‘I’ll do it,’ says Mum. ‘You get on with your school work.’
Aasha watches her mum bend down for the bucket. She seems much older than her forty years. A lifetime of looking after her husband and sons has wrung her dry.
Aasha grabs the mop. ‘Go sit down, Mum.’
‘What about your maths?’
‘I got it done at lunchtime,’ Aasha lies.
An hour later Aasha is tucked up in her room. It’s the smallest one in the house. The boxroom, as English people call it. There’s hardly enough room for her single bed and wardrobe. There’s certainly not enough space for a desk like her brothers have.
‘Aasha can use the dining table,’ her father says.
Fat chance. It’s always covered in letters from Pakistan, her brothers’ self-defence magazines and piles of clothes for ironing. This week Dad has been dismantling an old radio and the parts are scattered across it.
Anyway, Aasha prefers to spread her books out on her bed. That way she can be sure of some peace without
anyone telling her what to do or what to think. Here in her ill-lit cupboard she is mistress.
She logs on to her laptop and looks at her maths homework. Algebra. She’ll be in for a tough one tonight.
After twenty long minutes trying to work out how Y can possibly equal X, a box pops up in instant messenger.
Lailla says:
I’ve been very naughty.
Aasha laughs and types her reply: Aasha says:
What have u done now?
She waits for the answer, imagining her friend’s candy-pink fingernails dancing across the keyboard.
Lailla says:
I’ve told Ryan u fancy him and he should msn u.
Aasha is about to send a stinging response when another box pops up.
Ryan wants to be your friend.
Aasha chews her lip. She knows full well what her dad thinks about her having anything to do with boys. And as for a boy like Ryan, well, he’d send her ‘back home’ on the next plane in forty-two pieces.
‘No nice doctor or lawyer will want to marry a girl who’s been running around the town with every Tom, Dick and Henry.’
And he’s right. Take Lailla. It doesn’t matter how many times she insists that she and Sonny have never gone all the way, no one believes her. So even if it’s true, which Aasha very much doubts, no boy will want her afterwards.
Then again, messaging isn’t exactly the same, is it? It’s not real life. No one can say you’ve done anything wrong, can they?
The box pops up. Another message from Lailla.
Lailla says:
PMSL at u angsting over what to do!!!
Aasha doesn’t know whether she’s more cross at Lailla for knowing exactly how she’d react or herself for being so predictable.
Well, not this time. This time she’ll live a little. If you could call it that in virtual reality. With a nod to her own courage she accepts Ryan as her friend. Almost immediately she regrets her decision.
Ryan says:
Hi beautiful
.
Aasha says:
Hi.
Ryan says:
What u doing tonite?
Aasha says
: Not much. U?
Ryan says:
U gotta guess. Is it a. thinking about Lindsay Lohan or b. thinking about Aasha Hassan?
Aasha says:
c. doing ur maths homework.
Ryan:
Ha ha. Ur a funny grrl.
Aasha is breathless and pink and doesn’t know what to say next. Fortunately Ryan sends another message.
Ryan says:
Will u meet me after school tomoro?
Aasha says:
I don’t think I should.
Ryan says:
Come on. I’m nowhere near as bad as everyone says.
Aasha considers what to say next and almost squeals at her own daring.
Aasha says:
That’s very disappointing.
September 2005
‘Our words are dead until we give them life with our blood.’
I’m frozen in my place in front of the television, the breath literally sucked out of me.
The man on the screen is so angry, as if he can barely control it. His eyes shine with fury, not fear, despite the fact that he filmed himself making this speech just hours before he strapped explosives to himself and led the most devastating attack upon London since the Second World War.
The newspapers have spent every day since 7 July reviling this man: evil, murderous, insane. Now his picture stares out from every broadsheet, every tabloid. His words ring out from every TV and radio station.
He is dressed in an Arab keffiyeh, an AK-47 slung, almost casually, over his shoulder. He spits his death message out, each syllable a poisonous bullet.
‘Until you stop the bombing, gassing, imprisonment and torture of my people, we will not stop this fight.’
But it’s not what he is saying that cuts me to the quick
but his accent. Thick and strong, as Yorkshire as coal dust. This is a lad from Leeds. Born in this country. Died in this country.
Yet each toss of his head, each challenge in his face, tells me this man did not consider himself British. He is a stranger here. Unloved. Unwelcome.
His words ring so true, he could be me. It feels like coming home.
‘You’ve got to be having a laugh.’
Lilly pointed at Sam’s plate piled high with chocolate digestives.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘That is not a proper breakfast,’ said Lilly. ‘Get some cereal.’
‘I don’t want cereal.’
Lilly raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t slept well and her feet were still swollen. ‘I don’t have the energy to fight, big man.’
‘Then don’t.’
She reached for a packet of Cheerios. ‘For me?’
He licked the chocolate from a biscuit.
‘Just a few spoonfuls for your poor old mother.’
Sam ignored her.
‘Your poor old
pregnant
mother?’ She emptied a handful into a bowl. ‘A mother who worries about her son all day if he hasn’t a decent meal inside of him.’
Sam poked the box. ‘That’s hardly a decent meal.’
‘Better than that.’ She nodded to the biscuits.
Sam grabbed the bowl, the dry hoops rattling around the bottom, then yanked the milk from the fridge.
‘You, Sam Valentine, are an angel,’ Lilly laughed.
‘Whatever.’
Something was going on with Sam. He was sullen and uncooperative. The child whom every school report described as ‘sunny’ had morphed into a shadow.
When his face first darkened, Lilly had assumed it was the baby troubling him and had taken every opportunity to assure him that he wouldn’t be pushed out.
‘There’ll still be lots of time for you,’ she’d said.
‘There’s no time now,’ he’d moaned.
Lilly had acknowledged the truth of this. She was always busy, pushed for time, trying to juggle everything. Poor Sam often got pushed to the sidelines.
And yet something told her now that it wasn’t the arrival of a new baby brother or sister that was bothering him.
‘Is everything all right at school?’ she fished.
Sam rolled his eyes theatrically.
‘If there were any problems, you know I’d go straight up there,’ she said.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he mumbled.
She watched her son drag himself and his breakfast up the stairs. She certainly didn’t have the strength to follow up the ‘no eating in the bedrooms’ rule. No doubt she’d find the remnants stuck to the windowsill, the discarded bowl making a perfect white circle on the freshly glossed wood.
After a fire in the cottage had left every room blackened by smoke, the insurance company had agreed to cover the cost of redecoration. For three weeks two handsome Polish men filled the cottage
with their indecipherable chatter and the smell of undercoat.
The place hadn’t looked this good in years. The walls were still uneven and the hall filled with bags for recycling, but everything seemed much less shabby. Although Lilly had been terrified by the fire she had to admit that there had been this one small silver lining.
Penny had suggested she invite some of the Manor Park mums over for a coffee morning. ‘Show the place off,’ she said.
Hmm. The lining wasn’t that bloody metallic.
Lilly fingered her new kitchen curtains. They were gingham and wonderfully kitch. They made her smile.
‘I never took you for a woman so interested in soft furnishings.’
Lilly turned to Jack, who had slipped into a chair.
‘Think of the hours you could while away in John Lewis picking some cushions to match,’ he said.
Lilly threw a dishcloth at him. It landed on his lap with a wet thump.
‘And there was me going to make you a bacon butty,’ she said. ‘But you can whistle for it now.’
Jack laughed and threw the cloth back. It hit the window behind her.
‘Fried pig,’ he patted his stomach, ‘I don’t think so.’
Lilly had to admit that Jack’s current regime of running ten clicks a day had paid off and he
was
looking pretty buff, but his refusal to eat anything remotely bad for him was bloody irritating. She had always loved to cook and he had always loved to eat. A match made
in heaven. Now all he would countenance was salad and soup.
He grabbed a banana and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Get plenty of rest today.’
Lilly waved him away. His healthy lifestyle was unattractive enough without his constant worrying.
‘I’m not ill, Jack.’
‘Don’t be so defensive, woman. I just thought that since you’ve no work to do you may as well put your feet up.’ He peered at them, spilling over the sides of her slippers. ‘They look like they need it.’
She knew full well he was just trying to be nice but as she watched Jack peel the banana and take a bite, her annoyance rose.
‘I do have work to do,’ she said.
‘Is that right?’ Jack’s mouth was full of fruit.
‘The family in Luton I told you about want me to pursue matters with the police.’
Jack swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple dancing. ‘I thought you said they just wanted a bit of advice.’
‘They did,’ said Lilly, ‘and now they need some more.’
Before Jack could give his opinion Lilly picked up the phone and dialled.
‘I’ll be going then,’ he said, and left the room.
When Lilly heard the front door slam she felt a pang of guilt. She’d been hard on Jack and she knew it. She was the one making difficulties, refusing to play happy families. He was making her brain hurt at the moment—but he meant well, so why was she railing against him? She considered going after him but on the fifth ring, DI Bell answered.
‘It’s Lilly Valentine here,’ she said, ‘the Khans’ solicitor.’
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘We agreed to review the situation in two days.’
‘I recall that’s what you said, not necessarily what we agreed.’
Lilly gave a polite laugh. ‘So can I tell the family you’ll release the body today?’
Bell paused. Lilly had been around enough barristers, judges and senior police officers to know that they liked to milk the moment. She knew that the best way to get what she wanted was to allow them their dramatic tension. But the baby was lying heavily on her pelvis and she desperately needed to pee.
‘DI Bell?’ she prodded.
He gave a small humph, disappointed not to be allowed his moment in the sun. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said.
Lilly crossed her legs. ‘Oh, come on, Inspector, you’ve had enough time to make a decision.’
‘Yes I have.’
‘What?’
‘You’re absolutely right, I’ve come to a decision,’ he said.
‘Then you have to give this girl back to her poor family.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
Lilly shook her head. What was he going on about? He may be a pretentious jobsworth but he wouldn’t risk a legal action against him, would he? Unless…Lilly felt a heaviness settle on her. She gulped.
‘And the reason?’
DI Bell cleared his throat. Lilly could almost see
him straightening himself up to full height. ‘It is my considered opinion that Yasmeen Khan was murdered.’
Jack’s desk was buried in paperwork: forms to be filled, statements to be drafted, information to be forwarded to the courts.
He flicked one of the larger piles with his nail. Being a copper these days was like being a civil servant.
He took a violent gulp of coffee and checked his email.
To: Sergeant Jack McNally
From : The desk of the Chief Superintendent
Subject : A Meeting
Please see me at your earliest convenience.
Jack scowled. The super was a total prat. He couldn’t just pick up the phone, could he? No doubt he wanted to go over a list of dead cases for archiving or review the latest figures for youth offending. Ticking boxes was something the man revelled in.
Jack refused to hightail it up to the super’s office. He’d finish his coffee first.
To be fair, Jack knew full well it wasn’t the email that was making him cranky. It was Lilly. The woman was beyond infuriating.
He’d be the first to admit that her pregnancy had come as a bit of a shock. Becoming a dad was never something he’d wanted. He couldn’t look after himself, never mind a kid. All those years living alone and he still never managed to have fresh milk in the fridge or
pay his gas bill on time. How on earth would he remember all the stuff you had to do for a baby? The poor wee fella would probably starve if it were left to Jack. But after a couple of months he’d settled into the idea. The two of them, with Sam and now a baby, seemed somehow right. A family.
It should be a time of joy, shouldn’t it? Anticipating the big day, buying prams, choosing a crib. He’d even bought one of those baby names books. So why was Lilly so determined to carry on as usual?
Setting up a new office, taking on cases, were not what women ought to be doing at a time like this. She should be taking care of herself, letting
him
take care of her. Maybe he didn’t put it across well but he only ever wanted to look out for her.
He took another sip of his now cold decaf and pulled out his phone to call her.
‘It’s Jack,’ he said.