As Abdul walked up the steps of the Great Big Ballroom, he thought he looked quite nice: he was dressed in a light blue shirt and wore some smart black trousers. But he felt nervous: what would John say when he saw that Abdul had brought no family with him?
The ballroom was a wide open space, with a spotless, gleaming wooden floor. There was a line of chairs along the wall to Abdul's left, and another to the right. The walls were hung with portraits: Abdul assumed they must be of famous men from British history, politicians, that sort of thing. Briefly he wondered what great deeds they had done to deserve being painted. Then he glanced at the ceiling, and saw a magnificent chandelier hanging down. Abdul wondered how much it must have cost, and wondered if he might be able to afford it if he continued to work hard.
"Liking the ceiling?"
That voice, and that laugh, brought Abdul out of his reverie. Sam was standing in front of him. How curious, thought Abdul, that even when Sam went to a party, they still wore weird clothes: they were wearing a burgundy tie and a pink dress. Holding Sam's hand was a woman whom Abdul had only seen two or three times before: she was wearing a sparking blue dress with flowers, and was about the same height as Sam, with soft brown hair, a round face and a welcoming smile.
"Hello there Abdul, you look ever so nice", she said.
"Thanks, Heather", said Abdul, a bit awkwardly.
"Shall we all dance together?", asked Sam.
Abdul nodded, though it felt strange to be dancing with someone like Sam. But he enjoyed it, and the three of them were soon twirling round, laughing. Abdul began to think what a wonderful evening this was.
When they could dance no more, Abdul, Sam and Heather sat down on the chairs next to the wall.
"Aren't you lonely, Abdul?", asked Sam, giggling.
"What do you mean?", asked Abdul.
"Bringing no one to the party", said Sam.
"You shouldn't really be asking that sort of question Sam", said Heather, gently but reproachfully.
"Oh, there you are, Abdul!", boomed the voice of John.
Abdul looked up. John, who look even more enthusiastic than normal, no doubt due to a few drinks (another of these strange Western habits, thought Abdul), was waltzing his way over to them.
"Hello", said Abdul, his nervousness suddenly returning.
"Where are your family?", John inquired: his tone was still largely friendly but there was also a hint of disappointment. "Couldn't they come?"
Abdul looked at the floor. How could he explain it to John?
"It's a bit strange, seeing as they braved the dangerous journey from Somalia", remarked John.
"They didn't". Abdul could not stop himself: John leant in closer to him, with Sam and Heather looked at him with shocked expressions.
"I mean, they did . . ." said Abdul hastily, but John cut him off.
"Don't try to pretend Abdul, I know what you said", said John: there was a definite coolness in his voice. Abdul was worried: how would John react?
"What's it got to do with you, anyway?", asked Heather coldly. She was glaring at John.
"Maybe you could leave it, John . . .", began Sam awkwardly, but Abdul suddenly blurted out:
"My parents aren't refugees." He spoke very quickly as the other three stared at him. "My Dad was killed in an al-Shabaab bombing, and there was this woman who came to the house a lot, she took me to London and made me become a slave in her house. And it's not my real name, my name is really Ali Egal, the lady gave me another boy's name."
Abdul gradually lifted his head to look at John. What he saw shocked him: John's smile had vanished, and he now looked, stern, disapproving, even angry.
"You lied to me", he said: there was no trace of the warmth with which he had always previously addressed Abdul.
"Be reasonable, John, it's not his fault he has a false identity", urged Sam.
"You're a disgrace, talking to a victim of trafficking like that", said Heather.
"Please, Heather", said Sam, as John's face rapidly turned red.
"You used a fake name on your passport", said John, turning back to Abdul. "I don't believe that story you just told me."
Abdul hung his head. When he had started looking for jobs, he had been required to prove he had the right to work in the United Kingdom, so he had applied for British citizenship under the name Amina had given him. It had seemed to make sense at the time: he had been using that name since the age of 10, he had not seen his family or anyone who knew his original name since then, everyone around him knew him as Abdul. Ali was the boy from Somalia, Abdul was the young man trying to make a living in the UK. He had shown his British passport to John after his job application had been accepted.
"I'm sorry, I just . . ."
"You obtained your passport under false pretenses", said John. "You're an illegal immigrant, you don't belong in this country."
"You weren't saying that just now", pointed out Heather, her eyes narrowed.
"I have no problem with refugees coming here via the proper routes", replied John. "But I don't like people telling lies to get a passport."
"This country is my home", Abdul pleaded. "I've lived here 15 years." His eyes were beginning to moisten.
"This is not your home, you have no right to work in the UK", said John, "so I have no choice but to dismiss you."
"No, no, no, please", cried Abdul, his tears now flowing freely. "I've worked for you for three years, you've always said I do a good job."
"That's right", said Sam. "Think again, John, you know how good a worker Abdul is, he's never given any trouble, the company gets good reviews because of his cooking."
"I have no choice", insisted John. "I can't employ an illegal immigrant, the Home Office would be on to me, I might even go to prison."
"Please", begged Abdul, whose face was now covered in tears, "keep me on, I love the job."
"And you're making him very unhappy", said Heather.
"That's no concern of mine", said John. "My only concern is that I don't drag the company's reputation through the mud, think of all the stories there would be in the papers, think of the custom we would lose, if word got out I had an illegal immigrant on the staff. I'm sorry, Abdul, but I have to let you go, and I also have to report you to the Home Office."
John strode away. Heather tried to dart after him, but Sam held her back
"Don't be a fool, he's way bigger than you, he'd beat the living daylights out of you", Sam whispered to her.
Abdul slumped onto the nearest chair, sobbing. Heather hugged him hard.
"You're well out of it", she told him. "I wouldn't want to work for that horrible man."
"Why didn't you tell us before, Abdul?", asked Sam.
"It's just . . . I didn't want anyone to know . . . it was too . . .", Abdul sobbed.
"Leave it, Sam", warned Heather.
"I'm very sorry it had to end like this", said Sam, "but I'm sure it'll all be sorted out for you soon."
"But . . . Home Office . . .", said Abdul, breathing very heavily.
"I'm sure if you'll explain to them, they'll understand", said Sam.
"I wouldn't be so sure", said Heather.
"Such a ray of sunshine aren't you?", remarked Sam, half amused, half exasperated.
Abdul got up.
"I'd like to go home now", he said through his sobs.
"OK", smiled Sam. They hugged Abdul. "See you soon, hopefully in happier circumstances."
Despite himself, Abdul could not help a small smile: it was good to have someone be so cheerful.
"Good luck, Abdul", said Heather, as she squeezed him tightly: Abdul felt a mixture of awkwardness and excitement.
Abdul said goodbye to Sam and Heather, and hurried out of the Great Big Ballroom, still crying. It had suddenly started raining heavily inside, and as he wasn't wearing a raincoat, he ran very fast to dodge the showers as much as possible. Eventually, he reached his flat, where he took off his wet clothes, put his pyjamas on and slumped onto the bed. Normally the bed was very comforting to him, but not now. He also usually took great pride in the Employee of the Month certificates dotted around the wall, but not now. He had always been happy in the job, it had given a sense of worth, a sense of identity, and now this . . .
Abdul continued to cry.
"Don't you ever stop?", sneered Amina, as she lifted Hassan's belt as high as she could manage, for another strike.
Abdul was lying face down on the settee, his back exposed. He was already in great pain for the three blows she had already delivered. She brought the belt crashing down on him once again. The sting was excruciating, like having sharp needles stuck into his back. He cried out.
"Feeling sorry for yourself, you ungrateful, selfish little wretch?", growled Hassan: he was sitting in an armchair opposite the settee. "Don't you ever think of the poor children who you didn't wash properly, who you left with bits of dirt on?"
Abdul had overslept that morning: the previous night, Amina had had him up late, ironing Hassan's best shirt and trousers for a business meeting the next day. He had been woken by Amina banging on his bedroom door telling him to get up and make breakfast, and telling him he was a lazy so-and-so. No sooner had breakfast been finished - and without being allowed to eat anything himself - than he was told to wash the children as quickly as possible before they went to school. He had been in such a hurry that he had left some body parts unwashed: Yusuf and Fatima had complained loudly to their mother about this.
Amina hit Abdul several more times, before Hassan told her that was enough for now, and Abdul ran all the way to his room, threw himself on the bed, and cried some more.
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