DISHONOUR

From the moment Laila was born, Mahmood knew his youngest niece was trouble. As a baby she’d had the cry of a lion, roaring with discontent. When she was little she’d suffered with stomach problems, no doubt caused by the fire of the warrior in her belly fighting to get out. She absorbed knowledge like the jacaranda tree absorbed water. Her defiance whirling and gliding like a Middle Eastern Sufi dancer.

It was all too much. She was nothing like her mother who’d been a good wife to his brother, although admittedly he’d sometimes needed to show her his word was final. Nevertheless, his sister-in-law was silent and attentive. Two traits a woman should possess, but two traits his niece didn’t come close to holding. Thankfully though, by this time next week, Laila would be someone else’s problem.

It felt to Mahmood that all he’d done for the past few years was battle with his niece to keep her in her place. With each passing year it became more of a struggle as he fought against her unwelcome curiosity of the world. When his brother, their father, had died, the responsibility of looking after them had fallen on his shoulders. Neither Laila or her brother had liked the changes at first but it’d been necessary. His brother had been soft; far too soft for a man who carried the Khan name. Often Mahmood had disapproved at the freedom his brother offered his wife and children, giving them leave to argue, question and educate. He’d often chastised his brother but the admonishment had been wasted, falling onto deaf ears. But then his brother had passed away and everything had changed.

Under Mahmood’s guidance, everyone, including Laila and Tariq’s mother, had been shown the error of their ways. And though the changes had come up against long faces and the occasional question, they’d all eventually accepted the way it was going to be under his rule. All except for Laila.

Mahmood looked at his watch. ‘We better go Tariq, time is short.’

Mahmood pushed his chair away and looked once more at Laila. Her face was marked not only from her tears but also from the fresh bruise now forming on her cheek. Tomorrow when they went out, he’d make her wear her burka, to hide it. By next week the bruise would be gone, and then maybe, for the first time in his life he could be proud of her. Proud to give her away.

Laila’s eyes widened as she watched her older brother and uncle. She was terrified, but she had a rising suspicion something worse was about to happen. Her uncle rarely ventured out at this time of night, preferring instead to have his friends come to him.

Mustering up some courage, Laila directed her question at her brother. ‘Is everything all right, Tariq?’

Before Tariq had a chance to say anything, Mahmood snarled at her, his strong accent punctuating the words.

‘You bring dishonour on this family, then you ask if everything’s alright?’

Laila sat up in her chair, her face reflecting the puzzlement in her tone. ‘Dishonour? Tariq, what’s he talking about? I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

Mahmood banged his fist on the table. ‘Laila, don’t pretend to be the innocent, it’s too late for that … I’ve heard the talk. The whole of the community has. You’ve brought shame on us. On me. Well, it stops right here.’

Laila’s face was drawn and her fear was apparent. It made Tariq feel uneasy and he turned away, not wanting to see the terror in his sister’s eyes.

‘Tariq, please …’

Mahmood’s arm shot out, sweeping the supper dishes off the table, sending Laila’s untouched plate of food to stain the beige carpet rug.

‘Don’t make a fool of me. Do not make me your enemy Laila … I know all about you and the English boy.’

‘English boy?’

Mahmood clenched his fist. His niece was a liar. He’d always known it. He’d seen the slyness in her large almond eyes the moment she’d been delivered into this world. It put him in mind of what his grandmother had always told him when he was a boy; ‘the larger the eyes of a woman, the easier for the devil to dance into them.’ And looking at Laila now, Mahmood knew the wise woman who’d lived in a tiny house on the outskirts of Turbat in Pakistan had been right. Mahmood leant forward, leaning his arms on the table; ignoring the fact he’d just put his hand in a pile of cold rice. ‘Raymond Thompson. Ring any bells Laila?’

Laila Khan swallowed hard. She knew the name. She knew the boy. But not in the way her uncle was trying to imply.

He sat next to her in class. Yes, she’d talked to him. He made her laugh. They were friends; special friends. She’d even given him a CD of her favourite songs, covering the case with pink smiley stickers. But it’d all been innocent.

He hadn’t been at the school long, moving up north from London to come to live with his mother on the south side of Bradford. He was popular and handsome, his cockney twang adding to his appeal, though it wasn’t just the girls who flitted around him and swooned over his six foot frame. The boys wanted to be his friend too. They seemed to respect him, understood he could handle himself. That he wasn’t going to be messed with. Even Mrs Rigby, the sixth form maths teacher, blushed when he went to talk to her.

So she’d been surprised when Raymond had moved his desk next to hers, though quietly pleased. At first she’d ignored him, but slowly she’d started to smile when she’d heard his jokes. Then the smiles had turned into laughter and they’d become friends. Good friends.

Laila didn’t know why he’d chosen to be her friend but she’d cautiously welcomed it. She loved it when he teased her as his blue eyes twinkled back at her. A smile. A laugh. A tease. That’s all it could be. Even if she’d wanted to take it further, she couldn’t. She knew that more than anybody. But what they had was still special to them and no-one could take their special away.

There hadn’t really been any physical contact, apart from that one time. That once. The day she’d decided to forget she was Laila Khan; respectful and dutiful daughter of the late Zarin Kahn and niece of the ever-present Mahmood Khan. That day last summer she’d chosen to walk to the bus stop with him instead of with her friends and they’d held each other’s hands.

‘Laila, your uncle will kill you if he sees you.’

‘He won’t though will he?’

She could hear the conversation now between her and her best friend and she’d been right; her uncle hadn’t seen them. Nobody had. But she hadn’t needed to be seen had she? All it had taken were words and as Laila sat at the table, trying to ignore her uncle’s cutting stare, she knew her friend had talked. Not intentionally, but talked all the same. Probably to her sister who in turn had no doubt talked to her mother or an elder before the words had found their way back to her uncle. And it was this talk which had her uncle staring at her with so much contempt. ‘Uncle … it was nothing. Nothing happened … I was …’

The look on her uncle’s face made Laila stop talking. The rage which was already there in his eyes had turned into something else. Hatred. But worse still, when she glanced at her brother and saw what looked like disappointment on Tariq’s face, she couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t bear to have her brother, who she loved more than anyone in the world, look like she’d let him down.

She watched as her uncle nodded his head to her mother – who’d sat silently throughout – gesturing to her to leave the room. Laila could feel her legs trembling as Mahmood walked round the table towards her. He pulled her up as he grabbed her arm, painfully squeezing it as he did so. She saw Tariq step forward, then stop. Her uncle’s face pressed onto hers as he spoke in a hiss. ‘There is no place in this life for little whores. So understand this; if it wasn’t for your brother pleading your case Laila, you might not have had a tomorrow.’

Laila pulled back, terrified by what her uncle was insinuating. Though it wasn’t an insinuation was it? It was an outright threat. Clear for her to understand. She knew her family respected their cultural teachings, as she did. But this? She knew this wasn’t part of it. Couldn’t they see she hadn’t done anything wrong? She’d tried so hard to be obedient for her uncle but the harder she tried, the angrier he seemed to get. The more she asked questions about things, the more infuriated he got. She’d heard time and time again about what happened to girls in the community who brought shame and dishonour on their family. But she hadn’t brought shame. She’d walked less than the length of the high street with Raymond. Refusing his requests to go to McDonalds. Refusing his requests for him to walk her all the way home. It’d been innocent.

Mahmood dropped her arm and walked towards the door, deciding not to bother with a jacket. He turned to Laila as Tariq opened the dining room door.

‘You might have been lucky, but your boyfriend’s not going to have such an easy ride.’

Laila ran to her uncle, grabbing at his sleeve. ‘What are you going to do? … Uncle, please. He’s done nothing wrong.’

‘For someone who’s so innocent you seem to care an awful lot about what happens to him? You’re a disgrace.’

‘I don’t care … I mean I do care but not like that, I care because he’s done nothing … uncle, please, don’t touch him.’

Mahmood grabbed Laila’s hair, pulling her head back. ‘Try stopping me.’

He let go of her hair and started for the front door, but Laila refused to let him walk away. She grasped hold of him, trying to pull him back. She was beside herself with anguish and the tears rolled down her face as she cried. Her uncle sneered. She was out of control and he was going to enjoy seeing Raymond Thompson squeal. ‘Izzat, Laila. Honour. Doesn’t it mean anything?’

‘It means everything to me uncle, you know it does. But not like this. It isn’t about this.’

She let go of her uncle and ran to Tariq, pulling on him and hearing his shirt tearing as he tugged it away from her grip. ‘Tariq … no, stop. You can’t do this, leave him alone.’

The fear in Laila’s heart was mirrored in the look on Tariq’s face. He spoke in an urgent hush to his sister. ‘What do you want me to do Laila? I’ve got no choice.’

‘For me, please Tariq. Do what you want with me but leave him alone.’

Tariq couldn’t listen any more. He didn’t want to hear his sister like this. Couldn’t she see what harm she was doing by acting like this? It was just making their uncle more determined. More angry. And it made Tariq afraid his uncle would go back on his word and instead of just marrying Laila off, something worse, something more permanent would happen to her. Pushing Laila to one side, Tariq walked out of the dining room.

‘Tariq, no!’ Laila shouted after her brother. She needed to stop them but she didn’t know how. No one would help her. No one would get involved. This was family business; family honour and most people she knew would either think her uncle was doing the right thing or be too afraid to say anything.

She didn’t even have Raymond’s telephone number to warn him but she couldn’t let them hurt him. Not because of her. Without thinking, she picked up the phone.

‘Police, please.’

The phone went dead. Laila turned round. The first thing she saw was Mahmood come back into the hallway with the telephone wire he’d pulled out of the socket in his hand. The second thing she saw was his fist coming towards her. A moment later, Laila Khan blacked out.

2

Raymond Thompson or ‘Ray-Ray’ as his friends and family called him, looked in the mirror and smiled. He’d been blessed with good genes. His natural sun-kissed blonde hair tumbled onto his forehead, falling short of his dazzling blue eyes. And his big white smile gleamed out cheekily, charming both old and young.

He didn’t have to search far to see where his looks came from. His parents were a handsome couple. In his youth, his father, Freddie, had made Robert Redford look plain. His mother, Tasha, had been a hostess in one of the Soho clubs, persuading the punters to part with their cash for expensive glasses of champagne, whilst keeping their straying hands away. But she’d turned her back on it when she’d fallen in love with his father. And even years later, he knew his parents still turned heads.

Thinking of them made Ray feel sad; taking the edge off his good mood. He sighed heavily. His missed his father. He missed his old life. He wasn’t used to being up north. He was born and bred a Londoner, and had spent his whole life growing up in Soho. And then ten months ago, everything had changed. His father had been given a stretch and everyone, including the police, had been surprised when he’d actually been sent down.