by Tony Salter
Hassan could see the truth and sincerity in his words, but the vein of bitterness and humiliation ran deep in his gut. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But it’s difficult to sit by and watch without doing something.’
The imam smiled. ‘And that is why I wanted to meet with you today,’ he said. ‘We would like you to do something. We would like you to help us cross bridges with young Moslems in Birmingham, to make sure that they are listened to and, hopefully, to work with them to ensure that daily life does continue to become easier rather than the opposite.’
‘What?’ Hassan looked up to see if this was some form of joke. ‘I’m sorry, but what exactly are you talking about?’
‘We believe you would be an ideal candidate to represent your community in local politics. First as a councillor and then …who knows?’
‘But I know nothing about politics. I’m totally unqualified.’
‘You’re young, bright, well educated, a good Moslem and you can identify with the issues of the ordinary members of our community.’
Hassan could remember sitting there gulping like a freshly landed trout. ‘But … but …’
The imam laughed and reached over to pat Hassan on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, young man,’ he said. ‘We’re not just going to throw you to the sharks without some preparation. The first thing is to get your religious education up to speed. You’ve been accepted for a one year placement at the Deobandi madrasa in Peshawar, starting in September. You’ll help to teach the younger children and also study the basics of Islamic law directly under the mullah. I know him well. He is a good man and a formidable scholar.’
Hassan didn’t remember what was said after that. They probably discussed all sorts of other details, but he was too shocked and confused to register much. He remembered walking out of the office realising that he’d just agreed to go and study in Pakistan for a year, but not much more.
The other thought that stuck in his memory was that, before he took that step out of the shadows and stood for the council, he would need to find a way to resolve matters with Uncle Sami. Not a pretty thought but, as he didn’t have a better plan, Hassan would have to accept that Allah would provide.
He’d only been back from Peshawar for two weeks, but it was already a world away.
Nothing in Hassan’s previous experience had prepared him for life in the madrasa, nor for life in Pakistan for that matter.
It wasn’t the dirt or the poverty – he’d seen plenty of that during his drinking days. It was the heat that had got to him and the constant inescapable weight of the humid, pollution-filled air had made life almost unbearable for the first few months.
There were three other students from the UK, but he suffered much more than they did. When he was first admitted to hospital, the doctors had told him that alcohol had damaged his thyroid as well as his liver. It appeared they’d been right; his body wasn’t able to slow down its metabolism enough to cope with the sweltering climate.
However, since his welcome into the true faith, he’d developed an almost masochistic asceticism and found himself welcoming the discomfort; sleepless sweat-sodden nights spent tossing under his mosquito net weren’t endless purgatory, but opportunities for self-reflection and prayer. He had a purpose in his life for the first time and the true path was never supposed to be easy.
Days were identical. Study, prayer, teaching, food, sleep, combined in strict routines and then repeated over and over. Hassan soon lost any sense of beginning or end, before or after. There was only now, today, the next task. He must have been growing in knowledge and understanding, but there were no landmarks, milestones or any way to measure his progress. He spent half an hour every day with the mullah but, whenever he’d asked him about progress and the future, he was met with an enigmatic smile.
Mullah Akthar ul-Haq was in his late seventies, but still ruled his fiefdom with an iron rod, uncompromising with failure or laziness, although he was also quick to praise when praise was well earned. Hassan liked and respected him and could see why he had been friends with the imam of his Birmingham mosque.
Apart from mealtimes, there was little time or energy to socialise and Hassan made few friends during the months he spent at the madrasa. Luckily, as a teaching assistant and senior student, he didn’t need to sleep in one of the main dormitories and had the luxury of a small room which he shared with only one other teacher. As the months passed, they became close friends.
Ibrahim was originally from Lebanon although he looked like the postcard image of an Afghani tribesman – full black beard, a hawk’s beak of a nose and startling green eyes which missed nothing. He was secretive about his background and personal life but, like one or two of Hassan’s friends in Birmingham, he was defined by his anger which must have come from somewhere. That inner rage wasn’t obvious at first glance as Ibrahim was remarkably self-controlled but, as Hassan got to know him better, he could see that the fury was always there, boiling furiously and struggling for release.
Ibrahim wasn’t interested in Mullah Akhtar’s slow, political road towards peace and equality. For him, Islam was always under attack and had been fighting – and losing – the same war for centuries. Talking and compromise would only play into the hands of the West. The ideas of divide and rule – so cleverly used by the British – were still working and it was only by making a stand and fighting back that Islam would survive.
And then Mullah Akhtar died.
It was October and the cooler temperatures had begun to release Hassan from his overheated daze. His brain was functioning again and he watched from the sidelines as the madrasa struggled to deal with the sudden, unexpected loss – without their leader, fractures and factions had appeared as if from nowhere and there was no clear successor ready to take charge.
During this period, when the lessons were disrupted, Hassan had time to think about the plans which had been made for him and began to have doubts. Would he actually be able to make a difference by being one of the token Moslems on the council? The Moslem councillors he’d met so far seemed more interested in furthering their own business interests than in changing things for the better. Could that really be why he’d been saved?
As the weeks passed, he found it more and more difficult to imagine himself going back to a career in local politics. He would always be grateful to the mosque and everyone who’d helped him, but that wasn’t a role for him. A politician needed to work with hope and to believe in a shared future and Hassan didn’t have that any more – at least not for himself.
He shared his feelings with Ibrahim and, over the course of dozens of late night discussions, began to realise that his friend was not exactly what he’d seemed to be. Hassan had always assumed that Ibrahim’s angry politics were similar to those of his radical friends back home. Youthful passion and righteous fervour. Words not deeds.
He was wrong.
As the madrasa changed from a peaceful place of learning to a mess of bitter in-fighting, Ibrahim chose to reveal his true self.
It turned out that he was very much a man of deeds. He was a militant radical as well as a politician in training and was an active member of the Tehrik-i-Taliban, the Pakistani Taliban. He wouldn’t share much about his past, although Hassan began to realise that everyone else at the madrasa was afraid of Ibrahim; his roommate was definitely much more than he appeared to be.
Once the truth was out in the open, Ibrahim lost no time in explaining that he and his superiors had become convinced that Hassan would be an ideal candidate to mount an attack on UK soil. To do something that would make a real difference.
Hassan didn’t take him seriously initially, but he was insistent and very persuasive. Being at the madrasa wasn’t the first time in Hassan’s life when he’d dared to believe he might be able to control his future and even have some sort of purpose. And it wasn’t the first time that he’d found that vision snatched away from him.
It wasn’t the first time, but it was definitely the worst.
; ‘If I have to do this, I want it to be the Natural History Museum,’ said Hassan.
They were alone in the madrasa’s library and Ibrahim was standing with his back to a wall of books. Many of them dated back to the fourteenth century and, despite the librarian’s constant efforts, the spines were white-spotted with mildew.
‘Why there?’ Ibrahim said, eventually.
‘Mostly because it’s a soft target and you’ve made it very clear what happens if I fail,’ said Hassan, hating himself for his transparency and weakness. Ibrahim had known exactly which button to press, and how.
‘But also because it’s a perfect location.’ Hassan took advantage of Ibrahim’s silence to press his point. ‘Think about it. It’s a symbol of colonial hypocrisy, there are always lots of tourists and there’s limited security. No-one will expect it, but they’ll never forget it.’ Hassan had spent days agonising over the right location. He couldn’t risk failure. The consequences were unthinkable.
‘That’s true, but the Sheik was thinking of something more political. The Houses of Parliament, maybe?’
‘Too obvious,’ said Hassan. ‘And too much security. I wouldn’t be able to get close enough. Think about my idea and ask them to consider it … Please.’ As he looked at his former friend, Hassan wondered if Ibrahim actually needed to consult anybody.
‘I will,’ said Ibrahim. ‘But wherever it is, they want it to happen at exactly midday. That’s important.’
‘What difference does it make?’ said Hassan.
‘It’s a play on words,’ said Ibrahim. ‘Noon the time and noon the Arabic letter.’ He was standing still with his hands clenched into fists. Hassan could feel the righteous zeal burning off him and wondered if that was what evil really looked like. ‘But noon is also for Nasara,’ he continued. ‘It will be another red mark on the houses of the Nazarenes, just like in Mosul.’
‘No-one’s going to understand that,’ said Hassan, briefly wondering if killing Ibrahim would set him free. ‘Journalists don’t know the Arabic alphabet and it’s too obscure.’ Killing Ibrahim? Who was he kidding? The man was made of stone.
‘They’ll understand when we explain,’ said Ibrahim. ‘But anyway, the Sheik has decided that the time is auspicious, so you should accept it.’
‘Of course,’ said Hassan. ‘It’s as good as any other.’
Hassan looked at his watch. Not long now. Once more around the dinosaur and it would be time.
He wasn’t afraid any more. He’d never been afraid for his own life, but he’d been terrified that something would go wrong. Although getting caught, arrested and dragged out for public shaming would be terrible, that wouldn’t be the worst thing. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and felt again for the folded paper, the talisman which kept him moving forward step-by-step.
At the beginning, imagining the price of failure had made him feel physically sick, but he’d moved past that. He wasn’t going to fail.
The hall wasn’t as full as they’d hoped it would be, but this wasn’t about absolute numbers of casualties, it was about the symbolic act and there was no doubt that today would be a day for the history books.
He looked up at Dippy’s massive tail as he passed underneath. How many millions of people had stared at the skeleton in wonder over the past hundred years? It must be millions. The irony was that the museum was planning on taking the dinosaur away and swapping it for a blue whale. The exchange was only a few weeks away and Dippy had a nationwide tour planned. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t make it out in time.
Hassan had a few seconds left to mumble his last prayers. His faith was the one good thing to come out of his life and he would keep that whole whatever Allah had in store for him.
Even if there was nothing afterwards, even if there was only blackness, that would be preferable to any earthbound future he could imagine.
Shuna
‘What’s wrong, darling?’ said Shuna. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’
‘It’s that guy from Muriel’s. The one outside the loos.’
‘What about him? Take a breath and tell me.’
‘He was covered in sweat and shaking. He told me to leave.’
‘Why would he do that? Did you say something?’
‘No you don’t understand. He wasn’t angry with me. It was like he was begging me to go. I don’t know why … the way he was looking at me scared me.’
‘What exactly did he say?’ said Jim, his strong voice surprising Shuna, who had forgotten he was there.
‘What I just said,’ said Zoe. ‘He said, “Leave now. Please. You have to go.” and then he said it again.’ Zoe was flicking her eyes back and forth between Shuna and Jim. ‘But it wasn’t only what he said. It was the way he said it. I told you. It scared me.’
Shuna turned to Jim who had magically transformed into a different man – ten years younger, inches taller, his eyes sharp and scanning the room. ‘Do you think he’s some sort of nutter?’ she said.
Jim’s voice was also that of another man. ‘Lie down, both of you. Facing the wall. Hands over your heads.’
Shuna felt her arms and legs complying without question until her brain kicked in. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘What’s wrong? I need to get Anna.’
‘Do what I say and do it now,’ Jim said, and this time there was no questioning the command. ‘I’ll look after your other daughter.’ Shuna found herself sinking to the floor, pulling Zoe with her and watching from the corner of her eye as Jim began to walk slowly away and towards the dinosaur.
Shuna wrapped her arm tightly around Zoe and pulled her close, feeling her daughter’s skinny body trembling. The tiles were hard and cold and the acrid smell of some sort of industrial cleaner scratched at the back of her throat with ammonia claws.
‘What’s happening, Mum?’ said Zoe. ‘I’m frightened.’
‘I don’t know, little one,’ said Shuna, her own fear and confusion smothered by the primal need to calm and protect her child. What about Anna? Should she have gone to get her? Jim had said he would look after her, but why trust him? ‘I don’t know,’ she said again. ‘But the museum guard used to be a soldier. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.’
Shuna could hear Jim saying something as he walked away. He was speaking slowly and calmly, in deep bass tones, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Dan
Dan continued to hug Rachel and felt the relief fill him. He hadn’t noticed how much his shoulder blades had pulled themselves tightly up towards his ears or how hard he’d been clenching his teeth. Over the past five months, his whole body had been steadily building tension in every muscle like a thousand springs in the testing department of a Swiss watch factory and, as he looked at Rachel smiling with acceptance and agreement, every one of them sprung free in perfect synchronicity. He sagged forward with a gasp.
It was going to be OK. Everything was going to be fine. Well, maybe not exactly fine – he was still going to die – but now that Rachel knew and understood about the cancer (and about Rosa), Dan felt at peace in a way that he hadn’t for a long, long time. He knew his new tranquillity might not last – there was still plenty of time for fear and doubt – but right at that moment, it was all good.
‘Are you OK, hon?’ said Rachel.
‘I’m fine,’ said Dan, spluttering as a burst of uncontrollable coughing doubled him over. That would teach him to try to smile, laugh and talk at the same time. He could feel Rachel patting him on the back with firm confident blows as he struggled to get the coughing – and the laughter – under control.
Eventually he managed to calm himself and sat motionless for a few moments, bringing his breathing back to normal. On the edge of his vision, he noticed that the small girl who’d sat down at the end of the bench was staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. She probably thought he was about to keel over. He smiled at her and turned back to Rachel.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ she said.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Dan, still enjoying the euphoric s
ense of relief. ‘I actually feel great. It’s so much better to have everything out in the open. I hate keeping secrets, especially from you.’
‘And you’re rubbish at it,’ said Rachel. She lifted one eyebrow. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’
‘I guess.’ Dan wasn’t interested in learning just how poor a keeper of secrets he was. ‘Anyway, the most important thing now is to get moving on organising that trip. It’s going to be incredible.’
‘I think it will be,’ said Rachel. ‘And there is a lot of planning to do.’ She picked up Dan’s book and put it in her bag. ‘But maybe a couple of hours rest first?’
Adrenaline and excitement could still give Dan a rush of energy which allowed him to remember how it was to be young. Unfortunately, these days, the tingling rush lasted for seconds rather than minutes and, when it passed, he felt diminished, as though he’d eaten into precious, irreplaceable reserves. He nodded and his tired voice croaked and rasped like a ninety-year-old’s. ‘A couple of hours rest first wouldn’t be such a bad idea,’ he said eventually.
Dan shifted himself into a position which would allow him to stand up. He had his hands on his knees, ready to push, when Rachel tapped him on the shoulder – two urgent taps. He sank back down, aborting the operation.
‘Hon?’
‘Yup,’ said Dan, trying to hide his irritation. Standing up always hurt – somehow things inside him became shifted about – and he’d got his mind in the right place just as Rachel had stopped him. ‘What is it?’
Rachel leant forward and whispered close to his ear. ‘That little girl,’ she said. ‘I think she’s crying.’
Dan turned and looked at the girl. She was only three or four feet away along the bench, dressed in the sort of inappropriate party clothes that most children seemed to be wearing. Jeans covered in rhinestones and some sort of pink, glittery, spangly top. She was ten years old at a push and she looked like she was dressed for a night out with Mick Jagger at Studio 54. Her arms were crossed, straitjacketing around her chest and her chin was tightly tucked in. He couldn’t hear any sobbing, but her narrow shoulders were definitely shaking. Not a happy bunny and way too young to be sitting there on her own.