And so he had been. Small and timid, it was impossible to see what a big, beautiful woman like Della had seen in him.
Once he’d finished with Tommy, Lee walked over to Abbas’s place, which was in the next street. He was alone save for his daughter Djamila who was cooking.
‘I’m glad you came over,’ Abbas said. He took Lee into his garden, which was where he’d set up a makeshift bar for himself. ‘Any news?’
‘I told you I wasn’t going to tell you anything until I had to,’ Lee said.
‘Oh, yes.’ He poured himself a vodka and tonic. ‘Do you want a cola? Cup of tea?’
‘No, ta.’
Lee sat down in one of the garden chairs and lit a fag. ‘I wanna ask you some questions,’ he said.
‘What about?’
‘The tooth,’ he said. ‘Do you know for definite that it came from Fayyad?’
‘I’ve told you, yes.’
‘How?’
‘It’s his handwriting …’
‘Do you still have the envelope it came in?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want it,’ Lee said.
‘Why?’
‘Never mind why, I want it. I’m laying myself on the line for you, Abbas. I’m trying to manipulate a known terrorist to get him back into the UK. If I didn’t feel the weight of guilt on my shoulders over the whole Iraq mess, I wouldn’t be doing it. And you can fucking knock the booze on the head if you want me to carry on, too. I’m sick of seeing you fucked out of your head. We all need to be on our game and that includes you.’
Abbas said nothing.
‘Fayyad is alive,’ Lee said. ‘That’s all I’m telling you. But I don’t know where he is or what he’s up to. I need proof that he sent that tooth.’
‘I told you, it’s his handwriting!’
‘So you say. But I need to analyse it.’
‘How?’
‘Never mind.’
Abbas put his glass down. He’d aged since his son had left. He said, ‘Alright. I will get it.’
‘Good.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Yes,’ Lee said. ‘I want you to tell me about Fayyad and girls.’
‘And girls?’
‘Hi, Lee!’
Djamila waved from the back doorstep and Lee waved back. She was a lovely, smiling, curvaceous girl. A real contrast to the thin, terrified little child she had been back in Iraq.
‘Hiya, kiddo,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just making some dolma.’
‘Mmm. Love stuffed vine leaves,’ he said.
‘Not for you, I’m afraid,’ Djamila said. Then she laughed.
‘Cheeky!’
When Djamila went back inside the house, Abbas said, ‘Her boyfriend is dining with us tonight.’
‘Oh. Sweet.’
‘Not so much,’ he said. ‘He is a jobless Turk.’
‘Oh, so now you’re a racist …’
‘That’s what Shereen said.’ He shook his head. ‘But I am not. The boy’s father is a carpet dealer.’
‘So money—’
‘Oh, yes, the father has money,’ Abbas said. ‘And I have no issue with him. Mr Dorman is a very personable man. His wife is a charming woman and so is their daughter. But Fazil … I don’t know. It’s not just that he doesn’t work. There’s something about him that I cannot warm to. I feel as if he is holding something back.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’
Lee knew there was no point saying that Abbas should just ‘forget about it’. Hunches like this had kept them both alive in Iraq. But Lee also knew that Djamila was not the sort of girl to saddle herself with a loser. She was a smart cookie.
‘But look,’ he said. ‘I have to go soon. Mumtaz can’t be in the office today. Fayyad and girls, give me the low-down. What kind of girls did he go for?’
Abbas reached for his vodka.
Much as she’d always loved Rajiv, the few times she’d met his sister, Susi, Mumtaz had always felt an intense dislike for her. Arrogant and high-handed, Susi Banergee had always seemed like a caricature of the Asian woman ‘done good’. She was married to a doctor who had lots of money, she didn’t have to work and she could afford every beauty treatment under the sun. She was the kind of woman Asian aunties both disapproved of and envied. To marry so ‘well’ had to be every girl’s dream, but to strut about in gold and silver saris flashing diamond rings at everyone was tasteless, if understandable.
At first when Susi arrived, Mumtaz and Asif went off to see whether they could speak to Ali. But they were told that he didn’t want to see them.
Why not? They only wanted to help. Mumtaz felt hurt and, when they got back to Hanbury Street, she went up to her old bedroom to have a bit of time on her own. Her dad didn’t understand. Bangladeshis hated being alone. Even her distressed mother had put aside her headache to come down and be with her family when Susi Banergee arrived. To be away from the family when guests arrived was bad form. Only Asif knew where Mumtaz was coming from.
As she dragged herself upstairs, she heard her brother say, ‘Leave her be. Mumtaz deals with things in her own way. We’re all in shock.’
‘Which is why she needs her family!’
‘Leave her, Abba!’
There had never been locks on any of the Huqs’ doors. Mumtaz did what she’d done as a child, and wedged a chair under the handle. Then she opened her computer.
Where are you?
Where are you?
Where are you?
There were so many she couldn’t count them. It was a wonder Facebook hadn’t blown up. Another message arrived as she was looking at the screen.
She had agreed not to contact Abu Imad if Lee wasn’t present. But she had no idea when she’d be seeing him. She’d even told Shazia to come to Spitalfields after college. Who knew when or if they’d be able to speak to Ali? Or even find out what was going on? Was she at risk of losing Abu Imad if she just ignored him?
She constructed her message and read it three times. She had to avoid saying anything inflammatory, sexual, mildly critical or even just cheerful. How could one be cheerful when so many nations were controlled by unbelievers?
She wrote: Hello. Sorry I’ve been offline for so long. I got up late and then I had a full day at college. I have to get good A levels if I want to go to uni. But I’m here now!
The hiatus between her reply and his was over an hour. Mumtaz lay down on her old bed and remembered her life before her husband. She’d always felt safe with her parents and her brothers. Back then, no one had threatened her, tried to undermine or hurt her. Even being with Lee, who was the kindest man outside of her family and Rajiv Banergee she had ever met, wasn’t the same. By the time she had met him, the world had changed for Mumtaz. Much of what had happened had been her own fault …
The computer beeped. She looked at his message with horror.
Mishal. I am surprised at you. Uni? What you want to go to uni for? Uni won’t teach you anything you need to be a good Muslim. Uni’s just full of people drinking and having sex when they’re not married and other things that are haram. And everyone will see your face! I don’t like it. I thought we were close, but now I wonder. What do you want, Mishal? Do you want uni or do you want the Caliphate?
Weren’t bookish girls meant to be good girls? Wasn’t it good for the ‘cause’ for girls to be educated so that they could enhance the work of the ‘new order’? Abba had told her that Ali only read the Koran, Hadith and learned Muslim commentaries. Thinking about her brother again made her feel cold. What had he done? And why?
Another beep and Abu Imad continued his tirade.
First dancing and now this. What are you doing, Mishal? You think I can afford to waste my time with a girl who doesn’t know her own mind? I thought that we had something. I didn’t say because I didn’t want to frighten you. But you force my hand, Mishal. I have not slept since we spoke. Even though I haven’t see
n your face I look into your eyes and I know that you are for me. I don’t say this lightly. I am a great fighter, I’ve battled overwhelming odds for the Caliphate. Any number of girls would be honoured to be my wife. But I only want you. Maybe it’s because, in spite of being beautiful, young and clever, you are new in the religious life. I can help you! Together we can be the ultimate couple! Married people are given everything here. A flat with all furniture and appliances, we have some of the best doctors in the world, alhamdulillah! And if you want to develop your mind, you can do. Of course, looking after me will be your main job. But you will have servants to help you. When we capture unbelievers we make them our slaves.
Or kill them, Mumtaz thought.
You will have slaves, Mishal. They will do everything you don’t want to do. And they will give us time together as husband and wife. Tell me if you feel the same way, Mishal. If you don’t, then I will withdraw my proposal of marriage and mend my heart eventually. But if you do, please put me out of my misery and tell me.
Mumtaz wanted to throw up. The ‘time together as husband and wife’ clearly alluded to sex, while the ‘broken heart’ image was playing into every teenage sob story of doomed passion. And just to ice the cake he’d asked her to give him an answer to his proposal. What did she do now?
She began to type. But then she stopped. She should talk to Lee. But then would he know what Mishal would say next?
TWELVE
‘You what?’
It had been past midnight when Abu Imad had got back to her. He’d been out ‘on patrol’ looking for enemies of the caliphate. He said he’d found two. And killed them. Getting her answer on top of that had made his day. Now she was in the office, telling Lee.
‘I told him what he wanted to hear,’ she said.
‘That you’d marry him.’
‘Yes. He wants me to go out to him. He’s arranging it now. He says he will come and get me.’
‘Where?’
‘He doesn’t know yet.’
She knew what Lee was thinking. That it had all moved too fast. It was a speed that was alien to him.
‘Lee, a lot of people marry very quickly in his culture and in mine,’ she said. ‘In some communities the fact that he’s seen my photograph is enough.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘And when men are in organisations like ISIS it’s all the more likely,’ she said.
He had two small plastic bags in his hands. One contained the envelope the Tooth of Jonah had been sent in while the other was a small notebook from Fayyad al’Barri’s bedroom. He’d been telling her how he intended to get the handwriting analysed by an old mate who owed him a favour when she’d come out with this.
‘Mishal said she’d Skype him this evening,’ Mumtaz said. ‘He really wanted her to. I won’t do it without you. Not on Skype. Lee, he was going to run away. I had to stop him.’
She’d shown him everything.
Lee shook his head. ‘We’ll have to get a move on, then,’ he said. He looked at the plastic bags. ‘Have to drop these off to Harry today. You must try and persuade Abu Imad to come and get you from the UK, ideally.’
‘Did Abbas know anything about Fayyad’s girlfriends?’ she asked.
‘Only one as far as he knows. She was white British. Met her at uni. Didn’t last long.’ Then he said, ‘Has Mishal ever been abroad?’
‘Only with her family to see her grandparents in Pakistan.’
‘Is that common?’
‘Very,’ she said. ‘I went to France with the school when I was thirteen but I was lucky. My dad wanted us all to take every opportunity we could to expand our horizons. But I knew many, many girls like me who were not even allowed to leave their streets, except to go to school. Mishal comes from a liberal background but she’s no traveller.’
‘Mmm. We’ll need to plan your next encounter. Have all Mishal’s answers down pat.’
‘Yes.’
He was angry but he was also out of his comfort zone and he knew it. She had to guide him and he had to follow. She knew there were no ‘pat’ answers …
‘What about your brother?’
And now he was changing the subject.
‘Why’d the coppers search his house?’
‘They’re questioning those two boys he has lodging with him,’ she said. ‘It’s about that murder we had in the Lane. The one DI Montalban spoke to me about. But I didn’t see Ali. None of us did.’
‘Why was that?’
‘First he wouldn’t see us, then when they finished searching his house, the police took him away for further questioning,’ she said. She began to feel tears fill her eyes. ‘I know he didn’t hurt Rajiv-ji. He wouldn’t.’
She saw him make as if to rise, maybe to come over to her, and then sit down again.
‘I feel so guilty,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Because when I found out that the police knew about those boys Ali had staying with him, I knew that the Sheikhs no longer had that particular hold over me any more. But I didn’t anticipate this.’
Lee didn’t speak for a moment and then he said, ‘Look, I don’t know if I can find out any details for you. I don’t really know Ricky Montalban. But Vi does. I can give it a go.’
She looked up at him.
‘Please.’
Fucking aunties everywhere! Zayn had thought that Wapping was posh, but it was just more of the same. Asian aunties poking their noses, white scumbags yelling ‘Paki’ and that skank always on his balls. He didn’t mind Rashida going down on him, but he didn’t want to fuck her. Everyone had been inside her. Saggy old dog. And when she begged him, it was just uncool.
‘Have some fucking respect for yourself and for me,’ he told her whenever she tried to get him to. ‘Why I want your old pregnancy body, eh?’
It was getting tiresome. But where to go next? If he went back to his old man’s the feds’d take him in and he didn’t want that. Zayn opened Rashida’s front door.
‘Get me some fags, yeah?’ he heard her call from the bedroom.
He ignored her.
Outside on the walkway he saw one of the fat old aunties who lived next door hanging out washing. Fucking women! He’d get a face full of sari and old women’s wet bloomers. He pushed past. The old girl said something in Urdu that he didn’t understand. And then suddenly there was a man.
A young, clean-cut Asian. And he wasn’t alone. He had a load of white blokes with him. What the fuck?
‘Hello Zayn,’ Bob Khan said. ‘Your neighbours got a bit fed up with your sex noises.’
He tried to run, but when he went back through the washing the auntie had gone, only to be replaced by more coppers.
It took him a while to work out what the old man was looking for. Or rather who. He’d started coming into the shop about a month ago. Aftab Huq had never seen him before, although he knew he looked like someone. Then his old mate Sid in the fish and chip shop had told him.
‘That’s Wahid Sheikh,’ he’d said over chips and a fag out the back of Aftab’s convenience store. ‘That old crook Rizwan’s brother over from Pakistan.’
‘Really?’
‘Come to take over the family business now Rizwan’s gone funny in the head. Can’t get over that favourite son of his dying. Well, that’s what me missus told me.’
Sid’s wife was half Pakistani and enjoyed gossip in both the white and Asian worlds.
Sid knew that Aftab’s family had an issue with the Sheikhs, which was something to do with his cousin Mumtaz, but he didn’t know the whole story. Mumtaz’s stepdaughter Shazia had been present when some unknown man had stabbed Rizwan Sheikh’s son Naz to death. But she’d never been able to identify the assailant. After that, the Sheikhs had stopped coming into his shop – until now.
The old man came in for daft stuff that no one could ever really need. Jaffa cakes, chocolate bars, gummy bears and bottles of Fanta. It always took him a long time to locate what he wanted and Aftab had assumed he was a bit
demented. But then he’d seen him looking at Shazia. She worked in the shop three evenings a week and Wahid was clearly getting used to her shifts because he always seemed to be around at those times.
What did the old git want? Revenge? The Sheikhs blamed the kid for Naz’s death even though the police had proved she’d had nothing to do with it. But then the Sheikhs were a bunch of psychos.
Aftab had considered talking to Mumtaz about it after he’d spoken to Sid, but then he’d put it from his mind. Now, however, he felt he really ought to. Not that it was going to be easy. Mumtaz’s brother Ali was in some sort of trouble with the police and the whole family was in uproar. But if Shazia was in danger, he had to. But then, did Shazia already know? Whenever Wahid Sheikh came into the shop, she became very pale …
Baharat Huq stared at the floor. He’s rarely seen his eldest child cry. Certainly not since he’d become a man.
Ali had come to the house after being released by the police. The two boys he’d given shelter to were still in custody. Sumita had cried with joy when her son had hugged her. Now she was out with Asif buying food for a celebratory feast. Baharat was glad.
‘You should have come to me,’ Baharat said once Ali’s sobs had abated. ‘I would have counselled you. It is what fathers do.’
‘How could I? It’s a sin!’
Baharat closed his eyes. Ali was right. For a man to lie with another man was a sin. But it had always happened. There had even been men in his old village who had … One of them had been his Auntie Fatima’s son Ghalib. He’d always shimmied about in his mother’s perfume, but nobody ever said anything. Nobody ever stoned anyone or threw men off buildings like those ISIS people did. They just left such men alone.
‘I tried to stop it,’ Ali said. ‘I tried to think about girls. Do you remember when I was seventeen? I asked you to find me a wife?’
‘You were too young,’ Baharat said.
‘I was desperate to be normal!’
Bright Shiny Things Page 11
