Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

  To the right of the path stood the Anglican Defence League who delighted in Jodie’s case. They too hefted signs high above their heads: ‘Keep Britain white’, ‘Stop Sharia law’, ‘Hands off our girls’. Men bared their teeth and flung insults back and forth, whipping the crowd to the first stage of frenzy: a mob on the cusp of snapping.

  The first strike came when a steel-capped boot sailed through the air and hit a scarfed girl in the eye. The crowd around her erupted with rage. A group of teens kicked at the silver-grey barriers. Opposite them, the ADL roared with anger. In a second that passed in slow motion, the two sides burst the banks of their fences. Six police officers, three on each side, were swallowed in the surge. And then there was chaos.

  Men in bandanas tore at each other with a shocking, savage intensity. There was no sign of restraint or mercy, only the ferocious intent to destroy. Wet sounds of flesh on flesh slopped through the air, joined by the crunch of breaking glass and howling cries of agony. One man lifted a heavy boot and brought it down in a stamp.

  Zara jolted and shielded her face. She felt a firm hand on her shoulder. Safran pulled her back into the courthouse just as she caught sight of a girl, her scarf ripped off by two burly men. Zara screamed out just as the doors were bolted shut.

  She stumbled back and crumpled against the cold grey surface of a wall. Outside, sirens seared across the midmorning sky and cameras rolled gleefully as hatred spread to engulf and infest everyone caught in the maelstrom.

  Mo watched the mourners as they kicked off their shoes and snaked inside. His thawb billowed around him, the thin white cotton of the long white robe unfit for fighting the wind. Its icy whip was calming and he let it buffet his skin. He had waited all night for tears as if they might offer absolution of guilt, but he felt nothing but a keening pain. He should have tried harder, had more patience, gained more skill in keeping Farid in reach. Mo had known that his friend was struggling. If he’d done more to allay his fears, he wouldn’t have sought solace on the football field.

  You think we’ll just carry on? Farid’s words echoed in his mind. That’s not how it works. Not for men like us. Mo had been dismissive, but now he saw that his friend was right: that’s not how it worked. Not for men like them.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. A fellow mourner paused by his side and gestured towards the door. Mo held up a finger. I’ll be one minute, it promised, but he stood there for many more, waiting for tears under the sting of wind.

  Inside the mosque, Amir stood rigid, his heartbeat fast in his chest. The long, snaking line shuffled forward and he, on autopilot, did the same. How could it be that one moment someone could die and then twenty-four hours later, they’d be underground? How could this be the right way?

  His thoughts drifted to childhood. He was eight years old. An uncle had died and relatives had gathered to pay their respects. The family had such a beautiful oak coffin that Amir remarked to his father: ‘I want a coffin like that when I die.’

  His father, slimmer then, ran an affectionate hand through his hair and said, ‘Beta, we are Muslims. We are not buried inside coffins.’

  ‘But sasaji is in a coffin,’ he countered.

  His father explained that they would take the corpse out before putting it in the ground; that the only thing separating him from the earth would be several white sheets wrapped around the body. That knowledge had given him nightmares. How could they leave their bodies so exposed to the elements? Utterly open to every slithery thing that came along to feed?

  The line shuffled forward and he did too. He could hear the sobs of the siblings gathered by the coffin. He waited in silence, Hassan ahead and Mo now behind. They had always teased Farid for being a bore, the one who preferred the Bunsen burners of the classroom to more nefarious chemical experiments outside of it. He was their compass, the one who reined them in when they got too wild. Now here he was, lifeless and empty and ready for the ground. It made Amir’s eyes water as he stepped to the coffin.

  He stared down at his friend. Farid’s face was covered with bruises: purple ringed with ugly brown. His lips were grotesquely swollen and his skin had a waxy sheen. Funny how books always said ‘he just looked like he was sleeping’. Farid didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like he was dead. Amir had been told not to touch the body so he put a hand to his heart and then placed it on the coffin. Hot, salty tears ran down his face, dripping to his neck and trickling beneath his shirt.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back, F.’ His voice cracked and his face strained with the effort of keeping composure. He said a prayer then walked away and the line shuffled forward behind him.

  He made his way to a small red mat, then knelt and closed his eyes. By now, all the details were in the papers. Farid had been at a football match. His mother had begged him not to go. After that lawyer was attacked, she felt it was unsafe and warned that someone would retaliate. What she failed to see was how swift and hard that revenge would be.

  Farid’s team had won the match and headed off to celebrate. Farid had cited his curfew and headed home instead. At some point between 7.15 p.m. when he left his friends and 7.45 p.m., he was attacked. The sole witness, an old man walking his dog, said he saw several men run off but couldn’t say how many – four, maybe five. Police said the men set upon Farid with a ‘disturbing and excessive violence’. Those words would haunt Amir forever.

  The men hadn’t even tried to hide their attack. It was right there, out in the open amid the playing fields where so many victories were won. They had battered him with punches and kicks but the coup de grace was delivered by hammer – not a big one, the papers had said. The sharp end of a rock hammer, buried right in his skull. The attackers were undisturbed but the men had halted, struck perhaps by the gravity of their actions. It was then that the witness had spotted them – a gang of men frozen on the killing field. In an instant, they were running and it was only when the old man saw the yellow shirt of Farid’s crumpled body that he realised the lethal situation.

  ‘I rushed forward as fast as I could,’ he had told the police. There in the middle of the green, he and his beloved dog Skipper found Farid, bloodied and bruised with a pierced skull. ‘I heard nothing,’ said the witness. No screams, no shouts, no cries for help. Nothing.

  And now, that’s all there was. That’s all there would be forever. Amir leaned forward on the prayer mat and brought his head to the ground for sajdah. There, once again, he began to weep.

  Jodie stared at the screen, willing Amir to come online. She needed to talk to him about Farid. The police said it may have been arbitrary but everyone knew the truth: Farid was killed because of Jodie. The papers had likened her case to that of Stephen Lawrence. ‘A flashpoint in race relations,’ said the pundits.

  It’s not, Jodie wanted to tell them. It’s not about race but rape. But the case was no longer about her. It wasn’t a flashpoint, it was a war and everyone had their own agenda. It started with one girl, four boys and now Farid was dead. Because of me. He’s dead because of me. That singular thought clashed against all others in a discordant mix of guilt, fear and regret.

  She thought back to the haze of yesterday: being rushed out of the house and placed under watch, Zara uncharacteristically tender when she dropped Jodie off. Her gentle assurance that it’s okay to be scared was almost convincing in sincerity. Jodie knew what she really thought: that you had to face up to difficult times; that a display of strength was necessary even at your very weakest, so Jodie had nodded and put on a brave face. And why not? She was used to living behind a layer of masks. It couldn’t hurt to wear one more.

  Zara drew her blazer around her and wished for another layer. As a participant in the case, she was one of the few still allowed inside the courtroom. In the two days since Farid’s funeral, Judge Braun had closed the press and public galleries in an effort to instil calm and issued a perimeter outside the building to keep protesters at a distance. It was a bold decis
ion given the media’s interest in the case.

  Zara, as with anyone in the justice system, had worked on cases that blurred the lines of right and wrong. In almost a decade of law, however, she had never had a case as divisive as this. That they were dealing with children, barely out of adolescence, only served to fuel the hysteria. An important part of Zara’s job was to uphold the belief that justice always prevailed, that the verdict chosen by ordinary men and women was sacred and true, that the system could and should be trusted. As a new day in court commenced, however, justice sat like a thorn in her throat. It stung on contact and left a scar, and there was nothing she could do but let it run its course.

  She watched as Hassan Tanweer entered the witness box. Here was the boy who had so brazenly called her a khanki, a whore, in Magistrates Court. Did he think he was vindicated after Visor ran their so-called exposé? What delight he must have felt at seeing her filmed with Michael.

  As she watched him, she wondered if her community’s cries of traitor held a kernel of truth. It was true that she would treat the defendants no differently if they were of another religion, but Zara also knew that she wanted better and expected worse from the men in her community. She had told her mother that oppression happened when good women held back their daughters. It was the same women who pushed forward their sons; who treated them like masters of the universe and taught them to act with impunity. Hassan with all his pride and entitlement was a product of his upbringing. How damaging it had been was yet to be revealed.

  Hassan took the oath, his closely packed features set deep in a frown. His dark blue suit was slightly too broad in the shoulders and gave him a droopy, melancholy look. Nonetheless, he answered questions with fluency and reinforced Amir’s account of events with touches of credible detail. When asked why Jodie would lie, Hassan took on the mantle of truth-teller.

  Taking a ragged breath, he looked to the jury and began. ‘Why did Jodie lie? I don’t know. Why does anyone lie about something like this?’ His tone was weary as if he’d pondered this question many times before. ‘Maybe she wants attention? Maybe she needs help? Maybe she’s angry that Amir used her and she’s embarrassed that she let him. I’ve been asking myself the same question since all of this began.’ His expression grew mournful. ‘What I do know is that Jodie looks different to other girls. She says that makes her a target but I think most people feel sorry for her.’ Hassan gestured at the jury. ‘I bet most of us here feel sorry for her. The thing is: inside she’s no different to anyone else. She can still feel anger and jealousy and she can still want revenge. She shouldn’t be treated as special. She should be treated like any other woman when her story can’t be proven.’

  Zara watched him speak, his voice sombre and his stance rigid. He was a picture of respectable calm but she saw the glint of triumph in his eyes. Clearly, he was pleased with his well-practised speech.

  Leeson stood for cross-examination and appraised the boy for a second. With a muted look of distaste, he said, ‘Mr Tanweer, who did Mr Rabbani take to the year ten prom after rejecting Nina Sahari?’

  Hassan was surprised by the question. He floundered for a moment, then said, ‘I think it was Aaliya Masanthi.’

  Leeson nodded. ‘And Mohammed Ahmed? Who did he go with?’

  Hassan smiled. ‘Jamila Wimal.’

  ‘Why is that amusing?’ asked Leeson.

  ‘I—well, he was teased by our classmates because when they stood next to each other, they looked like the number ten because he’s so skinny and she’s so …’

  ‘So what, Mr Tanweer?’

  He hesitated. ‘So fat …’

  ‘Ah, I see. And who did Farid Khan go with?’

  Hassan’s eyes clouded. ‘A girl called Rachel Brown.’

  ‘And who did you go with?’

  He stalled. ‘I—I didn’t go to prom.’

  ‘Is that because you couldn’t find a date?’

  ‘I—’ He took a moment’s pause and then smiled dolefully. ‘That’s partly true, yes. I’m a bit of an ugly duckling. Girls prefer other boys.’

  Leeson narrowed his eyes. ‘So is it fair to say that when you found a sexual outlet, you took it?’

  Hassan drew back as if struck. ‘No, that wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘When Jodie Wolfe was on the floor of a warehouse, helpless and vulnerable, you who couldn’t get a date to the prom forced yourself on her, isn’t that right?’

  Hassan grimaced. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Even Mo could find a date! And you couldn’t. This was your first chance to be with a woman, isn’t that correct?’

  Hassan shook his head. ‘I didn’t touch Jodie. I never have. I don’t share any classes with her. I don’t talk to her. She wouldn’t even know my name if I wasn’t friends with Amir. I didn’t touch her. I never have.’

  Leeson was sceptical. ‘Okay, so tell me again, according to your story, once Amir is finished and you are busy taunting Jodie, did you say anything to her directly?’

  ‘I don’t remember. We were mainly teasing Amir.’

  ‘Did you and Amir discuss what happened?’

  Hassan glanced at the dock. ‘No. He told us to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘And do you always do what Amir says?’

  Hassan now looked to the jury. ‘No. I kept quiet because I didn’t want to embarrass Jodie any more than we already had.’

  ‘Is Amir the ringleader of your group? Are you just his lackeys?’ needled Leeson.

  Hassan shrugged. ‘It’s fair to say he’s the leader of our group – the strong ones always are.’

  ‘And you’re just dumb followers?’

  A shadow passed over Hassan’s face. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Do you get angry often, Mr Tanweer?’

  ‘No.’

  Leeson picked up a piece of a paper and studied it closely. ‘Would you say you have good judgment?’

  Hassan smoothed his tie. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you ever advocate harm to Jodie because of her complaint against you?’

  Hassan shook his head vigorously. ‘She needs help, not harm.’

  ‘And you really believe that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why is it that you joined an online hate group called “Slay the Wolfe”, filled with threats on Jodie’s life?’ Leeson handed the clerk a set of documents.

  Hassan grew rigid with panic. ‘It wasn’t a group, it was a thread and I didn’t join it.’

  ‘So you didn’t comment on this thread on the evening of Monday the sixteenth of December under the username “h4sn”? Here’s a sample: “Jodie Wolfe deserves to be gang-raped again and again. I’ll show that bitch what rape really is.” You didn’t upvote fourteen other comments in the same vein?’

  Hassan floundered. ‘I deleted that account straight away.’

  Zara watched on with a pang of satisfaction. The evidence, uncovered by Erin and Artemis House, had the desired effect. The older Asian juror pressed her scarf against her mouth, her features a picture of horror. The younger man behind shook his head in disbelief. Zara knew the question now playing in their minds: have we been fooled by this young boy who looks so neat and speaks so calmly?

  Leeson scoffed. ‘But you did make those comments, Mr Tanweer?’

  Hassan hesitated. ‘I was angry. My friend had just died and I was angry at Jodie, but I didn’t mean any harm to her.’

  ‘And did you mean to rape her, Mr Tanweer?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You didn’t mean to?’

  ‘I didn’t rape her!’

  ‘Then why did you say she deserves to be gang-raped again? Is it not true that you and your friends gang-raped her first?’

  ‘That’s not what it meant. I said “again and again” – it’s not the same thing.’

  ‘So you were saying you want her to be raped again and again by other people – not that you wanted her to be raped again after you raped her?’

  ‘I didn’t rape her.’
Hassan wavered for control.

  ‘You just want others to?’

  ‘No! I was angry.’

  ‘You’re a rapist, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not.’ Hassan’s voice grew high under pressure.

  ‘You are a rapist.’

  ‘I’m not!’ His hands balled into fists.

  ‘You raped Jodie Wolfe and you frequented forums encouraging other men to rape her again – after you and your friends raped her. Isn’t that right?

  ‘I’m not a rapist.’ His features now creased with anger.

  ‘You are.’

  ‘I’m not a rapist! Jodie’s lying! She’s a lying, fucking cunt!’ Hassan’s face twisted with hate and fury.

  Leeson let the words hang in the air. Then, with a satisfied smile, he said, ‘I have no more questions.’

  Zara felt the thrill of victory as the jury stared at the boy, one of them slack jawed. The truth dawned on them that they had been duped. Hassan’s articulate, philosophical persona had slipped and beneath lay the version he’d tried to hide. He sagged in the witness box, knowing that he’d blown it. Despite all the pointers and practise, he’d failed in hiding the truth.

  In the days after the funeral, Amir floated through the house like a ghost, eating little and speaking less. His aunts came to visit and tried to coax laughter from their usually sunny nephew. In the evening, they left without a win. No one understood his guilt, not even Mo or Hassan. After all, he was responsible. He was the one who took Jodie to the warehouse. He was the one who ignored her pleas for contact. Forty-nine times she had tried to reach him. Forty-nine chances to have put this right.

  When Hassan called after speaking in court and asked Amir to go round, he responded with undue venom. Were they to carry on as normal and forget that Farid had died?

  Stuttered by embarrassment, Hassan explained that he needed to talk.

  Amir tightened his grip on the phone. Then, with a sigh, he said, ‘Fine.’

  Hassan hesitated. ‘Can you bring some of your stash?’

  ‘No. I had to throw it all away.’