Akram's War
Page 25
A volunteer replenishes my tea, now gone cold. From the other side of the coach I can hear the drum sergeant bellowing instructions as he orders his band into place. I hear the scraping of chairs and the noise of civilians taking their places mixed with the excited shrieks of children. The brass band plays a few notes of a military marching song, a final practice, and as it falls silent I can picture the audience on the other side of the coach as they cheer and clap.
I stand up, pull my daysack out from underneath the table and swing it casually onto my back. My watch reads five minutes to eleven. I march slowly but earnestly, my limbs straight, thumbs perpendicular to my body, my chin tilted up, my stick leading me on.
Up top it flattens out into a square of tarmac, and in the centre is the war memorial, a simple stone cross about ten feet high with steps at the base. The cross is engraved with the names of men, and the steps below it are covered with a wreath and a blanket of poppies. Around it on all sides stand men and women, civilians and military – army, navy and air force in their best dress uniform. I note the band, about twenty members, and pick out the clack of the sergeant’s boots as he walks down the line and makes his final inspection. Beyond the band are the ruins of the castle, thick crumbling stone walls rising like spurs of ice. The wind has got up again and I steady my cap, feeling a warm trickle of sweat pass obliquely across my forehead. My heart speeds up but not excessively, a faint repeating thud in my chest.
Unchallenged, I move among servicemen and women. I wear a fixed smile and an air of thoughtful detachment.
Allah. Allah. It is time to think of Allah. Now is the time for exhilaration. I am on a steep cliff surrounded on all sides by the heavens and I feel light-headed. I sense the excruciating pain of wind chill like needles on the skin of my face. I unbutton the breast pocket of my tunic and pull out a mobile phone. An old Nokia. I smile at the familiar keys, my eyes moving to the number seven, then eight and finally six.
I pass through the crowd. They face towards the memorial and no one turns to look at me. Here there are children, here old boys in resplendent uniforms and twinkling medals. Here are civilians, men and women. I make for where the military uniforms are most dense. I hold the Nokia in my right hand and lean on my stick with my left.
A solitary bugle sounds the ‘Last Post’. Everyone removes their hats.
I move again, fast. My distance to the memorial: twelve feet. Ten feet. Six. I flit deeper into the crowd. I whisper verse, any verse; the first thing that comes into my head.
The bugle’s last note echoes as a two-minute silence commences. I wait. Let them have their silence.
Finally, a padre begins to read a prayer. Ever-living God, we remember. . .
The face of the phone reads three minutes past eleven. I should have keyed in the detonation code by now. My instructions. . . The text message. . .
. . . gathered from the storm of war into the peace of your presence. . .
I take a deep breath.
May that same peace calm our fears. . .
I have the power to end their prayer.
. . . bring justice to all peoples and establish harmony. . .
I let the padre finish. I even join in at the end. ‘Amen.’
The band starts up a familiar theme from army days. The people open hymn sheets ready to sing. All eyes are downcast.
I am ready now, and I fumble for the keypad of the Nokia. Then someone tugs on the tail of my tunic. I turn to see Grace; next to her is a small child of about six. Vaguely I recall the girl waving a poppy from the window of the car climbing the hill.
The Nokia begins to vibrate. Fuck. Why is it vibrating? Surely only I can detonate the ordnance? Is it because I am late? Are the brothers set to detonate it without me doing anything? If so, they must be watching. Do I answer it?
As I look around, the end of a scarf billows into view, wrapped tightly like a noose, disguising a wound now clotted and healing. Grace smiles broadly. ‘Surprise!’ She nudges the child, Britney, towards me. In a dimpled fist Britney clasps a poppy. I recall a scene bordered by the elevated Hindu Kush where a man called Adrian set out to fetch roses for a daughter called Britney. A daughter he had never met.
I feel an intense pain in the depths of my gut.
Grace looks beautiful. Her face nicely made up, smart clothes, not a trace of her lack of sleep visible in her bright eyes. They make a fitting pair, mother and daughter. They look alike. Who would guess their hardships? Who would believe they are about to be separated?
I stare at the Nokia. Still vibrating. On the screen the time reads seven minutes past eleven. I need to do something. Seven is a good number. Seven levels of heaven.
Grace is smiling at me. She is saying something to Britney.
I have to think quickly.
Something about me. About Britney’s dad.
My feet are frozen to the spot. Soon the call will time out. What then? Will that create the first charge? The charge that creates the spark that fires up the batteries that. . .
For Adrian I finish the Shahada – ‘La ilaha il Allahu Muhammad Rasul Allah’ – and instinctively I reach for Britney’s poppy. Twisting it between my fingers. I glance at the child, see the silver light in her eyes. And then at her mother, smiling at me out of a silver tooth. Their pale faces buffeted by the wind seem to demand something akin to salvation. And they offer love. Simplistic and naive but love just the same. An image of Adrian flits across the view – the face of a man stepping on a false trigger plate that he thought would ignite a charge that. . . I smile out of fear. Adrian diminishes from view to be replaced by Grace and Britney, both of their faces cold but hopeful, within their eyes something less than a plea.
I want love. I only ever wanted love. I grip the poppy tighter, and my eyes widen as the Nokia, still vibrating, slips out of my clammy grip.
I am Akram Khan, formerly Sergeant Khan of the Yeomanry, and I was once admired. Once a man called Adrian told me: If you Pakis put your mind to it, you can do anything. I now know what he meant. There is love. Love enough for us all.
NADIM SAFDAR was born to Pakistani parents and grew up in the Black Country. He is married with three children and lives in London.
First published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2016 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Nadim Safdar, 2016
The moral right of Nadim Safdar to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Trade Paperback ISBN: 9781782397304
EBook ISBN: 9781782397311
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