The toilet construction team were taking a mid-morning break and Galad warmed his hands around a cup of tea. “We must pray. My people want to go to the mosque.”
“Yeah… not sure Little Chalfont has one of those, Galad.”
“Hey, man,” said Fistule. “They could go to St Peter’s, round the corner. Churches face east, just like mosques. I learnt that in religious education. I got a B – my best subject.”
“Well done Fistule. But forty-two Somali migrants kneeling round the font might just raise eyebrows at Evensong.”
“It is no problem if we pray here,” Galad said. “Madar can lead the prayers. He has a good voice.”
“Fine, just don’t make too much noise.”
Galad disappeared, and a few minutes later a haunting melody floated down the stairs.
“Better than the imams in Dubai,” sniffed Tariq. “Musical, these Africans, aren’t they?”
We listened to Madar’s voice, followed by the softer reply from his congregation.
“What wine best accompanies the call to prayer, Felix?” pondered Dan, surveying the wall of bottles.
“That would depend on the time of day. For mid-afternoon, I suggest an Orvieto.”
I pulled a bottle of white from the temperature-controlled cabinet and popped it open. I was pouring Tariq a glass when there was an urgent knocking at the door. I peeked round the grubby net curtain and saw Mrs Hall from number three, in her dressing gown, hands on hips, looking more vicious than usual. I opened the door a few inches.
“What’s going on down there?” she screeched, pointing at the hole in the ground.
“Just landscaping the garden, Mrs Hall, nothing to worry about.”
“Why can’t you employ English builders?”
“They are English, Mrs Hall. They’re just a bit muddy.”
“And what’s all that wailing coming from your house? I can hardly hear myself think!”
“Wailing?”
“Horrible singing and chanting. Like devil worship.”
“Ah. That’s our bible-study class, Mrs Hall. We’re spreading the faith here at number two, you see.”
Mrs Hall tried to peer through the door and I drew myself up to block her view. I could see the blue veins on her scrawny neck and I resisted the perverse urge to peep down her dressing gown top. Her face broke into a mean smirk.
“They aren’t Christians. I can hear them singing allahu akbar!” she declared triumphantly.
“Yes. Well, it’s a remedial class – they’ve picked up some bad habits. We’re trying to beat it out of them.”
She scowled at me.
“Oh, while you’re here, I have a favour to ask,” I said. “Our toilet’s broken and we’re having to use a bucket. Would you mind if we came round and emptied it down your sink?”
Mrs Hall’s face fell.
“Thank you so much. Tootle pip.” I smiled brightly and closed the door on her. “Can you pray more quietly please, guys?” I called up the stairs. “I’m sure God will still hear you.”
“Ok,” Madar called back.
Once we’d polished off the wine, Tariq, Dan and I headed down to check how the latrine construction was going. I must say, it was pretty impressive. Wodin had finished carving out a very deep but slightly irregular trench with the digger, and Cawaale and Fistule were busy driving slender wooden poles at spaced intervals into the bottom of the pit. Two more Somalis were tying garden canes together with twine, while another sawed at a fence post on a workbench. There was a huge mound of soil and rocks at the side of the garden.
“You’ve made a splendid fucking mess of the garden, old chap,” observed Tariq.
“We’ll turn it into a rockery, man,” explained Fistule, waving at the pile of earth.
By nightfall the toilet was complete. Fistule and Cawaale gave us a tour. Pride of place was the pink circus tent, looking somewhat surreal in the centre of the muddy garden, its smiling cartoon characters gaily welcoming anyone in need of a good dump. A gangplank pointed to the entrance of the tent and the rest of the long trench was covered by a tarpaulin. Fistule unzipped the door and proudly flung it open, clicking on a light suspended from the tent ceiling.
“Solar powered, man. It charges up from a panel on the top of the tent during the day.”
A ceramic toilet bowl, with the bottom knocked out, sat on planks over the abyss.
“Ok, this is how it works, man,” explained Fistule. “The trench has been partitioned into several sections. When we’ve filled one, we move the planks and the tent over to the next section.”
I peered down into the depths. I could dimly see dead leaves and a lattice of bamboo canes in the base of the pit.
“Whenever anyone takes a shit or a piss, they have to cover it with a measure of activated bokashi sawdust and a shovel-full of soil from these buckets, ok?” He tapped a trowel against a pink bucket full of earth and a blue tub sealed with an airtight lid.
“Whatever happened to good old flush and forget, eh?” I muttered.
“This is organic and sustainable, man. Every day I’ll be adding the food waste from the kitchen. Then we’ll add a lattice of bamboo canes on top of every twelve inches of waste, to provide structure.” He looked at Cawaale, who nodded. I recalled the Somali guys weaving grids of canes and twine, the day before.
“Well, sounds like it’s all under control, Fistule. I can’t wait to get started.”
“But there are some important safety rules,” cautioned Fistule.
“Let me guess,” I said. “No diving into the six-foot pit of fermenting shite?”
“Yeah, man. That’s the main one. Thing is, sewage takes six months to break down. During that time it isn’t solid, so we mustn’t walk over the full pits. We’ll have to fence them off or something.”
“Ok, sounds good. Where’s the toilet roll?”
“Actually, I was thinking of rigging up a rainwater barrel and a shower head to make an Indian bum-washer. Much more environmentally sound than bleached toilet paper, man.”
“Yeah… I think I’ll stick to loo paper for now, thanks. How long will this set-up last us then?”
“We’ll probably fill a section every week or so. We’ve already half-filled this one with all the mess from the bath. In two months we’ll need another trench.”
Ok, so we’ve got until February, I thought. Then what? Never mind, let’s get through Christmas.
“Great work, guys,” said Tariq. “Anyway, I gotta head home. Just taken delivery of my new, top of the range Japanese arse-spa. Did you know, it actually massages your buttocks as you take a dump, then sprays your starfish with warm, soapy water? Can’t wait to try it. But you guys enjoy shitting in a tent. I’m sure it’ll be special. Cheerio!”
6.1
The Inspectors Call
I’ll give them their due, my interrogators didn’t appear outraged or even remotely appalled. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking. “You don’t seem very shocked. I suppose you spooks have seen all this kind of thing before?”
“Don’t call us spooks, thank you,” barked the man, clearly irritated. “‘Officers’ is just fine.” He turned to the woman. She looked down and pursed her lips, moving one piece of paper over another.
“Well…” she said slowly, “it does make some kind of sense.”
“You see!” I declared. “I’m cooperating!”
“Yes. It took a while, though, didn’t it?” she said. “I don’t think we needed to hear quite so much about toilet construction.”
“On the contrary, officer, it’s part of the circle of life. You demanded an end-to-end story, and you’re getting it.” I’d given them a lot and I felt it was my turn for some answers. I picked up my glass and finished the wine. “How’s Father Turk doing? Friend of yours is he?”
She looked up quickly. “He’s dead, Felix. You see, you and your friends rather upset the delicate balance of the London narcotics trade with your little transaction. Caused a major conflict between t
he Turks and the Italian gangs. A price war, you might call it. Eight people died, Felix, including all three of Father Turk’s sons. He shot himself, in grief. With a brand new Beretta.” She gave a grim little smile and looked me in the eye. “Now, are you shocked, Felix?”
Fucking relieved, more like, I thought. Maybe I can even go and play down at Green Lanes Billiards Club again, as I did in my Felching Orchard schooldays. I vaguely remember reading about an uptick in North London shootings, although I’d not paid much attention now that I lived out of town, in peaceful Little Chalfont. Anyway, a bit of violence hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary. If memory served, it wouldn’t be a proper Saturday night on Green Lanes without a little light machine gunning.
“That’s tragic,” I agreed, pretending to look morose.
“It kept Scotland Yard very busy,” growled the man, leaning towards me. “I’m sure they’d be fascinated to know who caused them all that overtime.”
Bugger. I wasn’t out of the woods yet, clearly. Would I ever be?
“Let’s talk more about your Italian friends. Signor Rizzo is a senior member of the ‘Ndràngheta, Felix. Ever heard of them?”
I had. They were the wealthiest, best-connected and most psychotic bunch of cut-throats in the Mediterranean. They made the Sicilian mafia look like a self-help group for insecure Buddhists. “I always thought he was a bit dodgy.”
My interrogators looked at one another then back to me. “A bit dodgy?” spat the man, incredulously. “The ‘Ndràngheta run half London’s drug trade. Or they did until your little intervention created mayhem and a power vacuum. We believe the Bulgarians moved in to fill it.”
“You know all about Bulgarians, though, don’t you Felix?” said the woman, eyebrows raised.
I wondered whether Georgi might have diversified from Pinot Grigio into cocaine. Good for him, I thought. If he had, he owed me. That had to be worth more than a plate of stew down Plovdiv restaurant.
The man remained leaning forward, looking me right in the eye. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “But Signor Rizzo disappeared. Where is he?”
It was a shame my glass was empty. I needed another drink.
***
The days were ticking by in Little Chalfont. November became December, and our busy flat settled into a rhythm of semi-normalcy. We bought a couple of televisions and installed a satellite dish, subscribing to some Arabic TV channels. The Somalis were happy to watch Egyptian soaps in the bedrooms, filing in and out of the kitchen to do their washing and cooking. The largest bedroom was cleared so they could have a good old communal pray every so often, led by musical Madar.
The outside toilet appeared to work, and astonishingly didn’t smell bad at all, although the seat was cold enough to freeze the gonads off the proverbial alloy primate, especially at night. Clearly, Cawaale the engineer knew exactly what he was doing. Fistule added vegetable peelings from the kitchen, dead leaves from the garden, and every week the pink tent and supporting planks were moved a few feet further along the pit.
The newly filled section was covered with a thin layer of compost and planted with grass and wildflower seeds. Fistule stuck a few bamboo canes in the ground, linked with garden twine, and hung a little sign saying ‘Keep Off, Wildflower Zone’.
It was Saturday morning and I’d wandered down to the local Gatesave to replenish our tea and sugar. I became aware of a presence next to me as I checked on the wine section.
“So this is where you spend your time, when you’re not ruining yourself?” It was Dr Shah from number one, next door.
“Hello Dr Shah. Yes indeed, I am a student of retail and of the vine,” I replied breezily, sounding slightly more of a smart arse than I’d intended.
“A student of debauchery and an early grave, I would suggest.” He scanned the shelves slowly, frowning.
“Would you like me to recommend a bottle?” I asked. Once a shopkeeper, always a shopkeeper.
“I do not drink, young man. For one thing, intoxication and losing control do not appeal to me. For another, Islam forbids it.”
Doesn’t stop the Muslims I know, I thought. I pictured Tariq dancing on the deck of his boat in the Caribbean, or the fun-loving Turks of Green Lanes downing Efes Pilsner by the crate. Not really the best examples of medieval piety, but then again who wants to be medieval, unless you have a fetish for black teeth, dying during childbirth and bubonic plague?
“Right. So, what brings you to the wine aisle of your local supermarket, Dr Shah?”
Dr Shah turned to face me. “To say thank you, Felix.”
“What for?” I exclaimed, genuinely surprised.
“My granddaughter fell and grazed her knee last week. You and that man who wears a skirt cleaned and dressed the wound.”
“Ah, yes…” I attempted to remember the events through the fog of hallucinogenic mushrooms but could recall only disembodied snapshots, as if it had been an ancient dream.
“Not many people do that for strangers in this day and age,” he added.
“Well, we try to be good neighbours. We’re not all bad,” I replied, hopefully.
“No, perhaps not all bad. But room for improvement, I would suggest.” Dr Shah paused again and turned back to the shelves of wine.
“One good turn deserves another, Felix. Two men in suits have just visited me. They were very interested in what’s going on at your property.”
My blood ran cold. Christ, were the police onto us already? We still had enough hashish in the house to get us sent down for dealing. And what had Wodin done with the other gun? He’d promised he’d got rid of them once before, but that was a lie. How long would you get for possession of a firearm? Not to mention people-smuggling and slavery? Ten years in the Scrubs? I’d have to do a runner right now – there was no way I could go back to the house. Wodin and the others would have to take the heat. It was their bloody idea to keep hosting the Somalis anyway, the reckless tossers.
“Oh. What did they want?” I asked, as nonchalantly as possible, my mouth dry and heart pounding.
“I imagine they were curious as to why you have several dozen dark-skinned people sharing your apartment. I suspect Mrs Hall in number three reported you.”
Mrs Hall. Of course, the leprous old hag. I briefly considered burning her house down, picturing the wrinkled old fascist hurling herself from the upstairs window, nightdress ablaze. But I discounted the idea – there would be no way to stop the flames spreading to our property. Besides, burning witches to death probably carried an even higher sentence than smuggling drugs, guns and refugees.
“How strange,” I lied, in a small voice. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them I didn’t know anything. I said it was none of my business and that they should ask you.”
“Thank you.”
“I have no idea what you’re doing with those foreigners in your house. I suspect you’re earning a bit of extra money by sub-letting your spare rooms. So long as it doesn’t cause a problem, I really don’t mind. I hope you’re not treating them badly?”
“No. We’re treating them very well. It’s just a few distant relatives staying for a week or so, they’ll be off soon.”
But not before I’m off, I thought. Thank God I’ve got my car keys and credit cards on me. I’ll jump into the Cavalier and drive over to Tariq’s, then lie low while the Old Bill turn the place over and march Wodin and Fistule off to their new lives behind bars.
“Distant relatives…” pondered Dr Shah. He turned back to me. “That would be the Muslim side of your family then? I can hear the prayers through the wall, you see. It doesn’t bother me – in fact it reminds me slightly of my youth in Bombay – but I suspect Mrs Hall in number three finds it slightly unsettling.”
“Yes. She probably does. I’ll ask them to tone it down a bit.”
“And you probably need to talk to the men from the council. They’re waiting outside for your return.”
The council! Not the police. Thank God for that. I s
tarted to breathe a little easier. But still a problem. One sniff of what we were up to and the police wouldn’t be far behind. “Thank you Dr Shah. I’d better go and reassure them that everything is above board.”
Dr Shah didn’t reply. I hurried out of the store and back up the street, bringing up Fistule’s number on my phone.
“Hello?” whispered Fistule.
“Fistule! Listen. We have a problem. The council are sniffing around.”
“I know,” he whispered.
“Why are you whispering?”
“They knocked on the door. We’re in lockdown.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m under the kitchen table. We’ve killed the power and I’m composting all incriminating documents.”
“Are you stoned, Fistule?” What a silly question.
“I’ve dropped some mushrooms.” Oh Jesus, thank God he didn’t answer the door.
“Where’s Mercedes?”
“She’s upstairs, teaching the Somalis tai chi.”
“Stay where you are. Don’t let anyone in.” I flew up the road, breaking back to a fast walk as I rounded the side of the shops. I spotted the two self-righteous-looking council workers on the walkway as I bounded up the outside stairs. One was trying to peer through the hall window which, thankfully, was obscured by a grubby net curtain. The other was standing with his back to our front door, arms folded, like a cut-price bouncer. They wore cheap-looking suits with white shirts and no tie, presumably to minimise the risk of throttling by frustrated taxpayers.
“Morning chaps,” I said brightly. “How can I help?”
“Do you reside at these premises sir?” This from the folded-arm man. He had a pointed nose, an untidy little moustache and the air of a school sub-prefect who had just been granted the power to issue punishment essays. I took an immediate and splendidly strong dislike to him.
“I certainly do. At last. I hope you’re here to evict my squatters?”
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