DISHONOUR. Jacqui Rose

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      He glanced quickly at Laila as he reached for another helping of rice. Girls were a curse. Especially beautiful ones. The more beautiful, the more of a curse.

      Quite frankly, he wasn’t sure what wrongs he’d done to deserve to be blighted with three nieces. But then, Mahmood knew he shouldn’t question what he’d been given – only make the best of it, which if he were to be honest, was very hard to do.

      Laila had always been spirited. Her two sisters, who were older than her and already married, had been different. They’d been quiet and willing to please. Understanding what it was to be a woman. Neither of them had the brains nor the dazzling beauty of Laila; they’d been blessed with simplicity and plainness.

      From the moment Laila was born, Mahmood knew his youngest niece was trouble. As a baby she’d had the cry of a lion, roaring with discontent. When she was little she’d suffered with stomach problems, no doubt caused by the fire of the warrior in her belly fighting to get out. She absorbed knowledge like the jacaranda tree absorbed water. Her defiance whirling and gliding like a Middle Eastern Sufi dancer.

      It was all too much. She was nothing like her mother who’d been a good wife to his brother, although admittedly he’d sometimes needed to show her his word was final. Nevertheless, his sister-in-law was silent and attentive. Two traits a woman should possess, but two traits his niece didn’t come close to holding. Thankfully though, by this time next week, Laila would be someone else’s problem.

      It felt to Mahmood that all he’d done for the past few years was battle with his niece to keep her in her place. With each passing year it became more of a struggle as he fought against her unwelcome curiosity of the world. When his brother, their father, had died, the responsibility of looking after them had fallen on his shoulders. Neither Laila or her brother had liked the changes at first but it’d been necessary. His brother had been soft; far too soft for a man who carried the Khan name. Often Mahmood had disapproved at the freedom his brother offered his wife and children, giving them leave to argue, question and educate. He’d often chastised his brother but the admonishment had been wasted, falling onto deaf ears. But then his brother had passed away and everything had changed.

      Under Mahmood’s guidance, everyone, including Laila and Tariq’s mother, had been shown the error of their ways. And though the changes had come up against long faces and the occasional question, they’d all eventually accepted the way it was going to be under his rule. All except for Laila.

      Mahmood looked at his watch. ‘We better go Tariq, time is short.’

      Mahmood pushed his chair away and looked once more at Laila. Her face was marked not only from her tears but also from the fresh bruise now forming on her cheek. Tomorrow when they went out, he’d make her wear her burka, to hide it. By next week the bruise would be gone, and then maybe, for the first time in his life he could be proud of her. Proud to give her away.

      Laila’s eyes widened as she watched her older brother and uncle. She was terrified, but she had a rising suspicion something worse was about to happen. Her uncle rarely ventured out at this time of night, preferring instead to have his friends come to him.

      Mustering up some courage, Laila directed her question at her brother. ‘Is everything all right, Tariq?’

      Before Tariq had a chance to say anything, Mahmood snarled at her, his strong accent punctuating the words.

      ‘You bring dishonour on this family, then you ask if everything’s alright?’

      Laila sat up in her chair, her face reflecting the puzzlement in her tone. ‘Dishonour? Tariq, what’s he talking about? I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

      Mahmood banged his fist on the table. ‘Laila, don’t pretend to be the innocent, it’s too late for that … I’ve heard the talk. The whole of the community has. You’ve brought shame on us. On me. Well, it stops right here.’

      Laila’s face was drawn and her fear was apparent. It made Tariq feel uneasy and he turned away, not wanting to see the terror in his sister’s eyes.

      ‘Tariq, please …’

      Mahmood’s arm shot out, sweeping the supper dishes off the table, sending Laila’s untouched plate of food to stain the beige carpet rug.

      ‘Don’t make a fool of me. Do not make me your enemy Laila … I know all about you and the English boy.’

      ‘English boy?’

      Mahmood clenched his fist. His niece was a liar. He’d always known it. He’d seen the slyness in her large almond eyes the moment she’d been delivered into this world. It put him in mind of what his grandmother had always told him when he was a boy; ‘the larger the eyes of a woman, the easier for the devil to dance into them.’ And looking at Laila now, Mahmood knew the wise woman who’d lived in a tiny house on the outskirts of Turbat in Pakistan had been right. Mahmood leant forward, leaning his arms on the table; ignoring the fact he’d just put his hand in a pile of cold rice. ‘Raymond Thompson. Ring any bells Laila?’

      Laila Khan swallowed hard. She knew the name. She knew the boy. But not in the way her uncle was trying to imply.

      He sat next to her in class. Yes, she’d talked to him. He made her laugh. They were friends; special friends. She’d even given him a CD of her favourite songs, covering the case with pink smiley stickers. But it’d all been innocent.

      He hadn’t been at the school long, moving up north from London to come to live with his mother on the south side of Bradford. He was popular and handsome, his cockney twang adding to his appeal, though it wasn’t just the girls who flitted around him and swooned over his six foot frame. The boys wanted to be his friend too. They seemed to respect him, understood he could handle himself. That he wasn’t going to be messed with. Even Mrs Rigby, the sixth form maths teacher, blushed when he went to talk to her.

      So she’d been surprised when Raymond had moved his desk next to hers, though quietly pleased. At first she’d ignored him, but slowly she’d started to smile when she’d heard his jokes. Then the smiles had turned into laughter and they’d become friends. Good friends.

      Laila didn’t know why he’d chosen to be her friend but she’d cautiously welcomed it. She loved it when he teased her as his blue eyes twinkled back at her. A smile. A laugh. A tease. That’s all it could be. Even if she’d wanted to take it further, she couldn’t. She knew that more than anybody. But what they had was still special to them and no-one could take their special away.

      There hadn’t really been any physical contact, apart from that one time. That once. The day she’d decided to forget she was Laila Khan; respectful and dutiful daughter of the late Zarin Kahn and niece of the ever-present Mahmood Khan. That day last summer she’d chosen to walk to the bus stop with him instead of with her friends and they’d held each other’s hands.

      ‘Laila, your uncle will kill you if he sees you.’

      ‘He won’t though will he?’

      She could hear the conversation now between her and her best friend and she’d been right; her uncle hadn’t seen them. Nobody had. But she hadn’t needed to be seen had she? All it had taken were words and as Laila sat at the table, trying to ignore her uncle’s cutting stare, she knew her friend had talked. Not intentionally, but talked all the same. Probably to her sister who in turn had no doubt talked to her mother or an elder before the words had found their way СКАЧАТЬ