Zareen repeatedly shook her head. ‘What do I tell them? Do you think they’ll trust me ever again? My life will be worse than ever. It’s not that simple.’
He held her tight. ‘We will think of something. Let me take you back.’
‘But I won’t be able to see you. They will stop me going out.’
Nikolae thought for a moment. ‘Don’t tell them you know me. Nobody knows about it. Don’t tell them. Tell them you walked the streets, sat in a park. Just tell them you are sorry. I will think of something.’
He drove her to the park. ‘Text me,’ Nikolae said, ‘so I know you are home safe. Text me.’ She kissed him goodbye, a lingering kiss that sent his body lurching. She was pressed against him. He wanted her there and then. He felt the shape of her breasts through her clothes, smoothed his hands down her tunic, felt the outline of her nipples with his fingers. She pulled away reluctantly, still gripping his hand. ‘Go. Go, Zareen.’ Then he watched her disappear, a dark shadow in the night.
Chapter Nine
AS THE DARKNESS enveloped her Zareen thought about the story she would tell her mother and father. Nikolae would not be mentioned. She would say she had spent the night sitting in Sajida’s shed, without her knowledge. That was plausible because the shed was always open and last year it had been turned into a comfy playground with beanbags for Amna. Amna’s house, they called it and there were plastic cups and saucers and a kettle with lights that whistled and howled just like the real thing.
The walk was over too quickly and in Magnolia Street she halted at the iron gate and held her breath. She considered running, only there was nowhere to run. She told herself she was over-reacting. She wanted to tell the truth about Nikolae, about everything. What was she afraid of? Rejection, she decided. It was the possibility of rejection by her own family that made her afraid. Nothing more. Nothing less.
She thought about Priti, a woman who came to the shop every day dressed in a grubby brown coat that swallowed her whole. Every day the skinny woman bought the same box of sweets. Always a penny was placed in the charity box and Priti smiled a crooked smile. In their neighbourhood everyone knew the story of Priti. She’d run away from her family, begged not to marry the man they chose. Then she was abandoned. Told she no longer belonged. Possessed, everyone said. That explained the sweets. How else could the woman stay so thin? She couldn’t weigh more than six stone. Zareen always wondered about this woman. Every day she spoke to her, smuggled a banana and fruit in her bag. Marika was not so kind.
Zareen walked inside the house feeling afraid of the future, terrified of marriage and the unknown. It was like losing yourself. Last week she had been looking forward to university. Now she was to lead the life of someone else, someone she didn’t recognise.
Bilal simply smiled at her. He stood at the far end of the hall dressed in clothes that were too big. Zareen’s voice faltered. ‘I’ve been…’
‘Just come in and have some tea, daughter,’ he said calmly. ‘Let’s sort out this mess.’ He shuffled into the kitchen in slippers that made his feet slide out. ‘Your mother is out looking for you. And Mohammed. I am just so happy you are safe.’ He smiled again.
‘Sorry.’ Zareen began to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Abbu. I’m sorry for everything.’
Bilal made the tea slowly. Zareen sat at the wooden table, every sound amplified. A cup chinking. A tap gurgling. A switch clicking. These were the sounds of home. Her father sat in the chair opposite her, searching her young face, trying to understand. He noticed she had inherited her mother’s eyes. After a while he said this: ‘Your cousin, Tariq. He is a good young man. He is looking for a wife.’
Zareen looked directly at him. Bilal continued: ‘He is a graduate of politics, so you will have much to talk about.’ He waited for a response. But none came. ‘And he has a good job in London, so you can start a new life, away from here.’
Exhausted, she nodded. Bilal looked pleased. ‘Now we can move on and there will be no more running from your life. We will arrange for you and Tariq to spend some time together.’
There was a loose thread on her cardigan and she pulled it and watched it unravel. Beside her pocket was a gap and she could see the fabric of her Kalwar Sameez beneath. Picking at the hole, she poked the wool back through. Then she tied it into a tight knot. By this time her mother was in the room hugging her so tightly she could hardly breathe. Marika was crying. ‘Thank the heavens. We thought we had lost you.’ Then Marika’s voice turned sour. ‘What are you thinking of you silly girl! It’s not safe. Too many crazy people on the streets at night! Causing us all this worry!’
‘Stop fussing,’ said Bilal. ‘She is a good girl. She will marry Tariq. Let’s not discuss what has happened. Think about the future. Not the past. ’
Marika’s eyes darted from her husband to her daughter and then to Mohammed. ‘OK. At last! You are seeing sense.’ She tapped Zareen’s head gently and suddenly became animated again. ‘There was a big fire in Henniker Road at the Romanian Cafe.’
‘Oh no! Was anyone hurt?’ Zareen began to question her mother. ‘Who did this?’
‘This is the problem,’ Marika said, looking at the clock. ‘The Romanians think they’re not wanted, they think that someone in our community did it.’
‘There’ll be trouble,’ Bilal warned. ‘These things always end in big trouble.’
Mohammed looked down at his drink. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Are you sure no one was hurt?’ said Zareen again, her voice shaking. ‘Which part of the street is that shop in? What number is it?’
Bilal pointed at the clock. ‘Time this family was in bed. Don’t worry, Zareen. Leave the police to do their job.’
‘Like they did with Amna.’
‘That’s different,’ Bilal said, gesturing for her to go upstairs. He never mentioned his granddaughter. Every time her name was uttered he winced and words failed him.
Zareen made her way up the stairs to her room. There was a message from Nikolae on her phone. I WILL CALL U IN THE MONING. She smiled at his terrible spelling. No mention of the Romanian Café. And then she remembered Tariq, the banker. She had been to London with college and liked the idea of living there. Maybe life wouldn’t be too bad in London. Maybe the marriage could work.
She thought of her mother and father. Their marriage seemed a happy one. But weren’t all marriages shrouded in a gossamer veil of goodness and respectability? What was really beneath the veil? No one really knows. To be defined by your husband, by the act of marriage, that was something she deplored. Politics. Freedom. These were things she believed in. And what of her mother, was she really happy? There were days when her mother lived in silence, days when her mother seemed distant and unreachable. Family. Family was everything. Right now Zareen concluded that she both loved and hated her family equally. She hated the fact that they were dominated by tradition. And she hated herself for not being the same as them.
Under the cover of embroidered daisies she thought of Nikolae again. She tried to block him out but it was impossible. How could he have such an effect on her body and her mind? They hardly knew each other. Yet they did. She felt as if she had always known him. None of it made sense. None of it. She closed her eyes and the world snapped shut.
Chapter Ten
WHEN THE LANDLORD came he counted the mattresses in Henniker Road. Mr Ahmed charged £30 per person, per week. Cash. No questions asked. The others sent Nikolae to deal with him. ‘You have an honest face,’ Dragos said.
Nikolae didn’t want to let the landlord in. ‘We both know I am not honest,’ he retorted. ‘We both know what I did. I don’t want this stress. ’
Dragos ignored the comment. ‘Say there are five of us. Five. Here’s £150. Any difficult questions, say you no understand.’
In reality there were nine of them in the two bedroom house. All of them were men from Bucharest and all of them were desper
ate for a better life. One man did two jobs and sent money back to his family in Romania. No benefits. That’s something the papers didn’t write about. Dragos and Nikolae slept in the lounge with another man called Alex. Three to a room. They hid the sleeping bags of the unnamed men under the mattresses. Mr Ahmed always came on Fridays, ignoring the complaints. The roof leaked, but that was the English weather for you. One of the cooker rings didn’t work. What did they expect for £30 a week? The tap dripped and the plumber would be coming soon. But the plumber never came. The gas fire didn’t work and had a yellow condemned sign taped to the front by the gas company. Now it didn’t matter that the fire no longer worked. Mr Ahmed didn’t know that Dragos had capped the gas supply after just two days and sold the gas pipes to cover the rent. Nothing worked properly anyway and he’d pulled the pipes out in protest. The only way of getting hot water was to boil the kettle or heat water on the electric hob. Sometimes they went to the swimming pool in town. Not to swim but to get a shower.
That Friday Nikolae went to the door with the money for the rent. Tied in an elastic band. But Mr Ahmed insisted he check the house. There had been complaints about the noise. ‘No parties,’ Nikolae said, trying to make light of the situation. Mr Ahmed didn’t smile. He was an old Pakistani with grey hair and a silver beard. He looked poor, his cardigan had a button missing, but Nikolae noticed he drove a shiny black BMW. Today Mr Ahmed looked serious. Slowly he walked around the house, starting with the lounge where Nikolae and Dragos slept.
‘Alex at work,’ Nikolae told him. ‘You want tea?’
Mr Ahmed nodded. Nikolae ventured into the small kitchen.
‘So the Romanian Cafe burnt down.’
‘I know,’ Nikolae shouted through the door. ‘Very bad for family.’
‘You want sugar?’
‘No. Little milk.’
Mr Ahmed switched on the TV and turned it off again. He lifted the mattress by the wall. There was some loose cash and more bedding. He wondered how the Romanians slept like this. And the room felt cold. The floorboards were bare and stripped. He never rented a house with carpet. It cost too much and anyway tenants never looked after it. Carpet had to be replaced every year. He congratulated himself. Bare floorboards were a stroke of genius. He lifted the extra bedding and saw the Romanian’s passport. He opened it and something dropped out. Something landed on his shoe. He bent down and saw a small photo curling at one corner with a date written on the back in blue biro. Now it was in his hand he recognised the girl in the picture at once. Why did the Romanians have a photo of Amna Bibi and Zareen from the corner shop? He slid the photo in his pocket. He wouldn’t challenge them. Not right now.
He sat in the kitchen with Nikolae. ‘So what you think of Blackburn?’
‘It OK,’ Nikolae said.
‘You have a girlfriend?’ Mr Ahmed’s eyes narrowed.
Nikolae shuffled in his seat. ‘Not yet.’
‘Ah. So you seen someone you like?’
Nikolae smiled.
‘What about work?’
‘I looking,’ Nikolae replied. ‘Going job centre every week.’
‘What job?’
‘Any job. I don’t mind what job. Wash cars. Anything.’
‘Have to go English class.’
‘That’s good. Need English,’ Mr Ahmed nodded. ‘When I first come this country I speak no English. Now English mean I have a business.’
‘Yes,’ Nikolae said. ‘You like England?’
Mr Ahmed thought for a moment. ‘Yes. All my family is here. But Pakistan is home.’
‘Romania my home,’ Nikolae said, suddenly feeling sentimental.
Mr Ahmed checked his watch. ‘You need put central heating on. House is cold.’
‘Saving money,’ Nikolae said.
Mr Ahmed laughed. ‘I see you have electric heater.’
Nikolae was in a panic. He tried to look calm. Dragos stepped into the room and put a newspaper in the bin. ‘Electric is so much cheaper in this country, Mr Ahmed. That bloody gas company is robbing us all.’
‘You make a good business man, Dragos.’ Mr Ahmed stood up and shook his hand.
When he left Nikolae slumped down on the kitchen chair. ‘I was scared he check the heating.’
‘Shit,’ Dragos said. ‘Me too. He seem strange today.’
Nikolae agreed. ‘Asking too many questions.’
‘Anyway. This is not our biggest problem. Now the Romanian Cafe burnt down everyone is angry. Someone say it was the Asians. Big meeting at the community centre today. You come.’
Henniker Road Community Centre had been given a grand opening by the town Mayor in 2000. Now the red brick building was daubed with graffiti and the sign HENNIKER COMMUNITY CENTRE was missing so many letters it read C UNT CENTRE. In the entrance was a large welcome banner made by the local sewing club and adverts for various classes and play groups. Dragos had seen women and children entering the building but this was the first time he had ever been inside. Going through the door he felt nervous. Community police and other officials would be there and he had never felt comfortable around figures of authority. Gathering the others together that morning he told them ‘The café owner Levi will be there with his wife. We help each other. This family needs us. We need to stick together.’
In the main hall people sat in rows. It was noisy because the ceiling was high and every sound carried around the space. First Dragos greeted the family who owned the Romanian Café, ‘So sorry for you,’ he said. ‘So sorry for you because you are making an honest living and that is all.’ He kissed the hand of the shop owner’s wife and found a seat near the front. The others followed exchanging sympathetic looks.
They were early and Nikolae fidgeted in his seat, his feet tapping on the scuffed wooden floor. Soon Zareen appeared with her mother and father. She was dressed in green, a scarf draped around her neck. Bilal shuffled forward and took a seat near the front because the community officers had suggested he speak and encourage some calm.
Zareen didn’t look at Nikolae but he followed her with his eyes, watched her hair shimmering in the light. He felt a sharp slap on his thigh. ‘Stop looking at the girl,’ Dragos said, alarmed. ‘Stop!’
The room was full. Mostly Asians, Nikolae noticed, which reflected the population of the community where they lived. Out of the hundred people crammed in the room he guessed there were forty Romanians, some of them with children, fat-cheeked babies who made gurgling sounds and screeched above the chatter. The Romanians were grouped together and there were spaces left on the rows where they sat. He could see some of the Asian men on the other side of the room sneering when the owner of the Romanian Cafe got up to speak. Nikolae looked around. The drawings of children from play group covered the walls. A tree with photos of smiling children had been made from sparkling foil leaves and scrunched up tissue paper. Beneath the faces of the beaming children were words like KIND, HAPPY, NICE, FRIEND. A councillor banged a hammer demanding quiet. The Romanian man looked anxious. He wobbled on the raised stage.
‘Last night my shop burnt down while my children slept in their beds. Everything I have is gone. Luckily my family was not killed. But why did someone want to destroy us. Just because we are Romanian?’
‘You stole our metal!’ an Asian man shouted. ‘Took my washing machine from my yard.’
Amongst the din the Romanian man shouted, ‘I didn’t take anything. You can’t blame me. Always blaming us for everything. We just want a quiet life.’
‘Then go home,’ someone screamed.
No one could be heard. The children were crying. A man with thin brown hair and a weak voice stood up. ‘We won’t get anywhere if you are all shouting.’ The councillor in charge smacked the hammer on the laminated table and stood up, his body stiff and tense. For a moment there was calm.
The Romanian man began to speak again. ‘One of the residents saw
two Asian boys running away.’ Before he could continue a group of Asian men began chanting, shouting abuse. His voice was drowned out by the shouts and cries of a group of young Asian boys.
Bilal stood up and walked to the front. He stood before the microphone, his back stooped. He hesitated. Honesty was all he had to give and he spoke the truth as he knew it. He could feel the tension gathering and fear slipped into his voice. ‘We should all be ashamed of ourselves, shouting at one another like children. My granddaughter is dead. Let’s not blame each other.’ His voice faltered and he broke down. The noise in the room ceased. Bilal gulped. He tried to speak but no sound came. Just a few metres away was Zareen. He looked at her. Overcome with emotion he now began to rock backwards and forwards. Zareen jumped up from her seat and held her father’s hand. She couldn’t explain why but she took the microphone off the stand. She saw her sister in the front row, her face aged and changed by death. She looked odd without a small child to hold. Her father was weeping. Her mother was shaking her head, calling her to come back to her seat. Mohammed seemed confused and covered his face. What would her father say? She imagined his words and she said them aloud.
‘Someone burnt the Romanian Cafe down last night. Someone here knows who did it.’ She paused and cleared her throat. ‘Someone knocked my niece down and left her dead in a filthy puddle.’ The microphone screeched and the ringing filled the room. She waited. The image of Amna was vivid in her mind. ‘She was six. Someone knows who did it.’ People gasped and the women cried. Her voice rose louder. ‘I don’t care whether you are Asian or Romanian. We are all people. Just tell the truth. Don’t cover up the truth. How can we live together if we can’t tell the truth?’
Zareen continued, the faces before her blurred by tears. ‘There’s been enough death in this community. Don’t we all want peace? Don’t we all just want to live with our families in peace?’
Precious Metal Page 5
