Chapter 5

As soon as I got around the corner and couldn’t see Darren any more, I was sick down the hotel wall. The Coke I’d drunk, the chips I’d eaten, splatted on the floor. Tears soaked my face. Sukhi pulled a tissue from her bag, handed it to me and rubbed my arm.

I wiped my mouth, then tugged at Sukhi’s arm, but she wasn’t budging. “Come on! We have to go!” I yelled at her.

“Ali, my mum’s picking us up. Harpreet will be looking for us. We can’t leave!”

“Did you see his face? I can’t stay and wait!” I turned and started walking fast up the steep road. I had to get away.

“Where you going? We have to wait here for my mum and Harpreet!” she called.

“I need to go!” I said, breaking into a run.

“Ali!” she screamed. “Just wait!”

But I knew I couldn’t risk Darren coming back.

I’d passed two buildings when Sukhi shouted, “Call me when you’re home, Ali!”

I put my thumb up, not looking back. I had to get away from Darren. He didn’t hate Sukhi. He didn’t say anything to her because he knew she wasn’t Muslim. He hated me.

I sprinted as if I was in a hundred-meter race, my feet pounding the pavement, trying to block out the sirens and honking horns in the streets around me, tears streaming down my face. The indigo sky, without a star in sight, seemed to stretch on forever. I passed row after row of tall office buildings closed for the weekend. The road was empty, a complete contrast to how it was in the day. A black cab drove by, and I wondered if I should chase after it and ask the driver to take me home. Mum or Dad could pay the fare. But it sped toward the concert hall and out of sight.

I didn’t know where I was going until I got to the top of the hill and saw a bus stop for the number 53, which went down Lancaster Road. Uncle Aziz’s house! Dad’s eldest brother and his wife lived that way, through the park. I’d be there in a few minutes. I pulled out my mobile and tried to call our house phone. It still wasn’t connecting. Then it switched off in my hand and died. Oh god. I’d have to call Mum and Dad from there. I had to make it to Uncle Aziz’s house. I’d be safe once I got there.

It wasn’t long before I reached the big wrought-iron park gates. I stopped outside them, near a bin that smelled like it needed emptying. It seemed too dangerous to go through the park alone at night. I focused on my breathing to slow it down. My insides lurched as I tried to figure out another way to get to their house. If I followed the pavement up to the main road, I’d be able to get around the park. It would take longer, but at least I’d be under the streetlights, where it felt safer.

Still, I looked over my shoulder every few seconds to check no one was following me. I tried to reassure myself that no one would know I was Muslim. I didn’t wear a hijab. They couldn’t know — Darren only knew because of Lisa.

Please, Allah, don’t let the bomber be a Muslim. Please don’t let them be Muslim, I prayed. I wanted to prove Darren wrong. I needed to prove everyone wrong.

The main road was eerily quiet because it’d been closed off. There were cone barriers on the intersections. The police were probably all at the concert. I don’t know how long it took, but it felt like forever. It felt as if my chest had a weight on it and I was running through sand.

When I finally made it to the townhouse-lined street, I stopped to catch my breath. What if they’re not in? It was a Saturday night. What if they’d gone out to eat? I was probably safer nearer the concert hall. I shouldn’t have left. But now that I’d made it all this way, I had to at least check if they were in.

I knocked on their brass doorknocker five times and rang the doorbell, to make sure they heard me. If they were home. The upstairs landing light was on, but they could’ve left that on for security.

The hairs on my neck stood up. Oh, no, what an idiot!

I ran down their front steps to check if I could see any movement through the windows. I couldn’t.

Hanging my head, I pulled open their wooden gate and stepped onto the pavement. I had no money, a dead phone, and the concert hall was miles away. I didn’t even know how I’d run that far. What if Darren found me as I walked back? My stomach rolled at the thought.

“Hello?”

I did a sharp turn and breathed out.

Uncle Aziz stood at the door in his night-robe, gazing out.

“As-salaamu alaikum, Bareh Abu!” I cried as I rushed back through the gate into his small front garden.

He squinted to see me more clearly.

“It’s Aaliyah!” I said, as I got up the stone steps.

“Aaliyah? Baitay, what are you doing here at this time? We were just going to bed. Where’s your dad?” he asked, searching for our car on the road, his forehead creased with concern.

“Umm … He’s not here. It’s just me. My phone’s not working, I need to call my mum and dad.”

“Come, come in,” he said, stepping back and usher­ing me inside.

Aunty Rashida came down the stairs in her nighttime kaftan and stood in the narrow, dimly lit hallway.

“Aaliyah? Are you okay? What’s happened?” She looked as baffled as Uncle Aziz.

Her warm, motherly face made me burst into tears. I couldn’t help it.

“Aaliyah?” asked Uncle Aziz. “Has someone hurt you?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come in, we’ll call the police,” he said, leading me into their front room.

“No, please,” I said, wiping my face as I bent down to pull my laces apart and take my Converse off. They were grimy from being trampled on, not the sparkly shoes I’d left my house in. “You don’t need to,” I added, following him. Aunty Rashida came in after me and shut the door.

I stood awkwardly in front of the blue velvet sofa facing their marble fireplace as they both sat on the matching armchairs either side of the room. My ­cousin’s football trophies were pride of place across the mantelpiece, even though he’d moved out years ago. I was safe, yet I didn’t feel any relief.

“Sit, Aaliyah, sit down,” said Aunty Rashida, waving her hand toward the sofa behind me.

I flumped at the edge of the sofa, the side closest to the door, trying my best not to inhale the lingering smell of incense. It would only make my headache worse.

“I-I need to call my mum and dad. My phone’s not working.” I rubbed my eyes and stared at the smudged eyeliner on my fingers.

“Where have you been all alone at this time of night? It’s half past ten,” said Uncle Aziz, glancing at the wall clock.

“I was … I was at Montfort Hall … at a … erm … with my friends … erm … my friend’s big sister and mum,” I said, wondering what they’d say if I told them I was at a concert on my own at night. “A … I think … a bomb went off in there.”

“Ya Allah!” said Aunty Rashida, putting her hand over her mouth.

“What do you mean, a bomb?” said Uncle Aziz, leaning forward, his arms on his knees. “A bomb in Lambert? Are you hurt? Are you okay?” He cast his eyes over me.

“Yeah. I’m fine … I wasn’t near it, thank God.”

“Praise be to Allah,” Aunty Rashida put her hand to her chest. “Alhamdulillah.”

“Allah willing, it won’t be another stupid idiot-­fool calling himself a Muslim,” said Uncle Aziz, his brow furrowed deeper than I’d ever seen it. “We have enough problems, without things like this.”

“I’ll go and call your mum,” said Aunty Rashida, taking the house phone off the cradle and heading to the door.

Uncle Aziz got up to switch on the big flat-screen TV that sat on a wooden stand in the corner of the bay window.

And there it was. All over the news. Spelled out right in front of me:

MULTIPLE INJURIES IN LAMBERT TERROR ATTACK. POLICE RESPOND TO MONTFORT HALL BLAST REPORTS.

“Breaking news from the Midlands,” the reporter said. “Police are responding to a serious incident in Lambert after an explosion during a 3W pop concert. Eyewitness reports say they heard a loud bang. Police are refusing to confirm whether it was a bomb at this early stage.”

The screen shifted to mobile footage taken by someone at the concert. Panicked fans were running down the stairs. Jumping over barriers and seats. Screaming in fear.

My heart raced. My breathing sped up. It was as if I was back in the concert hall, going through it all again, the same panic coursing through my veins.

“Aaliyah? Aaliyah!”