Dishonour. Helen Black

seemed pretty harmless.’

      ‘Do not underestimate that woman,’ the chief super warned. ‘If Luton is a tinderbox then Valentine is just the type to light a bloody match.’

      At least one day a week they have biryani for supper. Somehow Mum always manages to pick the day when she has the most homework.

      ‘You don’t like my food now, missy?’

      Aasha sighs. Of course she likes her mother’s food. Biryani is one of her favourites, especially when there are crispy fried onions crumbled into it. The problem is the clearing up. There’s the dish the meat has been in, the bowl the rice has soaked in, the onion pan and then the cooking pot itself, caked and hard with slow-baked spices. And because it’s their mid-week treat her father will insist it is served with the maximum ceremony of side dishes.

      She rinses the third pickle dish under the tap and checks her watch. Seven thirty. She can hear her brothers in the sitting room, laughing at some comedy with Catherine Tate. It annoys her that they don’t offer to help.

      Mum would never let them, of course, but they could at least ask.

      ‘There,’ says Mum, and puts away the last spoon. ‘Finished.’

      ‘What about the floor?’ asks Aasha.

      Her mother insists on ‘doing the mop’ after every meal.

      ‘I’ll do it,’ says Mum. ‘You get on with your school work.’

      Aasha watches her mum bend down for the bucket. She seems much older than her forty years. A lifetime of looking after her husband and sons has wrung her dry.

      Aasha grabs the mop. ‘Go sit down, Mum.’

      ‘What about your maths?’

      ‘I got it done at lunchtime,’ Aasha lies.

      An hour later Aasha is tucked up in her room. It’s the smallest one in the house. The boxroom, as English people call it. There’s hardly enough room for her single bed and wardrobe. There’s certainly not enough space for a desk like her brothers have.

      ‘Aasha can use the dining table,’ her father says.

      Fat chance. It’s always covered in letters from Pakistan, her brothers’ self-defence magazines and piles of clothes for ironing. This week Dad has been dismantling an old radio and the parts are scattered across it.

      Anyway, Aasha prefers to spread her books out on her bed. That way she can be sure of some peace without anyone telling her what to do or what to think. Here in her ill-lit cupboard she is mistress.

      She logs on to her laptop and looks at her maths homework. Algebra. She’ll be in for a tough one tonight.

      After twenty long minutes trying to work out how Y can possibly equal X, a box pops up in instant messenger.

      Lailla says: I’ve been very naughty.

      Aasha laughs and types her reply: Aasha says: What have u done now?

      She waits for the answer, imagining her friend’s candy-pink fingernails dancing across the keyboard.

      Lailla says: I’ve told Ryan u fancy him and he should msn u.

      Aasha is about to send a stinging response when another box pops up.

       Ryan wants to be your friend.

      Aasha chews her lip. She knows full well what her dad thinks about her having anything to do with boys. And as for a boy like Ryan, well, he’d send her ‘back home’ on the next plane in forty-two pieces.

      ‘No nice doctor or lawyer will want to marry a girl who’s been running around the town with every Tom, Dick and Henry.’

      And he’s right. Take Lailla. It doesn’t matter how many times she insists that she and Sonny have never gone all the way, no one believes her. So even if it’s true, which Aasha very much doubts, no boy will want her afterwards.

      Then again, messaging isn’t exactly the same, is it? It’s not real life. No one can say you’ve done anything wrong, can they?

      The box pops up. Another message from Lailla.

      Lailla says: PMSL at u angsting over what to do!!!

      Aasha doesn’t know whether she’s more cross at Lailla for knowing exactly how she’d react or herself for being so predictable.

      Well, not this time. This time she’ll live a little. If you could call it that in virtual reality. With a nod to her own courage she accepts Ryan as her friend. Almost immediately she regrets her decision.

      Ryan says: Hi beautiful.

      Aasha says: Hi.

      Ryan says: What u doing tonite?

      Aasha says: Not much. U?

      Ryan says: U gotta guess. Is it a. thinking about Lindsay Lohan or b. thinking about Aasha Hassan?

      Aasha says: c. doing ur maths homework.

      Ryan: Ha ha. Ur a funny grrl.

      Aasha is breathless and pink and doesn’t know what to say next. Fortunately Ryan sends another message.

      Ryan says: Will u meet me after school tomoro?

      Aasha says: I don’t think I should.

      Ryan says: Come on. I’m nowhere near as bad as everyone says.

      Aasha considers what to say next and almost squeals at her own daring.

      Aasha says: That’s very disappointing.

       Chapter Two

      September 2005

      ‘Our words are dead until we give them life with our blood.’

      I’m frozen in my place in front of the television, the breath literally sucked out of me.

      The man on the screen is so angry, as if he can barely control it. His eyes shine with fury, not fear, despite the fact that he filmed himself making this speech just hours before he strapped explosives to himself and led the most devastating attack upon London since the Second World War.

      The newspapers have spent every day since 7 July reviling this man: evil, murderous, insane. Now his picture stares out from every broadsheet, every tabloid. His words ring out from every TV and radio station.

      He is dressed in an Arab keffiyeh, an AK-47 slung, almost casually, over his shoulder. He spits his death message out, each syllable a poisonous bullet.

      ‘Until you stop the bombing, gassing, imprisonment and torture of my people, we will not stop this fight.’

      But it’s not what he is saying that cuts me to the quick but his accent. Thick and strong, as Yorkshire as coal dust. This is a lad from Leeds. Born in this country. Died in this country.

      Yet each toss of his head, each challenge in his face, tells me this man did not consider himself British. He is a stranger here. Unloved. Unwelcome.

      His words ring so true, he could be me. It feels like coming home.

      ‘You’ve got to be having a laugh.’

      Lilly pointed at Sam’s plate piled high with chocolate digestives.

      ‘What?’ he asked.

      ‘That is not a proper breakfast,’ said Lilly. ‘Get some cereal.’

      ‘I don’t want cereal.’

      Lilly raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t slept well and her feet were still swollen. ‘I don’t have the energy to fight, big man.’

      ‘Then