Читать книгу Homegrown Hero: A funny and addictive thriller for fans of Informer - Khurrum Rahman, Khurrum Rahman - Страница 20

11

Jay

My attitude towards Somalis was probably similar to the attitude towards Asians back in the day. We kind of got in the way. Took your spot on the bus‚ took away your jobs‚ we even took away your benefits. That’s how I felt about Somalis for a while. In the early nineties they seemingly turned up out of nowhere and planted themselves in our schools‚ libraries‚ and parks – all the regular haunts. The only good thing was that Asians up and down the country breathed a collective sigh of relief as a new target had been firmly established for the bigots and skinheads to direct their hatred towards.

At Heston Hall Community Centre‚ a third of the number was made up by Somalis. When I started to attend these evenings‚ I naturally gravitated towards the Paki Muslims. No offense intended‚ I just felt more comfortable amongst those who looked like me. Fuck! That sounds racist. But once I got to know the Somalis‚ they were alright‚ you know‚ they were just like me. Fuck! That sounds racist‚ too. They were just trying to get by‚ but it was harder for them.

That was the topic of the conversation we were having as a group‚ sat in a small circle‚ towards the last half hour of the meet. Most had gone home after the guest speaker. Just four of us remained‚ with one notable exception. I didn’t mind that the fifth member of the group hadn’t showed. He did my head in.

The guest speaker – Trevor Carter‚ middle aged‚ white‚ with shiny pointy shoes and a gelled quiff which had a bigger personality than he did – had spent the best part of an hour trying to convince us that we have the same opportunities as every other walk of life. He was trying to recruit for his expanding double glazing firm‚ and he was very generously offering jobs. Telephone sales jobs‚ minimum wage.

‘Have to give the man credit for trying though.’ Zafar tucked a business card into his top pocket. ‘I might give him a bell.’

‘Brother‚ you have a Masters degree‚ Mashallah‚’ said Tahir‚ a family man‚ a little older than the rest of us and the man responsible for organising these meets. ‘Do you not think you’re a little over-qualified for this role?’

‘Temporary role though‚ innit‚’ Zafar replied.

‘Look at their website‚’ Tahir faced his phone towards us. ‘Job section. They have senior roles‚ Brother. Accountant positions‚ senior salesman! Don’t you find it strange that he didn’t mention that?’

Ira snorted. She was a tiny little thing with one of the biggest voices. A proper little firecracker‚ approaching twenty but looking a decade older. Life’s cards had not been kind to her‚ and as a result she saw things through undiluted eyes. Ira was a second generation Somali who wore her hijab like a hoody; her laser-like eyes powered through from beneath it. She’d changed her name recently. It used to be Isis. It wasn’t that long ago that Isis had been nothing more than a sweet-sounding Muslim girls’ name. Though with shit being the way it was‚ she felt she had no choice but to change her name. It would have been nice though if somebody had advised her not to change it from an Islamic Terrorist group to an Irish Terrorist group.

‘Did you notice how he didn’t once look at any of the Somalis?’ Ira asked with a smile.

I was slouched down in my chair‚ engrossed in my phone‚ tuning in and out of the discussion as I popped from one social media site to another. But when Ira opened her mouth‚ it made you want to sit up and listen.

‘Sister‚ do not take it personally‚’ Tahir replied.

‘Save it‚’ Ira said‚ holding up a weathered hand. ‘You jokers think that you’re too good for a job like that‚ I’d kill for that opportunity.’

‘So go for it‚ what’s stopping you‚’ Zafar said.

‘Please‚’ Ira purred. ‘Are you thick? Why do you think Somalis have the highest unemployment figures in the country?’

‘Cos it’s easier to claim benefit‚ that’s why.’ Zafar threw up both hands to indicate that he was playing.

‘That’s a bit harsh‚ man‚’ I said‚ coming to the rescue of somebody who did not require rescuing.

‘Leave it‚ yeah‚ Jay‚’ Ira said‚ finger firmly in my face. ‘D’you think you’re funny‚ Zafar? You wanna know what’s really funny? That the only job we’re considered for is waitressing or security guard or here’s a mop and a bucket and there’s the floor. As soon we manage to get an interview for a half-decent job‚ the interviewer sees the not-quite-black interviewee sitting opposite them. Trust me‚ yeah‚ they’ve made up their mind before a word has even been spoken. You wanna think about that for a minute before you start making jokes‚ boy.’

Zafar attempted an apology. ‘I was only –’

‘Shut up‚ I haven’t finished yet‚’ Ira spat. ‘Jay‚ let me ask you a question.’ Fuck’s sake‚ don’t get me involved. ‘You’ve got a half decent job at the Council‚ tell me how many Somalis you work with.’

‘Uh‚ in my section... Or in the building... Including outstations?’

‘Quit stalling‚ Jay. We all know the answer. So what’s our alternative? We start our own business – plumbing‚ handyman‚ some shit like that? Wrong‚ nobody is going to hire us. Twenty or so years we’ve been rubbing shoulders with society and still we’re treated like outcasts. Look at the Poles‚ five minutes they’ve been here and they walk into jobs‚ start their own successful business. Why the hell are they not looked down on?’ Ira looked from face to face. ‘Anyone want to venture a guess? No? Okay‚ I’ll tell you. It’s because they have nice light milky skin.’

Nobody dared add that the Poles‚ part of the EU‚ came here specifically to make a living. The Somalis came here to escape from a civil war.

‘Would you like a drink of water‚ Sister?’ Tahir offered.

‘You trying to shut me up‚ Tahir?’ Ira said‚ her smile less alive than usual.

Zafar stood up from his chair and approached Ira. He didn’t attempt another apology. He just nodded knowingly and awkwardly rubbed her arm. The two of them always bickered on any number of subjects‚ but I could see that Zafar genuinely cared for her.

This was exactly why I came to these sessions. It was the perfect place to throw a tantrum‚ have a good old rant at the world. Most of these guys had given up. Zafar‚ a Masters degree in his pocket from a top London university‚ had hopes of strolling into a job to suit his vast skill-set‚ now he’s considering taking on a sales role for a fucking double glazing firm. Or Ira‚ pushing a mop night after night in a basement kitchen of a hotel‚ when it was clear that‚ given the chance‚ she had the intelligence and confidence to achieve whatever she set her mind to.

Everyone had their own issues. God knows I had mine‚ but I was happy to listen rather than divulge. It helped. They were a good group of guys‚ genuine. They seemed to like me‚ which wasn’t much of a surprise; I’m pretty likeable! But‚ I wouldn’t let them get too close to me. They were forever inviting me out‚ outside of this environment‚ but I always had an excuse ready. As harsh as it sounds‚ they just weren’t my type of people.

Tahir came back with a cup of water for Ira and a fresh pack of Jaffa Cakes for the massive. Like scavengers‚ all hands reached out and cleared the packet of its contents. We enjoyed the silence as we munched on the biscuits‚ and shared optimistic glances at each other – a look that said everything probably won’t be alright‚ but as long as we have Jaffa Cakes then it can’t be all that bad.

I caught Ira looking at the entrance‚ not for the first time that evening.

‘Have you messaged Naaim?’ I asked. Naaim was the missing fifth member and also the youngest. Ira was pretty protective towards him‚ in that way girls are when they sense damage. Naaim was pretty fucking damaged. His mother was wheelchair-bound. His father an abusive alcoholic. Yeah‚ pretty fucked up‚ full of that teenage angst that I keep hearing about. Me against the world kind of character. Probably why he and Ira connected.

‘Yeah‚ Jay‚’ she said‚ ‘messaged him‚ called him. He ain’t come back to me.’ Her voice drifted. ‘Not heard from him in a couple of days.’

‘Is he still seeing that bird?’ Zafar asked.

‘You wanna try asking me that again?’ Ira threw him a look.

‘Layla‚’ Zafar smiled nervously. ‘Is he still seeing Layla?’

‘Yeah. Getting serious‚ too.’

‘Has young Naaim been introduced to Layla’s father‚ yet?’ Tahir asked.

‘They’re just kids!’ I said. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘It’s better that he knows that Naaim has no untoward intentions towards his daughter‚’ Tahir said. ‘If he was to find out another way...’ Tahir shook his head. ‘He should know‚ that’s all.’

I was getting bored with this conversation. I shrugged‚ glancing at the time on my phone. There’s worse things happening around the world than boy meets girl‚ parents don’t understand drama‚ and we’d heard all about this particular saga in recent weeks. I’d never met Layla‚ but the way that Naaim harped on about her‚ I felt like I could write a dissertation on her.

Layla Shah‚ I now knew‚ was a homely Pakistani girl‚ as halal as a cucumber. I’ve known plenty of girls like that – strictly Muslim at home‚ but as soon as they step out of that environment‚ they transform into Beyoncé. And I’m talking about Crazy in Love Beyoncé!

But I don’t think Layla was like that.

Her Mum had been out of the picture since a while back‚ so it fell to Layla‚ from a very early age‚ to take on the household responsibilities – pandering to the needs of her strict father and over protective brother‚ whilst balancing her studies and her dedication to Islam. The last thing she needed in her life was complication. But complication came‚ in the form of Naaim.

They’d met at school‚ both studying for the same papers – Naaim’s a year older but he had spectacularly failed his exams the year before. She started to help him study‚ every day in the romantic setting of the school library – knees touching under the desk‚ you get the picture. Anyway‚ shit happens‚ and they got close‚ like proper close. Their relationship moved fast‚ they talked marriage‚ even went as far as to discuss what they would name their kids. Fuck‚ man‚ they’re only teenagers!

On top of which‚ Naaim is Bangladeshi‚ and Layla‚ Pakistani.

Paki relationships which haven’t been sanctioned by parents are‚ at best‚ a fucking minefield. Throw another colour‚ creed or religion into the mix and it’s just asking for a slap.

Yeah‚ there wasn’t going to be a happy ending to this story.

I yawned. I didn’t even attempt to hold back‚ it came out like the roar of a lion who desperately wanted to Netflix and Chill.

‘I’m beat. I’m gonna call it a night‚’ I said.

But before I could bounce‚ the door behind me creaked open and Naaim stepped through and stood at the door looking suitably intense and lovesick – and I sighed under my breath and decided to stick around long enough to say wha’s up and then be on my way before he unloaded with another episode of the ongoing saga.

Naaim crossed the short distance‚ as Tahir greeted him with a Salaam and a smile‚ and pulled a chair into the circle. Naaim sat down heavily and looked passively into the distance.

I swear to God‚ the fucking drama!

‘Naaim‚’ Ira said‚ ‘been calling you for time. Everything alright?’

‘Yeah‚ you all good‚ Bruv?’ Zafar asked.

‘Brother‚ can I get you a cup of tea? We’re all out of biscuits‚ I’m afraid‚’ Tahir added.

Unlike me‚ whose relationship with this lot began and ended within the four walls of the centre‚ the four of them were tight. They’d met here but looked out for each other outside of Heston Hall Community Centre. I’d go as far as to say they were friends‚ with Tahir‚ older‚ been and seen thirty‚ playing the mentor figure.

‘I’m going to shoot‚’ I said‚ getting to my feet. ‘Catch you all next week.’

‘Naaim?’ Ira said‚ ignoring me. ‘What’s happened?’

Tahir‚ sensing all was not well‚ said‚ ‘Take your time‚ Brother. There’s no rush.’ Not what I would have said considering the hour.

Naaim closed his eyes tightly and we all watched as a tear escaped and slowly rolled down his face. His shoulders shook and shuddered and then it was open season as Naaim exploded into tears.

I knew then that I wasn’t getting home any time soon. Just to feel useful‚ I fetched a glass of water and a box of Kleenex and placed it by his chair. Ira had knelt down in front of him‚ holding his hand. Zafar was standing close by‚ at a loss‚ not quite knowing what to do. I sat back down and waited patiently in my seat for Naaim to tell us about the next brick wall that he and Layla had no doubt walked into. The seriousness of what he was about to reveal started to dawn on me when I noticed his quivering hand reach for the glass of water.

‘Let’s give the man some space‚’ Tahir said. Zafar sat back down‚ his eyes caught mine and we shrugged in tandem. Ira‚ who was still kneeling down in front of him‚ straightened up‚ pulled a chair close to Naaim‚ and sat down. She reached across and took his hand in hers.

Naaim nodded at the floor‚ took a deep breath‚ and shared a story of happiness that had been doomed from the start.