door. “If you’ve come about your son being a bully, it’s about bloody time!”
Sarah opened the door. In front of her stood a man from Yazan. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders and a neatly trimmed black beard, which was just beginning to show traces of grey. However, it wasn’t anyone from Hassan’s family; it was Sheikh Akbar Al-Zafir, Ali’s father and Sarah’s ex-husband.
Chapter 2
“Ali, go upstairs to your room. Now,” Sarah called out.
“But I haven’t finished my pizza.”
“You don’t need to finish it. That’s the burnt bit,” Sarah said, pointing to the two charred pieces that lay on Ali’s plate. There was a chip on the side of his plate. Sarah wondered when that had happened, but couldn’t be bothered to ask. She had bigger things to worry about.
“But I like the burnt bits.” Ali stuffed another slice into his mouth.
“You can take them upstairs with you; just go up to your bedroom.”
“Who’s the bloke at the door? Is he still there?” Ali picked up his plate and headed towards the front door.
“Ali, ignore him and go to your room.”
Ali walked upstairs as slowly as he possibly could.
“Who are you telling to ignore me?” the man at the door asked in a thick Arabic accent.
“You’ve learnt English,” was all that Sarah said in response. The last time she’d seen him, his English was elementary at best.
“I had to learn it so I could find you, but now I’m here, is that all you can say to me?”
Sarah had thought through this moment hundreds, probably thousands, of times in her head and in her dreams, but she had always thought that she would meet Akbar again in Yazan, back in the hot, wild deserts where they’d once been together. She never imagined that she would one day see him standing on her doorstep in wet, cold England.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked.
“Of course, please, come in.” Sarah stepped aside and let her husband enter her house. As he walked in, Sarah found herself standing right up against him in the narrow passageway. She could smell sweet mint tea on his breath and memories came flooding back of his lips pressed hard against hers, his body heavy on top of her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She looked up. He was staring not at her but at the staircase behind.
“Who else is here?” he asked.
Sarah looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see Ali sitting on the steps, watching them, but for once he’d done as she’d asked and gone to his room. Sarah wondered whether Akbar knew about his son. She didn’t know she was pregnant when she left him and she hadn’t been in touch since.
“Let me get you some tea and some food,” Sarah said, knowing that basic Arabic etiquette meant that a guest was always offered something to eat and drink. She showed him into the living room and gestured for him to sit down on the small sofa.
The house she and Ali lived in was small. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom, while downstairs there were just two rooms. One was the kitchen and dining area while the other was the living room, or “front parlour” as it was called when the house was first built in the 1930s. The living room was a small, cold room that looked onto the street. The windows were so bad that all the traffic noise came in and all the heating went out. Therefore, Sarah and Ali rarely used the room, preferring instead the cosy atmosphere of the kitchen.
Akbar looked around the room. There wasn’t much to look at. A few paperback novels, an out-of-date TV—the good one was in the kitchen—and a couple of wilted potted plants.
“I’ll just go and get some refreshments.”
“Please, don’t go to any trouble.”
Sarah rushed into the kitchen and looked around for something to offer him. The fridge was empty except for milk, three half-empty containers of take-away Chinese food, and some butter. In the cupboard, there wasn’t much either, apart from some tins of
Sarah opened the door. In front of her stood a man from Yazan. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders and a neatly trimmed black beard, which was just beginning to show traces of grey. However, it wasn’t anyone from Hassan’s family; it was Sheikh Akbar Al-Zafir, Ali’s father and Sarah’s ex-husband.
Chapter 2
“Ali, go upstairs to your room. Now,” Sarah called out.
“But I haven’t finished my pizza.”
“You don’t need to finish it. That’s the burnt bit,” Sarah said, pointing to the two charred pieces that lay on Ali’s plate. There was a chip on the side of his plate. Sarah wondered when that had happened, but couldn’t be bothered to ask. She had bigger things to worry about.
“But I like the burnt bits.” Ali stuffed another slice into his mouth.
“You can take them upstairs with you; just go up to your bedroom.”
“Who’s the bloke at the door? Is he still there?” Ali picked up his plate and headed towards the front door.
“Ali, ignore him and go to your room.”
Ali walked upstairs as slowly as he possibly could.
“Who are you telling to ignore me?” the man at the door asked in a thick Arabic accent.
“You’ve learnt English,” was all that Sarah said in response. The last time she’d seen him, his English was elementary at best.
“I had to learn it so I could find you, but now I’m here, is that all you can say to me?”
Sarah had thought through this moment hundreds, probably thousands, of times in her head and in her dreams, but she had always thought that she would meet Akbar again in Yazan, back in the hot, wild deserts where they’d once been together. She never imagined that she would one day see him standing on her doorstep in wet, cold England.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked.
“Of course, please, come in.” Sarah stepped aside and let her husband enter her house. As he walked in, Sarah found herself standing right up against him in the narrow passageway. She could smell sweet mint tea on his breath and memories came flooding back of his lips pressed hard against hers, his body heavy on top of her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She looked up. He was staring not at her but at the staircase behind.
“Who else is here?” he asked.
Sarah looked over her shoulder, half expecting to see Ali sitting on the steps, watching them, but for once he’d done as she’d asked and gone to his room. Sarah wondered whether Akbar knew about his son. She didn’t know she was pregnant when she left him and she hadn’t been in touch since.
“Let me get you some tea and some food,” Sarah said, knowing that basic Arabic etiquette meant that a guest was always offered something to eat and drink. She showed him into the living room and gestured for him to sit down on the small sofa.
The house she and Ali lived in was small. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom, while downstairs there were just two rooms. One was the kitchen and dining area while the other was the living room, or “front parlour” as it was called when the house was first built in the 1930s. The living room was a small, cold room that looked onto the street. The windows were so bad that all the traffic noise came in and all the heating went out. Therefore, Sarah and Ali rarely used the room, preferring instead the cosy atmosphere of the kitchen.
Akbar looked around the room. There wasn’t much to look at. A few paperback novels, an out-of-date TV—the good one was in the kitchen—and a couple of wilted potted plants.
“I’ll just go and get some refreshments.”
“Please, don’t go to any trouble.”
Sarah rushed into the kitchen and looked around for something to offer him. The fridge was empty except for milk, three half-empty containers of take-away Chinese food, and some butter. In the cupboard, there wasn’t much either, apart from some tins of
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