The Motive by Khurrum Rahman

Author:Khurrum Rahman [Rahman, Khurrum]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2021-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Jay

Downstairs, by the sounds of it, the party was still in full flow. Nobody seemed to clock on to the fact that the host was dying, or dead. I couldn’t tell.

The music moved through the house and the bass thudded as hard as my heartbeat. I closed the bedroom door gently, muffling the sound, and allowing me to gather my thoughts.

‘Are you sure?’ Idris asked, peering at me over his shoulder.

When I first saw the Asian man enter the house, a moment after I did, in my head I’d formed a picture. It was of a pissed-off neighbour tossing and turning in his bed, unable to get in the few hours’ kip he desperately needed before he had to get up at five in the morning for his shift at Heathrow airport. No sleep, because some little shit next door had decided to throw a house party on a fucking Thursday!

I expected the man to give Conrad a bollocking. At a stretch, a slap. God knows he deserved one. But Conrad had taken punishment, and then some. His left eye was swollen shut and his head was put through a mirror, and now he had a blade poking out of his ribs.

This was more than a neighbourly dispute. This was personal.

And it came down to Sahira Hussain.

I think.

Maybe this man was her father or her crazy brother. Either way, it was hardly surprising that he would get so fucking vexed. A relationship between a white boy and an Asian girl can be enough to start a war, but throw in a baby? I swear, the impact is not worth thinking about.

I didn’t expect this, though. I didn’t expect it to go this far.

‘Either you get rid of him, or I will,’ Stepson snapped.

‘Wait!’ Idris said. ‘Jay, are you sure?’

I was starting to feel very much like I was getting in the way. I had to get this right. My eyes were now fixed on the man. I could see every emotion in his face. Gone was that look of fury from earlier, and it had been replaced with pain and regret.

I took a small step forward until I was standing beside Idris. The man’s eyes followed my every movement.

I think it’s a cultural thing, but an Asian man of a certain age is given respect by the next generation, whatever their relationship, and that respect comes in the form of one word.

Uncle.

Mr Jalali who deals pirate DVDs out of Apollo Video. Uncle. Mr Agrawal, the newsagent who sells duty free fags from under the counter. Uncle. They don’t have to be low-class criminals. Those are just the examples that popped into my head, but that word results in an instant impact in building a relationship.

So that’s how I started.

‘Uncle,’ I raised my hand, as though I was greeting a family friend from across the street. I noticed his eyes soften.

‘Zaidi!’ Stepson hissed. ‘What the hell is he playing at?’

Idris gave me a look. He’s not what you’d call your typical Asian.

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