Dishonour (18 page)

When the skinhead was about to take his seat he grinned at Raffy.

‘Ignore him,’ said Lilly.

Raffy nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the other boy.

Lilly pressed her hand on his. ‘He’s not worth the aggravation.’

The skinhead lifted his arm to wave at them but at the last second straightened and turned it into a
Sieg Heil
.

Raffy jumped to his feet, his chair clattering behind him.

‘You’re a dead man,’ he screamed. ‘You understand me?’

The skinhead laughed at him.

After that Raffy had been unable to concentrate on anything other than his rage. Lilly had ended the visit early.

‘I just don’t understand,’ she said to Taslima, ‘where all the hatred comes from?’

‘People can only be tolerant of being called a Paki for so long,’ Taslima answered. ‘You get to a point when you need to fight back.’

‘Do you feel that way?’ asked Lilly.

‘Sometimes.’ Taslima shrugged. ‘I get tired of justifying myself. When people stare at my hijab I want to ask them if they’d rather see me in a cropped top and a belly ring.’

‘Trust me,’ said Lilly, ‘I haven’t put my belly on public display since I was ten.’

Taslima laughed and nodded at Lilly’s bump. ‘I can see more than enough, thank you.’

Lilly was about to feign a wounded expression when her mobile rang.

‘Mrs Valentine?’

‘Miss,’ said Lilly.

The caller was a man, his accent clipped. ‘That’s right, you don’t use your married name.’

‘That’s because I’m not married,’ said Lilly. ‘Look, who is this please?’

‘Mr Latimer,’ he said. ‘I believe you wanted to speak to me urgently.’

Realisation dawned. It was Sam’s head teacher.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about my son.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, he seems tense,’ she said. ‘I understand there has been some bullying at school.’

‘I’m not fond of that word,’ said Mr Latimer, ‘but there have been some recent problems.’

‘And Sam’s involved?’

‘It would appear so.’

Lilly’s heart thumped. Sam was being picked on by older boys. What were they doing? Pushing him around, stealing his lunch? Calling him vile names? Whatever it was it was enough to put Sam off going in at all.

‘What do you plan to do?’ she asked.

‘I think you should come in to see me,’ said Mr Latimer.

Taslima pulled up outside the office. ‘What on earth is he up to?’ She pointed at a man peering in the office window, taking photographs with a small camera.

Lilly frowned. ‘I have to go, Mr Latimer. I’ll call in tomorrow.’

She wound down her window. ‘Can I ask what you’re doing?’ she called to the potential intruder.

The man turned to the Mini and slid his camera into the breast pocket of his jacket. Lilly could see his cuffs were grubby and worn.

‘Do I need to call the police?’ she asked.

The man smiled at her, revealing the brown, uneven teeth of a heavy smoker. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ he wheezed.

‘Then answer my first question,’ said Lilly. ‘What are you doing?’

He leered at Lilly. ‘The estate agents sent me to take a few pictures.’

‘What estate agent?’ Lilly narrowed her eyes.

The man waved vaguely down the road. ‘On the High Street.’

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Lilly.

‘I can see that,’ the man chuckled. ‘Truth be told, I thought I might have the wrong place when I saw it was all locked up.’

Lilly stared at him.

‘No harm done,’ he said. ‘I’ll be on my way.’

Lilly watched him meander away, telling herself that it was just as the man said, a misunderstanding. She had nothing to worry about. She was being paranoid.

Mark Cormack waited ten minutes before returning to his car. When the solicitor caught him he’d come out with a load of old rubbish and she hadn’t bought a word of it.

He didn’t want her noting down his number plate and getting some contact at the DVLA working out who he was.

They were like that, these legal types, friends in high places and all that.

When he was sure the women were gone he pulled out his packet of Benson & Hedges. Some muppet had told him that having fags with him would help him give up. Something about craving what you couldn’t have. It was bollocks. If you had ’em, you smoked ’em. Simple as. He lit one up and took a deep, appreciative lungful of smoke before driving back to his office.

Now he knew where the woman lived and worked. Job done.

Ryan lies next to Aasha and watches her sleep. He daren’t move a muscle in case he disturbs her, which is quite an achievement on his single bed.

Her chest lifts up and down as she breathes and Ryan copies her, taking in the air at the exact same time as her, then letting it out again.

Their hands are entwined. His white, hers lush brown. They could be on some sort of poster. He’ll paint it one day and sell, like, a million copies. Then he and his mum can move out of the Clayhill and he’ll pay someone to do the cooking and washing and that.

Ryan smiles. He hasn’t felt this calm for the longest time. Probably not since his dad said he was going for a packet of fags and never came back. Before that, his mum had always been a bit edgy, hardly ever leaving the flat, taking to her bed on bad days. Ryan hadn’t worried about it too much. He’d left it to his dad and done what other kids do: went to school; played football. Once it was just the two of them, his mum went downhill fast. Ryan doesn’t play football any more. He keeps a baseball bat by his bed but it’s not for a game with his mates.

If he goes out she won’t eat or get washed, just waits for him to get back. Sometimes he has to, like for school and stuff, but then he just spends the whole time wondering what he’ll be coming home to. When she goes through phases of cutting he just bunks off and stays indoors, bricking it that one day she’ll cut too deep.

Some days he feels like going to the shops and never coming back, but then he’d be just as much of a cunt as his dad.

Aasha thinks he should tell someone at school about his mum. She says they’ll help him and that at his age they won’t put him in care.

‘And if they did you’d just get the bus home.’

She knows he’s scared but she doesn’t take the piss. Instead she says she’ll go with him, that they can talk to Mrs Blake together.

He leans over Aasha’s face. Her skin is totally clear, no spots, not even any freckles. It’s like a mirror or one of the blank canvases he loves. Sometimes he nicks paper from school so he can draw at home. He thinks Miss Black might know but she don’t seem to care. When he puts them on the table they’re completely fresh, waiting to suck up his imagination.

He looks at her lips and would love to kiss her, but he’s afraid to wake her and spoil this fantastic moment. It’d be like breaking some spell. He wonders if he just grazes her lips with his own, she might sleep through it.

He hovers over her, his mouth millimetres from hers.

When the doorbell sounds he jumps back like a kid caught stealing biscuits. Aasha stirs but doesn’t wake, so he prises away his hand as gently as he can and sprints for the door. This had better be fucking urgent.

When he sees the copper standing there Ryan could cheerfully smack him one. Why is this man in his face again?

‘What do you want?’ he asks.

‘Nice to see you too.’

The copper has some weird accent, like maybe he’s Scottish or something. He’s wearing some Sean John jeans and Timberlands, thinking they make him look young.

‘My mum ain’t in,’ says Ryan.

‘No worries,’ the copper says. ‘I’m looking for a girl.’

‘Perv.’

The copper gives a small laugh through his nose to show he’s got a sense of humour. They all do it. They think it makes them seem friendly, or whatever. Like they’re a mate. Pathetic, really.

‘Her name’s Aasha Hassan,’ he says.

Ryan feels a small shockwave in his stomach. How has he worked out she’s here?

‘I ain’t seen her,’ he says.

The copper nods slowly but doesn’t take his eyes off Ryan’s face. He’s trying to work out if he’s telling the truth. Ryan doesn’t blink. He knows how to lie.

‘If you see her be sure to tell her to get in touch,’ the copper says.

‘I’ll do that,’ says Ryan, and closes the door.

The little shit was lying, of that Jack was certain. He knew exactly where the girl was hiding. She might even be inside the flat.

He needed to speak to the chief super and get permission to enter. There was nothing stopping him doing it off his own bat right now. He surely had reasonable suspicion. But there was no way Ryan would let him in and kicking the door off its hinges, only to discover Aasha wasn’t there, didn’t appeal. Ryan was just the type to start a case against him, say he was traumatised. Kids like that knew the law inside and out and they could smell a claim for compensation a mile away.

No, this one would need the belt-and-braces approach with the nod from a senior officer.

Jack looked at his watch. The chief would still be at the nick and might be prepared to deal with this over the phone. If backup came quickly they could have the girl home for supper.

She might even drop Ryan in it, give Jack cause to nab him. Now wouldn’t that finish the day off beautifully?

He was salivating at the thought of sticking the little shit in a cell when his mobile rang.

‘Hello, Jack.’

Jack was pleased to hear Mara’s voice. The way things were working out with Ryan wasn’t exactly what she’d planned but Jack was sure she’d understand. They’d tried to give the kid a hand but he’d refused to take it. This mess was entirely of his own making.

‘I’m afraid there’ve been some developments,’ he said.

‘Oh dear,’ she breathed. ‘Should we meet to discuss it?’

Jack looked at his watch again. Come to think of it, the chief super would be on his way out and wouldn’t welcome a half-cocked request. Far better if Jack went to his office in person, first thing in the morning, and set out the situation in detail.

‘That would be really helpful,’ he said.

‘Why don’t I make you some supper?’ Mara suggested.

Jack paused. Enjoying Mara’s attention was one thing, but going to her home was another. Lilly was an easygoing kind of woman but he was sure she’d draw the line at a cosy night in. And with a baby on the way shouldn’t Jack be spending all his free time trying to patch things up with Lilly, not making them worse?
Then again, Lilly didn’t seem to care too much these days whatever Jack said or did. She fought him at every turn.

‘Jack?’

Supper at Mara’s house was stepping over the line.

‘That would be grand,’ he said.

January 2009

‘From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.’

The crowd chants the same words over and over, the effect intoxicating.

I smile at Yasmeen and we join in.

When she asked if she could come to the demonstration I resisted. These events are small but hard core. I’m known as a radical, an uncompromising Islamist, and I don’t want my reputation spoiled by association with some giggling girl.

We walk up Kensington High Street to the Israeli Embassy and I nod at a sister from the East London Mosque. She is pushing a buggy, the baby smiling out under his I ♥ Al-Qaeda bonnet.

There are rumours that her husband has gone to Gaza to help with the struggle.

‘
Assalamu alaikum
,’ she says.

I swell with pride that she has deigned to speak to me. ‘
Wa alaikum assalaam
, sister.’

She moves ahead to catch up with a group of women
in full burka and they unfurl a ten-foot banner declaring, ‘We are all Hezbollah.’

I can tell Yasmeen is impressed by the way she adjusts her hijab. I smile secretly. She is learning.

When we reach Palace Green we form a ragged crowd and a group of young men wearing long linen tunics over their jeans and trainers push to the front where they begin to pile up wooden boxes.

‘What are they doing?’ Yasmeen whispers.

‘Erecting a stand,’ I say, ‘then we’ll take it in turns to speak.’

Yasmeen looks shocked. ‘Will you speak?’

‘I might.’

In truth I stand up at most meetings I attend at the mosque but I’ve never had the courage to do it on a demo. I worry that my mind will go blank.

When the makeshift platform is ready, one of the men climbs up. He puts a loud hailer to his mouth.

‘The State of Israel has turned into the new Nazis,’ he shouts.

The crowd claps.

Someone passes up a Palestinian flag and he waves it in exaggerated strokes. Over the green, white and black stripes someone has stitched a swastika and a Star of David.

‘Bomb, bomb, USA,’ he chants. ‘Bomb, bomb, UK.’

We soon take it up.

‘Can they hear us inside?’ Yasmeen asks.

‘
En sh’ Allah
,’ I answer.

The young men take their turns with the megaphone until it becomes clear that people have begun to talk among themselves.

‘Morning, Comrades.’

Yasmeen and I turn to a white man with unbrushed hair and an earring. He’s wearing a T-shirt depicting George Bush in a skull cap. I’ve seen him before selling copies of
Socialism Today
.

I wave away his offer of a leaflet but he presses it into Yasmeen’s hand with what he no doubt believes is a cheeky grin.

‘Thank you,’ she smiles back at him.

‘The pleasure is mine,’ he says.

I stare hard at him, making it clear his presence is not welcome, until he moves on.

Yasmeen takes a glance at the leaflet.

‘Bin it,’ I say.

‘Why?’

‘It’s communist progaganda.’

Yasmeen frowns. ‘But isn’t everyone here on the same side?’

I smile patiently. She still has a lot to learn.

‘The hard left support us because they think we are the victims of racism and capitalist oppression.’

‘Aren’t we?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but the answer is not to turn the whole world into an atheist state.’

Yasmeen pouts. I can tell she’s finding this hard to follow.