Boy vs. Girl (16 page)

When Anwar saw the bag of brown powder, his lips spread into a grin, revealing black holes where his teeth should have been.

“
Alhamdulillah
…” he breathed happily as he pulled out a plate, similar to the one in the living room, and began to prepare his fix. All of a sudden, he was animated, full of questions about family and friends.

“How's Mam, Khalid? Is her knee still bothering her? How is Ramzan going? I really miss her biryani, y'know…”

Skrooz, Khalid, answered all his brother's questions patiently as he started to pick up some of the dirty clothes that covered the floor.

“Yeah, Ramzan's going fine, Uncle Abbas is coming up from London for Eid and our mum is dead pleased…”

They carried on in this way, Skrooz totally transformed from a street thug to a good Pakistani family boy. The change was too much for Faraz, who backed away from the door, stumbling on his way back to the front door where he was supposed to have been standing.

This is too mad
, thought Faraz.
Just surreal
.

What was this crazy underworld where guys with names like Khalid picked up English girls for a bit of fun then talked about marrying a good Pakistani girl, where bearded junkies in
shalwar kameez
praised God when they got a fix, where smoking, drugs, robbery and more took place during the sacred month of Ramadan, while others prayed and fasted. It was like living in the twilight zone.

And as Faraz thought of all he had seen, done and heard since the start of Ramadan, during which he had experienced the highest and lowest points of his life, the smell of the rubbish bin hit him again and his stomach lurched.

“Skrooz!” he called out suddenly. “I'm just going to take this rubbish out, yeah?”

There was a muffled sound from the room which Faraz took to be an ‘OK' and, seconds later, he was out of the front door, in a corner of the stairwell, retching.

This can't go on
, he thought miserably.
I can't keep this up
.

When his stomach had settled, he stepped back into the house and picked up the bin bag and stuffed it down into the shute. He waited and listened as it fell down, down, down and crashed onto the other bags of rubbish waiting at the bottom. He could hear the splintering of glass as some bottles broke on impact.

That's me
, he thought to himself.
I'm falling down, further and further. It's only a matter of time before I crash too, just like that bag of rubbish
.

When Skrooz came downstairs, he found Faraz, white-faced, soaking wet, standing next to the car.

“What's the matter with you?” he growled. All traces of the Khalid Faraz had seen looking after his heroin-addicted brother had disappeared.

“Nothing, man, nothing.”

Skrooz did not speak to him again while he loaded the back of the car with his cousin's dirty laundry.

They drove until they reached an intersection. The lights were red. Faraz looked idly to the side, trying to see through the trails of water on the window. The car in the next lane was a red Mini Cooper. The driver was wearing a
niqab
. Their eyes met and Faraz saw that she recognised him. Then he saw her gaze shift towards the driver's face.

He couldn't see her expression but, the next thing he knew, the lights were green and Auntie Najma had pulled away with a screech of car tyres.

Skrooz dropped him off at the end of his street. “See you tomorrow morning, yeah?” he called after him. “Got to drop something off for me before school, OK?”

Faraz said nothing. He just nodded his head and turned to walk up the road to his house. But as he walked towards his gate, he saw the red Mini parked up.

Auntie Najma leaned out.

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, Faraz,” she called out. “I need to speak to you.”

For the first time in his life, Faraz did not want to talk to his aunt. He looked over at his front door.

“Ummm, Auntie, d'you think it could wait? Ummerji's expecting me y'see…”

“No, Faraz, it can't wait.” She looked at him hard. “Get in the car.”

He opened the passenger door and got in, avoiding her eyes as he wiped the rain from his forehead.

“We're going for a drive,” said his aunt as she looked in the rear view mirror and began to reverse.

They drove in silence until they had left Faraz's street far behind.

At last, Auntie Najma spoke. “Faraz,” she began, “what are you doing hanging out with someone like Skrooz?”

“Skrooz?” Faraz squeaked, sweat springing up under his collar. “Oh, nothing, just hanging out, that's all. I don't really know him that well, we just…”

Auntie Najma slammed the brakes and the car lurched to a halt.

“Don't lie to me, Faraz!” Faraz had never
hear his aunt raise her voice and he stared at her. He saw that she had tears in her eyes and that her hands on the steering wheel were trembling. “Don't you dare lie to me!” she said again, her voice shaking, “Not now!”

Faraz didn't know what to say. Several times he opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. Where to begin? How much to say? And then Faraz felt a wave of shame wash over him as he remembered that rainy afternoon, so like this one and so unlike it too, when they had first spoken about the potential of Ramadan and a fire had been lit inside him.

He felt tears prick his eyes as he looked away from his aunt. There was no way he could tell her.

Then came her voice, deep and gravelly as ever. “I know, Faraz. I know.”

He whipped round to face her, his face pale, his mouth open.

“I know what Skrooz gets you to do, I know what he wants from you. I know him, Faraz, better than you ever will…”

“Know him?” Faraz choked on the words. “How?”

Auntie Najma sighed and lifted her
niqab
.
Faraz saw that the rain outside and the steamy windows meant that no one could see into the car.

“Faraz, I once knew a boy who was just like you: beautiful, sensitive, shy. He lived next door to me and our parents were friends. The other boys gave him a hard time because he wasn't like them but I didn't care. He was my friend and I loved him.

“Anyway, we moved away from that neighbourhood and I didn't hear from him for a long time. We grew up, I guess, went to different schools, got into different things and lost touch. But I never forgot him and, in my daydreams, I would dream that he came to look for me and that we got married and lived happily every after – my own fairy tale come true.…”

She laughed at herself then, and wiped her nose before continuing.

“Well, Faraz, you may have heard your mum and aunts talking about when I hit my teenage years, how I turned into a total rebel. But my parents didn't know half the stuff I got up to. I used to hang out with a group of girls at school and, together, we got up to all sorts.”

Faraz stared at his aunt. She glanced at him and continued.

“I know what it's like, Faraz, to want to belong, to want to be like everyone else, to want to taste that life, that crazy, carefree life that our parents tried to keep us away from. So, my parents never saw anything other than me going to school in my
shalwar kameez
and
dupatta
, and coming home with homework. They never really took an interest in my schoolwork, so it was easy to hang out down the town centre instead of going to lessons – none of us liked school anyway. This was our taste of freedom and we didn't care.

“Anyway, it was around that time that I first met Khalid – Skrooz's real name – through a friend. He was a big shot, even then, and he was the hottest guy around. Of course, I thought it was great that he fancied me…”

Faraz interrupted, fearful of what she was going to say. “Auntie, you didn't…”

“Let me finish, Faraz. I can't deny, I was seduced by the money and the cars – all the excitement – and I led him on for a while, enjoying the attention. He used to drive me around with him when I was supposed to be at school, showing off the whole time about how big he was going to be, how much money he would have someday, and all that.

“Anyway, one day, I was in a newsagent's shop, picking up some drinks while Khalid waited outside in the car. I turned to walk up one of the aisles and stopped short. There was a guy in there, about my age, but really rough-looking. His clothes looked like they hadn't been changed for days and his hair was long and matted. I stepped back when the smell hit me – but then he turned my way and I almost fainted…”

“Why, Auntie?”

Najma squeezed her eyes shut as the image that had haunted her all these years appeared before her: the face, so familiar, and yet so changed. The pale, rough skin, the bloodshot eyes, the haunted stare. Those eyes… those eyes….

“Anwar…” she breathed.

Faraz felt the blood drain from his face.

Najma told Faraz what had happened next. How she had called his name and he had turned to her, staring, recognising, trembling with shame, pulling his cardigan around his thin shoulders.

“That was all that was left of my childhood friend, the Anwar of my dreams: an empty, broken shell. ‘Anwar, what happened?' I asked him. ‘Who did this to you? Tell me!'”

Anwar's eyes had left Najma's face then to settle on the face that loomed behind her. He'd opened his mouth to speak, but Skrooz's voice had cut him off.

‘Go home, Anwar,' he had growled. ‘You look a mess…'

“‘
You
?' I screamed. ‘
You
did this to him?'

“Khalid – Skrooz – sneered then, so full of himself. ‘It's not my fault that he was dumb enough to start tasting the stuff himself… that's what happens to pretty boys who ain't got no brains…'

“How I hated him at that moment. All I could think of was my friend, Anwar, who used to make up stories with me, build castles in the sand, taught me how to ride a bike and promised not to tell when I broke the neighbour's fence. And I thought of his mum, his Ummerji – he had always been her favourite – and his father who had been so proud of him when he won the athletics at primary school.

“I could feel my heart breaking – the waste! And I saw then where Skrooz got his power from: sucking the life out of everyone around him.

“I began to shout at him then, crying, screaming, beating him with my fists. He held my wrists and tried to get me to control myself, to scare me.
But I was wild with rage. Everyone in the shop was staring but I didn't care. Finally, Khalid managed to bundle me out of the shop and into his car but I was still screaming at him. I saw Anwar come out of the shop and I made to open the door, calling his name. I wanted to run back to him, to help him, to take him back home to his mum and dad.

“But Khalid grabbed me by my arm and shook me. ‘He's finished, Najma!' he bellowed. ‘That's life! Now shut up and get a grip before I really give it to ya!' He got a fistful of my hair and held it tight as he started the car. He only let go when I stopped screaming Anwar's name.

“That was the last time I ever saw Anwar. I don't know where he is now. But that day was a turning point for me. It was like I had been to the Dark Side – and I didn't want the dark any more. I wanted out. So that was when I stopped hanging out and starting looking into 6
^th
form and universities. I wanted to get away from there, far away – I wanted something different… and I got it.”

Auntie Najma took a deep breath and looked at Faraz's stunned face.

“I won't let you end up like Anwar, Faraz,
no way. Fear no one but Allah, Faraz. You have to be strong. You only get one try in this life and you are throwing it away. You have to end it with Skrooz and you have to do it today.”

* * *

When Faraz got home, Mum and Dad had gone to the mosque to take food for the community iftar. He went straight to Farhana's room. He hesitated just a moment before knocking on the door.

When Farhana opened the door and saw Faraz standing there she said, “What do
you
want?”

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, sis, can I come in? I need to speak to you…”

Farhana nodded silently and let him in.

As soon as the door was closed, Faraz turned to his sister. “Farhana,” he cried, “I'm so sorry, sorry for everything!” Tears sprang to his eyes at the thought of all that had happened in the past weeks.

Farhana, her heart bursting, felt tears rolling down her cheeks and she said, “Me too, Faraz, I'm sorry… so sorry…”

The twins hugged each other fiercely. It had
been hard being strangers.

“Just look at the two of us,” laughed Farhana through her tears. “Imagine if the lads could see you now!”

At that, Faraz drew back and became serious. “Nah, sis, I'm finished with Skrooz and his crew. It's over.”

And he told Farhana everything, everything that had been happening in the last few weeks, everything Auntie Najma had told him.

As he spoke, Farhana grew paler and paler. And then they both heard the familiar screech of tyres come to a stop outside their gate.

They looked at each other, neither of them saying a word.

Then Faraz took a deep breath. “It's now or never,” he murmured.

Farhana nodded, her eyes wide. She got up and followed him down the stairs to the front door.

The streetlights reflected off the rain and Farhana couldn't make out the faces of the people sitting in the car. She saw Faraz with his hood up, talking to the driver. She saw him shake his head several times, shrug his shoulders then open his arms out wide, a gesture of defiance. Then the car
engine revved a few times and the big black BMW sped off down the street.

Farhana tried to read the expression on Faraz's wet face when he got back into the house but he avoided her gaze.

“Faraz?” she said softly.

Faraz put his arm around his sister. “It'll be all right now,
insha Allah
,” he said thickly. “It's over.”