Orphan of Islam. Alexander Khan

went into the house via the back door and ran straight upstairs to the bathroom, locking the door. An old sock was half-hanging out of the wash basket. I ran it under the tap and dabbed my swollen eye with it. When I was finished I opened the door, checked the coast was clear and went straight to bed.

      That night I lay awake, thinking about the attack in the subway, Rafiq’s petty cruelties and his nit-picking attitude. I wondered why the family wouldn’t just let me go home to Mum. I thought about this a lot. If they couldn’t stand me, surely it would’ve been better for them to hand Jasmine and me back? That was, if Mum was still around, of course, or even still alive. I had no idea about either possibility. Her name was still occasionally mentioned when Abida or Rafiq or Fatima thought I wasn’t listening, accompanied by tutting and shaking of the head.

      There was also still the odd time that a knock at the door remained unanswered. Once, as I was coming downstairs, there was a knock on the door and I was the nearest person to it. I had a feeling that behind it would be a woman with long dark hair and a big smile. Before anyone else could get to it, I flung it open. I was right. The woman on the doorstep had long dark hair and a big smile – but she was Asian. Just another ‘aunty’ from up the street, calling round for a cup of tea and a chat.

      The next day I was woken up as usual by Rafiq roughly pushing me and demanding I get up for mosque. I complied, knowing that Boo-Boo and his mate would still be in bed. But as the day went on I became more fearful of meeting the pair again. When it came time for evening prayers I decided to appeal to Rafiq’s better nature.

      ‘You what, bastarrd?’ he said, as he slouched in Dad’s old seat, legs splayed out. ‘Tell me again – you don’t want to go to mosque tonight?’

      ‘You don’t understand,’ I pleaded. ‘There were these two lads, white lads. They beat us up under the subway. Look at my eye!’

      He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards him, poking my painful and swollen eyelid.

      ‘That’s nothing compared to what I’ll give you if you don’t go!’

      ‘Please, Uncle Rafiq, I’m scared. Will you come with me then?’

      ‘What are you scared of?’ he snapped. ‘You said they were white boys. So tell them you’re a white boy too, kuffar!’

      With that, he grabbed me and pulled me out of the living room. ‘Here we go again,’ I thought. But he didn’t go upstairs. Instead he pushed me down the hallway, through the kitchen and into the backyard. In one corner there was an outside toilet, left intact from Victorian days. It still worked, and was occasionally used when the bathroom was occupied. I hated going in there. It was dark, smelly and full of spiders. Rafiq knew I didn’t like it, and without further ado he pushed me in and locked the door from the outside.