Page 102 of Savage Protector

“You think I should forgive him?”

Again, he frowns. “No, not unless you truly feel it. But you could perhaps learn to tolerate him and meet him halfway.”

“You want to go there for Eid?” I can hardly believe it.

“Not especially, but I think we probably should. Baby steps, toes in the water. Shall we just try it and see what happens?”

“You’re here!”My father beams at me when he opens the front door. His greeting for Zayn is less heartfelt, a thin-lipped smile. “Mr Abbassi.”

“Mr Mansour,” Zayn replies with a polite nod. “Eid Mubarak.”

“And to you, too. Please, come in, both of you.”

He steps back to allow us to access the modest terraced house where I grew up.

The babble of voices reaches us as we enter. “It sounds as though you have a houseful already,” I observe.So much for me worrying that he might be lonely this Eid.

“Ah, yes. My cousin and his family. You remember Uncle Imran?”

“Of course. Does he still run the restaurant?” Uncle Imran is the proprietor of Naan Nirvana, a curry house in the town centre.

“He does, he does. And he has two more now, all doing very well.”

I mutter something appropriate just as Farah and Amina come barrelling out of the kitchen to hug me, then Zayn.

“I knew you’d come,” Amina trills. “I told her you would.”

Farah is decked out in her traditional Eid finery, a crimson silk shalwar kameez with glittering gold thread embroidery at the collar and cuffs. Heavy gold earrings dangle from her lobes, and her hair is scattered with small red beads. I note she’s not wearing a headscarf, no doubt due to the lack of my mother’s influence.

Amina, my younger sister, is also wearing an ornate shalwar kameez, though hers is a sort of turquoise and decorated with contrasting shiny beads.

“Don’t you two look fine today.” I laugh, wishing I’d perhaps chosen something more traditional for the occasion. My own outfit is smart enough, a pale-grey and pink trouser suit that set me back two hundred pounds on my last visit to the high-end boutiques in Edinburgh, but distinctly western in style. I rarely wear anything that reminds me of the old days.

“Come in, come in, say hello to everyone,” my father urges me. “Fareed is here, and Nasir. They’ve all been asking about you.” He grasps my elbow to usher me into the already crowded living room, ignoring Zayn entirely.

I glance over my shoulder to see Zayn being fawned over by my sisters, both of whom have a monster crush on him. I leave them to it. He’s a big boy, he can cope.

The next half hour is a whirl of introductions as I’m presented to an assembled army of relatives and family friends.

“You’ll remember my eldest daughter, Leila. She lives in Edinburgh now.”

“Auntie Saleena, say hello to Leila. She’s visiting us from Edinburgh.”

“Uncle, did you know Leila was here?”

I’m politely greeted, by and large, and treated to a moderate degree of curiosity regarding my lengthy disappearance. “What have you been up to, dear?” “My, I would never have recognised you…” “Where are you working now? Or are you settled down?” By which they mean safely married to a man of substance, commanding respect in the community, ideally with a couple of bouncing babies to cement the arrangement.

“Leila works in the children’s ward at the hospital,” my father explains effusively. “She’s been too busy to settle down yet, but maybe…”

“I’m with my partner,” I try to clarify over and over. “Zayn is here, somewhere…”

“What do you do at the hospital, Leila?” Auntie Mumtaz helps herself to another samosa.

“I’m a doctor—” I begin.

“Leila always wanted to work with children,” my father interrupts. “I’d hoped she might join Naima at Little Acorns, support the family business. But she prefers the big city…”

I gape at him. It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out why I found it necessary to move away and stay away. He seems to have conveniently forgotten the small matter of attempted murder.

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