The Last Taboo Read online

  Jay shook his head and went back to watching the telly.

  I went up to my room and unpacked my school bag, wondering what time my dad would get in. I looked at a picture of him with my mum, which I had on my desk. It had been taken when they were both eighteen and going out with each other. They both had stupid haircuts and lame clothes but they were smiling like nutters, standing outside a club called Subway. They’d caused a scandal with their ‘love marriage’, as my extended family called it. My mum was supposed to marry someone else – someone her family had chosen for her. And my dad had actually been engaged to some girl from India. But they were secretly seeing each other. And in the end they ran off together and got married in a registry office.

  My dad had been disowned for a few years, until my grandad, who wasn’t the one who disowned him, returned from India and talked him back into the family. It still took a while for us all to be accepted by my dad’s brothers, but in the end they relented, even if they still slag us off now and then.

  I’ve got two uncles on my dad’s side. My dad, Mandip, is the youngest of the three brothers. The oldest is Uncle Malkit, who is about forty-five. He’s married to a witch called Pritam and they’ve got four kids, all older than me. There’s Jagtar and Inderjit, the lads, who are both in their late teens, and Rajinder and Gurpreet, who I never see because they are both married to Glaswegians and live in Scotland.

  Then there’s Uncle Rajbir and Aunt Jagwant. They’ve got three kids, including Ruby, the youngest, who’s a friend as well as a cousin, though I’m not too keen on her older brothers Parmjit and Satnam. They’re what I call ‘typical bhangra-muffins’ – all macho, and thick with it and, to be honest, I don’t really speak to them if I can help it.

  Ruby is different though, or at least that’s what I used to think. She’s almost exactly my age. She was born two days before me and we get on really well. Only Ruby has a hard time going out because her parents are so strict. I can’t even remember the number of times she’s pretended to stay at my parents’ just so we can go to parties. My mum sees it as her duty to make sure that Ruby gets to have a life, as long as her mother never finds out. That would mean all-out war in the family, I reckon.

  And of course there’s my gramps – my dad’s father. He’s lovely but we don’t get to see him that often because he lives at Uncle Malkit’s house. On the rare occasions when my uncle allows him to come over, I make him lots of cups of tea and we sit and slag off my aunts. My gramps is amazing because he’s more liberal in his outlook than his two eldest sons, which is quite odd in Punjabi families. In the ones I know anyway. Gramps tries to stop the arguments that sometimes brew up, especially between my mum and my aunts, and most of the time he succeeds.

  Not that there isn’t the odd battle now and then anyway. My dad’s brothers run a load of businesses and drive big Mercedes with customized number plates. They look down on my dad because he works in a factory and drives a clapped-out Ford Mondeo. And they think that my brothers and me are wild and lack respect. Not to mention the way they talk about my mum – like she’s some kind of madwoman who stole my dad from them. But my dad couldn’t care less what they think. My uncles even asked him to join the family business once but he refused. He told us that he was his own man and that he didn’t care about fancy things as long as we were happy and we had food to eat, which is really cool, I reckon. It beats being like my uncles anyway: fat, arrogant and obsessed with money.

  * * *

  My mum came in about an hour after I got home. She works for a women’s community group – the kind of place where battered wives go and stuff – another reason why my dad’s family don’t like her. I went downstairs and helped her bring the shopping in from the car, all twenty bags of it.

  ‘You expecting guests, Mum?’ I asked her.

  ‘That’s just what you three eat every week,’ she replied.

  She was wearing dark jeans, a T-shirt and a sweater, all of which belonged to me. We were almost exactly the same size, although Mum had a bit of extra weight around her hips and belly.

  ‘What about you with your chocolates and wine?’ I reminded her. ‘Not to mention Homer Simpson and his fat belly …’

  I was talking about my dad and my mum started to laugh.

  ‘You can’t call him that,’ she told me when she’d stopped laughing. ‘Besides, he’s much sexier than Homer …’

  I shook my head. ‘Information I don’t need, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘I’m only saying that I find your father as attractive now as I did when—’

  ‘Enough, Mum! I don’t want to hear it,’ I joked.

  ‘But he looks so good in his little—’ she began.

  ‘That’s mental abuse! Number for Childline is by the phone,’ I told her. ‘One call and you’re a jailbird.’ I grabbed a bag without looking.

  ‘Watch it!’ shouted my mum, as a twelve pack of eggs fell out and hit the kitchen floor.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ I said.

  ‘Idiot child … and don’t swear – that’s my job.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied, pretending to be gutted. It was a stupid way to pack the eggs anyway – on top of a stuffed bag. What did she expect?

  My mum shrugged. ‘I’ll pop out and get some more later,’ she said.

  I told her I was going to do my homework.

  ‘Er … and who’s going to clear up the mess you’ve made, Simran?’ she asked.

  ‘You are,’ I said, smiling sweetly. ‘Because you’re the bestest mummy in the whole wide world.’

  She shook her head. ‘That stopped working when you were about six,’ she said, handing me a cloth.

  I mimicked her under my breath.

  My mum grinned. ‘What are you – a parrot?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh my God – you can’t call me a parrot!’ I replied, pretending to be shocked.

  ‘Just did.’

  ‘At least I can see where Jay gets his cheek from,’ I said to her.

  ‘You’ll get it in a minute,’ she replied. ‘Clean up …’

  I told her that she was going grey and that her wrinkles were showing.

  DAVID

  ‘YOU GOT TWO left feet,’ my cousin Parmjit told me, as we sat waiting for the other team to show up. It was a Saturday afternoon and the wind was blowing across the park like a mini hurricane, stabbing at me with its cold fingers.

  ‘Always the same,’ I replied, ignoring Parmjit. ‘How come not one of the other teams turns up on time?’

  ‘All knobheads,’ he told me, sniffing. ‘What do you expect, bro?’

  Parmjit’s tall and skinny with dark, greasy hair, pitted skin and a huge nose that he gets from his mum, my aunt Jagwant. He was wearing a team tracksuit. We both played for an Asian side in a local league, and waiting seemed to be part of each game. It was like every other team in the league couldn’t be bothered with watches.

  ‘We might be a player short anyway,’ said Parmjit’s younger brother, Satnam.

  I looked at my other cousin and shook my head. ‘Who is it this week?’ I asked, wondering whether I should just go home. Spots of rain began to fall and the sky turned dark grey, leaching away the light.

  ‘Suky Mann,’ Satnam told me. ‘Fuckin’ wedding or some shit …’

  ‘But he must have known he had a wedding ages ago,’ I said.

  Satnam shrugged his broad shoulders. He had a black scarf tied around his head, low on his brow, with long tails that hung down his back. Like he was some Bollywood bad bwoi.

  ‘Don’t matter – ain’t like we don’t go to weddings. Family business comes first …’

  ‘So not only am I gonna freeze before the game starts but once it does, I’m gonna end up running around like a fool ’cos we’s a player short? Again.’

  The rain began to come down more heavily.

  ‘Let’s get in the car,’ shouted Parmjit.

  We followed him to his Audi A3 and got in, as the other team members took shelter too. The rain waited until we were insid
e before it changed its rhythm and began to pound harder. Parmjit flicked the key around one click and the stereo burst into life, bhangra beats matching the raindrops.

  ‘Turn it down,’ I said. ‘I’m getting a headache.’

  ‘Stupid white bwoi name and he don’t like bhangra,’ sneered Satnam.

  ‘Shut up, you fat knob,’ I replied. I was sick of people telling me my name wasn’t right for an Asian. I’d had it all my life and the jokes weren’t funny any more.

  ‘You should have a good Punjabi name, son. You already think you’re white anyways,’ continued my younger cousin.

  ‘Just hush up,’ I told him. ‘I can’t be doin’ wit’ your shit today.’

  Parmjit turned the music down and turned round to face me. ‘So – you still knockin’ round with that kalah?’ he asked, using the Punjabi word for a black man.

  ‘If you mean Dean, then yeah, I am,’ I replied, hoping that he wasn’t going to launch into one of his rants like he normally did. If he hadn’t been my cousin, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with him. But family’s family and all that.

  ‘Can he play?’ said Parmjit.

  Satnam laughed. ‘In a tree, prob’ly.’

  I looked at him and shook my head. ‘If you’re gonna start cussin’ my best mate, I’m gone,’ I threatened.

  ‘I’m only havin’ a laugh, innit?’ replied Satnam, grinning. ‘You wanna learn to tek joke.’

  I gave him a hard stare. ‘Only it ain’t a joke – is it?’ I said. ‘It’s what you think. Twat …’

  ‘Forget you, man. Pussy—’

  ‘Leave it out,’ snapped Parmjit, glaring at us both. ‘You don’t diss family – understand?’

  ‘You do if they’re like him,’ I said.

  ‘No you don’t,’ Parmjit told me. ‘Nothin’ is thicker than blood.’

  ‘Apart from Satnam,’ I said.

  Satnam called me a few names in Punjabi and then the conversation switched back to the football game.

  ‘There they are,’ said Parmjit, nodding in the direction of the park.

  ‘About fuckin’ time too,’ I said.

  ‘Must be a pub team,’ said Satnam. ‘Full of white bwoi …’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Them white teams are pure racist,’ Satnam replied.

  ‘Not all of them,’ I argued.

  ‘White bastards,’ he snapped, not understanding his own hypocrisy. But then again, he probably couldn’t even spell the word.

  ‘You should get your mate to come play for us,’ said Parmjit.

  ‘Who – Dean?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah … if he’s any good, that is …’ he added.

  ‘Good? The man is two-footed, fast and he can play anywhere. He’s better than anyone we’ve got playing,’ I replied, feeling proud of my mate.

  ‘So bring him down to training,’ said Parmjit.

  I shrugged. ‘He’s happy playing for Hillfields – and anyway, why would he want to listen to you lot slag off black people? Don’t think so.’

  ‘Ain’t like that, is it? We ain’t gonna diss him to his face – you get me?’

  I shook my head at him. ‘That makes it OK then,’ I said, sarcastically.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Parmjit. ‘When we’re sayin’ that shit – it’s just having a laugh, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah,’ added Satnam. ‘I got ’nuff kaleh mates.’

  ‘So how come I ain’t seen one of them yet?’ I asked.

  ‘’Cos after school we all done different things,’ replied Parmjit.

  Satnam grinned. ‘Yeah, they all went to prison and we done all the work.’

  I looked at him, wondering whether I’d get away with punching his head in. In the end I just shrugged at them both. ‘Ain’t nuttin’ but racists,’ I told them.

  ‘Shut up, you pussy,’ said Parmjit, shaking his head at me.

  I met up with Dean in town after the football and he asked me how it had gone.

  ‘We drew,’ I told him.

  ‘Seen …’

  ‘Shit game.’

  ‘You always say that after you’ve played for them. Why don’t you just leave?’ he asked me.

  ‘Can’t. It’s a family thing …’

  Dean smiled at me. He was wearing faded jeans and low-profile trainers that looked like canoes stuck on the end of his legs.

  ‘If eating shit was a family thing would you still have to do that too?’ he joked.

  I grinned. ‘Prob’ly,’ I said.

  The rain had worn off and the sun was trying to break through the clouds. We headed into The Shires shopping centre, dodging past the gangs of youths that were milling around, doing nothing much.

  ‘It’s like you can’t move in here at the weekend,’ Dean said, sidestepping an older lad with a frown all over his face and the kind of walk that tells people he thinks he’s a bad boy.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ I said, well after he was out of earshot.

  Dean shrugged. ‘Altitude,’ he suggested.

  ‘You mean attitude?’ I corrected.

  ‘That too,’ he told me, walking into Debenham’s.

  ‘What we goin’ in here for?’

  ‘I wanna check out some clothes – seen a wicked jacket in here last week,’ said Dean.

  We fought our way past the perfume and cosmetics counters and into the menswear section at the back of the ground floor. As we turned into a designer concession I saw the ‘jacket’ Dean was on about.

  ‘You lyin’ git – you ain’t here for no jacket,’ I said to him.

  Dean shrugged and half smiled. In front of us, standing at a till looking bored, was April Brown, a girl from our area, who at eighteen was two years older than us.

  ‘Bwoi – she’s one good-looking sister,’ said Dean, as though he’d never noticed her before. Never made a fool of himself by following her home. Never sent her expensive flowers anonymously. Or been threatened by her boyfriend.

  ‘So what you gonna do to make yourself look stupid this time?’ I asked him.

  ‘Shut up, bro. I’m just checking her out—’

  ‘But you’re always checking her out,’ I said.

  Dean shook his head at me. ‘You think that them man who live near the Pyramids in Egypt stop looking at them ever? Like they get used to them? No way, Jose …’

  ‘What the fuck you on about?’

  ‘When there’s a wonder of astounding natural beauty in the city where you live – you should go check it out as often as you can,’ he explained.

  ‘So basically you’re gonna make a twat of yourself every time you see April?’ I asked, realizing that he already did.

  ‘One day you’ll be asking me how I got her to be my girl, bro. Crying yerself to sleep ’cos I’ve got her in my bed at night.’

  ‘You’re livin’ in a dream world, mate—’

  Just as I spoke, April reached down to pick up something off the floor and we watched in awe as her jeans stretched across her arse, showing its shape to perfection.

  Dean turned round. ‘I can’t look at that,’ he told me, looking flustered. ‘I’m gonna pass out or something. You see that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Ain’t no finer girl in this city,’ he added.

  ‘You need a tissue and a quiet moment?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t joke about it, bro,’ he told me.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’m hungry – let’s grab a McNasty.’

  Dean nodded. ‘Yeah – I need to get out of here …’

  106 MERE ROAD, LEICESTER – NOVEMBER 1979

  THE RADIO IN the living room was on when Mandip opened his eyes. He could just about hear The Police singing Walking on the Moon as he looked at the clock on the mantelpiece in the bedroom. It was 5.45 a.m. on a cold, grey Saturday morning. The light from the streetlamp outside 106 Mere Road filtered orange through the dusty curtains. Mandip groaned and put his head back under the blankets.

  Five minutes later h
e tried to get up again, looking across the room to the two other single beds, pushed together in the corner, where his older brothers slept. But they had already left for work and he realized that his dad would be up to get him if he didn’t move. He looked for his shoes, slipping them on and going downstairs. When he walked into the living room, his dad was already shaved, dressed and ready to go.

  ‘Hurry up, Mandip!’ Gulbir Singh Gill told his son in Punjabi.

  ‘But it’s cold,’ replied the nine-year-old.

  ‘Stop being such a girl,’ added Gulbir.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ asked Mandip.

  His dad smiled and shook his head. ‘In the kitchen making tea and paratha,’ he replied.

  Mandip’s shoes made a clop, clop, clop noise on the linoleum floor as he crossed the room to go and see his mum but his dad called him back.

  ‘Did you bring the bucket down?’ he asked.

  Mandip turned up his nose and shook his head.

  ‘Go and get it then – it’s not going to empty itself.’

  The bucket his dad was talking about acted as a toilet overnight, when no one could be bothered to go to the outdoor lavatory in the back yard to relieve themselves. Of all the jobs that Mandip hated, he hated this one the worst. The alkaline stink made his eyes sting and his throat tighten but he did it anyway, careful not to let the foul liquid slop about too much and wet his pyjamas. In the back yard he poured the contents down the drain and left the bucket in a corner. He turned quickly back into the house, shivering from the cold, ready for a cup of tea.

  Mandip took in the familiar morning smell of spiced tea and buttered paratha, washed his hands and then watched his mum as she cooked.

  ‘You better take your big coat today,’ she told him, as he heard the new song by a band called Madness filter in from the living room. It was the most popular song at his school and he smiled as he remembered his best friend Mikey humming it in class, winding up Wayne King, a white boy in the same class, who had told them that Madness were an NF band.

  ‘No!’ Mikey had replied. ‘They’re a ska band – me dad tol’ me—’