Dishonour. Helen Black

don’t feed you at home?’ asks Aasha.

      Ryan frowns and she worries she’s offended him but he barks out another laugh.

      ‘My mum can’t cook for shit.’

      Aasha tries to imagine what would happen if her mum couldn’t cook. Her father and brothers would have to fend for themselves. Unthinkable. That’s something else she likes about Ryan, his independence.

      Ryan offers her a chip. She isn’t hungry but she takes one all the same and nibbles the end.

      ‘So what you up to after this?’ Ryan asks.

      ‘I’ve got to finish my history assignment,’ she says.

      He sucks in his breath. ‘Living dangerously.’

      ‘Shut up,’ she laughs.

      He finishes every last scrap of his food and licks ketchup from his fingers.

      ‘You need to have some fun,’ he says.

      ‘I have plenty of fun,’ says Aasha.

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like…’ Aasha smoothes back her ponytail, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears, ‘well, I’m not going to tell you, am I?’

      Ryan wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and closes it over hers. She can see the greasy streak gleam.

      ‘Why don’t we do something really bad?’ he says.

      Aasha gulps. Her throat feels like she’s swallowed his dirty plate whole. She knows Ryan has had a lot of girlfriends and maybe this is how it is with other girls. Maybe they just speak freely about stuff like sex. She swallows down the dregs of her tea where the sugar has settled. It’s sweet and grainy in her mouth.

      He leans in towards her so she can smell the lamb on his breath. ‘Let’s do a runner,’ he says.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Let’s have it away on our toes without paying.’

      ‘Oh.’ She can feel sweat starting to prickle in her armpits. ‘I thought you meant…’

      He cocks his head and half closes one of his eyes. ‘You’ve got a dirty mind.’

      Aasha feels embarrassment open every pore in her body and she jumps up to leave. There is only one thought in her mind: escape.

      ‘Come on then,’ she stutters, and heads for the door.

      She can feel Ryan following closely behind.

      ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ shouts the owner from behind his counter.

      Aasha looks back, hesitates, but Ryan pushes her outside.

      ‘Run,’ he shouts.

      She dashes across the road, hearing the blare of a horn, the screech of brakes and her feet pounding down the pavement. Three Polish girls block her path, chatting and smoking as they compare the waistbands of their skinny jeans. Aasha bursts through them, knocking them sideways in their plastic high heels. They shout after her but she doesn’t miss a beat.

      She streaks past Bangla Groceries, the skips outside overflowing with stinking vegetables and bubble-wrap. A group of old men have gathered outside the Holiday Shop next door, pointing at the special offers on flights to Kashmir advertised in the window. They stare as she races past them but she doesn’t care.

      She keeps on going, her strides long, until she reaches the other side of Sainsbury’s car park. She pauses at the trolley station, her chest heaving. Ryan arrives seconds later and sinks to a crouch to catch his breath.

      ‘What kept you?’ she asks.

      Ryan is still panting but laughs. ‘I’ve just eaten, you cheeky cow.’

      ‘Maybe you should change your diet,’ she says.

      Ryan stands and pushes his hair out of the sweat on his forehead. ‘Maybe I should kiss you,’ he says.

      She looks at him, crippled by embarrassment. She has no idea what to do next.

      Ryan cocks his head to one side. ‘So you going to let me then?’

      ‘OK,’ she says slowly.

      Ryan smiles, his eyes greedy.

      ‘But you’ll have to catch me first.’ Aasha laughs and sets off at a run.

      Raffy banged his head against the cell wall.

      ‘Stop,’ Lilly said.

      He didn’t register that she was there, let alone that she had spoken. Instead he continued to headbutt the wall with frightening ferocity.

      ‘Raffy,’ Lilly shouted, and pulled him by the shoulders.

      The grey plaster was smeared with blood, Raffy’s forehead grazed and angry.

      ‘You need to listen to me.’ Lilly held his shoulders tightly.

      His eyes were blurry, his face contorted.

      ‘They are going to charge you with murder,’ she said. ‘Do you understand?’

      Raffy didn’t answer. A drop of blood trickled between his eyes.

      ‘You must not say anything else,’ she said.

      She led Raffy from his cell to the custody sergeant’s desk, where DI Bell was hovering.

      The sarge nodded at Raffy’s head. ‘Is that one of them bindi things?’

      ‘No,’ Lilly sighed. ‘It’s a cut.’

      ‘How did that happen?’ asked the sarge.

      ‘Don’t ask.’

      The sarge shrugged. If the boy’s solicitor wasn’t worried that was clearly good enough for him.

      ‘Raffique Khan,’ he said, ‘I am charging you with the murder of Yasmeen Khan.’

      He read out the caution and looked towards Lilly. ‘Does your client have any reply?’

      She shook her head and was about to sign the documentation when Raffy stuck out his chin.

      ‘I do not accept the jurisdiction of British law,’ he said.

      ‘Say what?’ the sarge laughed.

      Raffy’s nostrils flared. ‘You asked me if I had anything to say and I replied that I do not accept the jurisdiction of British law.’

      Lilly couldn’t believe it. She had advised Raffy to say nothing at all. Didn’t he realise that his answer to the caution was on the record?

      ‘I am a Muslim and I do not bow to your rules of evidence,’ Raffy continued.

      Lilly closed her eyes. This was an utter disaster.

      ‘Are you having me on?’ asked the sarge.

      ‘Just write it down,’ Bell instructed, rubbing his hands together.

      Smoke hung in the air. Lilly coughed and felt her way down the office stairs to the old cellar where the fuse box was located.

      After her hideous day she had decided to set up the espresso machine for a coffee. Jack had stopped drinking caffeine, said that she should try it, that her energy levels and concentration would increase tenfold. Maybe he was right, but Raffy’s performance at the nick had left her with no willpower. A tiny, brutishly strong espresso with at least two sugars was definitely in order. No doubt the pregnancy police would be up in arms but millions of Italian women survived, didn’t they?

      Instead there was a fizz, a bang, the fishy smell of wires burning, then the office had been plunged into darkness.

      Lilly patted her hand along the cold plaster of the cellar wall. It felt moist and crumbly to the touch. Rising damp. Fantastic.