COPYRIGHT

  A Sudden Storm first published in the United Kingdom by Barrington Stoke in 2023

  Published in this ebook edition in 2023

  Barrington Stoke is an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper

  Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland

  Text Copyright © Bali Rai 2023

  Illustrations Copyright © David Shephard 2023

  Cover illustrations Copyright © Andy Gellenberg 2023

  Cover design Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023

  Bali Rai and David Shephard assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work respectively.

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

  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 ebook onscreen. 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.

  Source ISBNs: 9781800902534

  Ebook Edition © October 2023 ISBN: 9781800903197

  Version: [2023-09-12]

  In memory of Ricky Reel, and for Sukhdev Reel and her family. Still fighting for justice so many years later.

  And for all those human beings murdered and hurt in the UK simply because they looked different.

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  BEFORE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  AFTER

  AUTHOR NOTE

  BEFORE

  What if you lit a candle for each of your dreams? You stand them in a line, and the flames flicker and crackle. Even when it’s cold, or you’re not feeling great, you know the candles are there. That keeps you going. The flames light the way in every battle you face, for every problem that knocks you back.

  You can’t even see the candles, but you know they are there, in your head. And that’s all that matters. You know they are there …

  And then a sudden storm. A howling gust of wind. The flames snuff out. Just blown out as though they never mattered. As though you never mattered.

  In an instant. Nothing left …

  CHAPTER 1

  My house that night was warm and light. It felt safe.

  When I got in from school, Dad was in the new kitchen, finishing off the shelves. He was tall with strong hands and a big beard. His clothes were old and dusty, and his brown work boots had holes in them. He looked hot and cross as he tried to get the shelves level.

  “Need a hand, Dad?” I asked as I shut the front door behind me.

  “No, no,” he said. “Go on up and get changed out of your wet clothes, Arjan,” he told me. “You’re soaking wet! Get ready to go out with your friends.”

  “I don’t have to go out,” I said. “It’s not some major thing. We’re just going to watch a film and grab a Nando’s after.”

  “It’s your sixteenth birthday, son,” said Dad. “Go and have fun.”

  I grinned. “What were you doing when you were sixteen?” I asked him.

  “I was farming in Punjab,” he told me. “And two years later I married your mother. We didn’t have bloody cinema and Nando’s!”

  He grinned too. “My life was different, boy,” he added. “I don’t want the same for you.”

  My parents were Punjabis – they grew up in the north of India. They were Sikhs, and I was Sikh too. That was our religion, and our way of life. Even in England, where I was born.

  “I would be proud to be like you,” I told Dad.

  “Bloody hell!” he groaned as he dropped the spirit level. “Grab that for me, son.”

  I picked the level up and handed it to him. He looked at me for a moment. Then he hugged me.

  “Time moves on, ” he said to me. “We are British now, and you have more opportunities than me. I don’t want you to waste them. Life is about moving forward. It is about doing well and being happy.”

  “I know, I know,” I joked. “You want your son to be a lawyer or a doctor. Typical Asian parent …”

  Dad laughed. “You daft bandar,” he said. “I don’t care what job you do. Just do your best and be happy. Then I will be happy.”

  “I can be all of that and still help you,” I told him.

  Dad was a builder and worked long days, sometimes seven days a week. He loved his work, but he wanted more for me.

  “I use my hands,” he replied. “It’s good, hard work. You are clever, boy. You can use your brain. Dream bigger.”

  “So builders don’t use their brains?” I joked.

  “Of course we do,” he told me. “But you must follow your own path. Now, get going. You’ll be late. It’s your birthday.”

  “Are we still having a family party too?” I asked.

  “On Sunday,” he replied. “At the gurdwara.”

  Each year of my life, my parents held a service at our local Sikh temple. It was a chance to get our huge family together. To give thanks for our blessings. There was a big party after.

  “Cool,” I said. “Better get ready for tonight then.”

  He scratched his head under his grey turban. “Bloody shelves,” he said as I went up to my bedroom.

  CHAPTER 2

  I wore a turban too. In fact, at school that day, I’d finished an essay about it. My school had an enrichment week every June, and this was my last chance to take part. I was leaving after my exams in the summer. The school librarian, Miss Khan, was keen for me to give a talk to the Year 7s and 8s.

  “Go home, Arjan,” Miss Khan told me after school. “You’ve been more than helpful today.”

  “In a minute, Miss,” I replied. “Looking for a weekend book.”

  “How is your essay coming along?”

  “Done,” I told her.

  “Are you still happy to read it aloud?”

  I nodded. “Course,” I said. “I know I’m leaving this year, after my exams. But I’ll come back in afterwards.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy to speak about your faith,” she replied. “It’s important for the younger pupils. You should get going though. It’s Friday, and I need to lock up.”

  “One more minute,” I said as I grabbed a book to borrow.

  “And happy birthday!” she added. “Got anything planned?”

  “Just the cinema and food,” I replied.

  I walked home down the high street. It was raining, and I could feel my turban getting really wet. There was loads of traffic. I heard car horns and swearing, and kids shouting and laughing. The normal sounds of my walk home. A gang of lads took cover just inside a fried-chicken shop.

  “Yo!” yelled Yusuf, one of my best friends. He was thin, all long legs and big feet, and a goatee beard that made him look like a wise man from a kung-fu film.

  “Easy, bro!”

  “Come out of the rain, innit.”

  I shook my head. “Nah, I gotta get back,” I told him. “Wanna chill at home.”

  “We still going cinema later?” asked Yusuf.

  “Yeah, if you still want to.”

  Yusuf was always out and about. Even in the rain, after school. A proper roadman, people called him. But he wasn’t into gangs or nothing. Not like some of the lads we knew. He was a joker and a good laugh.

  “Course, bro!” he replied, stroking his little beard. “What time?”

  “Film starts about seven, I think,” I said. “I’ll check and message you.”

  “Who else is coming?” Yusuf asked me.

  “Tyler and Pavel,” I said. “Maybe Kasia and Jem too.”

  “OK,” he said. “Should be a laugh.”

  I left Yusuf and went on walking. The rain was heavy now and running down the back of my coat. My school shoes were soaked.

  “Bring a waterproof turban though, bruv!” Yusuf shouted from the doorway.

  I swore at him but laughed too. I didn’t think or look but stepped out to cross the high street. Suddenly, I heard brakes squealing. A van stopped right by me. I froze in panic.

  “You stupid prick!”

  The van was white, like my dad’s, and the driver and his friend were tradesmen too. The driver glared at me. The guy next to him was younger than him, with a blond ponytail and tattoos up his neck. He was grinning at me as if something was really funny.

  The driver got out. “You thick, pal?” he yelled right up close to my face.

  “Sorry,” I replied. “I wasn’t watching where I was going and—”

  “Too right,” said the driver. “You must have a death wish.”

  “Probably can’t hear with that nappy on your head,” said the guy with the ponytail from his window. “What are you – Taliban?”

  I felt my stomach turn. My legs shook a little. “I’m a Sikh,” I said. “Sorry again. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

  The driver shook his head. “I can’t stand you immigrants,” he told me.

  “I was born here,” I said. Even though I was still scared.

  “Don’t mean nothing to me,” said the driver. “You ain’t English with that stupid rag on your head!”

  “It’s called a turban,” I told him.

  “Call it what yer like, pal,” he replied. “Now, piss off back to India, mate.”

  As he jumped back in his van, the young guy grinned again. “Go home and build a bomb,” he said.

  He spat at me, and then they drove away. I didn’t move for a minute. I wanted to stop shaking first. I was angry and scared at the same time. I wanted to chase after them and tell them what a turban was, and who I was. And I wanted to punch them too. But I told myself to cool down and remembered that I was a Sikh. I would defend myself if I needed to, but I wouldn’t start a fight.

  “You OK, bruv?” I heard Yusuf asking behind me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just a couple of idiots.”

  “Sorry, I should have seen it sooner,” said Yusuf. “Them man need a proper kicking.”

  “I feel sorry for them,” I replied. “They’re just ignorant and angry. Nothing to worry about now, anyway.”

  We bumped fists, and I went home.

  CHAPTER 3

  Back home, after I’d chatted with Dad, I went up to my bedroom to get changed out of my wet clothes.

  I stood in front of my mirror. I liked to look at the way it reflected my Arsenal FC posters, my bed, and three shelves loaded with books and old toys and other stuff. Then I began to take off my wet turban. Like Yusuf said, it was soaking.

  My school turbans were black, to match my uniform. I also had other colours, which I wore outside school. I’d worn a turban since Year 7. Before that, I used to have a topknot covered with a tied white handkerchief.

  I had never cut my hair, so it was thick and long. I washed it and oiled it to keep it healthy. But I’d never cut it. My friends often asked if long hair was annoying or difficult, and sometimes it was. But it was also part of who I was.

  I wanted to shower and get dressed in my casual gear, so I unwound my turban slowly and put it on my bed.

  The racist men from earlier bothered me. They were small-minded and ignorant. What did they know about turbans? Mine was like my Sikh crown. It showed the world that I was a Singh – a name that all true Sikh men have. Sikh women are known as Kaur. Sharing these names shows unity, that all people are one. Sikhs don’t believe in prejudice. It upset me that those men didn’t understand that.

  See, most people didn’t get my turban. Not really. I’d had abuse a few times, but mostly just ignorance and rubbish. Even my mates made jokes, although I didn’t mind that because they meant no harm. It was just banter, and we all did it.

  We never joked about the serious part though. My friends knew that wearing a turban was about self-respect and courage. It was about showing that I loved my friends and my family more than myself and I would put myself second. My friends respected that, and they respected me. I wasn’t going to let those racists get to me. I was a British Sikh, and their ignorance was their problem.

  After my shower, I dressed in black jeans, a matching T-shirt and hoodie, and my white Adidas trainers. As I sat to retie a different turban, Mum knocked at my door.

  “Come in.”

  As soon as she entered, she took the fabric from me. “This is for school,” she said. “Wear one of your other turbans.”

  “But this one matches my clothes,” I told her.

  “Don’t be silly,” she told me. “It’s your birthday. A splash of colour won’t hurt.”

  Mum opened my cupboard and took out some red cloth. Arsenal FC red, or so I told people. “This one?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Go on then,” I said. “Just for you, Mum.”

  “You will look wonderful!” she told me. “A true Singh!”

  She wrapped the cloth around my head before fixing it. Once she was done, she smiled. “Perfect,” she said.

  “Thanks, Mum,” I replied.

  “Your friend is here,” she added.

  “Huh?”

  “Tyler,” she told me. “He arrived when you were in the shower.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mum grinned at me. “Why does it matter?” she asked. “He’s downstairs eating samosas.”

  I laughed. Like me, Tyler loved samosas. It was probably the only reason he’d turned up. He was waiting for me in the living room, watching one of Mum’s Indian channels on Sky. An old Bollywood film was playing. Tyler had reddish brown hair styled in cornrows, and wore a big orange puffer jacket.

  “These films are mad, bro,” he said. “Someone just got shot, and now they’re dancing around the drummers!”

  “They get worse,” I told him. “You should see the drama shows too. They’re proper whacked out.”

  “Nice threads, bro,” Tyler added. “That turban is sharp!”

  “Mum made me wear this,” I said. “I was gonna wear a black one.”

  “Nah,” he replied. “It’s your birthday, bredda. Gotta show up in fine style, innit. Might even impress Jem …”

  “Doubt that,” I replied.

  I’d never had a girlfriend and wasn’t exactly looking. But Jem was nice, and she seemed to like me.

  Things were changing. I had GCSEs coming up, and then I was leaving school to do A Levels at college. My world felt wide and open and full of opportunities. Adult life was coming soon, and I was excited. As much as Tyler was excited by my mum’s food.

  An empty plate sat on his lap, with a blob of ketchup on the side.

  “You enjoy the samosas?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Delicious, as always. Was gonna save you one, but you know how it goes …”

  As he licked his fingers, Mum walked in with another plate of samosas and two cans of cola. “Eat up,” she said. “It’s cold and wet outside, so warm your bellies.”

  “Guess it would be rude to say no,” said Tyler.

  “Like you’d say no anyway,” I told him. “You don’t ever refuse samosas, bro.”

  “Yeah,” he said, his mouth full. “Cos I ain’t dumb, you get me?”

  “Have a good night and be careful,” said Mum when we were done eating.

  “I will,” I promised. “Back by 1 a.m. latest.”

  Mum smiled. “Make it midnight,” she said.

  “OK,” I told her.

  I checked my turban once more, grabbed my coat and left with Tyler, who had put another samosa in his pocket.

  “I should charge you for them,” I joked.

  “Nah!” he mocked. “I thought you Sikhs was all about sharing and family, bro. Only reason I’ve been your mate since Reception, innit!”

  “Shut up, you moron!”

  CHAPTER 4

  We met Jem and Kasia by McDonald’s and then caught a bus on the high street. The cinema was about twenty minutes away, in another part of the city.

  We were cracking jokes and having a good laugh, and I was happy that Jem had made it. We’d been good friends since Year 7, and now there was something else happening. It was exciting, but I was nervous too.

  We met the others at an “Entertainment Village”, which had a bowling alley, restaurants, dessert parlours and stuff. Behind was a huge retail park and the riverside.

  “What we watching again?” asked Pavel.

  He was the tallest of us, with blond hair and pale blue eyes. He spoke with a bit of a Slovakian accent, but he’d lived in England since he was seven. He’d been my friend all through primary school.

  “Action-type thing,” said Yusuf. “But I only got four tickets.”

  “It’s OK,” said Kasia. “We can get our own.”

  “I’ll get them,” I told her. “It’s my birthday.”

  Kasia was half Polish and half Welsh, with jet-black hair and bright green eyes. She reminded me of a cat.

  “Yeah,” said Jem. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t pay for us!”

  “It’s a Sikh thing,” I replied. “Like, nothing sexist or anything. Just a thing I got from my dad.”

  Jem and Kasia looked at each other. “OK,” said Jem, “but we’re buying your

 

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