looking at it, Arnold had to admit, the craftsmanship was beautiful. A Gerber Harsey silver trident made with a double-edge fixed blade, a thick rubber handle for a better grip and according to the man in the shop, made to US military standards.
He had everything ready. He placed the knife back down on the table, trying to remember the rhyme he used to sing. For the life of him he couldn’t remember it, but hopefully it’d come to him later. ‘Now then Izzy, it’s time. Are you excited?’
Arnold stood in front of the bed completely still for a moment, then he seized hold of her legs in a swift movement, dragging her off the bed; making her face smash onto the floor, oozing blood all over the cream lino. ‘Whoops-a-daisy, silly me. I’ll have to clean that up later. Not to worry Izzy, not to worry.’
The knife did what it said on the box; it cut. Deeply and precisely. It was so much better than the other one he’d struggled with last time. He whistled, enjoying his work. She was still moving, still wanting to show him she was boss. He chuckled warmly; that was Izzy alright. Always wanting to be in charge. Always wanting to get her own way.
He walked round to her front, warmed by her show of defiance. He carefully took the blade and placed the sharp point at the top of her pubic bone. ‘Fiddle sticks! Well I’ll be blown; look at that, my hands are shaking Izzy. I didn’t know I was so nervous. I better be careful.’
Arnold smiled as he took off her gag, wondering why a shrill piercing scream came out of her mouth.
It was way past his bedtime now and Arnold could feel his eyes burning. The rhyme which had escaped him before suddenly came flooding back into his memory. He started to sing as he sat in the corner of the room. ‘Izzy shall have a new bonnet, and Izzy shall go to the fair, and Izzy shall have a new ribbon to tie up her bonny brown hair.’
He laughed out loud, pleased at how the words came flooding back to him. ‘And why may I not love Izzy, and why may not Izzy love me?’ He stopped and paused for a moment as he got to near the end; frowning, he spoke the last lines very quietly. ‘Because she’s got a kiss for Daddy; a kiss for Daddy, not me.’ Bending down, Arnold smiled sadly before kissing the severed head.
6
It was late by the time Laila found the courage to knock on her mother’s bedroom. Tentatively she tapped, hoping her uncle wouldn’t return home now. He’d forbidden Laila to speak to her mother on her own, telling her she would find no comfort in her arms. So instead she’d lain in bed with her face sore and swollen, waiting to hear the familiar sound of her uncle’s car coming down the drive, willing to hear the sound of the tyres on the gravel, but it hadn’t come. The terror Laila felt inside her, knowing her uncle had gone to see Ray-Ray and hadn’t returned, filled her with so much dread that it overrode the fear of making her uncle angrier by disobeying him.
The bedroom door was opened by her sleepy mother. ‘Laila! What are you doing here, you know what your uncle said. Go back to bed.’
‘I need to talk to you.’
Laila’s mother looked up and down the corridor nervously. ‘Please Laila; just go back to bed, we can talk in the morning when uncle’s here.’
Seeing her daughter trembling, Laila’s mother’s voice became softer as she took hold of her hand. ‘If uncle catches you up at this time, you know there’ll be trouble. Please, try not to be so headstrong Laila. You must learn to quell your spirit, child. No good will come of it. Women have no place to question men, no matter how great a test it may seem.’
Laila scanned her mother’s face, not truly recognising the person in front of her. Before her father had died her mother had been open, warm and loving. Now she was closed, distant and worse still, afraid.
‘Mum, please. I need you to help me.’ Laila’s eyes filled with tears as she watched her mother wrap her shawl tightly round her shoulders. Her mother’s voice was hesitant when she spoke. ‘Laila, what do you want me to do?’
‘Speak to uncle. Explain I haven’t done anything. He might listen to you. Tell him I don’t want to get married.’
Laila’s mother slowly shook her head, pain for her child in her eyes. ‘Things have changed now. You don’t have a choice and your insistence in having one has caused all the problems. Did you really think hanging around with the English boy would’ve been acceptable to your uncle? Didn’t you know you’d cause trouble?’
‘Trouble? There’s that word again. We didn’t do anything.’
‘Laila, why do you always have to argue? Why can’t you just accept this?’
In frustration Laila raised her voice at her mother, tears streaming down her face as she spoke. ‘How can you say that to me Mum? You always taught me to think for myself; you told me I never had to accept anything I didn’t want to. You know we talked about me going to university. You told me you wanted me to do the things you’d never done.’
‘Shhh Laila, stop talking like that. You know all girls must get married eventually. It’s either now or later, so what’s the difference?’
Laila’s face was full of bewilderment. ‘There is a difference; you know there is a difference. Daddy would never have allowed this, he wouldn’t have wanted you to allow it.’
Her mother put her head down as she talked, fidgeting with the sash edge on her cream shawl. When she spoke, her voice was laced with warmth. ‘Laila, I know it’s been hard for you since your father passed away and today we buried one of your aunts. But doesn’t that show you Laila that life changes? We take things for granted when we shouldn’t do. Life moves in ways we sometimes don’t want it to move in. No matter how in control we think we are, we have no real power and we have to accept our destiny. And yours is to get married. Laila, you have to do this, not only for yourself, but for all of us.’
Laila could hear the hysteria in her own voice as she threw herself at her mother, wrapping her arms round her as if she were a child. ‘I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do it. Please Mum, help me! I don’t want to do this, I’m scared. I promise I’ll behave in the way uncle wants me to. I won’t complain again. Please tell him I’ll behave … tell him.’
‘The decision has already been made.’
‘Mum …’
‘Laila, if I could, I would help you, but there’s nothing I can do.’
‘But you’re my mother. You must be able to help me.’
Laila’s sobbing echoed around the upstairs landing and it became louder as she felt her mother stroke her hair in the darkness. ‘Laila, my beautiful, beautiful child, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.’
‘Laila? Laila? … Wake up.’ Mahmood Khan lent over his niece. He could see her face was swollen but chose to ignore it as he shook her awake. Bruises faded, swollen lips went down but defiance had to be tamed. It was as simple as that.
It was still dark outside, though the beginning of the crimson morning sky was just appearing over the chimney pots of the rows of terraced houses. Mahmood paused for a moment, deep in thought. They had a lot to do today and he hoped his niece would understand there was no room for hysterics.
Mahmood sniffed, realising the smell of last night was still lingering on his clothes. Last night had gone well; better than expected. He was proud of what he’d done. Taking control. Being fearless. Being driven by honour. Protecting their family from the shame Laila had brought or was about to bring onto them. And Tariq? He’d let him down; hesitated and had been unable to do what he was supposed to. But perhaps that was only to be expected from his brother’s son.
Sighing, Mahmood turned to face his niece. He scowled as he saw her roll over. ‘Laila. It’s time you got up.’
Laila groaned. Her face was hurting and she’d spent most of the night spitting blood out of her mouth. She was exhausted, but most of all, her overriding sense was fear.