Desh (2 page)

Another weekend

Afterwards, she took him back to his car, then drove hard to get home before her father. Turning into the estate, she saw his battered Merc wasn't yet parked, so hopefully the bonnet of her car would be cold by the time he arrived. She hurried past the grass borders, pushed the porch door open and put the keys on the shelf inside – he always checked this place then kicked her shoes under the stairs and padded down the hall towards the lounge at the end, where a light from the television was flickering.

Late news bulletins of rape and murder blared out as her mother stood in the kitchen doorway opposite. “How could you?” she said.

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. The traffic was evil.”

“Well, you should have left in good time, and not put me through all this.”

Aila kissed the top of her mother's head. “Don't I always make it back, though?”
and she followed her into the kitchen, where the supper had been left half cooked.

Her mother resumed chopping. ”That's not the point. Must you always cut it so fine? Just get changed before your father comes home.” She turned on the gas hob and shooed Aila out.

Aila went up to her room and had just finished sorting through her bag when the porch door slammed and she heard the familiar footfall in the hall. She wiped the make-up away against a background of muffled snarls and shouts from the kitchen below and fumbled with the twisted silk around her waist as the shouts rose up the stairs. “Get down here!”

Aila opened her door. “I'm really tired.
Do we have to do this now?”

The look on his face said that they did, so she came down the stairs towards him. “Come on, Dad, it's a wedding we're dealing with and it's Shaf. The girl I went to school with? The one you've known since we were six.”

“I don't care. You went without my permission.”

Nessa came out of the kitchen. “Let it be, Sadhan,” she said, as Aila reached the bottom of the stairs, “She's a good girl.”

But he'd worked himself into a rage.” Look at the state of her. This is how she shames us.” As Aila tried to kiss him, he struck out with the full force of his forearm. Her head hit the plaster and she slid down the wall.

He continued to shout over her as she lay curled on the floor. “If I say she's not to go out, that's an end of it. A good girl doesn't sneak out alone, does she, woman? If she can't obey me, she'll be thrown out on the street like a bag of rubbish.” He kicked the soft rump exposed to the mercy of his shoes. She pulled her knees in and he kicked again. “She's not even a proper woman. This is just a pig's child.”

The feet moved away from her face as her mother pulled him back and pleaded with him to leave her alone and come away. Then the sound of wailing filled the house and her brother was finally drawn out of his room behind the lounge.

He knelt beside her. “Come on, shush now,” he said, stroking the hair back from her face.

“It's all right, Affa, you're safe.” When he called her Affa, it always worked. The choking stopped and her breathing was calm enough for her to speak.

“He can't keep doing this.”

“I know, I know,” he soothed. “Come on, let's get you upstairs and get you cleaned up.” He hooked two hands under her arms as he said, “And up, Affa, come on, heave ho,” and lifted her until she was standing on her own two feet.

“Maz, I can't take it anymore.”

“Yeah, but do you have to keep on doing it? Is it worth it just for a few hours' freedom? We'll talk in your room,” and together they trudged upstairs, past the dents and the scuff marks on a once white wall.

Next morning, silence hung in the house like thunder and the blinds in Aila's room stayed down. She didn't want to hear the sounds of the estate. There'd been another night of violence at the house of the family opposite last week and she'd called the police. Propped up in bed, she hoped that what had happened last night would stay under the radar.

Mazid had left her his laptop so she could access the internet without having to listen to the usual tirade from Sadhan about the ‘unseen Western evil that corrupts Muslim girls' (but apparently not boys), and she'd been online most of the morning.

Most of her friends chatted under cover. ‘Love ur new profile pic, the eyes are stunning,' someone wrote and she had to admit it was one of her best shots. With her face turned over one shoulder in a half smoulder, half smile,
she'd managed to get the angle just right and the eyelids lined with black khol were half closed over velvet brown eyes dilated with desire.

Known for her skill in these things, Aila was the go-to person for make-up and another friend wanted her to do the mehndi, just like Shaf's. As she typed an answer, her nails clattered on the Mac keyboard but her father's voice returned like a disembodied echo. ‘Not a proper woman,' he'd shouted and ‘Pig's child,' which had to be the worst thing a Muslim father could say. The typing stopped and she was gripped by a visceral rage. What, then, would be the worst thing a Muslim daughter could do?

A text pinged on the Blackberry. ‘Hey, Mia, what did you do to me last night? X.' Ojo had to see her again and just to leave her in no doubt about the point he was making, he sent a photo taken in bed from below the knees looking up. ‘Ooh, Daddy. Soon! x'.

She looked at the mirror opposite and then her eyes wandered past the Mac palettes and brushes, the bangles and bottles of nail polish to the box of
Angel
, still wrapped in cellophane. Her father had bought it for her fifteenth birthday.

Back then, they'd set out first thing Saturday morning, head for the bridge and walk by the river, just the two of them. She'd wear her best shalwar kameez and the high-heeled shoes he'd bought for her, to please him, because in those days Aila was his princess and he said one day she'd have the elegant feet of a proper woman if she got used to wearing high heels. So she persisted and over the years calcified scars formed
where her toes rubbed against the leather.

The bedroom door opened. “Aila? Your father needs you to go to the cash 'n' carry.”

“Okay. Ma. Tell him to do a list.” She swung both feet out of bed and kicked at the heap of clothes on the floor. Musty trousers and any old top would do.

Downstairs Sadhan lay sprawled on the sofa with his unruly black hair nestled in one corner while the television blared in front of him. She stood behind the sofa and barked “Right. So, Dad, the list,” to startle him and when he turned to face her she jiggled the trackie bottoms in a way calculated to enrage him – like the white girls on the estate, the other pig's children.

He scowled and gave her the list. “Bring everything to the restaurant by one o'clock. I have some cheques you need to sign and cover your head before you go out.”

She zipped the logoed hoodie with as much noise as possible and stomped into the hall, where scarves were slung over the stair rail. “For sure,” she said,” Because hijabs are good at hiding bruises aren't they?” and slammed the porch door behind her.

Safe inside the Peugeot, she sat motionless until the thumping in her chest subsided. How does he know but not know? Like he can smell something, but doesn't know what it is. He can't possibly have known or he'd have killed her. Would he?

She thought back to a time at school. It was her GSCE year and rumours about her had been spread. As the only hijabi in high heels she expected crap, but this had reached her father via the estate and he summoned her to ask if what he'd heard was true. Had she been sleeping around?

Aila saw such black hate in his eyes she knew in that instant he would have killed her if he could have proved it. She met his eyes and told the truth. He believed her and the threat passed. “But if you ever sleep with anyone I will know, by the look on your face,” he said. Well, she hadn't fallen yet, technically
.
The red and gold Sura charm dangled behind the mirror so that its Arab script faced her. Its incantation to ward off harm had worked so far.

Aila didn't get to the restaurant until three that afternoon, when the lunchtime shift was nearly done. Dog-tired waiters stood sentinel along the wall and heads nodded as the owner's daughter walked down the centre aisle to her usual table, the one behind the fish tank and closest to the kitchen. She passed the bags over to eager hands and waited.

Through the doorway she watched her father standing at the tandoor oven. His skin had been roasted over the years and the pores enlarged like craters. Even after he left the kitchen, the heat continued to emanate. He sat opposite and opened a cheque book. “You took your time. Here, sign these and deposit them at the bank by Monday morning.”

She thumbed through the cheque book. “If you'd listen when I tell you things are due, it'd make life so much easier. Or get yourself a proper accountant.”

“Lower your voice,” he said. Their eyes met. Lift your game, she thought. It was her name on the company paperwork, something Sadhan had decided when she'd turned eighteen. At the time she'd felt honoured; not now, though.

He pushed more pages across the table. “I need you to sign these, too,” and he tracked her face
as
she read.

“This is a loan application. For what?”

“Renovation for the restaurant.”

“Well, it certainly needs doing, but what do you have in mind and who's going to do the work this time? If it's one of your contacts, Dad, I'm not signing this.”

“You have to. The council came for an inspection. Shamim was here,” he added nodding towards the head waiter. “He knows all about it.”

Aila glared back. “So when the council was here did they happen to mention the tribe of illegals you've got working here? No, I didn't think so. What's the money really for?”

“I told you. Just sign the paperwork.”

“I won't put a loan for fifteen grand in my name.”

“You're my daughter.”

“Tell me you're not borrowing to cover the rent.”

“Just sign it and take it to the manager at NatWest on Monday, when you deposit those cheques. Do it,” he hissed.

“Fine Dad. Whatever.” She had to back down. A daughter couldn't be seen to argue in front of the staff. She kissed the top of his head and felt Shamim watch her every step as she walked out.

The sun hit her eyes and the pavement was thronged with sandals, buggies and black Labradors. Away from the restaurant, the rest of the world appeared to be enjoying the holidays. She joined the tide of people walking over the bridge.

Children hung over the side, dangling their fishing lines, and an image came to mind of she and Maz doing the same thing, from the same bridge. He was just a little guy, maybe eight or nine, and they'd fossick about all afternoon until Sadhan gathered them up to go home. Holidays then meant fishing lines and catering buckets, or trips home to Bangladesh,
when they were older.

On the high street she stopped to look at shorts and crop tops arranged in a shop window,
tastefully decorated using a ‘less is more' approach. She could not help noting the contrast with the crowded menu offered by the restaurant, which shouted for the food to be bought. There'd always been a wall of glass between Aila and the life everyone else seemed to lead.

Further along she stopped at the perfume shop to enjoy smell of expensive for a while, until she saw the blue boxes of
Angel
displayed at full price on the back wall and suddenly window shopping lost its appeal. Perhaps a drive would do the trick. She felt comfortable when she was out driving and she could always visit her cousin in Stepney: it had been months since she last saw Maryam and the baby; or she could head into Kingston and see if any of the old crew still hung out at Nando's.

It wasn't a difficult choice. Arriving at Nando's, she saw the same faces at the table by the window. The manager waved from behind the counter when she walked in and Jay smiled as she sat beside him. “Hey, Begum, long time no see, what's new?” The big news was Shafia and she talked about the wedding.

“Another one bites the dust. Not many of us left now, eh? Good times though, good times,” he said.

“The best. Won't be the same without her.” She nudged him.” Now who'm I going to chill in Richmond Park with?”

He laughed. “Chill? You mean get plastered. That was one hell of an afternoon. You girls were on one.”

“You weren't so upright, Boy. Dancing round the car, shouting ‘old skool tune keep it coming' at the radio.”

“And you weren't whining and twerking in broad daylight then? Like your ass was possessed. I still have a picture, Begum, up here,” he tapped his head. “You know, one day I'm gonna take you to a Nigerian wedding for some real dancing.” He touched the tip of her nose.

“Yeah, one day,” she said. They'd had this conversation before and still she saw their faces locked together and felt the sweat of their bodies, but then remembered the day in her final year that it had to end. She'd never have got a pass out for a Nigerian wedding, especially not her own. Good times, though, good times.