Kick the Moon

by Muhammad Khan

  Dad’s office is small and messy, and the combined stink of cigarettes and Old Spice hangs in the air like smog. Stacked in front of me are four CCTV monitors with different views of the shop.

  I spend the next ten minutes trying to figure out the system. Once I’ve got the hang of it, I’m away, searching for evidence of Zaman talking shit about my sister. Moments later, I stumble across something ten times worse.

  ‘No freaking way …’ I whisper.

  I hit rewind. And again. A fourth viewing confirms it. Ilyas Mian has found his smoking gun.

  Back on the shop floor, a massive queue has materialized, snaking round the aisles like a conga line. Dad’s looking stressed, and there’s no sign of Zaman or Yunus anywhere. I hop on a till, and between us, me and Dad clear the line.

  ‘Blimey!’ Dad says, mopping the sweat on his brow. ‘Lord knows where all them customers popped up from. Not that I’m complaining.’

  My eyes give the place a sweep, making sure Zaman hasn’t returned as I psych myself up for the big reveal. ‘Er, Dad, can I show you something? It’s kinda urgent.’

  He humours me with a smile as I pull out my phone.

  ‘This better not be some dirty video you downloaded off the interwebs …’ Dad falls silent as the video plays.

  I study his face, watching his frown deepen when he realizes it’s footage from the shop’s CCTV, then switch to stark confusion. On the screen, Zaman saunters over to the till. He makes an almost cartoonish left-right sweep of his head, before hitting the button that opens the till and pulling out a bundle of twenties. Shocking, right? Well Zaman’s not done. He connects a small device to the credit-card reader. A red LED pulses like a heart-rate monitor. He looks nervous, then startled as he turns his head. ‘Be with you in a second!’ he calls to someone off camera. A green light comes on, and he quickly disconnects the device, making it disappear inside his coat.

  Dad’s lips shrink to a thin line, his face becoming a midnight thunderstorm.

  Zaman and Yunus come in laughing, polishing off the last few fries of their two-ninety-nine burger meals from the local chicken shop.

  ‘Oi, Zaman!’ Dad says, then makes a sound that’s halfway between a whistle and a whoosh as he heads to the back room.

  Zaman looks up as Dad walks in. ‘Yes, boss. Just hanging my coat up—’

  ‘Nah, don’t bother,’ Dad says, grimacing.

  You’d need to be dumb not to realize he means business.

  Zaman and Yunus exchange dark glances. Zaman smiles ingratiatingly as he follows Dad over to his office. ‘Han-ji, uncle-ji.’

  Two jis in one breath? Man smells trouble.

  Licking excess salt off his oily fingers, Yunus accompanies them. A few seconds later, I follow at a safe distance. Dad settles into his boss chair, Zaman leaning over his shoulder, his face tinged blue in the glare of the incriminating CCTV footage. First, his eyes widen; then, his jaw muscles ripple. Finally he looks into Dad’s accusing face, his eyes all watery and apologetic.

  ‘Uncle-ji, I only took the money because I needed to borrow it. I was going to pay you back later,’ he says, shaking his head remorsefully.

  In some parallel universe, violins are playing. In mine, it’s party music.

  ‘How many times?’ Dad asks.

  Zaman swallows thickly, his lips twitching as if he’s trying to think of a number that doesn’t sound too bad. ‘Twice.’

  Dad cackles. ‘Funny, cos I’ve been scratching my head for a while now wondering why the accounts don’t add up. Figured it was me, what with having failed my GCSEs and all, but you’ve clearly been pulling a fast one for months. And all those customers complaining about credit-card fraud too! You conned an old man whose wife recently died. You’re a nasty piece of work, Zaman Akhtar.’

  ‘Uncle-ji—’

  ‘Don’t call me that! Family don’t steal from family.’

  Zaman glances up, and I duck out of sight fast. If he realizes I’m the one who showed Dad, I am so dead.

  ‘Why’d you do it?’ Dad asks, refusing to take silence for an answer.

  His Adam’s apple bobs twice. ‘For Shaista. We’re getting married—’

  Dad’s fist slams into Zaman’s belly so fast, I never even see it happen. All I hear is the sickening thwack and see Zaman’s eyes bulging.

  ‘My daughter’s never marrying a thieving kuta like you!’

  Zaman clutches his stomach, gasping. ‘You’re lucky I want to marry Shaista. Who else is going to marry a pregnant girl?’

  ‘Dad, don’t!’ I yell as Dad grabs a broom, ready to bash Zaman’s brains out.

  Then we all freeze.

  Zaman has pulled out a seven-inch M9 bayonet from God knows where.

  ‘Come on!’ he says, waving Dad forwards. ‘Do you really think a fat old man like you can touch someone like me? I’ve got an army of Dingoes. What do you have?’ He points the blade at me, and my heart stops. ‘One son who’s a coward, and another who ditched his family for greed. Oh yeah – and one sweet, sweet daughter who worships my dick.’

  Dad takes a swipe at Zaman’s head. Zaman parries the blow with the side of the blade, before swirling around and nicking the heel of Dad’s hand.

  ‘Yara, stop it!’ Yunus calls.

  ‘Or what?’ Zaman replies, now pointing the blade at Yunus.

  The sound of a siren can be heard approaching.

  ‘You didn’t …’ Zaman says, looking unsure.

  Yunus grins, even as a bead of sweat drips down the side of his face. ‘Are you sticking around to find out?’

  Zaman points his blade at each of us in turn. Then as the sound of the siren rises to a scream, he darts off, vanishing out of the back door, crashing into the bins.

  ‘Dad, shall I call an ambulance?!’ I ask, panicking.

  ‘No, you numpty. Just get your ol’ man a plaster from the firstaid box.’

  I hunt around for the green box. The sirens blare loudly, then rapidly recede, as the ambulance apparently drives on towards another emergency.

  I gawp. ‘You didn’t call the police then?’

  Yunus shakes his head.

  ‘Neither of you are mentioning a word of this to the missus, OK?’ Dad says, ripping open a plaster. ‘You let me handle it my way.’

  That evening, Shaista sulks all night up in her bedroom. I overhear her phoning friend after friend, telling them how oppressed she is. She’s in denial about just how dangerous Zaman is. The rest of us sit around the table, picking at our dinner in an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘My own flesh and blood!’ Dad says, shaking his head. ‘My precious little princess!’

  ‘Give it a rest, Osman. She says she didn’t do anything,’ Amma says.

  For the past five minutes, I’ve watched khichri migrate from one side of Mum’s plate to the other, one rice grain at a time. Poor Amma: all her kids turned out shit. She deserves better than us.

  ‘Yeah, well that’s all right then, innit?’ Dad says, pouring on the sarcasm. ‘She’s a real bastion of honour. A virtuous virgin.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake! What do you want her to do? Take a pregnancy test?’

  ‘That’d be a start!’ Dad lashes out like a wounded bear.

  ‘Look, I know you’re hurt,’ Amma says, topping up our glasses with chilled water. ‘Allah gave us three children, but what you have to remember is that they’re on loan. You do your best, then you let go. Do you want to lose her as well as Amir?’

  Unable to listen to this, I carry my plate through to the kitchen and stick it in the dishwasher. From as early as I can remember, whenever Amma and Dad have argued, I’ve ended up with this large rock in my belly, mashing up my guts, making me feel sick. It’s been happening so much lately, the rock’s upgraded to a boulder.

  I traipse up the stairs, reminding myself that I did what had to be done. How was I supposed to know Zaman was going to throw Shaista under a bus to save his own skin?

  ‘You!’ Shais stops me on the upper landing, smudged
make-up transforming her into The Crow. ‘I’ll never forgive you. From the day you were born, you’ve been hell-bent on destroying everything I love.’

  ‘Shais, it weren’t like that!’ I protest. ‘Zaman’s been nicking money.’

  Her eyeliner dribbles like engine oil down her cheeks. ‘It’s not Zamz’s fault Dad didn’t pay him enough. Do you even know where the money went?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘To ME. He’s been wooing his lady with gifts. And since I’m Dad’s daughter, technically it wasn’t even stealing.’

  ‘I know you love him, but he’s bad news …’

  Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Amir had the right idea, pissing off to America. I’m going to run away too, then I’ll never have to deal with you Love Nazis again!’

  The door slams in my face. I stare at its blank surface until my own eyes start to prickle. Shais is hard work, and sometimes I can’t stand her, but I’d be lost if she left.

  I make my way downstairs, where Amma and Dad are still rowing.

  The sound of the phone makes me jump. I make a rush for it, but Dad beats me to it.

  ‘Yes?’ he barks down the receiver. Then his face drops, and he swears under his breath. ‘Are you sure? OK, OK. Be there in five.’

  ‘Dad, what’s up?’ I ask.

  He looks at me, his eyes pools of worry as Amma creeps into the hall.

  ‘Osman?’ she says.

  Dad shakes his head, pinching the flesh between his eyebrows. ‘There’s been a petrol attack on the shop.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Amma says, a hand fluttering to her mouth.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ he quickly reassures her. ‘Thank God Yunus was looking out of his window, nosy bugger. Says he saw a bunch of hoodies gathering, so he raised the alarm before they could do any real damage. The police and fire service have it under control.’

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’ Amma asks. ‘We’ve never hurt anyone …’

  ‘It was Zaman!’ I blurt.

  My parents look at me, astounded, before Dad shakes his head. ‘They’re saying it was racially motivated. Little fascists sprayed slurs on the roller shutters, di’nt they?’

  Amma stares into the distance – her eyes look haunted. ‘Amir leaves us, Ilyas gets suspended, Shaista gets involved with a bad boy, and … now this …’ Amma blinks, dabbing at her eyes with her dupatta. ‘I think God might be trying to tell us something.’

  ‘What, by visiting us with the Ten Plagues? Don’t be daft!’ Dad scoffs.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Amma says, steeling herself.

  ‘Me too,’ I grab both our coats off the hooks.

  ‘Nah. You lot stay here and keep an eye on Shaista.’ Dad’s eyes rise to the darkness at the top of the stairs. ‘Make sure she doesn’t do a runner with her fancy man. I’ll sort this.’

  The next day, after dropping off a bowl of Amma’s palak paneer at Auntie Simrat’s house, I decide to take a stroll past Haji Mian & Sons to check out the damage from yesterday. Turns out the petrol attack was worse than Dad let on. A lot worse. Temporary repair film clings to a mosaic of fractured glass. An ugly board has been nailed over a second window, and the third set of roller shutters are completely blistered. Yellow and black graffiti streaks across them, screaming outdated racist BS. I want to cover it up with a nice mural. One of Dad smiling, surrounded by the freshest produce, glistening with dewdrops.

  I’m about to go in and ask him when something catches my eye. My breath comes out in a low whistle. Hidden within the offensive swirls is a pair of gleaming yellow eyes. The thugs’ tag boy, whoever he was, had obviously just started to leave the gang’s calling card before either being stopped or remembering to keep things on the down-low. A mistake so small, nobody would notice it. Nobody that is except for another tag boy.

  With a sigh, I go inside to find Dad checking out the extent of the damage.

  ‘Dad, the graffiti outside … it wasn’t a racist attack. It was DX Dingoes.’

  Dad hushes me quickly, then leads me into the back room. ‘Look, you can’t say this stuff out loud or I’ll end up with a whole bunch of resignations on my hands.’

  ‘Dad, are you mad at Shaista?’

  ‘Course I am. Thanks to her, I’ll forever be looking over my shoulder, worried that Zaman’s crew might try to hurt one of you.’

  ‘She doesn’t know he’s a legit gangsta.’

  He sighs, then nods. ‘Guess I should blame myself really. Sometimes you see one of your own struggling, and you feel sorry for ’em. I gave Zaman a chance, believing his lies about putting Dingoes behind him. More fool me, eh? Can’t invite the Devil into your house and not expect to get burned.’

  ‘Can’t we tell the cops?’

  He shakes his head sadly. ‘You watch the news. If the Old Bill can’t stop kids from stabbing each other, how are they going to handle an organization as big as DX Dingoes? Nah, mate. Best we can do is live our lives on the quiet.’

  Back at home, I’m researching climate change for a geography assignment when I start thinking about the current climate in my house. Greenhouse gases swirl around in my belly, bringing a soup of guilt and remorse to the boil, till I finally grab my art pad and stare at the picture I drew earlier. Shais’s favourite Disney princess, Aurora, stares back with an apologetic finger in her mouth and the word ‘SORRY!’ printed above.

  Swallowing my pride, I rip the page out and begin scrawling on the back.

  Shais,

  I’m sorry for destroying your life. Tbh I think you’re kind of cool OK. Not everyone has a YouTuber for a sister, right? Me telling Dad about Zaman was never about the money. I was trying to protect you from a lying supposedly ex-gangsta who wanted to get you in trouble.

  You might not be nice to me all that much, or ever really, but you deserve a proper Bollywood hero.

  Ilyas

  Now comes the hard part. With lumbering steps, I head to her room like a very reluctant postman. The familiar sound of her telling-it-like-it-is to her thousands of fans drifts towards me. I wait a minute but she’s in full flow, so I tuck the letter under her door and head back.

  You’d think the shop drama would’ve made me forget about Monday morning. Just thinking about facing Noah and Daevon has me bricking it, knowing I’m in the Traitor Zone. Pulling a sickie for the rest of my life and staying home to protect Amma and Shaista seems the wisest option to me. Sadly Mum’s having none of it.

  ‘You’ve already missed a week of school!’ she says. ‘You can’t afford not to go and end up like these thugs.’

  At the breakfast table, I practise swiping the fruit knife, just for protection. I can totally see Noah trying to beat me up at school. Pulling a knife on the bastard would stop him in his tracks. But then what? Stab him? Like I’d ever do that. Besides, knowing my luck, I’d probably get caught carrying and end up in a Young Offender Institution before lunch.

  Instead, I grab an apple from the bowl and set off out the door.

  Spotting Mr Gilchrist standing at the school gates. I jump off my bike, trying to avoid eye contact. Given he’s the size of a small mountain, that ain’t happening.

  ‘Morning, Ilyas. Hope you’ve had a chance to think about your actions?’ He deliberately blocks the gate with his bulk.

  ‘Yeah, course,’ I say, placing a hand over my heart. ‘I’m steering well clear.’

  ‘Don’t forget to come down to room F10 at 3.10 p.m. sharp for you first detention.’

  I nod gloomily. He steps aside, and I wheel my bike in, then glance back over my shoulder. ‘By the way, I’m sorry, yeah. For real.’

  ‘We’ll determine that at 3.10 p.m. Have a good day.’

  It’s an order.

  My day turns out to be hell. I get all the stares and whispers. I’ve transformed into Notorious I.L.Y.A.S. – the kid everybody chats shit about.

  ‘Is that the guy who …’

  ‘… one crazy mutha-f …’

  ‘Looks like a homo. How could he …’

/>   ‘… heard he tortures kittens …’

  ‘… jacked up on LSD and went batshit with a knife!’

  Room F10 looms in front of me, like the gateway to hell. I knock on the door, tired from a day of being stared at.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, sir. We had Spanish on the other side of school last period.’ I spot another student in the classroom, only her head’s on the table, drowned beneath a sea of auburn curls.

  ‘Take a seat, please, Ilyas,’ Mr Gilchrist says, directing me with a hairy hand. ‘As you’ve no doubt just realized, there are two of you. A pair of rusty nails spoiling the otherwise perfect veneer of Stanley Park.’ He turns to the girl. ‘Sit up, please, young lady!’

  The girl slowly winches herself up off the table and folds her arms. I’m shocked to see it’s Kelly, Jade’s friend – the posh girl with the battered DMs. Just like Imran has always been the school mascot for Sports, Jade’s crew are squad goals for overachievers. What on earth could a girl like that have done to end up here?

  ‘I don’t need to remind you how dire your situation is,’ Gilchrist drones. ‘Never in all my born days has any student displayed such disregard for the rules. You’ve both violently assaulted another member of the school. Needless to say, we’d be well within our rights to permanently exclude you. Do I make myself clear?’

  I nod. Kelly shrugs. The girl is brave, I’ll give her that.

  ‘Take out your best writing pens,’ he says, placing two sheets of A4 lined paper in front of each of us.

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘You making us do lines?’

  ‘No, that would be pointless. Didn’t work for old Dolores Umbridge now, did it?’

  Gilchrist is a Harry Potter fan? Somebody, Avada Kedavra me right now.

  ‘I’d like you to join me in a reflective task. You’ve had a week of suspension to contemplate the error of your ways. Hopefully you’ve arrived at the conclusion that violence never pays. With this fine idea in mind, you will pen a letter of apology to your victims.’