Kate Pullinger - Landing Gear

And they met the girl called Ruby. Yacub had never met a girl dressed like Ruby, though of course he had seen them, in the distance in Dubai as the workers’ bus took them past hotels and beaches, and on television. Even the girls in Imran’s hotel dressed more modestly. Ruby shook his hand. Her face was open and friendly; she had this wide, happy smile with a small gap between her perfect white teeth. It was as though she generated her own supply of electricity, the air around her crackled and popped, and Yacub could see that Jack was drawn to her, that when she entered a room most men would have to look at her at least twice—once to see her, the second time to make sure she was real.

As they stood there, Ruby and Jack chatting, Yacub noticed three young men standing nearby. They were Pakistani, but they were not like any Pakistanis he’d ever seen before. They were dressed in low-slung, tight jeans and short, tight jackets, with big watches and gold neckchains, their hair gelled and slicked and styled. Punjabi, Yacub thought, though they were speaking a kind of messed-up Urdu—not Yacub’s first language but one that he spoke, of course. Then they switched to English.

“Look at her,” one said.

“I’d like to tap that,” the other said.

“He’s a freak, though,” the third one said, nodding at Jack.

Then they all looked at Yacub. They could see that he was listening.

“Fuck you, Paki,” one of them said. “Yeah, fuck you,” another one said, and they laughed. They left the shop and went out into the street.

Jack and Ruby finished their conversation and Ruby gave Jack a kiss on the cheek, and she shook Yacub’s hand once again. “Is this your first time in London?”

Yacub nodded.

“Well, have a great time. Maybe Jack will bring you to the party.”

“Party?” Jack said.

“Yeah, at Jacinta’s—I’m sure you’re invited. I’m inviting you! It’s on Facebook.”

“Okay.” Jack rolled back on his heels. “Maybe see you there.”

“Very nice to meet you, Miss Ruby,” Yacub said, and he wanted to slap himself for that Miss but she laughed and smiled and went into the fitting rooms.

Yacub could see that Jack wanted to follow her into the fitting rooms, so he told him he was hungry. Jack paid for the things Yacub had chosen and they made their way to a coffee house.

“You’ll like this place,” Jack said. “Bona fide American.”

As Yacub sat on the smooth leather sofa, he contemplated the large pastry and enormous coffee that Jack had bought him. His new clothes—including two cotton shirts with button-down collars, trousers, a zip-up jacket and a cardigan that Jack had referred to as “preppy”—sat in tidy bags beside his feet in their new socks and shoes. He thought about the girl called Ruby and the invitation to the party, and he found himself wondering if Mrs. Harriet had been correct all along, that he was dead and had entered paradise.

Jack was sitting across from him, tapping away on his phone. When he looked up, Yacub raised his coffee and said, “Thank you, Cousin.”

Jack smiled. “Cuz,” he said. “Sick.”

That evening they sat down together for a meal for the first time—Jack, Yacub, Michael and Harriet. Michael had texted her from work to say his meeting had been cancelled. Harriet was pleased; she had cooked roast chicken with potatoes and a dessert and did it herself instead of heading over to the supermarket to buy it ready-made. She set the table with a tablecloth, and then took the tablecloth off—too fussy!—and set the table again. She wanted to find a way to welcome Yacub to the household properly now that he was officially, most definitely, alive. She wore high heels and an apron and felt like Freddie Mercury in that old video. Michael came into the kitchen and looked at her—when he smiled, she smiled too.

Jack and Yacub came in from shopping and went straight onto the games console, so Harriet had to shout at Jack when dinner was ready, just like old times. They sat down and she served the food.

“We’ll find you a job,” she said to Yacub. He had his mouth full, so he nodded.

“How are you going to find a job for someone who doesn’t exist?” asked Jack.

Yacub swallowed. “I exist,” he said. “I’m alive.”

“I know you exist,” Jack said, and to prove it he punched Yacub on the arm, “but not officially.”

Yacub looked at him, frowning slightly.

“There are unofficial jobs,” Jack said.

“Michael will sort out Yacub’s papers. He knows people.” Harriet turned to her husband.

Michael raised his eyebrows. “I do?”

“I want to work,” Yacub said.

“You can have all the crap jobs that were meant for me,” Jack replied. Then he looked at his parents as though he expected them to agree. Harriet laughed, and as she laughed, she felt a surge of love for her son that was so strong she thought she might drown.

When Jack got up the next day, Saturday, he noted his father was home. Normally, on the weekend, his dad got up early and threatened to go to the gym, then went to work instead—either in his office upstairs or across London to his actual office. But something had happened in the house without his knowing about it and he needed to stay home to restate his authority or reclaim his territory or something masculine like that, Jack reckoned. By the time Jack got up—he did his best to sleep in, as he knew it was obligatory for teenagers, but he woke up bright and early, always had, always would, and then he lay there, in a kind of daze—both his parents were in the kitchen. Yacub was watching TV. That guy liked to watch TV.

“Game?” Jack asked, getting out the handsets. He hadn’t brushed his teeth and his eyes were still crusty but there was nothing better than playing when you were only half-awake; the game went straight into your brain, nothing between it and your cerebral cortex.

Yacub nodded and Jack set things up. He could hear his parents talking in the next room.

“Where’s the car?” Michael asked.

“In the garage. They said they’d let me know. But it might be a writeoff.” Jack’s mother paused. “It will probably be a writeoff.”

“The insurance will cover it.”

“Well.” Jack heard her pause again. “I didn’t report it to the police.”

“What?”

“I would have had to tell them about Yacub. And I thought he was dead. I thought—”

“A man falls on your car, and you don’t report it?”

“No, I—”

“Jesus, Harriet.”

Jack had excellent hearing, even above the sound of the machine gun that Yacub was firing at him. “Hey!” he said, “don’t shoot me, shoot the enemy!” Yacub cackled. So Jack shot him and they both went down to zero points and had to start the level again.

“I’ll pay for it,” Harriet said. “I’ve still got some of my own money left.”

“It’s not the money—”

“I didn’t know what else to do, Michael. I only did what seemed right.”

“Okay,” said Jack’s father. “All right.”

They stopped talking. Maybe they were kissing. Kissing? Jack guessed that was okay. Then the game absorbed him once again. A while later he heard his dad go upstairs to his office.

That afternoon Jack’s mother made him cut the grass—she had a long mental list of chores that from time to time she tried to make Jack do. Jack liked the smell of mown grass, though he would never tell his mother that; it made him think of Dukes Meadows. When he came back in, his father and Yacub were sitting at the table talking. Michael was explaining what he did for a living. Yacub looked interested.

“So, basically,” Michael was saying, “we assess risk in business finance—mergers, takeovers, buyouts—taking into consideration as many of these factors as possible, reporting to investors, shareholders, the banks and other financial institutions.”