Maryam Ali found her son missing on a Monday morning in early February, his bed empty, the duvet folded at the edge,two pairs of trainers tidy against the wall. Some of his clothes, a red Nike T-shirt, a grey tracksuit hoodie and track bottoms, and his brown leather satchel hung from the door hooks. She breathed in sharply, to smell his smell, his breath, the lingering remnants of his deodorant, somehow reaching for and feeling his presence.She knew he had been in the room just hours ago. Outside, it was an overcast day, the persistent drizzle making the daylight dim and unfriendly. The air still bore the piercing sting of winter. The cold hush that descended on Homecroft Street, on the outer edges of Walthamstow, didn’t lift all day. Maryam’s flat was one of eight in a pale brick block built in the 1990s; the morning’s gauzy mist hadn’t cleared yet, leaving blue folds pinned to the thresholds and doors of the ground-floor flats. At the lower end of the street, Maryam’s oldest friend and neighbourhood shopkeeper, Tony, was absently running a ragged mop up and down his glass front with one hand, the other clutching his first rollie of the day.Closing her eyes as she stood in Dil’s doorway, Maryam went back over the weekend, searching for anything unusual or untoward. Had she missed anything out of the ordinary? It had been a normal, uneventful weekend, like most they had. He had spent much of the day in his room on the computer, working or playing, she presumed, while she’d gone grocery shopping, cooked two dishes, watched some TV and done the laundry. As usual, she had waited for him to emerge in the evening so they could eat together—her only wish and demand of him. She had long given up asking him to get out more, spend fewer hours in front of the machine—a part of her secretly relieved he was home much of the time. She didn’t have to wait for him to get home safe at night from trips out in the city with the boys. It had been soporific, predictable, like most weekends. She reported him missing two days later, her younger sisters, Zarrine and Saffina, insisting they must go to the police. At first, Maryam tried to ignore the suggestion. What is wrong with the two of you? He’s done something silly, fought with his girlfriend and is embarrassed about it. That’s all. I told him I don’t ever want to see his face again if he’s rude to her. Maryam knew she wasn’t making much sense but said it nonetheless to keep her sisters, or herself, from contemplating other questions.‘Baji, it’s alright, we get it, we understand, but we can’t keep it a secret, can we? When was the last time Dilly spent two full nights out? Night-spend with that smelly Andy doesn’t count, innit? There’s no one left to call now, I even rang Aunt Kulsum’s, not that Dil’s ever going to be found in the same postcode as tangy Taz …’ Zarrine said in one breath.‘We’ve got to go down to the station, Baji. I spoke with Uncle Sharief too, and he said the same thing. I know it sounds scary, but it’s the right thing to do. We have no way of finding him without their help, do we? I know you don’t like the coppers much, nor do I, God knows what they’ll think … but we must go,’ Saffina, one year older than Zarrine, said.‘We have nothing to worry about, yeah? Dilly doesn’t fit the profile—’ Zarrine cut in and then quickly made a solemn face as her older sister’s eyebrows rose. Saffina came forward and put an arm around Maryam. ‘You know what Zee means, Baji, come on, let’s just get it over with. You, I mean we, need help. Dilly needs help … How about this? We’re doing it for him, for silly Dilly … Wonder where he’s fucked off to, careless twit!’ Love, solidarity, bottled-up anxiety hung in the air.Love, solidarity, bottled-up anxiety hung in the air. It was another cloudy day, the air cold and the light muted and pale. February had made London quieter, sadder, but also clearer somehow; one saw more of its bare form, its vast skeletonof endless terraces, housing estates, tower blocks, train stations, motorways, and its old streets and town centres. By this time, many a New Year resolution had crumbled and unravelled, as unavoidable cares of the world—jobs and credit card debts, mortgages and rents, long overdue GP appointments and electricity bills, or, in the case of the three sisters, puzzling, nervewracking thoughts about a disappeared boy—had started to weigh heavy on the city’s people and weaken their resolve. Saffina was one such Londoner; she had just this week, the night of her older sister’s frantic, worrying call, gone back to her late-night G&T habit, helping her sleep for some hours. Maryam looked at her sisters one by one, as if to seek confirmation they were going to stand with her, by her side. ‘I am doing this for you, mind you. Once I go in, you know there’s no going back? His name will be in the records.’‘But that’s assuming the impossible, innit,’ Zarrine said, nodding to Saffina. ‘I know, I know what you mean, hun. There’s no way on earth Dil’s going to have anything to do with them lot, is he!’ The above extract has been taken from Mirza Waheed’s newly launched book Mariyam and Son and has been published with permission from Westland Publishers. Set in London, the fiction book follows Maryam Ali, a school chef and widow who finds her son missing one morning. She waits and waits and then finally files a missing person’s case with the police but gets told that her son might be involved in something much worse. Worried- Maryam retreats into the past, seeking answers for the present. Unexpectedly, she also finds herself forming a connection with Julian, the young family liaison officer assigned to her case – a bond complicated by his role in the machinery that watches her son.
