Dear Infidel

by Tamim Sadikali

  Silence and darkness; the night’s guardians fanned out in a pincer movement, chilling the air into submission. Turning his lights onto full beam he saw the road dip as it bent, illuminating the motorway in the distance. It ran perpendicular and he followed the trace of distant headlights: heading north, heading south, heading north. It was a great view and one he’d lose if he went any further forward. He’d move on soon.

  He looked down at his overcoat on the passenger seat and prised out a CD: Pakeezah. He felt childish about having just taken it, but he’d call in a few days, mention it to his mum. He’d give it back. His thumb caressed the cover, that dancing girl, her pain hidden under a veil. He wanted to hear her cry, absorb her tears. Chalte Chalte. He fed the CD unit, his senses heightened. And suddenly there was sound; a rippling, an undulation of Indian strings. His back arched, his spine reacting to being tickled; caressed with soft brush strokes. In reflex his eyes closed, the Hindustani devotional demanding reverence. Music that he’d not heard in years flooded his heart with sadness and joy. There was no singing yet; strings and flute set up the paean. Like partners they took turns, the flute playful and feminine and the strings yearning, longing. Can such a thing be real? they asked. Pasha was lost. Lost in a world that he never, ever saw: Indian splendour, Asian splendour, Muslim splendour. And he was now so close. The girl started singing, pining, and Pasha was sitting with the Nawab, watching her dance. Why did you leave me, my Lucknavi Princess? Where did you go? Raw folk drums dominated the sparse, barren sound but their heavy echo thundered into a hypnotic pattern, establishing a trance-like, spiritual feel. Pasha was really there, seated on a Persian rug, smoking sheesha: Mughal splendour. Entrance me, My Princess, take me away. Make it all go away.

  A car approached. An oncoming beam, building in intensity. He didn’t move, he didn’t have to – it was on the other side. But then beams from behind ripped through – sudden, intense, blinding light. Instantly he knew – another vehicle had just climbed the peak behind him. But why so violently bright? wondered Pasha absurdly, like he had all the time in the world. A horn blew: heavy, deep and long but the oncoming car was nearly alongside and the juggernaut behind now couldn’t go round. It was too late ... It was too late but there was a moment; a mere sliver of a moment when Pasha could have acted. If James Bond-like he had thrown himself out of the car and rolled, rolled, rolled like the boyhood hero, he could have saved himself. But Pasha wasn’t James Bond. He wouldn’t be sipping cocktails in half an hour with only a small cut above the eye and his tie hanging loose at a raffish angle, as evidence of his dance with death. He wouldn’t be entertaining his chums or making good girls go moist with tales of his derring-do. He would drink from that cup no more.

  ‘Please, God,’ screamed Pasha silently, but he didn’t move. He was so terrified his handsome features were now frozen in some grotesque contortion. A word formed in his mind: mercy. But there would be no mercy. The incline smoothed out and the juggernaut’s headlights traced through horizontal – Pasha’s body entered its final, spasmodic dance. And the behemoth kept surging forward.

  Mum.

  FLASH. The horn blasts. FULL BEAM.

  That look, the love in her eyes.

  The noise, the lights, the lights, the noise.

  Forgive me ...

  Bitter tears ran freely as the dancing girl withered and folded, like a rose in the gutter. Everyone’s fate was sealed – no escape for her, no escape for him. The air was pregnant with energy. Just the slightest spark and ... the torrential release tore into the night. The kinetic snap spewed out heat, thunder and lightening, with the thunder rolling relentlessly on, gorging itself on the silence and dark.

  Finally the night returned to claim her right.

  We were once so beautiful, was Ibrahim Pasha Walayat’s final thought.

  31

  Bindweed – also known as Love Vine, Witches’ Shoelaces, Hairweed and Devil’s Guts. It’s a weak-looking outdoor climber; indeed, a parasitic weed, possessing the strange attribute of only having roots at the very start of its life. The plant grows from seed and sprouts from the ground, but on reaching its stem it looks for a host to latch onto. And if it doesn’t find one it will die. Once it discovers a host it quickly entwines itself around it and subsequently loses all connection to the soil: its roots die and it now totally depends upon the host. It survives through little bumps on its stem – “haustoria”. The Love Vine wraps itself tightly around its host and the haustoria press right up and push their way in. Through the haustoria the Love Vine pulls the nutrients that it needs to survive. Love Vines rarely kill their host, although they often stunt their growth.

  It was cold outside. Aadam gripped the scarf tightly around his neck but the night-time chill still had bite. He was moving fast, heading for the Tube station. There were lots of Pakistani youths out tonight, all dressed to impress. Many were waving flags, big and small, and horns blew from the passing cars – Eid continued to be celebrated. A group of youths stood outside the Punjabi Textiles House singing Who Let the Dogs Out, but substituting “Dogs” for “Sikhs”. With head down, Aadam continued briskly but one of them saw him and offered up his Eid Mubarak with a smile. Aadam looked at him, the smiling, well-dressed young man, his hand outstretched to shake that of a brother. Aadam almost spat in his face but stopped himself – the guy was well built and there were seven, eight, nine of them – he had enough battles to fight. He saw the Tube station up ahead and started groping around for his wallet. A police van screamed past, sirens blazing, and as he entered an officer approached.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, we’re stopping passengers for security.’ Aadam took a long, hard look, considering the exact degree of contempt in which to hold him. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions, sir?’ the copper continued breezily, taking out a pad and pen and smiling, business-like but friendly.

  He’s quite young, Aadam re-thought. He couldn’t muster the energy to hate him.

  ‘Please, go ahead.’ And he handed the copper his plastic bag. A car drove past outside, horn blaring.

  ‘Don’t tell him nuffink, bro!’ came the cry from some youth hanging out of the window, waving a Pakistan flag like his life depended on it. Aadam turned back and the policeman was looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Is everything in this bag yours, sir?’

  ‘The natives are restless, eh?’ quipped Aadam, feeling the need to apologise.

  ‘No one but you has put anything in this bag?’

  ‘No. No, it’s all mine.’

  ‘Is there anything sharp in here?’

  ‘No,’ he sighed.

  The copper started removing the contents with forensic care.

  ‘One pair of jeans. One wallet. One bunch of keys.’ He paused and looked at Aadam with every item, like he was giving him an opportunity to object. ‘One bottle of ... perfume?’ He held the bottle up.

  ‘Yes, it’s perfume.’

  ‘May I?’ he asked with offensive politeness.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  The policeman unscrewed the top and sniffed the liquid suspiciously. Satisfied, he screwed the lid back on. Another officer approached.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said briefly, before turning to his colleague. ‘Are you gonna take your break in the café upstairs or are you going elsewhere?’

  He’s a little plump for a policeman, thought Aadam, a faint smirk appearing on his face.

  ‘Upstairs. And where are you travelling to today, sir?’ The young copper turned back sharply, eager to get back to business.

  ‘South London. Lewisham.’

  ‘Hot or cold?’ interrupted Tubby.

  ‘What?’ snapped the young copper, giving a serious stare.

  ‘Do you want a hot or a cold meal during your break?’ pressed Tubby, merrily. Aadam perked up with the sideshow, something which he didn’t bother hiding.

  ‘Hot,’ the policeman stamped, after a long pause. He turned firmly back towards Aadam. ‘Right, where were we? Ah yes, Lewisham. And this is
the start of your journey today, sir?’

  ‘Chicken or beef?’

  ‘Oi, Frank! Make sure you don’t get an erection this time!’ The four lads started laughing, breaking the silence within the carriage. Some of the other commuters saw the funny side but most didn’t – the sobriety of the Tube had been disturbed. Aadam checked his watch: it was nearly 9 pm and yet the Tube was still full of people. No Eid delights for them today. As the automatic doors were closing, four workmen had scrambled on board, noisily announcing their presence. Those closest dispersed somewhat, giving them room to down tools and preserve some personal space. Thus when one reminded another to keep his excitement in check, it wasn’t strictly necessary. But still ...

  Aadam turned to look at the newspaper being read next to him. A photo dominated the page: a picture of an Iraqi boy and an American soldier, both smiling. The soldier stood behind the boy, who in turn was holding up a small, wooden placard on which was written: Lcpl Boudreaux killed my dad then knocked up my sister! Skimming the article, the debate was over whether the photo was genuine – and therefore in poor taste – or a malicious piece of editing. Aadam looked away. It really didn’t matter anymore.

  Nazneen had taken the car. They had driven up together and now she was driving home alone. He had left soon after, regret and confusion tearing at him. He shouldn’t have laughed at her “skiing in Colorado” idea – it wasn’t that bad. But why had she been so vicious? She’d been fine earlier. He thought they’d settled that business with Kishore before even leaving home. He remembered their first date. They had arranged to meet in Leicester Square, outside the Burger King, and on arriving she’d announced that she had a top to return and promptly began marching towards Piccadilly. And from that moment on he’d been trailing behind her, all excited, trying desperately to catch up.

  Getting off the Tube at Charing Cross, he walked along the tunnel connecting underground to overground. Would he get home before her? Would she get home before him? There might be traffic. There won’t be any traffic. She’ll definitely hit traffic. Please, God – I can’t lose her. Each side of the tunnel was plastered with a seamless stream of posters advertising films, bands, events – London Life. So much information – too much information – but he couldn’t resist sucking it in. One stood out – for a film, a French film. The poster was dominated by a woman, a stunning young woman. She was lying on a sun lounge, catching some rays. Delicious ... He recalled reading a review and remembered how awful it sounded – some boring characters mincing around and regarding each other with withering contempt. But he’d probably go see it anyway, because his will to live would be maintained by injections of lovingly-shot soft porn.

  Nazneen. Please, I didn’t mean it. What did I do wrong? A couple approached, hand-in-hand. God, that boy’s done well for himself. He used to watch people watching them, the odd couple: her the serene and stellar beauty, and him looking like a refugee, clutching a winning lottery ticket. Another poster – the Band of the Moment, promoting their new album. There were two men – manish-boys, boyish-men: thin frames, jet-black hair, white, white skin. One of them was pouting with ruby-red lips whilst the other looked downwards, sallow-cheeked and wan. His bare, thin arm was outstretched, suggesting vulnerability if not substance abuse. Heroin chic. Just who are they meant to appeal to? Men? Women? Boys? Girls? He continued on, down this never-ending tunnel. A Muslim couple passed by. The woman was fully covered – her nose was covered, her mouth was covered. She was looking out onto the world through thin slits. Did she know fresh air, the scent of flowers on a pregnant summer’s day, the sharpness of an autumn morning? We’ve had a bad day. She’s very happy with me. What if she’s not happy? Is there someone else?

  Walking away from the top of the escalator he reached the barrier. He passed the tiny newsagent’s which was still open (it’s always open), and moved towards the escalators leading to the overland concourse. The homeless were bedding down for the night and there was a faint smell of urine and Special Brew in the air. The Bag Assue, Bag Assue! heralded one hardy soul. Bless him, thought Aadam, without buying a copy. He’s been repeating that all day. Further along, two men were huddled side-by-side in sleeping bags.

  ‘Spare any change, please, mate?’ asked one with a grin. Aadam shook his head before rounding them and stepping away. ‘Thanks, boss!’ he heard the man say, now out of sight. ‘Fucking paki!’ his friend added, thus completing the exchange. Crossing the platform, another policeman approached.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, we’re stopping passengers for security.’

  Aadam stared into space as a police vehicle could be heard tearing past on Charing Cross Road outside. ‘Tea’s up...’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the copper, his bored look replaced instantly with aggression.

  ‘I said, the kettle’s boiling.’ He enunciated slowly and clearly. The policeman continued staring, the silence between them speaking volumes.

  ‘I have some questions to ask you, sir.’ Aadam handed him his bag.

  * * *

  He checked the departure boards. There was a Dartford-via-Lewisham train due to leave in six minutes. As he made his way, a couple of Asian lads crossed his path. They were drunk, not paralytic but proper merry, and with arms around shoulders they were singing the chorus to Kabhie Kabhie Mere Dil Mein, like it meant something. They were probably Indian: no one’s simply Asian anymore. It’s a nice song.

  Aadam got on at the first door and walked down the carriage. The train was less than half full though people were embarking at a brisk-ish rate. He saw the back of a man sitting by the window, all alone in a bay of seats. People continued streaming in, in ones, twos and threes, but this chap remained by himself. Strange. Finally, Aadam pulled up alongside and the mystery was solved. Of course, he was black. Feeling a sense of solidarity, Aadam took up a nearby seat. He closed his eyes and saw Nazneen. Loving her had come so easy: his life, his priorities, his needs – they all got flipped in that one instant. He just couldn’t imagine her not being there. The same wasn’t true the other way round, of course – he wasn’t stupid, he’d always known that. But he thought that with marriage, in the fullness of time, she’d grow to love him. He opened his eyes. There was a suited guy sitting opposite, checking some papers. It looked like work. Fucking hell, this man was still working. Within a few hours the guy would be back at his desk, probably staring at the very same papers. Aadam, too, would be at his desk. What do we all do it for? Still, right now he could relax. At least he wasn’t driving. Let the train take the strain, as the ad used to say. Too fucking right. The most overrated pleasure in life? Driving a car.

  The rapid beeps sounded and within seconds the automatic doors closed. And as so often, in fact almost without fail, he saw a couple dive for the door only seconds too late. It was a lovely little piece of theatre – that final dash up the concourse, the leap for the open door and then the clunk-clunk finality of them shutting in your face. They were out of puff. They’d been dashing, maybe pushing people out of their way for the last ninety seconds, and all for nothing. Aadam felt their pain.

  Pulling out of Charing Cross under cover of darkness, he looked out lazily into the blackness. He knew the London Eye was there and, flipping across, he saw the River Thames, or rather its lit-up banks. The river was quite wide at this point and the swooping lights all along the Embankment looked majestic. He loved this city – he felt pride at being a part of it.

  Arriving at Waterloo East there was a lot of activity: swarms embarking and disembarking. A cacophony of youthful banter arrived in the shape of two young men – Australian – and two young women – English. They looked in their early twenties and, from their conversation, they’d not known each other long. The girls were laughing regularly, on-demand, little shrill shrieks accompanying every Aussie utterance. Slam dunk. The two lads were tanned, tall, athletic – real fair-dinkum Aussies; the English girls were punching well above their weight. No wonder they were trying so hard. And they were competing with each o
ther: Don’t want her, want me, pouted each girl eagerly. Something snapped. He bent forwards and held his head, his palms over his eyes. He wanted to stop – stop seeing, stop hearing, stop thinking. He was trying to find some stillness inside but he didn’t know how. He just couldn’t shake this really bad feeling. The train of thought was relentless. Well fuck it, fuck it all: fuck French cinema and its existential nausea, and fuck the “Lucky Country”, which wasn’t so lucky for the Abo’s. And fuck the Muslims, with their desert hearts and desert nations. And fuck Britain, with her oh-so-glorious past and her maggot-infested future. All he wanted was her. Please Allah, please. He opened his eyes as Southwark Cathedral approached. By day it was impressive but by night it was transcendent; a balm for the soul. Huge lamps at its base threw light up the cathedral’s walls and the effect was utterly beautiful. It looked haunted – less a House of God, more a memory of a House of God, in a Godless land. The train moved on but Aadam felt a little calmer as they pulled into London Bridge.

  He was home and sitting in his living room all alone. The light from the ceiling was insufficient, produced as it was by a 25W bulb. There should have been a 60W bulb there – at least a 40W – but when the old one went they only had one left in the cupboard. He was meant to get some more but he’d forgotten.

  On reaching, he’d immediately noticed that their car wasn’t there and that no light was on indoors. But did that mean Nazneen hadn’t yet got back, or that she’d come and gone? He went straight to their bedroom and the first thing he looked for was her suitcase above the tall cupboard. It was still there. He then went to the chest of drawers and pulled open the top one, and held a handful of her knickers to his chest.

  Suddenly a key entered the latch. At first he thought he’d imagined it but then he heard the front door swing open followed by the sound of someone climbing the stairs. The steps had a softness, a lightness, a familiarity to them. Aadam was mortified. Be a man, he told himself – whatever was about to unfold. She entered the living room but stayed standing by the entrance. Aadam bolted to attention. Be a man.