My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  "Abdul," came the voice of Mr Ahmed.

  Blood trickled down Abdul's arm. He leaned across the bed to a cabinet and opened a drawer into which he tossed the cigarette lighter. He was about to put the craft knife in as well, but hesitated. Instead, he closed the drawer and noticed a school exercise book upon a desk.

  Another knock upon the door sounded out.

  "Abdul, I am coming in," announced Mr Ahmed from the other side of the bedroom door.

  Abdul slid himself off the bed and strode to the desk where he flipped open the exercise book and put the knife just inside the front page. "One minute, sir. One minute please," he called out, as a droplet of blood fell onto the white plastic of the desktop. Abdul's eyes widened with fear. He slid the exercise book over the blood and grabbed a hooded top from the back of a chair, pulling it on just as the bedroom door opened.

  Mr Ahmed was in the doorway. He looked at Abdul, standing to attention, arms by his sides, as if awaiting instruction, like a soldier. "Is everything all right, Abdul? Why did you not answer the door when I knocked?"

  "I did not hear you, sir," answered Abdul.

  "You did not hear me? I knocked twice and called out your name."

  "I was thinking, sir."

  "Thinking? What were you thinking?" Mr Ahmed asked.

  "Home, sir. Always thinking of home."

  Mr Ahmed nodded his head, understanding Abdul's reply. His eyes searched Abdul's room. The muted portable television depicted the Channel 4 soap Hollyoaks.

  He fixed on the exercise book and Abdul followed his eyes to it, side-stepping to block Mr Ahmed's view.

  "Why, sir? Why they come really?" Abdul asked, causing Mr Ahmed to frown suspiciously and look at Abdul closer.

  "Why do you ask this question? Are you in trouble?"

  "No, sir. No trouble. No trouble."

  "You do not think chori is important enough for police to investigate and ask us questions?" quizzed Mr Ahmed.

  "I don't know."

  "Yes, I think you do know," stated Mr Ahmed, in a more serious tone.

  "Uncle, I not bring police here."

  "Who do you speak with at school, Abdul? Who do you tell about yourself? What teachers do you trust?"

  "I do not understand, Uncle." Fear broke into his voice.

  "Police detectives do not just appear at my front door and only my front door. Do you understand? I see them leave and get back into their car. They do not go to the next house and ask about chori. They just leave. These police are not in uniform, Abdul. They are special. They do not wear uniform. They are like a spy, Abdul. Do you understand?" Mr Ahmed said, passionately.

  "What is this word? I do not understand."

  "A spy, Abdul. Jasoos. Jasoos." Mr Ahmed repeated the word in Urdu and Abdul shook his head in an instant, fear was in his eyes.

  "Jasoos? No. No, Uncle."

  "Yes. Have you brought jasoos to this house? To speak with me? To look at my family? To come into my house? The house I work hard for? Abdul? Answer me!" Mr Ahmed shouted and took a step nearer Abdul. He raised his hand to strike him.

  Abdul cowered and turned a shoulder to Mr Ahmed, who held his hand upward, in a karate style chop fashion, above his head.

  "Please, Uncle!" Abdul cried out, holding his hands to his face, to shield himself from a potential chop to his neck. He opened his eyes to connect with Mr Ahmed's, which stared wild at Abdul, thinking, hesitating and wondering if this boy had brought trouble to his door or if it was a coincidence.

  He lowered his hand and nodded his head.

  "No more television. You will polish Auntie's silver and brass and then shine all the shoes. Do you understand?" Mr Ahmed barked his order, firmly, in Urdu.

  Abdul lowered his head and stared at the carpet. His eyes followed Mr Ahmed's brown leather slippers as they pivoted, in military fashion, and stepped to the bedroom door.

  The door opened and Mr Ahmed's brown leather slippers stepped out.

  The door closed leaving Abdul to continue to stare downward at the bedroom carpet. He took a deep breath and slowly looked up. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked around the room. It was a nice room, but it still wasn't home. Abdul's home was approximately 3,547 miles away. From London to Kabul, Afghanistan. The home he shared with his mother, his father, his older sister and younger brother, aged four.

  Abdul's father was a businessman. A part-time journalist, he also had his own company in Kabul and it often required him to be away. Travelling to other countries. He had several shops. They sold tobacco mostly. Sometimes car tyres and spare parts. A peculiar general store, with the occasional newspaper thrown in.

  Contrary to popular belief, Kabul is a thriving city. A safe city. It even has a university and Abdul's sister was enrolled there.

  Abdul missed them all, especially his younger brother. His brother was just two years old when Abdul left for the UK. He shed tears of sadness when he remembered him. He shed tears of hopelessness when he thought of his mother, for when his father was away on business and when she was without a man in the house to look after her and his sister and brother. He slowly removed his hooded top and pulled it over his head as to gently slide his arms from the sleeves. Abdul winced with pain as the recently cut skin he sliced a heated knife into had scabbed over and caught upon the cotton, causing it to bleed and weep again.

  "Abdul!" bellowed out the voice of Mr Ahmed from downstairs.

  "Coming Uncle!" Abdul hollered out as he unbuckled his belt and slid off his jeans. He picked them up from the floor and folded them tidily, quickly placing them on the chair by the desk. In his briefs, he opened a drawer and retrieved a pair of grey jogging bottoms. He sat himself on the bed and pulled on the tracksuit pants, sliding them over his feet, his shins, his knees and to his thighs. He stopped and his eyes fixed upon his thighs. Both had dozens of self-harming scars upon them. Slash marks lined across his thighs, from his knee up to his groin area. They were not as fresh as the scars on his arms, however they looked truly awful. Some might think he had ran blindfolded through a barbed wire fence and continued on and on through several more.

  Abdul pulled the jogging bottoms over to his waist and stood up. He took a deep breath, retrieved the matching hooded top and pulled it on once more, stepping to the door. He gripped the door handle, paused for thought and set foot outside to the upper landing of the house, closing his bedroom door.

  Sinatra Umbundo sat on the edge of a single bed in his bedroom, playing GTA 5 on his X-Box. His Nokia phone beeped and indicated a text message. Sinatra paused the game and retrieved his phone. He read the text: FEDS SHOT DED KILLAZ. Sinatra widened his eyes and lowered the phone. He was in shock.

  An alarm sounded out and Michael opened his eyes to the shard of sunlight that shone through the white blind against the window of his bedroom. He looked at Rebecca, who lay beside him as the Samsung mobile phone alarm sounded again.

  Rebecca stirred and reached for the phone on the bedside cabinet, next to a glass of water. She snoozed the alarm and put her head back on the pillow.

  "Is it waking up time?" Michael yawned.

  "Mmm," she answered, still with her eyes closed, nestling her head deep into the pillow as Michael leaned over and kissed her.

  Michael slid himself out of the bed, working his feet into his slippers. He retrieved his glasses from his nearside cabinet and grabbed a blue toweling dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door. He pulled it on.

  Both were pleased that it was Friday.

  Michael entered his open plan living room and kitchen. He flicked on the TV then the kettle and made his way into the bathroom. Staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, Michael began to work his electric shaver around his stubbled cheeks.

  The showerhead spurted water onto Michael's face. He stared, blankly, at the white tiles ahead of him and sighed.

  Back in the bedroom, Michael grabbed a maroon dressing gown from the back of the door and tossed it onto the bed where Rebecca was still very much in a coz
y, half-sleeping state.

  She opened her eyes and slowly sat up, twisting herself out of the duvet as she put on the gown.

  Rebecca slotted her size three feet into her slippers and shuffled along toward Michael, wrapping her arms around him, placing her head upon his chest, with her eyes closed.

  "I need to get ready. I've got a meeting at Gatwick at ten," said Rebecca, opening her eyes and straightening.

  "Do you want any lunch?" Michael asked her.

  "Just some fruit," she replied, stepping out of the room.

  Michael made two cups of tea. He placed one of the mugs on the dining table and the other on the coffee table, in front of the TV. He cut a length of a baguette and began to make himself a ham roll. He smelt the ham, closing his eyes as he did so. He loved the smell of its smokiness. Taking three slices, he placed them inside his roll, and then poured some pineapple juice into two glass tumblers, placing one, once again, upon the dining table, next to the mug of tea, and the other upon the coffee table, again next to the second mug of tea. It was very much a daily routine, even the making of the ham roll. Michael was, without a doubt, a creature of habit. He wrapped his roll in tin foil, placing it into a Sainsbury's carrier bag. From the fridge, he removed an apple and two clementines. He rummaged around in a cupboard and pulled out a bag of McCoys crinkle cut Thai Chicken flavoured crisps.

  He knew they were bad for him and no doubt high in fat, but they were certainly one of his favourite types of crisp, though his taste salty snacks would sometimes vary: Walkers' Worcester Sauce flavour as well as Wheat Crunchies. Michael came across quite childlike when shopping in the supermarket with Rebecca.

  She encouraged the behaviour by asking if he'd like a chocolate biscuit of some sort to take to work for his lunch, which he often agreed to.

  He rummaged deeper inside the cupboard and retrieved a KitKat, which he added, together with the crisps, to the Sainsbury's bag.

  The bathroom door opened and Rebecca stepped out, looking cleaner, refreshed and more awake as she entered the open plan living room and kitchen where Michael was spreading strawberry jam onto two slices of toast. She gulped her pineapple juice down, taking an Akai berry and a couple of other vitamins.

  "I'm running out of these," she admitted, shaking a practically empty plastic container of Akai berries.

  "They're well expensive though. Do they work?"

  "Mm, I think so. Andy swears by them."

  "Well if they taste like the bottle smells, then I'd swear by them too," quipped Michael, smirking at Rebecca, who grinned back at him, downing some water and an Akai berry.

  It was seven thirty-when Michael began to eat his toast while he sat on the sofa, watching Daybreak on ITV and checking his email on his MacBook. The news was on and depicted the Foreign Secretary in crisis talks with the UN about a possible threat from Iran due to the uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya and Syria.

  On 17th December 2010, a report alleged that a policewoman, in the town of Sidi Bouzid, approximately 190 miles south of Tunis, in Tunisia, had confiscated a vegetable cart.

  The cart belonged to a twenty-six-year-old man called Mohamed Bouazizi. His vegetable cart was unlicenced, and had been for several years. Having been caught before, Bouazizi knew he could pay his fine and move on. The fine before was ten dinar. Ten Tunisian dinar was equivalent to around four pounds fifty pence. When he tried to pay his fine, the policewoman spat in Bouazizi's face and then slapped him. He was naturally insulted, stunned by the officer's behaviour and then received verbal abuse from her too as she mocked his dead father. Bouazizi set out to complain to the officer's superiors, but was ignored, so he left. However, within the hour he returned to the headquarters, drenched himself in petrol, from head to toe, soaking his clothes right through, before setting himself on fire. It wasn't long until people heard about the incident and they began to protest in the town, leading to a demonstration in some of the streets of Sidi Bouzid.

  Police used tear gas on the many protestors. Public outrage quickly grew over the incident, leading to protests, and on the nineteenth of December even more police were called in.

  Three days later, a protestor electrocuted himself by scaling a pylon. Another protestor soon followed suit, claiming financial difficulties and that the country's solidarity scheme was to blame.

  It was another two days later, on the 24th December, when police shot dead a man named Mohamed Ammari, also injuring many other demonstrators.

  The demonstrations escalated in scale and people protested against high unemployment and the rise in food costs as well as the political corruption and lack of freedom, especially in speech. There hadn't been such protests by the people in more than thirty years and many, many people were dying because of what they believed.

  The people wanted President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali to go and on the 14th January 2011, twenty-eight days later, he resigned. He had been in power in Tunisia for twenty-three years.

  It was just eleven days after that, on the 25th January, when an uprising in Cairo unfolded. Protestors, millions of them, demanded an end to Hosni Mubarak's Presidency. They wanted justice. They wanted a non-military government. They wanted freedom.

  The city of Suez was witness to most of the violence.

  Mubarak and his loyal Central Security Force imposed a curfew, yet it was widely ignored. There were thousands of supporters on both sides, for and against Mubarak. Even the military, who were ordered to use live ammunition on the demonstrators, refused to do so.

  Despite hundreds of dead and thousands injured, on the 11th February, Egyptian Vice President Omar Suleiman announced the resignation of President Hosni Mubarak. Two days later, the Supreme Council dissolved Egypt's parliament and suspended the Constitution, taking up power. On the 23rd March, the Egyptian Cabinet introduced a law that criminalized protests and strikes. That new law stated that anyone who organized or called for a protest would be fined or sentenced to jail.

  During that time in March, protesting against governments spread across to Bahrain. On the 14th March, military troops from the United Arab Emirates and Saudi Arabia were sent into Bahrain, ordered by the Gulf Cooperation Council to protect the oil.

  Similar revolutions were threatened in Jordan, Yemen and Syria, with some protestors calling for a 'Day of Rage' in Damascus. A 'Friday of Glory' was called for amongst the online community in March, followed by a 'Friday of Martyrs' in April, where once again thousands took to the streets.

  April 8th, known as the 'Friday of Resistance', became the largest protest yet on the streets of Daraa, as well as at the port of Latakia and the cities of Edlib and Qamishli.

  It was on the 25th April 2011 that the Syrian government sent in tanks to Daraa. Around thirty or so protestors were reportedly killed as the tanks rolled in, assisted by snipers upon rooftops. Phone lines were cut. Water supplies and power, too.

  The border to Jordan was closed.

  The President of the United States, Barack Obama, accused Iran of secretly assisting Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad in cracking down on the protestors, condemning the use of violence as "outrageous".

  Inspired by the protests in Tunisia and Egypt, a much more large-scale revolution was fast developing. In Libya.

  In February 2011 civil war practically engulfed Tripoli. The Libyan leader was Colonel Muammar al-Gaddafi, a man who implemented Sharia law as well as putting in place surveillance cameras in schools, government buildings and offices and also factories. Not as a safety measure, but to monitor the people more closely out of distrust. He had public executions broadcast on television and with the majority of the country's wealth, brought in by its huge oil reserves, arms were bought and terrorist groups were formed. He announced to the world that there was no problem in Tripoli or the rest of his country, stating the West and Israel had engineered a rebellion. On 17th March 2011, the United Nations Security Council passed Resolution 1973. That created a no-fly zone and allowed the use of "all means necessary" to assure all civilians within
Libya were safe. In late March, French jets destroyed five enemy tanks. The enemy, in that instance, was the Gaddafi regime.

  The operations were called Ellamy and Odyssey Dawn,

  The United Kingdom and the United States launched over a hundred Tomahawk cruise missiles, targeting Libyan air defense systems. The country had now escalated into civil war.

  China, India, Russia and Turkey condemned the strikes by international forces.

  Revolutions throughout the Arab World spread fast and furious. Were they engineered by Western and Israeli agents? Who had armed the rebels and was it true that the intended target all along was none other than Iran? Was there a plan to overthrow the sixth President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad? There was certainly mention of it on the news channel that Michael was watching. It spread across the internet and social media websites, such as Twitter and Facebook, but Iran was a far cry from Michael's world.

  In Israel, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu made a speech, calling for the West to act against Iran. "If the international community was applying special pressure on Libya and warning its leader and soldiers against violating civil rights, the same warning must be aimed at Iran's leaders and their henchmen. At the same time as Gadaffi is massacring his opponents in Libya, the regime of the ayatollahs in Iran is systematically executing its opponents, I believe that a firm reaction will send a very clear message of encouragement and hope to the Iranian people, that no one has forgotten their struggle for freedom and liberty."