Chapter 4: Domestic Deception
The scent of lamb stewed with fermented yogurt and toasted pine nuts should have been comforting. Mansaf. Majed’s pride. The national dish, laid out on the low brass tray between them, steaming fragrantly over a bed of golden rice. Incense smoke curled from a burner on the sideboard – frankincense, Majed’s insistence, for "authenticity." But to Lama, the rich aroma was cloying, thick as guilt in her throat. It mingled unpleasantly with the lingering phantom scent of stale beer and Jack’s skin on hers, buried beneath the soft cotton of her abaya.
"Like my mother made it, habibti?" Majed beamed, his round face flushed from the kitchen heat. He carefully scooped a generous portion onto her plate, the tender meat falling apart, glistening with jameed sauce. "I used extra ghee. For richness." He patted his own slightly protruding stomach affectionately.
Every movement sent a dull throb through the bruises hidden beneath her sleeve and high collar – souvenirs from Jack’s grip at the skate park two nights ago. She shifted minutely on the embroidered floor cushion, trying to find a position that didn’t press the tender, mottled skin on her hip against the hard floor. "It smells wonderful, Majed," she murmured, forcing a small smile. The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, another flavor added to the meal.
He chuckled, pleased, settling back heavily on his own cushion. "Ahmad stopped by the shop today," he said, tearing a piece of shrak bread with his thick fingers. "Said he saw your car near the university library again last Thursday. Dedication! What are you researching that takes so many late nights, eh?" His eyes, kind but slightly vacant, held only innocent curiosity.
Lama’s fork clinked against her porcelain plate. The library. The flimsy cover story she and Nadia had settled on. She pictured the dank stairwell of Jack’s apartment block instead, the keys fumbling in her hand, heart hammering not from scholarly pursuit but illicit anticipation. "Oh, just… comparative cultural anthropology," she stammered, the academic term feeling absurdly out of place. "Post-colonial narratives." She scooped up a tiny mound of rice, avoiding his gaze. The saffron grains looked suddenly garish. "It’s… complex."
"Complex," Majed repeated, nodding sagely as if he understood. He chewed his meat with slow satisfaction. "Good. Keep your mind sharp. Better than those silly soap operas Nadia watches, yes?" He gave another warm chuckle, reaching over to pat her knee under the low table. "My clever wife."
His touch, meant to be affectionate, landed directly over one of the deeper bruises Jack had left. Lama flinched, a sharp intake of breath escaping her before she could stop it. She dropped the fork. It clattered loudly on the plate.
Majed’s smile faltered. "Lama? Are you alright? You seem… jumpy lately." His brow furrowed with gentle concern. "Tired from all that studying? Maybe you should slow down a bit."
Panic fluttered in her chest. Jumpy. Because every unexpected noise felt like discovery. Every touch felt like exposure. "Just… a long week," she managed, retrieving her fork with trembling fingers. She forced herself to meet his eyes, summoning the practiced calm she wore like her abaya. "And this course is demanding. Lots of… unexpected depth." The unintended echo of Nadia’s crude description of Jack – deep – made her cheeks burn. She took a large gulp of water.
He studied her for a moment, his kind face softening. "You work too hard. Don't exhaust yourself for some university paper, ya amar. Your health is more important." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Maybe… maybe we could take a little trip soon? Just us? Like before the… you know." He gestured vaguely, a flicker of remembered frustration and embarrassment darkening his eyes. The unspoken reference to his increasing struggles in bed hung heavy between them. His premature finish last week had been almost comically swift, leaving her achingly unfulfilled, silently screaming into the pillow. Afterwards, he’d mumbled apologies, blaming stress, tiredness.
Before. Before the fumbling, the apologies, the gentle, inadequate touches that never ignited anything. Before Jack.
The image of Jack’s lean, tattooed torso pinning her against the graffiti-splattered concrete wall flashed in her mind. The raw power, the deliberate roughness, the way he took, leaving her breathless and marked. The sheer, obliterating intensity of it. Majed’s suggestion of a gentle, chaste trip felt like an insult. A suffocating blanket.
"That… sounds nice, Majed," she lied again, the words ash in her mouth. She pushed the succulent lamb around her plate. It looked unappetizing now, greasy. The taste of betrayal was stronger than the jameed. "We’ll see. Work is… unpredictable."
He smiled, misunderstanding her hesitation. "Of course, of course. University schedules." He took another large bite, chewing contentedly. "Just think about it. Somewhere quiet. Maybe the Lakes? Ahmad was saying–"
Outside, cutting through the quiet tension of the dining room and the rhythmic clatter of Majed’s knife and fork, came a sharp burst of laughter. Raucous, male, and chillingly familiar. Jack’s laugh. Raw, unrestrained. It echoed from the street, impossibly close to their open living room window.
Lama froze. Her blood turned to ice. The bite of mansaf she’d just forced down threatened to come back up. Here? Now? Had he followed her? Was he trying to get caught? Her knuckles whitened around her fork. She couldn’t breathe.
Majed paused mid-chew, listening. A frown creased his forehead. "Who on earth…?" He started to push himself up from the cushion, his movements slow and heavy. "Sounded like… Ahmad? Is he drunk again? At this hour?"
Ahmad. Majed’s ever-present, conveniently oblivious cousin. The perfect scapegoat. Lama seized on it, her voice strained. "Probably!" she blurted, too loud, too fast. "You know Ahmad after football! Always rowdy with his mates." She forced a shaky laugh. "Ignore him."
Majed hesitated, half-risen, peering towards the hallway leading to the front door. Jack’s laughter echoed again, fainter now, receding down the street. A different timbre, a different kind of wildness than Ahmad’s. But Majed, blessedly, tragically gullible, sank back down. "Hmph. That boy needs to learn some respect. Waking decent people." He shook his head, a picture of mild, paternal disapproval. "Hope he didn't disturb your concentration earlier, habibti." He resumed eating, the momentary interruption forgotten.
Lama stared at her plate. The golden rice was congealing. The tender lamb looked cold. The rich smell of the mansaf now mingled sickeningly with the memory of Jack’s cheap body spray and the metallic tang of her own fear. Majed’s loving gesture – this meal, his concern, his gentle touch – felt like a suffocating shroud woven from tradition and inadequacy. It pressed down on her, heavy as the bruises beneath her clothes. The sharp, fleeting danger of Jack’s nearness, his chaotic energy intruding into this stifling domestic scene, had been terrifying… but also, shamefully, a jolt of pure, illicit adrenaline.
The phantom ache between her thighs, momentarily soothed by Majed’s oblivion, flared back to life, hotter than before. Obliteration. It called to her, a siren song from the street, louder than Majed’s satisfied chewing, louder than her own pounding heart. She looked at her husband, diligently cleaning his plate, utterly unaware of the earthquake beneath his feet. The carefully constructed life felt brittle, ready to shatter. She picked up her fork again, not to eat, but to have something to hold onto. Her fingers trembled. Outside, the street was silent now. But Jack’s laughter still echoed in her skull, a promise and a threat, drowning out the comforting clink of Majed’s spoon scraping the last of the rice. The taste in her mouth was no longer just betrayal. It was the sharp, metallic flavour of the inevitable crash.
The metallic taste lingered, sharp and cold. Majed scraped his plate clean, humming softly, utterly unaware of the fault lines cracking beneath his feet. Lama pushed her own plate away, the untouched mansaf congealing into a greasy monument to her deceit.
"Early night for me, Majed," she announced, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her hands. "That research... it’s exhausting." She stood, avoiding his concerned gaze, the movement sending fresh jolts of pain from Jack’s fingerprints hidden beneath her sleeve.
"Of course, habibti," Majed murmured, wiping his mouth. "Rest well. Don’t work too hard." His kindness was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest. She fled the cloying scent of lamb and incense, retreating to the sterile quiet of their bedroom.
Sleep was impossible. Jack’s laughter echoed in the silence, merging with the phantom ache deep inside her. The bruises pulsed, a constant reminder of the oblivion she craved. Two days later, the text arrived: Flat. Now. Two words, a command. Majed was pulling an extra shift at the shop. The window was wide open.
Jack’s flat smelled like stale pizza, cheap lager, and the sharp, skunky tang of weed. Clothes littered the floor; empty cans formed precarious towers. He answered the door shirtless, faded jeans slung low, a lazy smirk on his face. "Took you long enough." He pulled her inside, the door slamming shut behind her.
His mouth was on hers before she could speak, rough, insistent, tasting of tobacco. His hands slid under her abaya, finding bare skin, fingers digging into the fading bruises on her hips. "Missed this," he growled against her neck, biting down hard enough to make her gasp. It wasn't tenderness; it was possession.
He pushed her backwards towards the unmade bed. Her abaya caught on a discarded skateboard truck, ripping slightly. He didn't notice. Or care. "Get it off," he ordered, already working on his own belt buckle. The urgency was animal, raw. She fumbled with her clothes, the familiar scent of his unwashed sheets hitting her nostrils as she fell back onto the mattress.
He was on her instantly, pinning her wrists above her head. No preamble. No gentle exploration. Just the hard press of his body, the demanding heat between his legs grinding against her. "Fuck, you’re ready," he muttered, fingers sliding between her thighs, finding her slickness. It was crude, efficient. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly.
Then he was pushing in, a brutal, unforgiving stretch that stole her breath. "Jesus," he groaned, head dropping, eyes closing in pure sensation. "Tight." He began thrusting immediately, deep, punishing strokes that rocked her body against the thin mattress. The bedsprings screamed in protest.
Lama arched, meeting his force, the sharp pain dissolving into a wave of intense, shameful pleasure. This was obliteration. His sweat dripped onto her chest. His breath came in harsh grunts against her ear. The room smelled of sex and neglect. Her phone, buried deep in her discarded bag on the floor, began buzzing. Insistent. Ignored.
Majed frowned at his phone screen. Call Failed. He tried again, pacing the small stockroom at the back of his electronics repair shop. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Lama wasn’t answering. Again. The library closed hours ago. Unease, a cold, unfamiliar feeling, coiled in his gut. She’d been so jumpy lately. Distant.
He dialed Huda’s number instead, his thumb clumsy on the screen. She answered on the third ring, her voice smooth, calm. "Majed? Is everything alright?"
"Habibti, sorry to bother," Majed stammered, the worry bleeding into his voice. "Is Lama with you? She’s not answering her phone. I thought... maybe you were still out? Fabric shopping?" He clung to the flimsy story Lama had given him days ago.
A beat of silence. Then Huda’s voice, laced with perfect, practiced concern. "Oh Majed, no! She left ages ago! Said she had a splitting headache, poor thing. Went straight home to lie down." Her tone shifted seamlessly to gentle admonishment. "Did you try the landline? Maybe her mobile battery died. You know how she forgets to charge it."
Relief washed over him, warm and immediate. Of course. A headache. The library, the research... it made sense. He was being foolish. Paranoid. "Ah, yes! The landline! Silly me," Majed chuckled, the tension draining from his shoulders. "Thank you, Huda. You’re a lifesaver. Sorry to disturb your evening."
"Anytime, Majed," Huda replied, her voice sweet, reassuring. "Take care of her. Give her my love." She ended the call. Majed stood in the buzzing silence, chastising himself for his momentary panic. He’d call the landline. Bring her some mint tea.
Jack’s thrusts grew frantic, erratic. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave fresh marks. "Gonna come," he gasped, voice thick, strained. He slammed into her one last time, deep, holding himself there as he shuddered, a low groan tearing from his throat. Heat flooded inside her.
He collapsed onto her, heavy, breathing raggedly against her neck. The smell of sweat and sex filled the air. Lama lay pinned beneath him, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. The buzzing in her bag had stopped. The phantom ache was gone, replaced by a hollow numbness. Obliterated. Again.
Jack rolled off, reaching immediately for the half-smoked joint on the bedside table. He lit it, took a deep drag, exhaling a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. "Fuck," he breathed, satisfaction radiating off him. He offered her the joint without looking. "Hit?"
Lama stared at the glowing tip. The numbness deepened. She took it. The acrid smoke burned her lungs. Outside, the Manchester rain started again, tapping softly against the grimy window. Inside, the silence stretched, thick and meaningless. Her phone, silent now, felt like a bomb in the other room.
The silence after Jack’s harsh breathing subsided stretched, thick with the smell of stale weed, sex, and neglect. Rain streaked the grimy window, casting watery shadows across the stained ceiling. Lama lay on her back, the cheap sheets scratchy against her skin, feeling the insistent vibration of her silenced phone in her discarded bag across the room like a physical pulse against her ribs. Obliterated, yes, but the familiar, cold tendrils of panic began to curl in her stomach.
Jack exhaled a plume of smoke towards the damp patch on the ceiling, the joint dangling loosely from his fingers. "Your phone’s goin' mental," he mumbled, his voice thick with satisfaction and smoke. He didn’t move to hand her the joint; the moment of offering had passed with his climax.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows, the movement making the fresh bruises on her hips flare. The air felt suddenly clammy. Majed. He never called this late unless something was wrong. Or he was suspicious. The image of him, kind, worried, pacing their tidy living room, flashed before her. She swung her legs off the bed, the cold linoleum biting her bare feet. "I need to call him back," she said, her voice tight.
Jack just grunted, watching her with detached amusement as she scrambled naked across the debris-strewn floor, digging her abaya out from under the discarded jeans and pizza box. She fished the phone from the inner pocket. Missed Call: Majed. Missed Call: Majed. Missed Call: Majed. Followed by a voicemail icon blinking accusingly. Her thumb hovered, trembling slightly. She couldn’t listen to it. Not here.
Taking a shaky breath, she hit the callback button, pressing the phone to her ear. It rang once, twice. Please pick up, please be okay, please just be worried...
"Lama!" Majed’s voice burst through the line, laced with palpable relief that twisted her gut. "Habibti! Are you alright? I was so worried! I tried and tried..."
"Majed, I'm fine," she interrupted, forcing her voice into a smooth, sleepy monotone, wrapping her free arm around herself against the sudden chill. She turned slightly away from Jack’s watching eyes. "Just... just a terrible headache. Came straight home from Huda’s and must have fallen asleep. Deep asleep. I didn’t hear the phone."
"Home?" Majed’s relief was tinged with confusion. "But I called the landline too, several times. No answer."
Shit. Huda’s lie. Think. The library story. "Oh! Oh no," Lama improvised, injecting a note of flustered realization. "I... I must have put the handset down wrong after talking to Mother earlier. You know that cradle is faulty sometimes. Completely off the hook. Dead line." She squeezed her eyes shut, praying he’d swallow it. "I only just woke up, saw the missed calls… I’m so sorry I worried you, ya habibi."
The pause on the other end felt endless. She could picture him, brow furrowed, kind eyes clouded with doubt he desperately wanted to dismiss. "You’re sure you’re alright? At home?" The gentleness in his voice, the concern, was a physical blow.
"Positive," she whispered, the lie thick and sour. "Just exhausted. The research... it’s really taking it out of me. And this headache." She leaned against the grimy wall for support. "Go back to the shop, Majed. Don’t worry. I’m going straight back to sleep." The phantom ache of unfulfillment she associated with him was nothing compared to the corrosive guilt gnawing at her now.
Another beat. Then his sigh, heavy with resignation and lingering worry. "Alright, habibti. If you’re sure. I’ll... I’ll finish up here. Get some rest. Drink water. I love you."
The words hit her like stones. "I love you too, Majed," she managed, the phrase tasting like ash. She ended the call before he could say more, slumping against the wall. The silence of the flat roared back in, punctuated only by the drumming rain and Jack’s slow, rhythmic exhalations as he smoked.
"Headache, huh?" Jack’s voice cut through the quiet, laced with lazy mockery. He patted the mattress beside him. "Sounded convincing. Poor old Majed." He chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Always so fuckin’ worried."
Lama pushed off the wall, the adrenaline fading, leaving her hollow and strangely defiant. She walked back to the bed, the cold floor numbing her feet. Instead of lying down, she slid under the thin duvet Jack had half-heartedly pulled up, facing him. The scent of him – sweat, smoke, sex – enveloped her. She reached out, her fingers tracing the hard line of his hipbone above the sheet, then sliding lower, finding the soft, damp heat between his legs.
He stirred, letting out a soft sigh that wasn't quite pleasure, more like acknowledgement. Her fingers gently encircled him, feeling the pliable weight, the latent power still resting there. He was already thickening slightly under her touch. "You handled that like a pro," he murmured, watching her hand move with detached interest. "Smooth."
Lama kept her gaze fixed on her hand, the rhythmic motion calming her frayed nerves. "He believes anything," she said, her voice low, devoid of the sugary tone she used with Majed. It was flat, factual. "So... gentle. So trusting. Like a child." She glanced up at Jack’s face, his sharp features relaxed in the dim light. "Not like you." She squeezed gently, feeling him respond. "You know what you want. You take it. You don’t... fumble. You don’t ask permission for every little thing." A hint of genuine admiration, twisted through with contempt for her husband, seeped into her tone. "White men," she added, almost thoughtfully, her thumb stroking the sensitive head, "you're just... different. Stronger. More... direct. You don't hide behind traditions or... apologies." The crude comparison hung in the air, toxic and intimate.
Jack grinned, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at her hand working him. "Poor fucker wouldn't know what to do with you if he tried," he drawled, his own hand coming up to push her dark hair back from her face, his touch possessive. "Bet he finishes before he even gets his trousers off proper." The casual cruelty was effortless.
Lama met his gaze, a flicker of something dark and complicit passing between them. She thought of Majed’s hesitant fingers, his murmured apologies, the swift, disappointing ends. "He does," she confirmed, her voice a husky whisper. She leaned in, brushing her lips against Jack’s stubbled jaw. "Not like you." Her hand tightened its rhythm. "You know how to make a woman feel... owned. Obliterated." She kissed him, hard, tasting tobacco and her own deceit. "Not loved. Owned."
He kissed her back, a slow, deep exploration that was less about affection and more about dominance reaffirmed. "Damn right," he murmured against her mouth, his hips pushing subtly into her hand. "And you love it." It wasn’t a question.
She didn’t answer with words. Her kiss deepened, her hand moved with more purpose. The image of Majed’s worried face, the sound of his gentle voice saying "I love you," dissolved under the immediate, demanding heat of Jack’s body responding to her touch. The flat, the rain, the grime – it all faded. Only the animal pull remained, the harsh comfort of being claimed by something stronger, something utterly unlike the gentle cage she’d fled. She welcomed the oblivion, letting it drown out the echoing lie she’d just told and the ghost of her husband’s bewildered devotion lingering on the disconnected line. Jack rolled her onto her back, his shadow falling over her as the rain lashed harder against the window.