Dishonour Read online

  ‘Yes,’ her voice was no more than a murmur.

  ‘Well, I got it all wrong,’ he said. ‘The boy, Ryan, he wasn’t what I thought at all.’

  What was he talking about? What did this have to do with the text from MB?

  ‘I thought he was just another little toerag, swinging the lead.’ He looked up at her, his eyes bright with tears. ‘I treated him like just another bag of useless shite.’

  Lilly realised that what he was upset about had nothing whatsoever to do with her suspicions.

  ‘I had a chance to help that kid but I blew it,’ he said. He broke down, his shoulders heaving with each sob.

  Lilly had never seen Jack so bereft, and despite herself, she reached out to touch him.

  ‘Tell me what’s happened,’ she said softly.

  So he told her about the lad who was truanting from school, who was bullying his mother, who had lured away a vulnerable girl.

  ‘Only none of that’s true,’ he sobbed. ‘If I had just opened my eyes for just one second I’d have seen what was right in front of me.’

  Lilly stroked his hair. Whatever she had felt an hour ago was overtaken by the need to comfort Jack.

  ‘His mum isn’t the full ticket and he looks after her as best he can,’ he said. ‘And the girl came to him because she was frightened of her brothers.’ He slammed his fist on the table. ‘It was bloody obvious from the start.’

  Lilly thought about Sam. Her lovely, sweet boy with a collection of teddies to rival Hamleys. The school bully.

  ‘Things are never obvious,’ she said.

  ‘You’d have seen it in a jiffy,’ he pointed a finger at her, ‘because you’re not some fucked-up cynic.’

  ‘Neither are you.’

  He pushed his knuckles into his tear ducts as if to stem another flow.

  ‘Then why is Ryan lying unconscious in hospital?’ he asked. ‘Why is the girl missing?’

  He wasn’t looking for an answer, of course, but Lilly gave one all the same.

  ‘Because, Jack, none of us are perfect.’

  When he looked up at her his gratitude was palpable.

  ‘You never judge,’ he said.

  She smiled at him. She knew then that she wouldn’t tackle the text from MB now, not when Jack needed her support. She might be angry with him but she still loved him.

  When her father left without a forwarding address but with a heap of unpaid debts, his name had never been uttered again. Elsa simply put her shoulder to the grindstone and took two jobs. Yet each night when she thought her daughter safely asleep, Elsa would lie on her bed and weep.

  ‘Why does she care?’ Lilly had asked her nan. ‘He’s a horrible git and she should be glad he’s gone.’

  Nan had stubbed out an Embassy Regal in her gilt ashtray on its jewelled stand and pulled Lilly into her arms.

  ‘You’ll understand one day, Lil.’ She smelled of Hartnell’s In Love. ‘Feelings don’t die overnight.’

  Lilly suspected she was beginning to understand perfectly what Nan had meant.

  ‘Have you been at the hospital?’ she asked Jack.

  He nodded. ‘The poor kid has taken a terrible beating. They cracked his skull open like an egg.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘Ryan’s mum said a group of men barged into the flat and grabbed her.’

  ‘Did no one call the police?’

  Jack frowned. ‘This is the Clayhill, Lilly—what do you think?’

  She nodded. Of course no one called the police.

  ‘Apparently Ryan tried to stop them and took a swing at one of them. Broke his nose, by the look of the blood,’ he said.

  ‘It’s got to be the brothers,’ Lilly said.

  Jack shook his head. ‘Uniform went straight round but they’ve got a cast-iron alibi.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘A group of thugs who think they’re above the law.’

  Lilly felt as though she’d been slapped in the face.

  PTF.

  A shiver ripples down Aasha’s spine and she pulls her knees tight into her chest.

  It’s not that she’s cold—just very scared of what is going to happen next.

  She had fallen asleep on Ryan’s bed, exhausted by everything that had happened in the last few days with Imran and then with Ryan’s mum. It had been a good sleep, deep and warm without any dreams to disturb her.

  Suddenly, there was a bang in the hallway that woke her with a start. She could hear Ryan shouting. At first she thought his mum might have done something stupid again. The poor woman had seemed calmer when Aasha had taken in a cup of tea but you never could tell when people were sick. Their moods could change.

  So she’d jumped off the bed, her heart in her mouth, terrified that once again the walls would be covered in blood.

  When she got into the hall she saw two men pushing their way into the flat.

  ‘Get the fuck out of my house,’ Ryan shouted at them.

  But one was three times his size, all pumped up from doing weights. He picked Ryan up by his T-shirt and slammed him into the wall. Ryan groaned and slid down to the floor. The other man was skinny with a weird twitch at the corner of his eye. It made him look even more mental than the big one.

  Aasha screamed and ran to the kitchen to phone the police. Ryan might have a golden rule never to involve the authorities in his business but right now she didn’t give a shit.

  They followed close behind her and filled the tiny kitchen with their huge bodies.

  ‘Don’t make this any worse for yourself,’ the big one told her. ‘We’re leaving.’

  It was then Aasha realised that her brothers had sent them.

  It was over. She was going home.

  ‘Don’t you touch her.’

  Everyone turned to see Ryan in the doorway, the front of his favourite Lacoste T-shirt ripped.

  The big one pointed at Ryan with a huge hand. ‘Don’t be stupid and you won’t get hurt.’

  Aasha took a tiny breath as she saw the baseball bat Ryan had by his side. She wanted to grab it, to stop things spiralling out of control, but she was so frightened she couldn’t move.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

  The man looked from Aasha to the bat and back again.

  ‘Worried about your boyfriend?’ he said. ‘Sweet.’

  The other man laughed, his eye dancing manically.

  ‘Come on.’ The big one reached out to grab Aasha, his hand sweaty.

  Ryan ran at him, swinging the bat and whacked him hard in the face. Aasha heard a crack like breaking wood.

  ‘Little fucker,’ the man roared, blood pouring from his nose.

  The other man aimed a punch at Ryan but he dodged around until he was at Aasha’s side, still swinging the bat to keep them at bay.

  How long could he keep it up, Aasha wondered. She knew she should try to help, but she was paralysed by fear.

  The big one wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheek. ‘I’m going to make you wish you were never born,’ he snarled.

  He grabbed the edge of the kitchen table and upended it. Bowls and cutlery flew across the room. Aasha screamed again.

  Ryan held the bat out like a sword. ‘For the last time, I’m telling you to get out.’

  The big one glanced at his friend and nodded.

  For one second Aasha thought they were agreeing to leave, that Ryan had scared them off.

  She was wrong.

  They stepped forward, almost as if they’d rehearsed it. Ryan lashed out at the big one’s bloody face. The bat didn’t connect. Ryan swiped again, drawing an arc with the bat. When his arm was fully extended to his right and his own face was unprotected, the man with the twitch punched him square in the face. Aasha heard the air leave Ryan’s mouth in a whoosh.

  As he tried to gain his breath the man punched again. This time Ryan fell to the floor coughing and spitting blood.

  The big one grabbed the bat f
rom him. ‘Get her out of here,’ he ordered his friend.

  The man with the twitch pulled Aasha roughly but she didn’t fight. She couldn’t even lift her arms and she let him drag her from the kitchen. As she stumbled along the hallway she heard the horrible thud of the bat again and again and again.

  When they got to a white Transit van her legs buckled. The man picked her up and threw her in the back as if she weighed nothing. Her shoulder bashed against the metal floor.

  She rubs it now, knowing that if she could see it there would be a mark where it feels tender under her fingers. But she can’t see. She’s been locked in the back of the van, in total darkness, for what seems like hours.

  She remembers a journey—she couldn’t say how long—where she rolled and tumbled in the back. Then the van stopped. She’d braced herself, expecting the doors to fling open, to be thrown at Imran’s feet. When they just left her in here she felt something like relief.

  But it’s been so long now, she’s getting scared again, and the smell is making her feel sick. What if she needs to pee? What if the air runs out?

  She holds her hands out in front of her and gropes for the doors or the sides. She waves in a circle, touching nothing but air, thinking how terrible it must be to be blind and have this nothingness every day of your life. Just that sickening smell.

  She leans forward a little, then a little more. It is so disorientating, like being suspended in mid-air.

  At last her fingers brush the side. The solid steel is so welcome she pats it like a dog.

  Then she traces down, hoping for a handle.

  The smell gets stronger and stronger until she gags.

  When her hands are almost at floor level she touches hard plastic. It’s a container of some sort. She follows its straight lines until something else makes her draw back. Soft, yet dense. Aasha can’t think what it is. Gingerly, she reaches out again until her fingers meet its feathery lightness. She presses harder until she feels a firmness beneath. The smell, the touch—they are both familiar.

  She strokes sideways, confirming the entire container is full of these objects. But what?

  Then something scratches her finger. Hard and sharp. A beak.

  Aasha recoils in horror and scoots away on her bottom until her back touches the stiff smoothness of another container. She tries not to cry and buries her hands in her lap. She doesn’t want to touch them, she doesn’t want to smell them, but she knows what they are.

  She’s been locked inside a van full of dead chickens.

  Chapter Seven

  February 2009

  ‘Those that make war against God and his people shall be slain.’ The teacher is back at the mosque. ‘This is the basis of Jihad.’

  I am late for the discussion but a place has been reserved for me at the front now that I am known. I nod an apology as I make my way forward and the teacher nods back.

  We are equals. Well, perhaps not equals, but I certainly have position.

  A sister raises her hand. ‘Does the noble Koran not tell us that whoever kills a human shall be regarded as killing all mankind?’

  The teacher smiles patiently. ‘This is a very good point,’ he says. ‘Does anyone here have an answer?’

  I feel confident to have my say and gesture to the teacher with my eyes. Not for me putting up my hand like a child in school. The teacher gives me a nod.

  ‘There is a duty upon every Muslim to live peacefully,’ I say. ‘The word peace should be the most common of all words on the believer’s tongue.’

  ‘How then can we justify war or terrorism?’ the sister asks.

  ‘Because Allah requires us not to be the aggressor,’ I pause for effect. ‘But he does not expect us to do nothing while our enemies attack us.’

  The teacher gives a modest smile but it is enough to spur me on.

  ‘Any Muslim who is being prevented from following his true path has the right to defend himself.’

  Over breakfast that morning I had the very same discussion with Yasmeen. When the news of a suicide bombing in Tel Aviv came on the radio she had shaken her head sadly.

  ‘War is war,’ I said.

  ‘It’s still horrible when someone walks into a café and blows up children sharing a Coke,’ she said.

  ‘What choice do they have?’ I asked. ‘Palestinian children are being murdered every day.’

  ‘An eye for an eye,’ she said. ‘Since when did you become Jewish?’

  I was about to throw an insult but Yasmeen batted me away.

  ‘I understand where you’re coming from. These are poor people without access to even basic food—we can’t expect them to fight back in a traditional military manner,’ she said. ‘Terrorism is the only response available to the oppressed.’

  I don’t know where that came from, but it certainly shut me up.

  I’m disappointed that she didn’t come to today’s meeting. I think she’d be impressed with how my standing has grown.

  I asked her several times but she insisted she had somewhere else to go.

  I turn my body slightly so that I am no longer answering only the teacher but addressing the congregation.

  ‘Think of Chechnya, Palestine, Kashmir,’ I say. ‘Would Allah really expect us not to take action?’

  After the meeting is over I don’t need to hover for a word with the teacher. Instead he greets me warmly.

  ‘You spoke well,’ he says. ‘With passion and conviction.’

  ‘I feel very strongly,’ I say.

  He touches my arm with his hand. I feel the pressure from his fingers and the absence of his thumb.

  The woman who spoke earlier approaches us. I want more time alone with the teacher but it would not be fitting to exclude her. The teacher shows a generosity of time and spirit that I would do well to emulate.

  ‘I listened to everything you taught us,’ she speaks quickly, ‘and I’m convinced that we do need to take action.’

  I want to point out that it was me and not the teacher who made that point. But I don’t.

  ‘I’m glad you have re-examined this, sister,’ says the teacher.

  I notice that the woman’s hijab is not pinned neatly, that chestnut-coloured hair is peeping out.

  ‘But what do you suggest?’ she asks. ‘What action can we take?’

  He smiles at her, always so warm. ‘We can pray, sister,’ he says. ‘Live our lives as Allah intended.’

  ‘Don’t we have a responsibility to do more than that?’ she asks.

  His smile is still intact. ‘Some of us will be called upon to do more. Some of us will get involved in campaigns, take part in demonstrations.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She is excited. ‘I can do those things.’

  His eyes flick towards me. Briefly, but I catch it.

  ‘And there are those of us who will be called upon to take more action still.’

  Taslima watched Lilly wiping the smears of chocolate cake from the kitchen wall.

  ‘Dirty protest?’

  Lilly threw the dishcloth at her.

  She’d asked Taslima to come round and discuss the PTF. Jack had left so early this morning Lilly hadn’t had the chance to roll out of bed, let alone tell him her theory that the same men were involved in Yasmeen’s murder and Aasha’s disappearance.

  To be fair, it would be better to work through it with Taslima before she presented it to Jack. And it would give her an excuse to avoid the issue of MB’s text.

  She stepped back to admire her handiwork. The paintwork was fucked.

  ‘So you think the PTF took this girl?’ asked Taslima.

  Lilly rummaged under the sink for a tin of magnolia. After the cottage had been redecorated she’d insisted on keeping all the unused supplies. The bloody thing was right at the back and there was no way Lilly could reach.

  ‘The only people interested in this girl were her family,’ Lilly huffed, ‘and apparently they had nothing to do with it.’

  Taslima nudged Lilly out of the way and extracte
d the tin, together with a paintbrush.

  ‘That doesn’t mean it was the PTF,’ she said.

  ‘But it makes sense, you’ve got to admit,’ said Lilly.

  Taslima wrenched off the paint tin lid with a knife, dipped in the brush and made large rainbow strokes across the cake-stained wall.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t just want it to be the PTF?’

  Lilly cocked her head to one side, taking in Taslima’s artistic talents.

  ‘Well, of course I want it to be them,’ she said, ‘and I want there to be evidence that they killed Yasmeen as well.’

  Taslima laughed. ‘All very neat.’

  Lilly opened her arms to take in the mound of dishes in the sink, a pile of ironing Widow Twankey would be proud of and the stains on the wall. ‘Welcome to my world,’ she laughed. ‘It would be nice if occasionally things went according to plan.’

  Taslima finished the painting and put away the tin. She rinsed the brush under the warm tap.

  ‘Then let’s go and talk to the only person who seems to connect both crimes.’

  Half an hour later they waved to Mohamed. If he was pleased to see them he certainly didn’t show it.

  ‘Another girl has been attacked,’ said Lilly.

  Mohamed busied himself cleaning a meat slicer, the circular blade already pristine and razor sharp.

  ‘Her name is Aasha Hassan,’ said Lilly. ‘We think the PTF may have kidnapped her.’

  Mohamed ran a cloth round and round the edge of the blade, his hand getting faster and faster. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘We wondered if you’d heard anything?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘Haram.’ Mohamed ran the pad of his thumb against the blade, a thin line of blood immediately rising to the surface. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Lilly watched Mohamed put the wound to his mouth, covering his lips in a deep crimson stain.

  ‘That looks deep,’ she said.

  He waved her away with his other hand and moved to the sink.

  ‘Please,’ he ran his thumb under the cold tap, ‘just leave.’

  The water ran red then pink into the basin until at last it ran clear.

  ‘If you hear anything at all,’ said Lilly, ‘will you let us know?’

  Mohamed reached for a box of tissues and began layering them onto his thumb.