back and forth and laughed when she closed her eyes. ‘You like that, you harami? You like it when we play rough?’

  The second man reached down and slapped her, making her ear pulse with pain. Then, he pulled out a bottle of clear liquid. ‘You love that little kuffar of yours so much, we’re gonna rearrange your face like hers.’ He unscrewed the cap, his eyes manic above a black bandana.

  Zara screamed but the sound had no lungs behind it, like the rustling of fallen leaves.

  He taunted her with the bottle, watching her features contract in terror. ‘You’re gonna look just like that little whore of yours and then we’ll see how many white men will fuck you.’

  Gathering air in her lungs, she let out a howling scream, but it was too late: he emptied the liquid all over her face, laughing as she shrieked in terror. Then, with a final kick to her torso, they ran off into the night. She listened to their retreating footsteps and, without further thought or feeling, slipped into a welcome darkness.

  The early dawn light filtered through curtains that were not quite closed. A watery sliver fell on the stark white tiles in a single unbroken line. Somewhere close by, machines beeped quietly, their steady rhythm lending Zara comfort. She heard a soft knock on the hospital door and a creaking yawn as it opened. Her mother stood at the threshold, her silhouette bulky in a black hijab and thick winter coat. She stepped inside the room and walked to Zara’s side.

  ‘Kitha beh?’ she asked. The common Bengali phrase literally meant ‘what?’ but held a sea of jumbled emotion. It was an enquiry, an entreaty, an implication and an accusation. What has happened? What can I do to help you? What did you do to deserve this? What have you done wrong?

  Zara bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. Even in her state, with a black eye and bruised rib, she bore witness to the fact that tears in her family went against decorum.

  Her mother studied her face and though her voice was tight with anguish, her chin was high and her jaw set firm. ‘What did they do to you?’

  Zara swallowed. ‘It could have been worse.’ Her words were unintentionally glib. What she meant was it really could have been worse. The bottle of clear liquid with which she was taunted – we’re gonna rearrange your face – could have really been acid as feared. It turns out her attackers were sadists, reaping pleasure from her terror as they drenched her in vodka. Zara shrank beneath the memory, rendered now in blues and blacks as if recalling a scene from a movie.

  Her mother pulled a chair closer. ‘Just look at what they did to you.’

  ‘It’s just a black eye,’ said Zara. Her voice laboured beneath a breezy tone.

  Fatima picked up a corner of the light blue blanket and tucked it beneath the mattress, a habit built from rearing four children. ‘Your sisters are outside,’ she said. ‘The doctors won’t let them in.’ She threaded her fingers in her lap, looking suddenly old. She was silent for a moment then said, ‘It is time to stop now.’ The words were matter of fact, casual even, as if relaying prosaic news.

  Zara shifted in the bed and tried not to wince from pain. ‘Mum, it’s not like it’ll happen again.’

  Fatima leaned forward in her seat, fingertips pressed together as if in plea. ‘I know you think you’re doing your job but this is bigger now. People are calling you an apostate. Do you know what happens to apostates in Islam?’

  Zara sighed. ‘We’re in London, not Tehran.’

  ‘Do you think it’s as simple as that? Do you think the English police can protect you?’

  Zara shook her head. ‘I have to do this or they’ve won.’

  ‘Who?’ Fatima’s voice was hard like flint. ‘Who is “they”? Who are you fighting, Zara? What are you fighting for?’

  Zara pressed two palms on the bed and shifted herself up. ‘I’m fighting for Jodie. I have to see this through.’ She caught the derision on her mother’s face and paused to order her thoughts. ‘Can’t you see, Mum? Oppression doesn’t spread through men with guns, or bombs on trains. Oppression spreads when women like you tell their daughters to marry a certain man, or wear a certain dress, or work a certain job. It happens when women like you tell us – gently and with all the love in the world – not to peek above the parapet, instead to stay at home, to be quiet, to be kind, to be good.’ The last word curdled in her mouth. ‘Don’t you see? I have to finish this.’

  Her mother blinked as the sepia dawn washed the room in light. She reached out and brushed Zara’s chin, lifting it just a touch. ‘My daughter. Look at what they did to you.’ She blinked. ‘It’s a good thing your father’s not here. He couldn’t bear to see you like this.’

  Zara flinched with surprise. She and her mother never spoke of her father.

  ‘You were always his favourite – you know that, don’t you?’

  Zara swallowed hard and gripped the sheet in her fists.

  ‘What are you doing, Zara?’ Her mother searched her face. ‘You think because your father’s gone, everything was lost along with him?’ She gestured to the door. ‘You don’t think about your sisters? You don’t think about me? You don’t think what would happen if we lost you too?’ Her voice hitched on the last note. ‘Even your brother was stunned when he heard what happened. He finds it hard to show it but he cares about you. Please stop this now.’

  Zara blinked back tears but said nothing to break her silence.

  ‘Okay,’ said Fatima after a long moment. ‘You fight the demons that haunt you at night but when this is over, you come back to us because we’re the ones who are still here.’ She tapped Zara’s hand. ‘You understand? We’re still here.’ With that, she stood and left the room.

  As the door whispered shut, Zara saw her sisters outside, hushing their children in the cold December dawn. The sight of them in a funereal huddle made her heart blister and ache. Despite everything, here they were in the lobby outside, hushing their children and waiting for news. Zara closed her eyes and, with that simple action, lost the reins on her emotion. Guilt and fear welled in her throat and found their way out in angry, staccato sobs. She curled her hands in fists and wept with horror and rage and pain.

  ‘I’m on!’ shouted Paul, a tall, muscular boy who was as clumsy as he was big. Farid slid the ball to Stephen instead, a graceful player who was light on his feet.

  ‘Wanker!’ shouted Paul.

  Farid smiled. It felt good to spend a Sunday on the field, to get some air into his lungs and forget about the case altogether. Court had been adjourned for the week to ease tensions after Zara’s attack. Farid pitied her, but couldn’t deny that the break had helped him.

  Stephen dribbled forward, evaded three defenders, then calmly slotted the ball into the net. The team erupted in joy. They had been 2-1 down and his goal equalised with five minutes to go.

  Paul caught up with Farid, boorishly grabbed him into a headlock and messed up his hair with a knuckle. After some protest, he released Farid and playfully slapped his back. ‘I’m glad you stopped being a pussy about playing just coz of your minor issues with the feds.’

  Farid grinned. ‘It’s good to be back.’ Here on the field, he wasn’t the sensible, studious one who strugg
led with rowdy friends. He wasn’t the eldest child with three siblings to oversee. Here, he was an equal and things still felt like they might be okay.

  The ball sailed towards him. As a midfielder, he was quick and agile and frequently provided assists for the strikers. This time, they were all too wide to receive the ball so he ran forward and skipped past two boys. He stumbled, righted himself, and continued. He slipped past another defender and then, taking a breath, aimed and fired a powerful shot past the keeper, just as the whistle sounded high across the pitch. He heard his teammates roar and run towards him like a stampede of bulls. And then he was enveloped in them, bundled to the floor beneath a heap of bodies, jubilantly shouting their victory chant. There, caught in the midst of the scrum, he felt truly happy for the first time in months.

  Later, when the banter died down and the players showered and changed, they agreed to continue celebrations at the Nando’s in Mile End. Farid glanced down at his watch. He had to get home for curfew, so he offered his partings and went on his way. As he walked back across the field, he looked up to the hill, hoping to see the tall, dark-haired girl with the white, white skin and red, red lips. He felt something stir in him and shook his head with a smile. He hadn’t felt sexual desire in months. He thought of Erin in that short black skirt. He pictured his hand running up her leg and stroking her through those sheer patterned tights.

  He laughed out loud. I’m not dead yet!

  Chapter Ten

  Zara twisted open the cap and gripped the base of the brown glass bottle. Its smooth, round bulk felt comforting in her hand. She reached forward and with a sick lurching in her stomach tipped the bottle over the toilet. Two yellow pills fell out and clinked against the ceramic bowl then dipped beneath the water. The rest clung together inside the bottleneck. She shook it to free the pills and watched them tumble out. With three shallow breaths, she reached out and flushed. Instead of panic, she felt a jittery pride. The battle was far from over but this felt like an important start. It was a statement of intention, a quiet admission that she had a problem, and a vow to get better; to be better. She threw the bottle in the bin, washed her hands and returned to the kitchen.

  Safran stood next to the cooker and threw her a frown. ‘Seriously, Zar? You can’t boil a pot of rice?’

  She picked up the spatula. ‘My sisters like to cook, so I never needed to learn.’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, so the truth comes out. You play the tortured Muslim girl so well, when actually you were a princess who never set foot in the kitchen.’ He took the saucepan off the hob. ‘I, on the other hand, was beaten at every possible opportunity.’

  Zara rolled her eyes. ‘Is that so? Your parents are amazing and even you know it.’

  ‘They are but they didn’t let me get away with anything.’ His dimples curved deep in his cheeks. ‘Whenever my brother and I did something wrong, we would purposely hide all the hard-soled shoes and place the softest slippers closest to Mum. That way, when she found out and grabbed for the closest thing, she would get the slipper.’ He laughed. ‘God, we were such monsters.’

  Zara’s smile was wistful. ‘At least her actions were honest. I sometimes wonder if anyone in my family has ever said or done what they actually wanted.’

  Safran tapped her hand with the spatula. ‘You don’t do too badly.’

  ‘Yeah and that’s the trouble.’ She wrapped her oversized cardigan around her and watched him for a moment. ‘Listen, I haven’t said this but I appreciate what you’ve done for me. Staying here this week has been like a reset button.’

  He met her gaze. She had covered her bruise with makeup, but its purple-brown outline could still be seen in the skin beneath her right eye. He reached forward and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘Come on, Zar. We don’t do sentimental.’

  She smiled thinly and turned towards the window, hiding the tears clotting in her throat. In the week since the attack, she had found herself faltering at the smallest things: a dog dying in the movie last night, a saccharine advert on TV, or heartfelt ballad on Heart FM that Safran listened to ironically. The attack seemed to have melted her nerve. Being with Safran helped. He did not indulge her, but was brisk, almost brutal, in getting her back on her feet.

  He drained the rice. Without turning, he said, ‘You know you don’t need to be there, right?’

  Zara squared her shoulders. Court resumed the next day and she was determined to be present. Stuart had urged her to take more time off, but she had roundly refused. ‘I do need to be there, or the thugs will have won,’ she told him as she told Safran now. In truth, she was scared that if she stayed home tomorrow, she might never feel safe in leaving again.

  Safran handed her a glass of water. ‘If you want me to come with you, I will.’

  Zara instinctively began to decline, but then stopped. After a beat, she said, ‘Do you know what, Saf? That would be amazing.’

  He nodded. ‘Zara the Brave,’ he said quietly as if her latest act were her most courageous of all.

  Judge Braun greeted the assembly with unusual cheer. He was clearly pleased to be back on track. He glanced to the gallery and noted Zara’s presence. Today, she was dressed like the lawyer she used to be: dark Oscar de la Renta suit, leather Gianvito Rossi heels, black hair cascading to her waist, subtle makeup and a bulletproof sense of confidence. What the judge couldn’t see from his bench was that her fists were balled so tight, her knuckles were turning white, or that her feet tap-tapped on the floor to a silent and skittish beat.

  As he readied to begin, the door from his chambers swung open. A slight woman with short copper hair walked in and handed over a piece of paper. He took the sheet and skimmed it, his features tightening as he read. He spoke to the woman in muted confusion. After a few moments, he turned to the court.

  ‘Mr Albany, the defendant Farid Khan—’

  Farid’s barrister stood. ‘My Lord, I apologise. I believe Mr Khan is on his way. I have yet to make contact with him but I am sure he—’

  ‘Sit down please, Mr Albany.’ The judge’s hands were on the bench, fingers knitted as if in prayer. ‘I have just received some distressing news.’ He paused and cleared his throat. The square of his shoulders bowed slightly and his gaze dipped briefly low. ‘The defendant Farid Khan was involved in an altercation last night. He was taken to A&E with injuries to his head and torso. The doctors worked to revive him for several hours but he succumbed to his injuries. Farid Khan was pronounced dead at eleven forty-one last night.’

  His words billowed across the room, the shock spreading like backdraft. There was momentary silence and, then, a discordant explosion of noise. Zara watched the scene unfold as if in slow motion.

  In the dock, Amir crumpled as if his very spine had snapped in two. ‘He didn’t do anything,’ he said numbly. ‘Farid didn’t do anything. He just—’

  Mo sat in deathly stillness. The colour drained from his face but he did not make a sound.

  Hassan next to him sprang against the glass and craned towards the gallery. ‘Where is Jodie, that fucking bitch?’ The rage shook in his voice as he snapped away from a marshal’s grip. He spotted Zara and jabbed a finger towards her with the dull clink of skin on glass. ‘This is your fault, you fucking cunt! Look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve done!’ A sob caught in his throat as the marshal pulled him back from the glass, two sturdy hands heavy on his shoulders.

  Zara shrank back in her seat as the judge’s call for calm boomed across the courtroom. It had a strange, academic quality, as if she were detached from her body and observing the scene from elsewhere or hearing his voice through a pneumatic tube. She couldn’t reconcile the words with reality, or follow them to a logical conclusion.

  When shock finally ceded to silence, the judge continued to speak. ‘Mr Khan’s family was informed last night,’ he explained. ‘Sadly, I have no more information.’ He turned to Farid’s barrister. ‘Mr Albany, clearly the case against your client can go no further. With respect to the remainin
g defendants, given the time of the year, I propose we continue as planned.’

  Stark intervened. ‘My Lord, may I respectfully suggest a short adjournment. My client and his fellow defendants are clearly in no state to give evidence.’

  Amir was weeping into his knees while Mo sat stunned and silent.

  ‘Does the Crown have any objections to this?’ asked the judge.

  ‘No, My Lord,’ said Leeson. ‘We’re happy to reconvene in a day or two should that help maintain clarity in the case.’

  ‘Very well.’ Judge Braun apologised to the jury and adjourned court for that day and the next.

  Zara was now on her feet, her grip tight on Safran’s arm. ‘I need to call Mia,’ she said. ‘We need to get Jodie to a safe place right now.’

  Swelling dread sparked memories of her own attack: the thick hand around her mouth, the crunch of bone on brick, that moment of red terror and then distant relief when it was pungent vodka and not acid that splashed across her skin. The memory was harsh and discordant in her mind and gripped her now in its tentacles of panic. Safran steadied her and led her from the courtroom to the exit. When they stepped outside, the waiting crowds surged forward, rattling the barriers which flanked the path.

  Groups of Muslim protestors stood to the left. The ‘Uncle Tom’ banners were now joined by others: ‘We are not your model minority’, ‘No more silence’, ‘Stand up to Fascists’. There was an undercurrent of anarchy in their message. These protestors were tired of justifying their faith, tired of appeasing nervous neighbours and tiptoeing around Western sensibilities. They were tired of being silent.