I stop running when I reach the edge of the wooded area. The earth between the trees is dusty and bare save for a few discarded cigarette cartons and empty beer cans.
I stop running because I can see Tyreese leaning back against a tree with Zara pressed up against him. In one hand he’s holding a can of cider while the other hand is resting on Zara’s bum. From where I’m standing it looks as if she’s kissing him rather than the other way round.
I expect them to stop when they hear me approach, but they don’t. Behind me I can hear Priti saying, ‘sixteen . . . seventeen . . . Hi, Shakeel . . . we’re playing hide-and-seek . . . eighteen . . . nineteen . . . Want to join in?’
I try to say something, but no words come out.
‘Mum wants you and Zara to come and do your study,’ I can hear Shakeel saying. ‘Where is Zara anyway? I thought she was supposed to be watching out for you.’
‘She’s hiding. Twenty . . . twenty-one . . . twenty-two . . .’
I open my mouth and stammer something, but the snoggers don’t hear.
‘In my day we stopped at twenty,’ Shakeel says.
‘Maybe that’s why you got so old so quickly!’ Priti retorts. ‘Twenty-three . . . twenty-four . . .’
Still Tyreese and Zara don’t turn round.
‘Come on, Priti. I don’t have time for this. Mum wants you in now and I have my own studies to complete. ’
I cough as loud as I can.
They stop snogging and turn to stare at me. Zara’s mouth is wiped bare of lipstick.
‘Whazzup, kid?’ says Tyreese, who is tall and lanky, his head shaven to a stubble and his jeans hanging off his bum so I can see most of his pants.
‘Just looking, were you?’ Zara asks, pushing a strand of hair off her face.
‘Blood go rushing to your head, lil’ bro?’ Tyreese laughs. ‘Or maybe it go somewhere else?’ He grins and takes a swig of his cider. I go even redder.
Just then Shakeel shouts, ‘Come on, Priti! I haven’t got time for this!’
Zara leaps up at the sound of his voice. ‘Oh, shit. What’s he doing here?’
‘Twenty-seven . . . twenty-eight,’ I can hear Priti saying.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ Zara hisses at Tyreese.
‘Ain’t in no rush,’ he says with the same slow, lazy grin he aimed at me.
‘Twenty-nine.’
‘Hide-and-seek,’ I say.
‘You what?’ They both look at me like I’m an idiot.
‘We’re supposed to be playing hide-and-seek,’ I say with an effort. ‘Priti is looking for us.’
‘Thirty. Coming, ready or not!’
‘Shit! Quick!’ Zara grabs me and pulls me into a bush to her left. Jammed up close to her, I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands.
We can hear Priti talking to herself as she pretends to look round the park for us.
Tyreese doesn’t move. He grins and takes another swig of cider. Zara is breathing quickly next to me. ‘Will you just go, Tyreese,’ she hisses. Her blouse is still unbuttoned and I catch a flash of white bra against brown skin.
Tyreese takes another gulp before discarding his can. Then he starts to move off. ‘So long, gorgeous!’ he drawls.
Then he turns back and says, ‘And keep your hands to yourself, kid!’
I feel my cheeks go redder than even I thought was possible.
‘Text me,’ Zara whispers.
But Tyreese doesn’t reply, just blows her a kiss without even turning round.
Then it’s just me and Zara. I turn my face away as she buttons up her blouse.
‘Thanks,’ she says.
In my head I doodle the words No problem and My pleasure over and over again in different fonts, but nothing comes out of my mouth.
Priti is coming now, making a big song and dance about not being able to find us. She stomps around the thicket, looking behind every bush but ours, exclaiming out loud about the empty bottles being a hazard to young kids. I concentrate on doodling words in my head to avoid looking at Zara.
Then, finally, Priti discovers our hiding place and it’s all over.
Shakeel is the elder of Priti’s two brothers. I think she said he’s about twenty-three, but he seems older because his hair is thinning and he wears glasses. He doesn’t look like a potential sister-killer to me.
I expect him to be mad when we get back to the swings, but he just shakes his head and laughs at Priti. ‘She’s going to Bollywood, this one!’ he says.
‘About bloody time too!’ shouts Zara, standing up and dusting herself down. ‘You know how long I’ve been babysitting these two?’
Priti mutters something under her breath about Bollywood divas which makes Zara glare at her. I rise slowly to my feet, still unable to look at Zara.
‘I seem to remember having to babysit you not so long ago, little sister,’ says Shakeel with the same smile he gave to Priti. He actually seems nice.
‘Well, unlike you, big bro, I got better things to do with my time than hang out with babies!’ And, with that, Zara marches off towards the house. I watch her go – she looks flushed and her shirt is a bit lopsided. I want to write a caption for her, but I can’t think of one.
‘You saved her skin then, I reckon,’ says Priti when Shakeel’s far enough ahead not to hear us. ‘She owes you a life debt now.’
‘They wouldn’t really kill her, would they, your brothers?’ I ask.
‘You obviously don’t know anything about honour killings!’ says Priti. ‘They’re going on all over the place. I mean, I don’t actually know anyone it’s happened to, but everyone knows it does, don’t they? Shakeel might seem all nicey-nicey Mr Big Brother, but he’s well into all the tradition and that. If my sister brings shame on the family then . . .’ She draws a hand across her throat in a slitting motion and chokes. Then she says cheerily, ‘Gotta go do my homework. You up for hanging out tomorrow?’
I shrug my shoulders and say, ‘Sure, why not.’
‘Cool,’ she says. ‘I’ll text you.’
‘I don’t have a mobile.’
Priti stares at me in astonishment. ‘No way!’
‘My mum reckons they’re really bad for you,’ I say.
Priti shakes her head. ‘I figured something must be seriously wrong with your mum,’ she says. ‘Now I know I’m right!’
My mum has never let me have a mobile phone. She reckons the radio waves will fry my brain or something. I’m not allowed an iPod or a games console either. And I must be the only kid in the whole of Year 8 who doesn’t have a computer at home. We’ve got a TV, but we only really watch Coronation Street and reruns of Friends and old cartoons on DVD. And we have a landline telephone, but my mum never makes calls and always gets me to answer it when it rings.
My mum hates all that stuff. She says she doesn’t like being bombarded with unsolicited sounds and words and images. She reckons it saps us of our creativity and does God-knows-what to our brain cells.
But I don’t think that’s the only reason. I reckon it’s to do with 9/11 too – like the time she turned on the radio in the car and they were playing answerphone messages that the victims had left for their families. She never put the radio on again after that.
When other kids at school ask, I just say it’s because she’s a painter. Because artists are supposed to be a bit wacky, aren’t they? Which also explains why my mum forgets things, like parents’ evenings and permission slips. And also why she’s so thin.
My friend Lukas offered to give me his old mobile phone. He reckons he knows a way to top them up without paying. I nearly said yes, but I knew it would upset my mum, so I didn’t. Only now I wish I had. Because maybe if I had a phone, he’d have texted to see why I haven’t been in school, and when I’m coming back. And if Mum had one too, I could have texted her. But she doesn’t, and I know she won’t call, so I have no idea how she is.
Which feels rubbish.
JULY 15TH
When the doorbell rings, I kno
w it’s Priti because I’ve already worked out that no one else ever calls at the house. Sure enough, when Granny opens the door, Priti is standing there, only this time she’s got the Honour Killer in tow. He’s wearing a long white dress thing over his trousers and a little hat on his head.
‘Good morning, Mrs Evans,’ he says. ‘I’m Shakeel Muhammed. I am the eldest son of your neighbours.’
‘Hello, Shakeel. It’s nice to meet you,’ says Granny.
‘And also you,’ says Shakeel.
‘Hello, Mrs Evans!’ says Priti with an expression on her face that I bet she only puts on for adults.
‘Hello, Priti,’ says Granny. ‘And I must say you are looking very pretty again today.’
Priti grins at me. She has a new hairstyle – a single ponytail high on her head, fixed with floaty pink things that make her look like she might take off at any minute.
‘Mrs Evans, I am taking Priti to the newsagent to spend her pocket money,’ says Shakeel. ‘She wondered if Ben would like to come with us.’
Priti grins at Granny.
‘That’s very kind,’ says Granny, smiling back.
So Granny gives me a pound for tidying my room – although I haven’t exactly had time to get it untidy – and the three of us head off down to the parade.
The Peacock Parade – which is the name Granny gives to the little row of shops nearby because they are on Peacock Street – is a five-minute walk away, where the last of the quiet cul-de-sacs meets the busy main road. Behind the parade are the rows of terraced houses (full of Asians, according to Grandad) and then beyond that, the city starts with its tower blocks and shopping centres and busy roads. My grandparents don’t often go into the city centre these days.
‘Too fast,’ says Granny.
‘In every sense of the word,’ says Grandad.
As soon as we get out of the cul-de-sac, Priti tugs me ahead and whispers, ‘I’ve got to run on ahead and warn Zara. Can you fall down and hurt your knee or something? Give me a bit of time?’
But it’s not really a question – or even a request – because before I can answer, she’s shot off down the road, veering dangerously close to the edge of the pavement.
‘Slow down, missy!’ shouts Shakeel. Then, turning to me, ‘Why is she in such a hurry?’
‘I think she saw someone she knew,’ I reply, bending down and pretending to tie my lace. I can feel myself going red. I’m not a very good liar.
‘Girls, eh!’ Shakeel laughs. ‘She’s a bit crazy that sister of mine. No man will want a crazy-head like that! It’s a good job she has brains otherwise we’d have to pay someone to take her off our hands.’
I’m not sure if he’s joking, so I don’t laugh.
Down at the parade a group of teenage boys with shaved heads are sitting on motorbikes, laughing and revving their engines. Among them is Zara’s boyfriend, Tyreese. Zara is sitting on a bench only a few metres away, flicking through a copy of Heat magazine and pretending to ignore them. Priti is perched next to her, swinging her legs and checking the bikers out.
As Shakeel and I walk past the bikers, I can feel them staring at us, but none of them says anything.
Zara looks up and stares accusingly in our direction. I feel myself starting to blush.
‘I thought you were supposed to be looking out for Ugli here?’ she says to Shakeel, completely ignoring me. ‘She’s cramping my style with this Asian Jordan look she’s got going on today.’
Priti pulls a face at Zara.
‘And she’s not supposed to run off and cross the road without me,’ says Shakeel, looking at Priti, who gives him what I think is supposed to be a kooky grin, but which just makes her face look a bit lopsided. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he asks Zara, glancing at the bikers who are laughing raucously.
‘Buying tampons, if you must know,’ says Zara.
Shakeel goes red and looks uncomfortable and I can feel myself doing the same.
Then one of the lads on the bikes calls out to Shakeel, ‘Nice dress, mate!’
They all start laughing and Tyreese revs his engine. Zara colours, but doesn’t look at him.
Shakeel doesn’t respond or even turn in their direction. ‘Just ignore them,’ he says.
‘Hey, loser! Watcha doing hanging out with a load of Pakis?’ Tyreese shouts.
I feel hot and uncomfortable because I know he’s talking to me and because my mum always tells me that’s a word you should never use, but I don’t say anything.
‘Hey, you little runt!’ says Tyreese when I don’t answer. ‘I’m talking to you. Dontcha know it’s disrespectful not to answer you’ elders?’
Still I don’t say anything. I imagine a caption over my head, reading, What ya gonna do now?
‘What you doin’ hanging out with Mussies anyway?’ Tyreese goes on. ‘Dontcha know they all terrorists?’
I imagine my face morphing into a giant cartoon tomato.
‘Oi, leave off him,’ says Priti.
I see Zara kick her.
‘Got yourself a mouthy little Paki bit of stuff there, have you, kid?’ Tyreese says.
The other bikers laugh and one of them shouts, ‘Don’t fancy yours much, kid, but I’d give her sister a go!’
Zara turns to stare furiously at Tyreese, but he just laughs.
Then I hear a voice from behind me say, ‘You want your skull caved in, just keep talking to my sisters like that.’
I turn round to see a teenage boy who looks like a tall, spikey-haired version of Priti. He’s wearing jeans that hang almost as low as Tyreese’s and he steps towards the bikers as he speaks to show he means business.
‘Leave it, Mik,’ Shakeel says. ‘We don’t want any trouble.’
‘You might not, big bro. Me, I’m gagging for it!’
‘You want a beating, Paki boy?’ says Tyreese.
‘You got nothing I want, white trash!’ says the boy called Mik, who I figure must be Priti’s other brother.
I glance at Priti. She doesn’t look the least bit scared.
‘Come on, Mik, we are going,’ Shakeel says, putting an arm round his brother.
‘You trying to shame me, bro?’ Mik pushes him away.
‘You bring shame on yourself by fighting in the street,’ says Shakeel.
‘So you’ll let them insult your sisters, your family, your people. That’s supposed to be honourable, is it?’
‘There are better ways of keeping our honour than this!’ says Shakeel. As he says it, he touches his brother on the arm again and the two of them stare at each other for a moment.
Next to Shakeel, Mik looks really young and really angry. He shakes Shakeel’s hand away.
‘Not worth getting my hands dirty for anyway!’ he says, furious, turning away.
‘You can leave your sister here for us if you want,’ says Tyreese. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself.’ He laughs.
Mik swings round and is about to go for him, but Shakeel pulls him back, more forcefully this time. ‘Let them keep,’ he says, speaking right into Mik’s face now. ‘There are better ways to deal with this kind of scum than with your fists.’
But there’s a look on Mik’s face as his brother drags him away – his clenched jaw, furrowed brow, the cartoon daggers flying out of his eyes – that makes me think this is not over for him. Not by a long way.
Somehow Priti manages to persuade Shakeel to let us get our sweets, despite the fact that a race riot is about to kick off at the parade, but he makes us go straight home after. Zara’s mad at him, but Mik is even madder. As I watch him marching on ahead with Zara, I get the feeling Mik doesn’t like having to do what his older brother tells him.
Priti and I hang at the back, munching on our sweets.
‘That was well cool back there, wasn’t it?’ she says, sucking a fizzy pink strawberry lace through her teeth.
‘Nothing like that happens where I come from,’ I say.
‘No?’ She turns and looks at me curiously. ‘Aren’t there any M
uslims where you live?’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ I say.
‘Not sure,’ she says, slurping in the last of her lace. ‘Aren’t there?’
I think for a moment. ‘Not sure.’
‘People don’t like Muslims much,’ she says, trying to lick a stray bit of pink sugar from her nose with the tip of her tongue. ‘I don’t think your 9/11 thing helped our image, to be honest.’
‘It’s not my 9/11 thing,’ I say.
‘You know what I mean. And they don’t like the headscarves either.’ She stretches up her tongue again, tantalisingly close to the sugar grains this time.
‘Why don’t you wear one?’ I ask.
‘Cos I’d look minging,’ she says, scrunching her nose to try and shift the pink sugar closer to her mouth. ‘Zara reckons she’s “emancipated”, but that basically means she thinks she’s too cool for one.’
Priti stretches out her tongue one last time, without success. ‘Bum!’ she says, wiping the sugar away with her sleeve. ‘I’m sure my tongue has shrunk!’
‘Why did Tyreese have a go at her?’ I ask after a moment. This has been bothering me. If he’s supposed to be her boyfriend, why did he let his mates talk about her like that?
‘It’s like foreplay, I reckon,’ says Priti. ‘Gets them both hot and steamy!’
‘Foreplay?’
Priti looks at me like I’m some kind of idiot. ‘You really don’t know much, do you?’ She shakes her head. ‘Zara’s into the whole forbidden love thing. She reads too many of those soppy vampire romance novels, I reckon, so now she figures Tyreese is like one of those repressed bloodsuckers who gets off on seeing girls in danger. Which is a load of misogynist nonsense if you ask me, but you know what teenage girls are like.’
I imagine doodling fangs and a hooded cape on to Tyreese, drops of blood dripping inkily down his chin. I don’t bother asking her what misogynist means.
We’re nearly back at the close now and Priti is opening a packet of pink space dust. ‘Anyway, my dad says we’re going to Pakistan for a holiday next year,’ she says. ‘And you know what that means, don’t you?’
I shake my head.
‘He’s going to get Zara into a forced marriage. And maybe me too. Go on, ask me what a forced marriage is. I know you want to!’ She pours space dust on her tongue and keeps it out, watching the bright pink grains exploding.
We Can Be Heroes Page 3
