The Angel: Act I by Mark Dawson

Author:Mark Dawson
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781503947832
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2015-11-03T05:00:00+00:00

The mourning, or hidaad, would last for three days. The family had gathered in the hall of the only community centre that would take their booking. Several had turned them down when they realised what the booking was for, so their father had pretended that this was to be a birthday party. The caretaker would have realised that he had been lied to as soon as the cars with their police escort drew into the car park, but by then it was too late.

Aqil stood at the edge of the room and watched. There were very few mourners, and those who had attended looked lost in the space of the hall. His brother did not deserve this. He did not deserve to be shunned. He did not deserve to be dead.

Yasin saw him and came across. He took him to one side.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘What do you think?’

‘I know. Me too.’

‘Where is everyone? All the others?’

‘Scared,’ Yasin said.

‘It’s not fair.’

‘No,’ his brother said. His voice was as hard and as cold as iron. He took out his phone and opened the app for Twitter. ‘Seen this?’

‘No . . .’

‘Look at it.’

Yasin handed it over. Aqil had seen something similar on his own feed; he didn’t need to see it again. There had been hundreds of updates, each tagging his account so that he could see what had been said about him and his family. There were obscene photographs – a mocked-up picture of Aamir’s body seemed to have gone viral – together with dozens of death threats against him and the promise that his mother and sister would be raped.

‘I know you don’t agree with what Aamir did,’ Yasin said carefully, ‘but when you see this, it becomes easier to understand. You know what I mean?’

There was a short while of silence.

‘Have you thought about it?’

Aqil looked down. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘And?’

Aqil tried to compose himself. He had been tortured by it all morning. Yasin had been on at him ever since the abuse had started.

They would be blamed.

It was their fault.

What had they done?

His efforts built to a head last night. They had no choice, he said.

They had to do it.

They had to go.

What Yasin was suggesting was frightening. The first time he had brought it up, Aqil had told him that he was crazy and that there was no way he would ever agree to it. He didn’t hate his country. He was born here. He had friends here. People he had grown up with. He had school, college, the prospect of a job, the chance to make money, something to look forward to. A stake in the future.

But then the abuse had increased, and he thought about what his brother was proposing some more. He thought about the Twitter messages, the threats and the hatred, and he started to think that maybe Yasin was right, after all.

How would he get a job with the stain on his family name?

Who would employ the twin brother of a terrorist?

He had no friends.

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