Deen Queens

five [becky]

BECKY

Becky had done many spontaneous things without thinking them through in her life, most of which ended up with her black-out drunk, naked and regretful but this surely was one of the most reckless.

One of her mother's church friends had called the house phone to whisper rumours about her, the accusatory gasps enough to drive her mad and eventually Becky had run out of the house with her mum screaming from behind. Without a penny in her pocket and a phone battery that was almost dead, she dialled Mohammad's phone in sheer desperation of taking her mind off the words her mother had spat at her.

He had invited her to spend the day with him at his house, an offer he hadn't allowed her to refuse. She had been to Mohammad's house before when they first met, being partnered up for an English project months ago.

This was no longer for school, however, and she was no longer willing to use someone's body to help her forget everything. Her days of casual sex were over. Becky had gathered enough of a reputation around her gossip-filled neighbourhood to scare her into an early grave, if she was even a smidge weaker. But she refused to let their insults carve through the skin she had built around her and despite not caring what others thought, she decided it was time for a little abstinence.

The problem was, however, that if she didn't have one-night stands with strangers, how was she supposed to forget how often she was insulted?

Her desperation had led her to Mohammad's front door, only this wasn't the house she had visited before. A handful of months ago, his house had been on the other side of town; the posher side. It was large and decorated beautifully, with marble-like flooring and wide windows letting natural light pool in. But as the time had passed, he had grown a little quieter, a little sadder, a little tenser. Eventually, on their annual school trip to Rome he had confided his family's financial problems to her, shirking behind a barely legible reasoning. He had said his sister was sick without any elaboration and Becky knew him enough to know not to push.

How sick was she, though, for this to be the outcome?

The block of flats in front of her were appalling, the paint peeled off and a dusty grey colour clouding them. There was rubbish piling out of the bins on the street, stray dogs tearing into the black bags in search of scraps as loud threatening voices permeated the air. Becky pulled her brother's sweatshirt tighter around her body, standing straighter in an attempt to change her line of thought. What did it matter where he lived or how crap it was? Mohamad was still her friend and it was kind of him to invite her over on such short notice purely because she was having a bad day.

With a tug at one of her braids in nervousness, she walked into the building, holding her nose as she peered at the lift. There was graffiti outlining the dull metal and instead of risking it not working, she decided it would be quicker to take the stairs. Thankfully, he lived on the first floor and it didn't take long before she was standing in front of his door.

With a deep breath to regulate her breathing, she pressed down on the doorbell, grazing over the faded paint beneath her knuckles. Mohammad's mum opened the door, all wide smiles and warm eyes, welcoming her in. The contrast was so clear cut between her own mother and his – the way Nada Hatoum was a whirlwind of joy compared to the calmness her mum evoked, one that was so carefully constructed it was ice cold.

"Good afternoon, habibti," his mother cooed, her lips lilting with her accent as she welcomed her into the small flat with a flourish. She was clad in a long black dress with intricate red thread woven into patterns around the fabric; material that seemed so regal in the cramped space around them. "Come on in, darling. Would you like something to eat?"