This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  “Josh, it’s not like that.”

  Right now I want to walk away from her, but then what do I do? Director Summerday wants these people River calls friends. If they lie as much as she does maybe I should just let her have them.

  “What is it like then?”

  “I am River Lamont. And yes, I did orchestrate my incarceration at the Centre.”

  “So why did you tell me otherwise?”

  “The first time we were being listened to. Obviously. I’m not stupid. I just needed to give them enough information to worry them.”

  Now I really am confused. “You….. know?”

  “What? That we’ve been allowed to escape? Or that you’re doing this because they told you to? What did they promise you Josh? Did they say they’d let you go?”

  I feel sick at the accusation.

  “I thought so.” She smirks. “So we’ve both been lying, haven’t we?”

  I feel my anger dissipate. “I suppose so.”

  She sits down on a hunk of long broken rubble that might have been part of the steeple and gazes at me with steady, brown eyes.

  “So what’s the plan? Follow me? Find out who my friends are?”

  I flop down on the half-dead grass beneath me and lean against a century-old gravestone.

  “No. I was planning to tell you and let you go without me.” Was I planning that? Would I really throw away the future I’ve been offered?

  “Really?”

  “I think so.”

  River’s dark eyes scan me. “Are they tracking you?”

  I nod slowly and touch my arm. “GPS.”

  “But they can’t hear us?”

  “No. I’m not wearing any sort of a wire.”

  River absorbs this for a moment. She stands up and wanders to the big, old oak tree. The trees die eventually, but these ancient ones have their roots so deep in the ground they find the sort of water we can’t.

  “Good. Then I want you to come with me.”

  “You do? Why? I mean, Director Summerday will know where your friends are. You’d be betraying them.”

  River turns and catches my eye. “Do you think you can trust me Josh? Even after all this? I promise you I have a reason for everything I’ve said and done.”

  Do I trust her? No. No, I really don’t.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What if I tell you that together we could get the Rainbow Centre closed down and all the sadistic staff charged for cruelty and abuse?”

  “I can’t believe that’s possible. They don’t see it as cruelty or abuse.”

  “That’s why I asked you to trust me.”

  We stare at each other for a long time. Do I have a choice? At least if I go with her I’m fulfilling my promise to Director Summerday, so I suppose that’s better than nothing.

  “Okay.” I say.

  ~

  ~ nine~

  Asim

  “Asim, will you stay behind after class please?”

  Asim had no wish to stay, his parents wanted him home early. Daichi had been with them too long, he needed to move soon, for everyone’s safety.

  “Yes Ustaaz.”

  Tariq ibn Jack was Asim’s least favourite teacher, a tall, broadly-built man in late middle-age with blotchy, white skin and a beard closer to dirty blonde or rust. His family had converted at the time the BSI was formed along with thousands of others who did not wish to leave their homes. Most adopted a new first name, some didn’t, but all used their biological father’s name as a new surname. Those who knew who their biological father was. It made for some peculiar sounding people.

  “I want to speak to you.”

  Asim glanced at the boy sitting next to him, his head over his books, his short, black hair glossy in the classroom lights beneath his traditional taqiyah. “I have to take Abdullah home sir.”

  Tariq nodded towards the quiet boy. “He can stay, it’s about him anyway.”

  Asim felt a little colour fade from his cheeks, Abdullah, being partially deaf, made no indication that he had heard and kept his eyes on his textbook.

  Tariq chuckled. “Don’t look like I’m about to bite you boy.” His Arabic was heavily accented, the way everyone’s was. Over ninety percent of the population of the BSI had spoken English as their first language until the law made it illegal to do so in public.

  Tariq reached over to his desk and picked up a handful of papers, bumping his hip against the table at which Asim and Abdullah sat, he leafed through them with a calloused thumb. He was a fat man and his stomach was not hidden by his loose clothing.

  “Abdullah’s marks on this last exam are outstanding. I mean, really outstanding.”

  Asim glanced at Abdullah, then back to Tariq. “Oh. Really Ustaaz?”

  “Really. Despite his disabilities I think we could be looking at University for him. Maybe even America.”

  Abdullah gave a little twitch although Tariq didn’t notice. He shook his head in wonder. “If that boy hadn’t been struck dumb all those years ago he’d be a genius, he really would.” Tariq leaned forwards and squinted into Abullah’s face. He was not an old man yet, but nor was he particularly handsome. “What happened to him?”

  Asim patted Abdullah’s slim shoulder. “The war.”

  “Ah.”

  “Abdullah and his parents were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. They bombed the mosque.”

  “His parents died?”

  Asim nodded, he’d told this story on his friend’s behalf a hundred times, it became no easier to do.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Poor kid. Well, we need to look at early admission to a university. Do you think he wants to go to university?”

  Asim shrugged. Tariq clicked his fingers beneath Abdullah’s nose, causing him to raise his eyes and meet the pale, blue pair that were now staring at him with interest. “What do you think Abdullah. University? Un-i-ver-sit-ee?” He enunciated the word carefully. Abdullah nodded and made a slight grunting sound. “Good lad. Keep producing test scores like these and you’ll have me out of a job.”

  “I – I don’t think he’s be able to go to university sir.” Asim said the words suddenly, like they’d been bubbling up on his tongue for a while. “I mean, he’s clever, but he can’t, I mean, he needs me. How would he communicate?”

  Abdullah’s dark gaze gave Asim a surprisingly poisonous glance before his eyes returned to the book in front of him. Tariq stared down at Abdullah for a few moments.

  “I’m sure we’d find a way. What does his doctor say?”

  “That he won’t get better.”

  “If Allah wills it, he will.”

  There was no answer to that. It was always a coup for a teacher to send a boy to an overseas university. There were few other legitimate ways to go to America these days.

  Tariq turned back to Asim and tucked the papers away in his drawer. The Madrasah was very dull, grey walls and tiled floors with windows that were slightly cracked in places. Schools were places that required no distractions – which was good since there wasn’t a great deal of money from the government for education.

  “Tell me Asim, that sister of yours. Alaia? How old is she now?”

  It was an unexpected question and it concerned Asim. He picked up his back, threw it over his shoulder and tapped Abdullah on the arm.

  “Seventeen.”

  “Have your parents decided on a husband for her yet?”

  Asim shook his head vigorously. “No sir.”

  “They shouldn’t wait too long you know. Girls need to be married. We lost too many in the war. Every girl needs to be producing babies.”

  “Um, yes sir.” There was little point in arguing with Tariq, so Asim didn’t. Abdullah pushed his books into his bag and stood up, allowing Asim to take his hand and lead him to the door. The room echoed, devoid of people most of the Madrasah echoed. There was a shortage of textbooks and the walls were blank, whitewashed brick staring across at whitewashed brick. The only cupboard housed the p
rayer-mats and little else.

  “I was thinking Asim, It’s five years since my wife passed away, I need to marry again. Do you think your father would approve of that?”

  “Uh, approve of what Ustaaz?”

  “If I suggested marrying your sister?”

  Asim removed the look of sheer horror from his face too slowly.

  “Come now, it’s not that ridiculous an idea is it? I know my family are converts but my children won’t be seen that way. Besides, you might not find it so easy to marry her off, not with that uncle of yours.”

  “Uncle Baraq was pardoned.” Asim reminded him.

  “But still tainted. Still an apostate. It damages the whole family.” Tariq gave Asim a smile that was slightly too brutal to be described as friendly. “Well, I might speak to your father. I’m sure he’d see the wisdom in my proposal. Good night Asim. Abdullah.”

  Tariq took up his briefcase and left the room, the heavy door thundering closed behind him.

  Asim and Abdullah walked together, shoulder to shoulder, not speaking, not even glancing at one another. It was getting late and the other boys were already home, the streets were near silent when they passed through the blue gates and along the road that still showed evidence of the war.

  Most of the terrace houses were inhabited, but three had windows boarded up with wooden slats and the house at the end with the chipped, yellow door had bullet-holes in the stonework.

  Asim’s house was in the very centre of a row of 1920’s, three-story houses on the outskirts of the town. Each house had three steps leading up to the door and a small, enclosed garden at the front. They were regimented and tidy and, thanks to Eshan’s job as a doctor, in a comfortable area bordered with trees that had escaped the worst of the war.

  Asim poked his head into the hallway and called. “Anyone home?”

  Fadia emerged from the kitchen, cloth in hand, dark, slightly greying hair tied away from her face.

  “Quickly, your father and uncle will be back soon.”

  Abdullah closed the door quickly and nodded, padding up the long staircase to the bedrooms.

  “University Asim!” Abdullah pulled his taqiyah from his head and threw it on the bed. “He wants me to go to university! It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Asim sat on the bed and traced the pattern on the bedcover with his finger.

  “But you can’t go.”

  A pair of angry eyes met his.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a girl Alaia! Abdullah doesn’t exist!”

  Alaia dropped down onto the stool that faced her dressing table mirror and gazed at her oval face, so obviously female yet strangely androgynous without long hair. No woman cropped her hair short.

  “I’m clever. Even pretending to be deaf and dumb I’m clever.”

  “I know you’re clever. Waaaay cleverer than me.”

  “I want to go to university.”

  “But you can’t keep pretending to be a boy forever. Someone’ll notice.” And the Mutaween will take you away he wanted to add but didn’t. Alaia knew that anyway, like she said, she was clever.

  “Then what was the point in any of this?” Alaia asked her reflection. “All this risk? All these lies? If I can’t get away from this country what was the point?”

  Asim never answered that question, the door opened and Fadia, noticeably twitchier than usual joined them. She glanced at her daughter in horror and snatched up a hijab from its place on the chair.

  “Put this on! What do you think you’re doing, sitting there like that? You promised!”

  Alaia took the proffered garment. “I’m sorry.”

  “You will be. Alaia, if your father ever knew about this then -”

  “He wouldn’t mind. You know he wouldn’t.”

  But that wasn’t Fadia’s concern and Alaia knew that. “Your father and uncle mustn’t know you disguise yourself as a boy Alaia.”

  Alaia nodded. If the Mutaween ever arrested her then Eshan could speak honestly and say he knew nothing of the deception. It would protect him.

  Alaia slipped the Hijab over her short hair. Nobody could ever know her hair was not as long as it used to be. Most family members simply thought she was admirably modest.

  “The Girls’ School in Kettering was raided yesterday.” Fadia told her, a warning. “They still don’t know what happened to the girls.”

  Alaia finished arranging her scarf and glanced at her mother. Fadia lived on her nerves these days, she’d be glad when Daichi left the house. “Who was it?”

  “Traditionalists we think. It’s fortunate we don’t have a girls’ school in the area.”

  “It’s not illegal to educate girls.”

  “It’s not strictly illegal to be Shia either, but some things are still dangerous. Just like girls’ schools are.” A look of disgust passed through Fadia’s eyes before she washed it away. “The war may have been won but it left a lot of bad feelings amongst the Traditionalists. I don’t think it’ll ever be over.”

  Fadia swept in for a kiss and held her daughter for a long moment. “Now, make yourself presentable and you and Asim take our guest some tea. Yes?”

  Alaia kissed her mother back and sank back down in her chair as soon as Fadia’s footsteps disappeared on the stairs.

  “I hate pretending to be a boy Asim.”

  “I hate you pretending to be a boy too.”

  “It’s so unfair! And as for marrying him!” She spat to the side, something Alaia rarely did. “He repulses me. You know his wife was beheaded for Apostasy?”

  “Was she? Uncle Baraq nearly was.”

  “Uncle Baraq recanted. She was only a woman, so they murdered her because she tried to get over the border. Like they’ll murder me.”

  “You’re not an apostate.”

  Alaia gave her little brother a strange look that he couldn’t quite interpret.

  “Tariq ibn-Jack’s a Traditionalist. He fought on their side in the war.”

  “A lot of converts did.”

  “He gave his wife up like she was a defective toy. It was horrible. He’s horrible.”

  Alaia pulled her female clothing from the wardrobe crossly and stripped off, having little care that her brother was sitting close to her. Asim was a baby, a child, her sweet, kind, darling little brother. There was nothing he didn’t know about her.

  “Don’t cry.” Alaia’s dark eyes shimmered like they always did when she was trying to hold back tears.

  “I’m not crying.” She snapped. “Come on, let’s go and see Daichi.”

  Dai was sitting up on the bed, scrolling through the day’s news on the small, borrowed laptop. He looked up as the two children pulled themselves through the attic hatch and he smiled.

  “Hi there.”

  Alaia shook her head. “You’re not meant to say that remember.”

  Dai remembered. “As-salām 'alaykum.” He pronounced it so atrociously Asim giggled.

  “Better.” Alaia announced. “You probably won’t need to speak anyway, if you’re dressed as a woman. You just have to shut up and stare at the floor.” There was bitterness in her tone that neither Daichi nor Asim missed.

  “I don’t like the idea of dressing as a woman.”

  “You could pretend to be a convert, but there haven’t really been any converts since the Border was closed during the war, and all the older converts speak pretty good Arabic by now.”

  “And he’d have grown a beard.” Asim added with a grin. “A great, big bushy one.”

  Dai took the tea Alaia offered with a smile. He was starting to like this kind family who were risking so much to hide him. He wished he could pay them back for their help.

  “War?” He queried the word. “You mean the Euro-Islamic war? When Islamic State took over Europe?”

  Alaia shook her head. “That war? That was over before I was born. No, the war here, in the BSI.”

  Dai didn’t hide his confusion. “There wasn’t a war here.”

  “Th
ere was, ten years ago. I was only little.”

  This was curious, Dai had always read the news. “Tell me?”

  “How can you not know? It was awful. It was between the Traditionalists and Reformists. The Traditionalists were the ones who came over from Europe. They blew stuff up, they said they wanted a pure form of Islam and they killed everyone who disagreed.”

  “What about the Reformists?”

  “They were backed by most of the people. They didn’t want slavery, or to murder Christians and the Shi’as. They just wanted a stable, Islamic country that could trade with the rest of the world.”

  Alaia frowned, met his eyes and looked away quickly. He was a handsome man with great kindness in his face. “Do you really not know this?”

  “No, I really don’t. Who won?”

  “The Reformists. It was down to sheer numbers in the end. You know what a mess Europe is?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Why would we want that here? When the referendum formed the BSI, all the Muslims who ended up on this side of the border decided they didn’t want terrorism, or murder.” She paused. “How can you not know this?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I thought the BSI was just an extension of the ESI.”

  Alaia looked offended. “Of course we’re not, just look at them. It’s awful over there, people are dying by the million. The ESI isn’t interested in running a country, they just want to be petty warlords.” She clenched her fists. “It would have happened here too, if the referendum hadn’t happened.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m sure. The Traditionalists thought they’d already won here. They didn’t expect so many of us to stand up and say no.” She sighed. “It was different in Britain. In France and Germany the Muslim populations were already fighting the Far Right. When the Islamic State swept through Europe everything was fractured. Here the Muslim population was united, safe. We could organise ourselves to fight the Traditionalists.”

  Dai gazed at Alaia in surprise. He knew nothing of this. He swallowed.

  “I sort of thought, one Muslim was the same as another.” He admitted. “I’ve seen the riots on the news. I saw them burning cathedrals and slaughtering homosexuals.”