英文本 普本 The P Word

伦敦剧院上座剧

ACT ONE

BILLY： Knew it was on, the minute I saw his Instagram linked to his profile. He's a white boy who has been travelling to India.

ZAFAR： Haroon was always there. I don't remember a time before him, since we were kids we were inseparable.

He'd always pick me first when we played cricket.

I'm shit at cricket, he was brilliant, tall and strong. Could have played for Pakistan if he was given half the opportunity. But he came from a poor family in our village.

By fifteen he was working in my father's factory. Never complained, always a smile on his face.

（It's a cliché to talk about a smile that lights up a room, but it lit me up.）

BILLY：Pictures of him outside the Taj Mahal, pictures of the curries he ate, on a beach with some local kids, in a rickshaw. That means he's down with a bit of brown. Plus I'm like the best version of brown. I'm not even into Pakis and I'd probably hook up with myself. Like you can't tell I'm Pakistani straight away, most people can't believe it when I tell them anyway.

My name gives it away... Like of all the names my parents could have given me, why not Adam? Daniel or I would even have settled for Zayne. They chose... Bilal. Fuck that, Bilal was the fat boy who got bullied at school for being a big brown poof. But Billy is the jacked masc lad, who gets all the bovs.

（He gets a Grindr message so pulls out his phone.）

And this one's just sent me a picture of him bent over and his Calvins are nowhere to be seen. Can't wait, love me a twinky little white boy. Got to respond -

(He begins to type a message.)

ZAFAR： Doctors and nurses, another game we would play, a lot. Always give each other mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Somewhere along the line we dropped the game and just the mouth-to-mouth bit remained. Kissing him, I would never want to stop.

BILLY： 'Nice' nah too ambivalent, 'sexy' too eager, 'hot' yeah

that's the one.

And bingo I'm in. He's pinging me his location, practically begging me to come over, his housemate's away so he's got the place to himself.

BILLY types.

'I'lI definitely cum, maybe twice.' What? It's subtle! (Don't hate the player hate the game.)

ZAFAR：It's nice to remember him like this. The real Haroon.

Not the bit at the end. I don't want to remember that.

BILLY：I rock up to his apartment block, I knock and I'm nervous... No matter how many times you do this (and I've done this a lot) you still get that fluttering feeling in your stomach. Possibility, fear, excitement, dread all at the same time. The door opens.

Fuck, he's better looking than his profile pics, no one's better looking than their pictures, you always account for like a ten per cent margin of uglier than the profile.

But this guy.

Get it together, Billy.

ZAFAR： I don't have a single picture of him. I left Pakistan in such a hurry, the majority of my things are still there. I worry about forgetting his face. Sometimes it's this niggling feeling, just small. Other times I chide and berate myself for not being able to remember the exact position of the beauty spot on his cheek, the broadness of his shoulders, the slight bump on his nose.

You do speak English right? You don't need a translator?' I've been silent too long. I'm in the lawyer's office. The letter came today. The one that was supposed to set me free.

Although it didn't.

BILLY：'Whatsup.

'Why don't you come in?'

'Sure sure.'

I walk in, offer to take my shoes off, sometimes the Pakistani slips out without even realising. He says it's fine. We end up chatting in his living room -

'Billy, what's that short for?'

Just Billy.'

He doesn't push it, think he's woke enough not to ask me where I'm from.

Actually I'm enjoying the conversation. He works for a charity. Tells me about the half-marathon he did...

Don't do it, Billy! This is just a hook-up. Not a date. So I work my moves.

'It's a nice flat, wanna give me the grand tour... Why don't we start with the bedroom?'

ZAFAR： 'No I speak English.'

The lawyer looks at his clock. I had to wait two hours outside his office before they would see me.

'Will they send me back to Pakistan?'

"You will need to make an appeal.'

I can't go back, I won't go back. This bit was supposed to be easy, or easier. But my words weren't good enough for them once. What will change a second time?

ZAFAR. Can't control my memories. The good ones, the bad ones, the ones they don't believe.

The noise in my head is constant. Gets louder at night.

They gave me pills to sleep, and when I get up in the morning there is this moment between sleep and wake.

Where the reality of Hounslow and the filthy accommodation

I'm in hasn't sunk in.

Can almost feel him, like nothing ever happened. Like he's there next to me.

The letter from the Home Office. Application rejected.

Insufficient proof. After all that waiting. After everything I had to endure, and continue to. They didn't find me credible.

The solicitor says I have to pay him to make an appeal. I have no money.

Right now I long for that moment, the gap between sleep and awake.

BILLY： We've been spooning for ages. Feels good. Lying here

in the afterglow.

He falls asleep. Does this cute little snoring thing.

Do I snore? I don't know, don't really sleep with anyone else, like I sleep with people but not sleep sleep.

When I go to leave, we kiss at the door for ages, he's a good kisser. I get the feeling he wants me to stay. But I tell him I have to go.

ZAFAR： I feel drowsy.

Lie down on the single bed in my box of a room.

The pills are kicking in. I took more than I was supposed to, but they don't bring peace.

I'm back at Lahore Airport, walking towards the desk.

Constant announcements on the tannoy putting me on edge, strip-lighting making my head pound.

Hand over the passport, my brother's passport, to the woman behind the desk. We kind of look alike, but his features are rounder, his nose more pronounced, his face... still intact.

My heart is pounding hard. The pain in my head so intense like my brain could explode, sending bits of me splattering onto her Pakistan International Airlines uniform.

She's inspects the visa stamp.

My breath quickens, with every inhale my ribs ache.

Still has three months valid from when my brother went to Birmingham for a work conference.

She turns to the page with the photograph.

Should I puff out my cheeks a little, make myself rounder?

She just waves me past.

I mutter a thanks to God, at least that's one prayer listened to.

Eventually when I'm thousands of feet in the sky I breathe normally. That's when I begin to cry - ugly, snotty, guttural - from the depths of my soul.

The old man sitting next to me turns and asks:

'Is everything okay?'

'Someone has died.'

"Who, beta?'

"The love of my life.'

（His eves tum sad.）

Sabar： (Fortitude.) May Allah grand it you. I lost my wife Allah we shall return her fifly years of marriage. But to Allah we belong and I cry even harder at this stranger's kindness.

And then it occurs to me, if this sweet old man knew thas loved a man and not a woman would he want me dead tog

BILLY： For days afterwards all I can think is how nice it would be to have someone. Waking up with him on the regular, spoil him, make him breakfast in bed.

r'd be a fucking great boyfriend. I think I would, if I had the chance. I don't know 'cause I've never really... You know.

ZAFAR：I take more of the pills. I'm still in the haze of searching for him. Then his face, his beautiful face. There you are, Haroon. Finally.

He looks so handsome as a groom.

Watching the person you love marry someone else breaks you in ways you didn't know possible. Makes you fear your face will expose you. Makes you wish death on a woman you've never met.

I walk towards Haroon, every step an affront to my need to tum and run.

I mutter a congratulations to his bride, not looking at her face.

And as is customary, we hug, my flesh pressed up against his. Not sure I have it in me to ever release him.

But eventually I do.

I tum and my father is behind me. He looks at me directly in the eyes, a panic rises in me.

Now your childhood friend has become a man, you'll be next.

want Haroon again, not him.

I take more pills.

And finally he is right next to me. My Haroon, the intensity of his eyes fixed directly on me, the warmth of his body as he leans in to kiss me. And then... nothing.

BILLY： Me and Mark, yeah that's his name, have hooked up three times now. This might be a thing you know.

We've been texting a bit too since. Last one was from him

yesterday morning.

I sent: 'Let me know when you want a repeat.' He said:

'Definitely will do. Kiss kiss.' Then I replied with a 'kiss kiss' so technically I was the last one to reply but a kiss isn't a reply. It's just not being rude, right?

Like what the fuck, it doesn't matter who texts who, and when. We're not fucking schoolgirls. Right?

Pulls his phone out and sends a message.

'How's your day been, sexy?'

He puts his phone away.

Time to get on with my own day.

First up, gym. Today is legs, never skip legs, it's the foundation. Plus is there anything worse than chicken legs?

Just gonna get the workout playlist on the go.

Pulls out his phone.

Two blue ticks... (so he's read the message).

This playlist has more Olivia Rodrigo than I care to admit.

I'm getting my pump on, loading up the squat rack. Some fag is checking me out, he's alright, but I have a golden rule: never fuck anyone at the gym. Gets awkward the next time you need to work out.

I'm done... Protein shake.

He's not replied yet. He's probably working.

That's where I should be too (work). Creative Execuive for a bunch of internet fashion brands. Soon to be Senior Creative. Well, I mean I should be, I'm practically doing the job already.

ZAFAR：The doctor sitting opposite me is wearing a hijab.

I know it shouldn't but it makes me uncomfortable in a way it never did before. Scared of how she will judge me, while I judge her.

'Would you like to talk about anything?'

She has a kind face, I don't want to see it turn bitter towards me. I stay silent.

'You took a very drastic step.'

She means swallowing the whole packet of sleeping pills.

I want to tell her I wasn't necessarily thinking about killing myself.

'You can talk to me about anything.'

I'm exhausted from constantly assessing people, level of threat they pose, how will they react, who can I trust. Some days it's so bad I walk around Hounslow afraid of every brown face. Paranoid that I might be known or there may be a connection to my father. Even though we have no family here. In the temporary accommodation I don't talk to anyone, it's better that way. Better that they don't know about me.

But I need help. Alone. I have no other options. So I begin and she listens.

Her kind face remains kind.

'The Home Office said I wasn't credible, they didn't believe that I had been tortured or that I was gay. So as far as they are concerned I can go back to Pakistan.' She looks shocked.

Waited for a whole year, and they didn't believe me. And hen my lawyer was asking for money, for them to make an appeal for me, money that I don't have. I have to live off forty pounds eighty-five a week. I've never been this poor... look at what I'm wearing. That's when I did what I did?

I believe you, and I'm sorry you had to go through any of this.

Those few words mean so much. She writes numbers down on a piece of paper. Charities that support LGBT-plus people. That's what I am now.

This appointment was only supposed to be ten minutes. Not sure how long we have been talking. As I leave she touches my arm, it's the most human contact that I have had in months.

'If you ever feel like that again you come to me straight away.'

Later, I realise she slipped twenty pounds into my pocket.

I was expecting every other reaction but not kindness.

BILLY： The morning is spent in meeting after meeting.

Check my phone. He still hasn't messaged me back.

We spend more time talking about work than actually doing work. We're gearing up for Pride, the organisation wants a big push of love for the LGBT-plus community, apparently

"there's still loads of money to be made from the pink pound'.

Meeting's nearly over and I'm reaching for my phone when

Fat Jason speaks up. Why? We were nearly out the door.

I used to think Jason might be fit if he cut his hair and went to the gym. But the thing with Jason is, even if he did lose all that weight, he'd still be a pretentious prick.

He's in full flow about how 'Pride is not really an inclusive space, maybe we should be looking to support in other ways.' All eyes are on me, the only POC in the room.

'I think Pride's a great idea.'

My boss smiles.

We do a working lunch, as if we need to talk more. Jason won't shut up... he's going on and on about giving up carbs.

Now work is forcing him to go to Pride, he's only got a few weeks to get into shape.

(He checks his phone.)

And Fat Jason's still talking with his fat mouth.

'It's gonna take more than a few weeks to lose all of that?

Everyone at the table turns to look at me. One of the girls laughs. Jason looks like he's been punched.

What? It's fucking true and at least he shuts up.

ZAFAR：The time difference is four hours so she would still be at home alone. I dial the number. It rings and rings. And with every ring I lose my resolve... What if he answers?

BILLY：Back to work.

Nothing.

Drinks after work.

Nothing.

Bus home.

Nothing!

How long does it fucking take to respond to a fucking text?

ZAFAR：I am about to hang up.

"Assalamualaikum.'

It's her. The last time I heard her voice she was bundling my broken body into a car with my brother's passport, telling me to get as far away as possible.

'Waalaikumsalam.'

(Silence.)

'It's me, Zafar... Your son.'

(Silence.)

'I don't have a son by that name and I don't know a Zafar.

Don't ever call here again.'

(The phone goes dead.)

BILLY：Ghosted.

ZAFAR： Nervous, I walk into the room. I mainly came for the free lunch. Now I'm sat with six other men. Each has their own story.

Damba and David from Uganda, Reza from Iran, Omar from Nigeria, Arsen from Kazakhstan,

Fyzal from Pakistan like me, but older, much older.

Each one of us is gay and had to flee here for our lives. It's a peer-to-peer support group, counselling had a year-long wait.

So this was all they could offer. I don't speak much at first, I just listen.

BILLY：Been hitting the gym hard. More I push, less I think. It's Saturday evening, I'm the only one here.

I sent him another message the day before last.

'Is everything okay?'

Even as I press send I know, but still I do it.

Two days, nothing.

Idiot. I'm a fat fucking ugly idiot.

Push myself to do another set - 'Come on you pathetic piece of shit.' I fail. Fuck this.

ZAFAR：Damba has just finished sharing to the group. Five years in the system. Not knowing, not being able to work, stuck. Waiting on an appeal.

I pray not to be Damba. I speak:

'Even criminals know how long their sentence is. From the moment we get here we're treated worse than criminals.'

Clive who runs the group encourages me to share. So l do.

Two border guards in uniform, the bald one is angry.

There's no war in Pakistan, no one is trying to kill you. You lot are always trying it.'

The other one not speaking looks like he could be an uncle of mine.

I want to say they are playing good cop, bad cop, but I'm no a criminal. So why are they treating me like one?

My life is under threat... My father and other men... They want... to kill me. It's not safe for me there.'

"Sometimes I want to kill my kids; it doesn't mean they get to seek asylum.

They killed my friend. My best friend. We were more than friends.'

I catch Uncle's eye.

'Are you saying he was your boyfriend?'

He looks down.

"We were in love.'

'Are you saying you're a homosexual?'

'Yes. Yes I am...

"Top or bottom?'

"Are you the one giving it or are you the one who's getting it?'

I look toward Uncle.

"You need to answer his questions.'

"I don't think you're gay, I think you're making it up.'

'Why? Why? Would I make this up?' I point out my bruises.

'They could be from anything. Up, get up and walk.'

(He gets up and walks.)

'See, you don't walk like a gay.'

'But I am. I am... a gay.'

BILLY：Get home, down another protein shake.

No plans this evening and I don't want to be alone.

He opens up Grindr.

All the available fags within the vicinity. Some of the same faces I've seen on here for years, And here I am once again... Grinding away.

I'm back in front of another door, there's less excitement this time, less hope. He (I don't know his name) opens it. He's exactly what I was looking for Ugly and old.

I can already see it in his eyes, he looks like he's hit the jackpot. Makes me feel good. Strut right in, no need to be polite. He tries to make chit-chat -

I'm not here to talk.'

We move directly to his bedroom. He kisses me, tells me how beautiful I am, how much he loves my skin and my colouring. I don't say anything back, no need to lie to him... we both know the truth. He tells me he likes it when a guy's in control. So I say:

'Shut up and get on all-fours.'

'Yes, sir, you can be as rough as you like. Hit me if I fail to please.'

Ido... Smack him in the face, harder than I meant to. He's looking at me, lip bleeding. I want to apologise, say I didn't mean to, that this isn't me. And he says:

'That's what I deserve.'

That makes me want to cry and I really really want to leave.

But that's not what I signed up for, so I get on with it.

Only later, back at home, tears fall. I was raised on a diet or Bollywood and romcoms so where the fuck is my happy ending?

ZAFAR： 'I have your previous statement, but I need you to tell me again.

Ben is my new lawyer. He has dealt with LGBT asylum cases before and is putting my appeal together. I found him through the group and he is working for free.

Ben is good, he does everything well. This is our second meeting. I wonder if Ben is gay but I don't ask.

'I know it must be difficult.'

So I start again. The tears don't come this time. I try to stick to facts.

My father caught me with Haroon. I was locked in a room and beaten. He has links to the military and he would have killed me but I escaped. And there was a video.

I try not to picture Haroon's face, bloody and bruised. I don't want to think of him like that.

"Your partner was in the video?'

I question having to do this again, but I go on.

'Yes. He was beaten. And then they killed him.'

'How?'

What's the factual way of saying your father had his throat slit like a dog?

BILLY：Focus on the important things.

Throw myself into work, no time to think of anything else.

The first one in the office and the last one out.

This campaign for Pride is big and I'm all over it. One of the only advantages of being the son of immigrants is the work ethic you inherit. They didn't come here to fuck about - not like they do now - they came here to build something. My father built a chain of shops from nothing. He hustled.

And now I'm hustling.