Orphan of Islam. Alexander Khan
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‘They irritate him.’
‘He will learn,’ Fatima replied, ‘and I hope he will be strict. My brother was far too soft. They need bringing into line. Especially you-know-who …’
At that moment I walked in. ‘Hello, aunty,’ I said, as brightly as possible.
Caught in the act, Fatima looked away for a moment. ‘Ah, Mohammed,’ she said, ‘and where’ve you been?’
‘Out playing.’
‘Playing?! And your father’s dead just one day. How irreverent. I hope you’ll be attending mosque for prayers this evening. Go upstairs and wash.’
‘Don’t bother him, Fatima,’ Abida whispered quickly, ‘he’s still in shock. They’re all wandering about like lost lambs.’
‘Oh come on, Abida,’ Fatima snapped, ‘the boy’s 10. He should be acting like the man of the house, not some urchin in the street. Go on, Mohammed, get washed!’
Abida went quiet, deferring to her elder. I slunk past them both and went upstairs to the bathroom. Reluctantly I washed myself and changed my jumper for a clean one. I hardly had any clothes and I was trying to save this top for the funeral. But if I went to mosque in my dirty one, someone would notice and it would get back to Fatima or Abida. Or worse still, Rafiq. I remembered his boast about ‘being in charge’ and Fatima talking about him moving in. I couldn’t think of anything worse.
Ten minutes later I left the house and began the walk round the corner to the mosque in Sebastopol Street. I was still annoyed at Fatima telling me off just for playing football and at Abida for chickening out of standing up for me. It wasn’t fair that I’d been shouted at, especially when my Dad had just died. And I was going to mosque anyway – I didn’t need to be reminded. Since I’d got into double figures I’d been attending regularly, which I was obliged to do, and I hardly ever missed it. Why did Fatima seem to suggest that I was trying to get out of it? In a temper I kicked a stone across the street, narrowly missing the door of a parked Fiesta.
Then I had a thought – why should I bother going tonight? I would be going to Dad’s funeral the next day. No one would miss me, and even if they did, I was sure I wouldn’t be shouted at, not when my Dad was lying in his coffin. Instead of carrying on down Sebastopol Street I turned off into Argyle Street and sneaked into the ‘backs’. By now it was dark. If I hung around here for an hour, I wouldn’t be spotted.
From the dark of the alleyway I could see men and boys going to evening prayers, illuminated by the street lamps. Hundreds of people literally squeezed into the two terrace houses which formed the mosque. In that kind of a crush I surely wouldn’t be missed.
Shivering, I paced up and down the backs until I saw the first trickle of people returning the same way they’d come. Unnoticed, I slipped out of the darkness and mingled with the worshippers going home. I recognized a few faces under topi hats, but no one spoke to me and I was alone again when I turned into Hamilton Terrace.
Abida greeted me as I came through the door and asked me if I wanted something to eat. Standing around in the chill of an autumn evening had made me very hungry, and I eagerly accepted a plate of curry and a rolled-up chapati. I’d almost finished when the lock was turned in the front door. For a moment I thought it was Dad and jumped up to greet him. Then I remembered …
‘Ah, there you are, Mohammed.’
It was Rafiq, standing in the doorway of the living room, staring at me in an odd way and smiling.
‘Did you enjoy mosque tonight?’ he said.
‘It was alright,’ I mumbled through a mouthful of curry.
‘So … did you find what the imam said interesting?’
‘Er, yeah. Did you?’ Nervously I looked away. The feeling I’d had the previous night returned to the pit of my stomach.
‘I did,’ he said. ‘Which part did you find the most interesting?’
He was still smiling. He was enjoying this.
‘Umm, probably the bit about … being good … and going to heaven? I enjoyed that.’
‘Excellent!’ Rafiq leaned over and patted me on the back like an old friend. ‘I’m so pleased to hear you’re paying attention. But … were you at a different mosque tonight, Mohammed?’
‘No. Why?’ I could feel beads of sweat on my forehead, and the back of my neck was hot.
‘Only because Imam Farouk wasn’t very well tonight, as he said, and didn’t deliver the khutbah. So I’m not sure who you were listening to, Mohammed. Or if you were even there at all …?’
Rafiq moved from the doorway and sat uncomfortably close to me on the settee. He put his mouth right up to my ear.
‘Put down your food, go upstairs and wait for me,’ he hissed.
I dared not disobey him. I left the half-eaten bowl of curry on the arm of the settee and walked upstairs as calmly as I could, though I thought my legs would collapse on me at any moment.
The younger children were already asleep. I sat on the edge of my bed, my hands on my lap and my head bowed. Tomorrow was Dad’s funeral. None of this should be happening.
Rafiq let me sweat for 10 minutes before strolling up the stairs. He seemed to be in no rush.
Again he sat too close to me. ‘You didn’t go to mosque tonight, did you, Mohammed?’
I shook my head in response.
He tutted. ‘That was wrong, very wrong. You know what the Holy Prophet, peace be on him, says about going to mosque?’
‘As a Muslim I am obliged to go to mosque,’ I mumbled.
‘That’s right. So why didn’t you go?’
‘I did! I was … squashed in at the back. I left early because I couldn’t hear very well. I thought Imam Farouk was speaking, but maybe he wasn’t, I think it was someone else, I definitely heard those words, I …’
I was waffling, and he knew it. Suddenly he grabbed me by the neck and shoved me against the wall, just as he’d done the night before.
‘I warned you, you bastarrrrd!’ he said, raising his hand. I knew I was going to get it, but I wasn’t going down without a fight. I tried to wrestle out of his grip, kicking and twisting to get away.
‘Get off me!’ I screamed. ‘You’re not my dad!’
Immediately he relaxed his grip. I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
‘You’re right, Mohammed,’ he said, his face twisted into a mask of hate, ‘I’m not.’
And with that he raised his shut fist and punched me full in the nose. I heard a delicate bone crack on impact and I went straight down on the carpet. Blood was gushing over my mouth and onto my clean jumper. I tried wiping my nose, but it was too painful, and the sight of thick blood oozing across my palm made me feel sick.
Rafiq stood over me as I squirmed in agony. I looked up at him, my face a mixture of tears, blood and snot. He said nothing, just turned on his heel and left the room as calmly as he’d entered.
Surprisingly, none of the kids sharing the bedroom had been woken up by the violence – or if they had, they’d put their heads under the covers and kept very, very quiet. I don’t know how I got to sleep, with a face that felt as though it had been rammed against a brick wall, but somehow I did.
The pain was still there the following morning, and when Jasmine woke up and saw me, she screamed in horror. I shushed her up, explaining that I’d fallen off a wall while playing out and that I was OK. Today was Dad’s funeral. I didn’t want to give her any reason to be more upset than she already would be.
With hindsight, I should’ve gone straight down and told Abida what Rafiq had done. But I wasn’t sure