"I don't bloody trust him and I think he's a waste of money. He's on a lot of money, too."
"Oh, Josephine, he's not on a lot of money at all!" What a load of nonsense.
"Helen, he is on a lot of money!" Josephine yelled.
"What, twenty-one grand? I think he's worth triple that. Can you honestly say you're worth ninety-two thousand?" Helen bravely said, receiving a horrid scowl.
Josephine pointed her forefinger at Helen. "Yes, I do! Yes I am worth that! And more! I'm moving Michael to another department," she yelled.
"No you're not."
"I am! There's too many in your team as it is."
"There's not enough in my team, as it is." Helen was in total disbelief that this conversation was actually occurring.
"Helen, don't cross me. This is how it is. I'm moving Michael. There'll be a change to your beloved curriculum and I'm sanctioning everything PC Norman puts forward to me about this Afghan terrorist and that's the end of it. I'll not have anything else said on the matter."
Helen was shocked. She winced again, clutched her bag and made for the door. "I think you're a bloody pathetic fool, Josephine." Helen gripped the door handle and left the room, leaving Josephine fuming.
Josephine marched round the table for the door, flinging it open and yelled at Helen who had descended the stairs already.
"I want the SEF done by the end of the week! Do you hear me? I want it done by the end of the week!" she screamed and slammed the door.
The SEF was a Self-Evaluation Form. It detailed the heart of a school and was used by inspectors before they turned up to inspect it. It was a document that was meant to help a school focus on what was required for them to reach a better status. It took ages to complete. Josephine never did her own paperwork. She used other, more talented and professional staff members to get where she wanted to be in her professional life. She would step on and stamp on and crush anybody to reach her goal. It was said the only creature that would survive a nuclear war was a cockroach. Josephine Golding was a bloodsucking, venomous, poison-spreading cockroach. She was bitter, paranoid and extremely dangerous.
Edward had an A5 envelope in his hands as he walked down his lane, the unmade, pot-holed filled road to the house next door but one. He went up the driveway and to the front door. He pressed the doorbell and waited several seconds, then twice flapped the letterbox. There was still no answer, so Edward slipped the envelope through the letter box, turned and walked back to his bungalow again.
Helen sat behind the wheel of her Fiat Punto. It was a puke-coloured car that was waiting at the traffic lights. It was dark and the red of the lights shone upon her face as a tear escaped her eyes and she began to cry. She wiped the tear on her cheek away with the back of her hand, sniffed and then suddenly sobbed.
"I hate her. I bloody hate her!" she cried out.
Sitting at a dark wood dining table within a semi-detached house, somewhere in Plumstead, was Abdul, the Afghan pupil. With him were his Pakistani foster parents, Mr and Mrs Ahmed; the latter was serving some rice onto Abdul's plate. She served him a Chicken Karahi dish. The yellows, reds and browns were warm and extremely appetising to look at.
Abdul smiled with joy. He bowed this head to Mrs Ahmed.
Mr Ahmed smiled at Abdul. Mr Ahmed placed his hands together and closed his eyes. "Bismillah hirrahman nirrahim." It roughly meant, "In the name of Allah, the most merciful the most gracious," and was sometimes said by Muslims before a meal.
"How was school today, Abdul?" asked Mr Ahmed, as he poured a glass of water from a glass jug into a crystal tumbler.
"It was okay, Uncle." Abdul lowered his head, shoveling some of his food into his mouth, hoping not to be questioned about school any further.
Mr Ahmed knew something was wrong. He turned to his wife, who raised her brows and shrugged her shoulders. He said something to her in Urdu, to which she replied, accompanying it with another shrug.
Abdul looked up and tightened his mouth, saddened and disappointed.
"Please, I am okay. Do not worry about me," he said.
"You understand Urdu, Abdul?" asked Mr Ahmed.
"I know Urdu, Punjabi, Pashto, Dari, Kashmiri, Farsi, Balochi, English and a bit of Arabic," answered Abdul.
"What do you want to do with your life, Abdul?" asked Mr Ahmed. He repeated the question in Urdu.
"In life, Uncle?" he replied, also in Urdu.
"In your working life," Mr Ahmed said, once again in Urdu.
"In a working life, I would like to be a journalist," Abdul said.
"More rice, Abdul?" asked Mrs Ahmed in English, serving a large spoonful onto Abdul's plate.
"Thank you, Auntie." Abdul managed a pained smile.
"With your language skills, you could be a banker or a broadcasting journalist. You could help the BBC, Abdul," said Mr Ahmed, in Urdu. He looked at Abdul, head lowered, trying his hardest not to make any eye movement except to focus on his food.
Abdul didn't even divert his eyes to look at his glass of water as he reached for it.
Mr Ahmed frowned curiously, with a look of sadness for the boy. "How was your schooling today?" he asked.
"Good, sir. Good," Abdul replied.
Walking down the hallway a little later, Mr Ahmed stopped and tilted his head to see a silhouette behind the front door, outside. He walked to the door and put the chain on as he opened it, leaving just a two-inch gap, enabling him to see who was on the other side.
Standing on the doorstep was a white man, in a suit. He was about forty years of age, with short, greying hair.
A woman, of around thirty, stood behind. She wore a black trouser suit and white blouse. She was also white and a little short, with an unwelcoming, plain face.
The man smiled and held up a warrant card, flashing his Metropolitan Police badge and identification. It said he was Detective Sergeant Jason Greer.
"Evening Sir. I'm Detective Sergeant Greer and this is Detective Constable Jackie Mosley."
"What can I help you with, sir?" asked Mr Ahmed.
"It's just a routine house call, sir. We're making door to door visits in your road and would like to ask you a few questions relating to burglaries in the area," explained Detective Greer.
Mr Ahmed nodded his head, thinking about what had just been said to him. He closed the door and unlocked the chain. He re-opened the door once again, wide enough to stand in the doorway.
"If you don't mind, sir, it might be better and less awkward if we came in," said Greer, clutching a leather bag under his arm.
"Yes, very well. Of course," replied Mr Ahmed, opening the door wider still to let the detectives inside his home. He led the detectives down the hall to the living room.
Detective Greer exchanged a look with Detective Mosley. She appeared awkward and somewhat uncomfortable. Her eyes diverted, briefly, to the bag under Greer's arm.
The bag had a camera inside it and was filming from one end as the detective walked. It was a spy camera. It captured the hallway and then the living room. The camera bag captured Mr Ahmed gesturing to the sofa, and Detective Mosley as she sat herself down.
The bag was placed on the arm of the sofa and filmed the remainder of the living room, which was half lounge and half dining room, the same dining room that just a few moments ago Abdul had been sitting in.
"May I get you any tea? A drink of water perhaps?" Mr Ahmed offered, towering above the detectives.
"Tea would be nice. Thank you," said Greer.
"I'm fine, thank you," replied Mosley.
Mr Ahmed nodded his head and passed the two detectives as he left the room.
Greer eyed the door and looked at Mosley.
"One in the plant pot in the dining room, another under the coffee table."
Mosley stood and took a couple of steps to the dining part of the room. She retrieved something from within her jacket. A business-card holder, however it did not contain business-cards. Inside was a listening device. A bug. She placed it into the plant pot,
which housed a Kentia palm. She gently touched the leaves.
"Come on, Jackie."
"Tom, it's a Kentia palm. I have one just like it. Well, this is in great shape. Mine's not so good."
The tiny, circular, contact-lens-sized listening device lay upon the soil of the houseplant.
Detective Mosley straightened as Mr Ahmed stepped back into the room. "I was just admiring your palm, sir."
"Yes, my wife is the plant lover. In Pakistan, we have a property there with much larger palms. The leaves must be three metres in length," Mr Ahmed told her, lingering in the doorway.
"Really? That's amazing," Detective Mosley said, with genuine interest.
Greer wasn't so impressed. He just wanted to get out of there.
"Do you take sugar, Detective?"
"Ah, yes, yes please. Just the one."
"Sweet enough, eh Detective?" Mr Ahmed said with a smile. He formed a wider grin as he exchanged a look with Detective Mosley, who returned the smile. He nodded, looked at his plant and turned to step back out of the room.
Mosley looked at Greer, who tilted his head to her.
"Are you finished now, Mr Titchmarsh?" said Greer, sarcastically.
"I prefer Monty Don." She shot him a look as she made her way to the sofa.
Greer placed a similar listening device under the coffee table. "Activated?"
"Activated," he replied.
Mr Ahmed returned with a cup and saucer, placing it down upon the coffee table.
It was then that the contact-lens-shaped listening device dropped from underneath the table and onto the floor.
Greer noticed it instantly, glistening on the carpet.
"One sugared tea, Detective," smiled Mr Ahmed as he turned his back briefly on them, pulling his trousers up slightly as he sat down opposite Greer, who took the opportunity to quickly lean down and retrieve the bug.
He returned it to the underneath of the table, pressing it harder to stick better this time.
"Thank you."
"So what is this about burglaries, detectives?" Mr Ahmed inquired, looking at both Greer and Mosley in turn.
"Yes, well, we've received several calls concerning suspicious-looking large vehicles in the area, sir. These large vehicles have been parked in this road and the road parallel to it. Their registrations have been logged, but aren't listed on the DVLA database, meaning they don't match the vehicles they're on."
"What do you mean by large vehicle, Detective?"
"The ones reported have been noted to be transit vans and lorries."
"Like a removal truck?" Mr Ahmed asked.
"Yes. Just like those," nodded Greer, as he retrieved and then opened a folder. He showed Mr Ahmed some photographs of a lorry and a transit van, with several registration plates listed underneath the picture.
Mr Ahmed looked at the picture with interest, but not with any particular recognition of what he was seeing. "I have not seen any of these vehicles before. As for the licence plates, I don't know. Do you have any faces?"
Greer turned the page of the folder that revealed six male faces. They were all white men in their late thirties. Something was quite odd about each of them. A couple were blurry, like an image capture from a CCTV camera. The rest were mug shot style photos.
Mosley arched her neck to eye the pictures, as did Mr Ahmed, who once again formed the same expression as he did when he looked at the previous vehicle photographs.
"I'm sorry. I do not recognise these men," he shrugged, as Greer smiled and closed the folder.
"That's perfectly fine, sir. Like I said, it was just a routine house call. Door to door enquiries."
"I understand, detectives."
"While we're here, is there anything you would like to inform us about, a report of any other crime? Are you satisfied with the police service?" asked Greer.
"I'm satisfied, sir, yes. I must admit that I do not have much contact or communication with the police. Never any trouble," he smiled and chuckled to himself. He smiled at Mosley, who returned the look, with a warm, genuine sense of charm for the man. He turned to see Abdul enter the room.
Detectives Greer and Mosley also turned to see him.
Abdul froze in the living room as he stood between the houseplant and the dining table.
Mr Ahmed spoke to Abdul in Urdu. "Abdul, are you not comfortable in your room?"
"I was looking for the Play Station game, Uncle," Abdul replied, also in Urdu.
"Quickly then, Abdul. As you can see, I am busy with guests. They are policemen," Mr Ahmed said, once again in Urdu.
"Policemen?" Abdul frowned.
"Yes." Mr Ahmed turned and smiled at the detectives.
"Everything OK, sir?" asked Greer.
"Yes, he is my foster-child. Abdul, these are detectives. Looking for burglars."
"Burgers? Like McDonalds?" replied Abdul, confused.
Mosley smiled at the young man.
"Not burgers. Burglars," corrected Mr Ahmed. He said the word again in Urdu for Abdul to understand.
"Is this boy the only one in your care, sir?" asked Greer.
"My wife is the main foster-parent, Detective, but yes, Abdul is currently our only looked-after child, however we have had many. Abdul, come introduce yourself."
Abdul managed a smile, despite being reluctant. He just wanted to get his Play Station game and return to his room to play it. He took three steps toward the detectives, who both stood and extended their hands to him. Abdul looked at Mr Ahmed, who nodded his head, permitting him to shake their hands. He did so, accompanying it with a smile and a brief nod of his head.
"Hello. My name is Abdul. Abdul Rah-Maan."
"Hello Abdul. I'm Detective Greer."
"I'm Detective Mosley. Hello Abdul."
"Where are you from, Abdul?"
"I am from Afghanistan. Kabul, sir."
"Kabul?"
"Yes."
"When did you come here, Abdul? To the United Kingdom?"
"He is quite new to this country. His father was a journalist in Kabul," stated Mr Ahmed.
"Interesting. And Abdul, how are you finding life in London?"
"Finding?" replied Abdul, confused by the word.
"Do you like life in London?" Mosley asked.
Abdul received a look from Greer. "Yes. I like London, but I cry for home and my family."
"Thank you, Abdul. You can play your game now," Mr Ahmed waved him away, turned and smiled at the detectives.
"Do you go to school, Abdul?" asked Greer.
That caused Mr Ahmed to scrunch up his face. He thought the quizzing of Abdul was over. He straightened, rolled his aching neck, which expressed that he was fine with further questioning for his foster-child.
"Yes. I go to school."
"Do you like it?"
"Sometimes. The teachers are nice."
"And the pupils? Are they nice?"
"Sometimes nice. Sometimes not nice."
"Like all schools, detectives." Mr Ahmed, chuckled and gestured Abdul to leave, with a nod of his head, which he did.
"Goodbye. Thank you," Abdul said, turning as he took a copy of 'Call of Duty Black Ops' from a shelf near the house plant before he left the room.
"A nice boy," stated Greer.
"Yes. Very polite. Very grateful," answered Mr Ahmed.
"Is Abdul ever in trouble in school?"
"No. Never in school, sir."
"Out of school?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir. No."
"We've been aware of some Afghani gangs in the area."
"Really? Where are the gangs, detectives?"
"They're quite prominent in Woolwich market. A market stall is run by an Afghan man. He heads a group of younger Afghanis. They sell mobile phone covers and unlocking services, sometimes hats and cigarette lighters. They're known to bully customers as well as the people who work for the main man who owns the stall. If Abdul lives in this area, he's more than likely to know about the stall," Greer told a greatly concerned Mr A
hmed.
"I will pay more attention to Abdul's whereabouts, Detective, however I state to you that Abdul is a good boy. He comes straight home from school. I would know if he was at the market."
"What about at weekends?"
"He goes to cricket or visits Croydon. Is Abdul in trouble with the police, Detective? I thought you were here to discuss burglars."
"Yes, yes of course." Greer closed his folder and stood, towering above Mr Ahmed, who was still in his chair.
Mr Ahmed stood up and clutched his own hands. He smiled warmly at each of the detectives.
"Well, it was nice meeting you and thank you for your time," said Greer.
"Please look after those plants," Mosley said. She smiled which made Mr Ahmed more at ease.
He smiled at her, warmly.
Walking down the street, Mosley and Greer made for an Audi.
She shook her head as she eyeballed the file in Greer's hand. "Who were the faces in the file? I've not seen those before."
"Photoshopped images. They're created. Computer generated. What do they call them? Sims. Not real people. Nobody is real anymore."
"And the vehicles? None of them had registrations or they were all obscured."
"They're just vehicles. We'll monitor the boy. He did seem a bit nervy and the foster dad just wanted to get rid of him."
"He's lost his family, Tom."
"All the more reason for him to become hostile."
"I don't see it. Not with him. He appeared to be a normal teenager."
"We're in a high state of terror alert, Jackie. Nothing is as it appears," replied Greer, as he unlocked the car and opened the driver's door. He clambered inside behind the wheel.
Mosley snorted as she rounded the passenger side.
Abdul lay on his single bed. He stared up at the ceiling in the lilac painted room. His mind was elsewhere and eyes were glassy. He had a pained expression and his mouth was tight with fear and anger combined. One of his shoulders was bare, as he had rolled his T-shirt up over it. Abdul scrolled his thumb on the metal roller of a cheap cigarette lighter to ignite a flame. He rolled his thumb off and the flame disappeared. He did it again. Almost like a light switch - on /off - on /off - on /off. Was it out of boredom or was it some kind of distraction? In between the fingers of his other hand was a craft knife. The blade was out as far as it could go as he pressed it into the upper forearm that gripped the cigarette lighter. He dragged the blade across his tanned skin, cutting and slicing. It left a line on his arm like a bloody snail trail. Abdul, without looking, took the lighter and heated up the blade for several seconds and continued to harm himself, pressing the blade down hard upon his bicep. It made another scarring cut upon his flesh. He winced with pain and released a tear, all the while staring continuously upward at the ceiling. Abdul never blinked once. There was a knock upon his bedroom door, which caused Abdul to blink suddenly. He took his attention immediately away from his trance-like state and instantly sat up. He rolled his shirtsleeve back down to cover his bicep, but there wasn't enough material to cover the new cut in his arm. There was another knock on the door.
My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay Page 17