Truth Be Told

Praise for Kia Abdullah

‘A superb legal thriller that fairly crackles with tension’

Guardian

‘A topical and gritty story’

Observer

‘Just as impressive as the courtroom drama is Abdullah’s portrayal of five deftly differentiated British-Asian families, and of the relationship between two disparate women who both become isolated pariahs’

Sunday Times

‘A thought-provoking and sparklingly intelligent novel, with the welcome bonus of an unguessable ending’

Daily Telegraph

‘A fresh and compelling read’

Sunday Post

‘With razor-sharp insight into the lives of her characters, Kia Abdullah gives readers much more than a courtroom thriller’

Christina Dalcher, Sunday Times bestselling author of VOX

‘Taut, gritty and compelling’

Louise Jensen, million-copy bestselling author of The Sister

‘Intense, shocking and so real you can literally feel its heartbeat … the best book I’ve read this year’

Lisa Hall, author of The Perfect Couple

‘Kia’s novel is an excellent addition to the court-based criminal dramas we’ve come to love … It’s a great read and draws you in with fast pacing and real characters’

Nazir Afzal OBE, Former Chief Crown Prosecutor, CPS

‘I was blown away by Take It Back. From the explosive premise to the shockingly perfect ending, I loved every word’

Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice

‘Brave and shocking, a real welcome addition to the crime thriller genre. Kia’s is a fresh voice and a thrilling novel’

Alex Khan, author of Bollywood Wives

KIA ABDULLAH is a novelist and travel writer from London. She has written for The New York Times, the Guardian and the Telegraph, and is the author of Take It Back, named one of the best thrillers of the year by the Guardian and the Telegraph.

Kia frequently contributes to the BBC commenting on a variety of issues affecting the British-Asian community and is the founder of Asian Booklist, a site that helps readers discover new books by British-Asian authors. Kia also runs Atlas & Boots, a travel blog read by 250,000 people a month. For more information about Kia and her writing, visit her website at kiaabdullah.com, or follow her at @KiaAbdullah on Instagram and Twitter.

Also by Kia Abdullah

Take It Back

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Kia Abdullah 2020

Kia Abdullah asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008314743

Version 2020-08-19

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008314729

For my little sis, Shafia

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part II

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Acknowledgements

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Hadid family was an effortful one. Even minor occasions and trivial achievements were marked with a rigid persistence. Birthday cards arrived precisely on the day in question, except on Sundays when they would tip through the letterbox one day early. Wedding anniversaries were marked not only by the couple concerned but the entire extended family, great blooms of pink mandevilla arriving in steady procession. Lavish bouquets were dispatched routinely: congratulatory lilies for passing a test, good-luck orchids for a summer job, get-well roses for a lightweight cold. These gifts were cordially acknowledged with thank-you notes, each of which then garnered a phone call; a three-act play that ran on repeat.

Family news was issued systematically to ensure that everyone received an update. When Kamran interviewed at Oxford and his mother forgot to tell an aunt, she took it as a personal slight and needled them for weeks.

Kamran understood that his family made sense of the world through this codified means of connection, so when his housemaster pointed at a bouquet of flowers, instead of feeling pleasure, he only felt a sense of duty. He collected it with resignation, the sturdy ceramic pot held securely against a hip, then thanked the master and headed back to the third floor, his footsteps echoing off the wood-panelled walls.

At seventeen, Kamran was a senior and no longer had to share his room, unlike the boys in lower years. He set down the flowers on his desk, a Victorian construction of quarter-sawn oak. He opened a drawer, shaking it free of its mahogany boxing, and took out a piece of paper. Hampton’s coat of arms was printed along the top, a golden lion on a royal blue shield with the words Alere Flammam Veritatis inscribed underneath. To feed the flame of truth.

Kamran’s mother insisted that he use official stationery when writing to their relatives. She was of second-generation wealth, garnered by her father’s steelwork business, but aspired to older money – hence Kamran’s enrolment at Hampton College followed by his brother, Adam.

Set in a sprawling wooded estate, the boarding school was eight miles west of their family home: a stucco townhouse in Belsize Park where the boys were received each break like kings. Sometimes they would arrive on a Friday to find the house filled to the brim. Kamran and Adam would swap a glance before slipping into character of ‘the two good sons’.

When greeting his uncles and aunts, Kamran would recall second-hand reports of other Asian families: their raucous laughter and flavoursome food, brash debates that verged on rude. He had seen the evidence on Instagram Live: brothers jostling over the last piece of chicken, set to a mother’s gentle chiding, cut by a father’s sterner scolding. Together, they sounded like family. The Hadids in comparison were more composed; a little more ‘clenched’, a friend once said.

Kamran’s mother, Sofia, was obsessed with saving face. A great beauty at the age of forty-six, she had a laughably strict style of dress: slim chinos that tapered at the ankle, tailored tops with navy-and-white stripes, structured jackets with embellished buttons, complemented by pearls or diamonds but never both in tandem. Her dark hair fell in coiffured curls, framing her fine-boned features.

Kamran could tell that she was proud of them in the fussy way she arranged them for pictures: Kamran to the right, Adam to the left and herself ensconced in the middle. There was a neat symmetry to these photos: the brothers an identical five feet ten and their mother three inches shorter. It was strange to define a family this way – well groomed – but he couldn’t deny it; he too liked the way they looked.

Kamran bore a clear resemblance to their mother: fine features with high cheekbones and a delicate, elegant jawline. Adam, at sixteen, took after their father with his large, heavy-lidded eyes and lips that were overtly full next to Kamran’s more subtle appeal. Their mother liked nothing more than showing them off at weddings, her only regret that she had named her sons the wrong way around.

‘You should have been Adam,’ she would say to Kamran. After all, didn’t ‘Adam and Kamran’ flow off the tongue more smoothly than ‘Kamran and Adam’? It annoyed her, this slight hitch in their naming, especially as she had spent so long selecting ones that kept to Islamic tradition but could also pass for Western.

Still, she couldn’t be prouder of them – a fact she shared with a finely tuned mix of vanity and humility. Seeing her spar with an aunt was akin to watching ballet. Sofia might start with a passing comment, a reference, say, to Kamran’s interview at Oxford.

Aunty Rana, their father’s sister, would reply with a lament on fees. ‘But it was worth it,’ she would say with a shrug. ‘Yusuf did after all get a First and look where he is now.’

Sofia would volley back, ‘Fees are certainly annoying. We’re not made of money after all. I hate it when people assume that. Take Mack’s Jag. He works so hard but just because he drives a Roadster, the garage assumes he’s dripping with cash.’

A tight laugh from Rana. ‘Why doesn’t he take it to the official factory? That’s what Aadil does.’

The children would watch these contests with tense amusement. Perhaps this is why they received such frequent congratulation. Their smallest achievements were shamelessly embellished – a keen swimmer recast as an Olympic hopeful, a piano recital hailed virtuosic. Neither side wanted to seem ungracious and so they bestowed each triumph with outsize praise, prompting this empty rally of thanks.

Kamran smoothed the piece of paper and began to write with his Cartier pen. In neat letters, he thanked Aunty Rana for her wishes following his interview. The note was polite but impersonal and he finished with an expansive ‘x’, their customary substitute for truer intimacy. He placed the note inside its envelope and sealed it with a sponge-tipped pen, knowing it would prompt a phone call to thank him for his thank you. Wearily, he returned to the office downstairs.

Finn Andersen received him with a smile. With wavy blond hair, broad shoulders and an easy, affable manner, Finn was the sort of boy who featured in Hampton’s brochures.

Kamran placed his envelope in the silver pail reserved for outgoing post. ‘You must be looking forward to tonight,’ he said.

Finn glanced at his calendar. ‘Tonight?’

‘Your fancy party in the Hawtrey Room?’

‘Ah, of course. Yes, I certainly am.’

‘I hear that everyone gets a bit “tired and emotional”.’

Finn laughed, his blue eyes squinting winsomely. ‘That’s what I hear.’ As assistant to the housemaster, Finn was invited to Hampton’s spring fundraiser where powerful alumni gathered to reminisce and write generous cheques after copious drinks. Hosted in the lavish Hawtrey Room at West Lawn, the party was an opportunity for invited pupils to network in a semi-formal setting.

‘Well, have fun,’ said Kamran. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Finn nodded. ‘I certainly hope so.’

Kamran headed back up to his room. His duty was officially done and now he was free to play. At 6 p.m., their spring exeat would begin; a scheduled weekend that granted them leave. Barrett, a broad-chested boy in the same year as him, had invited some friends to the Cotswolds. Kamran was thrilled that his mother had permitted the trip and began to pack with alacrity, humming a half-formed tune.

From his wardrobe, he pulled out a standard-issue suitcase. With a sturdy brass handle and buttery leather in a dark green olive, it was one component of the Hampton aesthetic: well-turned-out young men, all smartly tugging the exact same case.

Kamran folded his pile of clothes into one half of the suitcase: chinos in khaki, black and dark navy, one polo T-shirt in white and another in black, a knitted jumper and a pair of jeans. Barrett’s parents were away, but from what he heard, these weekends in the country were civilised affairs: whisky in the drawing room with pungent cigars, as if priming already for their grand collective destiny. Hampton was, after all, breeding ground for the country’s most powerful men. Here walked the sons of moguls and royals. These boys with their plummy accents and cheerful confidence were future kings and leaders. Kamran was comfortable in their midst. He may be of a different race but he dressed as they dressed, spoke as they spoke and held the same values and graces. He knew that it wasn’t colour but class that set you apart at Hampton. You could spot the social intake by a mile. They pronounced their ‘t’s and rounded their vowels in an effort to fit in, but they did not know how to hold a fork and were flummoxed by silver service. Kamran pitied them. No matter how they tried, they would never be accepted. Instead, they were treated with a bemused paternalism, as if too dim to withstand challenge. Of course, Hampton did not tolerate bullies, so the worst they ever faced was a hearty ‘pleb’ on the rugby field. It was fitting, thought Kamran, that at Hampton, even insults were traded in Latin. He closed his suitcase and wheeled it to the door. Carpe vinum, he thought as he checked his watch with a smile.

Zara Kaleel gazed at the four-tier chandelier looming above the altar, its mass of golden arms like snakes on Medusa, each curved and spindly, topped with a tongue of light. It cast a ceremonious shadow across the cavernous room, making it somehow colder. She was perched on the edge of a pew, wary of being asked to speak after her silence in the meeting last week. She squared her shoulders and crossed her legs, her right foot positioned in a demure en pointe. Places of worship put her on edge.

There were seven of them tonight in this sorry assembly of miscreants and misfits, all dotted across St Alfege Church as if sharing a pew might unglue a wound. Zara recognised three of them: Sam, the part-time teacher; Kerry, the wounded writer; Ed, the ex-criminal on the cusp of surrender.

As feared, Chris, the session leader, nodded at Zara. ‘Would you like to address the group?’ he asked, his Irish accent soft and lyrical.

Zara felt a spike of unease. How was it that she had spent years orating in open court but was anxious at the prospect of addressing this room? She raised a hand in polite refusal.

Chris angled his head to the right, entreating her to speak.

She faltered for a moment, caught exposed in his hopeful stare. ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘I’m Zara Kaleel.’ She pressed a nail into the pad of her thumb, leaving half-moon crescents that slowly plumped back. ‘And I am an addict.’ The words were strangely hollow, as if she were playing a role. ‘I have been clean for three weeks.’ The word ‘clean’ held a hitch, laden with sarcasm or irony as if she were somehow superior to this charade of recovery.

She had read that acceptance was a pertinent step and she agreed that this was true, but mainly for people who were really addicted. Zara hadn’t fallen so deeply. In fact, she had stopped taking Diazepam regularly nearly five months ago and hadn’t touched it for a full three weeks – except that one Thursday when she needed to sleep. She wasn’t really an addict but those words formed a vital part of admission to this club and so she deigned to say them.

Unlike in the movies, there was no round of applause to praise her for her courage. Instead, the group waited in silence. In the front row, Ed turned in her direction. His hair fell in strings from the swamp-green canvas of a baseball cap and he stared at her with deathly grey eyes.

Zara wondered if she had made the right choice. Her options had been to see a therapist or join a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. She had balked at the thought of therapy; the shock-white exposure of sitting in a room, bleeding intimacies into soft upholstery as a stranger sat by and watched. She had agreed to attend this NA meeting; to come to church on a Saturday evening and say that she was a junkie.

Chris nodded sagely. ‘Thank you, Zara. Can you share some of your story?’

She wrapped her woollen cardigan around her and folded her arms tightly. With her long dark hair in a messy bun and her skin make-up free, she looked many miles away from the barrister she used to be. ‘I first started using about six years ago.’ She uncrossed her legs and shifted in her seat. ‘At first, it was because my job was stressful.’ She paused, not knowing how much to share. ‘I was a lawyer and it wasn’t unusual to take medication to keep yourself going. I took it for several years on and off without any problems and then…’

Ed in the front row gave her a gentle nod.

Zara felt oddly touched by the gesture. She averted her gaze to the altar and focused on the folds of rich purple velvet. ‘Then my dad died in 2017 – three years ago now. He… we hadn’t talked for six months because…’ Zara shook her head. ‘Anyway, I didn’t get to say goodbye.’ She tried to remain neutral as if reciting facts in court, but felt the dull, aching beat of ceaseless remorse. ‘After that, I started taking Diazepam more frequently and I did some things I’m not proud of.’ She flashed back to a newspaper headline: FOUR MUSLIM TEENS RAPE DISABLED ENGLISH GIRL. ‘I let some people down and now I’m here.’

‘Because you choose to be?’ Chris was clearly more perceptive than Zara had believed.

Her lips curled in a plaintive moue. ‘Because I have to be.’ Chris waited and she shifted beneath his gaze. ‘After I quit chambers, I took a job at a crisis centre working with victims of sexual assault. I had a difficult case last year and things have been… erratic ever since.’ She gripped the edge of the pew in front. ‘My boss told me to seek help if I wanted to keep my job.’

‘Has that helped?’

She half shrugged. ‘Well, I’m here, so that remains to be seen.’

Chris smiled. ‘Okay. Thank you for sharing, Zara. You’ve been very brave.’

You’ve been very brave. Was recovery really this cheesy? Zara imagined how Safran would react when she told him about her NA meetings. She pictured the amused curve of his brow and the familiar lilt of his laugh. She – Zara the Brave – in recovery. What a joke, she thought. What an abject hoot.

Kamran heard a sharp rap on the door and opened it to welcome Jimmy. An athletic boy of Malaysian heritage, he, like Kamran, hailed from a wealthy family and dovetailed comfortably with the Hampton aesthetic. His thick dark hair was scrupulously styled and his manner was calm and confident.

‘You heading to the Batts?’ asked Jimmy.

‘The Batts? But we’re meeting Barrett in a minute.’

‘No, we’re not.’ He gestured at Kamran’s phone. ‘I thought he texted you? His parents’ trip got cancelled so we’re not going up there after all.’

Kamran groaned. ‘I didn’t get the message.’ He drew out his phone and checked his texts. ‘The signal here drives me crazy.’

‘Well, there’s no harm done. We’re heading to the Batts instead. Rumour has it that some old cad has smuggled in a keg.’

Kamran arched a brow. ‘In that case, fuck this then.’ He tipped his suitcase over and grabbed his blazer from the back of his chair. Together, they raced down the stairs into the warm May dusk outside.

The Batts, a large clearing hidden by a copse of trees, was located on the south-eastern boundary of the school grounds. It provided a refuge from their various housemasters, tutors and matrons. Access to drink, drugs and women was strictly controlled at Hampton and these covert soirees provided a rare and welcome chance to indulge.

Kamran’s house, West Lawn, was located at the western extreme of Hampton’s grounds. Eleven other boarding houses were dotted around the complex, each with around seventy boys; fourteen from each year. West Lawn was the centre of his life at Hampton, and his closest friends – Jimmy, Barrett and Nathan – were all housed there too.

Soon, the four of them were gathered on the Batts, joined by their boisterous peers. Jimmy handed Kamran a foamy beer, which he tipped to his lips in glee. Raised in a Muslim family, albeit a liberal one, he still felt a subversive thrill whenever he chose to drink. The beer was warm and sticky, but he gulped it down in hearty swigs. As the sky blotted dark with ink, the mood grew loose and merry.

Kamran spotted his brother, Adam, playing beer pong with some seniors. He headed over and lightly touched his shoulder.

Adam turned and flinched in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

Kamran gestured towards his friends. ‘Barrett’s parents aren’t leaving after all, so I’m coming home with you tomorrow.’

Adam’s face flushed. ‘Oh, right.’

Kamran pointed at the beer pong table. ‘Sorry to ruin your fun.’

‘Nah, you’re not ruining anything,’ he said gravely.

Kamran laughed. ‘Adam, I’m kidding. You’re sixteen. You can have a drink if you want to. Just go easy, okay?’

He nodded solemnly. ‘Yeah. I will.’

Kamran headed back to his friends, vowing not to bother his brother. Adam was naturally pensive and a night of fun would do him good. As the younger sibling, he likely felt more pressure to perform. Kamran was a skilled fencer and popular at school. The thing Adam seemed to enjoy most was spending time with horses and yet he refused to play polo – ‘a cruel sport’ he’d say with that dreamy, absent air of his. He had joined the cricket team at their father’s behest, but lacked a natural flair. Adam was too self-conscious in a team. He needed to learn to let go, and perhaps this party would help him.

Kamran passed a group of juniors that were climbing a large sycamore tree. Janus Keister reached the top branch, then pulled down his pants and mooned his friends.

‘Very on brand, Keister!’ yelled a boy, then chuckled at his own wit. Another group of juniors had fastened their ties around their heads and were running around shouting in Greek. Apparently, this is what passed for fun at Hampton. Kamran laughed as he watched, then joined his friends for a second drink.