One day Aariz, one of our old neighbours from the shop, came around to inspect the new house and admire Dad’s handiwork.
‘Nice job, Mohammed,’ he said as he spun around the living room taking in every nook and cranny. ‘When you’re finished here, perhaps you will come over and paint my house?’ He winked.
‘No, no, my friend. No more DIY for me. I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime!’ Dad exclaimed.
Aariz had lived next door to our old shop for years before Dad sold it. The two men weren’t great friends but Aariz was a little bit nosey and had wanted to see where we’d moved to and how well Dad had done for himself. Even though he liked to have a snoop around, I liked Aariz because he was friendly and kind to us kids. He’d always pop around uninvited when Dad was in and would often stay for dinner. Other than blood relatives we very rarely had visitors, but Aariz was different. I think this was because Dad was far too polite to tell him to go away. But Mum liked Aariz too, perhaps because he was always very complimentary about her cooking.
‘You make the most delicious curry I have ever tasted, Shazia. It melts in the mouth,’ he would say, kissing his fingertips.
Mum strove to outdo herself, wanting to make each meal better than the last. Sometimes Aariz’s wife came with him and the two women would chat in the kitchen while the men ate alone in the prized front room. It was virtually the only occasion on which that room was ever used.
Even after we’d been living in the house for a few months, Dad continued to repair, nail and fix things around us so that it sometimes felt as though we were living in the middle of a building site.
One day Tariq pointed to some bags of sand in the hall and said, ‘This is the house that Dad built.’ After that it became a standing joke, but it was actually true. He’d plastered, painted and papered virtually every wall and ceiling, and repaired every floor throughout the whole building. All the rooms were painted the same colour – magnolia. In fact the whole house was magnolia, because Dad had a friend who worked in a paint factory and he smuggled out big tubs of the stuff, which he sold to us cut price.
My brothers shared two bedrooms between them, with a double bed in each room. They had no space to themselves and would constantly bicker and fall out. I think they were jealous that I had a room of my own. Perhaps that’s why they made up the story about the witch in the wallpaper. On the other hand, teasing me was one of their forms of recreation.
Tariq was still up to his old tricks of torture but now he decided to make Asif his accomplice. One day Asif called me into the back garden. I ran out to him and saw Tariq standing at the bottom of the garden holding my favourite blonde dolly.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, then I spotted a box of Swan Vestas matches in his other hand.
‘It’s an experiment,’ Tariq announced. ‘We want to show you what happens when you burn a doll.’
‘No!’ I cried, but Asif held my arms and made me watch as Tariq took a single match from the box, struck it and held the flame against my baby’s long blonde acrylic hair. Within seconds she had become a dolly fireball.
‘Now watch!’ Tariq instructed as the flames shot high above her head. Soon she was singed, blackened and hairless, and the flames continued to lick and melt her pink plastic face and body. Tariq dropped the doll to the ground as her face began to contort with the heat. The flames had made her eyes droop and fold in on themselves. She looked horrible, like a monster – the stuff of nightmares.
I was sobbing, but still they made me watch until suddenly Asif had a pang of guilt and let go of my arms. He ran over and stamped on the doll to put out the flames, but it was too late. She was already melted and ugly, and now that he’d stamped on her her head was as flat as a pancake! She’d never be the same again.
‘There,’ Tariq smirked. ‘She’s all yours.’
I stood weeping over the charred plastic that had once been my doll. I hated having brothers, especially ones who ganged up on me like that. I never told Mum what they did to me. It wasn’t worth it because she was always so tired and short-tempered that I knew she’d probably smack me for telling tales, then she’d punish my brothers into the bargain. Afterwards they’d hit me for telling in the first place, so all in all it wasn’t worth it.
There was only one advantage to my brothers. Their mean reputations went before them, which meant that I was never picked on at the new junior school I had to start at after our move. I was seven years old when I enrolled there but Tariq was in the final year, with Asif a year below him, and having them there protected me. The bullies wouldn’t dare pick on me for my super-long hair or my bright home-made clothes, not when they knew I was Tariq Sharma’s little sister.
The school was housed in a modern, red-brick building just off a main road, with a large playing field at the back. It took both infant and junior schoolchildren, aged from four up to eleven. There was a big park just around the corner and, if we’d been good, Mum would take us there after school.
During my first year, she walked us to school every morning and picked us up at night. My brothers didn’t like walking with Mum and me. Tariq complained that I wore the wrong shoes and that my coat was too big for me, but I think he was simply embarrassed to be seen with his little sister because it ruined his tough image.
Although we’d kept in touch with Suki and her family, the distance meant it was hard for us to stay as close as we’d once been. Our visits dwindled until we were only seeing each other on special occasions such as Diwali. I settled in well to the new school, though, and soon made lots of new friends. I was quite sporty and was chosen to be captain of the school netball team. As my confidence grew, I was picked for the hockey and rounders teams too. I loved all sports and would practise racing my friends across the school playground at lunchtime. I’d wear myself out, pushing myself to go faster and faster, and soon I was the second-fastest girl in my year, a title I wore like a badge of honour.
Far from teasing me, the other children seemed to admire my hair and often asked where I got my colourful clothes. Mum loved all the attention I was getting and it spurred her on to make even brighter and more ornate outfits. She loved the fact that I stood out from the crowd.
I felt happy and special – but what set me apart from my classmates also marked me out. Little did I know it then, but I was about to become a prime target. Before long, I would be punished for my looks by the most unlikely person anyone could have imagined.
Chapter 4
The Mosque
I had just turned seven years old when I was told that I was to start going to the mosque. This was the age at which my brothers had started. I’d go every week night after school from five till seven in the evening, and I’d have to keep going until I had learned the entire Koran, which was a pretty daunting prospect. It was all part of being Muslim, though, so I accepted I had no choice. I told myself it would be exciting and different. I felt the butterflies fluttering in my stomach at the sheer thought of it, but at the same time it made me feel very grown up. It was a sign that I was growing older and wiser.
Besides, I was eager to learn the Koran. Muslims considered it the word of God and I knew that it was as important to us as the Bible is to Christians. My parents weren’t particularly religious: Dad went to mosque once a week, at a mosque on the other side of town where he met his friends, but Mum didn’t go at all. To me, learning the Koran was a challenge, something that I’d have to learn to be tested on later. I was excited about going to this mysterious new place with my brothers and without Mum and Dad.