job. What do you do for a job?”
“I’ve just graduated.”
“From uni?”
“Glasgow Uni, yeah, law school.”
“Law school?” He was building to something but Omar interjected.
“Got a first.”
“Good, good. Have you got a job to go to?”
“No, still looking around, ye know…”
“Had interviews and so on?”
“Well, no, not really, not sure if law’s for me, really.”
At the back of the viewing room someone made a joke about one less of ’em. No one laughed. Jokes about lawyers were fine but the guy was Asian and the racist connotations were uncomfortable.
“I want you to talk us through what happened tonight.”
“OK, OK.” Omar took a sip of water.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Bannerman, meaning hurry up.
“OK, well, me and Mo—”
Bannerman read from his notes, “Mohammed Al Salawe?”
“Yeah, Mo. Me and Mo were sitting in the car—”
“The Vauxhall?”
“I was outside with Mo, in the Vauxhall, round the corner, smoking actually, and had the radio on, just chatting and, and we heard a loud sort of pop like a ‘pwomf’ sort of noise, never heard anything like that, and there’s this light, sort of white light in Meeshra’s window…” The story got faster and faster, the words splattering into the room. “And we never even said anything to each other, just, like, ran—”
“What did you think it was?”
Omar looked confused.
“The noise,” explained Bannerman. “What did you think made it?”
“Honestly?” Omar tipped his head sincerely.
Bannerman nodded.
“I thought it was a gas canister on a stove cooker. It’s stupid because we don’t use a stove cooker but in Pakistan you often hear of honor killings where a mother kills a daughter-in-law if she’s had an affair or something and the way they do it is tamper with the gas canister on the stove. Stupid.” He shrugged. “But that’s what came to my mind…”
“Are your family from Pakistan?”
“No.”
“Why would you think that, then?”
“Dunno.”
Bannerman tipped his head to the side, as if Omar had said something significant, wrong-footing him. “And so you ran to the house. Which way did you go?”
Omar shook his head and blinked, bringing himself back to the memory. “Um, I was on the passenger side, the road side. I opened the door, stepped out into the street”—he flicked his hand to the side, as if he was throwing a cigarette butt away—“ran around the bonnet of the car—”
“Mohammed’s car?”
“Yeah, yeah, Mo’s car…” He had lost his thread.
“To the house?”
“Yeah, jumped onto the wee garden wall there, ran over, slipped at the corner a bit, caught myself, didn’t fall, ran to the door—”
“Was the front door open or shut?”
“Um, shut.”
Morrow felt sure he was telling the truth, from his short sentences, the distant look in his eyes, the way he glanced downwards to see the road, the garden wall, and the reflexive flattening of his hand in front as he stopped himself from falling.
“The door was shut—”
“And you opened it?”
Bannerman should stop interrupting, Morrow observed, he was breaking up the memory. It was easier to spot the lie in a long flow, the break in style was more obvious. It was the intrusion of the camera. Bannerman was determined to be seen. She envied his confidence but she could see that it was a handicap sometimes.
“Yeah, I opened it.” Omar looked at Bannerman for a prompt.
“And?”
“And.” He stopped, glanced into the camera, and froze a moment as he realized that the eye was judging him. His forehead wrinkled suddenly, a child giving an excuse, and he looked away. “And what?”
“What did you see when you opened the door?”
Omar looked at the camera again but his brow had straightened defensively. “Saw my folks standing in the hall, on the right.” He put his hand out to indicate their position. “Saw my brother, Billal, there too, near the door, standing in front of his room.
“I’ve just graduated.”
“From uni?”
“Glasgow Uni, yeah, law school.”
“Law school?” He was building to something but Omar interjected.
“Got a first.”
“Good, good. Have you got a job to go to?”
“No, still looking around, ye know…”
“Had interviews and so on?”
“Well, no, not really, not sure if law’s for me, really.”
At the back of the viewing room someone made a joke about one less of ’em. No one laughed. Jokes about lawyers were fine but the guy was Asian and the racist connotations were uncomfortable.
“I want you to talk us through what happened tonight.”
“OK, OK.” Omar took a sip of water.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Bannerman, meaning hurry up.
“OK, well, me and Mo—”
Bannerman read from his notes, “Mohammed Al Salawe?”
“Yeah, Mo. Me and Mo were sitting in the car—”
“The Vauxhall?”
“I was outside with Mo, in the Vauxhall, round the corner, smoking actually, and had the radio on, just chatting and, and we heard a loud sort of pop like a ‘pwomf’ sort of noise, never heard anything like that, and there’s this light, sort of white light in Meeshra’s window…” The story got faster and faster, the words splattering into the room. “And we never even said anything to each other, just, like, ran—”
“What did you think it was?”
Omar looked confused.
“The noise,” explained Bannerman. “What did you think made it?”
“Honestly?” Omar tipped his head sincerely.
Bannerman nodded.
“I thought it was a gas canister on a stove cooker. It’s stupid because we don’t use a stove cooker but in Pakistan you often hear of honor killings where a mother kills a daughter-in-law if she’s had an affair or something and the way they do it is tamper with the gas canister on the stove. Stupid.” He shrugged. “But that’s what came to my mind…”
“Are your family from Pakistan?”
“No.”
“Why would you think that, then?”
“Dunno.”
Bannerman tipped his head to the side, as if Omar had said something significant, wrong-footing him. “And so you ran to the house. Which way did you go?”
Omar shook his head and blinked, bringing himself back to the memory. “Um, I was on the passenger side, the road side. I opened the door, stepped out into the street”—he flicked his hand to the side, as if he was throwing a cigarette butt away—“ran around the bonnet of the car—”
“Mohammed’s car?”
“Yeah, yeah, Mo’s car…” He had lost his thread.
“To the house?”
“Yeah, jumped onto the wee garden wall there, ran over, slipped at the corner a bit, caught myself, didn’t fall, ran to the door—”
“Was the front door open or shut?”
“Um, shut.”
Morrow felt sure he was telling the truth, from his short sentences, the distant look in his eyes, the way he glanced downwards to see the road, the garden wall, and the reflexive flattening of his hand in front as he stopped himself from falling.
“The door was shut—”
“And you opened it?”
Bannerman should stop interrupting, Morrow observed, he was breaking up the memory. It was easier to spot the lie in a long flow, the break in style was more obvious. It was the intrusion of the camera. Bannerman was determined to be seen. She envied his confidence but she could see that it was a handicap sometimes.
“Yeah, I opened it.” Omar looked at Bannerman for a prompt.
“And?”
“And.” He stopped, glanced into the camera, and froze a moment as he realized that the eye was judging him. His forehead wrinkled suddenly, a child giving an excuse, and he looked away. “And what?”
“What did you see when you opened the door?”
Omar looked at the camera again but his brow had straightened defensively. “Saw my folks standing in the hall, on the right.” He put his hand out to indicate their position. “Saw my brother, Billal, there too, near the door, standing in front of his room.
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