I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘Did you hear that, Parveen? Our little doctor is doing well.’ Dad relaxed and snuggled up to Ami, pleased that the world hadn’t turned on him while he’d been waiting hand and foot on the diners downstairs.

  On TV, the hero of the drama – a twenty-something with hair from the 90s – was yelling at his father, while his mother looked distraught, ringing her hands. The family were fighting over the son’s choice of bride. Apparently the guy had been dating the maid in secret, but the family’s honour was at stake.

  Oh grow a pair! I wanted to yell at Mr 90s Hair.

  Glancing back at Ami and Dad, I was surprised by how upset they seemed for the lovers. It made me sick that they could be so liberal when it came to TV, but would never give their own flesh and blood the same freedom.

  CHAPTER 23

  By Monday my nerves had got the better of me. I had to call the whole thing off.

  I glanced up at the clock and saw that I had about half an hour before Dad expected me to be sitting in the car. Bunking off was next-level bad – was I really up to the challenge? I had accomplices, but while I trusted Arif with my life, I didn’t know his brother from Adam.

  I rubbed my stomach, trying to disperse the acid build-up of nerves. It suddenly occurred to me that turning up with ‘nude’ hair was going to make the worst impression. I slapped my forehead, wondering how I could let something so basic slip my mind.

  ‘Get your shit together!’ I hissed at myself.

  Rummaging through my drawers, I found a green scarf with a bit of gold embroidery on it. Of course, I couldn’t leave the house wearing it – not with my parents’ hatred of all things hijab. They were like faith Goldilocks: not too religious, not too agnostic, but ferociously clinging to ‘somewhere in the middle’. I stashed the scarf away in my school bag before hitting the bathroom again.

  ‘So much fog in Lahore today!’ Dad said as we were stuck in traffic, about a mile from school. ‘Life has been brought to a complete standstill there. Can you imagine it?’

  I was startled by a rapping on the window. It was Malachy grinning from ear to ear, a Marvel Superheroes helmet strapped to his skull. ‘Hey, Muzna! Hey, Mr Saleem!’ He saluted Dad then cycled off, lanky legs churning like pistons.

  ‘Who was that?’ Dad asked, appalled.

  ‘Just some boy from school.’ I went rigid, feeling Dad’s eyes scanning me like a human polygraph. If I wasn’t careful, Dad would end up thinking Malachy and I were dating. The idea was bare jokes.

  ‘Keep away from him,’ Dad concluded. ‘I know his sort.’

  Malachy didn’t have a bad bone in his skinny body. I hated the way Dad judged people so quickly. Was he really that different from the racists and bigots he hated so much?

  We made a little headway before the lights turned red again.

  ‘I know living above a restaurant, even one as renowned as Uncle’s, is not ideal,’ Dad said in a softer tone. ‘At least we are not homeless people, beyta. Soon I’ll get a better job, and we can get our lives back on track. Don’t worry, all your hopes and dreams will come true because you are a good girl.’

  I peered suspiciously over at him silhouetted against the paperwhite sky. Did he mean it?

  ‘I will pay your medical college tuition fees,’ he vowed, striking his finger on the steering wheel like a gavel. ‘Even if I have to sell one of my kidneys to do it. This I swear!’ My anger went kamikaze and suddenly the guilt I’d felt for planning to bunk off school went up in smoke. Every time my parents blabbered on about the huge sacrifices they were making to help me become a doctor, I felt like throwing myself off a cliff. Ami and Dad would never change, but it was my life, and I was going to make the most of it.

  As the Micra sped towards Wallingham, I unzipped my bag and pulled out my scarf. Feeling slightly embarrassed, I wound it round my head in an approximation of a hijab. I caught Jameel’s dark eyes watching me in the rear-view mirror and felt myself flush. Instantly his eyes were back on the road.

  About five minutes later he said, ‘You did well to wear hijab, sister. But really, you should aim to wear it twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Even to bed?’ Arif asked, with a cheeky grin.

  Jameel asked Allah for strength to ‘tolerate such foolish brothers’. Arif turned round and winked at me.

  ‘My parents won’t let me . . .’ I told him honestly.

  ‘It is good that you show your parents respect by following their wishes. But know this: there is no obedience in disobedience.’ Jameel paused, gauging if I’d got it. ‘Tell her what it means, Arif. And if one more foolish utterance escapes your lips, by Allah I will stop the car and kick you out. Then you can find your own way to the mosque.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Arif said, blushing. ‘OK, so what big bro here is saying is this: if Allah has commanded you to do something, and your parents are like “no way”, you still have to do it, innit? Cos Allah’s the Big Boss of the Universe.’

  ‘OK,’ I said quietly.

  My parents freaking out wasn’t the only factor here. I didn’t fancy becoming a hijabi either after all the news stories I’d read about Muslim women getting their scarves ripped off or being spat at. One Muslim woman in a burkini had even been forced to take off extra layers of clothing by police, and with the whole world watching, just because she wanted to cover up on a beach. Why would anyone want to put themselves through that?

  Jameel shoehorned into a gap between a BMW and a Fiat in a side street close to the mosque. A subtle change came over him as he turned off the engine. His eyes were more alert; his movements sharper.

  ‘Do you wish to become a true Muslima?’ he asked, turning to me.

  ‘But I am—’

  ‘I’m not talking about only visiting the mosque at Eid, or praying to Allah as if he were Santa,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I mean true Islam, without addition or subtraction. That which was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.’

  Truth be told, my parents’ version of the faith had always bugged me. Yes, we were Muslims, but sometimes I wondered if Dad didn’t just make up the rules as he went along. Like, one time he said it was OK to buy burgers from McDonald’s, speak Allah’s name over them, and – hey presto! – they became halal. Then Mickey-D’s raised their prices, and the trick mysteriously stopped working.

  ‘I want to be a proper Muslim,’ I said solemnly.

  He gave a thin smile. ‘Then may Allah accept it of you. You are going to hear many things today. Perhaps you will be a little shocked, since the West has conditioned you in how to think. I pray your heart and mind are opened. I pray for you, as I pray for my brother.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said meekly, glancing across at Arif. His large eyes looked sad for a second, but then he blinked, and gave me the cutest smile.

  ‘Follow me,’ Jameel said, exiting the car.

  He led us through a side gate to a small building beside the mosque. Jameel rang the doorbell. After a moment, a crack appeared, and a single eyeball glared out at us. Then the door was thrown open, and a man in a flowing white gown and a biker jacket hugged Jameel. The guy wore a large white turban on his head, from which coils of oily dark hair escaped.

  He invited us into a darkened hallway, leading us forward to a small front room. Several sheets had been spread across the floor. Twelve men sat on them, patiently waiting for the talk to begin. A settee had been pulled away from the far wall, which was functioning as a screen. Behind it sat three women in full-length gowns. One peered out at me from the letterbox slit in her niqab. The corners of her eyes were crinkling, and I realized she was smiling at me. The women scooched up so I could join them in the gap behind the sofa.

  ‘You’ll be OK, yeah?’ Arif asked, peering over the sofa.

  The women grumbled. He quickly apologized, then perched on the armrest of a chair instead, honouring the rules of segregation.

  An older woman, with wispy grey hair peeking out from under her hijab, went round with a tray of appetizers. She’d made the cutest s
amosas, each folded like a little envelope of yumminess.

  ‘No thanks, auntie-ji,’ I said.

  She stroked my cheek, before moving on.

  The room grew warmer and noisier as more and more people arrived. A claustrophobic pressure began to build up in my chest, making me nauseous. Suddenly a giant man with a ginger beard and a turban entered, salaaming everyone in a booming voice. A hungry grin was strapped to his face, maniacal blue eyes searching for a spot to crash. People hurried to make space where there’d been none to start with. Once settled, the man-mountain told everyone that he used to play lead guitar in a Christian rock band before his call to Islam.

  ‘You are a convert, brother?’ a man in a skullcap asked.

  ‘Revert,’ the giant corrected in a thick Yorkshire accent. ‘We’re all born Muslim, my brother.’

  He then launched into a story about how he’d gone to a mosque one night and several witnesses had seen him glow every time he bowed before Allah. Arif turned and gave me a ‘WTF?!’ look. I almost giggled.

  It was a huge relief when the Arabic prayer began, ending the noisy conversations. An English translation followed. Various men, including Jameel, began to talk about the poor state of Muslims all over the world and the many wars waged against them.

  ‘Palestine, Bosnia, Chechnya, Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria!’ Jameel intoned, poking holes in the air. ‘How many more before we wake up? Make no mistake, this is the systematic destruction of the Muslims. The obliteration of Islam! It is happening, my brothers and sisters. It is real. And when they have destroyed those abroad, they will come for you!’

  As the meeting dragged on, I found myself wishing I’d stayed at school. Even a maths class would have been more interesting than this. Plus one of the men had feet that could scare the stripes off a skunk. I wished someone would tell him to go wash them.

  Stifling a yawn that brought tears to my eyes, I noticed Arif trying to get my attention. He was cutting his eyes to the door and jerking his chin. Was he signalling for me to leave? Whether he was or not, I’d hit rock bottom. Either I got fresh air now, or I’d be sick down the back of the caretaker’s sofa. I slipped out as discreetly as I could. Scurrying through the hallway, I grabbed the door knob and twisted frantically. But my moist fingers just kept slipping. Suddenly a large ivory hand reached over and flung open the door.

  Stumbling outside, I greedily sucked endless fresh air into my lungs. The harsh light of day nearly blinded me. But man was it good to be out in the open again.

  ‘Phwoar! Bit stuffy in there, weren’t it?’ Arif said.

  ‘When your brother said it was a conference, I never pictured thirty of us packed in some caretaker’s poky front room.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, giving Guilty Puppy Face. ‘Know what? We should take off; hit up Chessington. It ain’t that far.’

  ‘What, seriously?’ I asked. Theme parks and religion were chalk and cheese.

  He shrugged. ‘Place is dead. They talk big about Muslims suffering all over the world. But talk is cheap.’

  I shuddered. ‘Your brother scares me.’ I bit my lip, wondering if I’d gone too far in accusing a pious man of being a bit spooky.

  Arif threw back his head and laughed. ‘Jamjamz is solid, man. Just a bit boring. He was studying computer science at King’s before he chucked it all in. Got a higher calling, or summat.’ He stared into the distance, shaking his head.

  ‘What did your parents say?’ I asked, knowing mine would go into meltdown if I dropped out.

  ‘Not much. They’re dead.’

  I’d screwed up. What could I say to patch things over?

  ‘Dad died out in Pakistan,’ he said. ‘So Mum came over to Bolton to live with her brother. Back then, Jamjamz was about thirteen, and I were in nappies.’ He licked his lips. ‘Then cancer took Mum away, and Jameel went uni. And I was all alone. Alone with my uncle.’ The muscles on the sides of his jaw rippled, and his eyes were two stars hidden beneath heavy brows. With both parents dead before he’d even started school, Arif had every reason to be angry.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, nervously reaching out and patting his shoulder.

  He flinched.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nah, nothing.’ He gave a surprised laugh. ‘Just them in there, right?’ he said, jerking his head back at the caretaker’s house. ‘They’d go proper mental if they saw us touching.’

  He was right. Only that morning, Dad got IDS (irritable dad syndrome) from Malachy just waving at me. If my parents caught me and Arif chatting like this, I’d never hear the end of it.

  ‘Are you very religious, then?’ I asked, as we strolled down a cul-de-sac.

  ‘Asking me if I’m a fundamentalist?’ He winked.

  ‘Are you?’ I challenged.

  ‘All I’m saying is I put the FUN in FUN-damentalist.’ He drew his thick eyebrows together thoughtfully. ‘And I reckon Jameel’s got the MENTAL part covered.’

  We both burst out laughing, and it felt great to be sharing something with him in private. Uncharted waters, for sure, but that just added to my excitement.

  Arif drew his fingers through his quiff. ‘Reckon we should be heading back if we want a ride home. They never meet for long, and it’s a different place every time.’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘What? Why?’

  He gave me a look. ‘You know how it is, fam. People see a pack of Muslims meeting up and start getting funny ideas. Next thing you know, the cops are making arrests.’ His upper lip curled into a snarl. ‘First it was black people; now it’s the Muslims.’

  ‘We can change it!’ I said. ‘If we’re united.’

  He gave me a thoughtful look. ‘Tough though, innit? Black man commits a crime, people say he’s a gangbanger. If it’s a Muslim, he’s a—’

  ‘Terrorist,’ I interrupted.

  He nodded. ‘But if it’s a white guy, he gets called a “lone wolf”, and suddenly it’s all about mental health issues.’

  I stared at his brooding profile. Not only was Arif eye candy, he was brain candy too. A man who was all kinds of provocative.

  As we headed back to the mosque, I saw a large gang of youths rock up on bikes and scooters, and my stomach dropped. They were all wearing polos or beanies with a special crest on them, like they went to the same school. Only that couldn’t be right. Most of them were in their early twenties.

  Even as I looked on, someone lit a firework and lobbed it over the fence. It struck one of the caretaker’s windows and exploded with the sound of a shotgun, rattling the pane.

  ‘Get in!’ shouted a teenager, already lighting another.

  Arif swore under his breath. Suddenly he was sprinting straight for the gang, leaving me frozen with fear.

  The congregation flooded out of the caretaker’s house, ants fleeing a burning nest. Islamophobic chants filled the air as a second volley of fireworks was launched. To my shock, one yob unzipped his shorts and sent a jet of urine splattering through the bars. Some of the younger gang members had brought eggs and tomatoes in carrier bags. They began throwing them like water balloons, cheering every time a target was hit. An overripe tomato exploded smack-bang in the face of the lady wearing the niqab.

  A Muslim woman had just been humiliated. There was going to be a fight.

  CHAPTER 24

  The way I saw it, I had two options: join Arif on the battleground, or duck and run.

  I found myself tearing after him, adrenaline spiking my blood. Some of the Muslim men had armed themselves with brooms and spades and were coming out to meet the gang head-on. Arif had already nabbed a stocky man covered in tattoos, preventing him from launching his lighted rocket.

  ‘Throw fireworks at a woman, would ya?’ Arif sneered in his face. ‘Let’s see how you like it, mate!’

  Arif’s knuckles stood out like bullets, driving Tattoo Guy’s hand back towards his face. Tattoo Guy swore, thrashing about like a mad man as the rocket spat sparks on to his quivering cheeks. He threw a left hook. Big mistake. Ari
f snagged his second arm and jerked it back with an audible pop. The man howled in pain and began to sob, snot dribbling freely into his gaping mouth.

  ‘Arif, let him go!’ I shouted, watching in horror as the fuse shrank.

  All around us tempers flared and blows were exchanged. It was bedlam. And instead of going to school, I’d ended up in the middle of it.

  ‘Arif!’ I cried again, fear draining my voice. But he ignored me. I had to do something. Had to try, or Arif would end up with a criminal record, and this guy would end up in A&E.

  I thrust an arm between them and yanked the firework with all my might. It slipped through my fingers, flipping end-over-end . . .

  Kaboom!

  A tinny ringing pierced my ears as electrified snowflakes scattered in every direction. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, rocked by thoughts of what might have happened.

  The roar of sirens filled the air, growing louder by the minute.

  Everything was dropped as car doors were slammed and bikes and scooters snatched up off the ground. There was a mad frenzy to get the hell out of dodge.

  ‘Come on, you two!’ barked Jameel.

  Arif’s eyes drilled into mine, and my heart sank. I’d disappointed him. He grabbed my arm and hauled me towards the white Micra. As we piled in, I was surprised to find the lady in the niqab sitting beside me. She was still sobbing.

  ‘Belts on!’ commanded Jameel. ‘Everybody hold tight!’

  I fumbled with my seatbelt, just as three men burst out of the mosque, shaking angry fists at us. Jameel floored it and the car lurched forward. A second slower, and I might have head-butted the back of Arif’s seat; had blood gushing down my chin. As Jameel began whipping in and out of lanes, I found myself comforting the woman beside me.

  ‘Don’t worry, sister,’ I said. ‘You’re going to be all right. Tomato washes out. Thank Allah it wasn’t a firework, eh?’

  ‘Bloody Britain First!’ Arif roared, slamming his fist down on the dashboard.

  Was that them? I wondered in awe. The far-right group came up in the news every now and then, but you never imagined knocking heads with them in real life.