My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay

by Ben Trebilcook

  He didn't even wait for the reply as he suddenly grabbed Abdul and dragged his body to the chair, sitting him down on it. He twisted Abdul and the chair round to face the edge of the bed. He sat down opposite Abdul.

  They were now face to face.

  Abdul looked at the knife and then up at Edward.

  "I don't want to hurt you, Abdul. You didn't come to this country to be hurt. You came here to be safe. You can continue to be safe, Abdul, if you tell me what you know about my son."

  Abdul gulped. His bottom lip quivered. His chest rose and fell quickly with fearful, pained breaths.

  "Bara dam. Big breaths. Eik, do. One, two. One two," Edward commanded, mixing his Urdu and English together again.

  Abdul took instant note and breathed more deeply and calmly. "I - I left my school with Sintra and-" Abdul began.

  "Sindra?" Edward interrupted.

  "Sintra. Yes," Abdul continued in his thick pronounced accent, but obviously he meant Sinatra.

  "Sandra? Does she go to your school?" Edward inquired.

  "Sintra. Sintra. Not a girl. A boy. Yes. He goes to school with me," corrected Abdul.

  "And what is this boy like? Is he white? Black? Is he Afghani?"

  "Africa. He is from Africa. He - Use Angrez main kya kehte hain? Torh diyaa?" Abdul asked Mr Ahmed in Urdu.

  "In English? Broke? Yes. Broke. What broke?" Mr Ahmed asked. He now expressed his own keen and flustered curiosity.

  "What broke? Did you break something? What broke?" pressed Edward.

  "Sintra. He broke. He broke the wheel of the car. The wheel goes flat," continued Abdul.

  "This boy made the tyre go flat. The car tyre?"

  "Yes. Yes, the tyre. The tyre on the wheel."

  "This boy, Sandra? He did this? He broke the wheel?" Edward quizzed. He never took his eyes off Abdul, who hesitated in responding to the question, glancing to his left at Mr Ahmed.

  Abdul lowered his head, glassy-eyed, He released more tears. "No. Not just him. Me. Him and me," admitted Abdul.

  "Then what?"

  "Michael drive and the wheel. The tyre goes flat. Sintra and me see him on his phone," Abdul said as he described his time with Michael.

  HOOT!

  A car horn sounded out. It passed Michael's car, causing him to stop speaking and look up.

  Michael frowned as he saw Abdul in the middle of the street, on the other side of the Common. He curled his lip and turned, surprised to see Sinatra next to him on the pathway. He turned again to see a group of white youths on the Common in the distance.

  One was the youth who was later caught trying to steal his car stereo.

  Michael briefly noticed the youth looking and then walking away elsewhere.

  "Yo, hang up da phone. Do it, man," commanded Sinatra.

  Frowning, Michael's tone changed as he turned again and completed his message to Rebecca's answerphone. "Yeah, I'll hopefully not be too late, my love. If I can't manage to change the wheel, then I think there's a garage down the road from work or near this common. Speak later. Love-"

  "I said put da phone down!" shouted Sinatra, aggressively, as he suddenly batted Michael's phone out of his hand.

  The iPhone made contact with the ground, bouncing in its rubber case and then completely out of it, sliding upon the pavement.

  "What do you think you're doing!" Michael blurted out loud to Sinatra.

  "Be quiet, man!" shouted Sinatra.

  Abdul, who had now crossed the road, looked at the flat tyre and laughed, pointing at it.

  Michael frowned at Abdul, trying to weigh up the situation as quickly as he could.

  "Yes, I have a flat tyre. It's not funny. Did - did you two have anything to do with this?

  "I said, shut up! Shut up, fool." Sinatra edged closer to Michael, totally in his personal space, causing him to step back to his open car door. "You're a Fed. I see you, man. I see you wid da Feds," hissed Sinatra. He pointed his finger toward Michael's face.

  "Get your hand away from my face," insisted Michael, calmly, putting his hand up to gently move Sinatra's hand away.

  Sinatra's chest inflated, angered by the contact Michael had just made with him. He clenched his fist and held it upwards, alarming Michael and causing him to take a defensive stand.

  "You going to hit me? Oh my days. Oh my fucking days. I can't believe you were gonna hit me. Come on. COME ON!" Sinatra yelled as he suddenly delivered a two punch combination to Michael's face. One fist hit Michael's chin, making him stagger backwards and into the driver's open door. The second fist made contact with Michael's nose, instantly making it bleed. His head whipped round to one side.

  "Please. No fighting! No fighting!" Abdul screamed.

  Michael touched his nose, and felt the blood on his fingertips. He cupped his bleeding nostrils with one hand as his eyes flickered and his body swayed. As he tried to straighten, he lost his footing, caught totally off-guard. He set one foot forward and slipped on the fallen iPhone. His foot slid and his leg buckled, and as he fell, his hand gripped the side of the door where he left blood on the inside of the door handle. He fell awkwardly to the concrete pavement and it was then that he received a sudden, swift kick to the head from Sinatra. Michael's head cracked against the metal door, knocking him out cold.

  "You fucking undercover pig Fed. Get up. Get up, man," Sinatra scoffed, as he towered above Michael's unconscious body.

  "Sintra. Sintra, no!" replied Abdul, with fear in his eyes, grasping Sinatra's arm, angering him further.

  "Don't touch me, man. Get your terrorist hands off me, blud. GET OFF!" Sinatra yelled, shaking loose Abdul's grip. He fixed on the iPhone and picked it up. He pulled his own mobile phone and scrolled through some numbers in his address book, dialing one on Michael's iPhone. It rang immediately.

  "Yo. Get 'ere quick, yeah. I done somefin and joo gotta get 'ere wivda car, man," Sinatra said.

  "Whasup blud?" came a male voice on the other end of the phone.

  "I've shanked da Prime Minister and now I'm gonna kill the Queen, init? Just get to da fuckin' Common, man. Wynn Common, init."

  Sinatra hung up the phone. He looked at Abdul with wild eyes and then down at Michael, whose nose was still seeping blood. He pocketed the iPhone and glanced inside the car, catching sight of the silver gaffer tape on the seat, as well as Michael's beige canvas school bag. He reached in and grabbed them both, then clenched his fist, pushing it against the car door, closing it. He stooped to grab hold of Michael's arms and pulled him upwards. He looked at Abdul and called him to come over, with a simple but aggressive gesture of his head.

  Abdul stepped over to Michael and slid his arm under his limp body, aiding Sinatra in propping him up and onto his feet.

  Together, they stepped onto a large grassy area with a few trees and bushes. The grassland dipped and sloped into a massive, crater-like space.

  "I must go home, Sintra," said Abdul, with concern in his voice and on his face.

  "My name is Sinatra. Sin-ah-tra."

  "Santra. Yes. Yes."

  "Fuck sake. Listen, yeah. You wait. You wait here, yeah. You wait here, Abdul, or I'll fucking kill you, yeah," Sinatra threatened.

  His own mobile phone rang and he retrieved the call, crouching down beside a bush, hiding from the view of the road and residents who lived nearby. "What, man?"

  "Yo, where you at, blud?" came the voice on the other end of the phone.

  "I'm in the pit, man. Where we found that bike, yeah?"

  "All right. I'm there, blud. Later." The call ended.

  "Who is coming, Santra? The police?"

  "Shut up, Abdul, man. No. Not the police. Listen, yeah, don't you dare talk to anyone, yeah? Nuffin happened today. We didn't do anything, yeah? D'you hear me? Abdul?"

  Abdul looked at Michael's slumped body amongst the undergrowth. He looked up at Sinatra whose eyes stared past him. Abdul turned around to see a Peugeot had pulled up fast onto the grass and had stopped near them. He squinted to see the driver was a bl
ack man, of West African origin. Nigerian, twenty-two years old.

  The driver exited the car. He was dressed in dark blue jeans, black roll neck and a black bomber jacket. He was the man from Little Lagos and he paced across the Common to a discreetly hidden Sinatra and Abdul, who had crouched down.

  The man loomed above them both.

  "What's da emergency, blud?" he said to Sinatra, who parted a section of a bush to reveal Michael's body sprawled on the ground underneath. "Is he dead?"

  "Dunno," answered Sinatra.

  "What the fuck, man. Are you fuckin' stupid?" said the driver, noticing the gaffer tape in Sinatra's hand and then looking at Michael. "Tear some tape off and stick it over his mouth, yeah."

  Sinatra picked at the end of the tape with his fingernails and reeled off a short length, which he bit off with his teeth. He stuck it across Michael's mouth.

  "What shall I do wiv dis?" Sinatra asked, holding up the roll of tape.

  "Who gives a shit? Throw it, man," replied the young Nigerian man.

  Sinatra tossed the gaffer tape across the grassland.

  "I'll open the boot, yeah, and we can stick him in my car. I'll take him to wherever you want but that'll be it. You're on your Jack Jones, you get me?" said the young man.

  Sinatra nodded his head as the young man stepped to his car, unlocked the boot and returned to Abdul and Sinatra.

  "Get him up then. Pricks," ordered the man to Sinatra, who once again gestured Abdul to help and together they propped Michael up and followed the young man to the rear of the Peugeot vehicle.

  The white youth Edward was later to question at the police station walked across the Common with a girl. He saw Sinatra and the young man heaving Michael into the boot of the yellow Peugeot. He noticed Abdul with a peculiar expression on his face conducting a very odd dance. He looked away and edged to the end of the road to watch Michael's car.

  The boot lid of the Peugeot closed shut on Michael and the young man looked at Sinatra and Abdul.

  "Get in. He can bounce," replied the young man with a glance at Abdul.

  Sinatra looked at Abdul. "Go home, Abdul. Swear down you won't tell nobody, man. Like I said, I'll kill you. Go home, Abdul. Go home," Sinatra ordered as he rounded the car and opened the passenger door to clamber inside.

  Abdul watched the other young man slip inside the car, behind the wheel and start the engine.

  The car reversed, then disappeared up the street, towards Woolwich Common.

  "Why didn't you tell anybody about what had happened?" Mr Ahmed asked Abdul.

  "Oh come on! Why do you think?" chirped Edward.

  "Please. No trouble. I'm begging you, sir. Please. I beg you," Abdul cried, reaching out to clutch Edward's hands.

  Edward moved himself backwards, still on the bed, but edging away from Abdul's pleading, guilty hands. "Where did they take Michael?"

  "I don't know, sir. Please believe me," Abdul pleaded.

  "Kidher?" Edward said more assertively.

  "Mujhe nahi malum!" cried Abdul. Tears streamed down his face.

  "You do know! Not good enough! Where did they take my son?"

  "He does not know, sir. Please. Look at him. He has told you all he knows," insisted Mr Ahmed.

  Edward thought hard and turned his attention to him, rising to his feet and grabbing his arm.

  "You're coming with me," Edward said to Mr Ahmed, glancing round to Abdul, still fixed to the chair. "You stay here. Samajna? Understand?" Edward continued, sending a burning stare into Abdul's eyes.

  Abdul nodded with fear as Edward grasped Mr Ahmed tight and gestured to Jason to open the bedroom door.

  He did so, quietly.

  "Where are we going?" asked Mr Ahmed.

  "Quiet," replied Edward, escorting him down the stairs of the house.

  "Please do not hurt me. I am a father, too."

  "I'm not going to hurt you. Move," commanded Edward, stepping out of the house and up the garden path.

  "Then why do you need me?" asked a fearful Mr Ahmed.

  "Because if you stayed here, you'd call the authorities, that's why. Come on. Walk."

  "Why not take Abdul? He is the cause of this situation. You could take both of us. Abdul may call the police," stuttered Mr Ahmed to Edward, who brought him to a halt beside his jeep.

  "Do you really think Abdul will call the police? He's a terrified young man, scared out of his skin who won't dare move from the seat where we left him. That's why I left him there and that's why I'm taking you with me. Shut up and get inside," Edward said firmly, opening the rear passenger door and shoving Mr Ahmed inside.

  "Maidenstone Hill?" Jason said, going to the driver's door.

  "Yep. You drive," replied Edward, tossing the car keys to his son and clambering inside the back, next to Mr Ahmed.

  Jason got behind the wheel and adjusted his seat, scrolling it back for his long legs to be comfortable. He started the car, shifted into first and turned the car into the adjacent street. He switched the headlights on.

  Abdul rocked back and forth on the chair. His arms were folded and held tight into his stomach. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he stared at the craft knife lying on the bedside cabinet.

  Mr Ahmed sat on the back seat of the jeep next to Edward, as Jason drove down Blackheath Hill.

  "Slowly," Edward said, looking out of the window.

  "And you think your son will be here?" Mr Ahmed asked, curiously.

  "Ssh. I said, be quiet, sir."

  "And if he is not? What then?"

  "I'll do whatever it takes to find my son. Now be quiet," Edward snapped, flustered by Mr Ahmed's questions.

  "And will you be taking me with you on your journey until you find him?"

  "He said, shut up! Bloody hell! Just shut up!" yelled Jason.

  "There. On the right. Pull in," Edward indicated.

  The pale, slim seventeen-year-old-young man called Jack, who was Sinatra's secret boyfriend, crouched by a garden gate. Shaking, he looked at his hands in the light of the street lamp. His palms were blood-stained. His lower lip and jaw trembled with fear. His face was suddenly illuminated as he shielded his eyes with one of his bloodied hands. A car's headlights shone, picking Jack out as he stooped, knees against his shoulders, squinting and saluting a red hand to the oncoming vehicle which had Jason behind the wheel of it.

  "Lights off and pull in," commanded Edward to Jason.

  "D'you seem him?" Jason asked, doing as he was told.

  "Yes. Stay here. Do you hear me?" Edward growled, pointing at Mr Ahmed and then exiting the rear of his jeep. He stepped onto the pavement and trod the few paces to overshadow Jack. "Oi. Look at me. Look up."

  Jack rolled his eyes upwards and then arched his neck to lock eyes with Edward, still continuing to shiver.

  "What's your name?"

  "Jer - Jer - Jack."

  "You're covered in blood, Jack. Whose blood is it?"

  "Ev - ev - every - everyone's," replied Jack.

  Edward frowned as Jack lowered his hands. He noticed patches of blood on the pavement, as well as droplets. He turned and stepped to one side, away from his own shadow, to see more blood, this time a footprint consisting of blood and mud. He looked at the car parked nearby, smeared with blood and a clearly visible bloody fingerprint. Edward flipped out a ruler, laying it near the print and retrieved his digital camera, framing the footprint within the screen as he took a clear photograph of it.

  "Are you hurt?" Edward asked.

  "Just - just my heart," Jack answered, staring blankly ahead of him into the metal of the car door facing him.

  "What happened here? Was somebody stabbed?"

  "No. They - they were all - they were shot." Jack's voice became more controlled with every word.

  "Shot where? Have the police been here?" Edward asked, becoming frantic.

  Jack sneered and looked up at him.

  "I haven't called them yet."

  "Well, maybe someone else has," Edward suggested, bemused b
y Jack's slightly cryptic sentences.

  "I hardly think so."

  "And why don't you think so?" asked Edward firmly, crouching down and putting his staring face closer to Jack's.

  Jack did a slow burn of a look to meet Edward's eyes.

  "Because only I saw it happen."

  Edward suddenly grasped Jack's neck with his gloved hand, digging his thumb into a pressure point at the end of his jaw, applying it harder, causing immense discomfort to Jack as he arched his back, twisting his body.

  "Show me where," ordered Edward, rising to his feet with Jack. He saw a shadow on the ground and turned to see Jason.

  "You OK?"

  "Ahmed?"

  "In the car. I've locked the doors."

  "Take my camera and match the picture I've just taken to the shoe print I made a cast of," Edward said, handing his digital camera to Jason.

  "You're - you're hurting me," Jack whined, awkwardly leading Edward round the side of the house.

  "Good. Keep walking."

  "I - I can't. It hurts. I feel like being sick."

  "Then be sick. Move." Edward was jerking Jack forward when he suddenly threw up over himself.

  He coughed and dribbled spit and vomit as he stepped into a dark pathway that ran along the side of the house.

  Edward pulled his UV torch and switched it on, shining his light, picking out a path.

  "Who else lives here?" Edward asked, warily.

  "Nobody. Just me and sometimes - sometimes my sister."

  "And where is she now?" Edward looked around his new surroundings, consisting of overgrown bushes, unkempt trees and overhanging branches. His UV light caught traces of blood on some leaves. He was cautious.

  "She's with her boyfriend."

  "And where does he live?"

  "Crissake! I don't know!"

  Jason scrolled through the images on the digital camera as he sat in the driver's seat of the jeep. There were several pictures of Edward and Violet. In a country pub. At a beach eating fish and chips. Edward and Michael in the garden of their home. Michael and Rebecca, smiling, with a glass of wine, in the same country pub.

  Mr Ahmed peered curiously at the photographs. The next image was the plaster cast taken of the shoe print from the Common, then the new image of the muddy and bloody shoe print from the pavement outside.