Chickens by Adeela Khan
Image by Artem Gavrysh for Unsplash
They were on the way. Lara slumped down in the black cab and turned her head to stare out the rain-spattered window. The taxi swung left on Victoria Embankment, went past the bridges: Hungerford, Waterloo, and then they were on Blackfriars, crossing the murky Thames, watching the pink and white railings roll past. Today, no tourists rested within those damp stone enclaves; no hunted men hung from those arches. Unlucky: she had long been waiting for the day a dramatic piece of London lore would play out in front of her, rather than being something she read about, afterwards. Or heard about, in oblique tones, like the voiceovers on the underground announcing a delay due to a “pedestrian on the platform.” They always made it sound so – pedestrian. Classic British understatement. She could use some of that stoicism; the ability to politely avert one’s gaze from the sensational and carry right on. Especially today.
Blackfriars was where his cousin worked; Usman mentioned this as they passed. A half-hearted attempt at conversation, which received no response. He twisted his mouth, rubbed at his overgrown stubble. Looked at her incongruously bright yellow jumpsuit, her long dark hair fanning across the seat, her sharp jaw, visible in profile, set.
There was silence, again.
They arrived at their destination on Burrell Street shortly after, stopping next to the sign for the NHS Trust associated with Guy’s Hospital. Usman looked at Lara, asked if she was okay. She looked back, her eyes flat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his own eyes full of worry. “I wish I could help.”
She got out of the car.
Usman paid while Lara went inside the clinic and stood in the queue to register. Before she could get to the front, a nurse walked out and called her name.
Lara hesitated. “I should wait for…” trailing off, as she looked back towards the entrance door from which she had come, distracted by the corkboards covering the walls, their various pinned notices, attention-demanding bulletins.
Usman walked in, then. “Ah,” Lara said. “There he is.”
She told Usman they were ready for her. He nodded vigorously, his whole body seeming to bob up and down with him – emphasizing the physicality of his presence here, the undeniable corporeality of his support – and repeated a few times that he would be right outside, to call him if anything was required. As the nurse turned sympathetic eyes towards him before pointing him in the direction of the waiting room, Lara briefly, resentfully, wondered if she was perhaps already drawn to his display of solicitude. That would be typical of the speed at which Usman worked.
Lara followed the nurse. Through swinging double doors, down a narrow corridor in which the sharp scent of antiseptic lingered. A right into room sixteen. They sat down. Exchanged pleasantries. And then got down to business.
“So, you’ve already had a telephone consultation,” the nurse – Hannah – said, clicking through electronic files on the computer in front of her. Her medical records, Lara assumed. “And it says here that at the date of the consultation, you weren’t entirely sure whether you wanted to terminate or to maintain the pregnancy. That was three weeks ago. Have you come to a final decision yet?”
Later, Lara would recall that Hannah had referred to it as “the pregnancy” throughout. Words like “baby” or “foetus” were carefully avoided; the visit handled with matter-of-fact precision. A sign in capital letters in the reception area had warned that no children were allowed, which she assumed was one more measure to ensure patients remained trigger-free.
When she recounted the details, Lara’s friends back home in Pakistan would tell her she was lucky to be living in England. Where they were, they said, even those doctors who wanted to help were holding up their hands, powerless when women came knocking at their doors begging for advice, bargaining for illicit pills. There were increasing numbers of stories featuring back-alley surgeries which carried risks of injuries, death – or, if caught, a three-year imprisonment. Of course, she knew none of them were speaking from anything resembling personal experience. They belonged to a social grouping with enough access to buy all the things Karachi ostensibly could not offer. But Lara had long since learned that “It could have been worse, did you hear about….” was every Pakistani’s instinctive formula to provide consolation, even – or especially – where a simpler acknowledgement would have sufficed.
Such as: “That sounds terrible.”
Or: “I see how hard it was.”
Or: “I see you.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have. I’ve decided to terminate.”
Hannah, who, with her blonde hair pulled back in an oversized burgundy velvet scrunchie looked fresh-faced and unjaded enough to have just graduated from a medical programme designed specifically for her at Oxford, glanced up. Could she tell this was the first time the decision had been said aloud with any resolve? “Can I ask, because we need this for our records, what the specific reason is for your decision?”
“Oh…” Lara shook off her bitter musings, steadying her voice to adopt the confident, breezy tone she used for work calls. Her life as a litigator dealing with other people’s problems already seemed far away. “It’s just a matter of not being quite ready. It was unplanned. We debated the pros and cons. It’s…bad timing. Does that count?”
“Absolutely.” Hannah resumed her focus, scrolled through pages on the screen. “So, I understand your decision, and that’s good enough for us. As part of our standard procedure, before we talk through next steps, I need to take you through some questions covering your current living situation, sexual history and mental health. We’ll also touch on your preferred contraception, and whether you would like counselling on any alternative methods. Would that be okay?”
Lara said it would. She then answered the questions as honestly as she could. Except, she did not admit to the following key facts.
· No: in recent months, they usually had not used condoms or any other methods of contraception.
· Yes: in recent months, he did come inside her. A few times.
· No: she did not take the morning after pill as an emergency measure at any point afterwards.
It seemed an unproductive use of time to share these particulars with a third party now, to admit a deliberate recklessness or intent that would result in added scrutiny and suggestions of further counselling. If questioned, what logic could she use to explain or justify?
· Yes: she had half-believed, half-prayed that these actions would lead to her growing a part of Usman inside her and that in consequence he would have no choice but to love her afresh, pronounce their stained slate cleaned and grant her the certainty of forever.
· No: he had not, at any point, suggested that this was an outcome he desired.
· Yes: she was aware that surrendering up her body to be explored by him as a sexual playground and harbouring hopes that he would in the process naturally fall to desire it as a fertile breeding ground was distinctly anti-feminist. Perhaps even a betrayal of all womankind.
· No: it had not stopped her. She did not quite care, in those moments, about the patriarchy or rational discourse. She had just needed him to want her, again.
Lara pushed these thoughts away, tried to smile. The interrogation continued.
“Do you consider yourself to be safe at home?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in a relationship?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the man who was outside with you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh good, and he’s here with you, so he’s being supportive then, is he?”
“Oh yes.”
“Good. Do you feel forced into your decision at all, or in any way?”
For a dizzying second, Lara wondered what would happen if this was the moment tears sprung to her eyes. If she broke into sobs and did not respond. Or, if she, deploying her skills of legal reasoning, rose to the whiteboard behind Hannah and scribbled out a chronology highlighting that while Usman initially confirmed dealing with “this” was her decision, he then proceeded to say the following things, in the following order.
· That: despite his enjoyment during the nights thrusting into her and collapsing atop her sweating body with her consent, he had not seriously considered getting pregnant to be a probability (it was just a bit of fun).
· That: if they were bold enough to have this child, his parents would deem it unforgivable, both in terms of religious transgression and having sparked societal upset (how would they ever show their faces again?).
· That: his siblings, too, as progressive as they seemed, would, if they found out, remonstrate that their little brother had fucked up once again, and this time jeopardised not only his reputation and prospects, but also hers, also theirs (no one thinks we’re stable enough for this responsibility).
· That: if she truly loved him, she would not want to expose him to this heartache, this rift with the people he loved most in the world, whose opinion he respected the most (of course they factor into this decision, they’re my family).
· That: he wanted a child with her one day, but not now, and especially not while she still suffered from her – how could he put this delicately – on-going bouts of depression and anxiety (don’t make me say crazy).
Would the jury deem his words coercive? The judge would remind them it was a matter for deliberation, invite arguments and evidence for and against. If Lara was then asked to resume the stand, as a witness this time, she would haltingly confess that three days after they learned she was pregnant, when her uncertainty remained apparent, Usman changed tack and declared he was not sure he really loved her, in fact was not sure he ever would. He said he had loved her, once upon a time, had thought he could look beyond her past sins, but now, eleven months later, found himself unable to forgive.
She had screamed at him, then, to get out of her house. He left, slamming a door, as she collapsed onto the floor.
He returned thirty minutes later.
Her theory on his return? Usman knew a version of events where he walked out would be a tale she could relay with vengeance, tarnishing his carefully constructed image. While a version where he came back, held Lara’s hand, and helped work through her (you know how she always is) snarled and tearful headspace until they arrived at the correct decision – that would be a romance starring a sensitive male protagonist. His mere presence by her side would emphasize his position as a good man. At some point, even she, exhausted by the dissonance, may begin to believe it.
She nearly had.
The second passed. Lara got off the stand.
“No, no,” she shook her head, sipped her flimsy plastic cup of water.
*
They moved to the back of the room, behind a curtain where an examination table lay waiting. Lara slipped off her jumpsuit and lay back in her bra and underwear. Chickens were painted across the ceiling, colourful cartoon-like drawings she would not have expected to see here. They belonged in a children’s nursery, a playroom. A classroom. She closed her eyes.
*
“Don’t run after him,” her mother had said to her last winter, when they had returned home for the holidays. After she, frustrated by the abrupt end of their coupled-up bliss in the oppressive atmosphere of their hometown, grew increasingly agitated by the demands of Usman’s ever-present family: their hands reaching out to prise the two of them apart in a manner so stealthy he claimed not to see it, insisting they simply preferred private events over partners being present. Then, she took it too far. In her growing rage at his inability to carve out any time for her, she called up a former lover to take her out instead, and publicly overstepped the mark.
He could not contend with the humiliation. Lashed out at her, in his rage. For a few days, disappeared.
Before calling her back to say perhaps they could try again. If she apologised. If she really wished.
Her mother advised her to let it end: “If he doesn’t trust you, if he makes you beg, your relationship will never be the same.”
But Lara had not been able to reconcile the man in Pakistan who shook off her touch with the man in London who swung her around the room in greeting, kissed her bare shoulder in the summer sun pouring through their bedroom window as if there wasn’t a place else he’d rather be. She told herself her betrayal had bruised him, caused him to retreat and establish barricades, a series of layers like a Russian doll. If she could only persist, prise through the gritted shell, her efforts may eventually break through to the injured boy hiding within. Lara could tend to him, while alleviating her own guilt.
“What about Usman’s own behaviour before,” her father had then asked, holding her hand, pulling her back. “What about what led you away from him in the first place?”
“I still shouldn’t have done it,” she had said, and got on the plane.
*
Lara felt ice-cold gel being spread across her stomach and pelvis, a wand pressed surprisingly hard against her skin. She opened her eyes to tell Hannah the pressure was painful against her full bladder, saw the nurse bite her lip as she stared at yet another monitor, this one carefully angled away from the examination table.
“Is everything okay?” Lara asked instead, concerned now for the seed the size of a strawberry inside of her. It was the same fruitless anxiety that had made her refuse to smoke or use her formerly trusted retinol serum for weeks; the same rootless instinct that saw her buy folic acid supplements and massage with tenderness her sore breasts, even as they felt more and more like heavy sacks of lead beating against her chest. Somewhere, at some point, she had thought, there may be an ending in which these sacrifices made a difference.
Hannah said the imaging wasn’t quite as clear as it needed to be, asked if it would be okay to supplement the sonograph with a transvaginal probe. “It’s likely not a problem. Just to get a better look, really.”
*
She lay back on the table again. Naked this time, her bladder empty. Her legs spread in stirrups, a caricature of a scene from a labour ward. At least, she thought, looking around the sterile room, all cold steel and disinfectant smells, she would not have to do this again anytime soon. She looked again at the dancing chickens, felt herself floating away as the rounded head of the lubricated probe went inside her. Shallow, as promised.
She thought about telling Hannah that Usman was the type of man who had once confessed that whenever he saw a small dog walking down the street, or in a park, playing, he was overcome with the irresistible urge to punt the dog like a football and send it soaring through the skies. Sometimes, he’d said, he had the same urge with toddlers. Always the defenceless beings. He said there was usually a split second where he pictured it happening, before he caught himself. She had laughed when he told her, reassured him that everyone had intrusive thoughts they would never act on.
Now she wondered whether she had been too quick to comfort him. The recent images that swam up before her eyes unbidden involved her turning over towards him with a concealed blade and stabbing him in the gut – again and again. Slicing cleanly through his skin, watching him as he gasped, sputtered, and bled. Staining the knife. Their white-sheeted bed.
She wasn’t sure whether her imaginings were similar in substance to the thoughts he described. Standing in their kitchen and staring into the cutlery drawer, it dawned on her that when it came to acting on her impulses, one day, she just…might.
*
Outside the clinic Lara held on to the wall and vomited, expelling a cloudy mess of water and the sugary sweets Hannah had provided to rouse her from her fainting spell. A man across the street watched her from the vantage point of his discoloured mattress, seeming unfazed. Another man in what she glimpsed to be smart navy trousers, polished brown shoes, hurried up the street towards her. “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching forward to brush a stray hair, wet with sick, away from her face.
She jerked her hand up to repel the man’s touch. Still looking at the floor, self-conscious of her own state, she stammered out a response explaining she had just received some news inside the clinic. She was conscious of how her body was coiled on the edge of collapse, not quite in control. Punishing her, letting her down. Conceivably as revenge for the readiness with which she had given up its autonomy to his searching hands and insistent body. With this memory of their nakedness and her repeated wild submission, a fresh wave of revulsion rose within her and she gritted her teeth against the threat of further nausea.
The man’s tone was gentle. “I work in there, so I assumed as much. Please do feel free to come back inside if you want. Are you alone?”
Lara looked up, then, moved by the insistent kindness of this stranger. Took a deep, steadying breath and opened her mouth.
And then she spotted Usman, emerging from the revolving doors, tissues bunched in his hand, concern carefully arranged over his face. A flash of impatience, perhaps, waiting in the wings at this unnecessarily public spectacle. Thousands of women went to similar appointments daily without incident, he would point out, when they returned to his flat in West Hampstead, which she had once described as their home.
A heaviness spread out from her shoulders and settled within her chest. Once it was all over, she had to find the strength to apologise to her body. To nurture it and escape from the promise of further pain.
She had to, she repeated to herself. Once it was all over, she would.
She would.
“No,” Lara said. “I’m with him.”
Adeela Khan (she/her) was born in Karachi, Pakistan. She has an undergraduate degree in English Language & Literature from the University of Oxford, and until recently, worked as a lawyer in London. Adeela’s writing explores dark, complex characters and relationships, as well as ideas of trauma and cultural belonging. She is a graduate of the HarperCollins Author Academy (2023) and is currently working on her first novel.
You can find her talking about books on Instagram.