Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  Hiran instantly felt more comfortable in this throng. And just as their helpful guard had said, right across the road, towering over the swarm of humanity, was the Royal London Hospital. It was an impressive building, but its glory had faded. Even so it swallowed up dozens of people at a time and spewed out dozens of others from its great arched entrance as an endless snake of bodies crossed the madly busy Whitechapel Road, heading to or from the famous hospital infirmary.

  They waited for the walking figure at the traffic lights to flash green and were carried along by the haste of others towards the entry, moving into the less frenzied darkness of the hospital vestibule.

  ‘Where now?’ Taj asked in Urdu.

  Hiran deliberately answered in English. He needed to keep practising. ‘We have to find the west wing basement. It’s near the library and the prayer rooms.’

  They looked up at the signs affixed to the dingy yellow walls and were relieved that they were repeated in Urdu among other languages.

  ‘Downstairs, it says.’ Taj pointed to what appeared to be the last glorious element of this decaying building — the sweeping Victorian iron staircase that wrapped itself around the central lacework lift. It was beautiful and Hiran, momentarily entranced by its elegance, had to be urged by Taj to get a move on.

  In the basement, any pretence at aesthetics had withered away. A series of bleak, low-ceilinged corridors emanated greyness. A geometric pattern was stencilled, like an afterthought, in a vain attempt at decoration and had failed miserably to compete with the dirty brownish walls that were once presumably a buttery yellow, and damaged floors, repaired with gaffer tape to stop the lino from lifting.

  ‘What do the instructions say now?’ Taj whispered.

  Hiran shrugged. ‘We wait,’ he answered. ‘It’s almost time for prayers, anyway. The prayer room is just over there.’ He motioned with his chin.

  Taj nodded, and slid down the wall to sit. Hiran paced the corridor, reaching for the photo of Chumi and the little ones that he kept close to his heart in his shirt pocket. No one was smiling in the photo and their clothes were ragged. And that’s why he needed it … needed the solemn image to remind him that he was doing the right thing by being in London, taking all these risks — and especially this next one. This opportunity would make a world of difference to their lives if all went well.

  ‘Are you coming to prayers?’ he asked.

  Taj shook his head. ‘I’m not sure Allah will forgive us,’ he said. ‘I need to think.’

  Hiran understood, but he was devout and duly removed his shoes before stepping silently into the airless room. There was only one other man in the west wing who needed to pray. The time went faster if more people gathered for prayers, but today Hiran was happy that the chamber was all but deserted. He needed to concentrate; needed to beg forgiveness of his god for what he intended to do.

  Hiran found himself alone when he emerged from his quiet time and felt better for his communication with Allah. He was convinced his prayers would be answered. In the hallway he found Taj awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, reluctantly keeping company with a man Hiran recognised as his fellow communicant from the prayer room.

  ‘You must be Hiran,’ the man said in Urdu.

  Hiran nodded. ‘Are you Namzul?’ he replied in English.

  The man smiled beatifically. ‘I am. Salaam. Welcome to my office.’

  Neither of them smiled at his words although Hiran murmured ‘Salaam’ in return. He felt a dampness at his armpits. This was it. Would he go through with it?

  ‘It’s stuffy down here,’ Namzul said. ‘Why don’t we get some air? Let me buy you both a hot drink.’

  Taj said nothing. Hiran nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Come,’ Namzul said, his tone avuncular, his smile gentle and his gaze offering sincerity and trust. ‘Don’t be scared. I will explain everything.’

  The younger men followed the stranger like children. Namzul seemed to know his way around the hospital corridors, smiling at people, even pausing to talk to a few. One beautiful Chinese woman, carrying flowers into a ward, stopped to exchange pleasantries with him. Namzul gave a deep bow and she smiled widely at his theatrics. Then their guide danced off again, light on his feet. He looked around from time to time with an encouraging smile, reiterating his assurance that they were not to worry.

  Suddenly they were pushing through double doors and emerging blinking into daylight. It was sharply cold and Hiran pulled his third-hand anorak closer around his thin body. It had been thrown at him when he’d first arrived by the ‘supervisor’, who oversaw their transfer from France into Britain. He hated the cold and longed for summer; longed harder for his home in Dhaka and for the embrace of Chumi.

  They were in a small garden courtyard enclosed by hospital buildings. ‘We’ll talk here,’ Namzul said. ‘Take a seat and I’ll be right back. Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Hiran said, nudging Taj to respond.

  Namzul danced off, returning swiftly as he’d promised, balancing cardboard mugs with lids and food in plastic boxes. ‘You look hungry. I took the chance with some tandoori chicken wraps. They’re not great but they’re okay; eat, eat.’

  He pushed the boxes into their hands, laid out the coffees on the bench and then began digging around in his pockets for sugar sachets and lollipop sticks to stir with.

  ‘Good?’ he asked them as they bit into their food. ‘They’re supposed to be healthy.’ He tapped his belly and grinned.

  Hiran bit into his wrap, finding it fridge-cold and damp. He was grateful for any food in his stomach. Taj, too, attacked his meal with the determination of a famished man. People moved in a steady stream before them, either entering or leaving the hospital’s east wing.

  ‘Who is this famous person?’ Hiran asked, pointing at the statue they sat near.

  Namzul shrugged. ‘Who cares? No one here even notices it. One of the many royals of Britain I imagine.’ Namzul’s playful manner changed smoothly. ‘Let’s get down to business, my friends. You know why we’re here.’ It was a statement, not a question, but they both nodded anyway. ‘Good. I am purely a middle man,’ he went on, ‘I am not involved in anything other than striking the bargain. I will give you the money but I don’t provide it. That is funded by … well, a richer man, shall we say. I bring you into contact with each other and allow the transaction to take place. Do you understand?’

  All of this was murmured in Urdu. Again the men nodded.

  Hiran asked the burning question, even though he felt scared. ‘How much?’

  ‘Ah,’ Namzul said brightly. ‘Straight to the heart of it, eh?’ He laughed, adding in English, ‘No pun intended.’

  Hiran wasn’t sure what that meant so he remained silent, watching Namzul carefully. The man drained his coffee and deftly tossed his empty cup into a nearby bin. Once more he became serious.

  ‘You will be given £300 each, providing your kidneys are healthy.’

  It was a fortune to Hiran. ‘Will they go to fellow Muslims?’

  Namzul nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, quickly, firmly, as though anticipating the question.

  Hiran let out a breath. That another of his kind would benefit from his gift was important. That he was gaining financially from giving up something precious that Allah had given him was not irrelevant but it was of less consequence to Hiran. He had sought atonement and felt he had already been forgiven by Allah. But Allah would revoke that if a non-Muslim received part of his body, so he needed to be sure.

  ‘When do we get the money?’ he asked, knowing his children desperately needed shoes and new clothing.

  ‘Today, if you both agree.’

  ‘You have it?’

  ‘At my home I do.’

  ‘Where do we go?’

  Namzul held up a pudgy hand. ‘Let me explain everything. You will be taken by canal boat to Hertford. There you will be met and taken by motor vehicle to a place you don’t need to know the name of. It is about an hour from your pick-up point. At t
he hospital various tests will be run, none of them too worrisome, to ensure the surgical team know everything about your kidneys and your health in general. It could take several days but you will be well looked after. You don’t have any illnesses I should know about, do you?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘Anyway, that’s the doctors’ problem, not ours. I will pay you and I imagine you are planning to send the money home, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hiran said, ‘to our families.’

  ‘Then I understand that you will probably want to send the money before your operation?’ Hiran nodded. ‘So I will accompany you to the bank and you can watch me transfer the amount from my account to an account of your choice in Dhaka. That way it’s all neat and tidy. I will even allow you a phone call that I will pay for so you can let your families know that the money has been sent. And then you will immediately need to come with me to the canal boat. A driver will take us there. That’s when I leave you, but the driver will travel with you all the way to the hospital.’

  ‘And then what happens?’ Hiran asked, his nerves betraying him as he began to feel his throat close, his heartbeat quicken.

  ‘Well, I don’t know all the surgical terms,’ Namzul said, his voice kind, ‘but you will be in good hands, professional hands. This is England, after all, and you are going to a private surgery. It is a relatively straightforward procedure with few complications as I understand it. I’m sure you know it is performed regularly in Asia. They will remove one of your kidneys and once you are well enough to be released from hospital, you will be brought back to the house you’re staying in now to recover fully. Don’t worry,’ he continued, seeing Hiran frown, ‘I will look after my fellow countrymen. We are all Banglas, after all.’

  ‘How long before we are well?’

  Namzul tipped his head one way then another as though weighing up his answer. ‘Young men like you, I would say within two weeks.’

  ‘We’ll be able to work?’

  ‘Light duties, as they say. In a month you can take on normal work and within eight weeks you’ll hardly know it has occurred. The scar alone will tell you it has been done.’ He tapped Hiran’s hand. ‘Nothing to worry about and then we can get you working in the restaurant, as promised.’ He looked over at Taj. ‘How about your quiet friend here?’

  ‘I’m not doing it,’ Taj answered as they glanced his way. ‘Anything could go wrong,’ he said to Hiran, ignoring Namzul.

  ‘Nothing will go wrong,’ Namzul insisted. ‘We’ve done this many times. There are many wealthy Arabs who pay handsomely for a kidney. Tell you what, perhaps I can increase the fee a little bit. You boys have been very good about coming to London and not beginning work immediately. I know you’re keen to start earning and this has delayed things a little bit but it’s a fine way to earn a lot of money in one hit. Your wives will surely be grateful. So I’ll show some appreciation. Let’s say £350 apiece?’ He looked at Taj expectantly.

  ‘Taj,’ Hiran began, eyes wide, ‘it is a lot of money.’

  ‘And we’ve already paid all our savings to get here so we can earn. Now they want part of my body.’ He glared at Hiran before shifting his attention back to Namzul. ‘Four-fifty,’ he said.

  Hiran gasped in surprise, but the trader smiled. ‘Quiet but cunning,’ he said. ‘All right, my final offer is four hundred each, but the clock is ticking, boys, and my offers stands only until the banks close at 4 p.m.’ He made a point of consulting his oversized watch. ‘So hurry up and make a decision.’ He took them both in with one sweeping gaze, before flinging his uneaten wrap towards the bin. He looked back at them. ‘What’s it to be?’

  They nodded together.

  ‘Excellent. I need to make a quick phone call and then you can follow me home. It’s just around the corner.’

  John Sherman was walking his old dog, Rory, around sprawling Springfield Park in north London. He was lost in his thoughts, musing on how much this neighbourhood had changed since he was a boy. He’d lived in the area since birth and had watched it being steadily overtaken by the Hasidic Jewish community, until now it virtually owned all of it. He lived happily among them in Castlewood Road at the top of Stamford Hill, with its great views over the marshes and the meandering River Lea. He had always got on well with the Jewish community, although the Hasidim — ultra-Orthodox followers of the religion — pretty much stuck to themselves, so it was hard to know them intimately. He wouldn’t call any of his neighbours friends, but they were all amicable enough, quiet and considerate people. None followed the British tradition of keeping dogs. Someone once told him it was because dogs were non-kosher animals and having their non-kosher food in the house would present problems. But he’d spoken with a few of the younger men in the neighbourhood who suggested that dogs were considered dangerous by the community. The cultural dislike evidently harked back to the olden days of persecution when the baying of dogs was the first warning a Jewish community might have of an approaching attack.

  John respected this notion and was always careful not to let Rory off the lead around his neighbours. Rory was really too old to bother anyone, but even so John had seen some of the neighbourhood women panic when a dog had wandered into a Jewish family’s front garden. ‘The children, think of the children …’ one of the women had bleated, terrified by the small spaniel nosing around a flowerbed, simply enjoying the joy of sniffing in the dirt. John had been vigilant ever since, but the women’s attitude vaguely annoyed him. Britain was a nation of dog-lovers; look at any British mantelpiece and you’d see photos of various beloved family mutts alongside the kids and grandparents. Yes, the Brits loved their dogs but the Hasidic people’s fear was not John’s gripe … Britain no longer felt British, he thought, as he stepped off the bridge he’d navigated to stride along the riverbank. Rory was already bounding ahead. He loved it down here by the water.

  John allowed the familiar thoughts to flow. Britain was such a blend of cultures that it had long ago ceased to have a pure flavour of its own — certainly in London. What tourists saw and what living breathing Londoners saw were entirely different as far as he was concerned. Visitors headed back to comfy hotels in and around central London, not far from where they might have spent a fun day sightseeing and enjoying the buzz that VisitBritain promised in its promotional material. From this point of view John knew London rarely let its visitors down. But the working Londoner not only had to cope with the gawping, shouting, always-photographing, ever-milling tourists, but he usually had to commute home miles on the Underground — so convenient for the odd tourist excursion between Victoria and Knightsbridge perhaps, but hell itself if you were facing the trek twice daily between Victoria and Cockfosters. No smiles down there then. It’s all so grim and grey, he thought to himself, feeling a spike of guilt that these days he worked shifts and used a car to move against the traffic, travelling out of London, never having to negotiate the bastard M5 that most motorists had to run the gauntlet of daily. He was sure the M5 accounted for many a suicide. And that was his other gripe: London traffic.

  Oh, don’t get started, John, he told himself, shaking his head to dispel the negative notions.

  He smiled as Rory looked suddenly like a pup again for a few moments, gambolling beside the river, lost in a happy world of smells and carefree playfulness. It was cold but the sunlight, though thin, was rather nice glittering off the Lea, and John liked the canal boats down here. The bonus was that Rory didn’t trouble anyone because the Hasidic families tended to take the air much higher up in the park. Down here it was mainly runners, and other people letting their dogs loose on the flatlands. That said, he looked up and saw a couple of Hasidic men, so easy to recognise in their long dark coats over white shirts and black waistcoats, their black hats, and with those unmistakeable ringlets stark against pallid, seemingly sorrowful faces. Just to prove him wrong, one of the men laughed at something the other had said, then both men’s faces glowed with shared amusement. John smiled to himself, almost
wishing he knew what had sparked the laughter.

  They glanced his way but immediately returned to their conversation. It was time to head back. Rory must be tired anyway. He began to call to the old fellow, who was well in the distance, rooting around in the riverbank. He hoped Rory hadn’t found a rat or a vole to traumatise. He sped up, leaving the pair of men on the bridge talking quietly and chanced a whistle to Rory. The dog looked up, wagged his tail excitedly and then returned to whatever had taken his attention. He looked to be gnawing at something.

  John whistled again. ‘Rory! Rory!’ he yelled, knowing he would be disturbing others. The dog ignored him as the men had earlier. It was no use. Once Rory got himself into a lather over something he was hard to move and John knew it would be a case of physically dragging the dog off whatever it was that had his interest. He jogged towards his dog, looking at his watch. It really was time to head back and get ready for the movies. He’d promised Cathie he’d take her to see Ocean’s Twelve. It had been so long since they’d been to the movies that they were well behind their friends’ dinner conversation. He was, however, still hoping he could persuade Cathie to see House of Flying Daggers instead. He loved Zhang Yimou’s work. Hero was spectacular and he knew the new release would be just as accomplished, and far more thought-provoking than the heist of a casino. Besides, Cathie just wanted to ogle Clooney and Pitt! He sighed. ‘Rory!’ Wretched dog.

  John picked up the pace slightly and closed on his excited pet before suddenly stopping short. His breath caught in his throat. Rory was tugging at a hand. There was no mistaking it — those were fingers his dog had between his teeth and was pulling at, growling as he did so. Rory made this sound when he was playing tug o’ war — it was his happy sound, but John felt ready to vomit. It took a couple more seconds for John to override his shock, and then he was reaching for his phone and dialling 999. Police sirens could be heard within moments. John Sherman was impressed, although he finally lost the fight to retain his lunch.