by H M Sealey
There was a door facing her, a nice, ordinary door in white wood with a panel of glass decorated with stained-glass poppies in the centre. Beside that stood a grandfather clock and a hatstand over which was hooked a walking stick and jacket.
She grabbed the door handle in both hands. Please, please let it be unlocked.
It wasn’t. Missy twisted the handle uselessly, fighting the urge to rattle it in anger and call the lock insulting names for being so unhelpful.
“So, I’ll send the cash by Friday Zeb. Half up front, half on receipt of the goods.”
“Fine.”
The door to Missy’s right swung open. There was nowhere for her to hide and no time to run. There was no cupboard and no useful curtain behind which she could conceal herself. She had no choice but to stand and face the two men who emerged from the next room.
~
~ Ten ~
“You’ve had quite a sleep.”
I wake up slowly, my head and body throbbing with a peculiar, dull pounding.
For a long few minutes I have no idea where I am. When I finally peel my eyelids open, I find myself facing the chiselled, dark features of Kit Summerday. He looks happy to see me, but also serious.
“Uh…...what happened?” What was I doing? I glance around, I’m in a small, white room with a big window covered by a blind. Kit’s dark suit stands out like a sooty handprint on a bedsheet.
“I’m hoping you can tell me that Elsie. Can you tell me why you had an accident twenty-two miles away from Kingsheath?”
I blink and realise there’s a little dried blood in my eyelashes. “I…..don’t remember.” I think Mr. Jourdete was driving me somewhere, but I don’t think I want to give Kit Summerday any information. Not until I know about Gran.
Gran! I still up in bed and wince. Kit rests his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back onto the pillows.
“Hey! Hey there, take it easy. You’re lucky nothing’s broken, but you lost a lot of skin from your arm and chest.”
“Gran!” I shout her name without meaning to. “Where’s Gran?”
Kit Summerday gazes down at me with what I think might be sympathy. He reaches out with a thin, pale hand and takes my hand.
Ms. Kessler, Elsie. I’m afraid I have some very sad news for you.”
I don’t wait to hear what it is because I know. I know what he’s going to tell me and I won’t listen. It can’t be real. This is one of those nightmares where I wake up and realise the nightmare is still going on around me. Kit is a creature from a nightmare. An apparition.
“No!” I shout at him. “Gran isn’t dead! She can’t be! She wouldn’t ever leave me!”
Kit Summerday still gazes at me with cool eyes. “Elsie, I’m sorry. I really am, but Barbara Kessler chose to end her life this morning.” Then he frowns. “How did you know what I was going to say?”
I fall back onto the pillows and start to sob. There’s a cannula in my arm that’s attached to a drip and my skin is bruised and scraped.
“Gran.” I squeeze my eyes tightly together but nothing stops the tears. “I can’t bear this. Not again!”
An image floats into my head unbidden, an image of a room full of bodies pushing and shoving. Suitcases and bags and hurrying feet clattering like hooves on the ground. It’s like a sea of faces but I’m safe in someone’s arms, clinging to a familiar chest, watching the people in bewilderment.
Then I’m torn away from those arms, from the people who love me. For a moment I hear my name called in pain and desperation. I scream. I scream until my throat’s raw and tears blind me.
“I want Gran.” I sob, shaking from the intensity of the vision. Was that me? Did I lose someone? Was I taken away from people I loved? I don’t remember my life before I lived with Gran, only a vague sense of fear and loneliness. Gran is my safe port in a wild storm.
Kit Summerday still holds my hand as if he cares about me.
“Elsie?” I can hear his voice but I don’t care about it. “Elsie, I need to talk to you about your grandmother.”
I wrench my arm away.
“Gran was a good, kind woman! She loved me!”
“I’m not disputing that.”
“She wasn’t part of any horrible criminal gang! She just wasn’t!”
I’m aware Kit Summerday has fallen very silent. When I rub my eyes and look up at him the look in his eyes is almost feral.
“Why would you say that about your grandmother Elsie?”
Suddenly I’ve had enough. I pound the pillow with my hand. “Don’t play innocent! I know you think she’s part of this Family Matters thing. Well she’s not! She wouldn’t have ever broken the law! She never even let me drop litter!”
“Where did you hear about Family Matters?”
“What? I don’t know.”
“Very few people are aware of that organisation Elsie.”
“Oh stop it. Stop it with your questions and investigations. I don’t care. I just want Gran.”
I pull the covers up over my head and let the tears flow. I feel so terribly, horribly alone. I hate being alone.
Another image bursts up from nowhere in my head. An image of a dark room. I’m lying in the bed and I’m small and scared and I can hear voices.
“She’s young enough to be easily re-educated, I see no reason why she can’t go to the grandmother, though we’ll have to keep an eye on them.”
“What about the brother?”
“Utterly indoctrinated unfortunately, poor thing.” Then there’s a sigh. “I don’t like splitting families up, but this sort of hate crime has to be wiped out. People who identify as Christians can’t keep children. It’s just not fair on them or on society. It’s for the best.”
I think I’m going to be sick. Nausea rises up inside me and I begin to vomit, barely managing to hit the floor instead of my sheets. I think some splatters on Kit Summerday’s shoes. Good.
“Elsie?”
I lie still, gasping from the ache in my chest and throat.
“Where was Sylvester Jourdete taking you?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Where was he going? I need to know Elsie. I need you to tell me.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care! I want my Gran! I just want to go home. I want mum and dad!”
I stop and frown. I don’t remember my parents so I have no idea why I just said that.
“Elsie, this is important.”
Somehow I manage to fling my fists at him, ripping the drip from my arm.
“My Gran was important!” I scream. “She was important to me!”
Kit Summerday manages to grab my wrists and push me back onto the bed.
“Elsie, calm down.”
“I don’t want to calm down!” I want to scream and scream loudly enough for Gran to hear me wherever she is.
“Mum!” I hear the word tear itself free of my throat. “Dad! Josh! Where are they? What’ve you done with them!”
I can see their faces. Three faces I haven’t even remembered for twenty years. Why can’t I remember my mum? My Dad? My big brother? Josh used to chase me around the tree in the garden and say if we ran counter-clockwise enough times we’d go back in time. Why did I forget these things?
“Where’s my family?” I demand. “Where are they?”
By this time two nurses have appeared and are shooing Kit Summerday away and trying to soothe me with soft voices.
“It’s all right dear. You just let me put this drip back in your arm. Then you’ll feel better.”
I think I cry a bit more, or at least until one of them gives me a sedative and suggests I’m seen by a psychiatrist.
I fight sleep for some time. Suddenly I’m frightened. I’m frightened of being alone. I’m frightened of losing this memory of my lost family. I’m frightened of it slipping through my fingers and leaving me with nothing at all.
~
Asim
Tariq ibn-Jack was seated on the comfortable sofa in the living room when
Asim and Alaia rattled down the stairs, fearful that the visitor was a member of the Mutaween. They were grateful to discover their teacher ensconced in Eshan’s favourite chair rather than somebody with more authority.
Alaia, as she had been taught, lowered her face and left the room, intending to help Fadia in the kitchen.
Tariq adressed Eshan with respect.
“Please, I would be so grateful if your daughter would remain with us.”
It was a strange request but Eshan allowed it, calling Alaia to his side and taking her hand in his.
“When I was a boy, the women mixed much more readily with the menfolk.” Eshan smiled into his daughter’s face. He wished he was still a boy again.
Tariq nodded. “You lived in Britain?”
“Yes. For four generations.”
“It must have been hard not to pick up western habits.”
“Sometimes, though my father taught us to respect the ways of our country. We considered ourselves British.”
Taraq scoffed. “I see nothing to respect about Old Britain now. It’s nothing but a den of debauchery. The women are all whores and the men do nothing to protect them.” He gazed at Alaia and still she kept her gaze respectfully lowered. If he looked into her eyes, would he see Abdullah?
“Would you let Alaia wander the streets close to naked?”
Eshan shook his head. “No. I don’t trust men.” He met Tariq’s gaze with his own, forcing the man to take his eyes from his daughter.
“Men can be tempted, that’s certain. Which is why temptation must be kept out of harm’s way.”
“When I was a boy, we simply learned to resist temptation. My Father taught me to respect all women.”
That seemed to surprise Tariq, he raised a sandy eyebrow in surprise. “Even the white whores?”
Baraq, who had said nothing so far, smiled. “There are few as white as you.”
Tariq took no offence and rubbed his rust coloured beard. “A turn of phrase. You know what I mean.”
“I do. And yes, our father did indeed teach us to respect all people, regardless of sex, race or religion.”
Tariq scoffed again. “Sounds like the poor man was deluded.”
Eshan and Baraq made no response to this, although Eshan held Alaia’s hand a little tighter. Eshan, being a diplomat at heart, turned to Asim.
“Your teacher was telling us about your friend Abdullah. The one you take care of. I hear he’s doing remarkably well.”
This was suddenly uncomfortable territory. Asim smiled at his father. “Yes.” He said. “He’s very clever.”
“You must invite the boy to eat with us. Poor thing. The war took so many lives.”
“The war was necessary.” Tariq added in a slightly hostile tone. “Shariah is Allah’s perfect system for the human race.”
Baraq nodded comfortably. “Both sides agree that Tariq. But interpretation is everything.”
Tariq faced Baraq with a partially hidden sneer. “I understand why you would support an imperfect version of Shariah. You’d be dead now if the Reformists hadn’t seized power.”
Baraq did not let his gaze weaken. “Allah is most merciful, He is oft-forgiving. I threw myself on the mercies of Allah, may he be exalted.”
Tariq did not look convinced, but he waved Baraq away. “I’m not here to discuss your apostasy or why the Reformists are fools.” He leaned back on his chair and scanned the occupants of the room. “I came to discuss Alaia.”
“Alaia?” Baraq’s swift eyes missed nothing, and he did not like the way Tariq’s eyes continually rested on his niece.
“If you will allow me to, I will come to the purpose of my visit.” Tariq could be very refined, but it was an external thing only Asim decided, Asim had seen the pleasure in his cruel eyes when he beat the boys at school. There was a monster inside that pale skin.
Alaia did not raise her head. It would not do for anyone to see the revulsion in her eyes.
“I’m a rich man Eshan. I have a good job, prospects, a beautiful home and an inheritance from my parents. I could offer your daughter a good life.”
Eshsan exchanged glances with his brother. “Am I to understand you wish to marry Alaia?”
“I do. I would be a fine husband to her.”
Again Alaia did not respond to this concerning discussion. It was indeed expected that her parents should arrange a marriage for her, but she trusted them to select a man they liked, a man they respected. Tariq ibn-Jack was neither of these things.
Had Alaia been asked for her response, it would not have been favourable.
“You know, My parents chose each-other, because they were in love.” Baraq said, remembering how different the world had been.
“Parents have more wisdom than children in these matters.”
Eshan, to his credit, maintained a relaxed, thoughtful expression, almost as if Tariq’s proposal was worth contemplating. The pressure on Alaia’s fingers was comforting, her father had no intention of letting her go to the wrong man. Eshan offered Tariq a frosty smile.
“Well, this is certainly something we shall consider.” Alaia was fairly sure that Eshan’s words could be translated as never, ever ever.
Tariq, surprised the family of a known apostate would not accept his offer with joy, decided to push the issue.
“I can’t imagine there are many good men who would willingly marry the niece of an apostate.”
“As I said, we will consider your offer.”
“I can offer Alaia the best. She will be treated like a princess, she will have the finest clothing money can buy, even abeed if she wishes.”
Baraq’s gaze met Eshan’s once again, this time with a touch of interest. As young men they had been close, both completely westernised and largely uninterested in the religious side of life. Both made regular mistakes trying to live as pious Muslims.
“Abeed?” Baraq said the word lightly, revealing neither disgust nor interest. “Slaves? That would be expensive.”
“As I said, I have an inheritance.”
“I was under the impression slavery was frowned upon now.”
Baraq’s keen eyes recognised the pride in Tariq’s voice and a small sliver of hope squeezed its way into his belly.
“The Reformists can try to westernise us if they wish, but abeed can still be purchased, if one knows the right people.” Tariq gazed from one brother to the other. “I can provide Alaia with her own abed.” He puffed himself up, few men could make such a grand offer.
Baraq seemed impressed. “I take it you know the right people?”
“I do.” Tariq let his eyes wander over Alaia. The girl was very beautiful and hopefully wouldn’t behave as rebelliously as his first wife. Finally, he addressed her directly, not caring for tradition. “I could make you very happy Alaia.”
Alaia’s quick mind had already grasped her uncle’s plan. This might be the only way to help Daichi and Alaia, to her surprise, realised that her desire to assist the man in the attic was more than just a need to remove him from the house as swiftly as possible.
“That...that sounds most impressive sayyid.” She whispered the words without meeting his eye. That was acceptable, meeting the eye of a man who was not a direct relative was forbidden. It also meant he didn’t discern her disgust.
“Where would one go to purchase abeed?” Baraq asked with interest. “Surely there are no more auctions?”
Tariq spread himself out in the chair. “Not in public, no. These are private matters. At least, until the reformists are rooted out and hanged as the apostates they are.”
“Half the Shariah Council are Reformists.” Baraq pointed this out without further comment.
Tariq gave him a look of irritation. “It won’t stay that way. But for now, the auctions are not publicised.”
The room fell into silence, the clock ticked on the wall and Asim set his eyes on the books on the shelf. Like Alaia he understood why his uncle was allowing this peculiar conversation. He didn’t like it thoug
h.
“Would you take Alaia to choose her own slave?”
Tariq smiled and it was not a pleasant smile, it showed too many teeth, like a crocodile.
“I couldn’t accompany her until we were at least formally engaged.”
“I would accompany her.” Baraq offered, meeting Alaia’s eyes, hoping the girl understood this ill-thought out plan that required her compliance.
“You?”
“I would be interested. Perhaps you would be good enough to inform me when the next auction is to be held.”
“I could do that.” Tariq nodded as if bestowing some great boon.
“And perhaps Alaia could bring a companion,” Baraq continued, as if he had only just considered this. “For company. I think such business transactions would be boring for a young woman”
Tariq laughed at that and Alaia almost reacted, only Eshan’s fingers, still curled around hers, reminded her that it would not take a large show of defiance for her to be reported to the mutaween and then Daichi would be lost and all their lives would be in danger.
“He’s a horrible man, horrible!” Alaia finally released her tears and sank down onto the sofa. She gazed up into her father’s gentle face. “Baba, please don’t ask me to marry him.”
Eshan patted her shoulder and addressed his brother.
“Do you think this is a good idea?”
“He’s a cockroach, he couldn’t resist boasting and now we’ll have the chance to find out who might be holding Daichi’s sister.”
Eshan’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t mean that. Tariq ibn-Jack would have no trouble denouncing us all if he doesn’t get his way.”
“What’s to denounce?”
“Are you joking? Every day I wonder if today’s the day I’m going to slip up. We weren’t raised this way Baraq, it doesn’t come naturally to us. I want to take Fadia out to dinner or dancing and see her in her red dress, only I can’t. I want to read English books, watch English television. I want to address people as sir, not Sayyid. I want to pull on a pair of jeans, or go for a run. Even now I feel like I’m living in an alien culture and I still don’t know the rules. What will that man do if we lead him along over Alaia? Because I will never, ever allow him to marry her.”
