by Saul Dobney
Despite the people, no-one noticed him. Lost and anonymous among the thousands of faces he wandered through the streets and avenues past the foyers of the towering Manhattan skyscrapers, fixated on the great buildings reaching to the stars that appeared and disappeared between the street signs, unconcerned that he had no money and nowhere to sleep.
At the trees of Madison Square he found an oasis among the concrete. He sat down on a long bench just outside the park. Above him ladders of windows climbed into the night, and the journey and the people mixed up in his head. The day was catching up with him and he laid himself out on the bench to sleep.
He awoke as the first rays of light filled the sky. The traffic was light and the city was quiet. Early morning walkers were entering the Square walking dogs, or striding out to some early breakfast appointment. A man in a grubby tattered coat walked along the side-walk by the park fence shaking a small plastic cup asking for help, but people rushed past ignoring him as though the container were a mark of disease. The tramp noticed Yanif watching him. He pocketed the few coins that were in the cup and wandered over and sat down, bringing a sharp tang of body odour that mixed with the scent of flowers from the park.
“Wanna a drink?” asked the man taking out a bottle tucked into a paper bag.
Yanif lifted his hand to say no.
“Go on. It’ll make you feel good.” The man took a swig and sat down. “Look at ‘em all,” he said watching the stream of people walking past the bench on the way to work. “Rich b’ds. Never even notice us. Trampling over the little people, selling things no-one needs to people who don’t need them.” He cursed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You got breakfast?”
Yanif sat in silence.
“Lost your tongue kid? You was here all night. I saw you. What is it? Lost a job, kicked out of home?”
Yanif shook his head. “Helping is my job.”
“You ain't from round here are you kid?” said the tramp hearing Yanif's accent. “You got food, money?”
Yanif looked shame-faced to the floor.
“Then you better have some super powers kid, 'cos that's the only way you're going to be able to help.” He took another swig and belched. He held his stomach. “And when you have some super powers you can start by turning some bricks into bread to fill my empty belly.”
Yanif turned away from the smell of alcohol and rotten gums.
“Just the regular fly-round tall buildings type then.” The man snorted. “Here. Have a drink. Loosen you up a bit. A bit of booze and we can be friends.”
Yanif pushed the man's bottle away.
The man scoffed, “Not a drop for the do-gooder. Hey, I bet if you was a super hero you'd be rich like them. Dining out on other people's troubles.” He laughed. “The rich man's dream is empty.” He drank again.
Four skateboarders in hoodies came moshing along the pavement, pushing into one another. As they passed one fell over Yanif’s legs.
The youth scrambled to his feet. “Get outta the way.”
He tried to kick Yanif but Yanif lifted his feet onto the bench. The tramp tucked his bottle under his coat and shuffled further away.
The youth shimmied to his companions in a swagger of bravado. Laughing he took a knife out of his pocket and waved it at Yanif. “For that you can give me your money,” he said, a cruel intensity in his face.
Yanif raised his open hands. “No money.”
“What do you mean no money?” The youth became angry and yanked Yanif to his feet. “You gotta have some.”
“What you doing picking on the homeless. We ain't got nothing,” said the tramp.
“Shut up old man,” said the youth.
The youth frisked Yanif, but all he found was the wallet empty except for the piece of paper with the number Eshe had written on it. Yanif put it back in his pocket.
“Well you betta get some money, cos if I see you here again I'm gonna throw you off a high building and see how you bounce.” He turned to the tramp. “You too.”
Yanif put his hands out in resignation.
“Betta go and rob a store kid cos you owe us,” said one of the others and laughed. “You can’t be on the street if you don’t pay you' taxes.”
The youths left the park jostling and falling into each other. The tramp stood up and launched a scrunched up ball of paper towards their backs but it just drifted in the wind.
“See. That's what happens when you leave you' superpowers at home,” sneered the tramp. “The only place you an' me got is the bottle. You start drinkin' an' you can be the ruler of the world. Go on have some real super power.”
Yanif pushed the bottle back.
“You ain't no fun,” said the man. “I'm outta here before them kids back.”
He turned to leave swaying as he stood up. In the other direction an over-heavy man in jacket and tie with a computer bag on his shoulder was bustling his way down the street pushing past the other morning walkers like a bowling ball pushing past skittles, sweat pouring from his forehead, a mobile phone in his hand. He collided with the tramp. The heavily built man landed on his backside, the computer bag bouncing as it hit the floor.
“You idiot,” shouted the man from the floor.
The tramp looked at him and snarled, kicking at the man's shins before slipping into the park.
“Jeez!” The heavy man collected himself and cursed as he checked the computer in its bag then peered around at the floor searching for the phone he had dropped, breathing heavily.
He reached out to the park railings for support to catch his breath. He started to hyperventilate then bent over and put his hands on his knees, then one hand on his chest. He staggered to the bench, his hand on his heart, wincing at the pain. “Call a doctor. I need a doctor,” he called pleading to Yanif beside him.
Yanif touched the man on the forehead, then loosened the man’s tie. The man was panting, grimacing as a wave of pain crossed his chest.
“Sit still and breathe,” said Yanif. He placed his hand against the man's breast bone, pressing in time with the breaths. In. Out. In. Out.
The man calmed down and Yanif reached under the man's jacket feeling for his heart, rubbing to massage away the pain. The man closed his eyes, his breathing returning to normal.
“Hey you.” From behind, a hand grabbed Yanif's shoulder.
Yanif turned.
“You taking this man’s wallet?” A man in uniform was standing over him, his hand on his nightstick.
Yanif lifted his hands away.
The policeman dragged Yanif off the bench away from the heavy man. He pulled Yanif to his feet and pinned him against the fence. “Stay there and don't move.” He turned to the heavy man. “Sir, was this man trying to attack you?”
The heavy man shook his head. “A doctor. Get a doctor. I'm think I've had a heart attack.” The heavy man lent back on the bench, his head resting against the fence behind.
“One moment sir.” The policeman spoke into his radio. “Medical assistance is on it's way.”
The heavy man blew out a long breath and sat back upright, taking out a small bottle of water out of his computer bag. He took a sip and nodded at Yanif. “He was trying to help officer, that's all I know,” he said waving toward Yanif. “The pain is going now.”
The policeman turned to Yanif. “OK. Let’s check you out. I want to see some ID.”
Yanif turned out his pockets, empty except for the wallet with the piece paper Eshe had given him.
“Sir,” said the policeman. “You have got to have ID. Where is your money? Or your keys? What’s your name?”
Yanif answered, “Yanif.”
“Your address or where you are staying.”
Yanif shrugged and handed the policeman the paper with the numbers.
The policeman took his phone from his pocket and dialled. Martha answered.
22. The Guru of Golders Green
Molly knocked on the door of Dr Hill’s college room. “Professor Suleiman to see you
.”
Dr Hill turned from the window and the sound of the chapel choir practising in the quad below. “So, the Guru of Golders Green,” said Dr Hill reaching up from his desk to invite the man to sit down.
“That is the name you invented. My name is Professor Suleiman. Thank you for allowing me to come and talk with you.”
Suleiman surveyed the books and tumble of papers in Dr Hill’s office. Certificates on the wall, covers of the Journal of Physics with Dr Hill’s name prominent and, on the desk, several pictures of Jill.
“You did receive the aurascope that I sent to you? You can try it on me if you wish.”
Dr Hill whistled under his breath. “I’d rather not. It’ll probably just tell me you haven’t washed for a few days.” Dr Hill cleared some papers from his desk. “So what is it you want to show me today? Another trinket. A trick to demonstrate that you are some sort of prophet and God exists?”
“I see in you an honest man. A fool. But honest. You may be blind to God, but this is because you simply cannot see, not because you lie. Your spirit is disabled and I cannot blame you for your disability.”
Dr Hill smiled at the idea of atheism as an incapacity, it allowed detractors to dismiss him as having some form of mental illness.
“I wish to show you something—“
Professor Suleiman was interrupted as Molly put her head around the door.
“A colleague of yours is here Mr Suleiman,” she said. “He said you were expecting him.”
Suleiman appeared perplexed. “I was not expecting anyone. Who is it?”
Molly opened the door wider and a man in a long green robe similar to those warn by Suleiman's followers shuffled in with his hands in his pockets. The man was agitated, jittering in the entrance, his face partially masked behind the hood so only the eyes and nose could be seen.
Suleiman stared blankly at the man in the robe. “I do not know you do I?”
“I have a message from Golders Way,” mumbled the man from behind the hood.
“Then take my hand in friendship brother.” Suleiman proffered his hand, smiling graciously. “Were you at last week's meeting?”
The man’s eyes darted between Suleiman and Dr Hill as he fidgeted and fiddled with whatever was in his pockets. He lifted his head and Dr Hill recognised the man from the bins, his thin face bitter and angry.
“You—” started Dr Hill.
The man reached out to take Suleiman's hand, but instead of shaking it, he seized Suleiman's wrist and pulled. Suleiman gasped and stumbled off-balance, tumbling into the man.
The robed man smiled. A glint of metal caught the light as he took something from his pocket. A knife. The man had a knife.
Dr Hill wanted to shout, but time stopped. He watched impotent from behind the desk.
The blade thrust upwards into Suleiman’s abdomen, driving up. Up. The robed man’s face snarling, fierce and determined as the metal met flesh.
Suleiman gasped and sputtered, his mouth open in silent agony.
With a twist, the attacker jerked the knife free.
Suleiman fell to the floor, his mouth open, eyes staring at the ceiling. He twitched and his life left him, leaving a creeping pool of deep red blood seeping onto the carpet.
Dr Hill stood mesmerised, staring at Suleiman’s fallen body. Unable to think. Unable to react.
The man in the robe took three steps towards the desk, wiping the blade on his robe, a line of red on the green. “We have listened to your evil,” hissed the robed man. “Read your distruths and lies. I saw you there when you visited this heathen. He even boasted to us that he was coming to see you, to be verified by you. You encourage these pigs. This charlatan here—” he indicated at the body on the floor, “—insulted true religion and true prophets with his perversions. Now it is your turn to feel the anger of the Hands of God.”
Dr Hill came to his senses. His skin was prickling. His voice trapped at the back of his throat. He stepped behind his chair jockeying to keep the desk between him and the attacker. He glanced out of the window behind him to the quad below.
“Now you and I must meet our destiny.” The man jabbed across the desk at Dr Hill with the knife. “In the next minutes you and I will be with God. Then you will have your proof that God truly exists and you will feel the might of his jealous rage.”
Dr Hill paled. The doorway was the only exit. He took a deep breath and focused on the ceiling.
The attacker watched and mocked him. “So when your life is due to end you look to the heavens and ask God to help you do you?”
Dr Hill cursed. He picked up the telephone on his desk and hurled it at the attacker. As the man in the robe ducked, Dr Hill reached the wall and banged his fist into the fire-alarm. A deafening clanging sound rang out from the red bell above the door.
The noise took the attacker by surprise and he turned to see the source. In that split-second Dr Hill ran from his position behind the desk. He barged into the centre of the room.
The attacker was startled, caught off-guard.
Dr Hill ran towards the door, but the attacker was too fast. He tackled Dr Hill to the floor.
The pair of them clattered into the shelving that ran up the wall. Books dislodged from the top and battered on to the men as they rolled around on the carpet, Dr Hill desperately tried to push himself out of the attacker’s grip, but the attacker was too strong and too quick.
The attacker pinned Dr Hill down, his knees on Dr Hill’s shoulders pressing them into the floor. Dr Hill wriggled, pushing and lifting to escape, but there was no way of moving the man sitting on his chest.
The attacker smiled at Dr Hill. “There is no hope for you. You cannot escape. There is no way to escape our destinies. When you are dead, I will die too. I will see God take his justice.”
“And what if there is no God? How do you know it is God wants?”
“I have read God’s words. I have heard him speak to me in my prayers. It is what God wants.”
“And if I was to say that God had spoken to me and said something different?”
“There is only one word of God. One.”
“But how do you know your God is genuine? It could have been some spirit pretending to be God. What then? Kaboom and on the other end you are condemned for your evil.”
The attacker laughed. “I know God. I am his servant. I keep his law. He will look upon me as a son. As a martyr. I will get great joys in heaven for doing His work. God is a jealous and vengeful god. It is written.”
“So all you want is a selfish short-cut to heaven. Selfish. For the reward, not because it's right. And it’s only your God, in your head. If it was everyone’s God, wouldn’t everyone be trying to kill me?”
“You are a clever man who knows how to twist words. You may try to hypnotise me with your talk, but it will not work. There is nothing you can do to stop this. It is time to finish it.”
The attacker grasped Dr Hill’s hair and yanked his head back exposing his neck and throat, then raised his knife and prepared himself, murmuring a quiet prayer. “Why don’t you pray with me? Maybe there is still a chance for you.”
Dr Hill spat at the attacker. The attacker smiled holding the knife above his head. An image of the man burnt into Dr Hill's mind: his yellowing teeth; the dark black of stubble on his chin; red spots and pock marks; the hair in the man’s nose.
From outside the chapel choir started to sing and the sound of child sopranos and student tenors filled the room. Dr Hill shivered and closed his eyes. The last thing he saw was the sunlight on the blade.
Swwoooshhh.
A great guttural whoosh drowned out the choir. The air went cold and the weight lifted from Dr Hill’s shoulders. Around him a cloud of freezing gas numbed his cheeks and pinned down no longer, he seemed to float to his feet, his body reacting automatically.
After a moment the cloud parted. He opened his eyes to see a woman standing in front of him.
Dr Hill threw himself towards her.
Mol
ly, a fire extinguisher in her hand, stood in the doorway watching the carbon dioxide gas evaporate. Behind her a rush of other staff crammed in the hall. Dr Hill ran the few steps to safety then turned to look at the man who had attacked him.
The man was kneeling in the middle of the floor, crying and distraught; the knife still in his hand. He banged his fists into the floor and wailed to the heavens. His cold certainty of destiny had left him. He took hold of the bookshelf and pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed the books and threw them at Dr Hill.
From the quad courtyard outside came the sound of sirens and the noise of people. The attacker stared out of the window to the police cars below. He moved the chair to the wall and, taking the window frame in his hands, he stepped onto the chair and out into the Cambridge sky beyond.
23. Returning to Kenya
Yanif came out of customs at Nairobi airport, his case still wrapped in cellophane to protect it from prying hands. From across the concourse Eshe ran towards him and hugged him, pressing her head against his chest, rocking him to and fro.
“Look at you. You have new clothes, your hair has been cut. You are a new man,” said Eshe standing him in front of her.
Yanif wrapped his arms around her, and Eshe hugged him a second time.
“The others are desperate to see you.” she said. She took the handle of Yanif's case and wheeled it towards the exit. “And are you ready to move in with Tremus?”
They caught a matatu into the city. The over-crowded minibus, music pumping from the speakers, took them into the city station where they changed for a bus back out to the town. They rode past the city slums before the landscape opened into flat grasslands with villages of low rough houses and gaudy hand-painted shops and unkempt bushes.
Tremus was working in his workshop when they arrived. Outside Kwasi and Mosi were playing a improvised type of baseball with a old drinks can and a piece of wood.
“Kwasi, Mosi, shouldn’t you be working,” said Eshe as she and Yanif crossed the road from the bus-stop.