Helen Black - Dishonour

‘An ASBO kid,’ her dad would call him.

Not that Ryan has an ASBO, or at least not one that Aasha knows about. But he’s that type. A bad boy.

‘Bet I know who you’re thinking about,’ whispers Lailla.

Aasha feels the heat creep around the base of her throat. ‘I’m not thinking about anyone.’

Lailla giggles. ‘So why are you writing his name all over your notebook?’

Aasha looks down and gasps. She’s doodled Ryan’s name all down the margin.

‘Your brothers will kill you,’ says Lailla.

Aasha turns over the page and smooths it down. ‘Shut up, Lailla.’

She forces her eyes back to the white board but she can still hear Lailla laughing—just like she can still see Ryan’s name through the paper.

‘Any chance of a coffee?’

The engineer was once again prone on the brand-new carpet in Lilly’s office, ferreting about in the socket and squinting like Popeye.

Lilly indicated her espresso maker still in its box, and turned her attention to the printer. She lifted the lid and rooted around. Where the hell did you put the ink?

‘You ain’t really cut out for this,’ the engineer observed.

Lilly bristled. ‘Just fix my phone.’

But he was right. Of all the people best suited to organising things, Lilly had to be at the bottom of the list. She was a litigator, a case lawyer, a court-room brawler.

She pulled out her mobile and called her old boss.

‘Rupes, it’s me.’

Rupinder laughed. ‘How’s it going?’

Lilly poked suspiciously at her printer. ‘It’s a bloody nightmare.’

Rupinder gasped. ‘Is something wrong with the baby?’

‘Oh, that.’ Lilly patted her bump. ‘No, everything’s fine.’

‘So what’s the matter?’

‘I just don’t know how you did it.’ Lilly looked mournfully around the office. ‘How did you run everything so efficiently?’

‘Ah,’ Rupinder caught her meaning. ‘Well, for one thing, I had help.’

Lilly nodded. When she’d worked for Rupes there’d been three partners, a handful of secretaries and the old bulldog on reception, Sheila. Lilly never thought the day would come when she missed the interfering old battleaxe, but at least she could work the photocopier.

‘I can’t afford to hire anyone,’ Lilly said. ‘Not until I’m up and running.’

‘And how will you manage that on your own?’

Rupinder’s voice was, as always, the epitome of calm. Lilly wished she were still around, that they could work together.

‘I miss you, Rupes.’

‘I miss you too.’ Her words were like balm. ‘But you still won’t manage on your own.’

Lilly pushed out her lip. ‘I’ll just have to.’

Sam licked the sugar off his fingers and eyed the last doughnut.

‘Are you eating that?’ he asked.

Jack patted his six-pack. Since the enormity of becoming a dad had hit him, he’d decided the very least he could do was try to stay alive. He’d started slowly, refusing the odd takeaway curry. He’d curbed the beer and upped the running. Before long he began to enjoy his new regime and now ate no wheat, sugar or dairy. It drove Lilly insane.

‘Fill your boots.’

He watched Sam devour it, enjoying the pale sunshine streaming in through the kitchen windows.

‘What?’ Sam spoke through a mouthful of jam and grease.

‘You’re just like your mum,’ said Jack.

Sam frowned. ‘Thanks a bunch.’

‘Your mother’s a fine woman.’

‘Whatever.’

Jack shook his head. When had Sam turned from wide-eyed boy to grunter?

‘She always does her best for you.’

Sam rolled his eyes. ‘I barely see her.’

‘All that’s going to change,’ said Jack. ‘What with the baby coming, she’s promised to take her foot off the pedal.’

Sam raised an eyebrow.

‘Mark my words,’ Jack promised, ‘things will be different.’

Sam wiped his sticky lips with the back of his hand and stood to leave the room. When he got to the door he turned.

‘Just because you want it to be true, Jack, doesn’t mean it is.’

When the engineer had finally left, Lilly put her feet up on her desk. Her ankles were swollen to elephantine proportions. She felt like an overstuffed cushion, all lumpy and uncomfortable. She didn’t remember being like this when she was pregnant with Sam. Then again, that was over ten years ago and she hadn’t yet hit thirty.

When the door opened she remained in the same undignified position. What the hell did the phone guy need now?

‘Are you open?’

A young Asian man looked at her doughy toes.

‘Not exactly,’ said Lilly, and struggled to get upright.

‘Oh,’ he said, but didn’t move.

‘Can I make an appointment for you?’

Lilly scrabbled around for the diary she’d bought especially. It was leather-bound with gold lettering and had a whole page for each day. Her plan was to colour-code clients. She’d promised herself faithfully to avoid criminal and childcare cases: there was no money in either. Red for family, green for property. It was her first step to getting organised. Now, where had she put the damn thing?

She grabbed a biro and a ticket for the dry cleaner’s.

‘Next Tuesday?’ she asked.

The young man stroked his goatee. Lilly could see now that he was in his late teens, nineteen at most. A boy really.

‘Thing is, I’ve got my mum in the car,’ he said, ‘and we really need to talk to someone.’

‘I don’t want to be unhelpful,’ Lilly smiled, and opened her arms to encompass the chaos, ‘but as you can see we’re not quite up to speed.’

He ignored the telephone wires that crisscrossed the floor and levelled Lilly in his gaze.

‘My sister killed herself and we need to know what to say to the police.’

Lilly watched the woman sitting opposite. Her body was frail, lost in the folds of her plain brown shalwar-kameez. Her eyes were downcast to arthritic fingers that lay gnarled and motionless in her lap.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

The other woman didn’t acknowledge Lilly’s words but continued staring down at her hands.

Lilly moved two phone directories, a box of manila envelopes and a broken laptop from her desk.

‘Sorry for the mess,’ she muttered. ‘Like I said, we’re not really open yet.’

The boy gave a perfunctory nod and drew himself up. Lilly could see he was barely able to contain his tears.

She opened a drawer for a legal pad. Amazingly there was one inside.

‘Can I start with your name?’

‘Anwar Khan,’ he said.

‘And your mum?’

Anwar’s eyes darted towards the woman beside him. She looked old enough to his grandmother. Strings of thin grey hair escaped from the woollen shawl draped loosely over her head. Her face was lined and worn.

‘Deema Khan,’ he said.

Even at her name Mrs Khan remained impassive. Lilly assumed she must be in shock.

‘And you say your sister died recently?’

‘Yes…’ Anwar coughed to clear his throat. ‘She took an overdose.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Anwar took a deep breath as if to steady himself. ‘It’s very important to us that she’s buried as soon as possible.’

‘I see,’ said Lilly.

‘Mum is devastated.’

Lilly cast a glance at Mrs Khan, who continued to contemplate her lap. If it were Lilly, and her son had topped himself, she was sure she’d be screaming and wailing. But then grief did strange things to people, didn’t it?

‘And what can I do to help?’ asked Lilly.

Anwar cleared his throat again. Lilly’s heart went out to this young man, so evidently forced to take control of what must be a terrible situation.

‘The police still have Yasmeen.’ He paused. ‘You know, her body.’