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‘Henry, please,’ Lisa says, louder, more insistent. ‘Don’t say anything. You’re just going to incriminate yourself.’
I scoff loudly, their attention snapping to me again, but my eyes are on Lisa. ‘So, you’re aware that his rhetoric is wrong?’ I ask her. ‘You’re OK with that?’ Lisa’s expression is stony, her mouth turned into a flat line. I remember how she tried to stop Henry during my audition, and I wonder how much she censors him. How she dulls his words so they’re still awful, but more subtly so.
‘We hosted these new auditions to give you all a fair chance,’ Lisa replies finally. ‘We have open hearts –’
‘Liar,’ Anushka snaps, fury making her eyes bright. ‘You’re trying to make the claims that you’re a bunch of racists disappear. It’s performative and fake.’
Henry’s expression is one of pure anger. He’s reaching his breaking point, and Lisa sees that – she tries to placate him once more, but this time there’s no use. ‘You – you – you have no right to be standing on our stage spitting in our faces as we try to do a good thing. I didn’t even want to host these auditions. I told Lisa this was a bad idea–’
‘Henry –’ Lisa begins, but he’s on a roll now.
‘And the truth is I want my play to be authentic. I want it to represent what Shakespeare was. I want it to be classically British –’
‘White,’ I interrupt him. His eyes meet mine, and a part of me still curls away in fear, but a larger, louder part of me stands strong. ‘Don’t pretend. Say what you mean.’
The challenge in my voice makes his lips curdle into a sneer. ‘Fine! You’re right. I wanted an all-white cast. Because they represent true Shakespeare, true theatre. And you people don’t.’
A collective gasp fills the theatre, followed by silence. The Tragedies look stunned on the stage, Gibitah’s face grim, Zayan’s made of granite and tension. But me? I feel vindicated. I’m not shocked that Henry finally said it, and there’s a kind of relief at being proven right. At knowing that the whisper in my head, so quiet compared to the loud echo of my imposter syndrome, was right.
Henry’s critique was racist. It was racist during my audition. It’s racist now. And it is not a reflection on my acting. Or anyone else’s. He said things like ‘classically British’ and ‘authentic’ because it allowed him to get away with being racist in an unsubtle, insidious way. In the kind of way that allows everyone to look away. But no more.
‘You do realize that to be historically accurate to Shakespeare, you would have all the female roles played by men, right?’ Anushka breaks the silence first, her voice bordering on a laugh. ‘Your desire to “represent true Shakespeare” is just an excuse to be racist.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Henry replies stubbornly, his face flushing an angry red.
Anushka looks ready to sling another point his way – probably something about how people of colour existed in Britain during Shakespeare’s time, and that Henry can’t just erase that fact from history – but I shake my head at her, stopping her short.
I’ve realized it’s not worth arguing with him. He will not change his mind, and it’s not our job to teach him.
‘I know you believe that the world will agree with you,’ I begin, more softly now, as Lisa flutters around to shush Henry, the people in the theatre watch with anticipation and my friends look on with excitement. ‘And I’m all for testing that out. Let’s see, Henry Findon: whose side will the world be on – yours or ours?’
Zayan stands, and with that signal the people who’ve been filling the audience seats clamour towards Henry and Lisa. Some of them are genuinely actors and actresses slighted by the LSDCATS, here to share their story, but the rest are reporters, social media influencers and everyone and anyone with a platform and a voice.
They’d been promised a story that would shake the world. A story that was the truth and nothing less. We just needed Henry to show his true colours, to show the LSDCATS’ values in the plainest way possible.
The sound of cameras clicking fills the air, along with flashes of light, jeers and questions. The crowd engulfs Henry and Lisa, probing them to say more, having witnessed everything that happened in the last ten minutes. Zayan wears a look of satisfaction on his face, and The Tragedies stand on the LSDCATS’ stage wearing expressions of shock, because they actually did it.
Henry has turned as white as a ghost; Lisa looks close to fainting. Their terror brings me no real joy, but I am suffused with the feeling of unadulterated justice being served.
@TheTragedies: We would like to confirm that our play, Heer Ranjha, will still be going ahead. Doors open at 7.00 p.m. sharp. We hope to see you all there!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Backstage is a whirlwind of chaos – cast members shove past one another, tech people are whisper-shouting instructions, Nur is doing last-minute costume adjustments, Anushka and David are preparing the opening scene, Ben is somewhere helping with the sets and Zayan is in his dressing room, getting ready. I peek through the stage curtain and see that the Limelight is full.
Earlier this evening, the LSDCATS were trending on Twitter, for having an empty house and for their “I didn’t know I was racist” sobbing apology video, which went viral on TikTok. They were being decimated online, and it felt like a victory. But now panic wraps itself round my lungs as I spot the industry officials Lacey promised in the front row, and my mind explodes with doubts.
I can’t do this. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. The opening scene features Heer entirely alone. Zayan won’t be out there; he won’t be by my side. Everyone is here to see us, but when the show starts, it will just be me. Who am I on stage without Zayan?
‘Miss Sheikh?’ A voice interrupts my lurking, and I whip round to see a young girl with a green hijab standing in front of me. She isn’t from the cast or crew; she’s too young – maybe sixteen.
‘How did you get back here?’ I ask, steel lining my tone. This could be a Zaiba fan hoping to ruin everything. ‘I’m going to have to call security.’
The girl doesn’t blanch, and that’s when I notice the camera hanging round her neck.
‘My name is Jamilah,’ she says, sticking out her hand for me to shake. ‘Jamilah Mansoor.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, kindly but cautiously. ‘I’m not sure who –’
