So it has been brought to my attention that I've made a few grammatical mistakes in previous chapters. I'd like to offer some cruddy excuse or other but I guess the truth is I just don't proof read as thoroughly as I should before posting. Le sigh. Sometime soon I'm gonna go back and try to fix any glaring problems I notice. Thanks for sticking with the story so far despite the shitty grammar and very dark plot. I promise it is going to lighten up eventually.
Especially huge shout out to all my regular reviewers, you guys are total sweethearts. And to everyone else who sent me kind words of support. I'm not sure anyone's even reading these notes but I'm kinda having a rough few days and your continued support is really wonderful. You guys are awesome, thanks for sticking with my silly story.
There's a chunk of research I did for this chapter over at the Muslims For Progressive Values (mpvusa dot org) as well as annoying my Muslim friends with tons of questions so I'm fairly confident I've written Mo believably here. As before though I don't want to offend anyone so please bear with me if the way Mo describes and practices his faith is different from your own. NB if you weren't aware, an imam is like a Muslim priest or vicar.
Content Warning: graphic fire and burn descriptions.
It was comforting after all the recent craziness to go to the mosque for his answers. Mo had never considered himself to be a very devout Muslim but he had questions about his faith and the role it played in his life. He knew the best place to turn was his imam.
"Homosexuality." the old man repeated with a thoughtful frown. He lowered himself carefully into the chair behind his desk and winced at the familiar grind of arthritis in his knees. Mo nodded earnestly.
"Yes. I want to know if there is room in Islam to be a practicing homosexual and still be a good person." Mo repeated.
The imam took a long sip of his tea and regarded Mo carefully over his mug.
"Do you find you are plagued by unwanted same sex attractions, Baseem?" he finally asked. B-Mo flushed, embarrassed. He hadn't even considered that the older man might think that was why he was asking.
"No, it is not about me! It is a girl I know. She told me recently that she has a romantic relationship with another girl and I do not want to have to turn my back on her because of it. I do not like the idea that she is damned or somehow an abomination because of who she loves. Can I still be a Muslim and be her friend too?" Mo asked.
The imam nodded contemplatively. Mo let out an almost silent sigh of relief. He'd been very aware that the reply to his question might be something he didn't want to hear.
"You are not the first person to ask me about this, Baseem. I will tell you the same thing I have told others when they came to me with questions about the homosexuality over the years. Allah is mysterious and unknowable even to those of us who study the Qur'an and Islamic law for our whole lives. There is room in Islam to love all people irrespective of how they choose to live their lives. Even if they chose to commit what we regard as sins. There are many people who will tell you that 'Islam says...' but Islam cannot speak directly for itself. The words of the Prophet are interpreted by the imperfect minds of man and their teachings bent and shaped to fit the society those imperfect minds find themselves in. Do you think there is something evil about this girl's nature?"
Mo shook his head. Marceline was one of the best people he knew.
"She's really clever and kind and really strong. She has been through a ton of awful stuff and still really cares about people. But being gay is a terrible sin. I just do not want her to be damned when the final hour comes and her soul is judged." he replied.
"Homosexuality is regarded as a terrible sin by most Muslims, yes. But you must remember Baseem, that to be human is to commit sins. Nobody walks this earth free from sin. And Allah creates all things, all people and all feelings. You know that people have free will, yes? And that animals do not?" the imam asked.
"Yeah, but Marceline is not an animal." Mo replied, confused.
"No, she is not. But consider this. Recently it has been discovered by science that homosexual acts occur naturally between animals. The Qur'an teaches us that animals can only obey the laws of Allah. Animals cannot sin and they cannot choose to be immoral or be held responsible for their actions. If animals can naturally become homosexuals then what do you think that means for people, Baseem? Knowing what you do of Islam and of humans and your own personal relationship with Allah?"
Mo thought about it hard. He frowned down at his hands as though he might find the answers to his questions in the dirt under his fingernails. The imam had a reputation in the local community for being a man of deep wisdom and perception; if he was asking Mo to examine his own thoughts and feelings then it must because he thought Mo might already know the answer.
"I think it means that Allah is truly mysterious and that the rules set out in the Qur'an are for all time. That they are for all situations and all societies but not always at the same time? That they have flexibility in their interpretation? I think it means that Allah has left room to celebrate diversity if the world we live in becomes diverse. That I can love and support a homosexual woman because she is also a human, because now that we know more of Allah's law we can appreciate that He created her that way." Mo finally replied hesitantly, still looking at his nails.
"I am glad you have come to that conclusion, Baseem. What it means to be a Muslim is for each of us to personally define no matter that we are part of a wider community. Your relationship with Allah is your own. It is personal and unfathomable to anybody but you. Something which you feel in your heart as well as living every day. You understand what I am saying? In the same way that there are only a tiny percentage of us who support terrorism there are not many who will agree with your view of homosexuality. It is controversial and what a lot of people will say is 'progressive', as though that is a bad thing to be. But never let them tell you that the understanding you have gained through your private relationship with Allah is worth less than their own journey. Allah created you and He gave you the wisdom to understand this world. He does not make mistakes. Is your friend happy?"
"I think she would be if it was not for her father coming back and ruining her life. He is pure evil. He murdered her mother and brother and he burned her skin deliberately and he tried to kill her too. But yeah, I think that girl would make her happy. She was happier when they started seeing each other than I have ever seen her and I am ashamed that it made me jealous. But now she is sad again and after everything she's been through I just want her to be at peace. I do not care who makes that happen."
The old imam smiled a little distantly. He was glad he had been able to help the boy. As he had every hour of every day for the last thirty years he felt the old familiar stab of intense grief and regret that he had not been able to save his own son when he had been overwhelmed by such feelings. But the time when he could have helped Jamil was long gone. Nobody walked the earth free from sin and his was that he had turned his son out onto the streets. Jamil had frozen to death one hard winter's night a couple of years later, still alone and homeless after his father had turned his back on him. It was a burden of sin the imam would carry for all eternity. An understanding with Allah that had cost him more than he'd ever wanted to pay.
...
It was the smell of smoke drifting through from the hall that first alerted her that something was wrong. Mum had said no more ice cream after dinner but she'd sneaked through to the kitchen anyway. Marcy was determined that she would get just a little more for herself while her mother was upstairs helping Marshall get his overnight bag ready.
Without even bothering to close the door to the freezer Marcy dropped the tub of ice cream and ran back through to the hall. She skidded to a halt in horror when she found it full of leaping flames that hadn't been there just a minute ago. Suddenly she felt sick with terror; her heart was thudding wildly in her chest and she felt like she couldn't breathe around the choking panic surging through her. She'd never known a fear so deep in her brief seven years of life.
"MUM!" she screamed, but there was no reply. Instead there was a bang in the kitchen and she whirled in time to see a man she didn't recognise drop a lit match next to an empty petrol can almost exactly where she'd been standing a moment before. Then the whole kitchen lit up in orange flames too and the stranger disappeared through the back door and locked it after himself. She wouldn't learn that they'd been deliberately trapped in the house until much later.
Marcy ran through to the lounge where the flames were just beginning to take hold of the sofa and managed to snatch Hambo to safety before he went up in smoke too. She backed away and sat down as far away from the fire as she could get. She huddled up against the radiator under the window and tried to squeeze herself into a protective ball around her favourite teddy. In just half a minute the door had become blocked by a wall of flame. There was no way she was getting back out into the hall again.
"It's gonna be ok, Hambo." she whispered to the bear. "Mum's upstairs and she's gonna call the firemen and Uncle Simon's gonna come and get us. Don't be scared."
But she was filled with a deeper fear than she'd even known could exist and as she waited the fire grew. Still nobody came. The room was filling with smoke and breathing was getting hard. Instinctively Marcy knew she had to get out before the smoke overwhelmed her.
Marceline began to cry in fear and humiliation. She must have peed her pants when she wasn't paying attention because now they were wet and uncomfortable. Dammit she was a big girl; she didn't have accidents anymore! But she was more terrified than she'd ever been in her life. She didn't understand what was happening. More than anything Marcy wanted Marshall to come and pick her up, tell her she was a silly potato, throw her onto his back and run away from the fire. Or even Daddy. As scary as he could be sometimes Daddy could fix anything.
Something heavy hit the ceiling above her head and the room shook around her. Marcy let out a terrified shriek and leapt up, unable to sit still any longer. Normally she wasn't allowed to touch the windows but she knew they opened into their tiny front garden if you pulled the handle up and pushed outwards. She scrambled onto the sill and tugged on the handle with all the strength in her thin little arms.
It didn't budge. There was something weird in the lock that looked like a liquid that had gone solid. Later Simon would gently explain to her that it was superglue; somebody had been in the house and superglued all the locks shut to stop them escaping. It must have been earlier that day, probably when her mother had collected her from school. Marcy tugged desperately on the window handle while the room around her burned. She panted hard against the horror and smoke filling her chest.
Without any warning at all the curtains just above her head went up in flames too. They were the heavy plush velvet kind; the type that were unbelievably flammable. And as the fire took them they twisted, melted, fell away from the curtain rail. They landed hard on her back and burned instantly through the thin cotton shirt she was wearing. Long gloopy strands of molten plastic blazed against her skin and Marceline screamed like she'd never screamed before. The pain was more intense than she'd even known could exist. There should have been Simon's arms wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and his rough panicked voice telling her he was going to get her out. But nobody came to save her and this time Marceline burned alone.
She must have screamed in her sleep too because suddenly the blazing room dissolved around her. Ash was shaking her awake and flicking the lights on as he hushed her in a low anxious voice.
"Hey, keep it down! You want Hunson coming in here to see what all the noise is about?" he hissed at her blearily.
"It hurt so bad." she sobbed quietly in reply as she snuggled up against his muscular bare chest. Human contact was the only thing that would help after her nightmares. It was the only way she could dispel the lingering terror of the fire that always followed her back into the waking world. Ash stiffened up for a moment as she hugged him before he awkwardly let his hands drift down to pet her hair.
"Yeah, I know. You were dreaming about the fire?" he asked her quietly.
"Yeah. But Simon didn't come this time and I was just alone and burning." she replied around the shivers that she couldn't quite seem to control. "And it still hurts. Every time I dream about it I can feel it happen again."
He obviously didn't know how to reply to that. Ash just nodded and continued petting her hair comfortingly. He yawned around one hand and glanced over at the clock on the opposite wall.
"Babe, it's nearly five in the morning. You should go back to sleep."
She shook her head; there was no way she could sleep again after such a vivid nightmare. It was the worst she'd had in years. She knew Ash was trying his hardest for her and she appreciated him being there but more than anything she just wanted Simon to hug her and bring her a glass of juice. When she'd woken from night terrors in the past they'd always sat up together and talked about cricket and archaeology until the sun came up and Marceline had to get ready for school. Or Bonnie, she thought desperately. Bonnie wouldn't want to talk about cricket but maybe she'd massage the scars with her lovely cool hands again and kiss Marcy's neck and soothe her with a completely different kind of touch. At that moment she missed the redhead so intensely it was like a physical pain.
"I'm gonna go make myself some tea or something. You should go back to sleep." she murmured to Ash after a few minutes. The shaking had finally subsided and she felt too awkward and uncomfortable to stay skin to skin with him like that. He nodded tiredly and dropped his hands from her hair before rolling back over under the blankets.
Sharing a bed with a man was uncomfortable and weird for Marceline but she was starting to get used to it. For the look of the thing Ash slept shirtless but Marcy had refused to even consider just stripping down to her bra and panties. She had pyjama shorts and a t-shirt on so it was a simple thing to just slip from the room as Ash flicked the lights off again and pad quietly down the darkened hall.
There was no noise from the room her father was now occupying, not even snoring. It had been Simon's old bedroom before he'd had to move. When she was younger the sounds of her uncle's loud grating snores had been a comfort on sleepless nights; she'd always been able to hear that he was right there. It made her unreasonably angry that her father had just taken over the bedroom without even asking. He'd shoved the remainder of Simon's things into a pile of old boxes and suitcases then piled them in a messy heap in the hall right by the door. They were the precious possessions of an extraordinary man who'd lived an incredibly complex and rich life and Marcy wanted to scream at him not to touch Simon's things. She cast a dark scowl at the closed door as she passed it. As soon as she could find a safe way to get the recording to Earle that bastard would be gone; she just hoped it would be enough.
Marceline grabbed her ukulele from the lounge and then crept into the kitchen and out of the back door onto the thin metal balcony and fire escape. The stalks of the summer's sunflowers she'd grown there were still sticking up from their pots but they were brown and dead now and beginning to rot back down into the soil. It was getting too late in the year for any of her flowers to bloom. Still they'd brought her joy all summer long and if she managed to avoid ending up in prison she might try to grow some next year in memory of her formally happy life. Marcy sat next to the empty pots and let her fingers touch the cool damp earth in reverence of the beautiful things it grew.
"I know how much you loved sunflowers, Mum." Marcy began quietly to the night air. "And roses too. I was thinking I might get sunflowers all around my ankles for my next tattoo but I don't know how well the yellow will show up on my skin. You'd have called it a 'desi problem'. You know I spent a long time being uncomfortable with using that word to describe myself? But I understand better now, Mum. Your Indian heritage was just as important to you as your Russian. We're desi girls as well as Moscow girls. I'm proud of it now. I miss you and Marshall so much. Wanted to play your favourite song for you again. I know I sing it all the time but you never ever got sick of hearing it, did you?"
Marcy lifted her ukulele like she was showing it off to the starless sky for a moment then lowered it back to playing level and began to strum the familiar chords.
"Hold me close and hold me fast,
This magic spell you cast.
This is La Vie En Rose.
When you kiss me heaven sighs
And though I close my eyes,
I see La Vie En Rose.
When you press me to your heart,
I'm in a world apart.
A world where roses bloom.
And when you speak angels sing from above.
Everyday words seem to turn into love songs.
Give your heart and soul to me.
And life will always be
La Vie En Rose."
"Your Mum used to sing that song so much. I used to joke that it was the only one she knew the words to. That's what really gets me, the way she'd get so absorbed by that one tune. It was the first dance at our wedding."
Hunson's voice made her jump and look around, mortified that he'd caught her feeling sentimental when she was trying so hard to hide all of her emotions from him. A wave of fresh hatred tried to force its way up from her heart but it was countered by the same unexpected blossom of pity she'd felt the day before when she'd heard him confess in the graveyard. For all that he was a cold and vicious bastard Hunson really did miss her mother. Marcy stared at him and struggled to think of something to say. Her thoughts spun chaotically; she felt intensely weird and conflicted.
"I, err, I miss her too." she mumbled after an uncomfortably long pause.
"I heard you shout out. Bad dreams, Pumpkin?" he asked sympathetically as he took a seat next to her and wrapped the woollen blanket from the back of the sofa around her shoulders. Marcy tried not to be grateful; the night was colder than she'd expected and she was just wearing shorts and a thin shirt. But she still hated him. His small gestures of kindness now couldn't make up for all the evil things he'd done.
"Yeah, nightmares." she replied quietly, avoiding his searching gaze.
Hunson sighed and stared out at the small patch of grass their balcony overlooked. If Marceline had been forced to guess she'd maybe have hedged that something was bothering him but she didn't really want to know. She didn't want to have an emotional conversation with him or connect with him in any way. She wished he'd been the one that had burned or that he'd died in prison or just never left. Wished he'd just go away and stop existing; stop ruining her life. She balled her fists against the impotent fury that being so close to her father caused.
"I wrote letters, you know." Hunson announced unexpectedly. "Wrote a ton of them. Every single week for years and years. I sent you birthday cards too. Told you I was proud of you and I loved you. That you were my special little girl and I hadn't forgotten about you. And you know what? I found them all in a drawer in Simon's room yesterday. Only the first couple of them were even opened. He'd just bundled them all up together and put them away. I guess he never showed them to you did he? Guess that's why you never came to visit your old man in jail, right?"
"Oh. I guess so, yeah." Marcy replied. It was all she could think to say. What was she even supposed to do with that information? Simon had tried to protect her from the continuing trauma of having contact with the man who'd scarred her? However Hunson had been expecting her to react to that news he was going to be disappointed because it was exactly what she'd have expected from her wonderful uncle.
"I know you think that I'm a monster." Hunson continued when she didn't say anything else. "But I swear to you, Marceline. I loved your mother more than any man has ever loved any woman. I loved her so much it was like I'd had my heart pulled out of my chest when she died. Like I'd died right along with her. And I had nothing to do with the fire; I swear it on her grave. Whatever Simon might have told you about that night he said because he was angry and hurt. He lost her too. You know how close they were and I guess he needed someone to blame. He chose me because he never thought I was good enough for Claudia. All I can think is that whoever set the fire was trying to kill me, not you or Marshall. Perhaps it was someone who was angry with the family or someone who wanted to take me out to better their own position but I've never been able to work out who it could have been. It was just a tragic accident that you were home and I wasn't that night. But you're all I have left of her now. You're our little girl. And I'm finally back, Pumpkin. I'm here for you. You and me. We're a team. We'll make it all right again, yeah?"
At least it had strangled the weird twist of sympathy she'd been feeling for him. Hunson was still lying through his bastard teeth to her. She'd heard him confess to ordering the fire less than twenty four hours earlier and heard him tell her mother's grave that he wished she'd died instead of Marshall because she was useless and stupid. In that moment she despised him so intensely she could barely breathe around it. She was half choked by the depth of her contempt for him.
Oblivious to her internal turmoil Hunson slid an arm around her unresisting shoulders and pulled her into a close hug.
"You and me against the world, baby girl." he murmured against her hair. "I am so proud of you, you know."
"I should go back to bed before Ash misses me." she replied, squirming away from him uncomfortably.
"Of course. You've got yourself a keeper there my girl. He's a fine man and strengthening our links to the Bolshakovs is a smart move. I'm looking forward to giving my father-of-the-bride speech."
Hunson flashed a proud smile and she tried to arrange her face into an answering smile, hoping it didn't look too twisted or show any of the sick disgust seething in the pit of her stomach. He followed her back into the dark apartment and pulled her into another tight hug outside her bedroom door.
"I love you, Marcy." Hunson told her quietly.
"Love you too, Daddy." she lied. Marceline crossed her fingers behind his back in the only small gesture of defiance she could manage at that moment. Soon she would work out a way to get the tape to Earle. She hoped there'd be a chance to tell Hunson how deeply she hated him before they dragged him back to prison.