Dishonour (7 page)

Getting out her phone she sighed, knowing today was a turning point. Today, Tash’s life had changed forever.

‘Hello, it’s me.’

‘Hey, is everything all right?’

The voice on the other end was warm and kind, making the guilt Tasha had disappear. Despite what she’d thought earlier, she needed him now more than ever. His voice always had that effect on her. It always made her ask herself how could something this good be wrong?

‘No, not really it’s …’

Tasha trailed off, unable to explain and not wanting to break down into tears.

‘Listen, don’t try to tell me now. Shall I come and pick you up? Are you still at the hospital? We could have a coffee or something.’

Tasha paused then quickly said, ‘Yes, okay, I’d like that. I’m at the entrance but I can’t go far in case he wakes up. I want to be here when he comes round.’

‘I’ll jump in the car now. I’ll only be ten minutes. And sweetheart, try not to worry.’

As Tasha put the phone down, Arnold smiled to himself as he got his car keys out. He liked her. She was perfect.
Just perfect.

8

Laila could see the grounds of Bradford Royal Infirmary as she looked out of the plane window. Everything seemed so small and unreal from the air, like a picture postcard from the sky. A leisurely summer’s day in Bradford, everyone getting along with their lives without a care.

She was invisible to all of them. High up in the sky, no one knowing where she was going. No one caring. But Laila cared, and she was terrified. There were so many questions she wanted to ask but there was no one to answer them. So the questions just went round and round in her head, terrifying her more with each recurrence of thought.

How long was she going for? When would she come back?
Would
she come back? That was the worst question of all and part of Laila was pleased her brother – who was sitting next to her, flicking through a motorcycle magazine – wouldn’t answer.

Islamabad. She hadn’t even been to Spain, let alone a country thousands of miles away. She didn’t know anything much about the country, not
really
about it. Not the things you really needed to know. Of course she knew about the history, the culture, the food and where it was in relation to Afghanistan; she’d learnt it all in school. She even knew enough about the conflicts and the different religious divisions to get an A-star in her history homework. She knew
all
that. What she didn’t know was about the real things. The things that mattered to everyday life.

How could she possibly go somewhere when she didn’t even know where to take a bus, where to buy chocolate or some underwear, or even where the Ladies toilets were? It was those things that
mattered
and it was those things she didn’t know.

Yet the biggest thing, the thing which scared her the most besides marrying a stranger, was how to live in a country when she didn’t speak the language. Yes, she knew and understood the odd word of Urdu but not enough to live there. But that was the point wasn’t it? She didn’t want to live there and until yesterday she hadn’t planned on even going. She didn’t
want
to go, yet here she was sitting on a plane, unable to get off, unable to do anything apart from what her family told her to do.

With the thoughts came the tears and Laila sniffed loudly. A moment later, Mahmood’s harsh voice was heard. Not for the first time that day, Laila Khan wished above all things her beloved father was still alive.

‘I can tell you this now Laila; I’m not sitting here the whole way to Pakistan with you sniffing away.’

Tariq looked at his sister. The guilt he felt was indescribable and the last thing he felt he could cope with was a whole journey of his sister’s tears whilst his uncle chastised her. Even though he’d been told both by his uncle and his mother it was part of his duty as her brother to take Laila to Pakistan and see her married off, truthfully, he could do without the whole trip.

Still, perhaps it’d be worth it in the end. Once she was married their uncle could stop being so angry with Laila. Tariq hated seeing him being so cruel to her. And as long as she didn’t mess up, maybe Laila’s torment would soon be over.

Exhausted, Tariq leaned back in his seat moving his head slightly to get a more comfortable position on the hard headrest. His uncle had refused to pay for first class and so for the next few hours he was going to be stuck squashed between his sister who didn’t sound like she was going to stop crying and his uncle, who’d somehow managed to get through customs with a container of homemade stuffed paratha and was already tucking into it, stinking the stale air.

Tariq closed his eyes and thought about the events of last night. He shuddered. Partly from what had happened to Ray-Ray and partly through his own fear and shame of being involved with it all. He supposed lying low in Pakistan until everything had died down wasn’t a bad idea. He didn’t think anyone had seen them but Pakistan was a good place to hide. It had different rules. His uncle had told him over and over again how the country acknowledged the importance of men being men. Only a few months ago they’d had the conversation.

‘How can men and women be equal Tariq? It’s like saying a zebra is the same as a lion.’

‘What about education uncle, don’t you think women have a right to that? Maybe it’d be worth Laila finishing off her education. I know my father would’ve wanted that?’

His uncle had stared at him and shook his head as he stood in the kitchen at home, a look of disappointment and scorn on his face. ‘
Your father did a lot of damage. He made the mistake of letting you think we can choose our paths, when in fact our paths are chosen for us. Why fill Laila’s head with things which will only lead to disobedience? We will guide her and then, when the time comes, her husband will guide her. That’s the way it should be.’

Tariq broke his thoughts, uncomfortable, as he moved his head again hoping for some slight relief on the headrest. He sighed. How could he think his uncle was right, because that would mean his father had been wrong? He didn’t like to think like that. In fact, Tariq didn’t like to think of his father at all; it was easier. For one thing, it meant he didn’t have to question his uncle or for that matter, himself. But mainly he didn’t like to think of his father because he missed him. Missed the life which used to be.

Laila watched her brother, who was asleep. Gently, she placed a blanket over him. It was getting dark outside and it was also getting cold. The air stewardess smiled at Laila but wasn’t able to see the small smile in return. Her uncle hadn’t allowed her to take off the burka and she didn’t suppose she’d be able to until they arrived at wherever they were going.

Laila glanced at Tariq again, trying to keep her thoughts away from Ray-Ray and trying to stop herself imagining what her uncle might have done to him in his anger. Tariq had also been angry last night which she hated to see, but now as he slept he looked a different person, his face relaxed and free of any sternness. It was tragic, but it felt like it was only when he slept that she could be close to him, closing the void which had developed between them and recognising the brother she so dearly loved.

When their father had died a year ago, and their uncle who they only knew from short, strained yearly visits had come across from Pakistan to live with them, he’d taken over as head of the family, and Tariq had changed, although admittedly he had been forced to. He’d gone from a protective loving brother to a chastising angry one, who each morning scolded her over the breakfast table or when he came home from work at night. It was almost as if he was playing a role. A role their uncle had given him; one which didn’t really fit. At times Tariq seemed cruel, harsh, but Laila knew that wasn’t who he really was, but what their uncle expected of him.

The pressure to be a man
when he was only a boy had taken its toll on Tariq. Like her, he’d been expected to take on a different role overnight. A role no one had warned them about when their father had still been alive.

When he’d been alive they’d talked, dreamt and loved one another. But their uncle had put a stop to that before their father had even been cold in the ground. Now she barely said a word to her mother or Tariq, and neither did they to her. And even though she knew hatred was against all her teachings, Laila struggled not to hate her uncle with a vengeance.

Tariq had been good at so many things when he’d been younger; he’d been especially good at football. Their father had often told Tariq he was certain he’d be the first Pakistani goalkeeper playing for England.

But only a month after the funeral, Tariq had come home from school, walked into the garden and set his football kit on fire. Their uncle had stood a few feet behind Tariq patting him on the back as the flames leapt into the air.

She’d looked at Tariq from the kitchen door, watching in puzzlement before her brother had turned to her angrily, answering a question she hadn’t asked but only thought.

‘There’s no point in having it Laila. There’s no time for playing; that’s what boys do.’

‘But Tariq …’

Mahmood had jumped in then. ‘Enough Laila. When will you learn it’s not our place and certainly not
your
place to question what we’re called to do? Your brother’s made up his mind.’

‘You mean
you’ve
made up his mind for him? You haven’t even bothered to see him play. Have you ever thought he could’ve been called to do that? A gift he was blessed with, uncle?’ That day was the first time Laila’s uncle had hit her.

Tariq stopped playing football. Stopped playing sport and even stopped making an effort at school, leaving with no qualifications but stepping straight into a job within their uncle’s business. Laila tried to talk to her brother about it, but he refused to talk to her and shut her out of his life.

She was certain if their father was alive Tariq wouldn’t have chosen the path he was now on. He seemed to be trying to convince not only his uncle but himself that his life was what he wanted it to be. And with it, the Tariq who’d once loved her, kindly teasing her as he pulled on her pigtails as they walked to school, had disappeared, along with his burning football kit.

9

Arnold drove steadily to the hospital. There was a sense of urgency to get there but a stronger sense of not wanting to break the thirty mile per hour limit speed. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, or perish the thought, kill somebody by driving too fast. He’d never been one to break rules even as a boy. Especially as a boy. His father had made sure of that.

1973

Northumberland

‘Arnold! Arnold, come here.’ His father’s voice echoed round the large hallway and Arnold shivered. Even though he’d just turned eleven he still never knew if his father was cross or happy when he called him. The tone was always the same; low, soft and devoid of any emotions which might give away his true feelings.

Coming down the stairs, Arnold made sure his shirt was without creases and his tie was straight; his father liked that, liked him looking smart, looking better than the other boys.

‘Now son, I want you to take your sister out, it’s not good for you to be cooped up in here all day. When I was a boy, the holidays meant adventure, not sitting in your room reading books. Go up to the woods; have fun, but mind Arnold, you know the rules. Don’t get dirty. You know what happens to dirty boys.’

Arnold glanced at his father; he actually didn’t know what happened to dirty boys. From as far back as he could remember, his Father had always said the same thing, and although he’d never heard his Father raise his voice or seen him lose his temper, there was something in the way he spoke, something which warned Arnold and made him afraid to ever dare to come home covered in dirt. He didn’t want to break the rules.

Arnold watched his sister stand on her tiptoes as their father bent down slightly to receive a goodbye kiss. He then turned to Arnold and reached out his hand for his son to shake it. ‘Have a good time children. And remember what I said.’

‘Fiddlesticks.’

‘What is it Arnie?’ His sister looked at him with soft big eyes and a mop of honey-blonde hair. He loved that she called him Arnie. She was the only one, and she only ever did it in secret when their father wasn’t listening.

‘I’ve forgotten our damn sandwiches, we’ll have to go back and get them.’

‘No Arnie, I’m too tired to go all the way back, you go.’

‘Then if you’re too tired to walk, you’ll be too tired to eat, so I’ll only bring mine.’ His sister looked at him before her cheeks flushed red with anger, which always made Arnold laugh; she had such a quick temper.

‘Arnold Wainwright, you’ll get my sandwiches for me or I’ll tell Pappy you said damn.’

‘You’ll do no such thing and if you do, I’ll tell him you call me Arnie.’

His sister, who was three years younger than him and four inches smaller than him, swung her fist violently. Arnold ducked out of the way and laughed, making his sister angrier.

‘Tell me you’ll get my sandwiches for me Arnie, tell me.’

‘Yes all right, I’ll get them, I was only teasing. Wait here for me. I won’t be long. Now, where’s my goodbye kiss?’ Arnold stretched his arms wide open and put out his cheek, expecting the loving kiss his sister always gave him; the only bit of affection he got.

‘I shan’t give you a kiss Arnold, I shan’t.’

‘Well I’ll give you one then.’ He bent forward but his sister darted away, still annoyed at her brother’s teasing.

Sighing, Arnold started to walk back through the woods towards the house, stopping for a brief moment as his sister shouted out to him.

‘Arnie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you still love me more than life itself?’ Arnold smiled before he replied to his sister, whose face was lit up with eagerness.