Black Sparrow E-Book

A.J. Griffiths-Jones

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

At Heathrow airport, a hired assassin is boarding a plane to Paris. On the same plane is young Uzma Rafiq, heading for a new life with her French lover.

The passengers carry identical suitcases, but their motives for traveling to the European city couldn't be further apart. When they accidentally pick up the wrong luggage on arrival, a deadly series of events is set in motion.

As a sinister twist brings them together, they will dictate each other's destinies. Against a backdrop of The City of Lights, who will survive?

A thriller full of twists and turns, A.J. Griffiths's 'Black Sparrow' is a riveting story of love, murder and deadly secrets.

Leseprobe

Black Sparrow

A.J. Griffiths - Jones

Copyright (C) 2018 A.J. Griffiths - Jones

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

Edited by Lorna Read

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Trunkle & Mags

FRIDAY 4PM – FARIDA RAFIQ

Staring at my reflection in the bus window, I hardly recognise the dark eyes gazing back at me. They look like deep pools of water, bottomless and cold. Where is my soul? Have I lost all emotion? It's hard to believe that I'm only forty years old and in what they call the prime of my life. There are a few tell-tale signs of tiredness on my face, lines by the corners of my eyes – crow's feet, I think the English would call them – but I have neither the money nor the inclination to buy expensive creams to try to stop them from creeping up on me. My hair has lost its lustre and there are a few stray white hairs poking from underneath my polyester headscarf like thin, ancient wires.

I move my head away, partly because I can't bear to look at myself but also due to the bus stopping, which means more commuters are cramming themselves inside the double-decker.

I don't mind using public transport, it's the only way I can get around, but sometimes the heat and crowded space make me feel sick. There's an odour on the bus today, unwashed coats and sweat mingled with stale cigarettes and greasy food, not pleasant by any means.

I've had a very enjoyable afternoon chatting with Shazia, who always takes such a keen interest in what I have been up to, but our tea went on for too long and now I find myself rushing home to prepare the meal for my family. I dare not be late, my husband would have something to say if I were.

As the bus makes a sharp turn into Kilburn High Road, I grab the handrail on the seat in front of me, accidentally brushing my fingers against the fur hood of a teenager who turns sharply and mutters something at me under her breath. After twenty-two years of living in this country, I still haven't got used to it. People aren't as friendly as at home in my native Pakistan. Yes, I still think of it as my home; after all, it's my motherland, the place where I was born and brought up, a place steeped in rich history and religion. I have a good life here, though. I live in a comfortable house with modern amenities, I have two clever and beautiful children and I have a husband with a good job. He is a difficult man, but we are married, and I am bound to him.

“Busy today isn't it, dear?”

There's an old lady next to me, peering up expectantly, waiting for me to reply.

“Yes, too busy,” I tell her, trying to keep the conversation short. After all, I don't know her.

“Are you going far?” she presses, touching my arm with her perfectly manicured scarlet nails as she offers a pack of opened Polo mints.

“No, thank you. Just three more stops,” I say, adjusting the heavy shopping bag on my lap which is giving me pins and needles in my thighs. I would eat a jelly sweet if she had one, but not a mint.

“I expect your family will be waiting for you to get home and cook dinner.”

I let the comment hang in the stuffy air for a few seconds. She is, right of course. My family will be expecting a good meal, but also their clothes to be washed and ironed, the house to be tidy and their dinner plates cleared away as if by magic after they have eaten their fill.

“Will they?” the woman asks again, tucking the sweets back into her black patent handbag and snapping the clasp shut. “Be waiting for you, I mean?”

I nod politely. “Yes, I expect they will. Do you have family?”

“No, dear. I couldn't have children and my Albert has been dead these past fifteen years.”

I don't know what to say. It must have been very hard for her in her youth, not being able to fulfil her role as a mother, so I mutter, “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, don't be!” the pensioner says with a laugh, smoothing down her red and black tartan skirt. Then she lowers her voice. “If truth be told, I'm having the time of my life. I go to a couple of tea dances every week, lunch with my brother and his family most Sundays and I'm always out shopping. There's a lot to be said for arriving home with a new frock and not having to justify the cost to anyone.”

I'm not familiar with the terms 'tea dance', or 'frock', so I smile politely, but a question leaves my lips. “Don't you ever feel lonely, being by yourself at night, or on cold, rainy days?”

I look deep into her watery blue eyes as she breaks into a smile. “Oh no, dear, not at all. I read a lot, listen to music and of course I have Bruce.”

“Bruce?”

“My British Blue.” The little old lady grins, taking out a photo of a very fat grey cat. “I love him to bits.”

I don't like cats, they're selfish creatures in my opinion, but I've never actually owned a pet and I wonder how such a large, furry animal could possibly stir those sensitive feelings in her.

I see that we're coming to my stop and I pull my scarf tighter around my head, tucking the ends into my jacket so that it doesn't blow away when I go out into the windy street. After pressing the bell, I turn to say goodbye to the silver-haired woman.

“Excuse me,” I say. “It was good to meet you, but this is my stop.”

“Goodbye, dear,” she says, smiling widely with her bright red lips and rouged cheeks. “Lovely to chat with you. Have a good evening.”

I push my way to the exit, still sensing her beady little eyes watching me like a crow.

I walk along the damp pavement in my sensible loafers. It's been raining again today and I'm glad that I put my waterproof jacket on, although I'm aware that it's probably not the most fashionable item to wear with my pink shalwar kameez. Nobody takes any notice of me, anyway. The other pedestrians are too busy hurrying home out of the cold breeze to their warm and comfortable homes. I used to be like that, when I first married Jameel, but it's funny how things seem to change over time. I wonder if all marriages are like mine. Do couples lose interest in each other with the passing of years, or am I the only unhappy woman in London? Maybe it's natural to feel like this.

I still remember the buzz of being newly married. Everything felt exciting to me then – living in Britain, learning how to take care of a modern house, lying next to my husband every night, waiting for him to climb on top of me and take what now belonged to him. Before Uzma was born, Jameel would come home with a small treat on Friday nights. Sometimes it would be chocolate or a metre of fabric for me to sew into something to wear and he'd have big plans for the weekend. Once, we went to Madame Tussaud's Waxwork Museum and Jameel laughed as I stared at the model of the Queen for ten whole minutes. I didn't recognise even half of the celebrity figures on display, but they were so lifelike that it was quite creepy walking around in there. I couldn't bring myself to enter the dungeon so my husband went on ahead alone, leaving me to drink a cup of peppermint tea in the café.

In those days, unlike now, Jameel had never made excuses about having to work at the weekend or late in the evening. He was around much more then, and I seem to recall him being happier, too. Of course, he's not a bad man but things are different now. Jameel is much more serious these days, providing for us all, guiding us, but nowadays always stressing about something. I think part of the problem is his work. As a solicitor, he has a lot of cases on his mind, but maybe some of it is me, although I couldn't even begin to describe where things went wrong.

I've reached the corner of Appledore Gardens. This is where I live. I can feel the weight of my shopping bag pulling at the muscles in my shoulder. It's far too heavy for a woman to be carrying. The late afternoon breeze whips around the bottoms of my traditional Asian trousers and I remind myself to find my thermal underwear, as my friend Shazia said that temperatures will fall by next week. I still yearn for the heat of Pakistan, even after all this time, and recall sitting on my grandfather's porch with the sun on my face, eating fresh watermelon with my brothers to keep cool.

Number seventeen, this is my house. I need to balance the heavy bag now in order to dig in my handbag for the keys. I can't put it down as the driveway is wet, so I struggle for a minute or so. Our home is a nice place, detached like most of the properties in the cul-de-sac, with a neatly clipped front lawn and hanging baskets either side of the front porch, although the flowers have long since died and just a few stray brown leaves can be seen sprouting up from the soil inside. There is nothing to signify that there is a Muslim family living here; no tell-tale signs, just an ordinary place.

I turn slightly to rest the bag on my knee as I slip the key into the front door and see the old man who lives opposite peeking out from behind his net curtains. He always seems to be watching and waiting for a visitor who never comes. Maybe he's lonely. Maybe he doesn't have a cat like the old lady on the bus, although I'm still not convinced that having such a big, sharp-toothed pet in the house would be a good idea.

I'm inside now and can finally put down my burden. I slip off my shoes in the porch, glance up at the golden, star-shaped clock in the hallway and shake my head before taking off my wet jacket. I need to hurry if I'm to have the meal ready for six o'clock as Jameel will expect. Tonight, there will be a delicious mutton biryani with paratha bread, my favourite, although I know I shouldn't indulge, as the heavy quantities of ghee required to fry the flatbread are already beginning to show upon my once slender hips.

Still, my family will be content. They always appreciate my cooking, if little else. And there will be plenty of food should any of my husband's friends or colleagues decide to grace us with a visit. I hope that Jameel has eaten a respectable lunch, something substantial to fill him during his working hours. I meant to prepare him a hot breakfast this morning, but he left the marital bed before the sun rose, fumbling around in the dark for his fresh cotton shirt, and before I had even boiled the kettle, the front door slammed shut and he was gone. No goodbye, just a grunt and a wave. I went back to bed for an hour but couldn't sleep.

I put away the groceries and wash my hands before carefully dicing meat into small cubes. I have a few good tricks to make the lamb go further, such as bulking up my dishes with vegetables and heavy sauces, which saves me a few pounds every week out of what Jameel calls my 'housekeeping money'. I do the same frugal shopping with packet and tinned goods, buying dented cans at reduced prices or taking the bus to bargain stores where I can make the pounds go further. I've been doing this for a long time now and, as far as I know, my husband has no idea how much money I have saved. It's quite a sum, tucked away in a bank account that Shazia helped me to open, and it's staying there, for now.

We had a good chat this afternoon, Shazia and I. She's my only real friend and I trust her. Today, we talked about our daughters, always a worry for an Asian mother in Western society. Shazia's daughter, Maryam, is training to be a nurse in a local hospital. She's been there since finishing her exams at school and will continue until a suitable husband is found for her when she's twenty-five. I think Jameel has the same plan for our daughter, Uzma, but I doubt whether he will discuss the matter in detail with me. He believes that the men in the family take care of such arrangements, no matter if it's the right thing to do or not. He's already regretting his decision to allow Uzma to go on an art course in Paris last summer. I think Jameel felt it would help to rid the girl of her ambition to become an artist – you know, shock her into realising how hard it would be to actually earn a living from selling her paintings. If you ask me, the plan back-fired, as she's been sullen and withdrawn since her return, spending hours alone in her room drawing, or on that computer of hers.

I remember the day that Jameel relented. Uzma was biding her time, making her father a drink, asking him about his day and rolling her eyes at him as she handed over the leaflet about the course. I sat in my chair watching, pretending to darn a pair of socks and occasionally popping a sweet gulab jamoon into my mouth, as she excitedly explained the details of what she would learn in the French city. I was surprised when, only three days later, Jameel wrote out two cheques, one for the art teacher and one for the lady whose house Uzma would lodge in for the duration of her stay. I said nothing, although I feared terribly for my daughter, but everything was settled, and she danced with delight.

The phone in the hallway is ringing, sending a loud echo up the staircase, so I slowly slide the pan of sizzling meat off the heat and walk down the hall to see who could be calling at this time of day.

“There you are,” the voice on the other end states curtly. “You took a long time to answer.”

“I'm preparing dinner,” I say. “Mutton biryani.”

My husband gives a short cough, clearing his throat and then continues, “I won't be home until eight. You'll have to hold dinner.”

I note that this is more of an order than a request and suck in my breath, but at least I now have a few hours' grace. “Yes, of course. Is anyone joining us tonight?”

“No, not tonight,” Jameel tells me, “but you'll need to ensure that the spare bedroom is prepared as we're having guests tomorrow. I'll explain later.”

I want to ask who, as it's rare that anyone stays overnight, unless it's relatives visiting from overseas or another part of England, but the other end of the line has already been disconnected and I return the phone to its cradle.

I look at my reflection in the mirror on the wall, the second time today that I've taken notice of myself, and prod at my thickening waistline. I look alright for my age, I think, although Jameel wouldn't agree. Maybe I've spent too many afternoons eating sweet treats with Shazia when I should have been out walking or doing housework to burn off some calories instead, as my tunic is beginning to look tight.

Returning to the kitchen, I turn off the stove and reach for the kettle. I can afford to sit down with a cup of peppermint tea now, just for a while. A sharp twinge shoots up my spine as I lower myself into my leather armchair. That's all I need, the beginnings of sciatica! I flick through the TV channels, pausing at a shopping channel where a slim white woman is running briskly on an electric treadmill, her high ponytail swinging to and fro as she pounds the rubber. I glance up at the only family portrait that we have and see a younger, slimmer self, smiling back at me.

Uzma had been just six years old, and Khalid three, when Jameel had announced that we were taking a trip to the local photographic studio. He'd even encouraged me to buy a new sari for the occasion. Afterwards, he took us for ice-cream at a local Italian café, the first and only time that Jameel had taken us there.

I remember accidentally dripping chocolate sauce onto my sari and that was the very first time that I noticed the way Jameel looked at me. It was a condescending look, as if I, too, were a child who had misbehaved, causing him embarrassment as he quickly glanced around to see if anyone had noticed his clumsy and irresponsible wife. It wasn't long after that that the days out had stopped, Jameel blaming his workload and me blaming myself.

I still have that beautiful turquoise outfit embroidered with gold, but now it lies wrapped in tissue paper in a drawer under our divan. Maybe one day, when I've lost enough weight, I will be able to wear it again. Although, as long as Jameel is alive, I doubt whether we'll go to a function together unless it's a community or family wedding. I think Jameel would rather not have me in his life now, although I know he dotes on our children.

When I became betrothed to Jameel at eighteen, coming over to Britain as part of a traditional arranged marriage set up by my parents and their second cousins, I realise that I was very naïve. My mother had taught me well, so I knew how to cook decent meals and clean the house, but I wasn't prepared for the life that was waiting here for me, thousands of miles from my home. Jameel is six years older than me and he had already passed his law examinations before our wedding. I have to admit I was quite overwhelmed by the tall, dark man who wore Western suits and drove a big saloon car.

When my father told me that Jameel Rafiq was planning to buy a house for us to live in, I was so happy. It was everything I could possibly wish for. My parents were so proud – and they still are, although I seldom get to visit them now – and I was just glad that my older, more beautiful cousin was already married so that she couldn't be the one to move to London and live in luxury. In hindsight, I was a fool.

I pick up the remote control and press it to find another channel. Something about serial killers pops up on the screen and I leave it on for a few minutes. The man speaking talks too fast and has a heavy American accent but, from the feed at the bottom of the screen, I can read that a woman has been accused of killing a group of old people in the nursing home where she works. There's a picture of the home and a photo shot of the woman, who looks quite normal in my opinion. I learn that she's been giving them extra medicines mixed in with their meals, but I've never heard of the names of the drugs that she used. They must have been quite tasteless for people not to notice.

After a few more minutes, I switch off the set and get up, realising that I've been sitting down for nearly half an hour and my tea has gone cold. I wonder if the old lady who was on the bus is sitting down watching her favourite programme right now; what must it be like to have nobody else depending upon you to wash, cook and clean? She certainly wouldn't ever have to wait for the bathroom to be free every morning. I realise that I'm actually jealous of a grey-haired pensioner, although I still wouldn't have a cat.

Back in the kitchen, I sift flour onto the marble work-surface. Jameel is always scolding me for making such a mess in the kitchen but this is the traditional way to prepare the paratha, the way my mother taught me. It tastes better mixed in this way; using a bowl forces the air out.

My thoughts turn back to the woman on the television as I pour warm water into a little well in the centre of the flour. For a split second, I wonder if there's anything in our medicine cabinet that could be used to poison my husband; perhaps, by slipping it into the bread, the taste would be masked. I catch my breath. What a wicked thought! God will see my terrible deed and take me to task on judgement day. I bow my head and repeat the words from our Holy Quran: “If they pay no heed, God knows the evil-doers.”

The house is incredibly quiet for a Friday afternoon. By now, Khalid is usually here, hungry as all teenage boys tend to be, and then Uzma should arrive soon after her brother, running upstairs before I can see the lipstick and eye make-up that she wears to college each day. She thinks that I disapprove, but I don't, really. It's Jameel that she should worry about. If he caught her coming home in her tight t-shirts and covered in make-up, he would take her out of college without another thought. I think that my daughter is pretty enough without having to use make-up, but I'm willing to let her have a bit of freedom before she settles down.

Personally, I don't think it will be long before Jameel starts thinking about a match for Uzma. In fact, perhaps we should think ourselves lucky that she hasn't shown any interest in boys yet. I wonder where my children are. They're both late.

I go out into the hall and pick up the phone, punching in my son's mobile number which I know off by heart. It rings six times.

“Hey, Mom,” my seventeen-year-old yells over a noisy background. “What's up?”

“What time will you be home?” I shout into the receiver. “Your father will be late, dinner is at eight.”

“It's okay, I'll get something out.”

I immediately worry that my son will be eating greasy chips and fried chicken.

“Where are you now? I can hardly hear you, Khalid.”

“At the arcade,” he tells me, raising his voice so that I can hear. “Listen, I'm going to stay over at Ali's house tonight, we're going to watch some films.”

Ali's parents are good people. I don't mind, so long as I know where my son is. “Have you checked with them? Khalid? Khalid?”

The noise level has risen to such a pitch that I can no longer make out what my boy is telling me and we cut off the call at the same moment. I'm exasperated that I can't make myself heard and I expect Khalid has better things to do than to listen to his mother.

Immediately afterwards, I try Uzma's phone. It rings and rings, but she doesn't pick up. I'm not too worried about her yet, as she often goes to a coffee house after college on a Friday, although lately she's been coming straight home and going to her room.

Jameel thinks that our daughter spends far too much time on her computer and wants her to limit herself to an hour every day. According to Shazia, every young girl is the same, so I try to divert Jameel to another topic whenever he brings the subject up. I don't lie for Uzma. After all, how can I when I'm not sure what she's looking at on the internet? But I trust my daughter to make the right choices. She's a good Muslim girl and knows right from wrong. I expect she's looking at fashion or chatting with her friends on that Facebook thing that everyone seems to be talking about. All these social network sites just confuse me. I can just about find the right button to switch the computer on!

With the house still empty, I go back to my cooking, deep in thought about Jameel's comment. He said guests are coming tomorrow and I'm intrigued to know who and how long they're staying. It's been a while since anyone has stayed in our back room and I must try to remember to air the sheets first thing in the morning. Perhaps one of my husband's cousins is coming down from Coventry. We haven't seen either of them for over a year now. They are solicitors, too.

I go into the laundry room, pick up a pile of folded clothes and carry them upstairs to put away. On top are Khalid's black t-shirts, so I push open his bedroom door and put them on top of the untidy duvet, still balled up from this morning as he left it. I tell my children that they are old enough to clean their own bedrooms now, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other. This boy will be the death of me. There are two empty glasses on his bedside table, both thick with orange juice at the bottom, which look like they've been here for days. Crisp packets and old magazines fill the waste paper basket.

I close Khalid's door and take Uzma's pale blue shalwar kameez to her cupboard. She wore this with a patterned cream scarf last weekend to attend the Mosque and the colour really suits her. The wardrobe is half empty. I blink twice, wondering if my eyes are deceiving me. No, I'm not seeing things. Uzma's traditional Pakistani outfits are all here, hanging neatly side by side, but all of her Western clothes, jeans, shirts, jumpers, dresses, are missing.

I sit down on my daughter's bed and take a deep breath, staring at the closet, wondering what this means. Suddenly, a thought strikes me, and I get on my hands and knees to look underneath the bed. Uzma's black suitcase has gone. I cry hot tears of anger and grief, I don't know what I should do.

I'm back in the hall, phone fixed to my ear but there's still no reply from Uzma's phone. It goes to voicemail and this time I leave a message, although afterwards I wonder if it sounds garbled: “Uzma, where are you? This is Ammi, Mum, please pick up your phone, I'm worried about you.”

I don't know what else to say and let the receiver slip back into its cradle, only to snatch it up again seconds later. I need to phone my husband and I look in the little blue phone book for his number.

No response, only the familiar beeping of the message machine. Of course, Jameel has gone to play badminton, or so he says. I rarely call him, and it feels quite unnatural to be doing so now, almost as though I'm intruding upon a part of my husband's life that I know nothing about. I wonder whether he will ring back when he sees the missed call on the screen. Probably not. Perhaps he will think his stupid, forgetful wife is going to ask him to pick up something from the shops. No doubt the phone is in his sports bag anyway, buzzing away while he runs around the court, red-faced and sweating.

My gut instinct tells me to sit down and wait. I have no idea what to do and wouldn't have the first clue where to start looking for my daughter. Wherever she has gone, it was planned. I can see that much. Why didn't I see any signs? I'm her mother. My hands are shaking, I should drink a cup of water.

In the kitchen again. I feel the intense darkness from the early evening creeping across the window like the wing of a giant bird as I run the cold-water tap. No matter which way I look, all I can see is my own reflection, our back garden shrouded by the night. The water slips down my throat and makes me gag, it's too cold. It's getting chilly out there, too and I wonder if Uzma is wearing her winter coat. I trot quickly to the closet under the stairs where we hang our outerwear and see that her padded jacket is still here. Uzma will be cold, wherever she is. I remember her telling me that it was an unfashionable thing when I bought it from the market some weeks ago, and she's only been out in it a couple of times.

Tears roll down my face. I reach for a tissue from my pocket and wipe at them, soaking the flimsy material after just a few dabs. I'm frightened that my daughter has run away from home but I'm also afraid of Jameel's reaction. He will blame me for not noticing the signs. I am her mother, after all.

Back in the lounge. I stare out through the huge bay window. Across the street, I can see the shape of the old man sitting next to a tall lamp reading, his body hunched over as though he's studying something intensely, rounded shoulders and a hooked nose. I wonder if he saw my daughter come home this afternoon and take her suitcase of clothes, but I can't ask, we've never spoken. Perhaps she ordered a taxi to take her wherever it is she has gone to. Jameel will have to go over there later.

I want to ring Shazia, but I know that this will cause her to start calling our other friends. I'm not ready for that yet. I'm ashamed of myself. Why couldn't my own daughter just speak to me? What has happened? Perhaps there is a very simple explanation and I'm getting upset over nothing, but my mother's intuition tells me that something is very wrong. Uzma, where are you?

FRIDAY 6PM – UZMA RAFIQ

I've got two hours. Enough time to check-in and have something to eat before my flight, although the airport is really busy this afternoon and people are rushing around like crazy. The Tannoy announces flights departing to Berlin, Venice, Budapest. I wait in line, pulling my black nylon suitcase behind me. I'm already tired from struggling on the underground with my luggage. Trust me to travel in rush hour. I did plan my time carefully, though, making sure that I went to college this morning as usual. Having left my packed clothes under the bed, I returned for them at lunchtime when Mum was out at Aunt Shazia's. She's so fixed in her habits, it's easy to work out when the house will be empty.

I was really flustered at breakfast. Mum was asking me all sorts of questions about which classes I had today and where I would be having lunch, but my mind was just about as far away as it could have been. I could feel myself blushing guiltily as she talked. Mum has this habit of trying to brush my hair at breakfast; she doesn't understand that having it loose and a bit messy is fashionable. I think I was a bit sharp with her this morning. And now, here I am, ten hours later, preparing to fly to France.

The couple in front of me are arguing. It sounds petty. The woman is griping about who should take care of the passports and boarding cards. She's pretty, with straight black hair and is wearing a heavy sheepskin jacket. They look like newly-weds, too young to have been together long but both wearing sparkly gold wedding bands. The bickering is in hushed tones, but both are glaring at each other. In my opinion, it's simple – look after your own documents.

The queue moves forward and another desk opens but it's for Business Class passengers only. There's only one older man over there, standing bolt upright in his dark pin-striped suit, a typical city gent holding a black raincoat over one arm. I imagine that he smells of mothballs and whiskey like a lot of old English men. He must be quite rich if he's travelling business class on such a short flight, or maybe the company he works for has paid for it. I'd love to be able to travel to Paris in style, I bet he'll even drink champagne. I sigh and wait.

Today, I'm starting the life I've always dreamed of. I'm going to become an artist in Paris. If you'd told me six months ago that I'd be here today, escaping to live with my French boyfriend, I'd never have believed you, not in a million years. I'm scared, of course I am. But the six weeks that I spent learning from the street painters in Montmatre were the best of my life. And, of course, I had the best tutor in the world, Sylvain. We've only known each other for a few short months but it's as though he's switched on a light within my soul. I can finally feel passionate about my artwork and it also helps that he's drop-dead gorgeous. Sylvain has thick dark curls that brush against his collar as he works and a deep tan that suggests Mediterranean roots. I asked him about his family, but he just laughed, said his mother was a gipsy and his father worked in a travelling circus, so I didn't know whether to believe him.

When we met, it was purely a student and teacher relationship but, after a week of working closely together, everything changed. I stopped looking at his brushstrokes and focussed instead on the rippling muscles beneath his tight white shirts, inhaling his heady cologne as he stepped behind me to appraise my work. I was so scared that Sylvain wouldn't want me in the same way… afraid that he would think me a foolish, infatuated young girl. I needn't have worried, though. After eight days, he looked me straight in the eyes and I knew, from a smouldering look that made me melt. From then on, we were a couple. Sylvain is so talented. He's wonderful at charcoal sketching and watercolours and one time he persuaded me to let him sketch me on top of the bed wrapped in just a thin cotton sheet. The drawing was incredible. I treasure it and have brought it with me.

As my suitcase trundles down the conveyor belt, disappearing through a dark hole in the wall, I notice that my bright pink luggage tag has fallen off. It wasn't expensive but it makes my bag easier to identify, so I try to get the flight assistant's attention, but she's busy talking to an old lady with lots of bags. I leave it, can't be bothered, it should be okay.

I pass through Security quickly as I've put all my make-up and electrical items into my suitcase, so there is only my mobile phone to place in the plastic tray. It's unbelievable how many people are messing around, looking for clear bags to put lipstick in or a bin to get rid of bottles of water. Don't they read the signs? Passport Control is a longer wait. There are lots of families travelling together tonight; maybe they're having a weekend break in a warmer country. I smile to myself, thinking that nobody could imagine the adventure that I'm going on.

I have mixed feelings about dropping out of art college, I've been getting along so well with my coursework and it'll be two years of study down the drain, but there's nothing like hands-on experience and, if I'm honest with myself, it might have taken me another two years to hook up with a gallery in London, although Dad would probably have supported me until I found work. I keep telling myself that this sudden decision to leave isn't just because of Sylvain, but I know it is, mostly. Besides, he manages to sell his art to tourists and makes good money tutoring in the summer, so we'll be fine.

I doubt whether my father will be alright about it, though. He put such trust in me to finish college and get my degree, I bet he'll wish he'd never paid for me to go to Paris last July now. I love my dad, he's a strict but loving man, although I don't know whether he loves my mum any longer. They're a strange match. Thank goodness Dad hasn't got any ideas about fixing me up with my third cousin from Pakistan, or the son of a friend or an uncle of our family doctor. I'd die. I don't want to turn into Mum.

Finally, I sit down in a café. It's busy and I opt for a high stool, tucked under a counter at the window. The other occupants are either engrossed in books or staring at the Departure board. Nobody notices me sit down, nobody even looks up. For the first time today, I think through my actions. If I get on that plane to Paris, there's no turning back. I'm going to be in so much trouble when my dad finds out where I am. Hopefully, it will take him a while and by the time he starts ringing around, I'll be with Sylvain in his apartment. My head's wrecked. I've tried to cover my tracks, I haven't left any clues at home and only Maryam knows about my plan and I trust her not to tell. I really want to ring my mum, but she'll only start crying and beg me to go home. Maybe in a few weeks, when I'm settled.

She's also going to go crazy when she finds out that I've taken money from her bank account. I didn't have a choice, really and I hope she'll understand why I did it. Mum thinks her bank account is a big secret. I'm pretty sure Dad doesn't know about it, but she told Aunty Shazia, who's such a gossip. Maryam told me about the money and it wasn't difficult to work out where Mum would hide her bank card. It was in the bottom of the box where she keeps all her family letters from Pakistan and she even had the PIN number stuck on a Post-It note on the back. I wonder whether Mum will ever enter the twenty-first century. All my own savings are gone, I had to use them to buy my flight ticket and some new clothes. Imagine if I'd rocked up in Paris with just jeans and t-shirts! I needed some sophisticated outfits and so I bought them.

I finish my warm caramel latte, the froth momentarily sticking to my top lip and creating a sugary foam, then dispose of the remains of my chicken sandwich. I quickly look at my phone. I can't call Sylvain to tell him I'm coming as I don't have his number. We usually communicate by Skype, but my laptop is now on its way to the plane inside my luggage. It's been three days since we last spoke and he seemed a bit stressed about something last time I went to the Internet café to contact him. I'm not worried, though. I know he'll be excited to see me.

I close my eyes for a second or two, remembering the way that he would cover my face with soft, delicate kisses. I love him so much. Everything that I'm about to do is totally against my family and religion, but how can something that feels so right be wrong in the eyes of God? I've read enough magazine columns to know that sometimes you only get one shot at happiness and this is mine.

I don't care about the age gap. Ten years is nothing if you truly want to be together, and we're kindred spirits connected by our love of art. Still, I feel sick at the thought of leaving everyone, even pain-in-the-butt Khalid. I love my little brother but sometimes he can be such a nuisance, always borrowing stuff and sneaking around when I'm on the phone to Maryam. Maybe he secretly fancies her. I guess he's still a kid really, only seventeen, but I've heard it said that men mature later than women. Must be something to do with hormones, I guess.

As I walk away from the café, I think about all the questions that my best friend has put to me over the past few weeks. Maryam insisted that she wasn't trying to be negative about Sylvain but was just making sure that I'd thought things through carefully. At first, she was worried that he was some kind of con-man trying to extract money from me, but I assured her that my Frenchman took care of all the costs at our hotel and my only spending was for dinner sometimes.

I admit Sylvain does like to drink good quality wine with his steak and I did use a lot of my savings over the summer break, but I never would have expected him to pay for everything. I'm lucky that my father has a good profession and gives my brother and me a healthy allowance. Sometimes he asks what I'm spending my money on, but I tell him books and art supplies; never do I mention make-up and underwear. He'd have a fit!

I don't know why, but I find myself standing outside a door that says Prayer Room. Maybe I need to absolve myself. Perhaps I'm looking for answers, but I have no idea what the question is. All my life, I've followed tradition and never questioned my faith. There has been no need to. But today, I feel like I need something else, maybe a sign that I won't be condemned if I stray from the path.

I'm wearing a long black scarf under my denim jacket and I pull it over my head as I enter the inner room. The air is cool and I slip off my footwear. Not many people are in here and it's easy to find a mat on which to kneel. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and ask Allah for forgiveness. Words from the Holy Quran enter my mind: God has sovereignty over the heavens and the earth. God has power over all things.

I hope that God has the power to allow my parents to forgive me. I don't want them to be ashamed. It's not as if I'm trying to forsake my roots, I'm just choosing an alternative lifestyle and pursuing the career that I've always dreamed of. May Allah help them to see the light and forgive me if I have caused pain. Sometimes, in order to be happy we also need to be selfish, I tell myself.

Over in the newsagents, I pick up a glossy fashion magazine, something to keep my mind occupied on the flight, and go to the automatic pay machine. I feel as though I have a huge beacon on my head, flashing Runaway, or Bad Muslim, but nobody looks at me. I'm just another customer.

I check my flight number on the boarding pass and start walking down to the gate. I pass one of my favourite shops and stop to gaze at a pair of red boots in the window. They're amazing, but I need to keep back as much money as possible to buy paints and canvas for when I start work.

I'm wearing black Converse trainers on my feet for practicality tonight, my good boots are packed. I'll have quite a walk when I get to the Metro in Paris and I need to be comfortable. These will also be great for when I'm hauling my canvasses around the city or visiting galleries. Sylvain told me that my paintings are amazing. He says I have a real eye for detail but maybe it was just flattery. I go red, feeling the warmth rising in my cheeks as I think of him.

Tonight, I'll be staying at the guest house in Montmartre, where I spent some nights with Sylvain. I picked up a card on our last evening there and rang the proprietor yesterday. Madame Joubert sounded very polite on the phone. She has a room and I wonder if it's THE room! I remember the bed sheets were crisp white linen, there were cushions embroidered with flowers and lavender coloured shutters at the window. The room was very clean. It smelled of citrus and fresh laundry. It was the place where I gave myself to my French tutor.

I remember that we left very early on the first morning, before breakfast, sneaking out into the street like thieves, with me returning to Madame Albert's house where I was lodging before she noticed I was gone and my handsome Frenchman disappearing into the dawn light to wherever he was staying with friends. Sylvain says it's the 'arty' area of Paris, but that the real artists can't afford to live here anymore because of the tourists. I'm not quite sure where he lives; he was between apartments when I was here in the summer, but my lover has a place now. That makes me smile. I'm twenty years old and I have a lover!

Sylvain isn't the first guy that I've slept with. I used to date a boy from my college last year and we, you know, did it in his car a few times. It wasn't amazing, and after a while it fizzled out as he was more interested in going out drinking with his friends than spending time with me. I don't drink; well, to tell the truth, I didn't. It's against my faith. But I have to confess that I had a glass of wine with dinner on two occasions while I was in Paris. The second time I drank was to pluck up the courage to spend the night in the guest house with Sylvain.

I wonder what Madame Joubert thought of us, arriving late in the evening with no luggage and paying cash, telling her that we wouldn't be staying for coffee and croissants in the morning? She didn't look at us with reproach or judgement, but a faint look of disapproval played on her lips and there was something very casual in the way that she dropped our room key into Sylvain's palm.

Something passed between them; a knowing look, I suppose. Maybe she had seen many couples come and go in her time. Perhaps she thought that our first night would be the only one but if she did, she was wrong. We went back two or three times a week until it was time for me to return home. Sylvain would never let me pay. He always told me to run upstairs and wait while he settled the bill with Madame Joubert. He must be making a lot of money if he can just get a room whenever he feels like it. It's the result of many paintings sold, and dozens of classes taught.

Will the guest house owner remember me? When I phoned, I didn't tell her that I'd stayed there before, and she didn't ask. I think it was the best option, though. I'll only need one night, just somewhere to sleep until I catch up with Sylvain tomorrow. My French isn't great, but I can get by; hopefully, I won't have to communicate with many people this evening. I remember that the hotel proprietor spoke excellent English, speaking to Sylvain in English for my benefit so that I could understand the conversation. She was very elegant, too, as middle-aged French women tend to be, her clothes simple but chic and her perfume expensive.

I've retraced my previous journey to Paris and I know where to get off the Metro to find Madame Joubert's place. It's only one stop away from the small college room where we had our classes with Sylvain. Tonight, I will try to have a good sleep and then dress in one of my new outfits tomorrow morning when I set off to meet Sylvain. I wonder if I'll be able to eat breakfast at the guest house this time, or will the butterflies in my stomach prevent me from eating anything?

I wish I'd carried my laptop with me now, instead of putting it inside my suitcase. I could have tried to Skype Sylvain again. Perhaps then he could have met me at Charles de Galle airport and stayed with me at the guest house tonight. It's funny how, in hindsight, people are always able to come up with a better plan than the one they're currently embarking on – although perhaps it's just as well. I bet I look frazzled right now and I'll certainly want to look my best when we reunite tomorrow. I've treated myself to a better brand of make-up than I usually buy and will put it on in the morning. I'm glad that I've stowed everything away, as, when I open my case later, there will be all my new outfits to try on, too.

I could spend so much money in this airport. The cash that I have on me feels as though it's about to burn a hole in my purse. I'm desperate for a bottle of perfume, Elie Saab or Marc Jacobs, and I'm toying with the idea of buying a gift for Sylvain, but I have no idea what he would like and everything that would suit him is incredibly expensive. I look at a watch in a retailer's window and suck in my breath as I see the price tag.

In the next shop, there's a cute beanie hat, charcoal grey and soft. I venture inside and pick it up, running my hands along the wool. I think this would suit my boyfriend. I close my eyes for a second, imagining Sylvain's thick curls billowing out from under the hat. Yes, it's perfect. It doesn't look like a luxury gift but it's a well-known British brand, so I hope he appreciates the thought.

“Would you like it gift-wrapped?” the cashier asks, and I nod yes, I do.

“Thank you,” I say. Although I am handing over a quarter of my ready cash, I'm thrilled to have found something affordable for the man in my life. At least now his head will be warm this winter.

“Where are you flying to today?” the assistant asks, with a smile. “Off on holiday?”

“No,” I tell her proudly, flicking my long hair back over my shoulder. “I'm moving to Paris,” and as soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel that everything is real again. Here I am, actually going.

I sit at the gate and think about calling Maryam but when I check my mobile, it only has one bar and the signal is poor. Two missed calls from Ammi. There's a public phone on the wall opposite. I get up and reach in my pocket for loose change. Poor Maryam, she's my best friend and I know that Dad will be calling her later to find out where I am.

I can trust her not to tell. She's good at telling lies; not in a bad way, but Maryam has had to hide things from her family for a while. She's dating one of the white doctors at the hospital. He's a Catholic and although he's a professional, Maryam's parents would go mad if they found out. She has to keep this secret for me, as I've covered for her so many times in the past. But I owe it to her to call, even if it's just to let her know that my flight's due to depart on time.

“Hello?”

“Hey Maryam, it's me, Uzma.”

“Uzma! Where are you? Why aren't you ringing from your own phone?” she asks, her voice tight.

“Listen, I haven't got much change,” I tell her. “I'm boarding the plane soon. I'll call you from Paris.”

“So, you're really going?” She sighs. I can hear the disbelief in her tone. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I nod, then realise that she can't see me. “One hundred percent.”

“When are you coming back?” Maryam asks. There's an echo on the line. “Uzma?”

“I don't think I am,” I confess, “I think this is goodbye. I'll miss you so much.”

“Take care, my sweet Uzma, call me when you arrive. And let me know if you need me to…”

The phone beeps, its greedy mouth requesting more coins, so I drop the receiver and return to the gate. Phone calls to my family will have to wait. Eventually, they'll find the note. I haven't given too much detail, just told my family that I'm seeking job opportunities overseas… told them I've found a job in an art gallery in Germany. It was the first place that popped into my head. I think about Maryam, my beautiful, kind friend, and tears prick at my eyes for the first time today. Why am I crying for a friend, but not for what I'm doing to my family?

Maryam and I have been friends all of our lives. Our fathers knew each other when they were young and my mother and Aunt Shazia get along like sisters. We've been to more weddings and funerals together in our local Muslim community than I can count, always going through the excitement of choosing what to wear and how to do our hair, together. Maryam has three older brothers and I only have Khalid, so all the girly things that you usually do with a sister, I have done with Maryam.

I don't think Aunt Shazia has been as strict as my mother, though. My friend hasn't endured the endless cooking and dress-making lessons at home that I've pretended to enjoy to please my parents. My mum's not quite as Westernised as most Muslim mothers of her age, despite having lived in Britain for ages. She was so beautiful when she was young that my dad must have thought he was marrying the prettiest girl in Pakistan. My maternal grandmother is stunning, too, although I haven't seen her for about five years now. Dad always blames his work for not having the time to take us away and he won't let my mother travel alone with us. I think he doubts her ability to navigate airports.