‘I asked yer a question, Paki.’
Indignation rose in Sam like acid. ‘I’m not a Pakistani.’
Dink’s approach to racial profiling: anyone who wasn’t pure white like him simply shouldn’t exist. His eyes blazed. He jabbed Sam in the chest. ‘You’re all Pakis to me, you Paki fuck.’
‘Okay, whatever.’
Sam knew Dink’s story — in fact, he had thought of him when he was preparing his last lecture, ‘The Gang as Family’. A textbook example of what he’d termed ‘Son of McDad’, the product of a ‘domestic void’, the child whose father only shows up from time to time to take the kids to McDonald’s, the mother on benefits, a stream of adult males through the home treating it like it was theirs, and Mum telling him to piss off out when she had company. The child, neglected and constantly out on the streets, falls prey to the gang, who brutalize him, then test him with tasks — at first relatively trivial, such as a mugging, then increasingly violent. As they absorb him, they put him to work, teach him how to steal, how to threaten, how to be feared. He gets respect, status. It’s addictive, like the stuff they’re dealing. The gang becomes his family, their values his.
Dink had done well. The teeth said it all. As the older members were picked off — killed or maimed or sent to jail — he had risen through the ranks until he was number one. Respected, feared and rich, everything he wanted out of life.
But right now, all of Sam’s insight counted for shit.
Dink snatched his bag.
‘Please — careful.’ Sam’s voice sounded more officious than he meant it to, a habit Helen had reminded him to check. Dink pulled out his conference ID.
‘Whooo! Doctor Arsehole!’
Sam was twelve again, hurrying back to do his homework, Dink and his posse blocking the pavement, his satchel grabbed, the precious textbooks emptied onto a waiting heap of dog shit. Only this time it was his brand-new MacBook Air.
‘All my work’s in that.’
Dink smoothed his hand over the surface of the lid, then flipped it open. ‘We’ll look after it, don’t worry.’
He passed it to one of the henchmen.
‘Now fuck off where you came from, Paki. You’re trespassing.’
‘Come on, this is my street.’
Dink stepped back in mock horror. ‘“My street”, is it now? Next it’ll be “my country”.’ He looked at his henchmen, who arranged their pudgy features into expressions of dismay. He waved a tattooed hand at the smashed shops. ‘Your lot started this. Who’s gonna clear it all up?’
‘My “lot”?’
‘All you Paki Muslim cunts gotta go back where you came from. It’s over, mate. You’ve had your fun.’ He nodded at the henchmen who each grabbed one of his arms while Dink patted him down, then pulled out his wallet. It flapped open, revealing the picture of Helen.
Dink’s eyes bulged with indignation. ‘You dirty Paki fucker.’ Dink flashed the picture at his mates, shaking his head with theatrical sweeps. ‘Big mistake, Arsehole. Big mistake.’
Sam was terrified and confused. This time indignation and rage overcame his fear. ‘Fuck you!’
Dink’s features seemed to crowd even further into the middle of his face. Then he grinned and put his mouth close to Sam’s ear. ‘Anyone doing the fucking, it’s gonna be me. Pakis fucking white women should know what they got coming from Dink.’ He pressed himself closer, the smell of the various intoxicants rising from him, thrust his hands into Sam’s pockets and pulled out his mother’s keys. He dangled them from his little finger. The flat was only a few metres away. ‘Is Mummy home?’
He shook his head. That much he was grateful for.
Dink reached into his pocket, pulled out a bunch of surgical gloves and gave a pair to each of his mates. ‘Then it’ll just be us chickens.’
32
He had no idea what time it was. Daylight streamed in through the kitchen window, which seemed to loom above him at an unfamiliar angle. His eyes widened as he realized where he was. There was a strong smell of piss and alcohol. He glanced at the floor. The lower half of his body felt cold. And wet. He looked at himself. He was naked from the waist down, his linen trousers round his ankles. With a jolt, it came back. As he moved, pain flashed between his buttocks. He turned his head and vomited.
He dragged up his pants and trousers, felt the pockets. His phone was gone. Then he remembered the laptop. Ignoring the pain now, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulled on his clothes. The fridge door yawned open. In the pool of water in front of it his bag and wallet lay open and face down. His cards were still there but the cash was gone. The bag was empty, the laptop gone. Using the table he had once sat at to do his homework, he hauled himself up, then slowly sat in a chair.
Then he remembered Nasima. She couldn’t see him like this. He got to his feet and saw himself in the mirror, his face bruised and bloody. Then he noticed the clock on the oven. It was seven a.m. He must have missed her — or maybe she hadn’t come, after all.
He threw himself into a frenzy of activity, clearing up the kitchen, mopping the floor. He stripped off his clothes and threw them into the bin. In Karza’s room he found a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a hoodie. They would have to do. In the bathroom he did what he could to clean up his face, but tears of rage blurred his vision. When the doorbell rang he jumped.
‘Who is it?’
It was Nasima. He opened the door and her mouth dropped open. ‘What happened?’
‘What does it look like?’
He shut the door quickly and showed her upstairs, steering her towards the front room.
‘Who did this?’
‘Thugs.’
‘Whites?’
Waves of shame and embarrassment welled in him. He couldn’t hide it. His humiliation was complete. She stood in the kitchen and surveyed the scene. Then she came towards him and embraced him. He resisted at first, then gave in, put his head on her shoulder and cried.
‘Fucking bastards. Fucking white fascist bastards!’
She soothed him. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now.’
He pulled back. ‘Safe? That’s about the last thing I feel.’
That he had been singled out made a mockery of all his years of trying to blend in. But she held on to him. ‘For what it’s worth, I know just how you feel, believe me.’
Her words calmed him. He felt less alone. She sat him down and made him a cup of tea. Then she sat opposite and held his hand while he sipped. He tried not to catch her eye but when he did he saw how different she looked. She had lost the reserve she had shown when they first met.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come last night — I got waylaid.’
‘Maybe it’s just as well. You might have got caught up in this — this…’ He let out another anguished sob. ‘I hate you to see me like this.’
She smiled. ‘I saw you on the TV.’ She leaned closer. ‘You were very good. Does that mean you’ll be meeting members of the government?’
He snorted. ‘I had a breakfast meeting with the home secretary. Now look at me!’
‘No one need know. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing your pain. Don’t give up on what you’re doing.’
He shivered at the thought of his words about restraint and the need for perspective. ‘Well, I don’t expect you to agree with any of it.’
‘You put your points very convincingly. I believe you’re sincere.’
‘I just want to make a difference.’
‘Maybe you haven’t found the right kind of difference yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
She smiled and reached for his face. Her touch was soothing. ‘Let’s not have this discussion now.’