DISHONOUR. Jacqui Rose

because that would mean his father had been wrong? He didn’t like to think like that. In fact, Tariq didn’t like to think of his father at all; it was easier. For one thing, it meant he didn’t have to question his uncle or for that matter, himself. But mainly he didn’t like to think of his father because he missed him. Missed the life which used to be.

      Laila watched her brother, who was asleep. Gently, she placed a blanket over him. It was getting dark outside and it was also getting cold. The air stewardess smiled at Laila but wasn’t able to see the small smile in return. Her uncle hadn’t allowed her to take off the burka and she didn’t suppose she’d be able to until they arrived at wherever they were going.

      Laila glanced at Tariq again, trying to keep her thoughts away from Ray-Ray and trying to stop herself imagining what her uncle might have done to him in his anger. Tariq had also been angry last night which she hated to see, but now as he slept he looked a different person, his face relaxed and free of any sternness. It was tragic, but it felt like it was only when he slept that she could be close to him, closing the void which had developed between them and recognising the brother she so dearly loved.

      When their father had died a year ago, and their uncle who they only knew from short, strained yearly visits had come across from Pakistan to live with them, he’d taken over as head of the family, and Tariq had changed, although admittedly he had been forced to. He’d gone from a protective loving brother to a chastising angry one, who each morning scolded her over the breakfast table or when he came home from work at night. It was almost as if he was playing a role. A role their uncle had given him; one which didn’t really fit. At times Tariq seemed cruel, harsh, but Laila knew that wasn’t who he really was, but what their uncle expected of him.

      The pressure to be a man when he was only a boy had taken its toll on Tariq. Like her, he’d been expected to take on a different role overnight. A role no one had warned them about when their father had still been alive.

      When he’d been alive they’d talked, dreamt and loved one another. But their uncle had put a stop to that before their father had even been cold in the ground. Now she barely said a word to her mother or Tariq, and neither did they to her. And even though she knew hatred was against all her teachings, Laila struggled not to hate her uncle with a vengeance.

      Tariq had been good at so many things when he’d been younger; he’d been especially good at football. Their father had often told Tariq he was certain he’d be the first Pakistani goalkeeper playing for England.

      But only a month after the funeral, Tariq had come home from school, walked into the garden and set his football kit on fire. Their uncle had stood a few feet behind Tariq patting him on the back as the flames leapt into the air.

      She’d looked at Tariq from the kitchen door, watching in puzzlement before her brother had turned to her angrily, answering a question she hadn’t asked but only thought.

      ‘There’s no point in having it Laila. There’s no time for playing; that’s what boys do.’

      ‘But Tariq …’

      Mahmood had jumped in then. ‘Enough Laila. When will you learn it’s not our place and certainly not your place to question what we’re called to do? Your brother’s made up his mind.’

      ‘You mean you’ve made up his mind for him? You haven’t even bothered to see him play. Have you ever thought he could’ve been called to do that? A gift he was blessed with, uncle?’ That day was the first time Laila’s uncle had hit her.

      Tariq stopped playing football. Stopped playing sport and even stopped making an effort at school, leaving with no qualifications but stepping straight into a job within their uncle’s business. Laila tried to talk to her brother about it, but he refused to talk to her and shut her out of his life.

      She was certain if their father was alive Tariq wouldn’t have chosen the path he was now on. He seemed to be trying to convince not only his uncle but himself that his life was what he wanted it to be. And with it, the Tariq who’d once loved her, kindly teasing her as he pulled on her pigtails as they walked to school, had disappeared, along with his burning football kit.

      9

      Arnold drove steadily to the hospital. There was a sense of urgency to get there but a stronger sense of not wanting to break the thirty mile per hour limit speed. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, or perish the thought, kill somebody by driving too fast. He’d never been one to break rules even as a boy. Especially as a boy. His father had made sure of that.

       1973

       Northumberland

       ‘Arnold! Arnold, come here.’ His father’s voice echoed round the large hallway and Arnold shivered. Even though he’d just turned eleven he still never knew if his father was cross or happy when he called him. The tone was always the same; low, soft and devoid of any emotions which might give away his true feelings.

       Coming down the stairs, Arnold made sure his shirt was without creases and his tie was straight; his father liked that, liked him looking smart, looking better than the other boys.

       ‘Now son, I want you to take your sister out, it’s not good for you to be cooped up in here all day. When I was a boy, the holidays meant adventure, not sitting in your room reading books. Go up to the woods; have fun, but mind Arnold, you know the rules. Don’t get dirty. You know what happens to dirty boys.’

       Arnold glanced at his father; he actually didn’t know what happened to dirty boys. From as far back as he could remember, his Father had always said the same thing, and although he’d never heard his Father raise his voice or seen him lose his temper, there was something in the way he spoke, something which warned Arnold and made him afraid to ever dare to come home covered in dirt. He didn’t want to break the rules.

       Arnold watched his sister stand on her tiptoes as their father bent down slightly to receive a goodbye kiss. He then turned to Arnold and reached out his hand for his son to shake it. ‘Have a good time children. And remember what I said.’

       ‘Fiddlesticks.’

       ‘What is it Arnie?’ His sister looked at him with soft big eyes and a mop of honey-blonde hair. He loved that she called him Arnie. She was the only one, and she only ever did it in secret when their father wasn’t listening.

       ‘I’ve forgotten our damn sandwiches, we’ll have to go back and get them.’

       ‘No Arnie, I’m too tired to go all the way back, you go.’

       ‘Then if you’re too tired to walk, you’ll be too tired to eat, so I’ll only bring mine.’ His sister looked at him before her cheeks flushed red with anger, which always made Arnold laugh; she had such a quick temper.

       ‘Arnold Wainwright, you’ll get my sandwiches for me or I’ll tell Pappy you said damn.’

       ‘You’ll do no such thing and if you do, I’ll tell him you call me Arnie.’

       His sister, who was three years younger than him and four inches smaller than him, swung her fist violently. Arnold ducked out of the way and laughed, making his sister angrier.

       ‘Tell me you’ll get my sandwiches for me Arnie, tell me.’

       ‘Yes all right, I’ll get them, I was only teasing. Wait here for me. I won’t be long. Now, where’s my goodbye kiss?’ Arnold stretched his arms wide open and put out his cheek, expecting the loving kiss his sister always gave him; the only bit of affection he got.

       ‘I shan’t give you a kiss Arnold, I shan’t.’

       ‘Well I’ll give you one then.’ He bent forward but his sister darted away,