Dishonour. Helen Black

      ‘Things are on the up, Mrs R.’ Taslima gratefully took the boxes. ‘This time they really are.’

      Aasha washes the plates without a sigh. The dahl is stuck to the edges like grey cement and she has to pick at it with the edge of her thumbnail. Her brothers have been told a thousand times to run them under the tap when they’ve finished but why should they bother?

      As soon as Aasha put her key in the door they were on her case. Why wasn’t she wearing a hijab? Why was she so late?

      Aasha could feel her heart in her chest. Had they noticed her sweaty shirt? Her dirty shoes? Her brothers seem to know everyone in Luton, perhaps the owner of the café has called them, told them what she did?

      She told them she’d been kept late at school. Described the extra maths session in detail. Even offered to show them her notes. It was a surprise how easily the lies slipped off her tongue. Her brothers soon drifted away to the television, leaving her to the dishes. They don’t care about her life as long as it doesn’t affect theirs.

      As she rinses the last plate, Aasha wonders what it would be like to be a boy. She’d be able to come and go freely without anyone checking up on her. She’d sit with Imran and Ismail, have a laugh with them. They’d have to listen to what she has to say. Notice her.

      Because they don’t do that. They don’t actually look at her. Aasha is sure that if someone asked them what colour her eyes were, they wouldn’t even know.

      Ryan knows. He says they’re beautiful.

      She checks her reflection in the back of a spoon.

      He says he likes the way they sparkle in the sun, and her long black lashes.

      ‘What are you smiling about?’

      Aasha looks from the spoon to see Imran, leaning lazily against the counter. His hands are in his back pockets, pulling his jeans down so she can see not only the elastic of his Calvin Kleins but most of his hipbone.

      Dad is always on about it. ‘Do you need to display your backside?’ he says. ‘Are you a gorilla?’ But he doesn’t actually do anything about it, does he?

      Aasha can just imagine what would happen if she went about showing her pants. She’s not even allowed hipsters or skinny jeans.

      ‘Make us a cup of tea, Ash?’ Imran says.

      ‘I have to do my homework,’ she sighs.

      ‘It’ll take you ten seconds.’

      Aasha shakes her head but is already filling the kettle. She wishes she could just tell him no. One day she will. One day soon.

      ‘Me too,’ Ismail calls from the other room.

      She makes the chai and takes refuge in her room. As she logs on to her computer she already knows that her English assignment can wait and eagerly dives into MSN.

      Within seconds a message arrives.

      Ryan says: Are you in training or wot?

      Aasha laughs and types her answer.

      Aasha says: I’ve always been fast.

      She bites her lip as she waits for his next message.

      Ryan says: Why did you run away?

      Aasha doesn’t want to admit how nervous she was in his company. The thrill of being with him made her heart beat faster than not paying for their food. But she’s not going to just tell him that, is she?

      Aasha says: I had to get home.

      Ryan says: You won’t get away from me so easily next time.

      She bites her lip so hard it hurts.

      Aasha says: Maybe I don’t want to.

       Chapter Three

      December 2005

      ‘Merry fucking Christmas.’

      A middle-aged man pushes past me to get off the bus. His breath smells of beer and cigarettes. He’s wearing felt reindeer antlers with bells that tinkle annoyingly.

      I hate this time of year. It’s cold and dark, and if you venture out of Bury Park everyone is pissed. English people have given up even pretending they’re celebrating the birth of their saviour. Christmas for them is an orgy of eating, drinking and buying plastic tat from China.

      I watch the man stagger off the bus and vomit in a shop doorway. Revulsion washes over me.

      On the back seat a group of boys are getting rowdy. Fuelled by testosterone and cheap cider, they throw chips at some of the other passengers’ heads. I scowl at the ringleader. His pasty face is liberally scattered with spots. I’d say he’s fond of glue as well as White Lightning.

      If even one chip hits me I’ll punch his ugly face. The Prophet Mohammed, praise be upon him, did not advocate violence, probably wouldn’t approve. But he didn’t live in Luton.

      I’m glad to get off in Browning Street, I can walk from here.

      A freezing wind has got up and the Christmas lights strung across the street by the council wave and shake as if desperate to be free. I remember reading about some argument over them in the local rag, whether we Muslims would be offended by them. As if we care about a few lights.

      I put my head down and walk to the mosque.

      This is not my local one where the family go for prayers, where my father’s body was taken when he died and where the imam tells me I have to be strong for my mother.

      I have to cross town to get to this one, two buses full of kuffar.

      Despite that I still come as often as I can. I love it.

      My mother doesn’t approve.

      ‘It has a reputation,’ she says.

      She’s right.

      Tonight there is a discussion about the imminent elections in Palestine and I’ve spent all week doing research on the internet. I can’t wait to join in, to feel part of it.

      When I finally enter the great wooden door and slip off my shoes I feel a sense of calm wash over me. It is a wonderful sensation. At last, I am free.

      ‘Sexy or what?’

      Lilly thrust a bloated foot in Jack’s direction. The flesh was so engorged the ankle bone had disappeared.

      Jack didn’t look up from his breakfast.

      ‘Okaaaay,’ said Lilly, and slid two slices of bread into the toaster.

      She waited in silence for them to pop and looked out of the kitchen window. The garden had been a tangle of weeds and overgrown bushes but since Jack had moved in he’d tamed the mess, hacking back dead wood and clearing long-lost flowerbeds. Lilly could see flower heads beginning to peep through, shy of the changing season.

      She slicked butter over the golden crusts and sat down to eat.

      ‘Want some?’ She proffered her plate to Jack.

      He shook his head and sipped what he called his ‘breakfast infusion’. Hot water with a squeeze of lemon.

      The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the sound of Lilly chewing. She knew he must have heard down the nick that she was representing Raffy and that he’d be bloody furious She waited for him to bring it up.

      ‘So how long do I get?’ she asked.

      Jack pursed his brow.

      ‘The silent treatment,’ said Lilly. ‘An hour, a day, a week?’

      He didn’t answer.

      ‘Even