Home Fire(30)

“I didn’t know that, actually. I mean, I knew your parents made you go to the mosque and fast and stuff, but I didn’t know you really believed.”

“No? Well, I did. That’s how I was raised. There are still moments of stress when I’ll recite Ayat al-Kursi as a kind of reflex.”

“Is that a prayer?”

“Yes. Ask your girlfriend about it. Actually, no, I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

“You shouldn’t have to hide that kind of thing.”

“I’d be nervous about a home secretary who’s spoken openly about his atheism but secretly recites Muslim prayers. Wouldn’t you?”

“Do I look nervous?”

“You’ve been looking nervous throughout this conversation. Son, she’s your girlfriend. I’ll be on my best behavior, as always. What I might say when you break up is another matter.”

“There’s one other thing. There’s a boy she was close to at school. He’s gone to Syria—I don’t mean on humanitarian work.”

“Parvaiz Pasha.”

“How do you know?”

“I know all their names. Where they come from. Who they were before they went. There’s only one from Preston Road. It’s the last place in England I’d expect to find that kind of thing happening. But that one, he had exceptional circumstances. Terrorism as family trade. Illustrative of how much you need to do to root out this kind of thing. I mean, literally, grab by the very roots, and pull. Pull the children out of those environments before they’re old enough for the poison to seep in.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What’s not like what?”

Eamonn stood up; it was warm in here, oppressive. Already the script he’d plotted in his head was beginning to unravel by the sheer fact of his being in his father’s presence. He knows he was wrong. He was brainwashed but now he understands, and he wants to come back. He didn’t take part in the fighting, never actively recruited anyone. He’s only nineteen. No reason to ruin his life over this. His name has never been in the papers, you can make it stay that way. He just needs a new passport, and to slip quietly back into the country without any charges against him. His friends all think he’s been in Pakistan this whole time; no one will ever know. It’s best for everyone—imagine the media storm if anyone finds out your son is planning to marry the sister of a boy who went to Raqqa. You’d never survive it.

Trust me, he’d said to Aneeka. I know my father. I know how to spin it so he’ll agree. But that wasn’t spin, it was a threat. How could he possibly do that to this man who had always offered him the most unconditional of loves? And why was his father looking at him so strangely, as if he knew his son had come here with betrayal in his heart?

“Orphaned at the age of twelve, and raised by her sister?”

“Yes.”

“Just like Parvaiz Pasha.”

“All right, yes. She’s his twin.”

“Eamonn!” His father caught hold of him around the neck, half headlock, half embrace. “You stupid, stupid boy. My stupid boy.”

Jaan, she had called him, kissing his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, his nose, when he’d said he would speak to his father. Jaan, my life. A word his father was now saying as he held his son. And just as suddenly, Karamat Lone disengaged, stepped back, and wiped a hand across his face. Where there’d been a father, now there was a home secretary.

“You will have no more contact with this girl. I’m setting up a security detail for you.”

“Dad! Look, just, meet her. All right? I’ll bring her over. Tonight, this evening, and . . . what’s so funny?”

“All this security around the house, and the nexus of al-Qaeda and the Islamic State is just going to waltz in on the arm of my son.”

“Don’t you ever refer to her in that way again. She’s the woman I’m going to marry.”

Nothing moved in his father’s face. “Stay here.”

“Or what, you’ll arrest me?” But the home secretary was gone before the end of the sentence, door slamming behind him.

Eamonn sat down in his father’s chair, looked at the computer screen, which asked for a password. Riffled through the file of news clippings from this morning’s papers. Wished he hadn’t left his phone in his jacket—Aneeka was at his flat, waiting for him to call and tell her what had happened. She’d finally given him her number, but he hadn’t thought to memorize it. If only he hadn’t laughed off the suggestion when his mother said he should have a landline.

I could just leave, he kept telling himself. I could at least go up and eat something.

He had a small moment of satisfaction when he realized he could use his father’s phone to call directory assistance and ask for the Rahimis’ number.

“It’s Eamonn,” he said, his voice fissured, when Mrs. Rahimi answered. “Could you please do me a vast favor? There’s a friend of mine upstairs, in my flat. Would you call her down. I really have to speak to her.”

“The beautiful one in the hijab, you mean? I’m sorry, she just left. Almost knocked me over as I was taking the rubbish out. She seemed in a great hurry. Are you all right?”

He walked over to the sofa and lay down on it, curled up like an animal protecting its soft parts. A few minutes later, his mother entered the study and sat down beside him. No, she wouldn’t bring him his phone. No, he really should just stay in here until his father said otherwise. She told him to close his eyes, and stroked his back until he fell asleep. When he woke up, feeling he’d slept a long time, his father was sitting at his desk, watching him.