This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  Contents

  Title Page

  ALSO BY YASMIN RAHMAN

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  RESOURCES

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  All the Things We Never Said

  Copyright

  ALSO BY YASMIN RAHMAN

  All the Things We Never Said

  PLEASE NOTE: This book deals with domestic abuse, both emotional and physical. Please read with caution and turn to page 381 for a list of support resources, should you need it.

  For anyone whose life has been affected by domestic violence

  1

  There are plenty of theories about the best way to wake up in the morning. Some go for a gradually brightening light alarm, waking up gently as they adjust to the fake sunrise. Others opt for loud noises that immediately strike fear in their heart. I, on the other hand, put forward that the most effective way to get someone out of bed is having their five-year-old brother sit on their head.

  ‘Oh my God, Ismail, GET OFF!’ I yell, my voice muffled by his body.

  Ismail giggles as he wiggles around on my face. I can’t help but laugh too as I push him off. He flops onto the mattress, cackling maniacally. I take my chance, reach over and start tickling him under the arms; as expected, he screams happily.

  ‘Shhhhh,’ I say, covering his mouth and watching the door. ‘We’ll get told off.’

  Ismail’s grin slowly melts against my palm.

  ‘Why are you up so early?’ I ask, reaching for my phone to check the time. The screen doesn’t light up. I tap it again. Nothing. I press the power button and my stomach drops when I see the dead battery sign. I check my charger lead and find that it’s been disconnected from the plug adapter all night.

  ‘Oh crap,’ I say, jumping out of bed. I check the clock on the wall. ‘We are so late,’ I tell Ismail. His slightly too long black hair is standing up in haywire tufts, and his Spiderman pyjamas are all crinkled from the tickle fight. Ammi normally wakes him up and gets him ready; I don’t understand what’s happened today. I need to shower. Now I guess I’ll need to get Ismail ready too. And give him breakfast. And, oh God, I was supposed to wake up early to revise for my biology practice exam! Crap, crap, crap.

  ‘Where’s Ammi?’ I ask. I’m angry at her. My phone died during the night, but what’s her excuse? She’s meant to be up first. It’s her job to do all this. Ismail is usually eating breakfast when I wake up.

  ‘She’s sleeping,’ he tells me, casually stretching out across my bed. ‘I tried waking her but she won’t get up.’

  She must be having an off day. She has these sometimes, where she can’t get out of bed. I’ll come home from school and she’ll only just be eating breakfast. On days like this, things are super scattered, and it makes me anxious and flustered. Normally I’m up on time and can take over.

  ‘OK, right,’ I say, trying to gather myself. ‘Right, yes … let’s … We can do this. First things first, you need to get into your uniform.’

  Ismail looks right at me and blows a raspberry, before dissolving into laughter again.

  Oh God, this is going to be hard.

  ‘I don’t wanna eat Shreddies! I want pancakes!’ Ismail says, knocking over the box of cereal so brown squares scatter across the table. I pick one up and pop it into my mouth, partly because they’re delicious, and partly to stop myself from yelling, like I so want to. I don’t know how Ammi does this every day; Ismail can be really annoying when you’re stressed.

  ‘We’re already late – there’s no time for pancakes,’ I tell him, picking up the box and fixing the mess he’s made. ‘We don’t even have time for breakfast, but I know you’ll just end up cranky and your teacher will tell Ammi off again. Just eat your cereal. Here, I’ll even put some sugar on it for you.’ I go to sprinkle some sugar in his bowl, but he knocks the spoon out of my hand and starts giggling again.

  ‘Ismail!’ I yell. ‘This isn’t funny. We’re so late. Can you just eat. Please?’

  ‘No Shreddies! I want pancakes!’

  Ughhhhhh. This boy, I swear to God. Sometimes he acts like he’s three years old, not five. I look at the clock and panic again. I should’ve just given him a banana and forced him out of the door. I look down at his grinning face, those mischievous brown eyes, and realise I need to play dirty if I’m gonna get anywhere with him.

  ‘Fine, you know what? You don’t have to go to school today. At all,’ I say.

  His eyes light up and he sits up straight. ‘For real?’

  I nod, cleaning up the spilled sugar on the table. ‘Yeah, you can just stay at home. Ammi’s not well, so she’ll be in bed all day. It’ll just be you and Abbu when he gets back from work. I don’t think he’s gonna be happy about you skiving though.’

  That does it. His smile drops. I almost feel bad, but I force myself to act normal. Calm. Like Ammi. I hand him the cereal spoon again. He takes it this time.

  ‘Can I watch a video?’ he asks, his mouth still empty. ‘One of yours?’

  I shouldn’t let him; I know that it’s a bad habit. But I also know the best thing to do right now is let him have his way. My phone’s still on charge, so I grab Ammi’s iPad, load up my YouTube channel and pass the device over.

  Making videos is my biggest hobby. I make all kinds of weird things – remakes of movie scenes (mostly Disney films) using toys or household items, videos of Ismail being goofy, and sometimes stop-motion shorts. Ismail helps with a lot of them, which is probably why he’s so into them. I usually save watching them as a treat for him, but like I say, this is an extreme case.

  He finally starts eating, and I busy myself making cheese sandwiches for his lunch. God, I can’t believe we woke up this late. As I spread mayonnaise, I imagine what will happen when I get into school. Miss Kirtley in reception is always a bitch to anyone who’s late – ‘You’ll get nowhere in life if you turn up late, Amani,’ she’ll say. And then there’s the whole thing of having to walk into class while everyone’s already working. I’m tempted to skive, but like Ismail, the thought of being around Abbu all day while Ammi’s upstairs resting is a bit much.

&n
bsp; As if I’ve willed him into existence, I hear Abbu’s voice. My heart spikes, thinking he’s going to go ballistic, seeing Ismail and me still at home, seeing me making sandwiches while Ammi’s asleep upstairs. I turn around, the butter knife almost dropping from my hand, but then I realise that Ismail has just switched over to the live TV app on the iPad. And there’s Abbu on the screen, smile plastered across his face. You’d think I’d be used to this by now – Abbu’s been a presenter on a kids’ TV show about vets and animals, Creature Clinic, for years, though I haven’t watched it myself in ages. Today he’s on adult TV though. Some breakfast show, trying to promote the next series of Creature Clinic.

  ‘Look, Maani, it’s Abbu!’ Ismail says, his voice full of glee (and, thankfully, Shreddies).

  We both watch the screen, watch this version of Abbu that we never see at home. I get that he has to become this personality for his job, but it’s honestly like a completely different person is in front of me. He even has banter with the presenters as he sits on the sofa, stroking a cat. The presenters are also holding small animals. They’re laughing as if they’ve never heard someone funnier than Abbu. It makes me smile – seeing that he’s so good at his job.

  Abbu was a proper vet for years, when I was younger, and then he got offered the Creature Clinic gig, which paid a lot more. He often does these live TV appearances to promote the show – he’ll go on and entertain people with some cute animals and weird facts.

  I focus on putting extra mayonnaise on Ismail’s sandwiches because I know he likes them soggy. I’m just cutting the crusts off when I hear yelling from the iPad. I turn to find chaos on the screen. Everyone is up off the sofa now. There’s a … a cat attached to Abbu’s beard. He tries to shake it off, but it’s got a death grip on him. The blonde female presenter screams as his movements make the cat swing back and forth. Next thing I know, the other animals have gone berserk too. There’s a lizard tangled in the blonde lady’s long hair, with the same death grip, and a guinea pig runs into the audience.

  ‘Get this fucking piece of shit off me!’ Abbu yells, as the woman continues to scream.

  He stumbles and falls backwards over the sofa. There’s a loud crash and then all you can see is his legs sticking up behind the red sofa.

  The screen finally cuts to the weather.

  I am mortified. Ismail, however, is cackling. Milk-running-from-the-corners-of-his-mouth, danger-of-choking-type cackling.

  ‘Did you see that, Maani?’ He turns to me, tears in his eyes. ‘Abbu had a cat on his face! He fell over!’ He begins cackling again.

  Oh God, this is bad. So bad. Fear courses through my body. Abbu is going to feel … humiliated.

  ‘Ismail, come on,’ I say, more fiercely than ever. ‘We have to go. Now.’ I snatch up the half-finished bowl of cereal and drop it in the sink.

  ‘Hey, my Shreddies!’

  ‘Oh, now you want them?’ I shove his sandwiches into his lunch bag.

  ‘I want Ammi,’ he says, a slight whine in his voice.

  I don’t reply, just focus on filling his water bottle.

  ‘Why is she still sleeping?’ he asks. ‘Isn’t she gonna walk me to school?’

  ‘Nope, it’s gonna be me today.’

  We need to leave. Need to get away from here as soon as possible. I keep seeing Abbu falling backwards over the sofa, the cat attached to his beard.

  ‘Get your shoes on.’

  ‘But Ammi always walks me to school,’ he says, still at the table. ‘She’s walked me before when she’s sick. Why not today?’ He’s talking in that soft vulnerable voice that says he’s about to start crying. Oh God, it’s breaking my heart.

  ‘Hey, it’ll be fun. Just us two. We can blow dandelions on the way. Sound good?’ Ismail loves doing this in the garden.

  ‘Will Ammi pick me up?’ he asks, looking up at me.

  ‘What, I’m not good enough for you?’ I joke.

  ‘I want Ammi to take me.’

  I can hear the tears crawling further into his voice. No no no! It’s at times like this I wish Ismail could suddenly be five years older. I love him to bits, but he can be a handful to look after, even more so when I’m already stressed about being late, about my biology practice exam, about Abbu, and Ammi, and just everything. I need to get to school. There’s something about school that calms me. Even though I’m not the best student, I like being there. At school, I know what’s happening. I know what classes I’m supposed to be in, where I have to go next. I know what we’re going to be learning about, and the names of everyone in my class. There’s structure, and certainty. Ten times ten is always one hundred. But at home …

  ‘Hey, c’mon, don’t be sad,’ I tell Ismail, immediately cringing because I know this will make it worse. As expected, the tears start falling.

  ‘Wanna know something super fun we can do?’ I ask him, desperately trying to both distract and cheer him up. ‘I can take you the super-secret way to school. No one knows about this way. Not even Ammi.’

  ‘Really?’ he sniffles. ‘But Ammi knows everything.’

  ‘Not this. This is a secret only I know. It’s the big-kid way. And today I’ll let you in on it, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. I can trust you, right?’

  He nods eagerly.

  ‘Good, OK, now hurry up and put your shoes on – otherwise we won’t have time to go the secret way.’

  He scrambles into the hallway. Thank God.

  Now I just have to think up some secret way to walk to school.

  2

  School passes in a weird rush. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re late (and trying to forget the image of your dad being humiliated on live TV). Homework is doled out in most lessons, we’re reminded about coursework due in others. Biology was fifth period and my brain is still hurting from the practice exam as I walk towards the gates after school. There’s a big notice board right in the middle of the quad. It’s usually filled with posters about discos, parent–teacher evenings and upcoming school trips. That’s all been replaced now with a countdown. One just for us Year Elevens.

  22 DAYS TO GO

  Twenty-two days left until exams start. Until the end of school. Of course there’s still sixth form, but that doesn’t seem the same. It’s the end of an era. And every time I think about it, my stomach churns. It feels like I’m in a car speeding towards an unfinished bridge. The ones that only appear in bad action movies, or cartoons. Except I don’t have the skills to avoid the inevitable crash – I don’t even know how to drive the car I’m in. That’s why I usually avoid walking through the quad. I don’t need any more reminders about the terrifying future ahead of me.

  I put my head down and walk faster. Past the board, past the horrible visions of the future, and towards the art block, where Huda is waiting for me. She’s talking to a boy in our year. Ezra Fitzgerald. Huda’s that person who knows EVERYONE; we’ll be walking around and every other person will give her a nod, a high five, even a hug. I didn’t realise she was friendly with Ezra though. Our year is separated into two halves – the X band and the Y band. Each band has three classes. The separation is just for registration – our actual lessons are a mix of all students. But even so, there’s a sort of unspoken rivalry. The X band thinks all the Y band are losers, and the Y band (which includes me and Huda) thinks the X band are troublemakers. Which is why I’m shocked to see Huda with Ezra. He’s like the most popular boy in the X band. Also a dickhead. Back in Year Nine, he once called me a towelhead, and I’ve never forgiven him. Huda, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to remember any of that, considering how she’s laughing with him. I’m too far away to hear what they’re talking about. I try to remember whether he’s in any of her classes, but no – Huda is in top set for everything, and Ezra … well, Ezra is in the X band for a reason.

  ‘It’s gonna be epic!’ he says as I get within earshot.

  Huda notices me finally, and smiles. ‘Talk to you later, yeah?’ she says to him before walking towards me.
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br />   Ezra turns and our eyes meet. I swear his smile drops. His focus goes to my headscarf, and I instinctively reach up to adjust it. Which is stupid, because he was all laughs and jokes with Headscarved Huda just a second ago. Why doesn’t he look at her like this, with the scorn he’s giving me?

  Actually, I can answer that. Huda just fits in. With everyone, everywhere. She is one of those people everyone loves, and trusts. Which is ironic, considering how many foster homes she’s been in. OK, that was a bit harsh. But I’m ashamed to admit, I really am jealous of her ability to fit in. What I would give to be able to join any group and not feel like a sore thumb. It’s effortless for Huda, and she doesn’t even notice it.

  ‘What was that about?’ I ask her as soon as Ezra’s behind us. I can’t help the tinge of annoyance in my voice.

  ‘What was what about?’ she asks nonchalantly. The thing is, I don’t think she’s doing it on purpose; she probably genuinely doesn’t understand why it’s weird for her to be talking to Ezra.

  ‘Since when are you two such good friends?’

  ‘Jealous, are we?’ she teases, nudging me off the path with her elbow, then pulling me back into a one-armed hug. ‘Ah, no one can replace you, Amani – thought you’d know that after all these years. I love you, bestie.’