The Wreckage

10

The flat is small, just three rooms, overlooking a run-down series of shops with broken neon signs and metal grates protecting the windows and doors. On warm evenings, Taj climbs out the upper window and sits on a narrow ledge smoking and drinking coffee while Aisha puts the baby to sleep.

He can hear the clatter of his Asian neighbors echoing up and down the stairwells and through the open windows: arguments, music, children and TV sets. Sometimes he can even convince himself that he is among the chosen people, the lucky ones.

But there are indignities to be suffered. Insults to be endured. Rejections. One particular woman, obese and choleric, always gives him a hard time when he collects his jobseeker’s allowance and housing benefit. She scowls at him behind her desk, mispronouncing his name even after he corrects her; and she treats his payments like money meant for her kidney transplant.

Aisha is calling him inside. Taj puts out his cigarette and climbs off the ledge, swinging his legs through the window and arching his body like a gymnast. His wife looks pretty in tailored trousers and a smock with beading around the neck.

“Didn’t you hear the phone?”

“No.”

“Syd wants to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“Something about the courier coming.” Aisha looks at the dishes piled in the sink. She’s been working all day at Homebase. On her feet. The least Taj could have done was wash up after breakfast.

She’s annoyed, but she won’t say anything. Taj has been on edge for months, ever since he lost his job. Short-tempered. Angry. She won’t risk starting an argument.

“Stay in tonight,” she says, rubbing his shoulders.

“Syd and Rafiq are expecting me.”

“You’re not married to Syd and Rafiq.”

“I missed the last meeting.”

Aisha turns her back on him, trying not to show her feelings.

“Why don’t you like them?” asks Taj. “They’re my friends.”

“I don’t like the way Syd looks at me.”

“He’s just jealous.”

Taj puts his finger on her lips. Aisha kisses it and giggles when Taj tries to pull her closer. Lithe as a fish, she twists past him and loops an apron over her head, letting Taj tie the bow. All thumbs.

“What do you do at these meetings?” she asks.

“We talk.”

“What do you talk about?”

“The Koran. How we’re treated. The problems we face.”

“We’re better off than our parents.”

“This is our country too.”

Aisha runs hot water, squeezing in dishwashing liquid, watching it foam. She can see Taj reflected in the curved chrome of the tap.

“You say Pakistan is our country and England is our country. Which is it?”

“Both.”

“Can we belong in two places?”

“Only if we make them ours.”

“What does that mean?”

“We have to tear this country down and rebuild it. Make it the way we want it to be.”

“I don’t think we should tear things down.”

“Sometimes it’s the only way.”

Taj begins drying the dishes, his back pressed to the bench.

“Did you pay that bill I gave you?” she asks.

“I didn’t have enough cash. I’ll do it next week.”

“I gave you the money.”

“I spent it.”

“What on? We barely have enough for food.”

Taj throws the tea towel into the soapy water. “And that’s my fault.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Shhhh, you’ll wake the baby.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet in my own home.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll pay it tomorrow. I’ll use the money we’re saving for Ramadan.”

They wash the dishes in silence. Taj slips his hand around her waist, trying to show that he’s sorry. He won’t use the word. She closes her eyes and shivers.

“I know you’re worried,” he whispers. “You must not be. We have money coming. Lots of it.”

“Don’t make up stories, Taj.”

“I mean it. Next week. We’ll have all the money we need.”

She throws her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his.

“Did you get a job?”

He smells her hair and cups her buttocks in his palms as though judging their soft weight.

“Yes, a job.”