Zara Gill - Secret Evil

Contents

This book is dedicated to my child, through whom I have learned the true meaning of unconditional love: I do love you, more than I can ever put into words; to my husband, for his support and understanding; to my mother-in-law, who has made me feel that I am part of a family; and to my mother: I love you, Mum.

Prologue

GO HOME, PAKIS! someone shouted from behind us. He sounded angry and, as I tightened my grip on the handle of the buggy, I glanced anxiously at Mum, who quickened her pace without raising her bowed head, so that I had to jog to keep up with her.

We dont want darkies here. It was another voice this time. I didnt really understand what he was saying, but there was no mistaking the sound of his hatred.

We were approaching the corner of what had become, just a few days earlier, our street, on a rough, run-down estate in a suburb of Manchester, when something whistled past my head, so close that the air it displaced felt like wind on my cheek. Then a stone about the size of my clenched fist skittered across the pavement in front of us.

Sami made a small whimpering noise, which echoed the one inside my own head, and I felt him pulling on the other handle of the buggy. Mum didnt look up or appear to change her pace, but by the time we reached the broken gate that hung from half a hinge at the end of the cracked-concrete path leading up to our front door, we were almost running.

Mum already had the key in her hand and, as soon as shed turned it in the lock, she pushed Sami and me ahead of her into the house, heaved the buggy up over the step and slammed the door shut behind us. We stood in the hallway, listening for the sound of footsteps approaching the house and hearing only our own rapid breathing, and then Asha began to wail, twisting and turning in the buggy and raising her arms in an unspoken demand to be released.

For a moment, Mum continued to lean against the wall beside the door to the living room with her eyes shut, as though she couldnt hear Ashas cries. Then she sighed, shook her head dismissively and snapped, Will one of you get her out of the buggy, or do I have to do everything? As she turned towards the front door and shot home the bolts that secured it, I bent down and tried to hook my shaking fingers around the clasp of the strap that was holding Ashas small, impatient body in the buggy.

Lifting my little sister into my arms, I asked Mum, What are Pakis? Why dont people like us? They were questions Id asked her more than a dozen times since wed come to live in Manchester, and more than a dozen times shed ignored them, as she did now.

Go! Get out of my way, she said, clicking her tongue irritably and almost snatching Asha out of my hands. She turned away from me and as she walked into the kitchen, I heard her mutter contemptuously, Pakis! Pakis! These people are ignorant. Have they never seen an Indian before?

In the few weeks since wed arrived in Manchester, wed already moved several times, each time from one dismal, dirty flat to another. In fact, the house wed just moved into wasnt quite as bad as all the other places wed stayed, despite its air of grimy neglect, sparse, utilitarian furniture, damp walls, dented doors and dirty, stained carpets that you were reluctant to touch with your bare feet. What was even worse than the physical state of the house, however, was the sour smell that pervaded every room, filling your nostrils when you breathed in and clinging to the back of your throat so that you could taste it even when you were outside.

The hardest thing of all about being in Manchester wasnt the horrible places wed lived in; or all the different schools my older brother Sami and I had been to, where no one wanted to be our friends; or the name-calling and stone-throwing that made my heart race with fear every time we set foot outside the house. What was worse than all those things was the fact that Dad wasnt with us, and I really missed him.

I rubbed the back of my hand across my cheeks to wipe away the tears of self-pity that were trickling down them and began to walk slowly up the stairs. I was halfway up when I heard Mums voice drifting up from the kitchen and stopped to listen. It sounded high-pitched and querulous and I couldnt make out what she was saying, but then she laughed and, as I released the breath I hadnt realised Id been holding, it felt as if the knot that seemed to have been tied around my stomach loosened just a little bit.

I ran up the last few stairs and along the landing to my mothers bedroom, where I wanted to look in the mirror that hung on the wall opposite her bed. My mother often told me that I was ugly. Shed sigh, as though Id deliberately contrived to be ugly in order to disappoint her, and say, Your skin is too dark and your eyes are almost black. How will I ever find a good husband for you? Then shed hold her hands out in front of her, palms upwards, in a familiar gesture of exasperation and Id feel sick, the way I always did when I thought Id made her unhappy.

At home in London, where wed lived with Dad for the first seven years of my life until just a few weeks ago everyone agreed that my mother was beautiful. Its because I have pale skin and hazel eyes, shed tell me. And when I looked at her, I realised that my skin really was quite dark by comparison certainly too dark for me to be considered beautiful by most Indians.

Despite what my mother said, I hadnt ever been consciously aware of other peoples colour or race when we lived in London. At the school Sami and I had gone to there, almost all the children had skin of varying shades of brown or black, whereas at the schools wed been to in Manchester a different one each time we moved to another flat there were very few non-white pupils. In fact, Sami and I were usually the only ones, and Id begun to realise that, to some people at least, the colour of your skin mattered for reasons I didnt understand but that clearly had nothing to do with finding a good husband.

So I often examined my face in the mirror in my mothers bedroom and prayed to any god that might be able to hear me, Please, couldnt you make my skin just a bit lighter? Because if my prayer was answered, it might make Mum happy, I might be able to make friends again, as Id done so easily in London, and total strangers might stop shouting abuse and throwing things at me in the streets.

When I turned the handle on my mothers bedroom door, still thinking about our walk home from school, the memory of my fear was quickly replaced by surprise when the door failed to open. I stood rubbing the place on my head that had banged against it. I knew the door couldnt be locked, because my mother was in the kitchen with Sami and Asha. So I turned the handle again, this time pushing the door as hard as I could with my shoulder. When it flew open, I nearly tumbled headlong into the man who was standing in front of me, naked except for a towel that was wrapped around his waist.

Smiling, he held a stubby finger to his lips and whispered, Shhh. Then he reached out his hand and pulled me into the room. I was still more surprised than afraid, but I instinctively twisted my shoulders and tried to slip out of his grasp, and for a moment the expression in his eyes seemed to change to one of cold anger.

Then he smiled again and said, in a voice that sounded amused, Dont look at me like that. Dont you remember me?

Still holding my arm, he pulled me into the room, kicked the bedroom door closed and turned the key in the lock.

I dont know you, I told him, although there did seem to be something familiar about him.