Take It Back

by Kia Abdullah

  The thought of Farid – set upon by men as convinced of his guilt as Zara was – made her heart constrict. Her role in the case, her part in casting the boys as villains, made her ache with guilt. And yet she knew she would choose it again. It was her duty to protect the victim. Even when branded a traitor, an imposter, a fucking Uncle Tom, she would do it all over again.

  Hassan pointed his bottle at Mo. ‘You know what I reckon?’ he asked, words slightly slurred. ‘I reckon they’ll write a book about us. Maybe even a movie. Hey, maybe we should write something. Remember that American bird in Italy? She got four million for her story!’

  Mo balanced his bottle on the grass between his legs. The light layer of frost was seeping into his jeans, but coming to this hill above the football pitch seemed like a vital pilgrimage. ‘Do you know the meaning of a Pyrrhic victory?’

  Hassan’s brow scrunched tight. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It’s a victory where both sides lose.’

  Hassan laughed and punched Mo’s shoulder, weaving as he did so. ‘Well, I feel like a winner right now.’ He took a long swig from his bottle. ‘That good old bastard, Rocky. Who knew he would save the day?’

  ‘He is a she,’ said Amir. ‘Shit, if we knew your mum buried your stuff like a freshie, we could’ve ended this mess ages ago.’

  Hassan shook his head in wonder. ‘I really believed that she chucked it all away. I would’ve told her what was on there otherwise.’

  ‘You sure about that, mate?’ Amir mimed getting a blow job.

  Hassan laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe not.’ He gestured towards home. ‘We’re just lucky that your mutt dug it up.’

  Amir smiled and raised his bottle. ‘To Rocky.’

  Hassan raised his too. ‘To Rocky, the bitch who saved the day.’

  Mo followed suit. ‘And to Farid … who didn’t deserve it.’ He looked at the pitch below: two rusty goalposts bookending a nightmare. He tried to name the texture of his grief. He thought it leaden at first, but it was more like sludge or tar. As soon as you cleaned one pit of it, it oozed into another. ‘Do you ever wonder what his last thoughts were?’

  Amir wrapped his fingers around a blade of grass and pulled it from the ground. ‘All the fucking time.’ He swallowed. ‘I hope they find the people who did it.’

  Hassan scoffed. ‘I hope they kill the cunts.’ His words echoed in the glass neck of his bottle. ‘Hey, what do you think Jodie’s feeling right now?’

  ‘Suicidal?’ said Amir.

  ‘I should fucking well hope so.’

  ‘Come on, guys.’ Mo shook his head.

  ‘Come on what?’ Hassan challenged.

  Mo searched for the words to confront him, to ask about his humanity, to remind him of his cruelty. Jodie had caused them pain, but to sit here and wish her dead in a twisted show of masculinity was utterly and thoroughly revolting. Mo remembered his mother’s words. There will be moments in your life when you must decide in an instant. He took a breath and held it, feeling his heartbeat quicken. Then, he exhaled thinly. ‘Nothing. I just—I’m worried about her.’ Cowardice spread like oil on his skin.

  Amir slapped Mo on the back. ‘Why are you worried about her? We’re the ones who lost an innocent man out of it.’

  ‘I just think—’

  ‘You think too much. Drink.’ Amir picked up his bottle and pressed it into Mo’s hands.

  The bruises had faded but her left cheekbone was still tender when touched. She could feel it now, throbbing beneath her mother’s gaze.

  ‘Drink your tea,’ urged Fatima, her personal panacea.

  Zara took a sip and placed the cup back down, the liquid too hot and sweet. As a pupil in chambers, she had been the sole person to take sugar in her tea. It was only when a colleague joked about her roots that Zara realised they thought it working class. Soon after, she cut down to half a spoon and then further to none.

  ‘I saw Farid’s parents on the news,’ her mother cut through her thoughts. ‘His father was crying.’

  Zara stiffened. ‘I saw him too.’ She stirred her tea and waited, but her mother said nothing further. That was their way: ignore the issue long enough and perhaps it would go away. They may pick at it once in a while, but would never hold it fully in their grasp. Even now, three weeks after the story broke, her mother said nothing of her clip with Michael. Zara had ended the fling but it lay heavy on her chest like a scarlet A which her mother tried hard to ignore. One day, it would all be used against her – by her mother in a moment of candour or her brother in angry rancour – but until then, it would sit and gather dust, waiting to be shaken.

  The clock on the wall ticked on and Zara counted the beats of silence. It was exactly two hundred and seventy seconds later that Rafiq walked in with Amina. He regarded Zara with a look she couldn’t place; it wasn’t schadenfreude or glee, but something akin to pity.

  ‘It’s you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she replied.

  Rafiq hesitated. ‘The mosque is having a collection for that boy.’ He shuffled on his feet. ‘I can put in a contribution if you want. It would help to make amends.’

  She watched him for a moment and tried to divine his aim. Was this a barb to rouse her guilt, or a genuine attempt at repair? Unlike Zara, he was steadfast in his faith. Was this a bid to help in a way he believed would work?

  Zara swallowed her tea. ‘Okay, thanks,’ she said, taking him at his word.

  ‘Okay.’ He hesitated, then patted his pockets. ‘I forgot something from the shops.’ He walked out without goodbye. She saw him no more that evening but didn’t lament that fact. Perhaps the words unsaid were better left that way.

  The room tinkled with the sound of glass as the swing band readied for their first song. Safran watched Zara as she watched the stage.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said.

  ‘We’re lawyers,’ she replied. ‘We don’t deal in pennies.’

  He smiled. ‘If I had to take a guess, I’d say you’re thinking of Jodie.’ He took a sip of his whisky. ‘It’s been two weeks and you’ve not mentioned her.’

  Zara sighed. ‘I don’t know what to say. If I’m honest, it frightens me to death that I was so wrong about her. What happened to my famed barrister’s instinct?’

  ‘You’re not the only one she fooled.’

  ‘I just—’ Zara’s hands curled into fists. ‘I’m angry for not seeing that she needed help of a different kind.’

  Safran frowned. ‘You’re not a psychiatrist. Besides, your job is to believe the women you serve, not question them.’

  Zara leaned back in her chair. ‘You’re right. I just hate the way I left things.’

  ‘That’s your problem, Zar. You want life in neat and predictable boxes when it’s actually a river of shit.’

  She smiled sardonically. ‘I’ll have to have that framed on my wall.’

  He laughed softly and took another sip. After a moment, he asked, ‘How are things with your family?’

  Zara hesitated. ‘They’re okay under the circumstances.’ She fell silent for a moment then shrugged lightly. ‘Look, we’re never going to have the angry, cathartic conversations you see on TV but maybe we’ll dust off some cobwebs and actually start to talk.’

  Safran nodded as soft applause rippled across the room, cutting into their conversation. The band launched into a new song. Zara strained to recognise the lyrics, then threw her head back and laughed. Paul Anka’s version of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’.

  ‘Want to dance?’ she asked, only half joking.

  Safran smiled. ‘You know, it’s good to hear you laugh again.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Saf. We don’t do sentimental.’

  He set down his drink, slow and deliberate. ‘No we don’t, but I will say that I’m proud of you.’

  She averted her eyes, uncomfortable beneath his praise. The year’s events flashed through her mind: meeting Luka, fighting for Jodie, the horrific attack by unknown strangers
. And here she was on the other side – still intact.

  Safran caught her gaze. ‘You’re a good person, Zar. I know you don’t believe that but you are.’

  She scoffed. ‘There are about three million Muslims in the country who’d disagree with you.’ Soft lines dipped in her forehead. ‘And maybe they have a point. Those four boys were innocent but the world won’t remember that. Their names have been cleared but this wreck of a case will live on in a hundred different ways: the mother who warns her daughter from brown boys, the man who worries about his surname, the polite mistrust between next-door neighbours. The mess we created will live on, so I don’t blame those three million Muslims for thinking what they do.’

  Safran leaned forward. ‘Maybe, but the question is: do you believe them or do you believe me?’

  Zara held his gaze. The broad tones of the swing band soared across the room. After a long moment, she said, ‘You.’ The word caught briefly in her throat. She cleared it and repeated: ‘I believe you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Zara rang the bell and stood back as if expecting a blow. It had been three weeks since the end of the trial and she found herself coming back to this spot time and again, her mind tethered there by the string of words she’d left unsaid. She listened to the rasping cough grow louder in the corridor. A twist of a lock and the door swung open.

  Jodie’s mother shrugged in greeting. ‘You know where to find her.’ She took a puff on her cigarette and shuffled back to the living room.

  Zara knocked on Jodie’s door, then pushed it gently open. She was knelt on the floor, smoothing brown tape over a large cardboard box. The bed was stripped bare and desk broken down.

  ‘I heard that you were leaving for a while,’ said Zara. She noted that Jodie looked better now. Her skin was brighter and she had gained a few pounds.

  Jodie didn’t reply. Instead, she ripped three long strips off the roll of brown tape.

  ‘I think that’s good,’ said Zara. ‘It’s a new year and a break will be good for you.’ She took a few steps inside and sat gingerly on the bed. ‘Hey, will you stop for a second?’

  Jodie put down the roll of tape.

  Zara appreciated her maturity. If it were she at sixteen, she would have carried right on, or at least ripped off one last strip in a childish act of defiance. ‘So, how are you?’ she asked.

  Jodie blinked. ‘Shell-shocked.’

  ‘I bet.’ Zara tried to catch her eye.

  Jodie pushed the box aside, its heavy bulk whispering along the carpet. ‘What are you doing here?’ There was no impudence in her tone, only curiosity.

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye.’

  Jodie looked up. ‘You already said goodbye.’

  ‘No, I didn’t – not properly. I was … angry.’

  ‘And you’re not anymore?’

  ‘No.’ Sat there in the bleak lemon glow, Zara felt a gentle tenderness.

  Jodie leaned against a wall. ‘Did they tell you I have to see a therapist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sighed. ‘People in books and movies always say they wish they could rewind time to a certain point. They talk about “a good age”. I wish I could rewind time too, but I realised that there’s never been a good age for me. I don’t know if there ever will be.’

  Zara felt a swell of sorrow. ‘Oh, Jodie. I promise you there are better things ahead.’

  Jodie traced a circle around the roll of tape. ‘I never meant to hurt him.’

  Zara had vowed not to be combative, but she had to ask, ‘Where would it have ended, Jodie? If they hadn’t found that clip, where would you have let it get to?’

  Jodie’s gaze dipped low. ‘I thought we’d lose, so it wouldn’t matter.’

  ‘And if we’d won? Would you have let those boys go to prison?’

  Jodie grimaced. ‘I would have told the truth.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Zara blinked. She wanted to say more but just took a deep breath and stood up. ‘You’re leaving tonight?’

  Jodie nodded. ‘Yes. I’m staying with my aunt in Portsmouth ’til Mum gets on her feet.’

  ‘And you’ll start college in September?’

  Jodie stood too. ‘I hope so.’

  They stood shoulder to shoulder for a silent minute. Zara swallowed hard, then took the girl in her arms. ‘You’re going to have a great life, Jodie Wolfe. I promise you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jodie closed her eyes and let herself be held.

  The paper ball hit Amir’s head then fell to the floor by his feet. He picked it up and unfurled it to read the message inside: Cunt Stain. He turned and caught Hassan’s wicked grin, then mimicked a blowjob back to him.

  ‘Yeah, but only if I’ve got a face like a fish, right?’ Hassan threw back.

  Amir gasped in mock horror. ‘Dude, you can’t say shit like that!’ They both laughed, their voices bright and happy.

  Mo shivered in the January chill and watched the exchange from the corner sofa at the Dali Centre. How could it be that after everything they had been through, his friends were still the same: so careless, so thoughtless, so utterly reckless? The arrest, the trial, the undoing of Jodie Wolfe and the murder of their friend. Someone had murdered their friend and here they were, laughing and joking and pretending it hadn’t happened; that everything was still okay. Mo could barely stand it.

  There will be moments in your life when you must decide in an instant, his mother had told him. That was true, but sometimes you needed time and perspective to walk away from something toxic. Mo rose from his chair and left his friends without a word in parting. He walked through the hall, across the small pitch with its forlorn goalposts and onto the street outside. He walked to Bow Road tube station, then passed through the barriers and strode down the steps to wait solemnly on the platform.

  Zara made a note in her diary, cracking the spine at January. She traced a finger along the centre seam and felt a stir of hope. This year, she vowed, would be a good year. This year, she would get a bit closer to who she used be; she with her plans and goals and unflinching sense that the world was entirely conquerable. That woman seemed like a stranger now but maybe, with time, she would find her way to herself again.

  Zara circled a date and set down her pen. She reached for her coffee cup and heard a light knock on the door. She glanced up and her hand froze mid-air.

  ‘May I come in?’

  Zara withdrew her hand. ‘Uh, yes.’

  Mohammed Ahmed walked in and closed the door behind him. ‘May I sit?’

  Zara watched him for a second, perplexed by his visit. She nodded towards a chair, her interest sufficiently piqued.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  Zara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you here, Mr Ahmed?’

  ‘Call me Mo.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I heard that Jodie’s seeing a therapist.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ He shifted in his chair and regarded Zara sadly. ‘I’m just a boy, you know?’ He waved a delicate hand in the air. ‘I’m not some champion of morality, I’m not a representation of a people, I’m not a product of a generation or a symptom of a culture. I’m just a boy.’

  Zara closed her diary.

  ‘I mean, what is faith anyway? Would you say you’re a Muslim? Would I say I’m a Muslim? It’s one faith but we’re not all the same. The only actions I can represent are mine: a sixteen-year-old boy who lives in East London, who likes Formula One, hates daytime TV, is secretly scared of spiders, and who dreams of being a designer. I’m one person.’ He thumped a light hand on his chest. ‘And I represent my actions.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m sorry for what happened to you, Ms Kaleel. I’m sorry that all of this got so messed up.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘That’s what everyone says. It wasn’t your fault. Farid dies but it wasn’t your fault.’ He laughed a bitter laugh. ‘Farid told me something before he died. He said th
at no matter what happened in court, we couldn’t just move on. He said, “That’s not how it works. Not for men like us.” I thought he meant it would be hard because we’re Muslim, but that’s not what he meant at all. He meant men like us – like him and me. We’re not like Amir and Hassan. I have a conscience and I can’t just carry on.’

  Zara waited for more.

  Mo reached into his faux leather satchel. ‘I came to give you something.’ He brandished a USB stick. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He stood. ‘Vindication.’ And then, without saying any more, he left her alone in the room.

  Zara studied the silver stick. Vindication? Was it some sort of revenge? She slotted it into a port on her laptop and waited, impatiently drumming her fingers on the desk. Autoplay launched VLC player and an .mp4 video file began to play. The screen was black and two voices could be heard, muffled and giggling.

  ‘I swear to God, it’s true. Turn it on,’ said a male voice.

  ‘You’re such a fucker, I don’t believe you,’ said another.

  The camera shook, the footage blurry. It was the same clip that had been shown in court. Zara sighed. Why would he give her a copy of this? She didn’t need to see it again. She pushed away the laptop in disgust and went to make her coffee.

  Was it a slap in the face? she pondered. A rebuke for siding with the wrong team? How was she to know that Jodie had crafted her story from silt? She waited for it to brew, then picked up her coffee and returned to her room. The clip was nearing its end.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Amir’s voice on the tape. ‘Jodie, they’re just messing. C’mon.’ Zara set down her cup and reached to take out the stick.

  ‘Would you feel better if we put another dick in your mouth?’ Hassan’s voice now.

  Zara froze. She crept round to her side of the desk and sank slowly into the chair. The video player had autoloaded a second clip. Jodie was on the screen, face to the wall, crying.