Asma was pleased to be wearing her head-scarf. It was a filthy day as she walked to the bus stop. Then she saw the three young men gathered up ahead of her and ducked her head, hoping to avoid their attention.
"Fuck off home Paki. We don't need you fuckin' Muslim terrorists here." The three youths laughed raucously as Asma turned away.
Such big strong young men to intimidate one woman like that. But Asma's ears burned and she felt anger as she tried to hurry away from them. Not just anger at the youths - they were fools who knew no better - but also at the people of her own background who had deliberately stoked the fear and resentment between faiths.
"You old cunt - get that fucking shit-rag off your head. We should cut that fucking beard off you fucking shit-face."
Asma realised in that instant that the words weren't being aimed at her after all. She hurried on a few more steps and then risked a glance back.
The three men were there, tall white youths surrounding a much smaller stooped figure. With a shock Asma recognised Mr Hassan. He had to be nearly eighty and about half their size. They jostled him and laughed as he tried to get by them.
Finally they tired of it. "Fuck off you Paki cunt," one said and gave Mr Hassan a hard shove on his back. Their laughter followed him as he staggered and struggled to keep his balance.
Asma saw Mr Hassan's face. She saw the tears rolling down his cheeks, his shame at what had happened. He had always been a proud man, he was a leading member of the mosque, very well respected in the community. It had been an honour to be invited to his house - back before... Back when she and her husband had been welcome at such events.
Now Asma felt such compassion for the old man, felt the need to assuage his frustration and despair. His shame that three stupid thugs could treat him like that. She moved forward.
"Mr Hassan - I am so sorry..."
His eyes were little pools of fury. He looked up and saw her, those fierce dark eyes focusing on her.
"Go away, go away - haven't I been shamed enough. You think we don't know about you? About your thief of a husband - that apostate whore of a daughter - you think my grandson hasn't told me about that filthy son of yours. He should be stoned, you should all be driven out. You bring disgrace to our faith."
His virulence shocked Asma. She recoiled from his white-hot rage, barely registering all of his words. They had left the mosque because of the contempt of the congregation but she had never imagined that it was so bad. Mr Hassan's words were fuelled by his humiliation, she knew that, but they were not random.
She turned away and headed for her work, her mind churning over the events of those few minutes. She had thought that one day her husband's business affairs would be settled and that they could then return to the mosque. Now she knew that there was much more to this. It was not only her husband, or perhaps it was that those who felt cheated by Afsar now assigned the guilt down to his children as well. Her daughter Rubina left her hair uncovered and lived a western lifestyle, refusing an arranged marriage. That was enough to draw Mr Hassan's opprobrium but not enough to deserve it. Then - what about Ashraf? Her son was such a gentle soul. What could he ever have done...
She reached her work and tried to concentrate on it. It was hard. Dealing with the customers, answering questions and making suggestions. She could do such tasks easily.
"You alright girl - you ain't yourself today."
Deep velvet tones. She knew who it was before she turned. He hadn't spoken to her in the weeks since their last incident. She had seen him around but he had not spoken one word. It was as he had said - he would wait for her to make the first move.
Tony's face was sombre, concerned. He hadn't got his usual look of wry amusement on his handsome dark-skinned face. Her eyes met his for a second before she remembered herself and instead looked down at her counter. "I am alright Ton... er, Mr Turner."
He shook his head. "Oh no - it certainly ain't alright. But I understand..." He held up a hand and gestured to catch Ellie, her supervisor's attention. Only when the blonde woman was there did Tony speak again. "Now Ellie's here you can tell us what's wrong."
Asma's surprise was genuine. She thought that she had understood Tony Turner. The big Jamaican was a crude, rough, boisterous man - a womaniser who took other men's wives for his pleasure. She knew that those women were very willing partners but that did not alter the fact that such things were wrong. She knew that he wanted her, had made his interest in her clear. She knew that he wanted to take her as he took so many women. She knew that he was a threat, or perhaps a temptation..
This was a different Tony. His concern was genuine. He had understood that she felt uncomfortable talking to him alone, without Ellie there too. There was none of his flirtatiousness, none of the raw sexual power underneath the superficial charm. He wanted to help rather than to... do other things.
"Now," he repeated, "tell us what happened."
Asma looked at each of them and then the words came. "It was on the street - the things that were said - they were terrible, horrible."
Tony's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess - there were three of them? One taller than the others, the third one with a stud here." He touched just above his right eye-brow and then turned to Ellie. "Everton told me about them. Said they were targeting people by the bus-stop there. We were going to have a meeting tomorrow to decide how to deal with it. They hadn't come after one of ours then so I was minded to let the Police deal with it. Now I think it's going to have to be rather more personal."
Asma saw the set of his mouth and the glint in his eyes. She suspected Tony had been dealing with such things 'personally' since he'd been old enough to ball his fists. She also suspected that he would take great satisfaction in doing so again. However, she did not want that - those three were bad youths who cared about no law or decency. They would certainly have knives, perhaps worse nowadays.
She spoke her thoughts. "No - they were bad but they were not the reason for... They were not the problem for me and you cannot help with that, no-one can. I wouldn't want you to be hurt - or arrested."
Tony shook his head. "I know their sort. They target women, old men and half-grown children. They see Everton and me coming and they will run a mile. Or maybe they'll be stupid and think three against two are good odds." The familiar half-smile returned.
Asma realised with a shock that she had no doubt what would happen if the three youths were 'stupid.' They would pay for their over-confidence and they would pay dearly. She momentarily thrilled to the idea but then shook her head.
"Please - let the Police deal with them. They did not target me."
Tony's voice was clear. "Look at me Asma - tell me that what you are saying is true."
She raised her eyes, tried not to flinch before his penetrating gaze. "It is true - they were not the ones."
He seemed momentarily frustrated but finally nodded. "Shame - I could settle that problem for you real easy. But maybe I'll leave it to PC Staniforth. Couldn't find his own ass but he can handle this sort of crap. Meanwhile you got problems you should talk to Ellie here, remember that you got friends."
"That's right," said Ellie, "do you need some time to sort something out. We can cover for you."
"No," Asma said, "I will be alright. I want to work."
She did indeed work but she sometimes seemed to be on auto-pilot. She had so much swirling around in her brain. Mr Hassan, the youths... and Tony. She had seen another side of him, one that didn't fit with her perception of Black men. She had been taught all about them. They were big and tough, many of them were criminals and drug-dealers. They were dangerous for decent women. They wanted sex and, so the whispers went, they were very good at it. She had heard such stories since she had been at school in Hyderabad, when the only Blacks she knew were in books or movies or on the news. Black men, African men, were sexually voracious and very well-equipped.
She felt the warmth of blood pulsing through her veins and struggled to contain or ignore it. Such stories were nonsense. Black men were like any other. The people telling such tales knew nothing anyway. None of them had been with a Back man. No decent woman would...
Asma felt shame. She had met her daughter's new boyfriend. He was Black indeed, the son of West African parents. He had been polite and pleasant and her daughter cared enough for him to have risked introducing him to her. Tony was very different and certainly met some of the stereotypes she had been taught. He was big and tough, he was a womaniser, he had... She remembered what she had seen. The excitement of the women with Tony, Tony himself and his... The blood was surging through her body again. She felt warm. She took a few deep breaths and controlled herself. Tony had been different today. He had been ready to 'deal with' those thugs for her. What had he called her, 'one of ours.' It had felt good to hear that - especially after what Mr Hassan had said. Asma bit her bottom lip gently. It was dangerous for a woman to be possessed by Tony, she was glad that he had said 'ours' and not 'mine.' Being one of Tony's women would mean...
"Excuse me - my husband bought this for me and it is the wrong shade. Men never have any sense about such things do they? It's still sealed so can I exchange it for the one that I use?"
Asma realised with a momentary shock that the lady customer was talking to her and quickly snapped back into her professional mode. Dealing with the issue as she dealt with thousands of others. However, she still felt the heat of her previous thoughts, still knew the effect that they had on her. She still knew just what a threat Tony was to a good married wife. No - that was unfair. He did not threaten he tempted and that, she knew, could be even more dangerous.
***
It had taken a couple of weeks to get their schedules together but after the incident with Mr Hassan Asma had been very worried about Ashraf. She had phoned her son and he had seemed his usual cheerful self. His bright voice had reassured her, made her feel so much better. However, it was not the same as seeing him.
