the tomato puree to the fried onions, I glanced over at the clock. Six thirty-five. As the chicken simmered in the pan I reached for my mobile and called him again, but it went straight to voicemail. When it got to seven-thirty the demeanour of easy-going wife began to slip. I checked our joint-account balance online and saw no money had been transferred.
Why doesn’t he just tell me when he can’t do something? Why does he have to lie? But the anger dissolved as I looked at the dinner that was getting cold. That’s when the doorbell rang.
‘You’re late and you forgot your keys,’ I called out as I opened the door.
I looked up at two young men in police officers’ outfits.
‘Mrs Lateef?’ one of them said.
What had happened? Had there been another burglary on the street?
‘Yes?’ I replied.
‘Is there anyone home with you?’
I shook my head. Just then Alice from next door was coming home and stopped to look at what was going on.
‘Everything okay, officers?’ she asked, walking over.
‘Is this lady a friend of yours, Mrs Lateef?’ asked one of the officers.
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Alice.
The police officer gave a constrained smile as he looked at me for confirmation. I nodded.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
I didn’t know why but a knot formed in my stomach as I gripped the door handle.
‘It’s your husband,’ one of them said.
I couldn’t quite focus on their faces as my heart began to thud so loudly it muffled my hearing. Their image became a blur.
‘I’m afraid he’s been in an accident.’
‘Mae, put the camera away,’ Fatti whispered into my ear.
Was she mad? This was prime videoing time; all these faces, the hospital, the tension.
‘Put it away or I’ll throw it in the bin,’ exclaimed Mum.
Everyone in the waiting room looked at Mum. Didn’t look like she cared. I tucked the phone under my leg as Dad gave an exhausted sigh. Fatti got up and made her way towards the door, outside, where Farah was sitting on her own. Looked like Dad was lost in a world of his own, so I got up and walked towards the door too with my phone. I’d just got a message from the girls from school.
Omg. Jus saw on your snapchat that your bro inlaws been in an accident. Are you alright?? Hashtagged on Twitter #Pray4family. Lemme know if you need anything. Xxx
I knew it wasn’t ideal to video all of this but it was my GCSE assignment. Plus, it’s weird how people find my family so interesting. Whenever I put something on Snapchat about them it always gets loads of hits, because some people appreciate creativity – and not the Bubblee kind, but the real, gritty, my-generation kind. What my fam fail to understand is that they don’t actually have peripheral vision. Yeah, in the literal sense they have it, but not in the metaphorical sense (I’m going to ace my GCSE English too). For example, as I walked up to the door, Mum and Dad in the waiting room couldn’t see how Fatti looked, sitting next to Farah. I sneakily got my phone out again. Of course Farah’s going to be crying and all sorts but when I zoomed in on Fatti, just a little, there was something more than upset there. A look no-one would’ve noticed if it weren’t for me and my trusted camera.
The doctor came and paused in front of Farah and Fatti as they both looked up. She started saying something about Mustafa being in a medically induced coma.
‘A coma?’ said Farah, looking confused.
‘It’s just a precaution to avoid nerve and brain-stem cell damage that can be caused by the swelling of the brain,’ she said.
‘But he’s going to be okay, isn’t he?’ said Fatti. ‘I mean, he’s going to come out of it.’
The doctor removed her glasses. ‘It’s too early to tell. The injuries to the head have been severe. We’ll have to wait to see the extent once the swelling has reduced and we take him out of the coma.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Farah, clutching her stomach.
‘So, the coma’s not permanent?’ said Fatti.
‘No, no. Just temporary and reversible.’
Farah shook her head. ‘I told him,’ she said to Fatti. ‘Always use your head-set. You’ll get caught by the police. You’ll have an accident.’
I felt a lump in my throat but pushed it back. Fatti rubbed Farah’s back, not saying much. She did look a little slimmer at this angle.
Every1s asking what’s goin on with ur bro-in-law. U should tweet sumthin.
I tweeted:
Bro-in-law in coma. In hospital with amazin staff.
#Pray4Family
‘Who was he speaking to?’ asked Fatti.
Farah shook her head. ‘Don’t know. His phone’s dead—’
She stopped and did this weird staccato intake of breath as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. I realised only then that I didn’t think I’d ever seen Farah cry. Fatti cries all the time. I know because I sometimes hear her in her room. All it takes is me offering her a salad before her eyes fill with tears. Bubblee cried the day she said she was moving to London. Those were more tears of rage, though. What a drama that was. I should watch that video back one day – ‘You’re stifling me! We’re human beings, not just girls who are made to get married and churn out babies …’ On and on it went.
Fatti took Farah into a hug and I zoomed in on Fatti’s face again, looking so sad and sorry that I decided to switch the camera off. Though I did wonder: what’s she got to be sorry about?
When Bubblee came running down the corridor, Farah looked up as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Bubblee slowed down to a walk as she approached us and took the seat next to Farah. When I was a child I used to pretend that Farah and Bubblee were the two ugly step-sisters (except they weren’t ugly, obvs) and Fatti was my fairy godmother.
‘You came,’ said Farah. Not like she sounded grateful or anything – just surprised.
Bubblee gave a tight kind of smile. Smiling never did come naturally to her.
‘What do the doctors say?’ Bubblee asked.
‘Severe head trauma,’ replied Farah, pressing her hand to her forehead.
I couldn’t help it. I had to get my phone out again. I put it on video and then tucked it into my shirt pocket so it recorded everything without anyone going, Mae, turn it off. Mae, stop it. Maeeeeeee.
‘But what does that mean?’ asked Bubblee.
Farah looked at her. ‘It means they don’t know if he’ll make it.’
‘Oh,’ replied Bubblee.
‘He’ll be okay,’ added Fatti. ‘You’ll see. He’ll be just fine.’
Unlike Fatti’s eating habits, her voice is kind of even. Some might say it’s monotone – they’re people who have a problem with consistency – but right then her voice had a note of panic.
‘Why are you being so weird?’ I asked her later when she got up to use the bathroom.
‘Am I? No, I’m not.’
She