I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘Oh shit . . .’ I whispered, my stomach squelching sickeningly. My hair hadn’t been bleached blonde. It was ghost white.

  I was packing over a gallon of hydrogen peroxide. If I got caught . . .

  My first thought was to dump the bottle in the lake. The image of dead ducks floating in a soup of bleached fish shot into my head. Couldn’t do it. Life was sacred. Besides, what would I tell Jameel when his contact reported me a no-show?

  I considered telling the police. But there was nothing linking the bottle back to Jameel. He’d probably handled the damn thing with gloves. The cops might end up thinking I was a rogue bomber who’d got cold feet and invented some stupid story to protect herself. Especially if Ms Pawsey had listed me under Prevent’s ‘Most Wanted’.

  A boa constrictor clung to my chest as another terrible thought crept into my mind. If I grassed Jameel up, what would Arif say? Wait – was he in on this too? No. Arif was nothing like Jameel. He was straightforward and honest. He’d never hurt anyone.

  One thing I did know, even through the fog of disbelief and fear, was that I needed to act fast if I wanted to save myself. I lugged the bottle over to a large, gnarly beech tree, carefully positioning it so that it was hidden from oncoming traffic. Next I scanned for CCTV cameras. Thankfully there weren’t any; none that I could see, anyway. Trusting myself to fate, I unscrewed the cap, and tipped the bottle over.

  Glug, glug, glug. Why was it making so much noise?

  Glug, glug, glug. Why was it taking so long?

  Sweat dripped down my back like hot syrup. Knowing my luck, someone was going to catch me. I’d end up with my mug on the six o’clock news, and my parents would never live it down.

  Once I’d drained it down to a quarter, I set the bottle back upright. The delivery had to go ahead. If Jameel was part of a terrorist cell, my life could depend on it. With a bit of luck, they’d think it was their supplier that had screwed them over, rather than me.

  It wasn’t a foolproof plan. Not even close. But it was all I had. For the one hundredth time, I made sure there weren’t any busybodies about, then dunked the bottle in the lake, this time filling it up.

  ‘Allah!’ I muttered, hugging my stomach. ‘Please help me!’

  I found myself in a derelict street behind the station. Overfilled skips lined the pavements on both sides, vomiting trash, rubble and rotting furniture out on to the street. A fox poked its head out of a hole in a mattress, nearly giving me a heart attack. It made a strangled sound, then vanished.

  I rang the doorbell and waited. Nobody came to the door. It was actually a relief. I hurried back down the drive.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’

  I turned round to see a skinny man waving at me from an upstairs window. I’d assumed Arif’s uncle was a blood relative. But with an aquiline nose and oval face, this guy looked Somali.

  ‘One minute, blease,’ the man said, vanishing from the window, only to reappear at the front door a moment later.

  He was wearing a grimy vest and Adventure Time lounge pants. We salaamed each other.

  ‘This is for you,’ I said, holding out the giant bottle. ‘From Jameel Malik.’

  He laughed. ‘You are a good girl, sister,’ he said, taking the bottle off my hands as if it weighed nothing. ‘Which es-school you go?’

  ‘Falstrum. It’s in Ether Downs,’ I said, looking over my shoulder, eager to get gone.

  ‘Ah, yes, yes,’ he said, leaning in the doorway. ‘I work at Al-Maghrib. You know this es-school?’

  I shook my head, but from the name it was clear it was a Muslim one.

  ‘I am caretaker,’ he said, prodding his scrawny chest. ‘It is good. My children don’t bay fees because I’m working there.’

  A caretaker.

  My chemistry teacher had said peroxide was used for cleaning and disinfecting. In my head, I played back my conversation with Jameel in the car and realized that at no point had he claimed the bottle contained Zamzam water. Maybe Arif had got it all wrong and got me into a panic over nothing?

  ‘May Allah reward you for this!’ the man said, drawing me out of my reverie as he pointed at the sky. ‘Insh’Allah.’

  I salaamed him and left. I wasn’t sure what to think any more. Was Jameel a shady terrorist or just some lazy git who thought I was running a free delivery service? I hiked back to the station, deciding it had to be option two.

  Massive relief!

  CHAPTER 38

  Arif and I walked silently back to the bus stop.

  ‘You didn’t have to run out like that,’ he said, his tone reproachful.

  I flinched at his touch, saw the hurt in his eyes, but couldn’t bring myself to apologize.

  The meeting he’d brought me to had been held in the basement of a clothes store in Peckham, among dead-eyed mannequins with bleached bone bodies. The moment ‘jihad’ had been mentioned, I was ready to bolt. But it turned out the speaker was actually talking about a spiritual war. I could get onboard with fighting your inner demons. But the guy switched up fast. He told us jihad also meant firing an AK-47 at the enemies of Islam if the opportunity came around. Unable to control myself, I waved a hand like I was at school, and told him straight that murder was a sin.

  ‘Not if the ones you fight are the children of Satan,’ was his comeback. ‘Then, my daughter, you are doing the world a favour. Oh ye who believe, do you not use antibiotics to destroy infections? Will you not perform your duty if Heaven is the reward?’

  I shuddered from the memory. ‘I can’t go to these meetings any more,’ I told Arif.

  ‘You don’t like learning about Islam?’ Arif asked with concern.

  ‘I mean the ones about jihad and war,’ I said, getting annoyed. Sometimes I felt like he was possessed by Jameel, and it pissed me off. ‘I’ve already had Ms Pawsey on my case.’

  ‘Me too. Woman’s a frickin’ Nazi, taking all the Muslim kids out of class to interrogate.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it, fam.’

  But not worrying did nothing for the blot on my conscience.

  ‘Look, maybe Pawsey’s a cow. And maybe she’s not. Maybe it makes Falstrum look good if we end up with careers instead of being banged up in prison on charges of terrorism.’ I took a breath to calm myself. ‘But, Arif, if we’re going to meetings where we’re being told murder gets you into Heaven, then that god-awful woman actually has a point.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You heard the brother saying jihad is like struggling against your dark side.’

  ‘Yeah, right before he broke out the AK-47s,’ I reminded him.

  He pushed his hands into his pockets, flexing his jaw. ‘Look, fam, if I ever fight jihad, it’ll be nowhere near Pawsey. England’s my country, and I love it.’

  ‘Yeah, well I don’t want you fighting. End of.’ My vision went hot and blurry. ‘Soldiers end up dead, Arif. It’s just what happens, whatever side you’re on. The people left behind are the ones who really suffer.’

  ‘Don’t cry, bae,’ he said gently. ‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Come on. Let’s get some grub in you.’

  The Chicken Cottage down the road was packed. Unsavoury men with staring eyes and filthy minds sat in every corner. I wondered why my hijab didn’t put them off. Arif ordered us two number 5s off the menu.

  ‘Let’s go round mine,’ he suggested, glaring at the men.

  ‘Jameel’s gonna get all up in our faces again . . .’ I moaned.

  ‘See, that’s where you’re wrong. Jamjamz has headed over to Luton tonight.’

  ‘For real?’ I said, instantly cheered up. ‘That’s, like, miles away.’

  Why Jameel might be going to Luton was a question that never even crossed my mind.

  We had the best time at Arif’s house, just like in the old days. When had everything become just about religion and war? We joked and laughed, chilling to Tupac, Wizkid and Stormzy like regular teens. At one point, Arif got up and started street dancing like a pro. And when he pulled off a solid backflip, I fell in love with him
all over again.

  ‘My brother saw that,’ he said, face flushed, chest heaving, ‘he’d call me a batty man!’

  ‘Psh!’ I said, vanquishing the ghost of Jameel with a wave of my hand. ‘You could totally win Britain’s Got Talent.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he asked. ‘Wanna see me do my Bolton-Bad-Bwoy striptease?’ He stood with his legs apart, fingers hovering provocatively over his fly.

  I looked away, laughing. ‘Right, cos that wouldn’t be the least bit haram!’

  Kneeling down in front of me, he looked up into my face defiantly. ‘It wouldn’t be though. Not if we were married.’

  He placed his head in my lap. I found myself staring at a poster of Che Guevara on the opposite wall. With a trembling hand, I began to stroke the stubble on the back of his head. I had dreamed about marrying Arif since the moment I’d met him – psychotic, but true. I’d also seen the news reports about Honour Killings. Would my father be prepared to kill his only daughter if she married without his blessing? Dad wasn’t a violent man.

  Ya think? piped up the facetious voice in my head. What brought you guys over to Ether Downs in the first place?

  Dad got fired for knocking a client over with a chair.

  Had she really attacked him first? I’d never questioned his version of events. But things were different now. I knew the world was an ugly place where every last one of us had the capacity for evil.

  ‘Oh shit, I’m so horny!’ Arif cried, blasting my thighs with his furnace like breath.

  He leaped to his feet as if whipped by angels. Running hands manically through his hair, he looked away, flushed and frustrated. Then just as suddenly, he clasped my hands, staring into my eyes with an intensity that had me shook. ‘Marry me tonight!’

  ‘What?’

  Nervous excitement danced in his eyes. ‘Come on. There’s a mosque a couple of blocks away that’s open till late. We could do it there!’

  ‘Arif! You don’t just get married because you feel . . .’ I blushed, my conservative upbringing gagging me.

  He went down on one knee, just like in the movies, and my heart burst.

  ‘I know the way I feel about you, Muzna Saleem,’ he said, eyes glistening with emotion. ‘I love you with all my heart. And I want you to be my wife. Not just for tonight, but forever.’

  A sob rose in my throat. To hell with my godless parents and anyone else who stood in our way. Arif was all I would ever need.

  CHAPTER 39

  I was a bundle of nerves as we approached the mosque. The doors lay wide open.

  Don’t be surprised if you find a couple of hog heads staring up at you in the morning, I thought sadly.

  There had been news stories about local mosques, schools and community centres getting special deliveries of pig meat, vomit, and even poo. It was supposed to be payback. Even if a terror attack happened all the way over in New York City, British Muslims would still get the flak. Revenge attacks happened, or demands were made for public apologies.

  ‘Come on,’ Arif said, leading me up the stairs to reception.

  ‘I’m scared,’ I said, hating myself for sounding like a whiny child.

  ‘Me too,’ he admitted, which sort of made me feel better. He gave my hand a final squeeze then let go. Two unmarried Muslims turning up in the dead of night, holding hands, looked seriously wrong.

  The receptionist reminded me of a hardboiled egg in a cosy. I would’ve placed the guy in his twenties if not for the kinky grey hairs in his cute little boy-beard.

  He greeted us, quickly averting his eyes once Arif told him we were looking to get married tonight. It sounded kind of dirty.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ the man said, ‘and I will see if I can summon one of our Imams to help you. Do you have any witnesses?’

  Arif shook his head.

  ‘And where is the girl’s guardian?’ asked the man.

  ‘My parents aren’t Muslim!’ I blurted.

  ‘I see,’ said the man, with an expression that was impossible to read.

  Would he contact my parents and find out I’d lied? Everyone knew everyone in the Asian community, didn’t they? But then, I hadn’t lied. Not according to Jameel’s interpretation of Islam, anyway.

  ‘I’m Jameel Malik’s brother,’ Arif explained. ‘He said if I ever needed to get married, it’d be OK to get it done here.’

  I looked up sharply. Why hadn’t Arif shared this before?

  The change that came over the man was like the biggest switch up ever. ‘Ah, brother Jameel! Well why didn’t you say so?’ he said, grinning so hard you could see his back teeth.

  ‘I just did,’ Arif replied.

  ‘Would it be OK for me to contact him?’ the man asked, simpering.

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  Every girl dreams of getting her happy-ever-after with a handsome prince. I blame Disney. When I was old enough to realize being Asian wasn’t just a ‘phase’, out went Disney, in came desi. The updated wedding fantasy was similar to the kind Sarabi’s sister had enjoyed at Rajput Hall.

  My wedding lasted twenty minutes in a poorly lit backroom, conducted by an elderly Imam with a cold, and two witnesses I’d never seen before in my life. It was horrible. Just as well Arif wasn’t in the mood for chat on the way back. I probably would have thrown up or burst into tears.

  I’d gone and made the biggest decision of my life without any of my usual OCD levels of caution. Caught in the moment, all that mattered was removing the millstone of haram from our necks. Little did I know the trade-off would be a big boulder of guilt in my belly.

  The moment he closed the front door, Arif began kissing me with the desperation of a hungry beast. This time, there was no restraint. His hands ran over every inch of my body, like he knew no shame. The guilt-boulder vaporized; every nerve ending crackling to life. I knew what was going to happen, craved it just as much as him.

  Finally, I would be closer to Arif than Jameel ever could be.

  CHAPTER 40

  When I finally got home, there was hell to pay.

  Of course there was. Story of my life: no pleasure without pain; no carrot without stick. And as long as I lived under his roof, Dad would always be my judge, jury and executioner.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Dad bellowed, dragging me into the apartment with both hands as if he thought I’d only come back to do a runner.

  ‘She’s been with a boy!’ Ami cried, grasping my shoulders. ‘I can see it in her eyes!’

  Dad pulled Ami off me. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

  I blinked, trying to find my voice. ‘I was at the mosque.’

  Dad’s face contorted with rage, eyes flashing like pits of fire. No joke. I honestly wondered whether he was demonically possessed.

  ‘You stupid girl!’ he spat, ripping my hijab in two with his bare hands. ‘How many times do I have to tell you we are not that sort of Muslim? You think Allah wants to make your life difficult by putting you in harm’s way? A Pakistani girl wandering off at night to pray in the mosque!’ He shook his head, scandalized by the very idea. ‘Do you want someone to dishonour you and leave you in the gutter? Do you want some racist to throw acid in your Pakistani face?’

  A snapshot of Arif holding me against his powerful body, flicking his tongue across my throat filled my mind. Then memories of extreme pain. Don’t get me wrong: Arif had been thoughtful and tender, but it had hurt. Just like our wedding ceremony, sex had turned out to be NOTHING like they made out in books. It was messy and painful. And here I was, feeling vulnerable and confused and sore, and all my stupid parents could do was yell at me.

  ‘No,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Besharam!’ Ami said, pointing at me. ‘Dishonouring your father like that!’

  ‘Parveen, please!’ Dad snapped at Ami, before turning his wrath back on me. ‘You have dragged our family name through the dirt. I was so worried, I contacted the police. They are out looking for you now. I’m obliged to let them know you’ve returne
d.’

  As Dad rang up the police, Ami glared at me.

  ‘You may be able to fool your daddy,’ she hissed. ‘Saleem sees you with the blindness of a loving father. But I see you for what you are.’ She poked me in the ribs, making me gasp. ‘Who is this boy? Is he Muslim? What will you tell your father when your belly grows fat with your bastard?’

  I glared back at Ami. For one self-righteous moment, I felt like breaking it down for her. How my stupid parents with their stupid rules had driven me to desperate measures. How their controlling attitudes meant I could never bring stuff like boyfriends or sex or marriage to them without being threatened with getting shipped off to Pakistan. How my life and my body were my own, and I had every right to do with them as I pleased.

  But – most of all – I wanted to tell her how scared and lonely I was feeling. I needed Ami to hug me, not shout at me.

  ‘We will have to take you to Pakistan and get you married quickly,’ Ami went on, stroking her chin. ‘That way your husband will never know the baby isn’t his . . .’

  ‘Oh my God! There is no baby!’ I cried. ‘I’m not like that. I’m a good girl.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ my father said, returning. ‘You are just like that accursed Salma.’

  A diss more brutal than Ami’s slap. Salma had been caught in bed with a boy in somebody else’s house. I’d done it by the book and got married. How was that even the same thing?

  Except . . . why did I feel so bad?

  Suddenly I was transported back through time to the dank refectory at Rigsby Academy. Salma was begging me to hear her out. But I’d been warned to keep my distance because she’d slept with a boy and something like that was ‘catching’. Had she been feeling the same way I was now – worried, confused, scared? And what had I done to my friend? Turned my back on her, that’s what.

  Dad shook his head. ‘I hoped we’d got you away from that girl’s evil influences in time, but I was wrong to blame her. This is what England does to our children. Gives them freedom to disobey their parents and engage in whatever filthy acts they like!’