Desh (7 page)

“In a nutshell, yes, and my cousin Maryam, the one in Stepney I told you about, is married to my mother's sister's son, and her husband knows the Janitor's family.”

“ The ‘Janitor' being?”

“Don't make me say it.”

“All right. While all this was happening then, I saw a documentary on forced marriage,”

“I didn't have you down as a documentary type.”

Neil smiled, “I only watched because of you, missy. How do you think I knew about the Forced Marriage Act? Did you know girls as young as thirteen are taken and married off, school goes back after the summer, and they don't?”

“That's different, that's Pakistan. I'm Bengali.”

He considered this for a moment, “Nah, you're just nit-picking. Look, the thing is, those girls were young – just kids, whereas you're twenty-two and you're Aila, sharp as a tack and sexy as hell. I know you; there's nothing you can't handle. You run this place – yeah you do – you play with the bad boys and I thought you had your father wrapped around your little finger. How'd this happen to you?”

“I guess I didn't see it coming.”

“You must've sensed something.”

She leant back against the wall. “Looking back, I did sense a threat, but I was more concerned about being stuck in sodding Sylhet for weeks and I didn't expect my father would do that. I trusted him.”

“As you do. So, on the day, when he came into your room and then all those people came asking questions, the penny must've dropped. If that was me I'd have said no, this ain't happening, everybody out, the wedding's off.”

“Would you, though? This is family, remember. How could I? And think about it, even if I wanted to, I had no money, very little phone credit and who'm I going to call? The police? I'm in a remote village forty miles from the nearest airport with no car and my father has the passports. If I'd refused, it would have brought shame on my parents in front of the family and the whole community.”

“Strikes me they're the ones who should be feeling shame.”

“It doesn't work like that,” she said to her feet.

He turned towards her, “I love my folks, but they don't rule my life.” Then he touched her shoulder, gently. ”Don't be upset, please. Let's agree to disagree, if you promise me you'll make the call.” He took hold of both her shoulders and made her face him, “Hey, come on. Why the tears? “

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” she said. “It's just hitting me” and she wiped her nose with the sleeve of her burkha. “God, look at me. I'm a mess.”

He wrapped his arms around her,” I have to say I've never seen you looking worse,” and stroked her hair until the tears subsided into sniffs. “What are we going to do with you, eh? When's my Princess coming back?”

“What would you suggest?” she asked, lifting her face to his.

“Step one – you should start looking after yourself and I really think you should see a doctor. You're not well, hun. Step two, let's put our heads together.”

They hatched a plan that would allow Aila to tell her father she'd return to work on Monday, but could work her own hours and ease back into full time when she felt ready. She could take any time she needed and, yes – she promised to contact the forced marriage people. He took out his wallet. ” Good, here's the number,” he said, “for when you're ready.”

On the drive home, she imagined telling her father that an outsider, a white man – a Kafir – had come to her rescue and no, he didn't want a piece of her; neither did he think of her as a cash cow or a commodity to be sold on. Instead, he thought she was sharp as a tack and sexy as hell. But Neil was right – she needed help.

So Aila made an appointment at the surgery with the only female Asian GP and the following day, Dr Farhad looked at the bald patch at the front of her scalp, examined the burning ulcers in her mouth and listened closely to her version of events. She stopped at the mention of the ceremonial drink, and asked to hear the details again, which struck Aila as odd. In the grand scheme of things a few sips of tradition hardly mattered.

But Dr Farhad wouldn't let it rest and again she asked what Aila remembered and used words like ‘penetration' and ‘coercion' and ‘forced marriage' – official words for private pain buried deep, then she decided a pregnancy test should be done along with STD tests, including the HIV virus. There may be no need she said, when Aila's hands started shaking; nonetheless, it can't hurt to be sure and, under the circumstances, she'd be derelict in her duty if she didn't.

Aila's stomach growled as she left the surgery. The swab had been humiliating and she hated that Dr Farhad had a glimpse of her life. So now people knew and doctors knew and the government have called it forced marriage and declared that it's against the law. Yet it's what happens and it's what her parents expected of her and her father shouldn't be considered some kind of criminal. Darth Vader maybe, but only she had the right to pass judgment on her family.

Sadhan shouted when he heard the porch door slam. “It's nothing to worry about, just got some cream for the ulcers,” she called back. The smell of Dunhill hung in the hall.

Upstairs she closed the door and took stock. A hunched black thing stared back in the mirror and there was a strange odour, like pepper, around her. At the surgery, had she imagined the doctor recoiled when she leant forward to speak? She pulled the headscarf back and a trail of hair came out in her hand. She looked again at the suitcase on the floor and realised she'd been in a dead place too long.

Bangladesh had broken her mother too. The pain in her back that they'd taken to be just natural wear and tear, reached screaming point in the days before they left Syhlet. By the time she came home, she could hardly walk. Still, it took all Aila's powers of persuasion to get her to admit she needed help, until finally Nessa capitulated and made an appointment with Dr Farhad. Two days later she was sent to St Peter's for tests.

Sadhan hated hospitals. People went in and never came out he said, so Aila had to drive and she'd instigated the whole thing, so of course it was her fault. He argued about the route, shouted at the speedometer and snapped at the orderlies in the lift. As soon as he walked into reception, though, he went quiet.

Aila guided her mother through all the forms and questions and followed as they wheeled her to round for blood tests and ultrasound and finally the consultant's office, and all the while Sadhan stayed in the waiting room. Then they drove home in silence.

Later that night he launched. “It's your fault she had to go to hospital. You broke her back.”

“Like hell,” she snarled back.” Let me tell you what the consultant said. She's very good – and very thorough. The tiredness, the bad back were there before, we know that, but something else caused the latest bout of pain. Something like a recent trauma.”

“You.”

“No. A fall or a sudden impact from being pushed or hit.”

He walked out and didn't speak directly to her again, which suited Aila. She needed all her powers of concentration to ferry her mother back and forth between the hospital and the surgery, and make sense of what was happening. Other issues had come to light in the course of treating her back and, when Nessa had to be admitted to St Peter's, Aila put her own health to one side until they got to bottom of things.

As Nessa lay on the huge white bed, she looked almost childlike. There had been tests and more tests that left her exhausted. Aila pulled the seat forward as she spoke.

“They say I have a problem with my thyroid.” She took Aila's hand and pressed it on her neck. ”See here? Can you feel the lump? That's it. So they'll give me iodine treatment and then I can come home. I'll have to take medicine for the rest of my life, but in a way it's a blessing. I've been so tired for so long, but finally they've found out why.”

Aila fought to control her breathing as Nessa went on about how wonderful all the doctors had been. There'd been so many – all different – ‘ologists' and special nurses. As to why she'd put up such a fight when Aila tried to get her to see Dr Farhad, she would only say she didn't want to worry her, but admitted she'd been wrong, and then her voice cracked.

“So wrong Shuna, and so wrong about your wedding. I should have done something sooner,” her cheeks began to glisten. “Your father told me months ago, but I didn't believe it would actually happen until too late and then it broke my heart. They locked me up; I couldn't get to you and they nailed the door shut and I nearly went mad. I banged until my hands bled and screamed so much my throat went dry. ” Aila wiped her mother's face.

“They didn't let me out until it was all done and when I saw you on the dais I tried to get to you but someone pushed me. I fell on the stones and then they took you away and your father picked me up. He reminded me that I'd cried and cried at my wedding too – it was the same with you, he said. Just bring her home, I told him.”

”Except I never cried, not once; he never saw me cry and I knew they'd done something. You would have moved heaven and earth to be with me so I knew the wedding didn't have your blessing.”

“No, but you have my blessing now to do whatever you need to – and Chacha's. He said it would all come out right in the end.” She kissed her daughter's hand and held it close.

Then, from behind, a clutter of voices filled the airless room. Aila turned to see the cousins from Stepney traipse in and the moment shattered, as they gathered round Nessa's bed and got set to make an afternoon of it.

She stood back and let her mother tell the story while the aunties ooh'd and aah'd at all the twists and turns – the excruciating back pain and the tests that led the doctors to unearth further problems; then, once the interesting bits of illness had been discussed, they got on with the gossip.

One of the aunties had just returned from Bangladesh too. She'd gone out to get her son married a few months before and, swelling with pride, she produced from a copious bag on her lap photos of her magnificent boy. The big news, though, was that her daughter-in-law had her visa.

Aila stiffened. That did it. The old crone's glee crystallised the decision she'd almost made in the moments before they descended. She would call the forced marriage people and she'd do it today.

As she left the hospital, Aila sent a text to Neil, who pointed out it would be safer to speak from the office and reminded her to grab any paperwork she could. When the Peugeot pulled up outside the club, she could hardly remember the roads she'd taken.

Neil gave up his office and left her to it. When the door closed, she felt inside her bag for the paper that had burned in a back compartment and thought about what to say. ‘I'm a victim of forced marriage' felt wrong. ‘Victim' made her wince and ‘forced marriage' sounded like a lie, but her mother's tear-stained pillow wasn't. She hit the numbers on the phone and waited.

A softly spoken man answered. “I've been married against my will,” she said and he took it from there. The voice became Tom, and when he'd ascertained that she was indeed safe and didn't need to leave home for now, he asked her to think of a code word. If Tom had to call her, the word would mean he was speaking to the right person. Ribena she said. He assured her if he did have to call, it would never be her home phone, only ever her mobile, and it would show as an unknown number.

As he explained what would happen next, Aila realised this man knew all about Asian culture and understood Bengalis. First her husband would be called in for an interview, at the embassy in Dhaka. He'd be told it was just a random spot check, but the officer would be looking for grounds to decline the visa, without implicating Aila. Neither Gourab, nor her father – nor any member of the family – would ever know she'd been in contact.

If she didn't meet her husband before the wedding and there were no letters, emails or texts between them, there was no evidence they knew each other and that would be grounds to stop the application. Aila gave him Gourab's passport number and almost laughed when the call finished and raced out to tell Neil.

The surgery called her mobile. The test results were back and Dr Farhad thought Aila needed to know as soon as possible. The results were fine, she had the all clear, but Aila didn't want an appointment to discuss contraception, although the doctor felt adamant that she should.

Instead she decided to get her hair cut at the glossy place in the Quays. The price took her breath away, but, given that Sadhan or Bhabani or Fadil would have a fit if they were there, she thought it'd be money well spent. And when it was done, it was worth it. For the first time in her life she couldn't sit on her hair. In place of feathery strands, soft waves curled around the face in the mirror and a sleek mane shone back at her under the halogen lights, while the hair her father considered a woman's pride and glory lay discarded in black clumps on the floor.

Back home the burkha went into the bin and Aila immersed herself in a one-to-one with the mirror and the Mac palette. Once she knew her mother was back in the land of the living, she'd venture out too.

At the hospital next day, the consultant decided that the lump in Nessa's neck didn't need to be removed, after all. She'd be given radioactive iodine and, if that went well, she could be discharged. The iodine was simple enough and involved just taking a capsule; however, the radioactive side of things terrified Aila. Her mother was kept quite heavily sedated in a single room and before Aila could cross the metal barrier she had to put on gloves, a metal jacket and take a Geiger counter, and was told to stay only for thirty minutes. The isolation was the hardest part for Nessa too, but at least there was an end in sight.