SAIRISH HUSSAIN was born and brought up in Bradford, West Yorkshire. She studied English Language and Literature at the University of Huddersfield and progressed onto an MA in Creative Writing. Sairish completed her PhD in 2019 after being awarded the university’s Vice-Chancellor’s Scholarship. The Family Tree is her debut novel and she is now writing her second book.

The Family Tree

Sairish Hussain

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Sairish Hussain 2020

Sairish Hussain asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008297473

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008297459

For my grandmothers,

Anwar Jan and Riaz Begum.

Thank you for your warmth and wisdom.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Part One

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Part Two

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Part Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Part One

One

February 1993

He clutched the tiny bundle in his trembling arms, rocking gently back and forth, careful not to make a sound. The streetlamps were glowing outside. He could see the dull orange light burning through the misted window. It was 4 a.m. and Amjad wondered if he would get any sleep now. He doubted it. Sleep provided a merciful cover and it had been blown only a few moments before. The sound had travelled ruthlessly down the hallway, determined to trouble him. He considered turning over on the couch and placing something over his ears. His arm throbbed as he eased it from under his weight, and his fingers twitched longingly as he contemplated reaching out for a cushion.

Minutes later, Amjad plodded up the stairs. He dragged his feet, step by step, one arm using the banister to pull himself up, the other still throbbing and limp by his side. He paused for a moment, balling up his fist in determination. He needed all the strength he could muster, all the resolve in the world to reach the top of those damn stairs.

Five little fingers were now wrapped tightly around his pinky. His daughter’s face rested peacefully against him, her tiny chest rising and falling. Amjad had wrapped her up in his wife’s shawl and tried not to think of the disgraceful thoughts he had entertained just moments before. The ones where he’d wanted to block out Zahra’s frantic wails with a beige corduroy cushion.

Amjad held Zahra close. Even then, amidst all the pain, he could not help but smile as he looked at her. He had managed to soothe his newborn baby, despite desperately needing consolation himself. It was the first of a series of ‘moments’. For the next few weeks, Amjad would find himself comparing his two lives. The previous one, in which he could simply call out and his wife, Neelam, would come rushing into the room to assist. And this new one, where his voice would reverberate against the dark walls and disappear into nothing. They would never stand together over Zahra’s cot and exchange tired smiles, fingers interlocked as Neelam’s head rested on his shoulder. They would never shush each other as they eventually tiptoed back to bed, Neelam telling Amjad off for stepping on a creaking floorboard.

Amjad wiped his eyes. It had all changed. The mud under his fingernails proved that. Only yesterday he had thrown the earth into his wife’s grave and cried silently at the mosque beside her body. Now it was just Amjad. Amjad, rocking back and forth in a darkened room, clinging on to Zahra.

She would never know her mother. Her little face would never be cupped by Neelam’s hands. The tips of their noses would never touch. The injustice of it all crushed him and Amjad wanted to fight against it. Was there no one he could protest to or demand an explanation from? No complaints form, no senior institution he could persuade to overturn their decision, to let his wife live?

Amjad thought he saw a pair of eyes peeking through the bedroom door. It creaked open and ten-year-old Saahil teetered into the room. His long, uncombed hair shrouded his tiny face and his big, doleful eyes looked to Amjad, desperately.

‘Come here,’ Amjad whispered, arm outstretched.

Saahil walked closer and leaned in to his father. His shaky little hand gently stroked Zahra’s head. Amjad felt his heart break.

‘My beautiful little boy,’ he said as he enveloped his son. They all huddled together for some time. Zahra, wrapped in the silky smoothness of her mother’s shawl, and sleeping soundly against her father’s chest. Saahil, small and as fragile as a baby deer, struggling to take his first steps in a new world, a world without his mother. And Amjad, holding them all together. He must stop feeling sorry for himself, he thought. He was determined to protect his children from anything. Pain would have no place in his household. He would fling it out the door at its first appearance.

The dull orange glow shed light on the family’s silhouette in the darkened room. A raindrop slid down the window.

Two

February 1994

The nagging started a year after Neelam’s passing. As they approached the dreaded first anniversary, Amjad’s mother seemed to grow in confidence.

‘You need to marry again,’ she said, peering at him expectantly through her jam-jar glasses. ‘Are you listening to me?’

Amjad rolled his eyes. ‘Do you want to eat saag aloo tonight, Ammi?’ he asked, jumping up from the sofa and heading towards the kitchen.

Food was his second-best tactic at diverting the conversation of marriage. Running out of the room was the first. On this occasion, despite combining them both, Amjad knew he wasn’t going to get out of it so easily. His mother’s voice followed him into the kitchen. It grew shrill and spiky, almost as if it had developed fingers and clipped him around the ears.

‘Don’t change the subject,’ she snapped.

Amjad flinched at the sound. He knelt down and opened his cupboards. His scowl turned into a beam as he admired his fully stocked shelves. As soon as Ammi announced that she would be visiting, Amjad had rushed out to replenish the groceries. He didn’t want a repeat of what had happened on her last visit. She’d opened the cupboards to find nothing but baby food, sweet corn and an out-of-date tin of tuna. As expected, a rant had ensued.

This time, the kitchen was well stocked with fresh ingredients. Amjad reached in and sliced open a brand-new sack of potatoes. He eyed some tinned spinach but remembered that he’d bought a fresh bag for tonight’s supper. Ammi wouldn’t be impressed with anything that came out of a tin. He placed both items on the worktop and realised that Ammi was still talking.

‘The kids need a mother,’ she called out. ‘You can’t do it all by yourself.’

Amjad sighed and realised that Ammi wasn’t going to drop it. Reluctantly, he headed back towards the lounge and peered around the door. He saw his mother’s slightly magnified eyes focus on him through her glasses. She sat up straight, raring to go. Amjad took a seat opposite and watched her adjust the loosely draped scarf around her neck impatiently. He braced himself.

A year after Neelam’s passing was, according to Ammi, a reasonable timeframe in which to mention marriage. It was her way of being tactful. After all, it was the last first of that year. Each hurdle had been planned by Amjad to reduce the trauma for them all. He’d fretted over what to do for Saahil’s first birthday without his mum. An answer came in the form of Ehsan, Saahil’s best friend at school. They’d spent the day playing together at a trampoline park before ending with a sleepover at Ehsan’s house. It was for the best, to keep Saahil away from home. A home without Neelam. Amjad was quite sure that Saahil hadn’t completely forgotten about his mother’s absence on his birthday. He was, in fact, just better at surviving. Children always were, everyone told Amjad.

Eid was another major hurdle. As the day approached, Amjad just wanted to be as far away as possible. An empty home on Eid would feel like a betrayal to Neelam, but the smell of her cooking would not fill the rooms. There would be no samosas crackling as they entered the hot oil. Or lamb biryani steaming when removed from the oven. Neelam’s soft voice would not nag Amjad to smarten up his clothes for when the guests arrived. Or scold Saahil for making the living room untidy again. How, then, could Amjad spend Eid there?

Ammi seemed to offer a solution by inviting them to her house. She called Javid, Amjad’s brother, and ordered him to drive up from Birmingham to spend the day with them. Amjad, however, had received another invitation from one of his closest friends, Harun, who also happened to be Ehsan’s father. Despite Eid being a non-negotiable day of the year to spend with family, Amjad did the unthinkable and rejected Ammi’s offer. As expected, she hit the roof, scolding him for wanting to spend Eid with non-relatives. But there was a generosity in Harun’s invitation that Amjad was grateful for. It offered him exactly what he needed at the time: a complete and utter change. He wanted new conversation that didn’t involve pity for himself and his children. He wanted to eat food that was cooked by Harun’s wife, Meena, knowing it would taste different. He wanted Saahil to have an amazing time playing with his best friend. True, there wasn’t much to Eid except for excessive amounts of eating and tea drinking, but Amjad knew that if he had taken the children to Ammi’s house, they would all be searching for the only person missing in the sea of faces.

Every landmark Amjad came through felt like an achievement. But the anniversary of his wife’s death and daughter’s birth loomed over him as it drew nearer. He needed to cross over and guide his children through this final push. Almost like another birth, there was trauma, pain, a determination to squeeze through, and a great gasp of air. They would all come out on the other side, hurting but still alive.

‘Anyway, what about you?’ Ammi’s voice rang in his ears. ‘Do you want to end up all alone? You need someone you can grow old with.’

Amjad sighed. ‘I’m not going to marry a stranger from Pakistan and bring her over here to clean the house and look after my kids. They’ve got me and you, they don’t need anyone else.’

‘Well, I’m not going to live forever!’ Ammi screeched. ‘I’m an old woman.’

‘You’re only fifty-nine,’ Amjad laughed.

‘You don’t listen to anything I say,’ she said, ignoring him. ‘You won’t even let me move in and help you out.’

Amjad smiled patiently. He watched his mother peel pomegranates for Saahil who stuffed the seeds into his mouth quicker than they appeared on the plate. Every now and then, her henna-tipped fingers ran over his face affectionately. Amjad was pleased with how the bond between grandmother and grandson had strengthened over the past year. But he still needed to stand his ground on this subject.

‘Look, Ammi,’ he said, slightly tired of having to explain himself yet another time. ‘You’ve lived in the same house since you came to this country. You’ve got friends and neighbours, your own little community. It would be difficult for you to change homes after thirty years. Plus, I don’t want my house turning into a royal souvenir shop,’ he said, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Ammi had always been a staunch royalist. Royal memorabilia littered her home, most of which were gifts bought for her by Amjad’s father. Teapots, cups and saucers, plates, bowls, brooches, card holders for her bus pass, keyrings and even books she couldn’t read a word of. You name it, Ammi had it.

‘And anyway,’ Amjad continued after seeing the royal joke hadn’t gone down too well with his mother. ‘It’s good to stay independent for as long as you can.’

He really didn’t need another guilt trip for not letting his mother move in with him. As the eldest son, it was considered his duty to look after her in this way. Since his father had died a few years ago, Ammi was constantly reminding him of how old she was. It was a cunning little tactic that Amjad believed was quite popular amongst Asian parents. He’d recently exchanged notes with some of his friends to find out what their ageing mothers and fathers got up to. They were all familiar with the older generation’s mindset of being at death’s door at the age of fifty-five, and needing looking after.

‘Ah yes,’ Ammi retorted. ‘And I suppose when I can no longer stay independent you will chuck me into a nursing home like goray do away with their parents.’

‘Well, like I said, you’re fifty-nine. No care home would have you!’

Ammi glared at him. Amjad suppressed a smirk.

‘I really don’t know what the problem is,’ he said, deciding enough was enough. ‘You’re here quite a lot anyway. You stay overnight. I pick you up and drop you off whenever you want.’

Ammi argued back and although Amjad didn’t say it, the constant pestering was the main reason he didn’t want his mother living with them. Whenever she came over, she would settle herself down in her favourite spot, all fluffed up like a hen ready to roost. Her head darted with precision in all directions, and her beady eyes remained forever watchful. Maybe he was imagining things, but Amjad felt as though she was always waiting for some slight error to be made, evidence that he needed to marry again. After all, a woman would not put ketchup in the curry instead of using fresh tomatoes as Amjad often did. Or tie Zahra’s nappy the wrong way around. Although Amjad knew she meant well, the last thing he needed was to be pecked to death over silly mistakes. He would sigh with relief when he dropped the old woman off on her own doorstep, guilt stabbing at him as he drove around the corner and out of sight. Especially as he remembered how much he had relied on her during the months following Neelam’s death.

Had it not been for his mother, Amjad doubted he would have survived the shock. He knew his children craved a nurturing female presence, and only Ammi was able to provide that. Her warmth revitalised them whenever she entered the house. She swept through each room, dusting things down, lighting fires and throwing open curtains. Life returned to the home as Ammi’s voice rang through it. The children laughed and played. When Ammi took charge, Amjad would shuffle off into a corner, glad he no longer had to be the strong one.

And of course, there was Harun and Meena. Such was their friendship that Saahil had been with them the night Neelam went into labour. Harun’s cheery voice had answered Amjad’s call from the hospital. The expectation of good news diminished the moment Amjad told Harun that his wife had haemorrhaged after the delivery. Amjad could still remember the stuttering disbelief in his friend’s voice. He could still hear the muffled outburst of grief in Meena from the other end of the phone. They had reassured him that they would take care of Saahil for as long as he needed. And their support did not stop there.

As Amjad adapted to his new life without Neelam, he realised that he needed help with everything. If Ammi wasn’t there, then Meena was always on hand to teach him how to look after a newborn. She showed him the proper way to bathe an infant and how to mix the baby formula correctly. She was the first person Amjad would call late at night when Zahra cried and wouldn’t settle. Meena shooed Harun away to carry out other jobs. Amjad remembered staggering down the stairs on those first painful mornings without his wife. He’d find supermarket bags full of food on his kitchen worktop. He knew it was his friend, Harun, who had left them there during his daily school run with Saahil and Ehsan. Meena was always available to babysit the children. Harun was there in other ways. Amjad could call him up and jump into his taxi at any time. They would go for long, quiet drives. It was just what Amjad needed to clear his head. Harun never refused him or asked why. He just drove in silence.

Slowly but surely, Amjad was able to lift his eyes from the ground. Ammi, Harun and Meena had got him through the last twelve months and now, he had developed a pretty decent system. It took time, with many accidents and failures along the way. Saahil had adjusted to his new role and was always on stand-by whenever Amjad attended to Zahra. Nappies, baby bottle, dummy, he ran to fetch whatever Amjad ordered. When Zahra began crawling, Saahil followed her around the room as she scuttled between table legs and put random objects into her mouth. He stood patiently against the kitchen door as Amjad was known to forget about the shuffling baby and fling it open from the other side. Now that Zahra was trying to walk, Saahil would distract her as his father ironed his school uniform and tidied the house.

Making dinner was also a joint effort. Unlike Neelam’s finely chopped onions and selected spices added to the curry in a timed manner, Amjad just threw it all in and hoped for the best. He’d never really cooked before in his life and had initially turned for help to Ammi who was delighted with an opportunity to boss him around.

‘Remember to brown the onions!’ she’d shout at him from the lounge.

Fifteen minutes later, Amjad would empty fragments of charred onion into the dustbin. How brown were they supposed to be? Ammi just had a knack for things. He didn’t. He’d quickly hide the burnt pan in a cupboard and pull out another one before Ammi waddled into the kitchen to inspect his progress. He preferred learning how to cook at Ammi’s house. She would eventually get impatient and send him off to watch TV. She’d rustle something up in no time, and fill some Tupperware for him to take home. On these days, Saahil would eagerly run down to the roti shop a few streets away and buy four chapattis for a pound. Of course, the days Amjad could not muster the energy to cook, he would get some fish and chips for dinner or simply reach out for the faithful can of Heinz beans, always available to throw over some toast.

No shop-bought rotis were allowed in the home if Ammi was around. She would knead the dough and roll out the chapattis herself. Amjad would tear off a small piece and give it to Zahra to nibble on. It was, however, another opportunity for Ammi to check his cupboards, which almost never met her standards.

‘No ginger!’ she’d remark. ‘How can you make curry with no ginger?’

Twelve months later, though, this was becoming Ammi’s biggest weapon to use against him. The lack of garlic or ginger only suggested one thing:

‘See, this is why you need a woman in the house,’ she’d squawk. ‘And if not me, then it’s time you got married again!’ Amjad would block his ears.

‘So,’ he said, glancing at Ammi with the hope that the conversation of marriage was over. ‘Is saag aloo okay then?’

Ammi sniffed and began muttering under her breath. Amjad grinned and went back to the kitchen, as if to get started. Instead, he stood by the sink and stared out of the window. After taking a year out from work, tomorrow Amjad would return to his job as a warehouse operative on a part-time basis. He would drop Saahil off to school and Zahra off at Ammi’s in the mornings and be home by noon. His return to work felt like definitive proof that his family were now more than just managing. Saahil no longer stared into the distance, still and despondent. He was actually excited to start secondary school. The offer letters notifying them of which school he’d been placed in would be arriving in the post in the coming weeks. And Zahra was beautiful. She was taking her first steps and saying words other than ‘dada’. Amjad was still going to be their father, but also a man who worked and had his own independence. A year later, and Amjad realised that there were other things to think about now.

Neelam was still a part of their lives, but her love manifested itself in other ways. The shawl she had grabbed and wrapped around her shoulders on the night of Zahra’s birth remained a constant presence in their daughter’s life. It was the last item of clothing that Neelam had snatched from the bed, just as the contractions grew in strength. The last source of comfort his wife had felt, the last bit of fabric her fingers had caressed. It was the same shawl that Amjad wrapped his newborn inside, on the night after Neelam’s burial. It was a silk-blend pashmina shawl sent to Neelam from her mother in Pakistan. Against a teal blue backdrop, a border of mustard yellow florals snaked their way around the fabric. The shawl was finished with a heavy yellow fringe on either side. Amjad was determined to keep it as close to Zahra as possible, almost as though it was a gateway to Neelam’s love. Now, she wouldn’t settle without it.

One day, Amjad held up the shawl against the sunlight. The images on the pashmina changed and took on a new life, like the stories found in stained-glass windows. A mustard-coloured blossom tree stretched the length of the shawl. Silhouettes of small birds flitted from branch to branch. Amjad peered further and placed the symbols in his own mind. Now, a year later, and all he had to do was point to each bird.

The two small ones at the bottom of the tree, facing one another.

‘Me… Saaheeee,’ Zahra would say.

Another bird, standing on the same branch, but some distance from the first pair.

‘Ehsi.’

A larger bird, flying high, with its wings spread protectively.

‘Dada.’

Higher still, and a rather plump one that could easily have been dozing.

‘Ammi.’

‘And this one Zee…’ Amjad would ask eagerly. ‘What about this one?’

It was the lone bird situated right at the top of the tree, the silhouette of its beak facing down. Amjad would hold his breath, hoping she’d remember.

‘This one?’ he’d ask again.

Zahra would usually take her time, unable to put a face to the name. She’d always get there in the end though.

‘This… my mummy.’

Three

The theatre with its elegant domes and imposing columns was the first structure that welcomed people into the city. As they swerved past and through the series of roads which would lead them out of the centre, it gave them a false sense of grandeur to the city they were about to enter. The theatre appeared out of place. It didn’t look as if it belonged there. It was too flamboyant, too flashy for such a simple town. Derelict factories and abandoned warehouses eyed the building enviously from afar. Whenever Amjad drove past the theatre, he felt ashamed because in his thirty-five years of life, he’d never actually been inside. Nor had any of his neighbours or colleagues. People like him didn’t go to the theatre. He assumed posh folk from nearby towns like Leeds, York and Harrogate were the most frequent visitors. People who regularly spent evenings at the theatre. Saahil had been once with a school trip to see the pantomime. He’d been nagging Amjad ever since to take him again. Amjad insisted he would, if and when he had the time.

Reminders of a glorious past were evident everywhere. The city housed an old factory which was once the largest silk and velvet manufacturer in the world. Amjad read about it in the newspaper when it had recently closed down. It surprised him that a mill town in Yorkshire could have such significance. It made him appreciate the forlorn-looking building more. The only impact it made now was its imposing, smokeless chimney that could be seen from almost every spot in the city. Even now, it was an impressive structure, built in the ‘Italianate style’ the newspaper informed him.

Amjad was parked opposite the mill now, waiting for Saahil and Ehsan to come out from another blackened gothic building: their primary school. It looked like it may have been a church in the olden days. Now though, it sat in a parade of shops including a halal butcher, a travel agent offering Hajj and Umrah packages, and plenty of windows displaying mannequins wearing glittery salwar kameez.

Amjad watched as Saahil and Ehsan pulled off their blazers and heaved their rucksacks from their backs. They ran towards his rust bucket of a car, smiles erupting on their faces as they spotted Zahra gurgling away in the baby seat next to him. Amjad set off and took a right turn down a long street. Within seconds, he was in his old neighbourhood. After all, where there was a factory, there was living accommodation built for its workers. It was almost a maze. One street after another with rows and rows of terraced houses. Amjad headed straight into the puzzle, stopping at one give way after the next, braking harshly to allow other cars to pass through the narrow streets. He drove past littered back alleys filled with scraggly children. Patterned salwars hung from washing lines. Tracksuit-clad youths stood around outside grimy kebab shops. Amjad sighed with relief. Thank God we got away from here, he thought once again. He checked his rear-view mirror, the crown of the factory’s chimney still visible. Saahil and Ehsan were sitting in the back, tugging at their school ties and whispering away in hushed voices. Amjad craned his neck and tried to listen in on their conversation. He caught Ehsan’s eye.

‘Ask your dad,’ Ehsan said, nudging Saahil. Saahil cleared his throat.

‘Abbu, what’s so good about the other school, the one you wanted us to go to?’

Amjad sighed. The long-awaited school admission letters had arrived at the beginning of the month. When Amjad had opened Saahil’s, he was devastated to see that his son had been placed in the local failing comprehensive, the one he’d dreaded him going to. Ehsan’s letter revealed the same fate. It was only a mile away from the school Amjad wanted the boys to attend, another comprehensive but one with a much better reputation. There was no complicated selection process, no exam, no interview. All offers were to be made based on the pupil’s catchment area. It didn’t matter then, that Amjad had worked seven-day shifts to save up enough money to move his family away from what was known as the ‘Paki ghetto’. He couldn’t exactly change his child’s skin colour. He’d said this bitterly to Harun. Not that either of them let Saahil and Ehsan hear them. They didn’t want the boys to start thinking like that at such a young age.

‘That one’s for white people,’ Ehsan said, without waiting for an answer.

Amjad jerked the car with surprise.

‘We haven’t got a place there coz we’re Pakis. Think about it. All our goray mates have got in.’

Saahil looked confused. ‘But how can there not be any white kids at this other school?’

‘Oh yeah, there will be,’ said Ehsan. He leaned closer to Saahil and whispered, ‘Council estaters.’

‘Ehsan,’ said Amjad, frowning in the mirror. Kids these days are so smart, he thought, trying his best to appear shocked at his statement. He saw Ehsan shrink back in his seat.

‘Sorry, Uncle,’ he said. ‘But I’m just sayin’… It’s true.’

‘What did I say to both of you the other day?’ Amjad said, stopping at some traffic lights. ‘At least you’ll be together. And if you work hard, you can succeed anywhere. You just need to really concentrate and… and try.’

‘What does “special measures” mean again, Abbu?’ asked Saahil.

‘It just means the school is erm… struggling… a bit,’ Amjad said, choosing his words carefully.

‘Hmmm,’ said Saahil, not sounding too fussed. ‘At least we can mess about at this crappy school.’

‘Saahil!’

‘I’m just joking, Abbu.’

‘We can’t mess about,’ Ehsan said, his face scrunched up with worry. ‘You know what my dad’s like. He says I’ll end up washing dishes at a restaurant if I don’t study hard.’

‘He’s right. And you,’ Amjad said, pointing to his son in the backseat, ‘you’ll be stacking shelves at Morrison’s. That’s what happens if you don’t concentrate at school. Look at me: if I’d listened to my dad and studied properly, I’d be a lawyer or a pharmacist now.’

Saahil nodded dutifully. Ehsan continued frowning.

‘I don’t wanna be a shelf-stacker,’ he said. Amjad saw Saahil grin and roll his eyes.

‘As if that’s gonna happen,’ he whispered into Ehsan’s ear.

Amjad smiled to himself approvingly as he parked up outside his house. Here it was, the home he had inhabited for less than six months with his wife. After struggling to conceive again for nine years, Neelam had announced her second pregnancy to much jubilation. Amjad was determined to make a fresh start. He could see the area they lived in deteriorating further and wanted better for his family.

They couldn’t move too far away as they needed to be close to a mosque. Amjad had always skipped his lunch break on Friday afternoons to pray the special Jummah prayers. Men poured into the mosque at noon, sometimes accompanied by their young sons whose floor-length robes flapped around at their ankles. Fathers and sons walked together; Saahil with Amjad, Ehsan with Harun.

The best he was able to afford at the time was a charming terraced house less than two miles and a fifteen-minute drive from their old place. It was further away from the city centre. As Amjad drove through, the takeaways became less visible, the streets became greener. There were English families on the street too, as well as black and Indian, fulfilling Amjad’s hope of living in an area where his children would play with kids of different backgrounds. Not that everyone was so welcoming. Amjad remembered being glared at by their elderly white neighbour on the day they had moved in. He’d almost mouthed ‘sorry’ as he’d carried a cardboard box apologetically through the door, a pregnant Neelam following him. At her insistence, Amjad placed two hanging baskets at each side of the door. He sometimes still imagined her standing by the doorway, scarf draped loosely over her head, one arm extended to arrange the flowers and the other placed protectively over her baby bump.

Amjad thought about quickly shoving some fish fingers into the oven for the boys’ dinner when a taxi pulled up behind them. It was Harun.

‘Sorry, I got held up in traffic,’ he said, smoothing down his creased shirt.

‘You didn’t have to rush,’ Amjad replied, unstrapping Zahra from her car seat. ‘Anyway, come in, we’ll have a cup of tea.’ They all went inside.

Harun still helped Amjad with school runs to save him from dragging little Zahra out in the cold. Saahil could walk home as the school wasn’t far, but Amjad didn’t like the idea of him sauntering home with the rest of his friends, kicking discarded takeaway cartons in his path and replying to racist graffiti on the walls. Besides, Harun’s increased help since Neelam’s death had become a regular opportunity for a cup of tea. As much as Amjad loved his children, it made a nice change not to have to gurgle away in baby language to Zahra twenty-four-seven, or have to tell Saahil off again for banging his football against the wall. Harun’s company always relieved Amjad of the bitterness he felt at being a widowed dad who constantly changed nappies, prepared baby food, ironed uniforms and made dinner. Harun reminded Amjad he was still a young man who could obsess over cricket and football scores, talk about cars and share Bollywood music cassettes. He was Amjad’s contact with his previous life.

‘Keep it down,’ Harun shouted at Saahil and Ehsan as Amjad prepared the tea. They always saved their meetings to make proper Pakistani chai, not the watery English tea they usually drank for quick convenience. Harun stood in the kitchen with Zahra in his arms as Amjad boiled the milk in a pan and threw in a few teaspoons of loose Yorkshire Tea, lots of sugar, cardamom pods and some cinnamon sticks. When it was ready, they both settled on to the couch as Saahil and Ehsan played with Zahra.

‘Ah!’ Harun shouted, making them all jump. ‘I notice a new marking on your door.’

Amjad glanced back and grinned. ‘Yep, we had a ceremony on her birthday a few weeks back.’

Harun was of course referring to the first foundations of a growth chart inked into the kitchen door. Saahil was the first to be marked on his tenth birthday. Neelam was alive then, and they had just moved into the new house. She’d held the ruler against the top of Saahil’s head and Amjad had made the marking in a blue felt tip pen.

Saahil, 10 yrs, 14/09/92

He was precisely fifty-five inches. Ehsan had been eyeing the chart enviously ever since and so, a couple of months later, on his birthday, Amjad had done the same. The marking was made on the same side of the door, as the boys wanted to race each other up the wall.

Ehsan, 10 yrs, 01/12/92

He groaned when he realised he stood at just fifty-two inches and vowed to come back stronger, and taller, next year.

A couple of weeks ago on Zahra’s first birthday, Saahil insisted on marking her height too. Amjad forced a smile and thought of Neelam as he held Zahra against the opposite side of the kitchen door. Saahil made the marking with a pink felt-tip pen.

‘Keep her head straight, Abbu!’

And there it was, written in slightly shaky handwriting:

Zahra, 1 yr, 20/02/94

She was a healthy twenty-nine inches.

After admiring the growth chart, Harun glanced at Amjad, who had suddenly gone very quiet.

‘You’re not still worrying about the new school are you, Amjad?’ he asked, slouching over his mug, the bad posture gained from his job as a taxi driver.

‘No,’ Amjad lied. Harun raised an eyebrow at him.

‘They’re both clever boys,’ he reassured. ‘They’ll be fine.’

Amjad looked unconvinced. ‘I know they are, but the school’s reputation…’

‘They’re getting a new head teacher,’ Harun reminded him. ‘And apparently it’s someone who’s already transformed one of the schools in the area. I did tell you that, didn’t I? Try to be a little optimistic, will you?’

‘Sorry, but I can’t. I just have a bad feeling about the whole thing.’

‘Amjad,’ Harun said, impatiently. ‘I don’t know what your problem is. You need to stop worrying.’

Amjad bit his tongue. Maybe you don’t have to worry, mate, he thought as he watched Harun sipping his tea. Harun carried an ordinary man’s burdens. Bills, mortgage, work problems. But at least he had a lovely wife at home who he could talk to. Somebody who could share the worrying with him.

Harun continued: ‘You were born here and can help your boy. Look at me…’ He paused for a moment, keeping one eye on Amjad as he grinned. ‘I still sign my name with a thumbprint.’

Amjad laughed along with him, feeling slightly guilty for his negative thoughts. Harun came to England when he married Meena. After receiving just a basic village education, Harun had worked in a cotton mill before taking up taxi driving. He struggled with his English sometimes and mostly conversed with Amjad in Urdu. Not because he didn’t understand the language at all; Ehsan was constantly blabbering away in English to his father, but Amjad sensed Harun was too embarrassed to speak it in case he got it wrong. Or maybe because of what his accent would sound like.

‘Yeah, well,’ Amjad began, trying to justify himself. ‘I was never clever enough at school. We didn’t have much money either growing up. Just took whatever job was available.’

If Harun’s feet hurt from pounding at the pedals in his taxi all day, then Amjad’s shoulders ached from stacking heavy boxes at the warehouse. He didn’t want that for Saahil. And he knew Harun didn’t want that for Ehsan.

‘It’s not like that for our boys,’ Harun reminded him. ‘Times have changed. Insha’Allah, they’ll both make it to university. You wait and see.’

There was no doubting the boys were good academically. Amjad watched them on occasion working through their homework together. They sat with open books facing them, brows furrowed as they tackled difficult sums. They seemed to bounce off each other. Throwing sassy remarks in each other’s direction in a far more intelligent way than when Amjad was their age. He couldn’t have chosen a better best friend for Saahil himself. It also seemed as though his regular outbursts of ‘you don’t want to end up like me’ had had some impact. Saahil actually wanted to do well at school. So did Ehsan. Amjad overheard them a few times speaking of what they would do once they ‘got rich’. He smiled as he eavesdropped on their big plans. They consisted of nothing more than driving fancy cars for the time being, but it didn’t matter. Amjad held on to that flicker of ambition, he wanted to nurture it, to tell Saahil he could do and be anything he wanted. In fact, it wasn’t that Amjad worried Saahil wouldn’t try hard on his own despite being shunted into a failing school. His insecurities were more personal. He just didn’t want to mess up.

It was one thing feeding and clothing your kids, and another making sure they were well prepared in life. If he could just make it until they were old enough to look after themselves, he’d be happy. If he could just witness the lives they would go on to create for themselves, he’d be content. If all he could do was encourage hard work and determination in Saahil, it was enough. After all, if he popped his clogs unexpectedly, then at least Saahil would be well-equipped to look after his baby sister.

Amjad felt silly worrying over the timing of his ultimate demise. But death just took people. He’d seen that for himself. The thought of his children alone and unsupported choked him up with fear. He needed to raise them well and give them everything they would need to be okay, for Neelam’s sake.

Amjad knew that when he did eventually join his wife in that other place, he wanted to be able to meet her eyes when he got there.

Four

September 1994

Saahil’s heart sank as he watched his Abbu peer into the rear-view mirror. A parallel park was about to take place just outside his new school. They were gridlocked, with cars jam packed in all corners. Some parents braked in the middle of the road and let their children go free in the morning rush hour. Not Abbu, though. Since they had started secondary school a week ago, Abbu made sure he found a parking spot every day. He wouldn’t let Saahil and Ehsan go anywhere without a daily ‘Be Good’ lecture. Saahil knew that Ehsan was thinking the same. He had slumped slightly in his seat, knowing what was to come. Abbu would tell them to concentrate in class. To keep their heads down. To report anything suspicious to teachers. Not to answer back to bullies. To be kind and helpful to all. It was basically a masterclass in how to get your arse kicked in.

Abbu tugged at the handbrake before turning around to face Saahil and Ehsan who were sitting in the back seat. Zahra gurgled away happily in the front.

‘We know, Abbu,’ said Saahil, before his father was able to speak.

Abbu smiled. ‘All I was going to say was that if you see Mr Dixon, pass on my regards.’

Ehsan tried to keep a straight face. He pulled up the collar of his blazer to shield his smirk. Saahil rolled his eyes.

‘He won’t even remember you, Abbu.’

‘Of course he will. We had a brilliant discussion yesterday.’

The school had hosted a ‘welcome meeting’ for new parents the night before. Ehsan’s mum and dad were unable to attend, which meant that Saahil had to endure the whole thing alone with Abbu. They all sat together in the bland school hall, which made Saahil feel like as though he was waiting for assembly to begin. It was even worse. The evening basically consisted of teachers trying their best to convince the new parents that the school wasn’t as much of a shit tip as they had heard. They gave one boring presentation after the next and depicted pie charts of progression coupled with empty slogans about ‘determination’ and ‘excellence’. That sort of thing.

‘Any questions, please ask!’ they shouted in their shrill, overenthusiastic voices.

A session of mingling occurred, and of course, Abbu headed straight for the principal. Saahil stood around like a spare part, smiling occasionally whenever Abbu motioned towards him proudly. Mr Dixon nodded patiently as Abbu listed off all his concerns. Saahil wasn’t really listening, but he heard random snippets of his father’s rant about the ‘quality of teaching’ and ‘student behaviour’.

‘I mean, how is it going to affect our kids’ futures when colleges find out they’ve been educated in a special measures school?’ Abbu had asked. ‘And what can we as parents do to help?’

Mr Dixon nodded his bald head sympathetically before quietly taking out a piece of paper from his pocket. He made a spectacle of unfolding it and smoothing out the creases.

‘Names,’ he’d said, before pausing for effect. ‘We’ve only been back at school for a week, and these are the names of nine pupils I just expelled this morning.’

Abbu’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Even Saahil was transfixed.

‘They were caught fighting with knives on the premises.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have experience in this, Mr Sharif, and I run a tight ship. I promise you,’ he’d leaned forward dramatically, ‘I will turn this school around.’

Abbu was sold. Since then, he’d not stopped talking about his discussion with the glorious new head teacher. He beamed as he unlocked the car doors, looking more relaxed than Saahil had seen him in a while, and motioned for him and Ehsan to get out.

‘Bye, Zee,’ said Saahil, reaching into the passenger seat and squeezing Zahra’s plump little hand.

Once Abbu was out of earshot, Ehsan turned to Saahil. ‘If you see Dixon, don’t pass on your dad’s regards unless you’re alone and there’s no one else around who can hear you.’

‘Yeah, I know, I’m not stupid,’ Saahil sulked. ‘Dixon probably won’t even remember him. How many parents did he meet yesterday?’

‘Everyone’s getting carried away,’ Ehsan began, swinging his rucksack over his back. ‘The school’s not thaaat bad. They’re just making it into a big deal.’

They walked past the sixth-form centre, a small one-storey block that was separated from the rest of the school building, and saw a group of older boys smoking outside the entrance. They towered over Saahil and Ehsan and turned to face them as they approached. Saahil immediately noticed the difference in uniform. He and Ehsan were dressed immaculately. They looked like perfect posters boys for the school. Sharp black blazers, crisp white shirts and black and red stripy ties. Judging by Ehsan’s lethal side parting, Auntie Meena had even attacked his hair with a wet comb.

None of the older lads were wearing blazers. They wore mismatched black jumpers that were without the school logo. Sleeves were rolled up casually. Some did not wear ties and others had them hanging down by their chests, shirts unbuttoned. The boys slouched against the door of the sixth form and followed Saahil and Ehsan with their eyes.

‘You two in Year Seven?’ asked one of them through a puff of smoke escaping his mouth.

Saahil nodded.

They all looked at each other and chuckled. Saahil and Ehsan passed them quickly but heard one of the boys drawl, ‘Fockin’ get smaller and smaller every year, don’t they?’

They headed into the tired-looking school block that was almost as drearily decorated as a hospital. It hadn’t stepped out of the Seventies with its cream walls, brown furniture and creaky staircases. The boys pounded up to the top floor within seconds and joined the back of the queue for their Maths lesson. Maths first thing on a Tuesday morning wasn’t so bad. Partly because it was the subject that Saahil and Ehsan were best at. Not that their new teacher had noticed. Mr Ali would refer them to the correct page of a textbook and spend the rest of the lesson yawning and stretching behind his desk.

According to the seating plan which had been devised a few days earlier, Ehsan was to sit directly in front of Saahil. As expected, Mr Ali gave them a page number and told them to get on with it. He leaned back on his chair and reached out for his telephone. The students nudged each other and waited for the familiar pattern of Mr Ali’s morning routine: a phone call to his wife.

‘Forgot to ask,’ he mumbled as he scratched his protruding belly. ‘What you making today?’

A muffled voice spoke at the other end of the phone.

‘Oh no, not daal again,’ he snapped. ‘How about…’

‘Aloo gobi, sir?’ a boy shouted from the back of the room.

Mr Ali jumped as the class burst into laughter. His face reddened as he slammed down the chunky white receiver and told them all to be quiet. Ehsan swivelled around to face Saahil, grinning. He always did this so that the two of them could work through the sums together.

‘This looks like a hard one,’ he said, squinting at the fraction.

Saahil had already tackled it. He pushed the book towards his best friend. ‘Quick, copy my answer.’

Ehsan did. ‘Nice one,’ he said.

‘What do you think to number two?’ Saahil asked, looking up from his workbook. He noticed that Ehsan was distracted.

Following his gaze, Saahil spotted the gaunt, pale figure of Kyle, a boy they knew from primary school. He remembered the time when Kyle had stood almost nose to nose with him and snarled in his face, ‘My dad said that your granddads came over here to work in the mills and factories, they came over here to do our dirty work.’

Since the new school was overwhelmingly Asian, Saahil had noticed the same white kids had now lost their bravado. They looked uncomfortable most of the time and were still adjusting to being a minority. Kyle was one of those unlucky ones who had been shunted into the school ‘full of Pakis’. He lived in the surrounding council estate and had lost the geographical lottery, just like the rest of them.

‘Times have changed, haven’t they?’ whispered Saahil, noting that Kyle was now the only white boy in the Maths lesson. It just wasn’t in his nature to have to pretend not to exist. That would still take some getting used to.

‘Don’t think Kyle will be a problem anymore,’ Ehsan muttered. ‘What d’ya think?’

Saahil thought back to the few timid white faces he’d encountered over the past week. ‘Don’t think any of them will be.’

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr Ali stand up lazily and reach for his red pen. The marking ritual was about to begin. Their teacher would make his way around the class, hovering over each pupil like a big bug, his insect-like tentacles jabbing ticks and crosses against each student’s work.

‘Shit,’ Ehsan said. ‘We’re only on question two!’

Mr Ali spotted him. ‘Oi, turn around and face the front. I won’t tell you again!’ he yelled, sending Ehsan swivelling back round to his own desk.

When Saahil hurried out of the classroom door, Ehsan was already waiting for him. They sprinted down three flights of stairs and out of the school building. The boys headed for the main gate with the rest of the crowd, expecting Abbu’s car to have already arrived promptly at 2.55 p.m. This time though, it wasn’t there. The boys hung around for an extra fifteen minutes, growing restless as cars came and students disappeared into them.

‘Could have walked and been home by now,’ Ehsan sulked. No sooner had the words escaped his lips than Uncle Harun’s silver Toyota Corolla screeched to a halt in front of them.

‘Hurry up,’ he shouted, as Saahil and Ehsan scrambled into the car as quickly as they could. ‘I have another school run scheduled in ten minutes.’

The boys belted up as Harun set off in haste. He didn’t get very far. The taxi joined the nicely forming queue of cars that were inching their way out of the road. He sighed and dropped his shoulders.

‘That’s me late for Thomas,’ he said, referring to the school boy he was contracted to pick up and drop off home every day.

‘Where’s my Abbu?’ asked Saahil.

‘Held up. Your sister had a… ahem… accident in the car seat just as he was about to set off for you both.’

‘Well, I don’t know why you don’t just let us walk home,’ Ehsan began. ‘Then none of you would be rushing around like maniacs.’

‘You can once you’ve settled in,’ Uncle Harun replied.

‘“Settled in?”’ Ehsan mouthed to Saahil before shaking his head in disbelief.

Saahil made a face in agreement, and wondered when the fussing over the new school would stop. Uncle Harun raced out of the junction, earning him a few horn blasts from angry drivers.

‘Oh, bugger off,’ he mumbled.

‘Can Saahil come to ours?’ Ehsan asked his dad.

‘Yes, of course.’

The boys grinned at each other. Within five minutes, they were driving down the familiar sloped street of small semi-detached houses. Some were red-bricked, others were painted white. No autumn colours were present along the road, as all the houses had solid concrete gardens and brightly painted doors, red, green, blue and black. Harun swerved around potholes causing Saahil and Ehsan to bump into each other, laughing. He braked sharply.

‘Right, out you get… Quick! Quick!’

The boys scrambled out and Ehsan grabbed the house key from his father’s hand.

‘Go eat something or… something,’ Harun said. ‘Yep. Bye.’

He made to pull away before stopping to wind down the window.

‘You mum will be home at four o’clock,’ he shouted through it.

‘Okay,’ Saahil and Ehsan said together. Saahil felt stupid immediately. He wasn’t the one being addressed. It stopped him in his tracks, and he realised how much he missed being told the same thing by Abbu. That his mother would be home soon. Or home waiting for him. Saahil’s face reddened with embarrassment and he hoped Ehsan hadn’t noticed the mishap.

Uncle Harun set off down the street, disappearing behind the cars that lined the pavement. Saahil looked on as Ehsan pretended to be really interested in watching the taxi reach the end of the road. A few seconds passed by before he turned to Saahil.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, quietly.

‘Yeah… fine.’

Ehsan nodded enthusiastically without making eye contact.

‘Let’s go attack the biscuit drawer then,’ he said, throwing his arm around Saahil.

They set off together towards the red-bricked house, crossing through the wobbly fence that was missing a gate. Ehsan entered the key into the emerald green door and turned the lock. They bustled inside, Saahil’s eyes still adjusting to the newly decorated living room. Despite the pastel blue that tinged the room, there were contrasting patterns everywhere. Auntie Meena had gone to much effort to pick out the flowery wallpaper, the navy frilly curtains, the cornflower blue striped carpet and the paisley patterned settees. Saahil and Ehsan threw their bags and coats on to a heap in the middle of the floor. Without taking off their shoes, the boys headed straight for the kitchen through a sliding pine door.

The decor calmed down slightly in the kitchen which was mostly white and beige, but Saahil spotted some ivy stencilling on the tiles around the windows.

‘Did Auntie do this?’ he asked, running his fingers over it.

Ehsan nodded.

Saahil watched as his friend filled the kettle with some water. He stood on his tiptoes and arranged two mugs on the worktop. After adding teabags, he waited patiently with his arms folded as the water began to boil. He reached for the sugar canister and added generous teaspoons into each cup, spilling the tiny white particles all over the beige kitchen worktop.

‘Oops,’ he said, with a giggle.

Saahil busied himself with rummaging through the large biscuit tin. He pushed aside cream crackers and chocolate chip cookies until he found what he was looking for – a packet of Fox’s Sports shortbread biscuits. Ehsan grinned with delight and carried both cups of tea into the living room. They sat down on the settee with a thud and set the tea on the table. Ehsan tore the packet of biscuits open too eagerly causing a wonky tear down the middle. Some fell out on to the table. Saahil picked one up.

‘Hockey player,’ he said, studying the stick man carved on to the top of the biscuit.

‘Oh, I’ve already eaten mine,’ Ehsan said, his mouth full.

Saahil pulled his tea closer towards himself. It wasn’t for drinking. Its only purpose was for dunking in the biscuits. Two at a time.

Ehsan flicked through the telly and found Arthur, a new cartoon programme about a human-like aardvark and his antics with his family and friends. They knew full well that they were too old for it, but watched it anyway.

‘Don’t tell anyone we still watch this,’ Saahil reminded Ehsan.

‘I know.’

Fifteen minutes later, their episode of Arthur finished. Ehsan’s eyes were still glued to the TV as he absentmindedly reached inside the wrapper for another biscuit. He found nothing. They’d demolished them all. He flicked it away impatiently and drummed his fingers against the pine coffee table.

‘What?’ Saahil asked, but he already knew what his best friend was thinking.

‘Shall I check to see if we’ve got those orange-flavoured custard creams?’

‘Yeah!’

Ehsan hurried to the kitchen as the phone rang.

‘Grab the phone,’ he shouted back to Saahil. Saahil answered it, as he had done many times before, to find Auntie Meena’s worried voice at the end of it.

‘Are you okay, beta?’

‘Yeah, Auntie, I’m fine.’

‘Can you tell your uncle that I’m going to be home late?’

‘I will—’

‘Have you eaten?’ Meena interrupted. She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘There’s some leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry. Or you can make some toast. Or a sandwich.’

Saahil felt Meena’s warmth envelop him through the telephone. He smiled as he listened to her fussing over them. Although she reminded him of his own mother, Saahil couldn’t help but notice the differences between the two women. Unlike Auntie Meena, Saahil’s mum had been from Pakistan. She had mostly worn salwar kameez, didn’t work or drive, and spoke English with an accent. Meena, on the other hand, sounded like one of his schoolteachers. She had a job as a receptionist, had her own car and wore English clothes. When his mum was alive, Saahil had often wished she could be more like Auntie Meena. He’d wished she could drive him to McDonald’s when Abbu wasn’t there, or swing her handbag over her shoulder and twirl her car keys around her fingers as confidently as Meena did. But Saahil remembered his mother always shrugging off Abbu’s suggestions of driving lessons.

‘She lacks confidence,’ Abbu would say to him later.

Saahil didn’t really understand what that meant at the time, but he had seen the same reluctance in Uncle Harun sometimes, who was also from Pakistan. The same hesitation in doing things that neither Abbu nor Meena possessed.

‘Don’t worry, Auntie, we’ve already eaten,’ Saahil reassured.

He turned and winked at Ehsan.

‘Oh good,’ Meena said. ‘Well, I’ll see you soon.’

As Saahil replaced the receiver, there was a soft thudding on the front door. Ehsan had just shoved two orange creams into his mouth and motioned for Saahil to get it. Saahil fiddled with the key before swinging it open. He looked down to find a pint-sized visitor.

‘Zee!’

Zahra stood by the door clutching Nelly the Elephant, her favourite cuddly toy. She rushed forward to get inside. Saahil helped her up the step and smoothed down her baby blue frock as she hurried past him. Abbu and Uncle Harun were wandering down the garden, chatting.

‘Come on,’ Abbu said, beckoning Saahil out of the house.

‘Oh no, you’re coming in for chai,’ Harun said, pulling Abbu by the arm.

‘We’d best get going—’

‘No, no, you’re coming in for tea.’

‘Ehsan, quick!’ whispered Saahil, turning to his best friend. Ehsan, however, had already picked the bags and coats up from the floor and tidied away the biscuit crumbs.

‘You better have loose tea leaves,’ Abbu said, closing the door behind him.

‘Shut up, you’ll get what you’re given,’ Harun retaliated.

Abbu laughed and slapped his friend on the back. Zahra had already headed for the toy box that was hidden at the side of one of the settees. She almost knocked over the floor lamp as she pulled out a tub of plasticine. She nudged Saahil to open it for her.

‘Have you both eaten?’ Harun asked them.

‘Yeah, we’re full,’ said Ehsan, hiding the empty biscuit wrappers behind his back.

Abbu followed Uncle Harun into the kitchen.

‘Semi-skimmed milk!’ Saahil heard Abbu say. He could see his father’s backside sticking up in the air as he bent down to inspect the fridge. ‘Haven’t you got whole?’

‘God, you’re turning into your mother,’ Harun replied.

Saahil leaned into Ehsan. ‘If they ask,’ he said, ‘school was absolutely fine.’

Ehsan nodded before a ferocious knocking made them both jump. Ehsan scowled. ‘Who is it now?’ he said, before heading for the door. He swung it open. Saahil recognised the man as one of the dodgy neighbours. He often saw him racing up and down the road in growling sports cars.

‘Yo, is your dad in?’ the neighbour drawled, twirling his gold neck chains around in his fingers.

‘Yeah, I’ll just go and get him…’ Ehsan said, before raising his voice. ‘Abbu, Uncle Naveed is here!’

The man at the door grimaced, flipping his cap on front to back. ‘Don’t call me “uncle” dude, call me Nav,’ he muttered, smoothing down his bomber jacket.

Harun greeted Naveed at the door in Urdu. Naveed replied in English.

‘Check out my new motor, bro!’ he said, waving his arms around in wild hip hop gestures.

‘Very nice, Masha’Allah,’ Uncle Harun said.

Abbu slid the kitchen door to a close and joined them. He craned his neck to see what all the fuss was about. Saahil watched as his father’s eyes widened at the sight of the car.

‘Come, come,’ Naveed said, practically pulling both the men out of the house. They all walked to the end of the garden. Naveed jumped into his car and revved the engine.

‘Vroom vroom, bro!’

‘It’s ugly,’ Saahil whispered to Ehsan, as they both looked at the monstrous red car parked outside the house. Ehsan nodded in agreement.

‘Check out the spoiler,’ Naveed said, caressing it with his fingers. Abbu and Uncle Harun were offering their own expert opinions. They inspected the alloys, they lifted the bonnet.

‘Come for a quick spin, yaar!’

‘No, no,’ Abbu said. ‘The kids are on their own.’

‘Oh, don’t be boring,’ Naveed shouted, slapping Abbu on the shoulder.

Abbu scratched his head before looking back towards the house. ‘You go,’ he said to Harun. ‘I’ll watch the kids.’

Uncle Harun squinted at Saahil and Ehsan as they stood in the doorway. ‘They’ll be fine – we won’t be long.’

‘No, I need to watch Zahra.’

‘I’ll whizz you around in two minutes, brother!’

‘Yeah, come on,’ Harun said. ‘What’s wrong with having a bit of fun once in a while?’

Abbu hesitated but Harun nodded encouragingly once more. Saahil saw all three heads nod in agreement. Abbu jogged back to the house.

‘Saahil, watch Zahra.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Just for a quick drive.’

‘How long are you gonna be?’

‘Watch Zee, okay?’

Saahil groaned. ‘Fine,’ he sulked. Watching Zahra was getting to be a full-time job.

They looked on as both their dads got into the car like excited teenagers and sped off with an ear-splitting roar of the engine.

Ehsan turned to Saahil. ‘We’ve got five minutes. Shall we go and blast some music?’

‘Yeah,’ replied Saahil, struggling to shake off his annoyance.

Ehsan walked towards Zahra with his arms splayed open. She was sitting on the carpet, lost in her own world, mixing red clay with green, blue with yellow.

‘Leave her,’ Saahil snapped. ‘She’s playing.’

Ehsan turned to him and frowned. ‘We can’t leave her down here on her own.’

‘She’ll be fine.’

Ehsan shook his head and tried to pry the plasticine from Zahra’s little fingers. She ignored him, her small face screwed up in concentration. Ehsan held her gently by her arms but she resisted.

‘Don’t, she’ll start crying. She wants to play here,’ Saahil said again. He was already halfway up the stairs.

Reluctantly, with one glance back at Zahra, Ehsan followed. They ran upstairs and went straight to Uncle Harun’s room. That was where the cassette player was kept. The room was cluttered, with Auntie Meena’s shoe boxes piled up against the wall. Saahil knew that only one humble drawer belonged to Harun. They laughed about it often. Ehsan busied himself with finding the cassette player whilst Saahil pulled out the stool from the dressing table. Auntie Meena’s make-up was arranged methodically in colour order.

‘Found it,’ Ehsan said. He placed the stereo on the bed and turned the volume to max.

‘I used it last,’ he reassured. He pressed the play button with attitude expecting Public Enemy to blast from the player. Instead, a cheesy Bollywood love song blared from the speakers. Ehsan blocked his ears, looking mortified.

‘What the heck is this?’ he shouted.

Saahil laughed his head off and began acting out the melodramatic dance moves he’d seen in countless Bollywood movies. Ehsan guffawed but an almighty bang made them jump. Ehsan quickly stopped the music. They listened intently, ears pricked up. Another clang and the pair of them sped to the top of the stairs. The front door was open and swaying in the wind.

‘Didn’t you close it?’ Ehsan asked, whilst running down the steps.

‘I did… I thought I did.’

Saahil glanced into the living room to check on Zahra. The plasticine lay abandoned on the floor and she was nowhere to be seen. He decided to go into the kitchen to look for her, but a sound stopped him in his tracks.

‘Saahil!’

Ehsan’s cry sent shivers up Saahil’s spine. He ran to the door and his eyes focused on a bounce of black curls and a frilly blue dress. A giggle escaped Zahra’s lips as she stood waving at them from the middle of the road. An engine roared and the car carrying Abbu and Uncle Harun hurtled down the hill towards her.

Five

Saahil thought he’d never seen his Abbu like this before. He watched as his father clung on to Zahra as if his life depended on it, his eyes bloodshot and staring ahead. Zahra sucked her thumb and blinked obliviously, her head resting against Abbu’s chest. She was wrapped up in the shawl that had once belonged to Saahil’s mother. Abbu’s fingers tightened around Zahra as she snuggled closer to him, her little fist crumpling the fabric as she buried her face in the shawl’s silkiness.

At first Saahil thought he’d never seen his father this worried, this helpless. But he had. Nearly two years ago, on the night after his mother’s burial, Saahil remembered waking up, tiptoeing to his father’s room, and finding Abbu rocking back and forth with Zahra in his arms. Only this time, Zahra had grown and both her legs dangled either side of Abbu. This time, Saahil was to blame.

Two other people were also present in this nightmare. Uncle Harun paced his living room. Ehsan’s leg was pressed against Saahil’s. They were sitting together on the sofa, arms folded, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. Not even each other’s.

The commotion that had taken place just a few moments before had calmed down now, but Saahil would still be remembering the almighty screech of the car brakes for days after. The vehicle’s heavy doors were thrown open. Uncle Harun had got to Zahra first and scooped her up in his arms. Abbu checked her over quickly, repeating her name over and over again. Even Naveed stood frozen to the spot, his hands covering his mouth in shock. Then, all three heads had turned to face Saahil and Ehsan who were standing by the door.

Uncle Harun had charged towards them, roughly shoving them back into the lounge. He slammed the door shut in Naveed’s face.

‘What were you doing?’ he shouted. ‘How did she get out of the house?’

The boys bumbled their way through the questions, each forced to make up different excuses.

‘Where were you?’

‘Upstairs,’ Ehsan said.

‘No, we went into the kitchen,’ Saahil lied.

‘Why was the door unlocked?’

‘I thought I’d shut it.’

‘Didn’t you hear her?’ Harun yelled.

‘We had music on,’ Ehsan cried.

‘No, we didn’t,’ Saahil retaliated, angry with Ehsan for always having to be truthful.

The scolding continued for at least twenty minutes. Saahil kept throwing glances at Abbu, who was surprisingly quiet. He had just sat down on the settee, hugging Zahra tight. Ehsan squeezed Saahil’s arm. They huddled together, eyes cast downwards.

‘None of your stories match up,’ Harun said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That means you deliberately left your sister downstairs alone.’

Ehsan began sobbing. Saahil felt bad for not being able to comfort him. None of this was his fault. Uncle Harun started pacing again. Zahra had fallen asleep in Abbu’s arms.

‘It’s my fault, Amjad,’ Harun finally said. ‘I told you to come with me and Naveed. One of us should have stayed behind.’

Slowly, Abbu shook his head. ‘It’s no one’s fault but mine. She’s my daughter. I’m responsible for her.’

‘But you’re at my house,’ Harun insisted. ‘And anyway, she’s like my daughter too.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have come. Sometimes I forget…’ Abbu’s voice trailed off as he glanced at the boys. ‘I rely too much on Saahil to keep an eye on her when I have jobs to do. But this wasn’t a job, this was just… me being silly.’

‘Amjad—’

‘No, it’s true.’

Saahil felt a lump rise in his throat. He tried to remember the last time he had seen his Abbu do something carefree and fun. Even if it had just been taking a ride in a fancy car. Saahil couldn’t. And now because of him, Abbu felt like he was being punished for not being a perfect dad for just five minutes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Saahil managed to utter, his voice croaky. He felt all eyes shift towards him.

Uncle Harun sighed. He motioned for Saahil and Ehsan to make some space and sat down between them.

‘Just be more careful next time,’ he said, placing his arms around their shoulders. Ehsan leaned into his father. Saahil did the same but glanced again at his own dad. Abbu had stood up, placing Zahra over his shoulder. Her body was limp. She was sleeping, but Saahil dreaded to think what might have been because of his stupidity. Abbu rearranged a cushion and lay Zahra down on the settee.

‘Shall we not tell Meena about this?’ Uncle Harun asked, sheepishly. ‘She’ll bloody kill me.’

Amjad nodded. ‘Don’t tell Ammi either.’

‘Okay.’

They remained silent for a few more minutes. Harun slapped his hands together and forced a smile. ‘Now, where were we?’

‘Tea,’ Abbu sighed. They went off together into the kitchen. Saahil and Ehsan waited for them to go before rushing to sit by Zahra’s side. She was in a deep sleep, her chest rising and falling. Saahil reached out and stroked Zahra’s cheek.

Two weeks later, Saahil and Ehsan arrived at school on Monday morning. As they walked through the playground, they noticed the change in atmosphere. Everyone was making their way to lesson promptly. Heads were down. No slouching. No mismatched uniform. Police were still walking around the premises.

For the past week, a group of Year Eleven boys had run riot regularly throughout the building, setting off fire alarms and causing the entire school to evacuate. Fifteen minutes later, as the students were back and settled into class, another fire alarm would cause them to evacuate again. This happened no less than five times. Teachers despaired as they tried to catch the culprits. Pupils rejoiced with each sounding alarm, hoping the heroes who had disrupted their lessons weren’t caught.

But last week things had gone too far. During a particularly dull English lesson, the fire alarm had blasted in their ears once again. This time, though, it was no fake. A letter was sent to parents explaining what had happened. As expected, Abbu hit the roof. Saahil had listened to his frantic phone call to Uncle Harun.

‘This is outrageous!’ he shouted. ‘They set the head teacher’s car on fire.’

‘Little bastards,’ Uncle Harun replied.

Saahil clearly remembered making his way towards the fire exit on that day. The heat radiated through the window; he could feel it before he saw it. The flames had engulfed an object in the distance and teachers were circling the staff car park in a protective barrier. One of the vehicles was on fire. It was parked away from everyone else’s cars, in a specially designated spot.

‘Is that…’ Saahil had whispered to Ehsan.

‘Yeah, Dixon’s,’ he confirmed.

They’d spotted their principal being comforted by the assistant head teacher. She had her hand on his shoulder. His fingers were pinching between his eyes, against the bridge of his nose.

When Abbu had put the phone down to Uncle Harun, Saahil only made matters worse.

‘Chill out, Abbu,’ he’d said.

‘Chill?’ Abbu’s voice grew high-pitched.

‘Yeah. They set the car on fire. Not the head teacher.’

Unfortunately, these words provided little consolation to Abbu. Saahil couldn’t understand why. He realised it was best to avoid the conversation at all costs. But Abbu wasn’t going to forget this in a hurry. And neither was the school.

Three lads from Year Eleven were eventually caught and expelled. The police were also involved, but it was far from over. Saahil’s teachers wore permanent frowns throughout the rest of the week. Ofsted was being mentioned in worried undertones. For the first time ever, even the senior students were hesitant to put a toe out of line.

This morning, though, something was different. Saahil noticed that the teachers were standing in corridors and leaving their lessons unsupervised. They talked away in urgent whispers. Saahil and Ehsan walked past their young English teacher, who was sobbing outside her classroom door and being comforted by others.

‘Who died?’ Saahil asked Ehsan, who snorted in response.

The boys entered their Maths class and sat down in their seats. Ehsan swivelled around again to face him as Mr Ali called his wife. He was covering his mouth and talking in a low voice. Saahil guessed that this time, the topic of conversation wasn’t daal. He nudged Adam, the lad sitting next to him.

‘What’s going on?’ Saahil asked. ‘Everyone looks really worried.’

‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘Heard what?’

‘We’re stuffed, that’s what,’ Adam replied.

‘Why?’

‘Well, put it this way, Mr Dixon isn’t going to be turning our school around any time soon… He resigned this morning.’

Six

February 1996

Amjad should have known that it was his brother ringing him at eight o’clock in the morning. The ringtone felt sharper, louder and even more headache-inducing than normal. Not unlike Javid himself. Amjad narrowed his eyes as he went to pick it up, gearing up to give the caller a telling off for ringing so early. He never got the chance as Javid’s booming voice filled his ears.

‘It’s a bit early—’ Amjad began, but as usual, Javid talked over him.

‘So, you’re coming over to ours for Eid then, yeah?’

Amjad wasn’t trying to be awkward, but that did not sound like much of an invitation. He quickly glanced at this year’s fasting schedule. There were only a couple of days left to Ramadan.

‘Well, are you inviting me? I’m not just going to turn up, am I?’

Javid let out an exaggerated laugh. Amjad held the phone an inch away from his ear so not to burst his eardrums.

‘Of course I’m inviting you,’ Javid said. ‘Who else is going to drive Ammi down?’

Amjad bit his tongue and decided not to respond. He hadn’t spoken to his brother in over a month. He didn’t want to be the one to start an argument, no matter how much Javid rattled him.

‘I mean, we’d come over to your house,’ Javid continued. ‘But there’s barely any space for us all to fit.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have had so many kids then,’ Amjad retorted, thinking of the five spoilt brats Javid and his wife had produced.

Javid roared with laughter again. Amjad could almost feel the spit flying from his brother’s mouth and spraying all over him.

As soon as he’d put the phone down, Amjad began plotting ways to get out of it. Spending Eid with his brother was his worst nightmare. Eid in the gloomy month of February would be a miserable affair anyway, but this Eid marked the end of Ramadan, which did deserve a bit of a celebration. He would have to put up with Javid flouncing around in his fancy new four-bedroomed detached. The last thing Amjad wanted to do was listen to his brother bragging about his kids and his wife and the council job he’d only managed to get because he had a friend on the inside.

After he’d finished the school run and returned home, Amjad rang Ammi to see if he could talk her out of going.

‘Javid invited us over for Eid,’ he mentioned, as casually as he could.

‘Yes, lovely,’ Ammi replied.

Amjad let out a silent groan. He could almost hear the beam on her face. She had a much more favourable opinion of Javid than he did, but that was largely because she’d given birth to him and was programmed to love him regardless. Still, Amjad thought he’d give it his best shot.

‘I thought we were going to have a quiet Eid,’ he began, feeling incredibly stupid for even saying that. Eid was never quiet. ‘And your knee has been playing up, it’ll get really stiff if we’re driving all the way to Birmingham. It’s a two and a half hour drive.’

‘You don’t want to go, do you?’ Ammi said, in her quiet, lethal voice.

‘No… I never said that. I’m just thinking of you.’

‘Well, whether you want to go or not, you’re not getting out of it this time.’

Amjad sighed. How could his mother see right through him? It was decided then, or rather, decided for him. Eid would be at Javid’s house, and Amjad could hardly wait.

He sat down with a cuppa and thought about how Eid used to be with Neelam. The preparation would start weeks before with her choosing outfits for them all. She would show the new clothes excitedly to Amjad. Three sets of salwar kameez: a boring white/grey/brown one for him, a small one for Saahil with fancy buttons and collars. And, the most important of all, a sparkly, colourful one for her that was bang on trend for ladies’ fashion. Amjad would always feign interest and nod along encouragingly, before going back to reading his newspaper.

On the day, Amjad would wake up early whilst Neelam and Saahil slept. His salwar kameez was always ironed and laid out on the bed. So was his leather waistcoat, which only made ‘special occasion’ trips out of the wardrobe. His wife would have everything ready for him when he woke up for Eid prayers.

His return from the mosque was always his favourite part of the day. He’d walk in through the door and be greeted by Saahil, who’d come bounding into his arms. His little boy would be ready with his new clothes and slicked back hair. Neelam would already be cooking in the kitchen. Kebabs, samosas, lamb biryani. There would be mouth-watering smells of cumin, coriander, ginger and garlic and the sounds of bubbling and frying. The heat would be intense. Neelam would still be wearing her old clothes for now, a plain salwar kameez with the scarf draped over her body like a sash and tied in a knot near her hip. Amjad would embrace his wife and greet her.

‘Eid Mubarak,’ she’d whisper back in his ear.

Since her death, Amjad had lost interest in Eid. But the clothes shopping was now his responsibility. He would usually make one stop at the first kids’ store he set eyes on. He would pick a frock for Zahra without putting too much thought into it. She was a beautiful little girl, no matter what she wore, and a healthy thirty-seven inches. The growth chart inked into the kitchen door was coming on nicely. They’d made a new marking only a couple of days ago on her birthday:

Zahra, 3 yrs, 20/02/96

At a solid sixty-one inches, Saahil was old enough to choose what he wanted to wear. New jeans, new shirt. Amjad paid for whatever he wanted, within reason. His and Ehsan’s measurements were also creeping higher on the growth chart; last year’s markings were noted with a brand-new blue felt-tip pen:

Saahil, 13 yrs, 14/09/95

Ehsan, 13 yrs, 01/12/95

Much to his disgust, Ehsan was lagging behind at an unsatisfactory fifty-nine inches.

Amjad hadn’t bought a new outfit for himself since Neelam died but if he was to spend it with Javid this time, he would have no choice but to make an effort. He could feel his stress levels rising as the shopping trip drew nearer.

Saahil looked bemused when Amjad told him that they wouldn’t be going into town, but were heading for the big shopping centre in Leeds.

‘Pushing the boat out, Abbu,’ Saahil mocked.

‘Well, I don’t want you looking less polished than your cousins,’ Amjad replied.

They arrived in Leeds after a twenty-minute drive and parked in the shopping centre car park. Saahil began tugging at Amjad’s sleeve as soon as they walked out of the lift and into the mall. ‘There are these new trainers—’

‘Nope, you’re wearing smart shoes this time.’

‘Smart? Why?’

‘I want you to buy a suit,’ Amjad said.

‘A what?!’

‘Come along.’

They ventured into a department store. It wasn’t exactly Amjad’s usual shopping spot.

‘Don’t knock anything over, Saahil,’ Amjad said as they hurried past the perfume and make-up stands. There were women everywhere testing lipsticks and pouting in mirrors and sniffing perfume samples. Amjad searched for the escalator.

Once they got to the kids’ section, Amjad decided to tackle Saahil first.

He refused point-blank to wear a suit jacket.

‘Why don’t I just wear my bloody school uniform instead?’ he sulked as he trailed behind Amjad towards the ‘Boys 11 to 16’ division.

‘I bet Zakariya will be wearing a suit,’ Amjad said, referring to Javid’s eldest child. He was thirteen, the same age as Saahil.

‘Yeah, well Zakariya is a geek.’

After some more bickering, they opted for a navy three-piece set: shirt, waistcoat and a little bow tie.

‘It’s quite expensive, Abbu,’ said Saahil, twirling the price tag in his hands.

‘It doesn’t matter, it’s a one-off,’ Amjad said, settling Zahra down on the cushioned seating area. ‘Now, watch Zee whilst I go and find a frilly dress.’

Saahil suppressed a grin as Amjad stomped off towards the ‘Girls 2 to 4’ section. He was the only man in the sea of women. They looked relaxed and leisurely. Amjad looked focused and a little bit grumpy. He came back with a handful of items, puffing and out of breath.

‘Which one?’ he asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

‘This one.’ Saahil pointed at a blue dress decorated with golden stars.

‘No, I want something more… princessy,’ Amjad said, not quite believing he had just uttered those words. An elegant mother wheeling a pram past gave him a funny look.

‘What about this puffball thingy?’ whispered Saahil.

‘What puffball?’

‘This skirt thing that’s sticking out.’

‘Nah, don’t like it.’

‘Are we going for pink?’ Saahil asked, in a business-like fashion.

‘Yep,’ Amjad replied. ‘Pink, glitter, that sort of thing.’

Saahil turned to Zahra, who was looking at them both, bewildered.

‘Zee, which one do you like?’

She shuffled forward on the seat, Nelly the Elephant tucked under her armpit. Amjad showed her each frock in turn, but nothing elicited a response from her. He shuffled from one foot to the other.

‘Gosh, this is hard work,’ he sighed.

‘Pick one, Zahra,’ Saahil groaned.

Her little fingers reached out and pointed to a silvery lilac dress that was embellished with sequins, a sparkly waist belt and a beautiful mesh skirt. Amjad swivelled it around to face him. He had a good look.

‘This is perfect,’ he said, smiling. ‘Well done, Zee. We need matching shoes now.’

Saahil returned with a few suitable pairs for Zahra to try on. Amjad sat down on the seat beside her and held up her leg, his big fist almost completely covering it.

‘Maybe a lovely headband too,’ suggested Saahil, holding up a series of sequined bows, ribbons and flowered accessories. He placed them next to Amjad and zoomed off again around the shop floor. Zahra began fidgeting as Amjad tried to put the shoe on her.

‘No, Zee. Be a good girl.’

He adjusted in his seat and heard something pop. A sharp object pierced his bottom.

‘Ouch!’ Amjad jumped up to find that he had snapped one of the headbands in half. Zahra jumped off the seat giggling and ran off around the corner barefoot. She disappeared behind a rack of babygros.

‘Abbu, what have you done?’ Saahil asked, as he inspected the broken headband.

‘Go and get your sister and let’s get out of here,’ Amjad sighed. ‘I think that’s enough shopping for one day.’

Saahil did as he was told. Amjad scooped up the sparkly shoes and gathered together the unwanted dresses. He didn’t want the shop assistants to think that they were messy buggers. In the distance, he heard Zahra starting to wail.

‘Abbu, help!’ Saahil shouted. ‘She’s having a tantrum.’

Amjad peered around the corner and saw Zahra lying on her back, kicking her arms and legs. He hurried over to assist his children, wishing Eid would hurry up and be over with.

When Saahil woke up on Eid morning, he grudgingly put on his waistcoat and silly bow tie. He resented having to wear stupid clothes and drive down to Birmingham to see cousins he didn’t really like. But when he spotted Abbu’s face at the breakfast table, he immediately forgot about his own little demonstration. He couldn’t decide who looked more miserable and realised he had to be on his best behaviour.

They attended Eid prayers together. Saahil spotted Ehsan and Uncle Harun briefly at the mosque and ran over to them.

‘We’re rushing Harun, sorry,’ Abbu said. ‘Have to set off for my brother’s as soon as we get back.’

‘Wish me luck,’ Saahil said to Ehsan as he was dragged away from his best friend.

Zahra began wailing almost as soon as they set off down the road. She scrunched up the mesh skirt of her dress and pulled at the neckline of her glittered bodice.

‘Where’s her blanket?’ Abbu roared. ‘You were holding it last, Ammi.’

‘Excuse me, I gave it to Saahil.’

‘No, you didn’t, Ammi.’

Everyone continued bickering about the so-called ‘blanket’, which was actually the yellow pashmina. In recent years, Zahra had now christened it ‘birdie blanket,’ which annoyed Saahil a little. It was his mum’s shawl, not a bloody bed sheet.

‘Great,’ Abbu sighed. ‘She’ll never settle now.’

He glanced back at Saahil. ‘I don’t understand, she picked that dress herself,’ he added, as though Zahra was a twenty-year-old woman, not a three-year-old toddler.

‘Maybe it’s itching her,’ Ammi said, sitting grandly in the front seat.

Saahil tried to attend to his little sister. She pulled off the flowery headband she was wearing and threw it on the floor.

‘I hope she doesn’t cry all day,’ Abbu sighed. He turned to Saahil. ‘And you, don’t show me up in front of your uncle.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Give salaam properly to him and—’

‘Properly? How do you give salaam properly?’ Saahil mocked. ‘You just say this, “Salaam”.’

‘Don’t you get clever with me!’

‘Concentrate on the road,’ Ammi screeched.

Saahil felt slightly guilty for giving Abbu attitude. He watched as his father sulked and drove them towards the motorway. He looked smarter than Saahil had ever seen him. Instead of wearing a boring white salwar kameez, Abbu had opted for a dark grey. The leather waistcoat had taken another trip out of the wardrobe and Abbu had finished off the look with a black topi.

‘Too much?’ he’d asked Saahil when he’d tried it on in the morning. ‘It was one of my dad’s fancier hats.’

Saahil liked the way Abbu’s finger caressed the geometric patterns and small shards of mirror that had been intricately sown on to it. It was circular in shape apart from the arch-shaped cut-out which exposed the forehead.

‘It’s wicked, Abbu,’ said Saahil.

‘Good. And it will annoy Javid when he sees that I’m wearing one of our father’s hats.’

Ammi’s snores started piercing the air around halfway through the journey. Abbu tutted and turned off the radio. Saahil and Zahra giggled in the back but subsided after a stern look from Abbu. Slowly, a slumbering Ammi began slipping closer and closer to the edge of the seat. Abbu was too busy concentrating on the road to notice. Her head thumped against his shoulder making him jump and swerve. A car horn honked and Ammi jerked awake.

‘My knee,’ she complained instantly.

Saahil saw Abbu catch the words before they came tumbling out of his mouth. He cleared his throat and opted for a more polite way of putting it.

‘Well, this is why I was worrying about driving all the way down here. But you insisted we came.’

‘Not to worry,’ Ammi said, adjusting in her seat. ‘I can stretch.’

With incredible flexibility, Ammi stretched out her leg and placed her bare foot on the dashboard. She cracked her toes with satisfaction.

‘Ammi, no,’ pleaded Abbu. ‘Not on the dashboard. Everyone can see your foot. We’ll pull up next to people and they’ll—’

‘They’ll what?’ Ammi asked, without a care in the world. ‘Keep driving and stop moaning.’

Saahil craned his neck to catch sight of the offending foot, but Zahra threw Nelly the Elephant at his face. He threw it back and it landed on the floor. Zahra began crying.

‘Abbu,’ Saahil shouted over her. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’

All Saahil had heard about for the past couple of weeks was Uncle Javid and his new four-bedroom detached house. He was half expecting a palace to pop up when they turned around the corner and parked up in a vacant space. Saahil noticed that there was a driveway next to an immaculate patch of grass. Two cars were parked there. Saahil could imagine himself and Ehsan running around outside on the tarmac and Zahra sitting on the grass with all her toys. Maybe Abbu would lounge on a garden chair, reading a newspaper and drinking tea.

Uncle Javid must have heard their roaring engine. He walked out of the door and stood with his arms wide open.

‘Welcome!’ he shouted expansively.

Javid rushed forward to assist Ammi as she got out of the car seat. Saahil glanced at the doorway and saw Auntie Farhana. She was still wearing plain clothes with a pinny tied around her waist and huddled behind her were Saahil’s cousins, all five of them. Saahil felt a pang in his chest. He noted all the small hands gripping her legs and hips as Farhana reached down and picked up Aleena, who was the same age as Zahra. He turned to look at his own sister, who was sitting quietly and waiting for Abbu to unbuckle her from the booster seat.

‘Amjad!’ Uncle Javid boomed. It was more like a chest bump than a hug as both men squared up to each other. Saahil wasn’t being biased, but he definitely thought his Abbu looked way smarter. Uncle Javid looked bland in his black trousers and white shirt.

Once inside, everyone hugged, kissed and greeted each other ‘Eid Mubarak’. It was only when Saahil pulled back did he take into account the lavishly decorated living room. If he thought Auntie Meena had gone overboard with the contrasting patterns, she had nothing on Uncle Javid. At least Meena had stuck to one colour theme. Here, there were maroon frills, navy stripes and purple florals.

Uncle Javid beamed as he stood centre stage.

‘Masha’Allah, the house is lovely,’ Abbu said, though Saahil could sense a sarky undertone.

Ammi was fussing over all her grandchildren. They practically stood in a line, from big to small, in front of her so she could inspect them. The two girls, Aleena and Humaira, were dressed like small Christmas trees, a green one and a red one. They wore bindis on their foreheads, and struggled to keep the flowing chiffon scarves in place, fidgeting on the spot and constantly readjusting. The outfits were adorned with sequins and embroidery that looked almost painful. Saahil imagined that if he passed his hands over the fabric, he would probably need a few plasters to cover up the cuts on his fingers.

The boys were not as bad. They wore traditional salwar kameez and sparkly waistcoats, leaving Saahil a new-found sense of appreciation for his checked shirt and bow tie.

After the initial niceties, everyone parted off into their own little groups. Aleena and Humaira zoned in on Zahra, who was clutching on to Nelly the Elephant and eyeing the two girls suspiciously. Saahil kept one eye on her and one on the two boys stood in front of him.

‘How’s it going, Zakariya?’ Saahil asked, leaning into his cousin.

Zakariya grimaced. ‘It’s Zak, actually,’ he replied in a posh accent.

It was going to be a long day.

Ammi had charged into the kitchen to inspect Auntie Farhana’s cooking. Saahil could see Ammi stirring a pot here and clanging a pan there. She tasted some curry and frowned. He could see Farhana waiting with bated breath. Ammi wore a disapproving expression and made a gesture with her hands.

‘More salt, it doesn’t taste of anything,’ she ordered.

Farhana looked deflated and hurried for the condiment drawer.

‘Why don’t you go and sit down?’ she said as she returned. ‘You’ll be tired…’

‘Where’s the rice? And have you started frying the kebabs yet?’

Ammi turned away to nosy at the worktops. Saahil watched as Auntie Farhana took a deep breath and followed her mother-in-law with resolve.

Abbu and Uncle Javid were still arguing about which route he took to get there. ‘You see, if you’d turned off at Junction 24—’ Javid said.

‘But that’s the long way around.’

‘No, no,’ Javid replied, wagging his finger. ‘There’s a shortcut—’

‘Well, I’m not familiar with those roads.’

‘If only you’d called me before you set off—’

‘Look, I got us here, didn’t I?’ Abbu said. ‘Now put a sock in it.’

An hour later, Abbu tapped his stomach. ‘Any chance of food, Farhana?’ he said, smiling. She was probably his favourite member of the family. Quiet, humble and the complete opposite to Javid.

‘Almost ready,’ she replied. ‘I probably would have been done half an hour ago but…’ She motioned towards Ammi with her eyes who was dicing cucumber and tomatoes into small pieces and mixing them into a large bowl of natural yoghurt.

‘Are you sure I can’t help with anything?’ Abbu said. ‘Ammi, why don’t I do that?’

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘You cut them up into clumsy-sized pieces.’

Abbu shrugged apologetically to Farhana, who nodded, grateful for his attempt.

Saahil was preoccupied with Zak, Bilal and five-year-old Hamid, who didn’t want to miss a thing. He kept jamming his head into tiny gaps to get a better look and grabbing and snatching at all the figurines Zak had laid out before him.

‘You can’t borrow any of these,’ Zak warned Saahil before he had even opened the box.

Small figures of every type of comic-book superhero and villain were now lined up meticulously in front of him. Batman. Joker. Superman. Catwoman. And Saahil’s favourite, Spiderman. He reached out to touch one.

‘They’re collectables, you see,’ Zak said, shooing Saahil’s hand away.

‘Right, put all this mess away,’ Uncle Javid boomed. ‘Dinner’s ready.’

Saahil turned away and saw Abbu give him ‘the look’ from across the room.

‘Auntie, can I help you bring the dishes to the table?’ Saahil asked in his politest voice possible. Farhana pulled his cheek with affection and gave him the drinking glasses and two bottles of Coke. Saahil carried out his task then watched as the rest of the dishes and bowls were brought to the table. His stomach grumbled with anticipation. The starters were lamb kebabs, vegetable pakoras and chicken spring rolls with mint sauce.

‘I always like to bring the food out in stages,’ Uncle Javid said, grandly. ‘Not like these other Pakistanis, who dump everything on the table in one go, even dessert. So uncultured, they are.’

Saahil could see Abbu racking his brains to see if he’d ever done that during an official Uncle Javid visit. He seated Zahra on his lap and offered her small bite-size pieces to nibble on. Saahil looked around to see his cousins piling the food on their plates. They were passing ketchup around instead of the mint sauce.

‘Don’t spill any on your clothes, please,’ sighed Auntie Farhana.

After the appetiser, Uncle Javid insisted they have a break for an hour.

‘Digest this properly,’ he ordered. ‘Then we can move on to the mains.’

Ammi disapproved. ‘Stop acting like a gora,’ she said to him. Abbu rolled his eyes and offered to wash up the dirty dishes in between.

‘Why don’t you go and change into your Eid clothes?’ Abbu said to Farhana. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

Farhana wouldn’t have it. ‘You’re our guests for today,’ she said.

The group grew restless, counting every minute down until Javid’s hour rule was over. Ammi muttered under her breath about ‘wasting time’. Farhana hung about the kitchen, occasionally stirring a pan there and arranging a dish here.

‘I’m still hungry,’ Bilal wailed.

‘I think we’ve digested now, Javid,’ Abbu said.

‘Another ten—’

‘Nope. Farhana, let’s do this.’

Abbu and Ammi bustled forwards to assist Farhana whilst Uncle Javid stretched luxuriously. Chicken and potato curry was being ladled over lamb pilau.

‘We have spinach and paneer too,’ Javid shouted over the group. ‘I always like to serve a vegetarian option too.’

‘You like to serve?’ Abbu asked. ‘You haven’t lifted a finger all day. Farhana’s done all the cooking.’

Ammi took a mouthful and asked for the salt. Saahil and his cousins took a bite before simultaneously coughing and spluttering for water.

‘I barely put any chillies in so don’t start!’ Auntie Farhana said, wagging her finger at them all.

‘It’s wonderful, thank you,’ Abbu said, pointedly to her.

Ammi stirred the serving dish and commented on the excess oil but otherwise, praised the cooking. Grains of rice littered the floor as the children rushed away from the table. Saahil received another ‘look’ from Abbu and helped Farhana take the dishes to the kitchen.

‘Another hour’s break this time, I’d say,’ Uncle Javid half said, half burped.

‘Let me know when I can go to the toilet too, Javid,’ joked Abbu. Javid roared with over-the-top laughter and patted Abbu on the back.

‘What’s for dessert?’ Saahil asked. ‘Please,’ he quickly added after getting a stern eye from Abbu.

‘Gajar ka halwa.’

‘What’s gajar?’

‘Carrot,’ Farhana replied.

‘Oh… nice,’ replied Saahil, thinking it didn’t sound very appealing. ‘My mum always made trifle for us.’

‘Forget trifle shifle,’ Javid said, waving his arm dismissively. ‘This is proper authentic, home-made—’

‘Actually, we got this from the shop,’ interjected Farhana.

‘Did we?’ Uncle Javid said.

‘Yes, you bought it this morning.’

‘Oh, must have slipped my mind,’ he laughed nervously.

‘And for the record… I love trifle too, Saahil.’ Farhana winked at him.

‘Yes, yes, very nice. What’s on the telly?’ Javid grabbed the remote and turned on a Bollywood music channel. ‘Oh, Amjad, look! It’s our favourite!’

Amitabh Bachchan was singing an epic song about friendship whilst frolicking in a stolen motorbike and sidecar with partner in crime, Dharmendra. Abbu smiled and joined his brother on the sofa. They sang along and copied the gestures. Saahil knew it was a very famous olden-day film from the Seventies. Abbu had tried to get him to watch it several times. He turned away smiling and found Zak and Bilal beckoning him into the other room.

‘Let’s jump on the sofas,’ Bilal whispered, excitedly.

‘Er, okay.’

They burst into the room next door. It was super clean and neat, and Saahil could tell that it hadn’t really been lived in. Fancy ornaments were placed methodically throughout and an elaborate flower arrangement lay centre stage on the coffee table. Saahil sat on the edge of the sofa. He sank all the way in and realised why the boys wanted to jump on them. They were very soft and bouncy. Zak, Bilal and Hamid began leaping from one sofa to another, competing over who could jump the highest. There was a knock on the door and Humaira walked in with Aleena and Zahra.

‘Girls aren’t allowed in here,’ Zak announced, flushed pink in the face.

‘Shut up,’ Humaira said, pushing him out of the way.

Abbu’s words about good behaviour played on Saahil’s mind as he watched his cousins have a blast around him. They were getting giddier and giddier. Jumping around and pushing and kicking each other from one sofa to another. Saahil stayed put in the corner and had his arms around both Zahra and Aleena protectively. Bilal took a running jump and almost fell on top of them.

‘Oi, watch out okay?’ Saahil warned. ‘These two are only little.’

Bilal barely hung around to listen. Aleena wiggled out of Saahil’s grip and ran towards the rowdy bunch. He called after her, not realising that Zahra had also slipped through his fingers. Saahil stood up to grab hold of them both. In the corner, Bilal pushed Zak and he fell back. With a thud he landed on top of Zahra.

‘Zee!’

Zak stood up quickly as Saahil picked Zahra up from the floor. She didn’t cry, but looked shaken and rubbed her arm.

‘You idiot,’ said Saahil, squaring up to his cousin.

‘Well, why was she in the way?’ Zak shot back.

‘In the way? I told you to be careful—’

‘Piss off.’

Saahil grabbed him in a headlock and a scuffle ensued.

‘Fight, fight, fight,’ the boys shouted.

‘Stop it this instant,’ Humaira shouted, her arms folded. Zahra and Aleena began crying.

The door was thrown open and Abbu stormed into the room followed by Uncle Javid. They tried to separate the boys, each grabbing their own kid as both Zak and Saahil’s limbs shot out in half-hearted attempts to hit each other.

‘Stop it right now,’ Abbu said. ‘Both of you.’

Saahil did, but Zak didn’t.

‘What happened?’ Javid asked.

Both Saahil and Zak started shouting over each other at once, both relaying their own version of the story.

‘Okay, okay,’ Abbu said. ‘Let Zak speak first.’

Saahil knew Abbu was attempting to be diplomatic.

‘He tried to strangle me,’ Zak screeched.

‘Yeah, because you fell on top of Zahra and nearly squashed her.’

‘So Saahil hit you first?’ Javid asked. ‘He started it? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, Amjad,’ Javid said, looking down his nose at Abbu. ‘I did try to advise you about discipline—’

‘Excuse me, you haven’t even listened to what my son has to say.’

‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. If he started throwing punches—’

‘No, I didn’t!’ Saahil shouted.

‘—then there’s obviously some anger issues.’

Abbu’s eyes were widening with shock. ‘You are unbelievable, Javid.’

‘Now, that low-achieving school isn’t helping. If you’d listened to my suggestion and gone for the private school—’

‘I don’t want your stinking suggestions.’

‘I even offered to contribute towards fees—’

Abbu turned a beetroot colour. ‘How dare you?’ he whispered angrily.

Javid took his glasses off and wiped them, smiling condescendingly.

‘We are leaving,’ Abbu announced. He grabbed Zahra and put his arm around Saahil. They turned away from the room.

‘Amjaaaad,’ Javid said. ‘Now don’t start sulking.’

It was so quick that Saahil didn’t even see it coming. Abbu turned and punched his brother square on the nose. Javid fell back and hit his head against the edge of the door. The children drew a collective gasp. Even Abbu looked shocked.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Ammi asked, waddling down the hallway.

Abbu turned to her. ‘We’re leaving. If you want to stay, you are welcome to.’

Javid rushed forward to his mother like a little boy. Saahil was pleased to see a droplet of blood oozing from his nose. ‘Amjad just punched me!’ he cried.

‘Why, what did you do?’ she asked, casually.

Javid began spluttering. ‘But… but… he punched me.’

‘You deserved that and more,’ Abbu shot back.

Ammi reached out and touched Javid’s face to inspect. ‘It’s just a small cut. Now the carrot halwa is ready.’

‘I don’t want carrot halwa,’ Javid almost screamed with frustration.

‘Neither do I,’ moaned Abbu.

Abbu and Uncle Javid began relaying details of the fracas to Ammi like two squabbling boys.

‘Stop!’ Ammi held up a hand and glared at them both. It was almost as if an imaginary ladder had appeared and she had grown a foot taller as the two men shrank. Abbu dropped his shoulders and looked to the floor. Javid clutched his cheek.

At that moment, Auntie Farhana opened the door. ‘Dessert, anyone? I think the hour is up?’ She peered at Javid and frowned. ‘What happened to your nose?’

‘I punched him,’ Abbu said.

‘Walked into the door,’ Javid added, hastily.

Farhana laughed and motioned them back into the living room. ‘There’s more than enough for everyone.’

They lumbered in and took their seats as plates were handed around. Saahil looked at his dessert. Well, it was definitely carroty, and tasted absolutely divine. The sound of spoons clinking plates was all that could be heard. Zak glared at Saahil from across the room. Javid glared at Abbu. Silence ensued.

‘Well, this is awkward,’ Saahil whispered to his father.

‘Finish the halwa and let’s get out of here,’ Abbu replied.

‘Okay… nice punch, by the way.’

Abbu winked at him.

Half an hour later, Abbu strapped Zahra into her car seat. She had fallen asleep. They waited around as Ammi kissed everyone one by one. Zak stuck a finger up at Saahil when nobody was looking. He responded with two.

‘Amjad,’ Uncle Javid muttered, ‘can I have a word please?’

Saahil watched as they both headed some distance away from the car. There was some mumbling, shuffling and nodding, both men failing to make eye contact with each other. It ended with a hesitant handshake and then Uncle Javid initiated an awkward hug. Abbu responded and patted his brother on the back, though Saahil could see him purse his lips during the embrace. Saahil sighed with relief as he waved the family goodbye. That was Eid over and done with for another year. He couldn’t wait to go home and tell Ehsan all about it.

Seven

August 1997

Whenever Saahil would think back to the soundtrack of the summer of 1997, he would remember only one song. It had been driving him mad over the school holidays and thanks to Zahra, it blared from the speakers for the fifth time that day. Mel B let out a wild laugh before the Spice Girls zig-ah-zig-ahhhed their way to Saahil’s ears. He had to stop himself from tearing his hair out.

Approximately ten minutes ago, Saahil had watched Zahra’s eyes flickering towards the stairs. He’d braced himself, knowing what was to come. As soon as Abbu announced that he was going to start making dinner, Zahra began inching towards the steps. Abbu disappeared off into the kitchen and from the corner of his eye, Saahil saw Zahra scramble upstairs. The door handle turned and clicked and the stool was dragged across the floor. Saahil heard the cassette player ticking as his little sister jabbed at the buttons. He’d counted to ten before following her, and then flung open the door. Zahra had been in the same position as she usually was: standing on the stool and reaching towards the cassette player. Her small finger hovering over the play button, she gave him a sly grin before pressing down.

And here they were again. The same scenario played out numerous times over the summer. Saahil helped a dancing Zahra off the stool. He took a seat at the edge of the bed and waited as his little sister waved around her arms and wiggled her bum at the music. He checked his watch, willing for it to be over.

‘Next one,’ Zahra said, flushed in the cheeks.

‘No, that’s enough, Zee. Five times already.’

Before she could protest, Saahil switched off the player and scooped Zahra up in his arms. They thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen to find Abbu stirring a pot.

‘What were you doing?’ he asked. ‘Told you to chop these onions for me.’

Immediately, Zahra flung her arms up in the air and shouted, ‘If you wanna… my lover!’

Abbu’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Saahil clamped his hand over his sister’s mouth.

‘Zee,’ he mumbled into her ear. ‘Told you not to say that.’

‘Yes,’ Abbu said, placing his hands on his hips, wooden spoon in one palm. ‘And I told you not to get her that tape just yet.’

Saahil was flustered by the accusation, but he had a good comeback. ‘Well, you’re the one who bought her a Spice Girls pencil case and stationery to match.’

‘Girl power,’ Zahra shouted, thrusting her fist up in the air and hitting Saahil on the nose. Abbu shook his head and told them to get ready for dinner.

‘Won’t be long as I’m only throwing in this tin of mixed vegetables,’ he said. ‘Just need to brown the onions.’

Saahil followed Zahra into the living room. She was still singing and dancing. It was the latest obsession that the family was having to accommodate. A couple of months ago, Zee was crawling around on all fours, pretending to be Simba from The Lion King. One time before that, she wouldn’t get out of the bath in the hope she would develop a tail and turn into the Little Mermaid. Zahra’s imagination was already running wild and now she was going to be starting school. A pleated grey skirt and white blouse hung behind her bedroom door. Smart black shoes lay in a box under her bed. And of course, there was the primary school bag and Spice Girls accessories. Though Saahil wouldn’t admit it out loud, he did think their songs were catchy. Zahra’s favourite was Mel B. Saahil took a fancy to Ginger Spice.

Zahra was already attending nursery in the afternoons so Abbu was quite relaxed about her starting school. He’d had a wobble the other day though, when all the uniform was bought and all the organising was done. He sat down on the sofa looking lost and forlorn.

‘What’s up?’ Saahil asked.

‘Well… it’s started, hasn’t it?’

‘What has?’

Abbu shrugged. ‘The daily grind. For the rest of her life it’s started. Primary school. Secondary school. College. University. Job.’ He ticked them off with his fingers.

‘Yeah,’ said Saahil. ‘That is quite depressing. But we all have to go through the same thing.’

‘I know. Wish she could stay like this forever, though,’ he’d said, motioning towards her as she slept soundly on the couch.

Saahil nodded in agreement. They began ticking down the days on the calendar. New term began on Wednesday. Saahil would go back to the joys of GCSEs and Zahra would start learning her ABC.

After a change of head teacher for the second time around, Saahil’s school seemed to be making progress. Another team of principals had been drafted in to tackle the failing institution. An even more useless disciplining system was introduced, the first step being a ‘think sheet’. Students were ordered to sit away in a corner and reflect upon their bad behaviour by filling in a form. They’d all quickly devised a set way of filling out the ridiculous thing.

How have you disrupted the lesson?

Talking.

What will you do differently?

Not talk.

‘Apparently, the new heads have experience doing this,’ Uncle Harun repeated to Abbu for what felt like the hundredth time. ‘They’ve transformed two schools in Leeds.’

‘We’ve heard it all before though, haven’t we?’ Abbu replied.

The two of them had relaxed considerably in the years following the burning car episode. After seeing that Saahil and Ehsan’s grades were climbing, both dads realised that their own advice was true: kids could succeed anywhere if they worked hard. Both Saahil and Ehsan were predicted straight ‘A’ grades in their results. They had the option of moving away for A Level studies, but both had opted to stay put. Remarkably, Abbu and Uncle Harun hadn’t protested. Neither had Auntie Meena.

Saahil didn’t care anymore about what people thought of his school. Throughout his time there, he had seen classroom chairs being hurled at teachers who dodged them calmly and continued teaching. He’d seen petite female teachers jump straight into fist fights between burly sixteen-year-old lads and try to restrain them. Saahil’s teachers probably worked twice as hard as staff at any other poncey school. And not all the kids were so bad either. Saahil and Ehsan were good. They were aiming high and had survived without any major incidents. Though they hated school at times, both boys couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Once Zahra stopped dancing to the Spice Girls, she pointed to the calendar that hung on the living-room wall. She had chosen it especially as each month featured a different breed of fluffy kitten.

‘You wanna tick off another day?’ Saahil asked.

Zahra nodded.

‘Okay, even though it’s only five o’clock.’

Saahil grabbed a pen and picked Zahra up. She made a wonky cross against Saturday 30th August. Just four days until she started school. She wiggled in his arms with excitement. Saahil wondered if he’d been this eager to begin his education. It’s not all that, Zee, he almost said.

‘Food’s ready,’ Abbu called from the kitchen.

‘Let’s go help,’ Saahil said to his sister. He placed her on the floor and she ran off as soon as her feet touched the ground.

When his mother’s bespectacled face swam into view, Amjad thought he was being woken up for school. Five more minutes, he wanted to say, burying his face into the pillow.

‘Amjad,’ she hissed. He felt her hand tapping his shoulder urgently.

‘Ammi!’ he shouted back, coming to his senses. He drew the duvet close to his chest in shock. Ammi shuffled on her feet and pulled away. What was she doing in his bedroom in the middle of the night? The curtains were drawn shut but a small beam of light shone through signalling the arrival of the morning. Amjad rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed.

‘What are you doing? Why are you here?’ He reached out and checked the alarm clock. It was 7.30 a.m. Ammi remained distant and stayed in the shadows. She cleared her throat and mumbled something indistinguishable.

‘Is everything okay?’ Amjad asked, suddenly serious. A panic began brewing in his chest.

‘Yes, yes. Of course,’ Ammi replied.

‘So what is this? How did you even get here?’ he asked, knowing that he was the one who always chauffeured his mother between their homes.

‘I… er… got a lift from the neighbour.’

‘At seven o’clock on a Sunday morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which neighbour?’

‘Does it matter?’ she snapped. ‘Are you getting up now?’

‘Well, I suppose,’ Amjad replied bitterly, thinking he could have done with a lie-in. ‘Are the kids asleep?’

‘Yes.’

Amjad made to get up but he stopped and looked at his mother’s face in the dark. She wasn’t making eye contact with him.

‘Ammi, what’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Something’s wrong, I know it is.’

‘No… nothing.’

‘Tell me the truth. What’s going on?’

‘Come downstairs first.’

Amjad’s heart began beating fast. He knew this talk. It was the same talk the doctors had used before they told him that his wife had died. ‘Sit down first, Mr Sharif.’ ‘Take a seat first so we can discuss this…’

‘Has something bad happened?’

‘No… well, not to us.’

‘Not to us? But something bad has happened?’

‘Erm—’

‘Tell me now.’

‘I’ll show you if you come downstairs.’

Ammi’s voice wobbled and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Amjad stood, confused, not knowing where this was going.

‘Ammi?’ he asked, this time more urgently.

His mother broke down into tears. She spoke through sobs. ‘Something terrible has happened to this country.’

The TV was already playing when Amjad stumbled down the stairs with Ammi. He knelt down on the floor, his eyes glued to the screen. He couldn’t bring himself to blink. The sombre-looking newsreaders were talking, but the words seemed to wash over Amjad. Besides, he couldn’t hear them. Ammi was speaking quickly in Punjabi, explaining how she had discovered the news.

‘I woke up to pray Fajr namaz at five o’clock. I don’t know why, but I like to keep the TV on in the background whilst I get ready otherwise it’s so eerie and quiet. As soon as I switched it on I saw… this.’

Amjad turned up the volume on the remote control. But it wasn’t going to change the words that were emblazoned on the bottom of the screen: PRINCESS DIANA KILLED IN PARIS CAR CRASH.

‘I couldn’t be alone,’ Ammi sobbed. ‘I called a taxi and came here.’

Amjad sat his mother down on the sofa and placed his arm around her. He kept one eye on the TV as reports flew in from various sources. For now, they were staring into a dark tunnel in Paris. It was cordoned off by police and surrounded by onlookers. The newsreaders welcomed ‘those joining us now for today’s breaking news’ not in their usual sharp, business-like tones, but in a stuttering disbelief. They took extra-long pauses, looked flustered and slightly out of control, almost as if they didn’t want to say the words.

‘Shall we move our attention to the papers?’ said the reporter as he turned to a guest seated to his left. He looked relieved to be sharing the screen with another person. The guest journalist held up a front page and began his analysis.

‘I’ll make tea,’ Amjad mumbled, suddenly feeling hollow. He left Ammi on the sofa and went into the kitchen. He watched the kettle as it boiled. The sound of the telly travelled to his ears. He wondered how people all over the country would react as they woke up on this lazy, summer Sunday morning. How were they meant to feel?

‘So young and beautiful,’ Ammi was saying as Amjad carried in two cups of tea. Amjad looked at the screen and saw footage of Diana walking through a minefield. It cut to her riding a water-park slide with the young princes.

Half an hour later, they heard movement upstairs.

‘I better go check on the kids,’ Amjad sighed, glad for the excuse to get out of the room. ‘When you hear us coming down, Ammi, just turn it off for a bit. I don’t want them seeing this yet.’

Amjad plodded up the stairs and creaked open Zahra’s door. He saw a flash of pink and found his daughter wrapped around his leg in a tight hug.

‘Morning,’ he smiled.

‘Morneee,’ she replied, her small face beaming up at him.

He picked her up in his arms and opened Saahil’s door. His son was sitting up in bed.

‘Why are you lot awake so early? And why can I hear Ammi?’

‘She’s here. We’re all going to have breakfast together.’

Saahil grinned. ‘Double breakfast?’

‘Yeah,’ Amjad nodded, knowing that if the kids stayed over at their grandmother’s, she would feed them a proper breakfast. Toast, fried eggs, tomatoes and beans. A sharp contrast to the sugary cereal that Amjad hastily poured for them.

Saahil jumped up and rushed towards the door.

‘Take your sister,’ Amjad said.

Saahil took her by the hand and walked her down the stairs. Amjad watched them go and sat alone on the bed, taking deep, slow breaths. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. But then he thought about a person he always believed he had zero in common with: the Prince of Wales, waking up his children in the early hours to tell them that their mother had died. Four years ago, Amjad had done that too.

The flowers gathered outside Kensington Palace. Men and women sobbed on camera whilst talking about the beloved princess. Ammi’s relatives called from Pakistan to offer their condolences. Harun rang Amjad to tell him that Meena had been crying all week.

‘You know she loved Diana,’ he said.

Amjad had never known anything like it. Even journalists were debating whether it was all just getting a bit ‘too much’. Why would people grieve for somebody they didn’t know? Amjad couldn’t explain why, but he also felt a deep sadness for Diana, a woman he had been quite indifferent to in real life. Yes, he always thought she was beautiful, always admired her humanitarian work, but Diana was someone he had never met or known. But sorrow lay heavy over his chest for the rest of the week. He could see it on the faces of friends and passers-by. Amjad thought about the two young princes, motherless, like his own two children. He thought about a youthful life cut short. Like his own wife. People up and down the country were mourning the crossovers and parallels of their own lives.

Ammi spent more time at their house. She dabbed her eyes whenever the news showed footage of Diana gliding around in her different gowns. Ethereal and otherworldly she was now. Ammi insisted on pulling out an unused ‘Charles and Diana’ tea set. It was, of course, another romantic gift from Amjad’s father. The photo printed on each piece of china was of the seemingly happy couple back in 1982. TO COMMEMORATE THE BIRTH OF THEIR FIRST CHILD, read the saucers. It even had a pair of cherubs on it.

When pictures emerged of the mangled black car found in the Paris tunnel, Ammi rushed off to pray. She began admonishing Amjad every time he put his foot down in the car for the rest of the week.

‘Drive carefully,’ she snapped. ‘Look what happened to poor Diana.’

The night before Zahra started school on Wednesday, Amjad recalled a thought he’d been having throughout the summer holidays. When he took Zahra to her first day at school, would she be the only kid there not to have a mother? The events of the weekend seemed to retune his brain. After all, if it could even happen to princes.

They’d already tackled nursery, so there was no crying on the Wednesday morning when Amjad dropped Zahra off. He felt a pang in his heart when she was all ready in her uniform, smart coat and school bag. He grabbed the camera from the cupboard and took two snaps of her. When they arrived, all the parents gathered around at the entrance of the brightly decorated classroom. They appeared strong on the surface, but Amjad sensed that some would probably cry in the car on the way home. Zahra stood and waved at Amjad before rushing off, eager to get started. He felt lighter as he drove home. That was until he switched on the telly and was met with more mournful news coverage of the death of the princess.

Amjad was most surprised at Saahil’s reaction to Diana’s passing. He had delivered the news gently to his son, not thinking there would be much to it. Saahil would express sorrow and move on quickly. On the Sunday morning when the news first broke, Saahil nipped out to buy sweets for Zahra. He’d returned with a couple of tabloids bearing the headline: DIANA DEAD. Amjad had reacted badly. He hated the bluntness of the words. The insensitivity. Saahil shrugged and hid them out of view. But over the next few days, he seemed to withdraw into himself. He was the first to switch on the TV in a morning, listening intently to details of the country’s grief. He asked questions about William and Harry. Why were people bickering over the silence of the Queen? What was all the fuss about the flag that flew over Buckingham Palace? The night before the funeral, Saahil brought home another newspaper. The front page displayed images of the young princes reading floral tributes to their mother outside Kensington Palace. Saahil stared at the photos. Ammi always liked to point out how he was the same age as Prince William. Amjad often joked how that was as far as their similarities went.

‘Well, I suppose we have something else in common now,’ said Saahil, not taking his eyes off the pictures. ‘Both our mums are dead,’ he finished abruptly.

Amjad frowned. ‘I’ve told you not to talk like tha—’

‘What? You want me to put it nicely?’ He glared at Amjad, who had never seen him like this before. ‘I’m going to sleep in tomorrow,’ he said. ‘You watch the funeral if you want.’

Saahil didn’t come downstairs all morning. Ammi used up an entire box of tissues as the world tuned in for the final farewell. She gasped when she saw the two boys appear and walk behind the funeral cortege.

‘They’re too young for this,’ Amjad kept saying. Prince Harry looked so small.

In the afternoon, Saahil’s voice travelled down from the top of the stairs. ‘Is it over?’

‘Yes, you can come down now,’ Ammi replied.

Whilst he was eating a late breakfast, Amjad stroked Saahil’s hair.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

Saahil nodded and avoided eye contact. Amjad didn’t know what to say. He knew that ‘deep talk’ was the last thing that Saahil wanted. It would make him feel even more uncomfortable than he already was. But that didn’t stop Amjad from feeling completely incompetent as a father. They spent the rest of the day keeping out of each other’s way.

That night, Amjad tucked Zahra into bed and turned out her lights. As he inched out of the room, he saw Saahil hovering by the door.

‘I’m just going to finish this homework in my room,’ he said. ‘And then I’ll go to sleep.’

‘Okay.’

They stood awkwardly for a few seconds. Amjad thought about saying something, but Saahil’s body was already turned in towards the direction of his bedroom, perhaps in the hope of a quick exit.

‘Goodnight then,’ Amjad said, deciding against it. He began making his way towards the stairs. But before he knew it, Saahil was hugging him. They had stopped doing ‘goodnight hugs’ a while ago, what with Saahil now being a super-cool teen. Amjad was completely taken aback. They both giggled nervously and Saahil quickly retreated into his room in a flash.

As Amjad drank his decaf tea alone in front of the telly that night, he couldn’t stop thinking about the hug. When he woke up in the morning, his mind settled on it once again. It was only a silly hug. But by noon the next day, Amjad knew what was bothering him about the embrace.

It was the tightness of it.

Eight

May 2003

Three empty plastic bottles were lined up on the dining table. The fourth had toppled over and rolled on to the floor near the doorway. If Zahra bounded towards it without looking, she would trip over and fall, but Saahil couldn’t muster the energy to go and pick the bottle up. He was sitting at the dining table poring over huge textbooks, stopping for frequent swigs of Red Bull and Lucozade and wondering whether they were beginning to lose their effectiveness. He’d have to switch back to coffee and try not to spill any over his books. There were already a few noticeable stains on some of the pages. The last time, he had completely missed his mouth as he’d brought the cup to his lips.

Saahil lowered his head and let the cold page touch his cheek. He envied those losers at school, the ones he and Ehsan used to laugh at. They were probably sitting at supermarket checkouts right now, sliding loaves of bread down those slopey things and arranging groceries into plastic bags. Saahil would gladly swap lives with them. Here, he’d say, take the bloody Engineering degree and let me have a go on the till.

Not that he’d be saying that tomorrow after his final exam. But that was twenty-four hours away and Saahil was exhausted. He had almost dozed off when Zahra jumped on top of him from behind. He jerked awake as her skinny arms wrapped around his shoulders.

‘Zee, why did you do that?’ he asked, wearily. She appeared at his side, chewing gum loudly and still wearing her school uniform. She grimaced and pinched her nose.

‘You stink, Bhaijaan,’ she said.

‘Oh, thanks.’

‘When did you last have a shower?’ she demanded. ‘And don’t tell me you don’t have time. I have loads of homework too, but I still have a bath when I need to.’

Zahra’s eyes travelled over the pile of open books on the table. She squinted at the tiny writing, the technical graphs and complicated Maths symbols.

‘Your homework looks well boring,’ she added.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter if it’s boring,’ said Saahil, tugging her plait lightly. ‘It’s gonna get me a wicked job and then I’ll have loads of money to spend… on myself!’

Zahra’s smile evaporated.

‘Anyway, where’s Libby?’ Saahil asked, clearly hoping her little school friend would arrive at any moment to distract her and let him continue with his work.

‘She might not be coming today.’

‘That’s a first,’ said Saahil. Libby was always at the house within an hour of them both finishing the school day.

The doorbell rang.

‘Oh, that may be her,’ Zahra said, eyes lighting up.

‘No, it’s probably Abbu,’ Saahil replied, checking his watch.

Zahra giggled her way to Amjad as he appeared at the door. He responded with equal enthusiasm prompting Saahil to smile and roll his eyes. He stood up, stretching and yawning.

‘Pull your pants up!’

Saahil winced.

‘Nice to see you too, Abbu.’

Amjad kicked off his shoes and Saahil heard him mutter ‘stupid fashion’ and ‘bum hanging out’ under his breath. Saahil went off into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He came back with a solitary cup of tea.

‘No biscuits, Abbu. You’re getting a bit podgy around the middle. I don’t like it.’

Amjad scowled at his son, but not for long as Zahra had already sneaked a packet of Rich Teas to him under the table.

‘How’s it going?’ Amjad asked, motioning toward Saahil’s work. He got a groan in response. Before they could continue, Ammi came down the stairs thumbing her prayer beads in one hand. She waddled past them wrapped in layers of scarf and took a seat on the sofa. Amjad eyed her nervously.

‘Are you still angry with me about the can of chickpeas?’ he asked. There’d been a commotion the previous night when Ammi had sent him out shopping and he’d not listened properly to her instructions.

‘You were supposed to get me two tins,’ she snapped back, her beak suddenly in Amjad’s face. ‘And you only got one. Now I can’t make samosa chaat.’

‘Saahil will run out and get you one.’

‘No, he won’t. He’s busy studying. I asked you to get me them.’

Amjad rubbed his temples and closed his eyes.

‘Bad quality chickpeas too,’ Ammi added.

‘Bad quality?’ Amjad said. ‘Chickpeas are chickpeas. What’s the big deal?’

Saahil decided to intervene. ‘I’ll go and get you them, Ammi. Just chill.’

‘You chill,’ she shot back.

Saahil laughed and put his arms around her. She resisted a little but a slow smile spread across her face. Ammi could never be angry with him for more than ten seconds. She often said that when he walked into a room, she would notice no one except her own handsome grandson. Saahil shrugged this off on many occasions, feigning embarrassment. This, however, was not just ‘grandmother talk’. The old woman was spot on. Saahil was pretty, and he knew it.

He stood a few inches taller than Amjad and walked with a slight swagger that was neither intentional nor overdone. His thick raven hair was pushed back with no desire to be neat, though the messier it got the more attractive Saahil became. His heavy-lidded eyes always found girls. They waited with bated breath to be on the receiving end of one of his smiles. Saahil was happy to oblige, but only with a slight upturn of his lips. He didn’t want to lose the cool, laidback air that surrounded him with too much enthusiasm.

As Saahil scribbled complicated symbols on sheets of paper, he wore a look of steely concentration in his eyes, his pencil scritch-scratching as it travelled across the page. Saahil spoke of success as though it was waiting around for him like a faithful pet dog. It would come rushing to him as soon as he whistled. He’d worked hard enough for it and more importantly, Saahil wanted it badly enough. He’d delivered his pizzas and mopped his shop floors to earn extra cash alongside his studies. His dark eyes gazed out at the world with a bored indifference. There wasn’t much to get excited about after all. The dull, northern city he’d grown up in consisted of rows of terraced houses and the odd chimney of some derelict factory piercing a crappy skyline of nothingness. It wasn’t for him. Saahil would do one out of there at the first opportunity.

Of course, he was going nowhere alone. Oh no, he wasn’t going to be one of those people who just buggered off and left their families to it. They were all part of his ambitions. As Ammi and Amjad bickered over chickpeas, Saahil felt a rush of affection. Zahra, who was stood by the kitchen door, gave him a look from across the room to suggest ‘here we go again’. She was quite sharp-witted for a little one. Saahil caught sight of their childhood growth chart which had climbed up the wall in spectacular fashion. Saahil was last marked in the millennium year.

Saahil, 18 yrs, 14/09/00

Ehsan, 18 yrs, 01/12/00

‘You won’t grow any taller now,’ Abbu had told him.

A laugh escaped Saahil’s lips.

‘Neither will this guy,’ he’d said, pointing to his best friend. Ehsan had gracefully accepted a three-inch defeat.

All seventy inches of Saahil liked to take some of the credit when it came to his sister’s upbringing. She was catching up on the other side of the door. The most recent marking taken a few months ago recorded her at fifty-six inches:

Zahra, 10 yrs, 20/02/2003

Saahil remembered his dad’s friends watching him fondly as he scurried around after her as a kid.

‘You know what they say, Amjad. Older siblings are like parents. And especially when there is such an age gap. He’ll always be there for her.’

They spoke the truth. It was Saahil who took over when Amjad could not be in two places at once. The other day he had accompanied Zahra to her school’s parents’ evening like the mature, responsible older brother he was supposed to be. When they arrived home, Saahil gave Zahra her first self-defence lesson to prepare her for secondary school. Amjad shook his head in disapproval as he watched the pair of them wrestling in the middle of the room like idiots.

‘Be careful, Saahil! You might hurt her.’

‘No, I won’t. I let her win, didn’t I? And anyway, she needs toughening up.’

Naturally, they didn’t always see eye to eye. Saahil constantly undid Amjad’s fragile attempts at discipline. Zahra would bury her face in his chest when she was being told off for causing mischief. Saahil would hold her, his chin resting on her head, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tried to maintain an adult sternness.

‘Leave her alone, Abbu,’ he would protest. ‘She’s only little.’

It was always funny when Abbu got in a huffy mood. According to Saahil, it just made him even more lovable. He wasn’t as slick or sophisticated as Saahil hoped to still be at forty-five. He wasn’t even cool. He was just Abbu. Quite unremarkable to an outsider, with his glasses, bald patch and beginnings of a paunch. What does he want? Saahil often wondered, as he watched his dad plodding around the house. What would make him really happy? Surely it wasn’t just the fork-lift driver promotion Abbu talked about.

At twenty-one, Saahil already felt like he had everything figured out. He knew what he wanted to do, and who he wanted to be. But things hadn’t been so easy for his Abbu. Saahil sometimes wondered what it must have been like for him, newly widowed with two small children to look after. He had told grief to stay put in one corner and had got on with it.

Saahil slipped on his jacket as Ammi’s rant about chickpeas reached fever pitch.

‘Hurry,’ Abbu mouthed urgently, motioning him out of the door.

Saahil smiled as he walked down the street thinking about his Abbu. He realised once again that it was quite possible for people to go through life and never think about themselves. It was possible to live completely for others. He realised that Abbu didn’t actually want anything for himself. The thought had probably never even occurred to him. And that’s why Saahil wanted to give him everything.

Saahil and Ehsan waited for their friends to emerge from the exam room as the rest of the students piled out of the door. They walked outside and found a quiet corner to discuss their final assessment. Saahil leaned against the wall, leg cocked casually, preoccupied with his phone.

‘How did it go?’ Ehsan asked them all.

‘I’ve really messed up,’ Umar said before anybody else had a chance to speak. His double chins quivered as he looked to his friends for consolation. ‘I missed the last question out completely.’

‘Don’t worry about it now, mate,’ Ehsan replied. ‘It’s over. You’ll have done fine.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ he said, frantically. ‘I’m definitely gonna fail. Didn’t I tell you I would fail?’

‘Stop pissing your pants, Umar,’ snapped Kamran. ‘You always whimper like a bitch after every exam. Doing my head in.’

‘How about you stop having a go at him all the time?’ said Ehsan.

‘Yeah, leave him alone, twat,’ Saahil piped up. He didn’t bother looking up from his phone.

‘How did you do, Saahil?’ Umar asked.

‘Erm… well—’

‘Obviously he thinks he’s aced it,’ Kamran said, wearing his usual malicious grin, the one he reserved only for Saahil.

‘Yeah,’ Saahil replied coolly, knowing exactly what to say to piss him off. ‘I probably have.’

Kamran snorted and twisted his face, making the small red birthmark on his nose appear even uglier. He opened his mouth but Ehsan cut him off.

‘So, we’ll see you both tonight then, yeah?’

‘Why?’

‘We’re gonna celebrate with the rest of the lads.’

Kamran shrugged. ‘Fine.’

He slunk off after one last glare at Saahil, whose middle finger responded casually to the back of his head. Umar ran off behind Kamran, all flustered as he tried to catch up.

Ehsan looked at Saahil.

‘He’s a right weirdo, isn’t he?’

Saahil nodded in agreement. Ehsan’s face broke into a huge smile. ‘How you feeling?’

Saahil blinked a few times as reality set in. ‘I’m gonna sleep for a few days. And watch the football without feeling guilty.’

‘Are you joking? I’ve already quit my shitty job.’

They laughed and gave each other a high five.

‘’Ere, have you seen those girls?’ Ehsan said, motioning with his eyes to the left. ‘They’ve been looking at you for ages.’

There were two girls sitting on a bench across from them, whispering with their heads together. Saahil had already taken a good look at them, discreetly of course. When he finally honoured them with his gaze, his expression suggested he was bored out of his brains. After a few seconds, he turned away from them indifferently, and began texting on his phone. The girls giggled stupidly and hurried off. Ehsan shook his head at Saahil’s absurd reaction.

‘What the…’ he began. ‘I don’t blame Kamran. You are an arrogant—’

Saahil blocked his ears. He couldn’t hear the insults but could see Ehsan’s mouth moving.

‘Do you know them?’ he asked, gesturing towards the now empty bench. Saahil shrugged.

‘Whatever, I’m sure I’ve seen you hanging around in a corner with one of ’em. Maybe even both.’

‘Don’t remember.’

‘Don’t remember?’ Ehsan repeated slowly. ‘What do you mean “don’t remember”? Do you just get off with them and then forget who they are the next day?’

‘Oi, I don’t “get off” with anyone, all right,’ said Saahil, firmly.

‘Oh yeah, sorry I forgot. You’re a good Muslim, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I bloody am,’ he said, smirking. ‘Plus, you know my Abbu, he’d chapatti pan me over the head if he found out.’

‘Well, don’t forget,’ Ehsan said. ‘I’m his informer. He’s told me to keep an eye on you.’

‘I know,’ said Saahil, giving Ehsan a dirty look. ‘But maybe it’s me who should be keeping an eye on you.’

‘You what?’

‘Hi, Alisha,’ said Saahil.

Ehsan nearly choked on his own tongue. The pretty hijabi who had tried to sneak past them unseen stopped to face them.

‘Hi,’ she said, rather confrontationally. Her grip tightened around the pile of books she was holding against her chest.

‘You on your own?’ Saahil asked.

‘Yes, I’m capable of walking down the street on my own.’

Ehsan laughed nervously. ‘Ignore him, he’s an idiot.’

Alisha’s posture seemed to relax. There was a slight upturn of her lips.

Saahil noticed and grinned. ‘If looks could kill I’d be dead on the floor. But if Ehsan manages to mumble a word or two to you then suddenly you don’t seem to mind.’

‘That’s not true,’ she spluttered, her cheeks reddening as she turned away in a huff and sped off towards the bus stop.

Ehsan glared at Saahil. ‘You’ve embarrassed her now.’

‘How long are you gonna play around for?’ Saahil asked. ‘You smile at her from across the room and act like as though you’ve made progress. Get an effin’ move on.’

‘Well, for your information—’ Ehsan began, but seemed to think better of it.

‘What?’

‘Nowt, forget it,’ he replied.

Saahil shook his head. ‘Anyway, your dad is at my house. Abbu just texted me.’

They headed off towards the bus stop together. A car sped past and honked at them. Two lads they recognised from their course sniggered through their tinted windows. Saahil opened his mouth to shout something but Ehsan grabbed his arm.

‘Leave it,’ he said.

Saahil kicked at a scrap on the floor and mumbled something about ‘getting his own car soon’. Ehsan smiled good-naturedly.

‘They’re showing off, taking the piss out of us,’ said Saahil.

‘So what?’ Ehsan replied.

Saahil looked at his best friend. ‘Why doesn’t stuff bother you?’

Ehsan shrugged.

‘Bloody pious prick,’ said Saahil, rolling his eyes.

When the boys arrived home, they found Amjad and Harun in their usual spot, drinking tea and watching cricket on the TV.

‘So you’re going out again tonight?’ Amjad asked as the boys settled down on the couch next to him.

‘Again? We haven’t been out in about a month,’ said Saahil.

‘Well, don’t get carried away, all right?’ Harun joined in. ‘I know you’re celebrating and everything but—’

‘Oh, Abbu,’ Ehsan said, cutting his father off. ‘Don’t give us another lecture.’

The dads gave each other a knowing look. Unfortunately, Harun had seen what silly students got up to on his late-night taxi rounds – half naked, drug-taking, alcohol-drinking fiends that they were. He’d seen them squaring up to the police before passing out on the streets in pools of their own vomit. They didn’t understand that neither Saahil nor Ehsan wanted to behave in that way.

‘How many times do we have to say it?’ Saahil said to the pair of them. ‘Why would we drink alcohol? It stinks.’

‘I know,’ Ehsan added. ‘I can’t breathe when I’m near it… Isn’t it yeast fermentation or summat?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Saahil. ‘It bloody pongs whatever it is.’

Amjad and Harun smiled at each other. They always enjoyed teasing them.

‘Well, I’m more concerned about drugs,’ Harun began. ‘Boys your age, they’re always getting into my taxi at night, stoned off their heads.’

‘Oh, come on, drugs aren’t as bad as alcohol,’ Saahil blurted out.

Amjad and Harun frowned. Saahil could tell that Ehsan was resisting the urge to punch him as he quickly jumped in.

‘He means alcohol is like really haram. Whereas drugs are, you know, not as… haram.’ Ehsan’s voice trailed off.

‘Anything that intoxicates you is haram,’ Harun said. ‘Anything that makes you lose control of what you’re doing.’

In which case, Saahil thought, the odd joint here and there when you were out with your mates was hardly a big deal. Not that the old boys needed to know that.

‘Well, what do you want us to do,’ laughed Saahil. ‘Become really religious and grow beards?’

Amjad and Harun’s faces hardened.

Ehsan rolled his eyes. ‘Nice one,’ he mouthed to Saahil. It was time for lecture number two, which went along the lines of ‘don’t get brainwashed and blow anything up’.

‘That’s not a laughing matter,’ Harun said.

‘Absolutely not,’ Amjad agreed.

Both of them glanced at each other looking uncomfortable.

‘I was only joking,’ Saahil quickly said.

‘Yeah, you don’t have to worry about us ramming a plane into Big Ben,’ Ehsan chimed in, though it was the wrong thing to say to two already anxious-looking dads. The atmosphere in the room changed.

‘Talk about a mood killer,’ Ehsan whispered to Saahil as their fathers talked in hushed, worried tones.

‘Tell me about it,’ he replied, wishing he could be transported somewhere else immediately. Only yesterday he’d had a run-in with his dad for telling Zahra to ‘fucking turn it off’ as the TV reminded them of what had occurred on 11 September two years ago – as if they could forget. Unfortunately, Abbu had been just within earshot. First, he told him off for swearing. Second, for swearing in front of Zahra. And then for being ‘insensitive’.

Sensitivity? Everyone was past that stage. Maybe if these news channels hadn’t shoved it in their faces so much over the past two years, Saahil might still react with some sympathy. They were still at it, churning out one documentary after the next, agonising over every detail, milking it for all it was worth. It was easy gawping at the telly in apocalyptic awe at the scenes, but now Saahil had to remind himself there were actual people in those buildings deciding on which was the easiest way to die: to sit around and embrace a fireball on the inside, or jump out of the window and let their bodies shatter all over the streets of Manhattan.

Saahil didn’t blame Abbu and Uncle Harun for worrying so much. It would be nice, after all, to just sit back and feel sorry for the victims and angry towards the perpetrators and for that be that. To not shrink slightly every time the image of those two skyscrapers popped up unexpectedly. And they did pop up. In dentist waiting rooms on muted TVs, in conversations with smug white people. It was always there. Crashing, burning, smoking, and spreading like an ash cloud into every facet of their lives.

Saahil often thought back to the actual day. It niggled at him: Abbu holding Zahra close in a one-armed hug; her blinking away innocently and playing with her plait as she watched the screen. She was completely oblivious to the fact that life had probably just changed forever.

‘It’ll blow over,’ Abbu sometimes said, trying to convince himself. Because wars just had a tendency to blow over. God only knew what kind of hell this would mutate into, Saahil thought. After all, they’d invaded two countries now. They could bomb as many Muslims as they wanted.

‘You see,’ Ehsan often said, shaking his head, ‘you can’t do shit like that and expect not to piss a few people off.’

‘No one cares about brown civvies caught up in the middle, Ehsan,’ Saahil replied, bitterly.

He remembered how the awful events had impacted their second year at university. Freshers’ Week for the First Years was due to start on Monday 17th September 2001. Saahil and Ehsan were talking about what they would get up to during the week’s parties in hushed voices so that their parents could not hear. After that, they’d put their heads down and work hard for the rest of the year. There was an air of anticipation and excitement, until everything changed.

A couple of weeks after 9/11, Saahil had been at a hospital appointment with Ammi. The waiting room was packed and the TV was playing the BBC News. Slowly, all eyes began to travel up towards the screen. So did Saahil’s. People began shuffling and looking at the floor. There was no shock and disbelief. Everyone in that room had seen nothing else for the past fortnight. The screen showed the second plane flying into the South Tower and being engulfed in a burst of flames. Saahil remembered digging his fingernails into his hands, his face reddening as he tapped his foot urgently on the floor. Saahil remembered vividly the sigh of relief he’d taken when Ammi was finally called in for her consultation.

Later that day, Saahil went to pick Zahra up from school. What she’d told him as they’d walked home together made him rage to Abbu that night.

‘They’ve been having this stupid “circle time” every day since the attack,’ shouted Saahil. ‘Zee told me that they’re passing this cuddly toy around and whoever it lands on has to talk about their “feelings” about the World Trade Center. One of the girls, Sonia or whatever she’s called, wasn’t saying much. I’m not being funny, Abbu, but I’ve seen this girl and her mum and dad. She lives on Springside Street, okay, and it doesn’t look like she has the strongest grasp of the English language… Are you listening, Abbu?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘Well, Zee told me that Miss Williams goes to her, “How would you feel if your mum was in the tower?” What kind of arsehole question is that!’

‘Don’t swear.’

‘And this Sonia kid said, “I’d be sad.” Well, what else what she supposed to say? Then Miss Williams goes, “Sad, is that it? You’d be devastated.”’

Abbu had looked up from his newspaper for the first time and frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, Abbu,’ said Saahil, almost bouncing off the walls. ‘That’s what Zahra told me. How does a eight-year-old know the word “devastated”? See what they’re doing, Abbu. Watch me, I’m gonna complain.’

He never did. Abbu tried to calm him down and stop him.

‘Focus on yourself. You’ve got a busy year ahead at uni.’

But Saahil didn’t feel the same about uni anymore either. There was a sense of foreboding, with pathetic, half-hearted attempts at partying for Freshers’ Week. Not all the students were so willing to talk to him and Ehsan anymore. The friendships they’d made in the first year had changed. Many of the connections and bonds undone. Not everyone wanted to stay friends. Instead, people had gravitated towards their own ethnic group protectively.

The divide that had been set during that first week didn’t change much over the next two years. Saahil and Ehsan kept their heads down and stuck to their own. They threw themselves into work. Thankfully, they’d come out on the other side, but that didn’t stop Saahil from viewing the whole damn thing with contempt. It was a headache he could do without. It had no place in the ideal life he imagined for himself and his family. Things that were happening a million miles away in foreign countries had no bearing on him. But there it was. This anger. This dread. And he could see it now engraved all over Abbu and Uncle Harun’s faces.

‘Anyway,’ Abbu said, smoothing down his clothes. Everyone cleared their throats. Ehsan stopped hiding his face. There was some shuffling around and readjusting themselves on sofas; any attempt to change the atmosphere and recover the same lightheartedness that they had all started the conversation with.

‘Have you heard about Rashid?’ Abbu said. Saahil saw his father nudge Uncle Harun who sat upright and nodded enthusiastically. Saahil could tell that this part of the conversation had probably been scripted between them beforehand.

‘The poor bloke hasn’t been to Jummah for two weeks in a row,’ Harun said. ‘He’s too ashamed.’

‘Why, what happened?’ Ehsan asked.

‘His son got some girl pregnant,’ said Saahil.

‘Really? That nerd Hassan? How did he get a bird?’

‘It’s not funny,’ Abbu said. The boys tried to look serious.

‘Sorry, Amjad, but it’s this one you need to keep an eye on.’ Harun grinned as he pointed to Saahil. ‘He’s the pretty boy. My Ehsi is too shy about that kind of stuff.’

Saahil snorted as Ehsan covered his face. He was definitely too shy. Saahil only had to encourage him to ask Alisha out almost every day. Ehsan just about managed to give her a smile and gaze longingly after her as she disappeared down the corridor.

‘Me?’ said Saahil, all dramatics as usual, mouth hanging open in shock.

‘Yeah, you,’ Abbu said. ‘Your uncle’s right. What did I find on your phone the other day?’

Saahil groaned. Abbu had seen a text message on his phone.

‘Who’s Katie?’ he’d asked.

Saahil pretended he’d gone temporarily deaf.

‘“You better skive lesson for me today,”’ Abbu read. ‘“I’m only coming into uni for you.”’ He’d turned the phone sideways. ‘I take it that’s a wink,’ he’d said, squinting.

‘Don’t read my messages, Abbu!’

‘Well, it’s a good job I did.’ Abbu had followed him around the room jabbering away in Punjabi, the go-to language whenever a good bollocking was in need. ‘Is that why I send you to university? So you can miss lessons and meet girls?’

‘No… I don’t know…’

Abbu’s voice rose. ‘If I find out—’

‘Yeah, yeah, Abbu… Laters.’ Saahil escaped out of the door.

Okay, fine. He liked girls. A lot. And sometimes he did have a few on the go at the same time. But he always stopped short of going into their knickers. He didn’t like hypocrites, and he had his own sister to think about. She was just a kid yet, but already Saahil could see she was going to be a little beauty with her cute upturned nose and pouty lips. In a few years’ time, many inadequate pricks would scurry around after her; and Saahil looked forward to breaking their balls if and when they got too close. In which case, he’d rather not go around bonking everything he saw and be able to guide his little sister with a bit of integrity.

‘Astaghfirullah,’ he said, touching his ears like Ammi often did. ‘I don’t mess around with people’s daughters, thank you very much. Don’t wanna go to hell, do I?’ He suppressed a grin.

‘What moral superiority!’ Ehsan mocked, patting his best friend on the back. ‘He doesn’t mess around with girls because he doesn’t want to go to hell.’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that—’

‘Yeah, you did—’

‘Shut up, Ehsi. Shall I tell Uncle Harun about Alish—’

‘Shhh!’ Ehsan placed his hand over Saahil’s mouth.

Abbu and Harun looked at each other and sighed. They both turned back to their cricket and cups of tea. Saahil smiled at Ehsan when the old men weren’t looking, relieved that the conversation was over.

Nine

Saahil frowned as he watched his friend Abdul swearing his way through the crowded restaurant. The Nineties Bollywood music that played in the background did little to hide the profanity, nor did the hum of multiple conversations and the clinking of cutlery. All six of the lads already seated at the table looked around, horrified. Ehsan smiled nervously at a couple sitting near them, trying to make amends. Too late, Saahil wanted to tell him, the tutting had already begun.

‘What you doing? Bloody idiot!’ they asked when Abdul reached the table with Hardeep.

‘He’s letting that gora wind him up again,’ Hardeep said, casually.

‘Who?’

‘Daniel or summat or other.’

‘He started a debate with me after the exam about Iraq and Bin Laden and all that shit,’ Abdul said as he threw himself into a chair beside them. ‘All his fuckin’ gora gang were there. You should have seen how they were looking at me.’

‘Why do you get yourself into these situations?’

‘I don’t. He’s in my face all the time.’

‘Where do you know him from?’

‘Debating society.’ Everyone burst into laughter.

‘Serves you right then,’ said Saahil. ‘Don’t join a debating society if you can’t take it.’

‘I can take it,’ Abdul said, huffing and puffing away. ‘But he’s always at it. Making snide comments and stuff. Making out as though we’re all… I’ll fuckin’ punch him next time.’ He pulled a plate of biryani towards him, angrily.

‘Well, I hope you shut him up properly, bro,’ Asif said.

‘I did. I told him that Blair has done us over because Saddam might have destroyed his weapons before we even invaded. That’s the latest I’ve heard anyway.’

‘There might not be any weapons,’ Kamran sneered.

‘I know but… that’s what they’re telling us, innit? That he’s got weapons of mass destruction. And he’s killing his own people—’

‘So we’ve gone to save them.’

‘Yay!’

‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ Asif said. ‘Why does it bother them who Saddam’s killing? They only give two shits when white people die. Not us.’

‘Shhh! People are listening,’ Umar said, as a waiter slid past them carrying a tray of drinks.

‘Don’t care.’

‘Wait and see,’ Hardeep said. ‘They’ll do to the Iraqis exactly what they did to us. Barge in, take all their shit, and then scarper outta there and leave ’em to massacre each other.’

‘You talking about… Partition?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, grimly. Hardeep was Indian. The rest of them were Pakistani. A few uncomfortable looks passed around the table.

‘That was complicated,’ Ehsan eventually said. ‘You can’t just blame all of what happened there on the whites.’

‘Why not? They like blaming us for everything.’

‘Yeah and it’s not gonna help with you doing the same thing back, is it?’

‘Well, do you know what?’ Abdul said, still angry. ‘When people keep telling you how shit you are that’s the only response you have left.’

A few of the guys suppressed laughs and muttered to each other. A waiter hovered near their table.

‘Just chill out, mate,’ Ehsan said.

‘I know, he’s getting well paranoid.’

‘You would be as well,’ Abdul continued. ‘They were smirking at me. I was trying my best to explain and they just smirked away. I probably looked like a right twat. I was going bright red…’

‘That’s what goray do,’ Ehsan said, shrugging. ‘Explain and justify your entire existence to us whilst we sit here and watch you squirm.’

‘Exactly, they get a kick out of it,’ said Saahil. ‘I just act thick, pretend I can’t hear ’em.’

‘Anything for an easy life, eh?’ Kamran sneered again and adjusted his glasses.

‘Yeah, either that or you end up with constant earache,’ Saahil replied. ‘And anyway, sometimes you can’t really blame them. It’s not their fault Muslims have started blowing shit up, is it?’

‘And is it mine?’ Abdul shot back, his mouth full of naan bread.

‘Well, no, but there’s some of these idiots at our mosque who are in denial. You know, “Muslim blows summat up – it’s the media’s fault!”’

Ehsan laughed. ‘Yeah, everything is the media’s fault. Or America’s fault.’

‘So what if they blow stuff up?’ Kamran said. ‘Why should you feel guilty? Did your dad drive those planes into the Twin Towers?’

‘Shut up, dickhead—’ Saahil began, but Asif cut him off.

‘Fuck ’em,’ he said. ‘They probably did it to themselves anyway.’

Heads turned in Asif’s direction expectantly. He sighed as though burdened with the task of having to educate them all.

‘Nine-eleven,’ he continued. ‘That was some illuminati shit.’

A few of them rolled their eyes and focused on their plates once more.

‘I know you don’t pay any attention to what I say,’ Asif said. ‘But it’s true. They needed a reason to start a war in the Middle East for oil. I was reading about it on the internet, it said—’

‘Get him to put a sock in it,’ Saahil muttered. He stopped and looked at the neighbouring tables before dropping into a whisper, ‘Or he’ll start banging on about Jews in a minute.’

‘Jews?’ Asif said, loudly.

‘Shurrup, idiot!’

Saahil thought he saw Kamran smirk.

‘Don’t underestimate Zionists,’ Asif continued. ‘They control everything and they want everyone to hate us—’

‘For God’s sake,’ Hardeep said, grabbing Asif in a headlock. They heard him mumble a few things about ‘Israel’ before eventually giving up.

‘Anyway, most people know we’re not all the same,’ Umar said, instantly pissing Saahil off. He was sick of hearing that tired old line. It struck him as a particularly dumb thing to say. After all, there were quite a few of them about, Muslims and that.

‘What? That we’re not all suicide bombers?’ Ehsan asked.

‘Yeah, we are actually,’ Saahil said loudly. ‘“Kill a kafir a day”! That’s our motto. That’s what’s kept us going for the last 1,400 years. In fact, I’ve got an urge to slit Hardeep’s throat right now because he believes in Guru Nanak and not Allah.’ He smiled as he put his arm around his Sikh friend.

‘It’s not funny, Saahil.’

‘Yeah, stop making it into a joke.’

Saahil’s smile faded. He threw his fork down on to the plate with a clang. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘What do you suggest we do? Cry about it?’

‘Shut up.’

‘You shut up.’

‘Calm down, everyone,’ Ehsan sighed.

Saahil watched his friends dip naan bread into their curries with miserable faces. Abdul muttered under his breath.

‘Well, you guys sit here and sulk,’ said Saahil. ‘And I’m gonna go. I’d rather not spend the evening pondering over the many ways in which people can hate each other.’

Ehsan touched his arm as Saahil made to get up. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

‘Talk about summat else then,’ Saahil replied.

‘Yeah, he’s right. We just finished uni, for God’s sake. Cheer up.’

Saahil leaned back. A shriek of laughter erupted from a table nearby, prompting them all to turn and glance at the group of mismatched-looking friends. Probably work colleagues, Saahil observed.

‘Talk about summat else?’ someone said. Saahil was retrieved from his own thoughts by Kamran’s snarling face. ‘Talk about summat else?’ he repeated. ‘Some of us actually care about what’s going on in the world.’

The lights in the restaurant were dimmed, but Saahil noticed that Kamran had been glaring across the table at him all evening. His face was flushed, and the red birthmark on his nose seemed to have absorbed into the colouring of the rest of his complexion.

‘You care about something other than yourself?’ Saahil shot back. ‘Don’t make me choke on my vindaloo.’

Everyone held their forks mid-air and looked to Kamran for his response.

‘You’re a big, fat piece of shit, do you know that?’ He spat the words out, as though unable to hold them in any longer.

‘What the flippin’ heck is your problem?’ Ehsan started, moving forward in his seat. He was definitely a born peacemaker, but when it came down to it, Ehsan would defend Saahil without a second’s hesitation.

‘His fucking face is my problem,’ Kamran said.

‘Well, it’s prettier than yours,’ Saahil said quietly. It elicited a few giggles from around the table.

‘You think you’re better than everyone. Walking around everywhere like you own the place. You think you’re gonna outshine us all, don’t you?’

‘What’s this all about?’ Ehsan asked, looking confused.

‘Stay away from Kiran.’

‘Who?’

‘Kiran. The girl you were chatting up at uni today.’ He looked furious. Saahil could hear him breathing hard out of his nose, eyes fixed in a stare, fists balled up tight.

‘You’re not talking about that bird who was trying it on with me in the cafeteria,’ Saahil asked slowly.

‘Shut up! You were flirting with her. I saw you, leaning into her, holding her hand.’

Saahil burst into laughter. ‘As if I would go after her. Even I’ve got standards. Girl’s been around the block more times than a taxi.’

‘Saahil,’ Ehsan said, nudging him.

‘What? It’s true! And anyway, why does it bother you so much? You got a thing for her?’ He smirked at Kamran.

‘She’s a family friend—’

‘Yeah, right,’ Saahil interrupted.

‘And I’m looking out for her,’ Kamran continued. ‘I don’t want you trying it on with her like you try it on with everyone else. You’re just a bastard who messes girls about.’

‘So fuckin’ what if I do?’ said Saahil, having had just about enough from everybody. ‘It’s not like I messed about with your sister, is it?’

Kamran stood up. A few of the lads muffled their laughter. ‘Oooh, shit got serious,’ Saahil heard someone say. He rolled his eyes and sniggered into his drink.

‘Oi, shut up now, Saahil,’ Ehsan said. ‘And you, Kamran, what are you getting emotional for? You don’t even have a sister. Sit down.’ He was pulled back down on to his seat by his friends. They glared at each other from across the table.

‘We’re supposed to be celebrating,’ Ehsan continued. ‘Stop kicking off with each other.’

Smirks vanished as the boys nodded with a new-found earnestness. Everybody always listened to Ehsan.

Saahil squinted and half covered his eyes. The green laser lights were making his head bang. They were stuffed into a booth outside in the courtyard of their favourite nightspot, well away from the packed dance floor where it appeared most of the students had finished their exams for the year. Their heads nodded in accordance with the inadequate booty-shaking that came as ‘Crazy in Love’ blared from the speakers. They’d passed a spliff around. Saahil waited for everything to just float away. The anger at Kamran, the stress of exams and studying, just everything. It wasn’t long until they were all acting gormless with long, drawn-out ‘whaaats’ flying around the table.

‘Look at all those birds, man,’ Asif said. He looked at Saahil and motioned with his head. ‘Go on, Saahil, you always get off with one.’

‘How many times… I don’t get off with anyone,’ said Saahil, still holding his head.

‘What about you, Umar? Why don’t you go dance with one of those lasses?’ Umar’s eyes widened. ‘No no, I don’t think so,’ he stuttered.

‘Why not? Go and have your last bit of fun before you get your bride import from Paki-land.’ Everyone laughed.

‘I don’t have anyone in Pakistan.’ An unspoken ‘you will have soon’ passed around them.

‘Don’t be a dick, Asif,’ Ehsan said.

‘Yeah, just because he’s fat,’ Saahil blurted out. ‘Oh, sorry, Umar, you know what I mean. You’re a nice bloke, you can have any girl you want.’

‘Oh look, Robert’s coming over.’

Saahil made a face at Ehsan. That was all he bloody needed. The three guys wandered towards them, beer bottles in hand. One of them tripped over a chair leg.

‘All right, boys?’ Robert said, obviously tipsy but still managing to reek of self-importance. Saahil had always resisted the temptation of lobbing a textbook at his head across the lecture hall, the pretentious know-it-all. Robert eyed the series of Cokes and lemonades on the table.

‘Look at you lot sipping on your sodas,’ he chuckled. ‘Surely you deserve a beer tonight, lads. We just finished uni.’

‘So funny,’ Asif said.

Robert’s mate, Liam, ogled at the soft drinks too, squinting and turning his head as he tried to comprehend what was before him. He opened his mouth but Saahil cut him off.

‘Just shut up,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but, like, don’t you drink… at all? Not even on special occasions?’

‘No,’ said Ehsan, staring into space like a man defeated. ‘Told you about a million times already.’

‘He’s pissed, he doesn’t remember,’ Asif sniggered.

‘So how do you explain Kamran then?’ Robert shot back, grinning from ear to ear. Saahil could tell it gave him much joy to get one over on them. ‘He’s sat at the bar necking it down. We saw him on the way in.’

They looked over the crowd and could see Kamran sitting on his own at the bar, drinking openly, not even trying to hide it. They glanced at each other in shock.

‘What a turd.’

‘I’m gonna tell his dad,’ Asif said, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

‘His dad drinks as well. I’ve seen him coming out of that pub. The Shoulder of Mutton, I think it’s called.’

‘What were you doing in The Shoulder of Mutton?’

‘I work opposite the building, Sherlock.’

‘Forget about him,’ said Saahil. He looked at Robert. ‘All right, mate. What did you write for question 12b on the exam? I think I got it wrong.’

Saahil checked his watch. It was nearly two o’clock and he suddenly realised how tired he was. He’d drunk litres of Red Bull the night before to stay awake and make sure he had got all his revision done. Robert was now completely wasted and had transformed into 50 Cent.

‘I want them to love me like they love Pac,’ he slurred. Everyone fell about laughing.

‘Do you even know who Pac is, white boy?’

‘Yeah, go and listen to your puffy Timberlake.’

‘He’s not that bad,’ Umar said, nervously.

‘He thinks he’s Michael Jackson,’ said Saahil, scowling. ‘And he’s not.’

‘I know who Tupac is,’ Robert mumbled, a few minutes behind everybody else. ‘He’s the dead guy.’

‘Oi, he’s not dead all right.’

‘Here we go.’

‘Yeah, Asif, move on with your life, dude. He is dead.’

‘No, he faked his own death, I’m telling you.’

‘And which website have you been reading now?’

‘Who’s dead? Sorry, alive?’

‘What?’

Saahil decided to leave his friends to their debate. He’d noticed Ehsan slip away fifteen minutes earlier to answer a call. He found him hanging around the doorway of the back exit.

‘You missed it,’ said Saahil, as Ehsan put the phone down. ‘Robert’s acting black.’ Ehsan smiled coyly. Saahil frowned at him with suspicion.

‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Alisha.’

Saahil’s jaw dropped. ‘When did this happen?’

‘I’m sure I told you,’ Ehsan smirked.

‘You’ve told me nowt. I’ve been egging you on and all this time… You sly bastard.’ Saahil nudged his friend in annoyance, but couldn’t help smiling. He turned to face Ehsan, expectantly. ‘Go on then.’

‘What? There’s nothing to tell. We’re just… talking.’

They settled down together on the step.

‘You’re not pissed off about Kamran, are you?’

‘Nah,’ Saahil lied. ‘I didn’t know he fancied that girl.’

‘Ignore him. He’s always been jealous of you. You beat him at everything. And now he thinks you’re going after his girl.’

‘Whatever. They’re all doing my head in. Glad to get away from ’em.’

Saahil preferred it like this anyway, when it was just the two of them. They sat in silence for a moment facing a brick wall and a few overflowing black bin liners.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ Ehsan said. ‘That it’s over. No more studying and books and deadlines.’

‘Hmmm. But from now on it’s just like nine-to-five work, work, work.’

‘But still, do you reckon things are going to get good now?’ Ehsan asked.

‘Er, yeah,’ Saahil replied and turned to his best friend. There was an odd look in his eyes. One Saahil was not used to.

‘We’ll do it, won’t we, Saahil?’

‘Do what?’

‘I don’t know. Just everything. Everything we said we would.’

‘’Course we will. We’ll have money. First thing I’m gonna do is take my Ammi and Abbu to Mecca. We can all go, you guys as well. That’d be so cool.’

Saahil looked at Ehsan confidently. His smile faded. Ehsan was resting on his knees, hugging them. Saahil thought he looked small. Like a little boy.

‘You all right, bro?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Ehsan replied. ‘I’ve just had a weird feeling all day.’ He grabbed a fistful of his T-shirt. Directly over his chest.

‘Don’t worry about it, man,’ Saahil said. ‘We’re gonna be fine. We’ll show everyone. Insha’Allah,’ he added quickly.

Ehsan smiled and Saahil felt a sudden urge to look after his best friend. To embrace him and tell him everything would be okay.

‘Do you remember that time, Ehsan?’ asked Saahil.

‘What time?’

‘When…when you found me at school. I was alone in the cloakroom, crying, you know, not long after… anyway, do you remember what you said to me?’

Ehsan shook his head.

Saahil continued. ‘You put your arm around me and told me not to worry. And you said that you were an only child so your own mum wasn’t too busy so—’

‘You could share with me,’ Ehsan finished Saahil’s sentence. They both smiled at the memory in silence.

‘She’d be proud of you,’ Ehsan mumbled.

Saahil shuffled around and looked away, overcome with sadness. People had said that to him plenty of times before and he had nodded dutifully. But it was different coming from Ehsan, it carried a different honesty. After all, nobody knew Saahil like Ehsan did.

Saahil remembered how they had sat poring through university prospectuses together three years ago. They’d already decided they weren’t moving away from home. Saahil knew Abbu still needed him, as much as he pretended he didn’t.

‘You should go,’ Saahil had reluctantly advised Ehsan.

Ehsan snorted. ‘I’m not going if you’re not going.’

‘Don’t be daft. We’re not kids anymore.’

‘Don’t care. What am I gonna do on my own?’

‘You’d make other friends, stupid,’ said Saahil, secretly loving him for what he said.

‘Forget it.’

Saahil knew what he meant. It just wasn’t the same with other people. It was silly to think Ehsan’s friendship had helped Saahil get over his mother’s death. But it had. Plus he had Zahra. Ehsan, on the other hand, didn’t have anyone. That was probably why he was the way he was, so perceptive and attentive to everybody around him. It came naturally to him having spent so much time alone. Ehsan, Saahil had quickly realised, had too much love to give. And most of it he was the recipient of.

As they’d grown older, Saahil found cover in Ehsan’s serenity, in his calm, dignified manner. He didn’t swagger around like Saahil did, thinking he was it. Saahil remembered the many times Ehsan had saved his arse from being kicked. Like he had done again today, stepping in before Kamran could whack him one for being an arrogant prick. Saahil watched Ehsan out of the corner of his eye, sitting beside him on the step, all bunched up and hugging his knees. So what if they hadn’t shared the same womb, Saahil thought. According to him, they were closer than brothers. And now they were finally going to make it, together.

‘Thanks,’ Saahil mumbled.

‘For what?’

‘Just… stuff.’

‘Stuff?’

Saahil laughed nervously. Suddenly, he could barely string a sentence together.

‘Just for… erm.’

For sticking by me? For always making things better? For being you?

‘For everything. We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?’ Saahil finally said. How inadequate, he thought.

They looked at one another for a second, and then burst into laughter.

‘Okay then,’ Ehsan said, awkwardly.

‘Shall we get back to those clowns? They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

They slunk off inside, each smiling to himself in secret.

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