What Lies Beneath

When she ran out, her little dark brown head skimmed the car bonnet. My heart missed a beat; I slammed on the brakes. Swerved. And waited, for what seemed like an eternity, wondering whether death, or life, would be waiting when I got out.
But then there she was. She must have only been about five years old, and she was blinking, dark eyed and shiny, like a faun. I remember how she was wearing a cherry pink sari, and how a woman – her mother, presumably – then ran out and grabbed her.

It was twilight, autumn 2008. My mind was addled from night feeds and that baby on board sign on the back of the car. There but for the grace of God, I thought. I exhaled shakily. And then started to cry.

I’d had a feeling, though, that something bad was going to happen that night. Sixth sense, you might call it. But, there was something else, too. You see, it is different, in that part of town. It is a far cry from Primark, drunken louts, or leafy suburban parks. This is a place where people are likely to dart out into the middle of the road. Bearded men in long robes, muttering quietly, or their sari clad wives and children with glittering sandals. It is world where buildings stand, derelict, in a stagnant, steel shuttered mess; where the wind blows the scent of spices across swathes of identikit red brick semis; where the gleaming green dome of a mosque sits on top of it all like a giant Christmas bauble, or a squashed Fabergé egg.
I think of that little girl on the way to ASDA. Who would willingly harm such a little girl? I think. I switch on the radio. BBC radio Lancashire. Six thousand protestors, they are saying. Be careful. Oh come on, jokes someone, live on air. I’m a big girl, I can look after meself, she adds, with a nervous laugh.

In the checkout queue, people are muttering, exchanging nervous glances. What is the point? Why are they coming to Blackburn? snaps the woman behind me. She wears a smart trouser suit, and a thick layer of gloopy lip gloss that does nothing to hide the lines of tension in her face. I find myself looking at her, critically. We glare at each other, ominously.

On the way back, I drive slowly. I feel a million miles away from the contented pubs and church spires a couple of miles down the road. Here; the pubs are boarded up; their facades chipped and faded, adorned only by skeletal hanging baskets. A handful of shops; newsagents, chemists, ramshackle second hand shops, spill their wares like market bazaars on to the pavement. And no drunks; never any drunks at night. Just the quiet purr of taxi cabs.
Sometimes, I wonder. Do we live in parallel worlds, separate dimensions, perhaps? The Muslims; the white people, existing alongside each other; silently orbiting each other’s world?
It is Friday night. The wind is sharp; it tugs at the cherry blossom, tossing litter across the road. And worry hangs in the air, with the scent of spices and daffodils.