CHERUB: The Sleepwalker (6 page)

The room was more than ten metres long, with swanky black cabinets and granite worktops. Fahim opened the door of a giant Sub Zero fridge-freezer that cost as much as most families spend on their car.

He was pleased to find a pack of the Waitrose microwavable pancakes that he liked and he spread them out on a plate. After zapping them for thirty seconds, he squirted on chocolate sauce and added a handful of overripe strawberries.

He sat at the breakfast bar and grabbed a remote for the screen mounted on the wall. As usual his dad had switched the TV to the Al Jazeera news channel. Fahim had intended to flip around looking for a cartoon, but he was intrigued by the images of the downed airliner. As he turned up the sound he recoiled at the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen:

BRITISH GOVERNMENT SPOKESMAN SAYS THAT PROXIMITY OF ATTACK TO 6TH ANNIVERSARY OF 9/11 MAKES INVOLVEMENT OF TERRORISTS ‘HIGHLY PROBABLE
’.

There were no other Arab boys at Warrender Prep and no matter how much Fahim explained that the
Bin
part of his name simply meant
son of
and was no different to a British boy with a name like John
son
or Steven
son
, his schoolmates couldn’t resist calling him Bin Laden. They made jokes about his lunchbox being packed with explosives and refused to sit next to him on school trips in case he blew himself up. The plane crash would make this situation even worse.

After placing the pancake plate in the dishwasher, Fahim moved into the annexe where his father worked. This part of the house was fitted out like a commercial office, with carpet tiles, strip lighting and two offices: one for his dad and another for his uncle Asif.

As he closed on the office, Fahim heard his parents Yasmin and Hassam arguing.

‘How can you possibly be sure?’ Hassam shouted.

‘I do your bookkeeping and spreadsheets,’ his mother replied coldly. ‘There are invoices from Anglo-Irish Airlines on our system.’

‘I run a container-shipping business,’ Hassam said, pounding on his desk as his son listened from the corridor outside. ‘We have invoices from a hundred companies every day.’

‘They will investigate—’ Yasmin started, but her husband cut her dead.

‘This doesn’t concern you,’ he insisted. ‘My business is in order, while our son runs wild. You spoil him. Why don’t you deal with that, while I worry about
my
business?’

‘You know how they investigate,’ Yasmin said. ‘They recover every piece of debris. They lay it all out in a hanger and practically rebuild the aircraft.’

‘But nothing can be traced back to us,’ Hassam shouted. ‘I’m busy, let me work.’

‘This disgusts me. Over three hundred people are dead.’

‘Leave my office and let me work, woman.’

‘You’re not the man I married,’ Yasmin said bitterly. ‘
You
disgust me.’

Fahim backed down the corridor as his father roared with anger. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. After all the teasing he’d faced because he was Arab, the idea that his parents had something to do with a crashed airliner felt like a sick joke.

‘Let go of my hands,’ Yasmin cried, before sobbing with pain. Fahim couldn’t see, but he knew his father was bending her fingers back, like he always did.

‘Bitch,’ Hassam yelled as he cracked his wife hard across the face. She crashed backwards on to a leather couch and sobbed noisily.

Fahim felt sick as he backed up towards the kitchen. He wished he was big enough to defend his mum, but all he could do was scurry upstairs to his room.

‘What the devil’s got into you?’ the cleaning lady asked, as Fahim’s socks skidded on the polished floor.

‘None of your business,’ he snapped angrily.

He buried his face under his pillows and tried not to cry.

*

Yasmin Hassam had grown up in the United Arab Emirates. She’d always expected to marry, bear children and become a loyal wife. While she often found herself hating Hassam Bin Hassam, she’d never considered divorcing him.

‘Did you eat breakfast?’ Yasmin asked as she walked into her son’s bedroom and found him curled under the pillows in his uniform.

Fahim rolled on to his back and saw that his mother had positioned a headscarf over her swollen eye, but no amount of make-up could disguise her fat lip.

‘Look at the state of you, Fahim,’ she said brightly, as she pulled a silk square from a pocket and spat on it before zooming in to wipe chocolate sauce off her son’s lips.

Fahim hated mum spit, but after the beating she’d taken he didn’t want to make her life any more difficult.

‘I got my own breakfast,’ he said, trying not to sound shaky. ‘I thought you must have gone into the office to help Dad with his work, so I left you to it.’

Yasmin nodded. ‘Your father is snowed under at the moment. It’ll be best if you give him and Uncle Asif a wide berth for a day or two.’

Fahim wanted to ask about the conversation he’d overheard about the airliner, but he knew his mother wouldn’t tell him and a big chunk of his brain wanted to shut it out and pretend that he’d never heard.

‘Get your shoes on,’ Yasmin said as she glanced at her watch. ‘You know what the traffic’s like. If you want we can stop on the way and get McDonalds.’

Fahim managed a half smile, but as he stood up and grabbed his school shoes from under the bed, his mother noticed that his hands were trembling.

‘Sweetheart,’ Yasmin said, as she pulled her son into a hug. ‘It’s just a school interview; you’ve got nothing to be scared of.’

‘Sit down,’ the headmaster of Warrender Prep said, as Fahim and Yasmin Hassam entered his cramped office. The school building dated from the 1700s and the low autumn sun caught the dust hovering in the air above the headmaster’s desktop.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mrs Hassam. Will your husband be joining us?’

Yasmin shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ashley. His business keeps him very busy.’

‘I can believe that,’ Mr Ashley smiled. He stroked his thick grey moustache before gathering up his black teacher’s gown and taking his seat across the desk.

‘Fahim has something to tell you,’ Yasmin said, as she gave her son a nudge.

The boy looked at his bare knees and spoke stiffly, betraying the fact that his mother had taught him the line on the drive to school. ‘I want to say sorry for my behaviour on Wednesday last week. Although I was provoked, my reaction was incorrect and I sincerely apologise to all the staff and pupils at Warrender Prep.’

The headmaster nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Fahim,’ before reaching across his desk and grabbing a thick folder which contained the youngster’s personal record. He looked up at Yasmin. ‘The problem is that this is not the first such incident involving Fahim. He was also suspended last term and this incident was
exceptionally
nasty.’

‘He has a lot of problems with teasing,’ Yasmin explained. ‘He’s a quiet boy at home. I never see him giving trouble to anyone.’

‘Martin Head suffered three broken fingers when Fahim bent them back,’ Mr Ashley said.

Fahim looked guiltily at his mother, who knew exactly who he’d learned that trick from.

‘What have you done about the bullying?’ Yasmin asked firmly. ‘I know what Fahim did was wrong, but you can’t ignore the root of it.’

The headmaster tipped back his seat and took a deep breath. ‘Warrender Prep is a small school, with a friendly atmosphere. I have questioned several boys in Fahim’s class, and frankly I find it difficult to believe that there is a campaign against Fahim on anything like the scale that he is suggesting: either because of his ethnic origin or for any other reasons.’

‘They’re hardly gonna admit it to you, are they?’ Fahim said bitterly. ‘And it’s not like it’s big things, beating me up or that. It’s just loads of little digs. Like saying that there’s a smell of curry when I get changed for rugby, or calling me towel head, or saying I’m a suicide bomber.’

‘They’ve also been hiding his things,’ Yasmin added. ‘Last term I had to buy three new pairs of trainers. Then on the last day before the summer holidays, someone put the three missing pairs back in his sports bag.’

‘I don’t deny that boys of this age can be mischievous,’ Mr Ashley nodded. ‘But the correct path is to report matters to the staff. There is
never
an excuse for violence.’

Fahim surged forward in his seat. ‘When I told Mr Williams about my trainers going missing the second time, he told me I’d lost them and he made me play basketball barefoot. Then they all trampled my feet.’

‘Don’t shout, Fahim,’ Yasmin said gently, as she pulled her son back into his seat before looking at the headmaster. ‘Do you see now how upset this bullying is making him? I’m sure it’s part of the reason he’s been having nightmares and other problems. Two nights ago I found him at the bottom of the stairs, soaked in sweat and shaking like a leaf.’

‘I’ve received the report from the educational psychologist Fahim saw on Friday,’ Mr Ashley said, as he pulled a stapled document out of the folder. ‘Dr Coxon notes that Fahim regularly acts up and seeks attention in class. He also seems to act with unnecessary aggression to mild provocation and the standard of his academic work has declined over the past year. Fahim’s problems at home, including nightmares and sleepwalking, suggest that he needs to begin regular sessions with a therapist and may even benefit from drug therapy to improve his concentration.’

‘I’m not mental,’ Fahim protested. ‘I’d be fine if everyone stopped having goes at me.’

Yasmin looked uncertain. ‘I suppose we could try and see if therapy helps, but I’m much less sure about drugs. I’ve read stories about them turning children into zombies.’

Mr Ashley closed the folder. ‘You can further discuss Fahim’s emotional needs with Dr Coxon if you wish. However, Warrender Prep has a demanding curriculum designed to prepare boys for leading public schools such as Eton and Rugby. I’ve discussed this with my colleagues and we no longer feel this school can provide the best education to someone with Fahim’s particular needs.’

It took Fahim a few seconds to untangle the words and realise that the headmaster was excluding him. Yasmin looked crushed, but Fahim had grown to loathe Warrender Prep and he felt like a huge weight had been lifted.

‘Bloody good,’ Fahim roared, as he stood up and eyeballed the headmaster. ‘Your school is shit anyway.’

‘Manners, Fahim,’ his mother said fiercely, but the boy wasn’t having it.

‘I don’t care if
you
believe me or not,’ Fahim yelled. ‘They
did
hide my stuff; they
did
bully me just like I said. You and the other teachers did nothing but try to cover up the reputation of your nice
friendly
school.’

Fahim expected his mother to whack him around the head, but as he looked across he saw that she actually looked quite proud of him. He didn’t want to see Mr Ashley’s stupid face any more and he strode out of the office and into the school’s main lobby. He found himself surrounded by three hundred years of history: lists of names on the wall, from former headmasters to honoured dead in the First World War, and glass cabinets filled with trophies, dusty pennants and moth-eaten rosettes.

‘Bloody school,’ Fahim shouted, startling a pale-faced ginger boy called David who was in his class. David sat on the spongy chair outside the nurse’s office, dressed in games kit and suffering with a badly studded calf. He was a skinny kid who copped as much trouble from Martin Head and his mates as Fahim did.

‘What’s up?’ David asked.

‘Just got expelled,’ Fahim grinned.

David was shocked. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ he said stiffly.

‘I’m not sorry,’ Fahim answered, as he realised to his surprise that nobody had come out of the headmaster’s office behind him. He could hear his mother’s voice, and although he couldn’t understand her words, he could tell from her tone that she was giving the headmaster a piece of her mind.

‘It’s cool that you busted Martin’s fingers,’ David said. ‘He thinks he’s
so
big. Now he can’t even write.’

Fahim shook his head as he eyed a small green fire extinguisher strapped to the wall. ‘He is big,’ Fahim said. ‘That’s our problem.’

David tutted. ‘Remember that time he booted Greg in the guts? And all he got was a detention. It’s total favouritism, just because he’s captain of the rugby team.’

‘You know what?’ Fahim said, as he ripped the fire extinguisher from its Velcro harness. ‘Screw this place.’

David yelped with shock as Fahim smashed the end of the metal extinguisher through the glass front of the main trophy cabinet. Then he dragged it out and totalled the face of a grandfather clock, before swinging at the photo frame with the 1994 South East Counties champion under-twelve hockey squad sitting inside it.

Mr Ashley steamed out of his office, but was so stunned at what he saw that he stopped as if he’d smacked an invisible wall.

‘Fahim,’ Yasmin shouted desperately as her son attacked the final cabinet, shattering the glass and taking out the wooden shelf inside. Half a dozen trophies and a rack of war medals clattered to the floor. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘What do I care?’ Fahim screamed, as the headmaster tried to grab him. ‘I’m treating this school the way it treated me.’

‘Give me that now, Hassam,’ Mr Ashley shouted.

‘Stick it up your arse,’ Fahim sneered. He grabbed the hose and squeezed the trigger.

The headmaster stumbled backwards and wrapped his arms over his face as clouds of white powder blasted him.

‘Please, Fahim,’ his mother shouted in despair.

She was tearful, which made Fahim feel bad, but he was livid about the way he’d been treated and he didn’t want to give the headmaster the satisfaction of catching him. As Mr Ashley erupted into a coughing fit, Fahim turned and sprinted up the main staircase.

The extinguisher was heavy, but rather than drop it Fahim launched it at the stained-glass window on the landing. There was a huge crashing sound as the extinguisher punched a hole in the leaded glass.

After climbing the rest of the stairs, Fahim turned into the main first-floor corridor, with classrooms on either side of him.