Cleo’s coven has been suspiciously quiet too. Judging by Imogen’s reaction to being left out of the original secret, I thought she might go rogue, blow up online and make things worse, but she just sat there on her own in maths, not answering when anyone asked her questions about Cleo.
When I walk up the drive to my house, I’m in a weirdly good mood. The blog has cheered me up. I know it’s terrible to get joy from someone’s misery, but c’mon, it’s Cleo. It’s good to see her on the receiving end for a change. Also, thankfully, this has taken the heat off me and that video of Abbu. I scroll through Twitter as I walk in, reading what everyone’s posted about the blog. I’m so distracted I don’t notice Abbu standing in the doorway to the living room, watching me as I take my shoes off, until I look up and we lock eyes.
‘Oh, God!’ I say, jumping from the shock.
Abbu’s just staring at me. It’s still weird to see him without a beard.
‘Sorry,’ I say automatically. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
He remains silent, and the hot, itchy feeling rises inside me. I want to leave, to get away from his emotionless stare, but I can’t just leave abruptly. I often wonder what it would be like to have a normal dad. Would he hug me hello when I came home? Be excited to see me? I mean, there was a time when he was exactly that. Or at least, I thought he was. I can even remember when I wasn’t scared of him, when his presence in the room didn’t suck all the air out, didn’t put me completely on edge. I do have memories of those times, when I’d get home from primary school and run right into his arms, desperate to tell him every little thing that had happened. When he’d surprise me at the school gates, letting me get an ice cream for the walk home, the way he still does with Ismail every Tuesday. The good times existed. They were real. It just seems to be getting harder and harder to remember them.
‘How was school?’ he asks. I know where this is heading.
‘It was fine,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t got my biology result yet.’
He nods, once. Best to get straight to the point, right?
Although maybe I’m being the hypocrite; I say I want a better relationship with him, but I’m not putting any effort in myself.
‘How was … your day?’ I ask tentatively.
Something crosses his face; he’s surprised by the question, and why shouldn’t he be? I’ve never asked him this before. Never made any small talk. We don’t go beyond the necessary basics and things about school. A tiny smile grows on his face, and the sight of it makes my heart skip.
I made him smile.
I made a difference.
I made him … change.
‘It was good,’ he says.
And then there’s silence again. The smile is gone from his face, and with it that brief promise of change.
‘Do some revision before dinner,’ he tells me, the lightness completely evaporated. ‘And pay no attention to your brother’s whining. He’s grounded. Don’t let him out of his room.’
‘Grounded?’ My parents have never grounded either of us. Ever. Also, Ismail is five. He’d probably want to stay in his room all evening. ‘What did he do?’ I can’t help but ask.
‘I’ve had my ear chewed off by his teacher for his misbehaviour. That boy needs to learn some manners.’
His voice has risen again. Not to the scary level, but on its way there. There’s a constriction in my chest at the thought of it getting worse. But also at the idea that Ismail is in trouble. That Abbu’s shouted at him. He must be sitting in his room terrified, probably crying his eyes out.
‘OK,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ll make sure he stays in there. I’m going to … go and study now.’
Abbu nods, and I quickly move away from him and up the stairs. I wait till I hear the door to the living room close before tiptoeing across the landing to Ismail’s bedroom. I open his door as quietly as I can.
Ismail’s not playing with his toys, even though his room is filled with them. Abbu must have really had a go at him. He’s just sitting on the edge of his bed, uniform still on, hands in his lap, head down.
‘Hey, you,’ I say softly as I walk in.
He doesn’t even look up, just starts sobbing lightly. I rush over, sit on the bed and put my arm around him. He snuggles up to me immediately, his crying becoming louder.
‘Shh, it’s OK,’ I tell him, partly to soothe, but mostly to stop Abbu from overhearing. ‘What happened?’
‘A-Abbu shouted at m-me.’
‘He said your teacher was angry at you. Is that true?’
‘It w-wasn’t my f-f-fault!’ he wails.
‘OK, OK, calm down, Ismail. Shh, otherwise Abbu will hear.’ That reduces him to light sniffling again.
I wipe his eyes and raise his chin with my hand so he’s looking right at me. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Miss Harvey told Abbu I got into a fight.’
‘A fight?!’ I exclaim. This can’t be true. Not him, not Ismail too.
‘I … I only pushed Sam because he hit Maisie first. I was trying to get him away from her. She was real sad, but he wouldn’t leave her alone. I was just … I was only doing it because he was naughty first. It’s not … it’s not my fault!’
My heart clenches. ‘Did you tell your teacher this? That Sam was being mean to Maisie?’
He nods super fast. ‘She said I still shouldn’t have hit him. That I should have told her instead.’
‘Well, she’s right. Why didn’t you go to her?’
‘Because it would’ve been too late. Maisie was already crying. He was being really mean. Why am I in trouble when I was just being nice?’ He’s clenching his fists now, his face a mess of snot and tears. ‘Abbu shouted so much, Maani. He’s really mad.’
I take his hand. ‘Abbu won’t be mad forever. You’re right, you were doing a good thing, but you know that fighting isn’t the answer, right? Just because Sam was being rough doesn’t mean you can be.’
He looks up at me. ‘It’s not fair. Why can some people get away with hitting and I can’t?’
Oh God, is he expecting me to answer that? How do I tell him the truth, that the world isn’t fair? How can Ismail be expected to learn violence is wrong with our father as a role model?
I can hear Abbu moving around downstairs, the TV on. He’s a bloody hypocrite, punishing Ismail when this behaviour has probably come from Abbu’s example.
I give Ismail an extra-big cuddle. There’s a part of me that wants to tell him he probably did the right thing. Showing Maisie that there are some men in the world who will stick up for her. That the world isn’t full of Abbus or Sams. Ismail could very easily have been Sam in this situation. They say kids pick up on things, and there’s a chance he could have thought that doing what Abbu does is acceptable. I’m relieved he’s learned the opposite lesson.
‘Hey, look – listen to me,’ I say to him as I slip off the bed and kneel in front of him. ‘Hitting people is bad. Always.’ I make sure to keep my voice stern so he understands how serious this is. ‘If anything like this happens again, use your words. Tell Sam to stop. Tell him you’re going to get a teacher. Never hit. OK?’
He nods, his sniffling almost completely gone now.
‘But … I’m proud of you.’
His head snaps up.
‘It’s good that you wanted to defend Maisie. I’m proud of you for that.’
He smiles a little.
‘But that doesn’t make it OK … And you have to do Abbu’s punishment. OK?’
‘OK,’ he mumbles.
I give him one last hug before I leave his room quietly.
Dinner starts off super awkward. Abbu’s still mad at Ismail, so makes him finish his dinner at lightning speed and then sends him straight up to bed. It’s so weird sitting at the table with just my parents. Although Abbu seems to be in an OK mood now that Ismail isn’t here. He and Ammi are chatting like a normal couple. She doesn’t seem on edge at all, which in turn makes me relax.
‘How did your meeting go thi
s morning with your old colleague?’ she asks him.
He smiles, actually smiles. ‘Good. He said he knows of a job going and will recommend me for it.’
‘That’s great!’ Ammi says. There’s delight in her voice, a sense of pride too.
‘Is it for another show?’ I ask. It sort of slips out, as my words often do when Abbu is in a normal mood.
He shakes his head. ‘Not TV. I’m going back to being a vet. I quit Creature Clinic. Just have to do the interviews and appearances I’m booked in for, and then I’m done.’ He looks at me and smiles. At least, tries to – it looks forced, stretched. I’m assuming this job hop is to avoid the backlash of his TV blunder. ‘So I’ll be ready to take you under my wing as soon as you finish your studies.’
‘Oh.’ I try to hide the fear that’s creeping in at the thought of us working together. ‘That’s exciting!’
He smiles more naturally before returning to his food.
‘So exciting,’ Ammi enthuses. ‘Imagine. You two working together. Helping poor animals –’ She gesticulates with her hand and accidentally knocks over a glass of water. It spills all over the table and some pours onto Abbu’s lap. I suck in a breath as he jumps up with a shout.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ he bellows, arms waving in the air as if it’s hot oil.
Ammi jumps out of her seat with her napkin and quickly starts trying to wipe the water off him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘I wasn’t looking. I’m sorry. Sorry.’
‘Of course you weren’t paying attention. Too busy yapping away, like always,’ Abbu says.
Ammi doesn’t reply.
Please stop. Please please please …
‘Look, you’ve ruined my dinner.’
Ammi concentrates on wiping Abbu’s trousers. She’s kneeling on the floor now, scrubbing furiously at his thigh.
‘I said, look!’ Abbu reaches down and grabs her chin, forcing her to look at the table where his dinner is floating in a puddle of water. I can see from Ammi’s pained expression how hard he’s squeezing her. I can see from the wideness of her eyes how scared she is. Her gaze connects with mine and I realise I’m just sitting there, frozen. Watching this. I can’t … I literally can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch this play out.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ammi repeats. Her voice is strangled and distorted since Abbu’s fingers are now squeezing her mouth.
‘Sorry isn’t going to bring my dinner back, is it?’ he asks. ‘You’re so fucking clumsy sometimes, I swear to God. It’s a wonder I put up with you.’
Ammi doesn’t reply. She’s still kneeling there, tears leaking out of her eyes, waiting for this to be over. The silence seems to anger Abbu further though, and I find myself squeezing my fork so hard that it digs into my skin.
‘You think this shit is edible now?’ he asks. ‘Let’s see how you like it.’ With his free hand, he takes his plate and … tips the contents into Ammi’s face.
She gasps a little, which makes some of the food fall into her mouth, causing her to splutter.
‘Not nice, is it?’ Abbu asks. I swear there’s a tinge of enjoyment in his voice.
Once again Ammi doesn’t reply. Generally that’s the best approach. She’ll stay silent and he’ll run out of steam. But apparently not today.
‘Look, you little bitch,’ he says, pulling her by her mouth until she’s forced to her feet. His fingers move to her neck and now she’s gasping for breath.
Ammi’s eyes connect with mine again and the desperation in them kicks me into action.
‘STOP IT!’ I shout, standing up so fast the chair falls behind me.
The suddenness of this gets to Abbu. He probably forgot I was even here. He immediately turns to look at me and loosens his grip. Ammi stumbles back, grabbing her neck, coughing.
Abbu’s glaring at me, fire in his eyes. In this moment, I hate him. I really do. I’m also terrified he’s about to come after me.
‘Just … stop it, please,’ I find myself saying again. Quieter though. Meeker.
We stand there staring icily at each other until finally … finally he lets out a groan of frustration. He hurls the plate still in his hand to the floor so it smashes. I gasp and recoil, tensing up in case he’s going to transfer his anger to me.
‘Clean this up,’ he says to Ammi as he leaves the room.
As soon as I hear the front door close behind him, I scramble over to Ammi and wrap her into a hug. She weeps into my shoulder.
16
Ammi works silently, scrubbing the wooden floor as I pick up the shards of broken china that have splintered all around the room. I look up at her every few seconds, wanting to say something, but not knowing what. Her face is blank. There’s food in her hair, and down the front of her clothes. She’s tried to cover herself up with her scarf, but she looks … dishevelled, beaten, resigned. We both know that tonight was different. He’s never ever done anything like that in front of me or Ismail before. In front of anyone. He’s starting to have no boundaries. It was easy for me to pretend nothing was happening when it was literally behind closed doors, but seeing that today, seeing the sense of power he got from her humiliation, seeing how Ammi was shaking, the fear in her eyes as he choked her … I can’t … I can’t ignore this any more.
I put down the dustpan and brush. ‘Why do you put up with it?’ I blurt.
Her eyes snap to mine, and she pauses scrubbing. She stares at me for a few seconds before dropping her head and returning to her task.
‘Ammi,’ I say, reaching over and taking hold of her wrist to stop her.
She flinches at the touch and I remove my hand immediately. I can feel tears pricking in the corner of my eyes.
‘Why don’t you …? Why don’t you tell someone about what he does? Why don’t you … tell him to stop?’
‘Amani, please. Just … Let’s do this and then you go up to study, OK?’
‘You can’t keep ignoring it, Ammi. It’s not going to get any better. The opposite, rather. You need to … I don’t know, stand up to him, tell someone, you need to –’
‘Amani, you don’t understand these things. What it takes to make a marriage work.’
‘You’re the one not seeing sense. You need to get out while … while you still can.’
‘You’re making mountains out of a molehill again. It’s nothing like that. Your dad … he’s just …’
‘A wife beater?’ It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
‘Amani, stop! You cannot talk about him like that – he’s your father.’
‘Some father he is. Look at what he’s doing to you. And you know what? It’s not just you, Ammi. You need to realise this. This affects me and Ismail too. Did you know Ismail comes into my bed at night when you’re fighting?’
She looks up at me again. Her face falls.
‘He climbs into my bed and he’s shaking like a leaf. What if he’d been at the table just now? Do you think this is the kind of behaviour you should be teaching him? Teaching me? You realise you’re basically telling me it’s OK to stay in an abusive relationship, right?’
‘That’s not … He’s not …’ she stammers.
‘Ammi, you can end this, OK? You can get free. Let’s just pack up. You, me, Ismail. We can … move away. Just … we can … we can leave.’ A tingle runs through my body at the mere suggestion, at the thought that’s been in my head so much recently but that I’ve never before dared to voice.
She shakes her head slightly. ‘You’re just a child,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not as easy as that.’
‘It can be as easy as you make it. If you’re worried about Ismail and me, don’t be,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll be fine. Better even, without him.’
‘You think I haven’t tried leaving?’ she whispers. ‘You think I like enduring … this? I’ve tried to leave so many times, Amani. Remember a few years ago when we went to stay at your nani’s for the summer holidays? I swore that would be the last time, that I wasn’t coming back.’
I remember that holiday. I was about twelve and so excited for a whole summer at Nani’s. Ismail was tiny then, and no fun to play with, while at Nani’s all my cousins came to visit every other day. That was all I thought about that summer: how nice it was to have people to play with. I thought Ammi had taken us all there for that reason – so I’d have company. What a self-centred brat I was.
‘What happened?’ I ask softly. ‘Why did you come back?’
She shakes her head a little. ‘He begged me, like he always does. Told me it would stop, that he’d go to anger-management classes. All that stuff. And your nani …’ She sighs. ‘Well, you know what she’s like. She told me I should come back, for you, for Ismail. She told me I … shouldn’t complain. That people go through worse. She told me I could change him. That it was my duty to change him.’
I gasp. ‘That’s crap! You shouldn’t have to put up with this, Ammi, no one should.’
She sighs, her whole body sagging. ‘It doesn’t work like that in our culture. Your nani, your aunties, uncles, they’re all … they’d never … understand. They’d blame me, no matter what. It’s part of what’s kept me coming back – I don’t want to let your nani down. Every time I think about leaving, or actually try to, I just can’t help but feel like I’m doing something wrong, that I’m being weak, that I should just –’
‘Ammi, no.’ I take her hand in mine again. ‘You can’t let that stop you. Who are they to stand in your way? It’s not them living this hell. I see it, Ammi, I see you every day, how he’s taken so much away from you, how much he hurts you. And it’s getting worse. You need to put a stop to it. Before it’s too late.’
She stares at me for a few seconds and I think she’s got it, that she’s going to agree, but instead she snatches her hand away and goes back to scrubbing. Her manner changes instantly. ‘Wrap the plate shards in newspaper and put them in the bin. Then go upstairs.’
‘Ammi –’
‘Upstairs. Amani. We’re not talking about this any more.’
This Is My Truth Page 9
