by Hafsa Zayyan
If anything, he is sometimes envious of Jeremiah; at the same time, he is drawn to him because of the very qualities that cause that envy. Jeremiah works hard but doesn’t possess the self-indulgence to be perturbed by things that would bother Sameer. A chance to work with one of the studio’s most promising new artists had come up, but Jeremiah had no trouble saying no: he wouldn’t be able to work for the next few weekends because he’d be visiting a friend in hospital. The opportunity will come round again, he told Sameer. Sameer didn’t want to think about what would happen when his deal approached signing. He wished he could shrug things off as easily as Jeremiah and that his decisions – London or Singapore, Leicester or London, lawyer or businessman – did not have to feel like sacrifices.
‘So, have you told your parents about Singapore yet?’ Jeremiah asks as the train pulls into Leicester.
‘Um. Not yet.’
‘Aren’t you leaving in three months?’
Sameer shrugs as they collect their bags and get off the train. As the departure date has drawn closer, Human Resources have begun to send him more and more information. You will fly Singapore Airlines, business class. You get two 30kg suitcases and up to three 60kg trunks will be shipped separately – better start packing now! This is the serviced apartment that will be provided for up to the first four months while you settle in and find your feet – it comes with a cleaner, who will take the bins out, make your bed and press your clothes. A large blue pool smiled up at Sameer from the attachment to the email. Best of all, the serviced apartments are only a 15-minute walk from the office! When you are looking for somewhere to rent, please do endeavour to find somewhere just as close – remember, this will be a completely new office and so we will expect you to be fully committed to spending whatever time is necessary to build it from the ground up.
Those going to Singapore have been announced firm-wide: three partners and six associates. Although he recognises some of the names, Sameer doesn’t know any of them well, except for Chris. They will all be introduced to each other at the first Singapore team meeting over lunch next week. Sameer tries to imagine what Singapore will be like – he’s never been before, but he imagines warm, cloying air and the metallic smell of money. Weekend trips to Bangkok and Bali. He’ll make new friends and it will be a blast. But then he thinks about working closely every day with Chris.
‘None of it feels real yet,’ he says to Jeremiah as they leave the station. Sameer’s father will be waiting for them on the side street; he also wanted to visit Rahool.
‘I guess you’ve been pretty distracted by what’s going on with Rahool.’
‘Mmm. Anyway – obviously – do not mention it to my dad.’
‘Course not, mate – it’s your problem,’ Jeremiah says, flashing a smile as they turn the corner onto the side street.
For the first two weekends that they go back to Leicester, there is no improvement in Rahool’s condition. The swelling has gone down and Rahool’s face is no longer so contorted, but the bruising remains, patches of deepening darkness spread across his face in a distinctive pattern: eyes, cheeks, lower lip. Most of the time, Rahool’s parents are there. Sameer and Jeremiah talk about work and the weather and the news. A steady pile of magazines and books grows on the bedside table – for Rahool to read when he wakes up, because he will be bored. When Rahool’s parents are not there, the boys talk about the attack. They promise him that whoever did this will be brought to justice.
This weekend is no different. After visiting hours are over, and at his mother’s suggestion, Sameer invites Jeremiah to his house for dinner. Jeremiah – always keen to eat Sameer’s mother’s cooking – eagerly accepts. Jeremiah has not been to Sameer’s house for some time, but he does not forget the custom as he enters the door, removing his shoes and greeting each of Sameer’s parents, as well as Mhota Papa, who grunts in response.
Sameer’s mother smiles, giving Jeremiah’s shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s good to see you, beta,’ she says. ‘It has been far too long – now busy with all your music thing, eh?’
‘It’s good to see you too, thank you for having me. You know what it’s like, London,’ Jeremiah smiles apologetically as he shrugs off his jacket. ‘Very busy.’
‘Well, you are always welcome. It makes me very happy to know Sameer is still friends with such an old friend, just like Rahool.’
The boys retreat to Sameer’s bedroom, where they spend hours scouring the Internet for information about Rahool’s attackers. Sameer opens his laptop at the desk in his room; Jeremiah lies on the bed, using Sameer’s iPad. The attackers have been anonymised in press reports but Roy has given them a list of possible names and they search against each: Google, social media. Jeremiah asks Sameer if they can get access to these boys’ criminal records, and access to the police files on Rahool’s case. ‘You’re a lawyer, man, you should be able to work it out right?’ Sameer shakes his head, reminding Jeremiah that he’s a corporate lawyer. ‘Useless then,’ Jeremiah quips, and his headphones go back on. Sameer frowns, momentarily frustrated. He doesn’t know the first thing about the criminal justice system. When Jeremiah is not looking, he googles access to criminal records but the search returns nothing useful.
There comes the uncomfortable realisation that the tabloids offer much more content for those hungry for information – and whether or not it is true, Sameer wants to know what they say. He clicks through to the online articles and reads – Boy battered in ‘Paki-bashing’ gang-related attack; Violence erupts between gangs after postcode war attack on Muslim. The stories are wildly inaccurate: Rahool is not Pakistani, nor Muslim, nor was he in a gang. Sameer scrolls through the articles in disbelief, wanting to close the screen, yet drawn to the words; half disgusted, half curious. The article signs off and the comments section begins. ‘Jeremiah,’ he says slowly, ‘look at these.’
That is what happens when imigants come to this country and try to steal our jobs!!! (5,000 likes)
Poor boy but what did he expect going to that area at that time of night? (100 likes)
Payback time for Moslems. Don’t dish it if you can’t take it that’s all I can say (10,000 likes)
Is it me but are all the kids that get killed brown or black?? Doesn’t exactly look like a coincidence … (3,000 likes)
Sameer stares at the words on the screen. The pixels stare back unashamedly. He struggles to believe that 10,000 people agree that the attack on Rahool was some kind of justified retribution against Muslims.
‘Yeah, close it, I’ve seen enough,’ Jeremiah says, dismissing the screen and returning to the iPad. ‘Have you never read the comments section of the Daily Mail before?’
‘Um, no?’ Sameer responds, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen, continually scrolling to release more vitriol.
‘It’s always like that. That’s really what people think.’ Jeremiah looks up from the iPad. ‘Don’t you know that most tabloid readers think that your religion is barbaric? That fasting is oppressive and dangerous and stupid – for what possible reason would your God require you not to even drink water for a whole day?’
Sameer tucks a knee up to his chest and swivels the chair to face Jeremiah. ‘My God?’
‘Our God,’ Jeremiah concedes, smiling. ‘“By the Ahava Canal I proclaimed a fast so that I might humble myself before God.” Ezra – I forget the verse. But the pastor mentioned it during Ramadan, trying to encourage us to fast as well. I was like thanks, but I think I’ll leave the fasting to your lot!’
Sameer grins, impressed: he could not quote from the Quran the way that Jeremiah quotes from the Bible with such ease. Then again, the Bible is in English. He envies Jeremiah’s relationship with his faith; it conveys a comfortable sense of belonging. From Jeremiah’s neck, a cross hangs on a long chain, resting against his heart; he doesn’t often speak of Christianity, but he gives thanks for any success to God, and he still goes to church on Sundays with his mother when he is back in Leicester. Sameer pictures stained-glass windows
throwing coloured sunlight onto wooden pews and the majestic chorus of gospel, and wonders whether he might go with Jeremiah tomorrow.
That evening, after dinner and once Jeremiah has left, Sameer tells his parents that he wants to go to the mosque. Light flickers across his mother’s face; his father looks confused. ‘Of course you should go, beta,’ his mother says. ‘Your father can take you.’
‘I can’t – my knees,’ his father says, gesturing towards his excuses.
So Sameer goes alone: something he’s never done before. He can count the number of times that he has been to the mosque in the past five years on one hand – once a year at Eid. He recognises a few of the faces from the community; his face reddens when, surprised to see him, they ask him where his father is. At last, the melody of the adhan interrupts the chatter and the men stand to pray, shoulder to shoulder, rising and falling in harmonious unison. Something about the collegiality of it all reminds Sameer of his childhood. He tries to concentrate when the imam recites the words of the prayer, but they are words that he does not understand, and his mind wanders constantly to the image of Rahool, which makes him feel, annoyingly, like he is praying to Rahool.
After the prayer is over, Sameer remains kneeling, eyes closed, palms cupped, head bowed. He thinks: Please let Rahool be OK. There is then the odd sensation that if Rahool is not, it will somehow be Sameer’s fault, juxtaposed with a discordant, uncomfortable feeling that prayers do not work anyway if everything is preordained. He opens his eyes and stares at the calligraphy engraved in the walls of the mosque, able to read the words, but not understanding what they mean. Still, the beauty of the writing feels somewhere close to peace.
Back at work on Monday and Sameer has not shaved. Ryan asks him what’s up with the new look. ‘You look tired, man,’ he says as he takes a bite of toast covered in jam. He jabs at the keyboard and Sameer watches as the keys become slightly sticky.
‘Nah, I just couldn’t be bothered. I think I’m going to grow a beard.’
‘What?’ Ryan raises an eyebrow sceptically. ‘Why would you do that?’
Sameer shrugs. ‘Shaving is effort.’
‘So is keeping a beard – trust me,’ Ryan responds, turning back to his computer screen.
Chris’s reaction to Sameer’s stubble is what he expected – in a strange way, perhaps what he wanted by letting it grow out. They meet at the Singapore group lunch, which is in a meeting room in the office (the firm not willing to incur the costs of taking the group out); Chris is the only partner there, the others too busy to attend. Deb from human resources opens the meeting with a brief presentation about life in Singapore; the group are then asked to help themselves to the buffet while they ‘get to know each other’ over lunch. They stand in an awkward circle, chatting and eating. ‘What’s with the stubble, Sam?’ Chris asks, stuffing two cocktail sausages into his mouth.
‘I’m growing a beard.’
‘Not sure how that will go down,’ Chris retorts immediately. ‘Not going to be appropriate in front of clients really, is it?’
‘A lot of our clients have beards. It’s in fashion now.’
‘Yeah, but you’re not growing it for fashion, are you?’
‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,’ Sameer says calmly. ‘What other reason would I be growing it for?’
The room is suddenly silent. Deb clears her throat, making her presence known. Chris does not say anything and then one of the other associates says: ‘I don’t think Singaporeans are well known for facial hair, to be fair. You’d probably emasculate them!’
Chris laughs, and some of the other associates start to laugh, and the tension is diffused. Sameer does not laugh. He wants to walk over to Chris, grab him by the neck and smash his face into the hotplate of mini sausages. Arrogant prick. Instead, he smiles and forces himself to strike up conversation with one of the associates standing next to him.
The deal is approaching signing. Weekdays spill undistinguished into weekends and regular 3 a.m. finishes give Sameer’s days a dazed, dreamlike veneer. Time passes with unnerving speed.
The first weekend that Sameer does not go home Rahool improves. Sameer wonders fleetingly whether he is cursed or whether his prayers have worked; both are equally frightening. As he sits in the office in front of a computer screen, WhatsApp messages flash up repeatedly from Jeremiah with details. Ryan is not here this weekend and Sameer closes the door of the office and phones. Jeremiah tells him the details – signs of consciousness, movement in his eyes and his fingers. The doctors say that he had a bleed on the brain and that he has some permanent form of brain damage. He will be moved out of the intensive care unit and into a specialist ward for people with brain injuries. He will need to learn how to walk and talk properly again. Jeremiah tells him that it will be slow and take time. That Rahool will never be the same again.
After the call, Sameer sits there, stunned. He can see that he has a missed call from Chris on his mobile, but he doesn’t return it. He wants to process what he has just learned from Jeremiah; he wants to absorb every detail. Will Rahool ever go on a night out with them again? Will he be able to kick a football around a kitchen, or around a park? Will he even be able to work in the family business to which he so dutifully returned, or will it be his parents who end up looking after him for the rest of his life? Rahool’s parents – the Patels, who Sameer had always thought of as an extension of his own family, whose house he had spent countless afternoons playing in as a child; the Patels, his family’s first friends in England, with whom they shared Africa as the place they called home. A pain so strong that it makes his vision swim surfaces from these thoughts – but his mobile rings, breaking the silence in the room. It’s Chris again. He forces himself to stop thinking, takes a deep breath and answers the phone.
As the police investigation picks up pace, information about the attack filters through – the tabloids had not been so far off the mark; it was in fact gang-related. A retaliation by a white gang of youths on (as Roy puts it) the first Paki they saw after a white boy who was walking home from school had been beaten up by a group of Asian lads. The white boy had escaped with minor injuries, but a video of the incident had gone viral. And so it was payback time. It is said that the attack was completely random. Rahool could have been anyone – any Paki.
Rahool’s attackers appear in Leicester Crown Court charged with GBH. They plead not guilty and a trial, scheduled to last for three days, is set for the following week. Sitting in his office, Sameer stares at the wall until his eyes water. He doesn’t understand how the charge is not attempted murder.
Chris says that he is sorry, but it won’t be possible for Sameer to take the week off and go to the trial. Sameer tries to protest, but Chris is immovable, and to press the point would be to lose all self-respect. Inside, Sameer burns with the shame of being that friend who didn’t attend; it rises through him like stomach acid and makes him afraid to open his mouth for fear of what might come out if he has to speak to Chris. All of his family and friends will be there. He will be the only one who doesn’t go. If he had ever thought before that he hated Chris, he was wrong: now he knows what it really means to hate someone. The anger breeds defiance: fuck Chris – he could go anyway, no one could stop him. But doubt draws him back; if he does that, just simply fails to show up to work, then the team and the deal will suffer. He settles instead for resenting the situation that this job is putting him in.
The trial is reported to him through Jeremiah: as the defendants came to give evidence, they changed their plea to guilty. Reduced sentencing to take account of the guilty plea: five years, with eligibility for parole after two and a half.
This news is delivered through a WhatsApp message while Sameer is on a call with a team based in New York. He immediately wishes he had not been looking at his messages during the call – but he couldn’t resist checking for updates. Sameer asks his colleagues if they can reconvene in ten minutes as something urgent has come up. Avoiding Ryan’s enqu
iring gaze, Sameer goes to the toilets, where he locks himself in a cubicle and reads the messages over and over until a searing pain makes its way up his leg and he realises he has kicked the door of the toilet cubicle so hard that it’s opened and the lock is broken. He’s never felt this urge before, to do something – to protest, to demonstrate – anything to scream out at the injustice of it all. Rahool will be disabled for the rest of his life, while these thugs will be free within two and a half years? There is something so wrong with this that his brain cannot compute.
The deal signs the weekend after the trial, at 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning. In their sleep-deprived, dazed states, the opposing teams congratulate each other. The partner on the other side shakes Sameer’s hand with vigour and says loudly: ‘We’ve been very impressed with you, Sam.’ He looks over at Chris and winks. ‘Now, watch out that we don’t poach him from you!’ he gives a hearty laugh, which Chris does not return.
