by Alan Gibbons
‘Your family is doing just fine.’
She delivers the line with flawless confidence, in spite of the fact that she has had no contact with the Sarwars.
‘You have to clear your mind. Everything depends on you remaining calm and focused. Your safety is my priority. Nothing is going to go wrong.’
There. Another promise. Easy to make. Harder to keep. This is your job, Katie girl. Remember your priorities.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I am quite sure. Stay in touch if you can, but don’t take any risks. Have you got that?’
‘I hear you.’
When Majid hangs up, Kate puts her head in her hands.
‘OK,’ she tells herself, ‘the Sarwars go on the back burner.’
13
SATURDAY, 2ND JULY
‘What’s wrong, Mum? You look worried.’
‘Your father and I have got to go to Luton. Nanny Ammi has had a fall. We are picking up Fatima and Rabia on the way.’
They are halfway out of the door when Dad turns round.
‘And no sneaking out to that march. You stay in, hear? If there was room in the car, I would take you two with me.’ He pulls out his phone. ‘I will be calling to check.’
‘Yes, Abbu-ji.’
Nasima goes to the window and watches them go. As the car pulls away, Amir starts texting. Nasima turns to her brother.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Come on, Nas. This is fate.’
Her skin prickles.
‘You mean you’re going to the march, after everything you promised? Amir, you can’t!’
His mind is clearly made up.
‘They won’t be finished in Luton until late. I’ll be well back.’
‘You heard what Dad said. He’s going to call.’
‘He won’t ring for a couple of hours. There’s time. Cover for me. You’ve done it before.’
‘Amir, you can’t. Have you forgotten what happened to Majid?’
‘How is this the same, Nas? He went to Syria to make jihad.’
‘It’s trouble. This is how it starts.’
Amir shakes his head.
‘This is how it ends. We’re going to chase those Nazis off the streets.’
‘If something goes wrong, you’ll break our parents’ hearts.’
‘Nothing is going to go wrong. Trust me.’
Nasima is still trying to persuade Amir when his phone rings.
‘Hi. You got my text? Yes, I’ll see you down there.’ He pockets the phone and turns to Nasima.
‘Was that Nikel?’
Amir is beaming.
‘Yes, he’s there. He says there’s a couple of hundred people already, waiting for the racists to show up.’
He hurries to get his jacket, and Nasima rushes after him.
‘Listen to me. What do I say if you’re not back when Dad phones?’
‘Tell him I’m in the bath.’
‘Amir, this is crazy.’
He shrugs into the jacket and walks to the door.
‘Stop worrying, will you?’
Nasima hasn’t stopped worrying since the night she saw Bashir and her father quarrelling on the drive.
‘Amir.’ Her voice follows him down the stairs. ‘Amir!’
14
‘Listen.’
The England Awakes marchers, still out of sight, are singing, football-style. The first chant ends with the word ‘England’.
‘Look. They’re using mounted police.’
Two police officers on horseback follow the van. They are wearing black crash helmets with visors.
‘Look at that: even the horses have got hi-vis jackets.’
‘That’s to stop them getting lost in the crowd.’
Laughter travels around the crowd, but it is the nervous variety. The numbers opposing England Awakes amount to fewer than five hundred. There is another raucous chant from the top of the road.
‘We want our country back! We want our country back!’
Several heads are visible now. Most are wearing baseball caps or have their heads and faces covered by hoods and scarves. More police in hi-vis jackets line the march, forming a pale green border. There is a new chant coming from England Awakes.
‘Whose streets? Our streets!’
A big guy, one of the crowd defending the mosque, objects. He thrusts his hands into the air and roars to the rest of the counter-demonstration.
‘Did you hear them? That’s our slogan, not theirs.’
He gives the lead, bellowing at the top of his voice.
‘Do these streets belong to racists?’
The crowd roars in response:
‘No!’
‘Is it a white street?’
‘No!’
‘Is it a black street?’
‘No!’
‘Is it a Muslim street?’
Most of the crowd shouts no. A few of the boys shout yes, followed by ironic laughter. Some of them start up a chant.
‘Jihad, jihad.’
‘You can knock that off,’ Big Guy says. ‘This is a united community protest, not a religious thing.’
Grudgingly, the boys stop. Big Guy leads the counter-chant.
‘Whose streets? Our streets!’
The England Awakes march is approaching. Banners sway. Fists punch towards the sky. There is excitement in the air. Suddenly, the anger and the shouting are replaced by another sound. Laughter.
Amir frowns. ‘What’s so funny?’
Nikel grabs his shoulder.
‘Turn round. That’s what they’re laughing at.’
The England Awakes march is coming round a bend in the road. For the first time it is possible to make a guess at numbers. There are no more than eighty people on the march. As somebody yells:
‘You could get them all on a double-decker bus.’
15
Nasima is sitting at the window, chin resting on her arms. Amir is still not home. Her stomach is in knots as she sits waiting for the phone to ring. She knows her parents will call. It is Amir’s fault, but she is the one who is going to have to face the music. She turns on her laptop to see if there is any news of the march. The only search results are articles published in the run-up to the demonstration. She turns the radio on. It is ten minutes until the bulletin.
‘Where are you, Amir? This isn’t fair.’
She tries calling him, but his phone is switched off. She sends a text, the fourth since he left.
Ring me.
Please.
He doesn’t phone, not in the next minute, not in the next five or ten. Just before the hour, Nasima turns on the radio.
‘Rival demonstrations are confronting each other outside Central Mosque. Some one hundred England Awakes marchers are holding a rally, while a larger counter-demonstration of some four hundred people faces them across Hill Street. The atmosphere is noisy, but largely peaceful. Other news …’
Nasima switches off. Largely peaceful. Is that the same as completely peaceful? There was no mention of arrests. That’s got to be good. Her phone goes, but it isn’t Amir. It’s Lucy. Nasima can hear noise in the background.
‘I thought you didn’t want anything to do with the march?’
‘It was passing right outside my house. I had to see.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘It’s so funny. There’s only about fifty of them …’
‘The news said a hundred.’
‘No way! Fifty might be a bit of an underestimate, but no way are there a hundred of them. That’s ridiculous.’
‘Have you seen Amir?’
‘Yes, he’s over there with Nikel.’
So he’s still there.
‘Have you spoken to him? Did you give him my message? He’s got to turn his phone on!’
‘I gave him your message, Nas.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. I tried. I don’t think he wants to talk to you.’
Nasima is numb with disappointmen
t.
‘Oh well, you tried, Luce. Thank you. Stay safe, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘See you in school.’
She hangs up and decides to get something to eat. She is on the way into the kitchen when the phone goes. This time it’s Dad.
‘Is everything all right, Nasima?’
Nasima wonders how she is meant to answer. She goes for positive.
‘Yes, of course it is. How’s Nanny Ammi?’
‘She’s fine. She’s just got to rest for a few days.’
‘What time are you getting home?’
‘About ten o’clock, I think. It depends on the traffic.’ He pauses. ‘Your mother wants to know if you have eaten?’
Nasima smiles. That’s Mum.
‘I’m making something now.’ She takes a chance. ‘I’m going to have some dhal – with Amir.’
Nasima feels like hugging herself. See what I did there?
‘So he’s there? I was concerned he might go to that demonstration.’
Something about the ensuing silence makes Dad suspicious.
‘Nasima, he is there, isn’t he?’
She remembers what Amir said.
‘Yes, he’s in the bath.’
‘Very well. I will call back in ten minutes.’
‘There’s no need, Abbu-ji. I’ll tell him you called.’
‘That’s for me to decide, Nasima. I will call back in ten minutes.’
Nasima cancels the call and tries Amir again. His number is still unavailable. She phones Lucy.
‘Luce, give Amir this message immediately. Tell him Dad is calling home in ten minutes. He’s got to be here when Dad phones back.’
After that, she sits at the kitchen table, no longer hungry, staring at her phone, waiting for it to ring again. Let it be Amir, she pleads. Or Lucy. Finally, it rings. It’s her father.
‘Hi Dad. He’s still in the bath.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you, Nasima.’ A pause. ‘OK, if he’s in the bath, take the phone to the bathroom door and tell him to shout a message to me. I will be able to hear him.’
It is obvious that her father is not going to give up.
‘Be honest with me, Nasima. Is he there?’
Nasima’s resolve collapses.
‘I’m so sorry, Dad. I couldn’t stop him.’
16
Taunts and laughter are echoing around the crossroads. Jubilant at the tiny turnout of the England Awakes march, the counter-demonstrators press forward, crowding round the police lines. They want to rub their opponents’ noses in the embarrassment of a much-advertised March of a Thousand that has failed even to reach three figures.
‘What’s this,’ somebody calls, ‘the million-man march?’
‘Maybe it’s the one-brain-cell march.’
‘Excuse me,’ another voice shouts, ‘I can see at least two brain cells. Oh no, sorry: double vision.’
The jokes keep coming. The effect on the England Awakes marchers is sudden and dramatic. They start to throw themselves against the cordon of police, trying to reach their tormentors. Soon demonstrator and counter-demonstrator are jabbing fingers and yelling insults over the heads and shoulders of the police. The police have their backs to the England Awakes supporters. They glare at the counter-demonstrators. Amir finds himself being pushed to the front, but he doesn’t resist. Instead, he turns towards Nikel, eyes glittering with excitement.
‘Whose streets?’ he laughs. ‘Our streets.’
Enraged by the mocking taunts of the counter-demonstrators, the England Awakes marchers start pelting their opponents with anything they can lay their hands on: cans, stones, coins. A bottle smashes at Amir’s feet. He shouts a protest at the nearest police officer.
‘Aren’t you going to stop them?’
‘Things will soon be flying from both sides, son,’ the copper grunts. ‘We’re here to keep the two sides apart.’
A stone thumps into Amir’s shoulder without causing any serious damage.
‘Did you see that?’ Amir yells. ‘Why aren’t you arresting them?’
The copper glances over his shoulder just as the counter-demonstrators start retaliating with missiles of their own.
‘See what I mean?’
Amir isn’t satisfied. He is jabbing fingers at the England Awakes marchers.
‘But they started it. This is self-defence.’
Nikel is at Amir’s side.
‘Cut it out, will you? There’s no point arguing with the police. We outnumber the goons. We’ve won. What are you getting so angry for?’
He doesn’t know about Majid. He doesn’t understand the emotions exploding in Amir’s chest. A year of grief and rage boil up in Amir. For so long he has been struggling with the hurt and bewilderment of losing a brother the way he did, in a barely comprehensible war in a distant land. He has seen his life fall apart. For months he has wanted to lash out, to break something. Two burly England Awakes stewards see Amir and focus their taunts on him.
‘What’s up, Terror Boy?’ one of them yells. ‘Don’t you like the truth? England for the English.’
The second man keeps it simple.
‘Paki.’
Amir hears the racism that turned Majid, the hostility that made him look for a war to fight.
The men can see their words are having an impact.
‘Not all Muslims are terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims.’
Amir hears the drumbeat of a score of media headlines. Muslim. Terrorist. He relives the news of Majid’s death. Muslim. Terrorist. He wants to ram their words down their throats.
‘Nazi scum, Nazi scum!’
The cop’s eyes narrow.
‘Just calm down.’
The stewards have got him where they want him.
‘Terror Boy.’
Amir is beside himself, screaming at them until he can feel his own spit on his chin. The cop is losing patience.
‘I won’t tell you again.’
Now he has the men’s faces sneering in front of him. He has the words of a police force Majid told him were their enemies. He turns and screams his hatred in the cop’s face. The reaction is instant. The officer makes a grab for Amir.
‘Right you, that’s it.’
Amir feels his arms being forced back and starts to struggle. Now he has another arm round his neck and shoulders. He is being propelled through the crowd. Faces blur as he stumbles forward. Shouts burst around him. From his left, a punch is thrown. He doesn’t know whether it is at him or at the police. A hand is pushing down on his skull. He understands. He has seen this in a hundred crime dramas. It is to protect his head as they bundle him into the van.
He is under arrest.
17
The Sarwar family is looking at the photograph of Amir being arrested. Dad presses his fingers against his eyebrows, trying to rub away the shame. They have been discussing Amir’s arrest for an hour and everybody is tired.
‘What were you thinking?’
Nasima tries to interrupt.
‘Dad, is this really necessary?’
Dad’s stare is hard and unyielding.
‘Is it necessary? Nasima, your brother has been arrested. The police have made the link with Majid. They want to refer him to the Prevent strategy.’
‘Prevent? That’s to stop terrorism.’
‘Exactly. They think he has been radicalised.’
He does the speech mark thing with his fingers. Amir reacts as if he has been electrocuted.
‘All I did was go on a march.’
Dad stabs a finger at his son.
‘Enough! You have no right to raise your voice to me. Who came to get you out of the police station? I did. Who told the police that you were a good boy, a hard-working student who had a bright future ahead of him?’
Amir scowls.
‘Cheers, Dad. You really sound like you meant it.’
Mum takes his hand.
‘Please, Amir. This has been a shock for us.’
Amir snatches his hand from his mother in frustration.
‘What, and you think it’s been a picnic for me? The police dragged me through a crowd of racists. That’s how I got this.’ He points to the discoloured mark on his cheek. ‘They let those thugs have a free shot at me. Now I’m an “at-risk individual”. What else was it? Oh yes, I’m vulnerable.’
Mum glances at her husband.
‘Does the school have to know? His exams are only a month away. All the disruption has made it hard for him to revise as it is.’
Dad doesn’t answer. Instead, he cold-eyes his son. Amir takes the hint and explains for his mother’s benefit.
‘The police have already been in touch with the school. They’re going to teach me fundamental British values, you know the kind of thing: tell me all about red postboxes and Routemaster buses.’
Mum frowns. ‘They think Amir is some kind of trainee terrorist?’
Dad sighs. ‘I didn’t want to upset you. When I was in that room with Amir and the police officers, I felt as if I was under scrutiny too. They kept asking me about Majid. When did I know something was wrong? Were there any danger signs? Did he have any extremist literature in his room? What websites did he visit? Did I examine his internet history? Then they put the same questions about Amir. They made me feel like a criminal.’
Amir nods.
‘You and me both, Dad.’
‘There is a difference, Amir. I didn’t get myself arrested. Listen to me very carefully. You listen to every word I say. You are going to do whatever they want. You will say Yes sir, No sir, Three rotten bags full, sir. You will stay out of trouble. By the time you have done your exams, we should have sold the house. Then, finally, we can put this and Majid behind us …’
He hesitates, realising that isn’t what he meant to say. ‘We will get through this and start over. We will survive.’
18
Jamil misses Majid. He misses the good times with him and Yusuf. They were brothers. They grew up together, took everything life could throw at them together, got angry together. Jamil remembers the night they made their decision. It was Yusuf who threw out the challenge.