Expendable

(seen at the evening performance on 30th November 2024)

An insular study of an insular community under attack, Emteaz Hussain’s play is an excitingly different angle on the 2011 Bradford Child Abuse scandal. 

We all saw the headlines about men of a single faith accused of revolting crimes perpetuated against vulnerable young girls. This play considers the women of the accused men. How they react to the arrest of sons, brothers, cousins, friends; and how they feel about the community reacting to them.

It is a short play, trying cover a lot in under 90 minutes. Plenty is raised but left unexplored. The role of women within the community – pushed aside and treated as inferior even as they hold it together - is another play. 

How they feel about the victims – those not of their own faith – is represented by a single character, Jade (Maya Bartley O’Dea). That the final note of inclusivity is sounded makes dramatic and intellectual sense, but questions a little of the forgoing structure. Adding this flavour to the mix earlier could have opened up the work in interesting fashion.

What we do feel is real humanity in the distress felt by a tight knit group revealed to harbor so many bad apples. The effect on Zara (Avita Jay) of having her son Raheel (Gurjeet Singh) suspected is the centre from which Hussain spins the story.

Jay and elder sister Yasmin Sharif (Lena Kaur) are a mesmerising double-act, the love and acting energy demanding attention and probably a television soap spin-off so the pair can work together for years to come.

When Zara’s daughter Sofia (Humeera Syed) arrives, initially Syed cannot keep up with the flow of the more experienced pair. Her opening scene required attention from director Esther Richardson to bring what is later revealed as a vibrant young woman to big enough life more quickly. That Syed gets there in the end is equally reassuring for her character as it is for her professional future.

As accused son Raheel, Singh paces the set, raps the table, broods in his bedroom above. In this tiny space, and standing by the monkey for some of his performance, the muscular tension is visible and distressing.

O’Dea, as the young white woman he and his mother once helped is a mass of optimism, confused by the sudden loss of her friendship.

By removing almost all sympathy or empathy for most of the victims, a radical choice by the writer does leave us with something more realistic (and less dramatically clichéd) than "it wasn't us, and so sorry for those who were harmed."

If this does no bring out the full horror of the situation quite sufficiently, thanks to multiple strands and a couple of anachronisms (“bouji” wasn’t until 2016, and the laptop sticker was inappropriate), it is fresh and delivered by a top-quality cast.