Chapter 5: Chapter 5
The Manchester rain had settled into a persistent drizzle by the time Lama fumbled her key into the lock of her own front door. The walk back from Jack’s flat felt longer than usual, her limbs heavy, the damp wool of her abaya clinging unpleasantly. Inside, the house was still, dark, smelling faintly of the lingering frankincense from dinner and the sterile lemon of cleaning products. Majed’s snores rumbled softly from their bedroom door, left slightly ajar. Relief washed over her, immediately followed by a fresh wave of acidic guilt. He’d believed the headache story. He’d gone to bed, trusting his clever wife.
She slipped off her wet shoes, wincing as the movement pulled at the fresh tenderness blooming on her hips and thighs beneath the layers. The rip in her abaya, caught on Jack’s skateboard truck, felt like a glaring neon sign. She hung the garment quickly in the hall closet, hiding the tear in the folds.
Padding silently into the living room, she sank onto the plush sofa, the quiet hum of the refrigerator suddenly loud. The numbness that followed Jack was receding, replaced by jittery aftershocks – relief at evasion warring with disgust at her own lies and the lingering, phantom press of Jack’s body. She needed to talk. Not to Majed, asleep in his oblivious contentment. To the only person who knew.
Her phone glowed in the dimness. She scrolled to Huda’s contact. It was late, but Huda was a night owl. The line rang twice, then clicked.
"Lama? Habibti, everything okay?" Huda’s voice, thick with sleep but instantly alert. "Majed called earlier, worried sick. Said you weren’t answering the landline. I told him you were here, zonked out with a headache."
"I know," Lama whispered, curling her knees to her chest. "Thank you for that. Lifesaver." She took a shaky breath. "He bought it."
A beat of silence on the other end. Then Huda’s voice lowered, intimate, conspiratorial. "Okay… spill. Where were you? Because your headache didn’t look like it involved fabric swatches earlier." A hint of knowing amusement coloured her tone.
Lama closed her eyes. The confession stuck in her throat, thick and shameful. "Jack’s."
Huda didn’t gasp. Didn’t judge. Just let out a long, low whistle. "Again? Wow. Okay. After the library story nearly imploded tonight? You’ve got nerve, girl." There was genuine admiration mixed with caution. "What happened?"
"It was… intense. Close call." Lama recounted the phone call from Majed, her flimsy "dead landline" excuse, the heart-stopping moment Jack’s laughter had pierced their dinner. "It was terrifying, Huda. Majed nearly went to the window. If he’d seen…" She shuddered, pulling the throw blanket tighter around her shoulders. "And then tonight, Majed called my mobile non-stop while I was… there. I had to lie straight to his face, tell him I was safe in bed. The sound of his voice, so worried…" Her voice cracked.
"Ya Allah," Huda breathed. "Okay, that is close. Too close." A pause. "But you handled it. Smooth. 'Dead landline' – classic. Poor Majed, bless his trusting heart." There was no malice, just a resigned acknowledgment of his nature. "The 'white boy' delivers, then?"
Lama felt a flush creep up her neck, unrelated to the warmth of the blanket. The memory of Jack’s roughness, the sheer physical power, surged back. "He… he doesn’t ask permission. He just… takes. Hard. Leaves bruises." She traced the outline of one beneath her sleep pants. "It’s… obliterating. Exactly what I need. Not like…" She trailed off, not needing to say Majed’s name.
"Not like gentle, fumbling Majed who needs a roadmap and apologizes before he even starts," Huda finished for her, her voice dry. "Yeah, I get the appeal. Honestly? Been there. Tasted that particular forbidden fruit myself a time or two." She chuckled softly, a dark, knowing sound. "The danger, the sheer difference of it… it’s a hell of a drug, habibti. Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it? Even when you shouldn’t."
Lama sagged with relief at the understanding. Huda wasn't condemning; she was empathizing. "Alive. Yes. That’s it. Like I’m finally breathing after years underwater."
"Exactly," Huda affirmed. "But listen," her tone shifted, turning serious, pragmatic. "This ‘alive’ feeling? It comes with a massive fucking risk sticker attached. Majed might be gentle and clueless, but he’s not stupid forever. That near miss tonight? That was a warning shot. You need to be smarter. Safer."
Lama swallowed. "I know."
"Good. Solid alibis, not this flimsy library crap you pull every damn week. Actual plans. Places Majed wouldn’t think to look. And ditch the predictable patterns. No more Thursdays. Vary it up." Huda’s voice was brisk, the voice of experience navigating treacherous waters. "And Jack… control the narrative with him too. Tell him nothing about Majed beyond the bare minimum. Don’t let him think he’s got leverage. Some of these lads… they get possessive. Messy. Especially when they realize they’re the thrilling side-piece to a bored wife."
Lama thought of Jack’s lazy smirk, his possessive grip, the way he’d called Majed a "poor fucker." Huda wasn’t wrong. "He already thinks it’s funny. That Majed’s… inadequate."
"Of course he does," Huda scoffed. "They all do. It’s part of the thrill for them. Just don’t let him weaponize it. Keep him compartmentalized. Fun, rough, and disposable. Remember why you’re doing this. It’s about you feeling alive, not about him feeling like a conquering hero."
The cold practicality was a splash of water. Huda wasn’t just endorsing the affair; she was teaching her how to survive it. Manage it. Reduce the fallout. The thrill felt suddenly tarnished, reduced to something needing careful containment. "Disposable," Lama repeated, testing the word. It felt harsh. Necessary.
"Exactly," Huda said firmly. "Enjoy the oblivion, habibti. God knows we all need it sometimes. But for the love of every saint, cover your tracks. Build better walls. Majed’s world might feel like a cage, but it’s a cage with stability. You blow this up…" She let the implication hang: social ruin, financial upheaval, the crushing weight of community judgment far worse than Manchester drizzle. "It’s messy. Ugly. Trust me."
Silence stretched again, filled only by the faint static of the line and Majed’s distant snores. Lama stared at the familiar contours of her living room – the tasteful lamps, the framed family photos, the ornate brass tray still faintly smelling of mansaf. Huda’s words painted a stark picture: the thrilling oblivion versus the meticulously constructed cage. Both suffocating in their own ways.
"You’re right," Lama finally whispered. "I need to be smarter. Careful."
"That’s my girl," Huda said, her voice softening. "Now, get some sleep. You sound shattered. And hydrate – actual headache prevention, not just an alibi." She chuckled. "Call me tomorrow. We’ll workshop better cover stories over coffee. Something involving pottery classes or volunteer work at the cat shelter. Blamelessly boring."
Lama managed a weak smile. "Pottery. Right. Thanks, Huda. Really."
"Anytime. Just… be careful." The line clicked dead.
Lama sat in the silent living room for a long time after. The rain tapped rhythmically against the window. Huda’s support was a lifeline, but it came shackled to cold truths. The affair wasn’t a wild escape; it was a high-wire act over jagged rocks. The bruises Jack left were badges of the oblivion she craved, but Huda’s warning was the deeper ache now – the bruise of consequence lurking just beneath the surface. She stood, her body protesting, and walked towards the bedroom.
Pushing the door open wider, she saw Majed sprawled on his side, face slack with sleep, one hand curled loosely on her empty pillow. The sight wasn't gentle anymore. It was fragile. A sleeping giant she was poking with a very sharp stick. She slipped into bed beside him, careful not to touch him. The space between them felt vast, charged with her secrets and his unknowing vulnerability. She reached for the bottle of sleeping pills on her nightstand – the ones the doctor prescribed after her ‘stress headaches’ began. Dry-swallowing one, she stared at the ceiling, listening to Majed’s steady breathing and the relentless Manchester rain, waiting for the chemical tide to pull her under, away from the careful walls she now had to build and the oblivion that demanded increasingly reckless breaches. The high was fading, leaving only the gritty residue of the lie and Huda's pragmatic, chilling advice echoing in the dark.
The sleeping pill’s fog was thick, viscous, but beneath it, the phone screen pulsed like a live wire against Lama’s thigh under the duvet. Majed’s snores vibrated the mattress beside her. She blinked, the glow illuminating the familiar cracks in the bedroom ceiling plaster. GirlsNightOut (Blocked). Nadia had added Huda. The group name was a dark joke.
> Nadia: Operation Library successfully scrubbed? Majed buy the headache encore? @Lama 👀
> Huda: Oh, he bought it hook, line, and sinker. Our girl spun gold from panic. ‘Dead landline’. Genius. Poor Majed’s worry radar pinged hard tonight though. Close one.
> Lama: Too close. His voice… sounded so lost. Jack laughed outside the window during dinner. Majed nearly looked.
> Nadia: YA ALLAH! The balls on you, habibti! And the balls on Jack apparently 😉 Did the Obliterator deliver? Bruises? Tell me bruises.
> Lama: New ones. Hip. Thigh. Deep purple. He… doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t ask. Just takes. Hard. Fast. Leaves marks. Like he owns me.
> Huda: Textbook. Remember Liam? That rugby lad? Same energy. Just… consumes you. Doesn’t fumble around apologizing for existing like they do.
> Nadia: Ugh, don’t remind me of Ahmed’s ‘preparations’. The candles, the mood music… then pfft. Done. Before I even unbutton my blouse. Like a deflated balloon. Pathetic.
> Lama: Majed tries. Gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s handling antique lace. Last week… over before it began. Apologized. Blamed work stress. Again.
> Huda: Gentle? Sweetheart, gentle is for kittens. What we need is a fucking wrecking ball. Someone who doesn’t need a permission slip and a pep talk. White boys… they just do. They see what they want, they take it. No cultural hand-wringing. No ‘is this halal?’ mid-thrust.
> Nadia: YES! Exactly! It’s the directness. No fucking around. No ‘habibti, is this okay?’ every five seconds. Just… animal. Primal. They know how to use a woman. Properly. Not like our delicate desert flowers back home who think foreplay is asking if you’ve prayed Maghrib.
> Lama: Jack doesn’t ask. He knows. He pins me. Hard. Makes me feel… small. Owned. Used. Exactly how I want it. Not cherished. Used. Majed’s hands feel like… wet paper towels afterwards. Weak.
> Huda: Weak is their default setting. Soft bodies, soft minds, softer… well. You know. Built for comfort, not for speed. Or stamina. Give me a lean, hungry English lad any day. Someone who hasn’t been ruined by too much baklava and mother’s coddling. Someone who fucks like he means it, not like he’s ticking a marital duty box.
> Nadia: Preach! They’re just… stronger. Physically. Mentally. Don’t crumble at the first sign of a woman who actually knows what she wants. Don’t get their fragile egos bruised if you moan too loud. Jack leave you walking funny tomorrow, Lama? Please say yes.
> Lama: Limping slightly. Yes. Feels… real. Solid. Unlike Majed’s tentative little pats. Like he’s afraid I’ll break. Jack breaks me. On purpose. And I love it.
> Huda: That’s the drug, darling. Pure, uncut oblivion. Just remember the dealer. Jack’s fun. Rough. Effective. But keep him in his box. The minute he thinks he’s more than the tool for your escape… trouble. They get possessive. Stupid.
> Nadia: Tools don’t get feelings. Remind him. Frequently. With actions. Or lack thereof. Disposable fun. Unlike our dear, doughy husbands… tragically permanent fixtures. For now 😉 Stay sharp, Lama. Cover those tracks deeper. Majed’s worry tonight… it’s a crack. Seal it.
Lama stared at the glowing screen, Nadia’s crude assessment of Majed as a ‘doughy permanent fixture’ landing with a sickening thud. The messages were a toxic cocktail of shared defiance and corrosive contempt. Seeing their secret desires laid bare, amplified by Nadia’s ruthless humour and Huda’s chilling pragmatism, stripped away the last shreds of romantic illusion. This wasn’t just about passion; it was a systematic deconstruction of the men they’d married, replaced by a fetishized, brutal alternative. The thrill felt suddenly cheap, tawdry. Yet, the phantom ache between her thighs, a souvenir of Jack’s ownership, pulsed insistently against the numbness promised by the sleeping pill. She pictured Majed’s gentle, bewildered face earlier, his trusting ‘I love you’, then Jack’s smirk, his hands leaving bruises like brands. Obliteration versus suffocation. Both cages. One familiar, stifling. The other thrillingly dangerous, promising a shattering she craved even as the messages revealed its ugly, transactional core. She silenced the phone, plunging the room back into near-darkness, save for the faint streetlight glow outlining Majed’s sleeping form. The space between them yawned, filled with the echoes of crude texts and the relentless Manchester rain drumming its indifferent rhythm against the windowpane. The high was gone. Only the grit remained. And the craving for another hit.
The craving pulsed, low and insistent, beneath the chemical haze of the sleeping pill. Majed’s rhythmic snores filled the dark bedroom, a counterpoint to the frantic drumming inside her own chest. Her phone, silenced but glowing faintly beneath the duvet, vibrated again against her thigh. GirlsNightOut (Blocked). Nadia had added Huda. The group name felt like a sick joke scribbled on a bathroom stall.
> Nadia: Operation Library scrubbed clean? Majed swallow the headache encore? @Lama 👀 Spill the deets or I’m calling him myself.
> Huda: Chill, Nadia. He bought it. Hook, line, sinker. Our girl spun pure gold from pure panic. ‘Dead landline’? Inspired. But ya Allah, his worry radar was blipping like mad. Too close.
> Lama: Felt too close. His voice on the phone… he sounded lost. And Jack laughed outside the window during dinner. Majed nearly looked out.
> Nadia: NO WAY! The sheer brass balls on you both! 😂 Did the Obliterator deliver? Tell me bruises. Deep ones.
> Lama: New collection. Hip. Thigh. Deep purple. He just… takes. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Leaves marks. Like he’s stamping his claim.
> Huda: Textbook. Reminds me of that rugby lad, Liam. Pure consumption. Doesn’t fumble around apologizing for breathing like ours do.
> Nadia: Ugh, don’t. Ahmed’s ‘romance’ last week? Candles, bloody oud music… then pfft. Over before I’d even found the mood. Like a sad party balloon. Pathetic.
> Lama: Majed tries. Too gentle. Like he’s scared I’ll shatter. Last time… finished almost instantly. Apologized. Blamed accounts receivable. Again.
> Huda: Gentle? Habibti, gentle is for stroking cats. What we need is a goddamn demolition crew. Someone who operates without a permission slip. These white lads… they just act. See it, want it, take it. Zero cultural hand-wringing. No ‘is this appropriate?’ panic midway.
> Nadia: YES! This! The directness. No fucking around. No ‘habibti, is this angle okay for you?’ every five damn seconds. Just… pure animal. They use you. Properly. Not like our delicate desert princes who think foreplay is asking if you remembered your aunt’s birthday.
> Lama: Jack doesn’t ask. He knows. Pins me. Hard. Makes me feel… small. Owned. Used. Exactly what I want. Not cherished like fragile glass. Used like… something built to take it. Majed’s hands feel like damp tissue paper afterwards. Weak.
> Huda: Weak is coded into their damn DNA back home. Soft bodies, softer minds, softer… everything down south. Built for napping, not nailing. Gimme a hungry English bloke any day. One who hasn’t been ruined by mama’s syrupy sweets and constant coddling. Someone who fucks like he actually means it, not like he’s performing a dusty ritual. They just have… more. Everywhere. Thicker. Harder. Lasts. Knows how to work it.
> Nadia: Preach! They’re just… built stronger. Physically. Mentally. Don’t fold like cheap lawn chairs if you make a noise. Don’t get their precious egos dented if you actually seem to enjoy it. Jack leaving you walking funny tomorrow, Lama? Please say yes.
> Lama: Limping a bit, yeah. Feels… solid. Real. Unlike Majed’s feather-light little pats afterwards. Like he’s terrified of leaving a fingerprint. Jack breaks things. On purpose. And I… crave the break.
> Huda: That’s the high, darling. Pure, uncut oblivion. But remember the dealer. Jack’s fun. Rough. Gets the job done. Keep him strictly in his box. The second he sniffs he’s more than your personal wrecking ball… trouble. They get clingy. Stupid. Possessive. Like toddlers who found a new, noisy toy.
> Nadia: Tools shouldn’t catch feelings. Remind him. Often. Actions speak louder. Or lack of actions. He’s disposable fun. Unlike our dear, doughy anchors… tragically bolted to the seabed for now. 😉 Cover your tracks deeper, Lama. Majed’s worry tonight? That crack in the dam. Cement it shut.
Lama stared at the glowing screen, Nadia’s brutal description of Majed as a ‘doughy anchor’ hitting like a physical blow. The messages were a corrosive cocktail – shared defiance curdling into venomous contempt. Seeing their secret hungers laid bare, amplified by Nadia’s ruthless humour and Huda’s icy pragmatism, stripped the last shred of illusion. This wasn’t stolen passion; it was a calculated trade: suffocating stability for brutal, transactional oblivion. The thrill curdled, turning cheap and ugly in the blue-lit dark. Yet, beneath the fading pill and the rising disgust, the phantom ache Jack had ignited pulsed, a deep, insistent throb against the numbness. Obliteration versus suffocation. Two different prisons. One familiar, heavy. The other terrifyingly addictive, promising a shattering she needed even as the screen revealed its hollow, hateful core. She jabbed the power button, plunging the room back into near-darkness, the streetlight casting skeletal shadows across Majed’s oblivious, sleeping face. The rain lashed the window, indifferent. The space between them wasn't just empty; it was a minefield of her making. The craving didn't fade. It deepened, a cold, hard knot twisting in her gut beside the fading warmth of the chemical haze. The silence roared.