Ibrahim & Reenie

by David Llewellyn

  The relief he felt when the car had stopped and the engine fell silent was overwhelming, like a moment when you don’t know if you’re about to laugh or cry; your breath arrested at the very line between two different emotions. She helped him out of the car, his right arm slung around her shoulder, her left arm supporting him around the waist, and she walked him to the house.

  Natalie lived on a grey, nondescript terrace; the kind of street that could be in any town or city, in any part of the country. She carried him as far as the living room, where a large antique clock above the fireplace struck midnight. How many hours had passed since he was on the lane? How long was he unconscious by the roadside? How long had it taken for someone to notice him?

  She lowered him onto her sofa, and turned on a lamp in the corner of the room.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’

  He nodded, trying to smile, and felt dried blood cracking in the lines around his mouth.

  ‘I’m just going to get a few things,’ said Natalie. ‘Then we’ll see if we can patch you up.’

  While Natalie went to fetch dressings and medicine, Ibrahim looked around the room, searching for clues as to the kind of woman who’d rescued him. Was there a husband or boyfriend, someone who might appear suddenly, and turf him out into the night in a fit of rage? Were there children? He saw school portraits of two boys and a girl on the mantelpiece, but no other evidence of kids; no bright plastic toys cluttering the corners of the room or Disney films amongst the romantic comedies and boxed-set TV shows beside her television.

  On returning, Natalie helped him stand and walked him through to the bathroom, which, thankfully, was on the ground floor. There, she sat him on the edge of her bath and asked him to strip down to his underwear. She helped him remove his t-shirt and his trousers, and though he was still dazed and his body still burned with pain, he felt a wave of embarrassment at having this woman see him almost naked, a sensation he hadn’t felt since those first, tentative experiences with Amanda. Then, it was not only knowing what they did was haraam, sinful and forbidden, but also the shame of his fleshiness – the rolls of fat around his midriff and the flabbiness of his chest – that embarrassed him. Sitting almost naked before Natalie brought back that acute embarrassment, that shame, and beneath the drying blood on his face he blushed.

  ‘Christ,’ said Natalie, grimacing. ‘You’re bruised all over. What happened?’

  He looked down at his torso, which was covered in angry welts; some of them almost black against his light brown skin. In places the skin was broken and grazed and beginning to scab. He said nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ said Natalie. ‘Now this might hurt a bit, but I’m just checking to see if anything’s broken.’

  He nodded and closed his eyes but nothing prepared him for the electric bolt of pain that shot through his whole body when she pressed her fingers against his ribs, and even the shock of that did little to negate the pain when she did it again, this time on the other side of his ribcage.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t think anything’s broken. Of course, I can’t tell for sure without an x-ray, but wouldn’t you know it, I don’t happen to have an x-ray machine in my bathroom.’

  Next she began cleaning his wounds, the cuts to his face and the grazes on his back and on his shins. He winced each time the antiseptic touched open flesh, and saw her small expressions of impatience before she carried on with the job. She applied butterfly stitches to the cut in his eyebrow, and brought him a clean tea towel filled with ice cubes that she had him hold against his nose.

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ she said. ‘But it is quite swollen. That should help a little. You didn’t answer my question. What happened?’

  ‘Some guys jumped me,’ said Ibrahim. ‘I was on my way to a hotel, walking along this lane, and they jumped me.’

  ‘Bastards,’ said Natalie. ‘We get it all the time on weekends, in A and E. Of course, most of the time it’s blokes who’ve got themselves into a scrap in a nightclub. You’ve not been drinking, have you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Good. I’ve got some painkillers that might help if you’re still aching. I’ll just get you a blanket, and I’ll put your clothes in the wash. They’re covered in blood.’

  When she returned, carrying the blanket, he was still perched on the edge of her bath, covering his crotch with his hands. It was embarrassing enough for her to see his body, let alone anything else, even the suggestion of anything else. She put the blanket around his shoulders and helped him back to the living room, where he lay flat on her sofa.

  Natalie began asking him questions, and it took him a moment to realise she was checking for symptoms. Symptoms of what, he didn’t know.

  ‘No hot flushes? You’re not feeling clammy, tight-chested?’

  ‘No. None of that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Natalie. ‘You’re not in shock, then. Would you like some tea, or something?’

  He told her he’d like that very much, and lay there with his eyes shut until she came back with two mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits.

  The hot tea jangled against his chipped teeth, he found it difficult to chew without hurting his jaw, and he wondered bleakly if there was a part of him they hadn’t punched or kicked. From across the room, Natalie studied him, and he thought he noticed a tiny, almost imperceptible moment of doubt, or hesitation. Perhaps distrust. She was entitled to that, even if he was no threat.

  ‘You’re not from Gloucester, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let me guess. East London?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Yeah. I worked in the Hammersmith. I was there four years. You kind of get to know the accents. North, south. East, west. What are you doing in Gloucester?’

  He laughed, but even that hurt. ‘If I tell you, you’ll try and have me sectioned,’ he said.

  ‘Try me,’ said Natalie. ‘Having someone sectioned is a nightmare. So much paperwork. Half the time it’s not worth the bother.’

  ‘Okay. Well. I’m walking to London. I live in Cardiff, and I’m walking to London.’

  ‘Right. Well that is mental. Is it for charity?’

  ‘No. Everyone asks me that.’

  ‘It’s the only explanation that isn’t insane. You know, you’re being sponsored, raising money for Oxfam or, I don’t know, Battersea Dogs Home or whatever. It was this or jumping out of a plane or running a marathon. That kind of thing.’

  ‘It’s not for charity.’

  ‘Then yes, you’re insane. But, like I said, I can’t be bothered with the paperwork.’

  ‘So you’re not going to have me sectioned?’

  ‘Nah. Not tonight.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But. I do still want to know why. Why are you walking? Is it money? Because, you know, there’s always hitchhiking. I think people still do that. We used to do it all the time when I was a student. Not the most sensible thing in the world, I know, but we did.’

  He sighed. Once again, there was little he could say that wouldn’t sound insane.

  ‘It’s cars,’ he said. ‘I can’t ride in cars. Or buses. Or trains.’

  Natalie considered this for a moment, then clicked her fingers and pointed to the far end of his blanket.

  ‘It was a car crash,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘What? But how could you…’

  ‘You’ve had a brace fitted to your right leg. I noticed the scars. And underneath all that blood and dirt on your face, there were a few scars there, too. They’re not that obvious, but you can see them up close. Am I right? Was it a car crash?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I knew it. And now, when you try riding in cars or trains, what? Panic attacks? You get all hot and clammy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well. That’s not so crazy. I mean, it kind of is, but not the sort of crazy worth sectioning you for.’ She paused to sip her tea, and though he still couldn’t meet her gaze he knew that sh
e was looking straight at him. ‘And what’s in London?’ she asked.

  ‘Family. My family’s still in London.’

  ‘Right. But I’m guessing you’re not just popping down for a visit and a catch-up.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Natalie nodded, placing her mug down on the wooden floor next to her feet. ‘I’ll stop asking questions now,’ she said. ‘Are you comfortable? Sorry. That was another question. But are you?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Still achy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I still think you should go to the hospital. It looks like your head took a bit of a bashing. You should get that scanned. And x-rays.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, you’re clearly not.’

  He eased himself up on the sofa until he was upright, and pulled the blanket up to cover his chest. For the first time in an age his gaze met hers, and he was able to look at her properly. She was beautiful. Yes, there were indelible creases around her eyes and mouth, but her eyes were a deep shade of brown, and there wasn’t a trace of grey in her long black hair. She studied him again with that fixed expression, her lips pouted unselfconsciously, as if she was chewing on a thought, and Ibrahim felt the stirring of a nascent desire, a confusing blend of gratitude and lust.

  ‘Why did you help me?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean just that. Why did you help me? Why didn’t you just keep driving? I must have been lying there for an hour or more. Lots of people drove past me. Why did you stop?’

  Natalie shrugged. ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question. But like I said, I’m a nurse. We have certain obligations. We’re not allowed to turn and look the other way.’

  ‘But you could have. Nobody would have known.’

  ‘I would have.’

  Ibrahim nodded, once again avoiding eye contact, as if by answering his question she’d made him the focus of the room’s attention. He pointed to the mantelpiece, and the school portraits of two boys and a girl.

  ‘Those your kids?’

  ‘No. That’s my niece and nephews. But those photos are old now. Joshua is… let me see… thirteen. Jacob’s eleven. Which means Jessica’s almost nine.’

  ‘All Js.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Joshua, Jacob, Jessica. All Js.’

  ‘Yes. Tell me about it. My brother’s name is James and he married a Jennifer. They thought it would be cute.’

  ‘So are you married? Got a boyfriend?’

  Natalie laughed. ‘Hardly. And I hope you’re not getting any funny ideas. Just because I’ve let you into my house and patched you up doesn’t mean this is about to go all American Werewolf In London.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The film? Jenny Agutter?’

  ‘Haven’t seen it.’

  ‘You haven’t seen Amer… Doesn’t matter. But no. I don’t have a boyfriend. I had a partner. We were together five years, but things kind of… I don’t know. Fizzled out. Or whatever. She’s now living in Derby, of all places.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Sarah. Her name was Sarah. Is Sarah.’

  ‘You’re a lesbian?’

  The word was blurted out, almost involuntarily, like a cough or a sneeze, and he felt that familiar twitch of revulsion. It was complicated, this time, by a sense of betrayal, of having been misled, as if the world had shifted, changed without his permission. The same feeling of unease he’d had when Reenie told him the story of how she came to London. Once again he was in the study room, in the halaqah, with Ismail, Yusuf, Jamal and the others. A low-ceilinged, starkly lit room with posters tacked to its notice-board. Those plastic chairs with writing paddles fixed to their armrests. Ibrahim and his friends scribbling notes.

  ‘What does it say in the Hadith of Al-Tirmidhi?’ said the sheikh, his voice echoing tinnily off the grey linoleum floor. ‘It says, “There is nothing I fear for my ummah more than the deed of the people of Lut.” And what does it say in the Hadith of Abu Dawud? “No man should lie with another man, no woman should lie with another woman. Turn them out of your houses,” it says. “Put them to death,” it says. These are the sayings of the Prophet, peace be upon him.’

  ‘You have that look on your face,’ said Natalie, bringing him back into her living room.

  ‘What look?’

  ‘That look that says, “Well, maybe you just haven’t met the right man.”

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Okay. What were you thinking?’

  ‘Nothing. It was nothing.’

  ‘Are you religious?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you religious?’

  Blindsided by her question, he blinked three times while thinking of an answer. He’d never met anyone who could read him like this, but perhaps that came with her job; meeting and dealing with the evasive, the timid and the injured for a living.

  ‘Kind of,’ he said. ‘Not as much as I used to be. But yeah.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘How can you tell that? Because if it’s, you know, about you being a lesbian, it’s not, it’s…’

  ‘Your beard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your beard. There are only three kinds of men with your kind of beard. Guys who are into computer games and heavy metal, the Amish, and Muslims.’

  He laughed, and another bolt of pain sliced through his ribs. ‘Well, that’s kind of racist,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Natalie. ‘I’m stereotyping. There’s a difference. But at least you’re smiling, so that’s something.’ She leaned forward, pulling the plate of biscuits back towards her and taking one. After eating it in two bites, she said, ‘Religions are weird. I mean, I know that goes without saying, but some of them… they don’t even leave a dent. Church of England, for example. Sarah, my ex. She was raised Church of England. But the minute you stop believing in God, that’s it. You’re no longer Church of England, you’re an atheist, or agnostic or whatever. But if you’re a Catholic, and I was raised Catholic, you say you don’t believe in God? You’re still a Catholic. It goes deeper than articles of faith. I imagine it’s the same if you’re a Muslim. Am I right?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘But maybe that’s just us accepting the definition of the majority.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, most of the people in Britain are Church of England, at least by default. If they stop believing, they get to decide who and what they are. But us? We others? It gets confusing, for them, for the majority, if we say we’re no longer the thing they’ve labelled us. They don’t know what we are. So we’re still Catholic. Still Muslim. And we accept that. We go along with it.’ She looked at her watch and sighed. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘That’s all a bit deep for this time of night. It’s late, and I’m knackered. Are you okay sleeping there?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I guess you’re just my good deed for the day, or something. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  She turned off the lamp before leaving the room and he listened to her climb the stairs, brush her teeth, and close her bedroom door. The house was silent now, but for the ticking of the clock on her mantelpiece, and with the quiet came memories of what had happened that night.

  Worst of all was how wretched, how feeble he felt at not having fought back, but then he had never been much of a fighter. Despite his size, playground brawls had never ended in his favour. If anything, his height and build left him at a disadvantage; the oversized target of bullies, but slow and clumsy with it. He never had the instinct to punch and kick, something that seemed ingrained in those feral-faced kids with narrow, pugilist eyes and mouths curled up in permanent sneers.

  Those years of taking hits built something up in him, the residue of an anger never vented. As a kid he would run home after fights, and sob into his pillow. Tell
his mother he’d tripped and fallen if there were bruises to show. Hope his dad wouldn’t see him crying. And each time he did this a trace of bile was left behind. Not enough to make him swing a punch, the next time he was confronted, but an anger, a resentment, that festered, day upon day, month upon month, year upon year, and when finally he’d mustered the will to hit back the instrument he and his friends chose wasn’t the brute physical force of the playground bully but something infinitely more terrible. Their brothers, their ikhwan, in Pakistan and Somalia, in Yemen and Saudi Arabia, had already shown them the way, and they saw those men as heroes.

  When their heroes made it onto the news, the violence seemed distant, the damage inflicted abstract. They measured the success of their heroes not in the number of dead, but in the hours of airtime they received. The world was paying them attention, and wasn’t that the desired effect of every violent act? When those wiry, sneering, mean-faced kids threw punches or hurled abuse it was to get his attention, and the attention of others. It was to force – rather than earn – his respect. They’d taught him an important lesson, a lesson that was reinforced with every history book he read.

  Diplomacy was a myth. Window dressing. No individual or nation had ever succeeded through decorum and kind words alone. The peoples of the world understand violence more than they will ever understand rhetoric. The bullies of his school knew this – on a deep, gut level rather than an academic one – and now he and his friends knew it too. Meeting those friends, talking about these ideas, poring over their well-thumbed copies of Qutb and al-Zawahiri, they felt empowered by this discovery.

  Violence was power.

  But now he saw that violence for what it was and always had been – an acute kind of helplessness, fashioned into an epic fantasy of jihad. The imams, sheikhs and amirs – those his friends admired, rather than those at his family’s mosque – spoke and appealed to him directly. They were, almost without exception, young men. In the halaqah they talked about the modern world, about economics and politics and Keynes and Marxism and Orientalism, and when Ibrahim’s friends mocked him for studying history, the sheikh scolded them, because history, he said, was ‘vital’, history was ‘everything’. And when Ibrahim heard the sheikh talk about the struggles of jihad, he believed they were his struggles; that his life was linked, umbilically, to every other Muslim in the ummah. If he felt like a victim, so must they. If he wanted to fight back, so did they. The halaqah taught him he had a place in this jihad. He could be more than just the graceless, chubby victim of the playground.