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‘Do you think that Sammy Murphy’s dad doesn’t love him?’
‘I don’t know‚ Jack‚’ I answered truthfully. ‘But you know I love you‚ right? To infinity and beyond‚ and I’ll always be here for you.’
That was the whole truth. I’d fallen in love hard with Stephanie‚ but I loved Jack with a ferocity that frightened me.
‘I love you too‚’ he said and then scrunched his nose. ‘You smell of Indian food.’
‘Yeah‚ I‚ um... I may have had a kebab or two.’
‘Is that why you were late?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be late again.’
I watched him sleep for a moment and left him with a kiss on his cheek before crawling out of the camp. The kid had tried not to show it‚ but he was disappointed in me for messing up his plans and it damn near broke my heart. I didn’t want to be that person. He’d been through enough heartache with his father.
It was time to buck up my ideas. I’d been happy enough to be smothered by Khala‚ picking up freshly cooked meals that would last me the week‚ having my clothes washed and pressed‚ whilst living it up in that crummy flat that a student would have been ashamed of‚ blowing my not-that-great income on getting wasted with Shaz. And now I had to play the arranged marriage game‚ keep Rukhsana sweet‚ keep Khala sweet‚ keep dodging the consequences of telling them the truth. Making my life more complicated than necessary.
When really‚ all I needed was right here.
*
Stephanie was watching a reality TV show‚ sat on one end of the sofa‚ perched forward with both feet planted on the floor as if she had just sat down and not yet got comfortable. I knew that she would’ve been at the bottom of the stairs listening in on my conversation with Jack. Checking to see how I handled him. I positioned the foot stool in front of her and lifted her legs on to it. I stretched out on the sofa and placed my head on her lap. I looked up at her. She was beautiful at any angle.
‘Let me guess‚’ she said. ‘Your Khala?’
I smiled tightly. She ran her hand through my hair and waited for me to explain. I did‚ the lie coming easy to me. ‘Her arthritis was bad today. Actually it’s been like that for a while now. So I offered to do the weekly shop for her. I did text you.’
‘No‚’ she said‚ confidently‚ as though she’d checked her phone a thousand times. ‘You didn’t.’
I slipped out my phone and scrolled to the text message that I had prepared earlier whilst I was at the Rishta. I frowned at it.
‘What is it?’ she asked of my troubled expression. I showed her the message. ‘You didn’t press send.’
I exhaled as I pressed my forehead and I laid it on‚ lie after lie. ‘I’m so sorry‚ Steph‚ I was off my feet. After the grocery shop‚ she had me disassemble and take some old furniture up to the loft. Then she made me dinner afterwards and I couldn’t not stay. Seriously Steph‚ I thought I texted you.’
We sat in silence for a moment‚ her eyes fixed on the television.
‘Imy‚’ she said.
‘Hmm‚’ I said‚ searching for holes in my lie.
‘You have to tell her.’
‘I know‚’ I said. ‘I will.’
She stood up abruptly and my head slipped off her lap and bounced harmlessly on the seat. I sat up as Stephanie stood over me and I waited for her to let loose.
‘Imy‚ believe me‚ I don’t want to be the kind of girlfriend that questions your every action. I refuse to be one of those women. I fully understand that you have to think about your Khala‚ I know she’s like a mother to you. And‚ trust me‚ I know about your culture. But you can’t hide this‚ us‚ from her any longer. She doesn’t deserve that‚ Imy. We don’t deserve it. We’re not your dirty little secret!’
I opened my mouth‚ she lifted a finger before I could counter.
‘I need to know where this is going. You can’t just pick and choose to play the big family man whenever it suits you. It’s not fair on Jack.’
‘That’s not fair‚ Steph. You know how much I love –’
‘I know‚’ she said‚ her voice loud and abrupt. Her eyes travelled up to the ceiling‚ beyond which Jack slept. She waited for the inevitable.
‘Mummy.’ Jack’s muffled voice came back at her through the baby monitor that she still insisted on using.
‘When are you going to understand?’ she said‚ softly. ‘Love is not enough.’
I heard her tired footsteps padding up the stairs. I looked up at the ceiling and I could just picture her‚ holding Jack in her arms‚ running her fingers down either side of his spine‚ rocking him gently back to sleep.
I inhaled deeply and held it‚ then exhaled. I didn’t know how I could prove to Stephanie just how much she and Jack meant to me. They needed more; I needed to give them more. I needed to commit and show Stephanie what she and Jack truly meant to me.
My eyes moved around the room until they landed on a small ball of play-dough.
I went upstairs and entered Jack’s room. Through the sheets that made up the walls of the camp‚ I could see their joint silhouette. I crouched down and crawled through the makeshift cushioned entrance. Jack smiled at me over Stephanie’s shoulder.
‘Room for one more?’ I said‚ knocking my shoulder on a chair leg and almost bringing down the whole structure. Jack separated himself from his Mum and we all sat‚ legs crossed‚ in a tight triangle within the camp.
I nodded at them both‚ grinning stupidly. They both looked at me with curiosity‚ and then at each other. It wasn’t exactly Paris‚ but I could not care less. The romantic setting of the Eifel Tower had nothing on this beautifully crafted kid’s camp‚ splattered with toys and comic books‚ put together by a five-year-old.
It was the perfect setting.
I winked at Jack and then I took hold of Stephanie’s hand. I dug into the top pocket of my shirt and pulled out a play-dough ring.
‘Stephanie‚’ I said. ‘Will you marry me?’
That night we all moved out of camp and into Stephanie’s bedroom and‚ with Jack in the middle‚ we spent the night there. It was‚ quite possibly‚ the happiest I had ever been.
From downstairs‚ as I was drifting off to sleep‚ I heard my phone alerting me to a notification.
15
Derelict Building Site, South London
Kramer stopped at the entrance of the Portakabin on the old construction site‚ the fluorescent light from the room in front of him blazing into the night. He leaned his bulk against the doorframe and watched silently as two coppers spoke with his partner.
Dean Kramer and Terry ‘The Cherry’ Rose‚ as he was affectionately known‚ had run together since their days with the Millwall Bushwackers‚ a football hooligan firm who’d been particularly nasty at the height of their powers in the eighties. Dishing out some of the worst ultra-violence during and after matches. Kramer was especially fond of the Millwall Brick‚ a weapon fashioned from newspaper sheets tightly wrapped around coins and soaked in liquid to add weight. A string was attached at the bottom to enable the swing of the Brick‚ and a large nail attached to the top to enable sickening damage.
Kramer was the force‚ whereas Rose had the intelligence – enough to realise that the road they were on would only see them in jail or in a box. So he convinced Kramer to move away and join a movement which shared their beliefs. They were the English Defence League and their primary focus was opposition to what it considered the spread of Islamism in the United Kingdom. They finally had a place in a society that breathed and believed like they did.
It was only when a young off-duty British soldier was murdered in 2013‚ by two Muslims in the streets of South London – in fucking broad daylight – that their association with the EDL had come to an abrupt end. Kramer wanted revenge‚ quick and painful; he wanted to start a riot in the heart of the Muslim Community in Luton and take them down‚ every last one of them.
EDL had planned sixty demonstrations across the country. A lot of noise and not enough action. They had become too big‚ too political‚ too fucking correct. And the result of their demonstrations? Nothing more than a few scuffles against anti-fascist groups. They got their names in the newspapers‚ their numbers soared‚ but not one Muslim paid in blood.
Again‚ Kramer and Rose walked away and started their own group‚ recruiting particularly nasty players from their Bushwacker days‚ as well as like-minded members of rival firms. Rose ran the organisation‚ Kramer recruited. It wasn’t the size of the English Defence League‚ but then with size came exposure.
A young girl wearing a hijab was pushed onto a train track as a tube pulled in at Piccadilly Circus Station. The push was mistimed and her face connected with the side of the moving train‚ leaving her needing facial reconstruction.
At an outdoor five-a-side football pitch in Islington‚ two Muslim community football teams were set upon by two Pit Bull Terriers and a Rottweiler. Four men were savagely mauled.
A grandfather was attacked walking his seven-year-old grandson home from the Mosque after evening Prayers. He was struck on the head with a blunt object as the assailant sped by on a bicycle. That didn’t kill him. But the fall to the ground‚ the impact of his head against pavement‚ did.
They called themselves The Second Defence.
Kramer decided the time had come to make himself seen.
‘Everything alright?’ Kramer asked Rose‚ stepping into the Portakabin. The two coppers turned briefly to look at him.
‘Dean Kramer‚’ nodded PC Mohammed or Mahmoud or who gives a fuck. The same Paki copper they sent every time there was a hint of a skirmish involving his people.
Kramer frowned at him‚ taking in the pristine fucking uniform that he should have never been allowed to wear. Kramer didn’t mind though‚ because ever-present with him was the delectable WPC Jenkins. She could wear the uniform for him any time she wanted to.
‘I tell you what‚’ Rose said. ‘Why don’t you leave the video behind and I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘I can’t do that‚’ PC Mahmoud said. ‘Do you or don’t you know the identity of the three assailants? It’s a simple question.’
‘When did this take place?’ Rose asked.
‘Yesterday evening‚’ WPC Jenkins replied. ‘Between six and eight.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Vandalised‚’ PC Mahmoud said‚ growing frustrated. ‘Do you recognise them‚ Rose?’
‘Hard to tell‚’ Rose pointed at the laptop screen. The faces had cartoon characters superimposed on them. ‘How’d they do that? It’s pretty clever‚ eh?’ Rose smiled.
‘You think that you’re pretty clever‚ don’t you Rose?’ PC Mahmoud took a step closer. ‘An innocent girl took her own life after an unprovoked attack.’
Kramer felt his blood spike when WPC Jenkins put a placatory hand on the Paki’s arm.
He couldn’t bear it if they were fucking.
‘Rose‚ this belongs to us‚’ WPC Jenkins said‚ slipping the flash drive out of the laptop. ‘But if you want to view it again‚ see if it jogs your memory‚ you can easily find it. It’s plastered all over the internet.’
‘Where’d you say this happened?’
‘Hounslow.’
Kramer and Rose glanced at each other and quickly away again. Rose scrunched his nose.
‘I don’t know anyone in that part of town. But‚ you know‚ I’ll put the word out.’
‘The girl was only sixteen‚’ Jenkins reasoned. ‘Call us if you find anything‚ Rose.’
‘Sure‚’ Rose replied. ‘Your number still 999?’
*
Kramer guided the officers out of the Portakabin which served as an office‚ and watched them drive out of the old construction site and into the night.
‘Did you speak with those lads?’ Rose asked from behind his desk.
‘Yeah‚ at the rally yesterday‚ in Hounslow.’
Rose rubbed his chin. ‘Come round.’ Kramer walked around the desk and watched Rose over his shoulder as he fired open a search engine.
‘What happened?’
‘Some girl topped herself‚’ he said‚ as he typed into the search bar Bus - Attack - Muslim.
‘Paki?’ Kramer asked.
‘Yeah‚ Paki.’
He got a hit immediately. The video had been removed from the first three links‚ but the fourth had it available in full high definition glory. They both watched the short footage in silence.
‘Is it them?’ Rose said‚ as it came to an end.
‘Can’t be certain with their faces covered liked that. But‚ yeah‚ judging by the size and the way they’re dressed‚ that could well be Simon Carpenter and Anthony Hanson. This happen last night?’
Rose nodded.
‘Fuck! They don’t hang about. That must have been a few hours after I saw them at the rally‚’ Kramer said. ‘I broke their balls about fucking about at these marches. I think maybe they went too far trying to prove a point.’
‘They certainly did that. There was a third person with them – whoever filmed it.’
‘Yeah‚’ Kramer nodded. ‘I think I know who that could be.’
Rose closed the lid of the laptop and drummed his fingers lightly.
‘Go find them‚ Kramer. I want the three of them in my office.’
16
Jay
After Heston Hall‚ after hearing Naaim’s story‚ I couldn’t go home‚ not with it ringing around my head. I’d wrongly assumed it was going to be a soppy‚ mixed-relationship-parents-don’t-approve tale. I’d heard many of those before and crap like that did not impress me‚ especially with all the real crap taking place around the world. I was cynical. I had become cynical. The last twelve months had hardened me‚ my experience jolted me awake to the serious threat that Muslims faced every minute of every day.
‘Before you ask‚ the answer’s no‚’ Idris said‚ trawling around in my mind. It was alright‚ though‚ I had known Idris long enough to grant him a little room in my head. We were shooting pool in an empty bar in Chiswick and I’d just finished telling him about Layla.
‘No what?’ I said‚ bent over the pool table‚ lining up a spectacular double on the black ball when other easier options were available. It was the showman in me.
‘C’mon‚ Jay. You want me to find out about the investigation.’
I shrugged and swung my cue‚ clumsily slicing the white ball and sending it straight into the pocket.
‘Shit‚ Jay‚’ Idris spluttered into his Sprite‚ then pulled off the shot that I had just royally screwed up. I dug into my pocket and paid him his dues‚ a two-pound coin.
‘Just ask around‚ is all I’m saying.’
‘It’s not my department‚ Jay. But‚ yeah‚ there’ll be an inquest into the suicide‚ and if I hear anything‚ I’ll let you know. Seriously though‚ don’t make it your business.’
‘I’m not‚’ I said‚ and I wasn’t. And I don’t know why I asked him in the first place.
‘C’mon‚ that’s enough pool for the night‚ grab a seat‚ I’ll get ’em in.’ He grinned‚ showing me in the palm of his hand the ten quid in coins that he had liberated from me.
I slumped down on a stool at the bar and rested my elbows on a drenched bar runner. I swore under my breath as a day’s worth of spilt beer seeped through my sleeves and touched my skin. It was the first fucking time in a long fucking time that I had been that close to alcohol‚ and it was tempting to upgrade my soft drink to something a little harder.
‘Here‚’ Idris absent-mindedly plonked down a Fanta in front of me‚ his eyes taking in the barmaid. She smiled easily at him. If he wasn’t my best mate‚ I swear I would hate him.
‘Oi‚ Pakistani Ryan Gosling‚’ I said‚ ‘Drink up‚ I wanna get out of here and hit the pillow. I’m shattered.’
‘Didn’t you have a day off from work today? Don’t give me that exhausted crap‚ Jay. I’ve been up since before dawn‚’ he said. I sighed and waited for one of his never ending supply of cop tales. ‘We raided a family home today in Feltham‚ three young children under the age of four‚ including a baby girl only six months old. The nursery upstairs‚ where she slept‚ was a fucking treasure trove of Class A drugs. Check this out‚ the sick fuck had… You know what Aptamil is? It’s powdered formula that’s used to make milk for babies‚ right. He had about a dozen of these Aptamil containers all laid out neatly on a shelf. Inside half of them were exactly that‚ powdered milk‚ but the other half…’
‘Coke.’
‘Yes‚ Jay‚ fucking cocaine.’
I may have had a day off from work‚ but I did have a scary little run-in in the queue at Wilko’s‚ and then I’d heard Naaim recount a pretty traumatic story. I had a right to be exhausted too. God bless Idris‚ but he could be patronising‚ his cop stories always seemingly aimed at me because of my own drug-dealing past. I love him like a brother‚ but he didn’t half love to straddle that high horse as though he was the only one making a difference.
I once made a difference‚ too‚ but he could never know that. I could never tell him. It would change our friendship into something else‚ and at that moment I just needed a friend.
‘The fucked up thing was‚’ he continued‚ ‘what separated the coke from the formula powder was a tiny black dot on the bottom left hand corner of the container. His wife‚ the baby’s mother – who‚ may I add‚ was high at the time of the raid – can you imagine if she’d scooped out a couple spoonsful of coke instead of Aptamil? And fed it to –’
‘Yeah‚ alright Idris. I get it.’ I knocked back my Fanta. ‘I don’t do that shit anymore.’
‘I know‚ I know‚ I know‚’ he said. ‘I know you don’t.’
‘I’m just trying to get by‚ that’s all.’
‘I know.’
‘Just seems like these stories are always aimed at me. I was never like that‚ I was small time‚ yeah‚ just a little skunk.’
‘I know.’ He sighed.
‘And I do have the right to be exhausted too‚ you haven’t got a monopoly on being tired.’ I shrugged my jacket on aggressively‚ just to make a point‚ and walked out of the pool hall and into the car park‚ where I waited for him in my Beemer. I let the purr of the engine cradle me to sleep‚ only to wake up a few minutes later when the door opened and Idris slid into the passenger seat grinning; he was holding up a piece of paper with a phone number.
‘Good for you! Shut the fucking door‚ you’re letting the cold in.’
‘No high five?’ Idris said‚ his hand held high. I slipped the car into first gear and manoeuvred out. ‘You used to be a lot more fun‚ Jay‚’ he said‚ and for some reason‚ I wanted to cry. ‘This has really affected you… what’s her name again? Lyla?’
‘Layla! Fuck‚ Idris. Did you not listen to a word I was saying?’
‘Alright mate‚ keep your topi on! And what’s his name?’
‘Naaim‚’ I sighed.
‘Listen‚ Jay.’ Idris took his time‚ choosing his words carefully. ‘This is going to sound harsh‚ but it’s not your problem.’
‘Did I say it was my fucking problem?’ I spat‚ choosing my words without the same care.
Idris gave me a look and shook his know-it-all head at me. He was right‚ annoyingly he was always right. But I couldn’t get Naaim’s weepy face out of my head. What he told us was disturbing enough‚ but it was that look in his eyes. I had seen it before‚ a look of anger and determination. A man hell-bent on retribution. Once upon time‚ not long ago‚ my friend Parvez carried a similar look. It didn’t end well for him. Nor‚ I had to remember‚ did it end well for me.
I would not allow myself to get involved.
17
Isleworth and Syon School
‘Lewis? Lewis...? Daniel Lewis!’
‘Here… sir‚’ Daniel gazed through the window. He’d been watching the groundsman on his ride-on lawn mower who was spending his morning lazily cutting the grass‚ not methodically as he should‚ instead making random turns. He should have been going in a straight line to the end of the field‚ a neat turn and a straight line in the opposite direction. It bothered Daniel. At home‚ when he mowed the grass in the back garden‚ that’s how he did it. Straight lines‚ up and down. He even made the same effort for Mr Wilmott‚ his elderly neighbour.
‘It looks very much like you want to be anywhere but here‚ Daniel‚’ said Mr Brick‚ the science teacher‚ as he glanced out of the window to see what was taking Daniel’s attention. ‘Continue as you are‚ and you’ll soon be cutting grass for a living too.’
The rest of the class sniggered‚ a mocking sound that filled the room. They had been waiting‚ wanting to see him taken down a peg or two. Daniel wasn’t liked‚ but the dislike wasn’t harsh. There was no bullying or cruel remarks. It was worse than that. They just simply ignored him. They didn’t like that he didn’t have to make an effort to make them all look intellectually inferior. They didn’t like that he dressed as though he was from another time. Steel cap boots‚ bomber jacket‚ shaved head.
Daniel drifted easily through double science‚ and then ate on his own in the canteen. He was a few months in at Isleworth & Syon School. His father had moved him away from St Marks. He saw potential‚ the teachers at St Marks saw potential‚ but the company that he kept outside of school saw an altogether different potential. His grades slipped from A’s to B’s to C’s‚ around the same time that he started to skip class‚ instead spending time getting drunk on the cheap down Lampton Park with Simon Carpenter and Anthony Hanson‚ who were both a few years older.
Daniel’s father had suffered greatly the last year‚ losing his wife in a senseless car accident. Daniel had suffered more. He had been close to his mother‚ a friend-like quality they shared‚ the result of being an only child. His father tried desperately to replace that closeness‚ but it was inevitable that Daniel‚ at sixteen‚ would react. And react he did. The regular phone calls from school‚ the truancy. The odd visit to the police station for the odd shoplifting spree‚ all whilst preparing for – as had been drilled into him – the most important exams to date.
People fear intelligence‚ his mother had repeatedly told him. It hadn’t made him feel any better. He was desperate to be liked‚ to be a member of a group‚ or a crew.
These days‚ he was a member of a gang.
They even had a uniform. Bomber jackets‚ black jeans and cherry Dr. Marten boots.
Just because his father had moved him to a different school‚ it didn’t stop him from seeing his only friends.
Simon and Anthony liked him‚ genuinely liked him. They said he was funny‚ and around them he was funny. It was no secret that Daniel’s new friends did not like the colour brown. Especially if that colour brown happened to be a Muslim. The word Paki was spoken frequently. It had made him uncomfortable at first‚ but he soon realised that Pakis were doing a lot fucking worse than name calling. His friends made him realise that this was their country‚ that this was their England‚ and if others wanted to live here‚ then they’d better fucking abide by their rules.
They made valid points‚ Simon and Anthony‚ and were able to argue them with a deep passion and intensity. What they lacked in academic intelligence‚ they made up in street smarts. He was learning from them.
Daniel fitted in easily‚ no longer scared to skip the odd class and stroll on down to Lampton Park‚ where Simon and Anthony spent most of their days. He would join them‚ drink and share a joint‚ as they dissected and discussed the latest stories in the red-top newspapers – whether it was on the importance of a sharp exit from the EU‚ or coverage of the terror attacks that seemed to be a permanent tabloid fixture.
Sometimes they would rile each other up.
Sometimes they went too far.
Like when they’d ripped the head scarf off that girl’s head and poured beer all over her.
Daniel needed to be involved‚ needed to be part of the brotherhood. So he shot the whole thing on his camera phone. But even as he was filming‚ even as he was laughing‚ even when he edited it‚ obscured the faces of his friends‚ and uploaded it to YouTube‚ Daniel knew that he’d made a huge mistake.