She hadn’t meant to. It was instinct. She span round. Her face was red from crying. ‘Future! Future! What future?’
‘Don’t speak to me in that voice, do you hear me?’ Bilal wagged his finger close to Zareen’s face. ‘Nothing but trouble. We have given you too much freedom. English clothes, English friends. It all stops. Right now it stops.’
Zareen breathed out loud and pushed her father’s arm away. ‘If you loved me you wouldn’t make me do it.’ Then she ran upstairs to her room and slammed the door, feeling afraid of what would happen next.
Downstairs she could hear raised voices. She thought about a girl who had been taken to a religious man after refusing to marry. Everyone said that she was possessed. Her family had tried everything, even force feeding her chillies until she was sick and her mouth was burnt and swollen. That was one way of getting the bad spirit out. But it didn’t work and still she said ‘no’. After endless beatings she had no energy to say either yes or no and the family won. Occasionally Zareen saw her in the street. Her husband was a good man but the girl stayed silent and lost. These things were rarely spoken about. Sometimes Zareen and her friends talked about family, about the lives of women. At college it was easy to pretend they were free and in the canteen they filled the future with plans that were not theirs to make. They lived many lives but always in the knowledge that ultimately family came first, because family was greater than a single ‘I’.
She considered phoning her sister Sajida, but how could she call her. Sajida had been through so much. And anyway they weren’t close. Sajida had always accepted everything without question. Why can’t you be like your sister? Those were the words she heard all the time, repeated every time she said ‘no’. It was the Romanian she thought about then. She sent Nikolae a message. NEED TO SEE YOU NOW. She took a woollen cardigan from the wardrobe, crept through the dark and made her way to the park. There she waited, alone, afraid, wondering what she was doing, imagining the look on her mother’s face when she discovered her missing. Perhaps she should just go home, avoid the trouble, just say ‘yes’ to everything and anything. But then Nikolae was beside her, in a coat buttoned up to his neck. He found her sitting on the swing, flip flops on her feet.
‘So no one stole your swing or your slide yet,’ he said, amused by his own joke. Zareen glared. Her eyes were ringed red from crying.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he said, ‘come with me.’ He pulled her up and led her to the truck. Inside he rubbed her hands. ‘You are freezing. Where is your shoes?’
‘My parents,’ was all Zareen could say. She threw her head onto his shoulder and began to sob. Nikolae patted her back, unsure what to say.
‘Do you want me to drive?’
‘Yes,’ Zareen said, pulling back. ‘Away from here. I need to get away.’
‘Next time you run away, wear trainers,’ Nikolae said smiling, ‘or you freeze to death.’
‘I would rather freeze to death than marry who they choose.’
Nikolae nodded. ‘You want me to leave you freeze to death?’
Zareen stopped crying. ‘Is that a question?’ She sighed. ‘Just drive.’
At first Nikolae wasn’t sure which route to take and then he remembered the hospital. They followed the same dirt track as he had taken the night before, the truck bumping from side to side, Zareen’s body sliding on the vinyl seat, her elbows knocking his arm.
‘Not going in. Just stay and talk,’ he said, as the truck ground to a halt. Their entrance had been noisy, gravel flying in the air, chippings bouncing on the windscreen.
‘This place freaks me out,’ Zareen said, hunching her shoulders up high. The headlamps of the truck illuminated some dilapidated outbuildings, plastic guttering that hung loose and rattled in the wind. There was the squall of small birds, erupting from a roof, scattering like ashes.
‘Old hospital,’ Nikolae told her. ‘Empty. I think there is bats.’
Zareen shivered and Nikolae turned the heater up so high that her hair began to blow over her face. He held her hair away.
‘Zareen,’ he repeated, forgetting what he had meant to say.
‘It means gold. In my language it means golden.’
Nikolae stroked her face. Her eyes were still watery.
‘Every time you see me I am crying like a child.’ Zareen sounded embarrassed and looked away.
‘Don’t look away,’ Nikolae said, turning her face towards him with both hands. He kissed her gently, half expecting her to push him away. She kissed him back, only briefly. ‘I don’t want to go home,’ she said. Nikolae held her close, felt her face pressed to his cheek. He was picturing Dragos in the little kitchen. What would he say? Probably something like, the world is full of girls, why this one? Why an Asian girl? And Nikolae would say something back like, Yes, but, this one is different. Don’t ask me why, but she just is. And don’t ask me to forget, because I just can’t. And maybe I don’t care what you think, or what anyone thinks because when we are together we are not Asian and Romanian. There is just her and me. And that’s enough. That fills the world up.
‘Zareen means gold?’ He said it, just like that.
‘Yes.’
‘OK.’ He looked at her again. ‘So, I am rich.’ He kissed her again, this time harder, more urgently.
Zareen’s mind was racing. Did he know she had never touched a man? She ran her fingers over his hair. When he kissed her, her body trembled, just like she knew it would. In her dreams she had imagined them together, Nikolae’s lips brushing her bare neck. She listened to him breathing and buried her head into his chest.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just stay with me,’ Zareen said. ‘Stay with me because when I am with you I don’t feel afraid.’
Chapter Seven
IT WAS MOHAMMED’S idea to burn them out. Starting with the Romanian Café in Henniker Road they would smash the place up and make them scared for their lives. It was almost three in the morning and they’d all been smoking weed in the park. Mohammed suggested they take bricks, anything. ‘Throw some fucking metal at them. They’d like that. Then they know not to mess with our families, he said.’
The group had agreed. ‘Police not catching who did this, so we will!’
The boys cheered, their eyes, rolling from too much smoking. ‘Those Romanians, we’ll get them out.’
‘This is not good, man,’ the youngest boy said above the din and the forced gangster laughter. Mohammed poked him with a stick like he was an insect. ‘Fucking shut it!’ Mohammed snapped the stick with his hand and watched it crumble.
‘You get a criminal record and where will your family be then. Think about what you are doing, man? Mohammed? What if you kill someone? This isn’t a joke.’
‘So fucking weak,’ Hassan boomed, flicking the boy’s head with his finger.
There was a momentary silence. Another voice came, followed by another
‘What if someone inside?’
‘Yeah, what if police come?’
‘We’ll visit you in jail, Hassan.’
Hassan pulled a face. ‘For fuck’s sake, listen to yourselves. A girl is dead. What are you going to do, just pretend it didn’t happen? These Romanians have been nicking stuff for ages, from our yards, our shops, our houses. Do we let them get away with it? With all of it?’
Mohammed rocked and nodded in an exaggerated way. He watched Hassan at the centre of the group, like some great actor on a stage. Sick of it, he pushed him aside and stormed, ‘Fight for Amna.’
The others looked down, some making excuses to go home.
‘Fuck off traitors, why don’t you. He spat on the ground. ‘Leave your brothers to do your dirty work.’
Mohammed grabbed the youngest boy by the throat. ‘Don’t speak to me or my family ever again. Understand. You are worthless. Nothing. A piece of fucking usless shit.’
He kicked the roundabout one more time for effect and the boy winced as the shoe whipped past his face. Then the boy on the ground began to cry great fat tears. ‘Sorry, Mohammed. I’m sorry.’ But Mohammed walked away. He got in the car. Hassan followed him, wondering if they should call the whole thing off. But he could tell it was too late for that. Mohammed stared ahead, not really seeing. In the car he perched a petrol can on his knee and flicked a cigarette lighter dangerously close. He didn’t wear his seat belt.
Hassan drove in silence, listening to the lighter spark and click, fearing his friend had lost the plot.
‘So, man…’ Before he could finish his sentence Mohammed spoke. ‘They make me sick, man. Let’s kick some shit.’ At that moment Hassan knew the fire would happen and he knew there was no going back.
Henniker Road was empty, not a single light switched on. Hassan could feel little beads of sweat tipping on his forehead. He needed to get the petrol can away from Mohammed and had visions of him exploding, the car blowing up. It was like watching a film, one of them crap American movies where any minute now the hero would appear and save the day. The trouble is Hassan hated heroes. He saw the shop front, the sign for the Romanian café. He parked a little down the street, tucked the car behind a van. Mohammed got out without speaking and strolled to the shop. In one hand he held a brick and in another the petrol can. First he put the petrol can on the path and then he threw the brick. Surprisingly there was little noise. Toughened glass. He’d seen it before. There was a smack and then the cracking sound of glass crystals collapsing and clattering. He stepped over the windowsill into the main room of the café. Chairs were stacked in a corner. There were pictures of Romania on the wall and maps of places he couldn’t pronounce and women in traditional dress. He poured the petrol over the wooden tables and hurled it at the curtains. There was a door leading to another room but a shadow in the room made him halt. A cat sat under a table watching him, its eyes like glassy marbles. He picked it up and called for Hassan. Hassan appeared quickly, his eyes wide and scared. When he spoke he sounded agitated and his hair was wet with sweat. ‘Hurry up. What you doing?’ Mohammed held the cat out.
‘What the fuck?’
‘You want me to burn a fucking cat?’
Hassan shook his head. ‘I don’t fucking believe this. One minute you rescuing bastard cats and the next you are setting fire to Romanians.’ He threw the cat down on the path and watched it dart under a parked car.
Mohammed lit a rag and threw it through the window. The fire whooshed like a ball. They ran to the car and drove up the street. No one saw. Mohammed spoke his thoughts out loud. ‘Did I just do that? Did I fucking set fire to someone’s shop?’
‘Yeah, you lunatic.’
Mohammed stared at his phone. ‘You think someone live above that shop?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Doesn’t some of them Romanians have kids?’
‘Stop talking about it, man.’
‘Pull over.’
Hassan stared. ‘What!’
‘Fucking pull over.’ Mohammed called 999. ‘Fire at the Romanian café,’ he said.
‘What you do that for?’ Hassan grabbed the phone from his hand. ‘What if they trace the number?’ He drove over a bridge and hurled the phone in the water below. He swore and cursed and thumped the steering wheel.
‘Anyone ask you, you lost your phone. Stolen. Right!’ For the rest of the journey they didn’t speak. In Magnolia Street Mohammed looked up at the mosque illuminated with golden light. Then he looked at his own house. He stood on the path searching for his keys. But he didn’t need them. The door was open. From outside he could hear excited voices. His mother was shouting. ‘Zareen. Is that you? Is that you?’
Chapter Eight
MARIKA COULDN’T EXPLAIN why she checked Zareen’s room that night. It was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind, a kind of sixth sense that told her something was wrong and that Zareen had gone. On finding the room empty she had thrown herself on the bed and screamed for Bilal. When he appeared drowsy with sleep, his voice barely audible, she shouted, ‘This is all your fault. All your fault.’
Bilal had covered his face and broke down instantly. It was the first time his wife had ever seen him cry. ‘What is happening to this family!’ he cried. ‘What kind of punishment is this? Everything is being taken away from us.’
Marika sprang to her feet and clung to him. ‘I’m sure she will be fine. Let’s think, where will she be? Who will she be with? Let’s just stay calm.’ Despite the words she felt physically sick, as if her insides were being stretched and torn with every second that passed. Zareen had never left before. Often there had been tantrums, doors slamming and cross words, but that was all.
‘It’s the marriage thing,’ Bilal said. ‘I couldn’t just give in to her, Marika. I couldn’t just give in and let her have her own way, could I?’ Marika gave him a look that said more than words ever could.
‘I will ring her friends.’ Hands trembling she called the houses of Zareen’s friends. But because it was gone 3am, the families were slow to answer and some didn’t answer at all. No one had seen her. Marika surveyed the walls of the living room. She had never liked that gold and cream wallpaper chosen by Bilal. Above the light switch a slither of paper was torn and curled. She ripped it hard. She watched the jagged paper tear from the switch to the skirting board exposing bare pink plaster. She looked around desperately, not knowing why, not knowing what she was looking for. So much of her life was in this one room. Walls covered with photos of her smiling daughter. There was Zareen standing on a slide at the age of five. In another photo she was at a cousin’s wedding, her make-up perfect, her hands decorated with henna. The largest picture in a gold frame showed Zareen and Mohammed as small children, their arms wrapped around each other, giggling at the camera. She longed for those days when life was simple.
‘I am going out,’ she said to Bilal. For the first time in twenty-five years, she didn’t ask her husband. She simply told him. ‘I am going out to find our daughter.’ She tore down a photo of Zareen from the wall.
But before Bilal could respond, they heard footsteps outside and there was Mohammed thinking he was in trouble, a look of terror on his face. Tired and relieved to be home he hugged his mother tight.
‘Your sister is missing,’ his father said.
Mohammed stared. In the distance they could hear the sound of police cars, sirens. He put his hands to his face. The smell of petrol on his fingers knocked him sick.
‘Something bad has happened,’ said Marika. ‘I know it. I have to go and look for her.’
‘I will come too,’ said Bilal, reaching for his coat.
‘No, Bilal.’ Marika pushed him back. ‘You are ill. Your blood pressure. Remember what the doctor said. You stay in case she comes back. Someone needs to be here. You call the police. We have to call the police.’
Mohammed took his mother’s arm. ‘I will help you find her. Don’t call the police. Not yet. She’s just sulking. Having a tantrum. You know what she’s like.’
Together they walked the streets, Marika leading the way. The smell of smoke was in the air and Marika covered her nose.
‘Fire. There’s a fire. I can smell it.’
Mohammed stayed silent. Marika continued up Henniker Road, feeling as if the crooked houses were leaning in on her. Firefighters were in the street, the residents lining the path. Marika weaved her way between the onlookers.
‘What happen?’
‘We don’t know yet,�
� someone said. ‘The shop was on fire.’
Another fire officer emerged from the debris of the house, a red brick in his hand. ‘Looks like someone threw this and smashed the window.’ He began talking to a man and his wife at the side of the road. Beside them two small children sat huddled on the kerb, wrapped in blankets, their voices hoarse from crying. Marika reached into her pocket and gave the children some cough sweets.
‘I am looking for my daughter,’ she said to the fire officer, a photo in her hand. ‘She’s missing. Have you seen a young Asian girl tonight?’ She pointed at the picture, desperately. The officer shook his head and returned her a sorry look. Mohammed stared at the small children, their faces black with dirt and grime.
‘They were lucky to escape,’ someone said. ‘Why would someone do this?’
‘They want us out,’ said a Romanian woman. ‘People round here don’t like Romanians.’
Marika tapped the girl’s arm. ‘Nonsense. Not everyone thinks the same.’
Mohammed sat down with the children. The girls spoke in Romanian. Being there was like being in a dream. He wiped his eyes. One girl took a stone and drew the outline of a cat on the path. Mohammed jerked. ‘Your cat is OK,’ he said. ‘I know it.’ He looked round and then he crawled under a parked car. There was no cat. His mother was calling him now, her voice getting more and more frantic. For the first time he was worried. Where was Zareen?
Being with Zareen filled him with fear and joy. Nikolae was thinking about the first girl he had ever touched in Bucharest. She was from the same village and they had grown up together. Sex with her had been brief. The experience had been disappointing for them both. A quick encounter in a tumble-down shed. Over in seconds and they never spoke to each other again. With Zareen he wanted it to be different. When she looked at him he imagined her naked, their bodies joined together, but now he pushed these thoughts aside.
‘We have to go back, Zareen. Your family will be worried. You have to talk to them, explain everything. Tell them you don’t want this marriage.’
Precious Metal Page 4
