The one good thing about the headscarf, especially the way her mother insists she wear it for important days, is that it does a pretty decent job of keeping the cold out.
There are about two weeks left in the spring term, and exams start on Monday, so Basira is on her way to school. Her dad offered her a ride, since it’s just her today—he still has to work, too—but she said no, she’ll walk. Saying it’s an opportunity for reflection and prayer makes her mother happy—or at least less annoyed—and if her dad doesn’t believe her, well, he at least knows enough not to argue. So here she is, dressed in wool from head to toe—brown skirt, tan jumper, pale pink headscarf—bag slung over her shoulder, walking the familiar paths and streets to school.
She normally walks in a group with her cousins and younger sister, who’s just started school last term, but all of them have opted to spend the day in fasting and prayer, either at home or at mosque. Basira hates missing school, though, especially this close to the end of the year, and she doesn’t much like going to services more than once a week if she can help it. Truthfully, she doesn’t much like going to services at all, especially not now. It wasn’t so bad when she was younger and mostly learning about history and things, but now she’s older and they expect her to believe in things they refuse to explain. Her aunt says, rather critically, that Basira lacks faith, but that’s not true. It’s not that she doesn’t want to accept miracles and things, it’s just that she wants to know why they happen, what causes them, how they work. “They just do” isn’t a good enough answer. Science and maths and things don’t work just because they do, there’s actual logic behind them, so she likes them better.
Not that she’ll tell her mother that. Her dad understands a bit better, but they don’t discuss it often, because if anyone else is around it just winds up in fights and worries and prayers.
The streets are quiet, almost silent. She’s never noticed that before. Her cousins make so much noise that she can’t hear anything else, or even the absence of anything else, so maybe it’s always this quiet this time of day. She kind of likes it.
At least it means she can pretend it’s a coincidence.
Being ten sucks. Especially for Basira. She’s two years younger than the nearest cousins and two years older than the next ones, and boy do those two years make a difference. She’s too old to need to be looked after by the older cousins but too young to look after the little ones, too old to play childish games but too young to participate in teenage activities, too old to believe in cooties and too young to be interested in boys. (Or girls. They’ve all been told that Safiyyah is dead, but she’s heard her older cousins talk in hushed whispers about whether Jad was angrier with her because Bridget is Catholic or because she’s a girl.) There’s nobody her age at mosque, either, so she’s always kind of been an awkward tag-along to one group or another. School is fine as long as classes are in session, but as soon as they’re out of the classroom…
She stops, looks both ways, and crosses the street. The Duncan sisters, Polly and Mona, live two houses from the corner and she usually sees them getting into their car as they pass by—it’s still a fifteen-minute walk from here, but Polly can’t walk that far with her crutches—so she glances over out of habit. Not only are they not on the sidewalk, but Mr. Duncan’s car isn’t even parked at the curb. She must be later than she thought—either that or they had to go in early for something. That must be it. Pretty, popular Mona, who’s graduating at the end of the summer term, is on every imaginable committee, and Basira figures there’s something she has to do at school, like decorate or chair a meeting or consult with a guidance counselor about her university boards. Anyway, not like they would have acknowledged her; even Polly, who’s been in classes with Basira since she was allowed to start attending regular school, never waves hello to her.
You would think being the only girl in her class wearing a headscarf would make her stand out a bit, and maybe it does, but it’s the weirdest kind of standing out she’s ever heard of. Nobody makes fun of her or bullies her—she’d think it was because of Ishrak and Hashim if it weren’t for the fact that any of her girl cousins, and even Fariha, come in for plenty of it—but nobody goes out of their way to be friendly with her either. They don’t even go out of their way to avoid her. They acknowledge her if the situation calls for it, like it would be ludicrous to pretend she wasn’t there, but if they don’t have cause to say anything to or about her, they don’t. Even the teachers don’t call on her unless she’s the only one with her hand up. It’s like they don’t even see her.
Left at the next corner. Basira pauses long enough to ensure her headscarf is properly pinned in place and not a strand of hair is showing. Mr. Fadlan, who could have cut the cord for the prophet Muhammad he’s so old, sits on his front stoop from sunup to sundown and is always the first to call a parent and report if there’s anything untoward going on, like girls walking with boys, or someone laughing too loudly, or someone being improperly dressed. She still remembers what happened to Yasmin the time the wind blew her scarf off, and while she thinks having short hair might be a nice change, she doesn’t want to be shaved bald for something that isn’t actually her fault.
But Mr. Fadlan isn’t out today. Which is odd. He’s out in all kinds of weather—hot or cold, wet or fine—any time he’s not at mosque and the sun is in the sky. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s at mosque. Although he’s more likely to choose to do his praying at home so that he can keep an eagle eye out for those who might think they can get away with being forward with fewer eyes to observe. Still, it’s not totally inexplicable. She keeps her gaze on the ground as she passes his building just in case and continues on her way.
Having a big family isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, either. Practically everyone in the tenement building she’s grown up with is a relative or close enough to be called family, which in all the books and stories means there’s always someone there for everyone. Basira doesn’t have that experience, though. In Basira’s experience, it means you have to do something really impressive, or really bad, to stand out—be the oldest, be the youngest, be the smartest, be the fastest. Be a lesbian. Bring home the daughter of a family of Christian missionaries and announce you’re planning to marry her. That kind of thing. Basira is in the middle, doesn’t do anything spectacular, stays out of trouble, stays out of the way. She’s plain, ordinary, boring, and ignored.
And she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t. She isn’t interested in being famous or infamous, and it’s safer to fly under the radar, to not draw the attention of the powerful. She wants to do the right thing, do good in the world, but doing good deeds quietly is better for the soul than doing them in a splashy fashion, right? She doesn’t need to be noticed. Just do what she’s supposed to do. And it’s better to be herself and alone than feted and admired—or reviled—for being somebody she isn’t.
Right?
There’s another crossing coming up. Usually it’s one of the busier streets, horns blaring and cars whipping past heedless of the stop signs and speed limits, but the only sounds she can hear today are impossibly distant, and the street is deserted. Maybe it’s because of the fog. She didn’t really notice it when she left home, too preoccupied with getting out before her mother actually noticed her for once, but it’s hard to ignore now. It’s heavy and thick, not a gentle mist but a real pea-souper, obscuring everything and making the most familiar of things mysterious at best and totally hidden at worst. Basira can’t even see the street sign when she peers up to confirm she’s at the right place.
Think of your mother, a voice says in the back of her mind, sounding urgent. Your father, your siblings. A friend. Someone. You’re not alone, Basira. You’re not.
Except she is, and that’s how she likes it. She shakes her head impatiently and steps off the curb, slowly and carefully, so she doesn’t miss her footing.
Basira likes to read, soaks up knowledge fast, but since it’s not always knowledge that helps in school her teachers seldom notice. Anyway, the point is she remembers something she read a while back about a thick, heavy fog that descended on London for five days in 1952, the Great Smog of London, and that the murder rate skyrocketed during that period of time because it provided such good cover for people to creep about in. Remembers, too, that it was supposed to be foggy on the nights when Jack the Ripper stalked the streets of Whitechapel doing his bloody work. There could quite easily be a killer lurking in the fog somewhere, and if she’s the only person on the street, she’ll be easy pickings.
A part of her wonders if that might get her noticed, anyway. If her parents, her family, will even be aware she’s gone missing until the police turn up to say they’d found her body. Assuming the police even know where to go. Does she have her name on any of her homework in her bag? Well, yes, but not her address. The school will have that on file, though. Assuming the school is open when they find her. As thick as this fog is, it’s going to be ages before it burns off, and it’s unlikely anyone will just stumble over her, especially if the killer drags her somewhere out of the way. And it’ll be hours before anyone misses her; the school will think she’s staying out with all the other good little Muslim children, and her family won’t even think of her until she’s not home for the Maghrib prayer, assuming they remember she’s ten and supposed to participate now, since her birthday was only last week and they didn’t even really have a celebration, not much of one anyway.
It’s so easy to not be noticed.
No ten-year-old should think things like this, the voice says, but Basira shrugs that off, too. Age doesn’t matter. It’s logic. It’s logical to consider plans and possibilities and contingencies. She’s alone, on a foggy day, and historically it was easy to cover up murders on days like this. She probably won’t even have time to scream. She needs to think about how likely it is to happen, and what might come after, and if anyone will care.
The only thing that will be bad is if her dad is working today, and if he’s the one that gets the call. He’s a paramedic, and a very good one. She imagines him getting the dispatch call from 999, the order to proceed to a certain location, an injured child. Imagines him approaching the bloodied body and being moved to pity and fear when he sees the scarf. Imagines him moving it aside to get a better look at her injuries, because the rules can always be set aside if health or safety is at risk.
Imagines him looking right at her and not recognizing her as his own daughter.
Okay, that’s…that’s not sensible. Basira might be the middle of five, but that’s not so big a family that children actually get lost. She remembers the dedication from the battered red book she found in the back of the school library last term: To Dad, who only raised twelve children, and to Mother, who raised twelve only children. If every child in a family like that can be treasured and known, why can’t she?
Well, because she’s not a Gilbreth, and that’s not how their family works. Maybe when the oldest ones were little they got some individualized attention, but as more and more cousins rolled out, the adults just handed the little ones over to the older ones to look after, and the older ones were too harried and busy and overwhelmed to even count noses most days, let alone take roll call. They worry about the littlest ones, fuss over the babies, but Basira doesn’t remember ever being fussed over like that. The little ones don’t call out for her or look after her, even Fariha, and even when she brings one that’s gone astray back, nobody notices or thanks her.
She doesn’t mind being alone because it doesn’t matter. On her own in a fog or in a crowd of people, she’s just as alone. Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is being surrounded by people and knowing none of them care anything about you.
People care. The voice sounds shocked this time, but Basira ignores it. Why her mind is trying to convince her of things that are objectively untrue, she has no idea, but it is and she is going to focus on things that are solid, knowable facts. Like the way to school.
Shouldn’t she be there by now? She doesn’t wear a watch, and with all the fog she can’t see the position of the sun in the sky, but surely she’s been walking long enough that she’s at the school. Suddenly unsure, she stops in her tracks and worries at her lower lip, twisting the strap of her bookbag in her hands as she tries to think.
Let’s see. She’s passed the Duncans’, turned left to pass Mr. Fadlan’s, crossed over Stepney…but she’s honestly lost track of how long she’s walked since then. Three blocks? Four? It should be five blocks and then crossing over one last major road, and then the school is just ahead. She ought to be able to hear the traffic from here—even over the others, she can usually hear the tires squealing, the horns blowing, and the general rumble of traffic.
But she doesn’t. She can’t hear anything. It’s like the whole world is standing still. It doesn’t do that on actual public holidays, so it should definitely not be doing that today. Something’s not right, but she can’t think what it is. She doesn’t need to, she tells herself. She just needs to figure out where she is and get to school.
She keeps walking, waving a hand in front of her to try and clear the fog away. It shifts in thick, greasy wedges but doesn’t really stop hiding everything around her. She kicks, drags her foot, but doesn’t encounter anything.
Okay. So she’s on a sidewalk. She can work with that. Maybe.
She walks forward, slowly, looking around her, trying to get her bearings. She can’t. It’s like everything is gone, leaving only her, the ground, and the never-ending fog. It’s beginning to make her a little nervous, actually. Maybe she should…concede that she can’t do this on her own, and call for help.
“Hello?” she shouts, as loud as her tiny lungs can manage. “Is someone there? I’m lost!”
There’s no answer. Which is good, it means there’s not a serial killer lurking nearby, or at least that if there is one they’re sensible enough not to say here I am, but it’s also bad in that no one is there. She takes a few steps and calls out again, but there’s still no response.
Basira stops dead and turns in a complete circle, and still…there is nothing. No one. Just her and the fog. She’s not even sure she can feel the ground anymore.
She’s alone. Totally and completely alone.
No…no, not alone. She touches her chest lightly, brow furrowing in thought. Allah is everywhere, isn’t that what everyone tells her? She’s not alone if Allah is there. All she has to do is…ask.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and raises her hands to her ears briefly, then begins to pray. She’s not very good at it, she’s new to the whole thing, but Allah knows what’s in her heart and he knows every one, so they say, so she can pray and ask for guidance and he’ll give it to her. He’ll clear away the fog, show her the path to school, send someone to talk to her, something. If nothing else, she’ll hear his voice—which isn’t the mystery voice she’s been hearing in her head, Allah would never be that sarcastic or try lying to her—and know, at the very least, she has him with her. So she prays out loud, in English, in Arabic, asking for a sign, a guide, anything.
Nothing. No response. No peace fills her mind, no warmth fills her heart. The fog doesn’t even shift a little. There’s no connection, no answer on the line. She’s reached out for help and found nothing. She’s more than just alone now.
Basira Hussain, for the first time in her life, is deeply, utterly, and totally lonely.
No! No! She can’t be the only person left in the world, she can’t. That just…isn’t logical. Forget prayer. There’s obviously nobody on the other end of that. But she can think her way out of this. All she has to do is try. She grits her teeth, closes her eyes, and concentrates hard.
BEEEEEEEEP!
Basira’s eyes fly open, and she throws up her hands on instinct. The fog is gone, the sun is shining, and she is standing in the middle of the road with a car about two inches from her, the driver laying on his horn and gesticulating at her rudely.
“Get out of the road, you stupid—!” The word the man yells isn’t one Basira is familiar with, but she’s pretty sure it doesn’t mean kid, or anything at all flattering.
She hustles out of the road, dodging other cars that blow their horns and slam on their brakes, and makes it to the curb safe and sound. Once she’s out of traffic, she glances back over her shoulder. There’s no sign of fog anywhere.
Odd. And worrying. Was she hallucinating? Did she sleepwalk? Is this something she should talk to her teacher about, or the school nurse?
After a moment, though, she shakes her head. Whatever happened, it’s over and done with…and if that experience taught her anything, it’s that nobody will listen to her, no matter what she says or does. She might as well just put it out of her mind and go on with her day, with her life.
That’s not what you should take away from that, the voice says in her mind, sounding exasperated, but she ignores it and proceeds to head the last few yards to the door of the school, where dozens of other students are pouring in. The voice isn’t real, anyway. And even if it is, there’s no reason to pay any more attention to it than to whatever just happened.
After all, when she was looking for someone to help her, to make her feel a little less alone, it wasn’t there either.