Circle of Fire (8 page)

‘I was adopted by an English family,' she told him, ‘a Christian family, but my birth family was Muslim.'

‘So, is that the real reason you're here?' he asked.

Again those searching eyes. She caught her breath and swallowed. Her voice came out in a low croak.

‘I . . . I had. . .' She coughed to clear her throat, then tried again. ‘I had a row with my parents, my . . . my adopted parents, they . . . er . . . they don't understand me needing to find out about my background, to trace my roots.'

He nodded slowly, processing the information, then he relaxed. ‘Allah is calling you,' he said. ‘Praise be His name. You have left your family to find the truth.' He gestured to the back of the shop. ‘Come with me.'

Maya watched nervously as Khaled went over to the shop door, locked it and flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Then she followed him out of the shop into a dark stairwell.

‘Wait,' he said.

She stood hovering near the door, uncertain what he intended, not knowing if she could trust him. He darted forward and flicked on a light. A bare bulb illuminated a small kitchen. The work surfaces and paintwork were old and chipped but it was spotlessly clean. On a scrubbed table gleamed several sharp-bladed knives.

‘Come on in,' he said.

Checking for exits, Maya stepped into the room. There was a back door, but as far as she could tell it
led into a small enclosed yard. The only way out was the way she'd come in. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if she should escape while it was still possible.

‘Sit down,' he said.

She gave one last backward glance into the bookshop, then slowly moved towards him. He pulled out a chair. She hesitated, her eyes catching the glint of knife blades splayed across the table – a small, lethal-looking dagger, a long bread knife, a heavy meat cleaver.

A gentle smile played around Khaled's lips as he stood resting his hands on the back of her chair. ‘Put your bag down. Make yourself at home.'

Obediently Maya dropped her bag and sat down, aware that his hands were only a few centimeters from her shoulders. She tensed, and gritted her teeth as he leaned over her. Her eyes half-closed; she was almost greedy for his touch, imagined his fingers snaking round her throat. Would she fight, or would she just give in? Why the hell hadn't she thought to get Mum's gun, taken it from the safe in the house?

She licked her lips and swallowed, her eyes darted to the table. Almost within reach was the
handle of a small, pointed knife, if she edged forward she could grab it and strike. Her hand twitched as Khaled's weight rocked the chair, she sensed the warmth of him, smelt a hint of lemony cologne or aftershave. Silence buzzed, seconds ticked by and Maya's heart went into overdrive. Why was he so still? What was he planning?

Eventually she could stand it no longer. Screwing up her courage, she tilted back her head and dared to look up at him. His skin was a smooth, hazelnut brown curving over fine cheekbones, a curl of dark silky hair fell over one ear. He appeared to be deep in thought.

When he caught her looking up at him, he blinked. From under his long, dark lashes his eyes hooked onto hers. Maya held her breath, and then suddenly he was gone.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?'

Maya breathed out a long sigh of relief.

Khaled stood with his back against the sink, one long, slender arm supporting his weight. ‘There's not much custom today. Doesn't matter if I close early.' He stretched out a hand reaching for the kettle. ‘You're not from round here, are you? Where do you live?'

‘Derbyshire,' Maya said, weakly, thinking too late that she should have lied.

‘So, are you staying with relatives?'

‘No. I just came up today to try and find some information.'

He raised one delicate eyebrow. ‘Why here? Why Leeds?'

‘I . . . I . . . just knew it was where a lot of Muslims lived.'

‘So, why not Derby? A lot of Muslims live there too.'

She bit her lip, gulped, then, casting her eyes downward, she said quietly, ‘I just wanted to get away.'

‘I understand.'

The kettle boiled and he turned to make tea and put some biscuits onto a plate. She noted his elegant hands, his delicate movements, his tall, slim body, and reminded herself that he was Khaled Husain, the man with green eyes – the man with an asterisk under his photo that marked him as a suicide bomber. Was he somebody prepared to kill and die for his faith? If he knew who she was, would he help her or betray her?

He put two mugs on the table. ‘Do you
take sugar?'

‘No thank you.'

She drew the mug towards her. He sat down, leaned across the table and asked abruptly, ‘How did you manage to find this place?'

‘I got off the bus and asked where there was a good bookshop. A grey-haired woman who said she was your aunt directed me here.'

He looked away, then back. ‘Hm. That would be Mariam,' he said. He sipped his tea, his eyes glimmering over the rim of the white mug. ‘A bookshop,' he said, with a wry smile. ‘Out of the whole of England, you found this one.'

‘I thought an Islamic bookshop would be a good place to start learning about Islam,' Maya shot back at him.

‘What's your name?'

‘Soraya,' she replied without hesitation, giving the name of a Muslim girl in her class at school.

He looked thoughtful. ‘So, Soraya, are you willing to give your life to Allah, to follow the teachings of our Prophet, peace be upon him?'

She drew back her shoulders and held her head high. ‘I want to learn, to grow, to make an informed decision. It's my birthright.' The words surprised her,
she had no idea where they came from.

Khaled cupped his chin with his thumb and forefinger and said, with a half-smile, ‘You've been denied the truth for too long.'

His stare was intense, his eyes mesmerising, and Maya found she couldn't look away. She sipped her tea and blinked, but his gaze was still there, examining, assessing, making her hand shake as she set down her mug. He leaned forward, looked as if he was going to say something, then abruptly changed his mind, got up and went over to a shelf, where he picked out a small slim book.

‘Here,' he said. ‘This is a good place to start.'

He came over and handed the book to her. She looked at the title –
The Five Pillars of Islam
.

‘You're welcome to join one of our study groups.'

‘Thank you. That'd be great, but I don't have anywhere to stay.'

‘You can stay here. I'll show you where, when you've drunk your tea. See what you think.'

Maya was eager to look round the place, but not with Khaled watching her every move.

‘Is there a toilet?' she asked.

‘Yes, of course. Up the stairs, first door on
your right.'

On the staircase were big posters printed with Arabic script; one had the graphic image of a bloodstained dagger plunged into a map of the Middle East, and another showed George Bush's face behind barbed wire. Maya opened and closed the bathroom door, remaining on the outside.

Tiptoeing along the corridor, she pushed open the door to the next room, checked there was nobody inside and walked in. Picking her way carefully over bedding and a heap of prayer mats, she went over to a long table. A pile of pamphlets with the word JIHAD in bold lettering attracted her attention. She knew that jihad was about fighting a holy war for Allah. She opened the pamphlet and read the headline – ISRAEL IS AN ILLEGAL STATE.

At the other side of the table was an article torn out of a newspaper about a plot to bomb Britain and beside it was another pile of leaflets that had the heading, BRITISH VALUES??? The leaflet showed cartoons of teenagers – football yobs causing trouble, scantily-dressed girls dancing, and what she assumed were victims of drug-taking and drunkenness lying in doorways and vomiting in gutters.
Is this what we want for our youth?
the article asked.

Moving back from the table, she glanced around. The sound of a door opening downstairs sent her running back to the bathroom and she slipped inside and flushed the loo. When she came out, she heard the kitchen door open below her and Khaled came running up the stairs holding her rucksack.

‘Here,' he said, ‘you should keep this with you.'

His fingers touched hers as she grasped the handle of the bag; just the slightest, gentlest brush of skin, but she found it unnerving. He was mysterious: aloof yet friendly, suspicious but hospitable. She couldn't work him out. She was considering the evidence, when she saw that the straps of her rucksack were undone and flapping.

He ignored her questioning look. ‘Come on, I'll show you round,' he said, leading the way back into the room she'd just visited.

‘Who stays here?' she asked.

‘Followers.'

‘Oh.'

‘You'll see. It's another world in here, a completely different world.'

‘OK, but. . .'

He interrupted. ‘You're thinking it's not right for
a young woman to be amongst men. Don't worry, Lubna will be here soon. She organises the women. She'll take care of you.'

‘Does everybody sleep in here?' she asked.

‘No. There's another room for the women.'

She looked away, feeling embarrassed. There was a noise on the stairs, and a young woman wearing jeans and a headscarf entered.

‘Here's Lubna,' Khaled said. ‘Lubna, this is Soraya. She's going to be staying with us for a while.'

Lubna wasn't pretty. Her forehead under the pale blue silk scarf was broad and moles of various sizes sprinkled her round cheeks, but her smile lit up her face. Maya tried to remember if she'd seen her photo on the computer, but she couldn't honestly be sure.

‘Hello. Good to meet you,' Lubna said.

Khaled became a bit more detached, businesslike. ‘Look after her, will you?' he asked Lubna.

Lubna lowered her eyes. ‘Yes, of course.' Then she looked up at him. ‘Are you going to speak at the meeting?'

‘Yes.'

They exchanged knowing looks and Lubna smiled at him. ‘Peace be upon the servant of Allah for
the manifold blessings he showers upon us each day. Allah be praised.'

‘Allah be praised,' Khaled said quietly. Then he added, ‘We must be on our guard, Lubna. There are some who don't want peace – peace makes enemies.'

His eyes rested on Maya. A wave of heat prickled her neck and face. Were his words aimed at her? Had he looked in her bag? Did he know her real identity? Was the game up?

A silver Mercedes drove through the big iron gates of a large house and came to rest on the back drive. The car door opened, and out stepped a bearded man in a shiny suit. He reached for a briefcase, locked the car door and went into the kitchen of his home.

His wife, Shameen, met him with a worried face. She was holding a big pile of laundry.

‘Omar, we'll never be ready in time. Why do we have to go so soon? There's so much to do. I haven't packed Jasmina's clothes yet. She wants to take so much. Can't we delay our flight for a couple of days?'

Omar bent to remove his shoes. ‘These need to be cleaned,' he said, holding them out to his wife.

His wife dumped the laundry on the worktop. ‘I have so much to do,' she moaned, as she took the shoes into the utility room.

Omar took off his suit jacket, put on a pair of leather slippers and scratched his ample stomach. ‘I told you,' he shouted to his wife, ‘I got a good deal on the tickets. Transporting six people to Lahore is not cheap.'

His wife came back into the room and started to bring up another complaint, but he waved her away. ‘Get the girls to help you. I'm tired. I've been driving all day.'

Shameen backed away, her eyes averted. ‘Sit down. I'll get you something to eat and drink.' She moved the laundry on to a chair. ‘Did you meet the suppliers?' she asked.

‘What?' Omar said, busy emptying his pockets onto the table.

‘The suppliers you went to see in Derby?'

‘Oh, er . . . yes.'

‘And was it a successful trip?'

‘Yes, very.'

‘I have to ask you something,' his wife said as she opened the fridge door.

‘What?'

‘Jamila doesn't want to go with us. She has studying to do. She's taking her A levels next year, you know.'

Omar sat at the table and thumped his fist down hard. ‘Jamila cannot make her own decisions.'

‘She wants to stay here with her grandfather.'

Omar cut in loudly, ‘I can't be bothered with this. I have important business to attend to. Jamila will go with you. It's bad enough that my father refuses to go.'

‘He's too old to make such a long journey,' his wife said quietly.

‘Nonsense. The family would like to see the great Professor Sharif. They all remember him with great affection. And his brilliant son Majid, of course. What a pity they don't honour the great Omar, the one who sends the money that feeds them all.'

‘Of course they honour you,' his wife said. ‘They'll be glad to see us. We'll provide fine wives for their sons.'

‘Yes, while you're there you can find a suitable husband for Jamila. I've had enough of this studying nonsense.'

‘She would like to be a doctor,' his wife said softly.

Omar snorted. ‘She doesn't need a career. Her husband will provide.' His eyes flew to the door as his father came in.

‘What are you shouting about now?' Sharif asked.

‘He wants Jamila to go with us to Pakistan,' Shameen explained.

‘She's staying with me,' his father said.

Omar looked as if he was going to protest, then he said sulkily, ‘Is a man not the boss in his own house?'

His wife put a plate of rice and mutton on the table. ‘Here, please eat. You'll feel better.'

Omar stood up. ‘No. Save it. I have no time to eat now. I must prepare for an important meeting.'