Helen Black - Dishonour

Bell’s face remained impassive but inside his mouth he bit his cheek.

‘There were no paramedics, of course—far too dangerous,’ said the chief—‘so your father took off his own jacket and rolled the man in it. Left himself completely open, of course.’

Bell imagined the burly silhouette of the old man, the burning skies of South London behind him.

‘It was absolute chaos, and I don’t mind telling you that the rest of us were struggling,’ the chief pointed at Bell, ‘but not your father.’

Time to change the subject.

‘So what is it you want me to do about the Khan girl?’ he asked.

The chief super was a flinty pragmatist, but even he wouldn’t actually order the release of Yasmeen’s body. Would he?

‘I don’t want you to do anything.’

DI Bell felt a stab of disappointment in the other man. His lack of conviction made him look weak. Something else he would never allow. As the old man never ceased to point out, you had to show the lower orders that you were a man of iron.

‘What I want,’ the chief super continued, ‘is an assurance from you that the current situation is absolutely necessary.’

So that was it. The old bugger wanted something to say if the shit hit the fan. An excuse.

‘All I can tell you, sir, is that I’m not entirely convinced that the girl killed herself. Something about it is all wrong and I think it’s only right we look into it.’

‘Quite so,’ said the chief super. ‘But we don’t want to open ourselves up to accusations of racism.’

DI Bell knew exactly what to say. ‘Don’t you think it would be more racist not to follow up the death of a young Asian woman? I mean, sir, if she were white we wouldn’t just leave it, would we?’

The chief super closed his eyes, evidently weighing up the rock and the hard place.

‘Fine. Continue the investigation,’ he said, ‘but be ready to give a decision and release that body as soon as possible.’

‘Their lawyer wants an update in two days,’ said Bell.

The chief super raised his eyebrows. ‘They’ve instructed a solicitor?’

‘She came to see me earlier today,’ said Bell. ‘A Lilly Valentine.’

The chief super groaned.

‘You know her, then, sir?’

‘We’ve had several dealings in the past,’ said the chief super, ‘and none has been what you would describe as a pleasure.’

‘She 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.

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