But it were Shazia’s cheeks that looked more wonky now as she prepared to leave the room. The right side of her face were puffed up more than usual and her tight headscarf seemed to highlight this even more.
‘What happened here then?’ I asked.
‘I think you can tell,’ said Shazia. ‘She called me for help, I came down but he said he wouldn’t let us go unless I got you down here.’
‘He’s a bastard,’ said Hannah. ‘I hate him.’
The man put the chair leg down on the sofa.
‘Were you going to use that?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, touching the chair leg. ‘It was just there for protection, my man. They can go. Me and you are going to talk, yeah Sid? Come on, yaar.’
‘You haven’t got long to talk,’ said Hannah, just as the door was about to close.
The man got up and angrily rushed towards the door. He brushed against us but I stood in front of him; my goatee and beanie hat hadn’t created the deterrent I’d hoped for. He stopped and looked into my eyes, which were about four inches above his. I heard the women opening the front door and stood my ground. The last time I eyeballed someone like this it didn’t end well, when Adam Seed butted us on the nose in a Championship game. Okay, I’d called him ‘Seedo the paedo’ but that were no reason to give us a broken nose.
‘Look yaar, there’s nothing in this at all,’ he said, cooling down and stepping back. He walked over to the sofa. ‘She hit me first.’
‘Did you belt her?’ I asked.
‘Let’s talk football instead, yeah? Come on, sit down. We’ll have a talk about the game. You’re a great role model.’
‘No, I can’t stay,’ I said, going towards the door. ‘I’m going to leave now.’
‘Come on, I’ll make some chaa.’
‘I don’t like tea, anyhow.’ I said, opening the door and preparing to leave the room. I looked at him as I closed the door.
‘YOUR SISTER’S A BITCH,’ I heard him shout as I stood in the hallway. I waited a moment before opening the front door. ‘SHE’S AN INTERFERING BITCH. WHY CAN’T YOU SORT HER OUT LIKE I SORTED OUT HANNAH? YOU’RE A SHIT PLAYER ANYWAY.’
If this is the kind of thing going on in the so-called ‘community’ then what chance have they got of getting out of Guantanomo? I mean, if they’re getting leathered for speaking Pashtun and growing a beard then wife-beating’s surely got to be up on the lasso list.
So I were about to cuff him one but remembered my pledge to Bowker about keeping it together. I opened the door and headed out of the house. Shazia and Hannah were standing near my Audi waiting to get in.
‘You don’t think I’m a shit player, do you? I asked, looking at Shazia.
‘Course not, you’re the best,’ she replied. ‘Now open the door.’
They say there’s no place like home and they’re right because if you’d been part of the Karim household you’d have felt the same. On the outside, it were all cheery and pleasant with nice front gardens, generous-sized windows and colourful doors; even the sloping roof tiles and sturdy, red brick chimneys had their curious attractions. But as Big Ron said, before he went to the dark side, it were all about Early Doors.
This meant I were never up before noon on a free day and were penalised with a water melon and a bowl of chick peas for lunch. But worse still, Abujee and the rest were feasting on brown rice, chicken and meatballs. That just weren’t acceptable.
This, obviously, weren’t the main reason I left – your dad downing spliffs in the front room is a pretty good reason – but surely a hot meal weren’t too much to ask despite my late rise? Instead Shazia were at work and Amejee had her hands full with the grandkids. You’d think that I weren’t part of their family, or something like that. But it doesn’t matter now, anyhow, as I get lunch everyday at Royds after training and have ready meals and takeaways in the evening. Amejee does come round every fortnight to cook us kidney beans and rice – while pleading with us to come home – but as soon as I think of those soggy water melons, it’s game over.
And it were a bit of a game on the tight road outside Simpkiss Street, which could only be passed by one car when all the residents were at home. Sometimes, drivers ended up in a game of mild chicken as they expected the other to wait as far back as possible. When they didn’t, both cars ended up kissing headlights and the result were a long, narrow reverse by one of the irate drivers.
There were a few more residents out on the streets than usual, probably because of Maple Lane Chapel which ran down the side of Simpkiss Street. An elderly couple – whom I recognised as Mr and Mrs Millington – were walking on the opposite pavement as I parked the car. The couple, who had probably just returned from Sunday service, had to wait until a boy with a cricket bat – who I also recognized as Omar – had taken his delivery and hit the ball as hard as he could. A dustbin were being used as the wickets and the elderly couple looked at Omar sternly as they stepped around the dustbin to get past.
Amejee were already standing at the front door as we got out of the car. I were surprised to see her wearing the full black garb with just her face showing. I mean, I didn’t mind Shazia’s amateur boxing but this were like stepping into a convent with no chance of landing any blows. But she were smiling, which were important, although as soon as she caught sight of Shazia nursing Hannah into the house, her expression changed.
‘What happened?’ asked Amejee. ‘Kya hoowah?’
‘It’ll be okay Amee,’ said Shazia. ‘This is Hannah.’
‘Salaam-allaikum,’ said Amejee.
‘Hi,’ replied Hannah, with a gritted smile.
‘You don’t look too good yourself Shazo,’ said Amejee. ‘What happened? All this business is bringing you down.’
‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ she said, walking into the hallway.
Apart from the new door, it were apparent that a massive refurbishment had been undertaken on the house. The hallway were sharper and more colourful, the dizzying wallpaper had been replaced by a mild yellow variety and the smooth, turquoise carpet were an improvement on its graze-your-knees predecessor.
Hannah, Shazia and Amejee went upstairs as I walked into the living room. Abujee were lying down on the settee with a handkerchief resting on his forehead. I stood at the door and looked around the room. The two settees were still there but apart from that the room had been improved. There were a new TV and DVD system in a polished cabinet, a giant picture of Mecca on the wall and a new glass dining table which, with its hefty four chairs, took up a lot of space.
‘So you finally managed to remember where you live, then?’ said Abujee, without a flicker of movement.
And just as I was about to offer a hand of friendship to the old man, he loses it by landing a low blow. Does he not remember the time he couldn’t recognise his own front room? Ibrahim told us that Abujee woke up on the sofa one night after some kind of magic mushroom and spliff bender and then told everyone – except his family – that the carpet had tried to roll him up in a joint and smoke him. Okay, I know the old man had health problems and were made redundant from Lings but there’s no excuse for that. And there were certainly no excuse for getting a replacement carpet from Rashid’s Interiors on Ribchester Road, which were like sandpaper on concrete.
So I didn’t answer the old man and walked over to the empty settee. The home-made settee covers had been sewn by Amejee but thankfully the huge Singer machine she used were now gone. I sat down and thought of the times the bottom of the settees had doubled up as goalposts. There were also the innovation of shifting the settee slightly and creating a hole in the carpet where the small but sturdy black posts had been. The posts became the pin, the carpet the green and a cricket bat struck the golf ball towards the hole.
Abujee shifted the handkerchief slightly to the right of his forehead. ‘Do your team-mates let you cry?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a macho environmen
t. Maybe they don’t look too kindly on that kind of thing.’
‘I can do what I like,’ I said impatiently. ‘…And that includes crying.’
‘You were never very emotional anyway.’
If there were any chance of kiss-and-make-up at all, then the old man had blown it in spectacular fashion. I mean, what did he know about emotion? When you can make thousands of faces behind a goal ecstatic with one kick of your boot, then you can talk. I do it to others, you do it to yourself, see the difference?
‘Did you go to Ibrahim’s?’ I asked.
‘Did I go?’ he huffed. ‘Course I went, but I think all those days of sitting on the floor for 10 or 12 hours have caught up with me.’
Abujee sat up and took the handkerchief off his head. He put his feet on the floor and eased into his slippers. ‘Did you come with Shazia?’
‘Aye, she’s upstairs. She’s helping someone out.’ I got up from the settee and went to look in the circular mirror just above the mantelpiece. ‘Look, I were told that Ibrahim and you did a deal and wanted me to tie the knot with Rukhsana, is that true?’
Abujee sighed and pulled his feet in and out of his slippers. ‘I think you should be kind to his soul, and let things pass.’
‘Did you agree something with him about me and Rukhsana?’
‘I agreed many, many things with him.
‘But did you have a deal?
‘We were both fathers with developing children…’
As far as I can see, most fathers have developing children. I remember seeing Partington’s daughter Kathy when she were 14 and then seeing her again when she were 19. You could say, she were well developed, but I didn’t see Parto touting her around to the highest bidder. In fact, he were trying to keep her away from potential suitors. Pity, because there were a queue longer than the turnstile at the Billy Moss End to take her hand.
The door opened and Zaira and Qasim – Shazia’s children – walked in. Zaira, who were nine, walked straight through the living room and into the kitchen. Qasim, a couple of years older, were carrying a light football and walked enthusiastically over to us. I put my arm around him as he leaned against us, while I remained seated.
‘Chachoo Sid, you didn’t play yesterday?’ said Qasim.
‘Thanks for reminding us!’ I said, poking the ball from under his arm so it hit the floor.
I got up and controlled the ball with my left foot as Qasim began to chase us round the living room. He laughed hysterically as he tried to retrieve the ball. He jumped in with both feet and I managed to take the ball around him. He got up again and launched in once more; this time his sharp, heavy shoe caught us on the ankle.
Shazia, Amejee and Hannah walked in. ‘Qasim, what are you doing?’ said Shazia firmly. ‘Come here and sit down. We’re supposed to be still in mourning. Sadiq, you shouldn’t encourage him.’
What, like Abujee encouraged us? If it weren’t for Ibrahim, I’d have been a junkie or an imam; not a Premiership footballer. Now imam I could just about take because they look after their bodies, preach and go from house to house to get free dinners, but junkies are the lowest of the low. Their brains turn to mush, their bodies are polluted and they watch Batfink on loop with a tray of margarine sandwiches. Thank God, Ibrahim got us away from that.
The doorbell rang but I continued to play with Qasim. Shazia left to answer the door.
‘What do you want for roti tonight?’ asked Amejee, walking towards us. ‘I’ll make something special for you.’
I stopped playing and looked at her. ‘I’m not staying.’
She tutted and then sighed. ‘You’re not playing anway, so come and stay for a while.’
She meant well did Amejee but she had a habit of raising my lairy lever just before bringing it down again. Once, I persuaded her to scrape some money together and buy us my first pair of football boots. Later on, when I came in the house all muddied and dirty with the boots in my hand, she said, ‘I always wanted another girl, but at least you’re not a junkie like your father’. It were almost heartwarming.
The door opened and Shazia walked back in; she didn’t close the door but moved a few steps forward. Two coppers came in behind her.
‘I know I didn’t want to go to hospital…’ said Hannah, ‘but I’m happy you’re here now officers. I can probably give you a statement.’
‘Miss,’ said the officer with a moustache. ‘We’re not here for you.’
‘Sadiq Karim?’ said the other officer, stepping towards us.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m arresting you…’
Oh fuck, I hoped it weren’t about Tiffs. Molly were right, we shouldn’t have fled. But it could be about the ‘Hand of God’ too. I remember a small piece in one of the tabs about a theft at Liverpool FC and that someone had left a handprint on the ‘This is Anfield’ sign. But maybe it’s not about any of those things. Maybe they think I’m about to blow up Starcot Lane, or Old Trafford or the Reebok. After all, there were a guy called Karim who were banged up in Guantanomo for wearing an American footballer’s helmet during prayers at a mosque. Same game, same name; well, kind of.
‘Officer, there must be some kind of mistake,’ said Amejee. ‘You must have got this wrong.’
‘Madame, calm down,’ said the officer. ‘We need to take Mr Karim to the station for questioning.’
‘Typical,’ shouted Hannah. ‘Always get the wrong man, why can’t you get my bastard husband?’
I stepped forward and the officers escorted us out of the room.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Abujee.
‘It’d be a first wouldn’t it,’ I replied.
Abujee stopped in the hallway as the officers and I stepped out of the front door. ‘Go and rot then,’ he said.
EIGHT
I’m not counting my chickens yet, but the coppers said they were arresting us for the Tiffs thing and not the T-word or the ‘Hand of God’ episode. That were a relief but I weren’t too sure they wouldn’t use that alarm clock from Lahore as evidence I’d been up to no good. There were also a tiny mosque in the centre of that clock too so I’d have to be careful not to draw attention to it.
I tried to stop this kind of thinking but it were difficult when a burly copper did an Anders Frisk on me just before knocking us up in a cell for half an hour. I obviously had nothing to hide but he did seem to be particularly interested in three areas: shoes, belt and, er, nadgers. I could understand the belts and shoes, even if it were a bit intrusive, but why put his hand on my nadgers? I mean, if I were an Alfie Qaida I wouldn’t hide a bomb down my whatsit, would I? There’s enough bulging out of there anyway. So I found this a bit hard to understand: but that’s coppers for you. They stand around footie stadiums watching fat blokes eat crisps and then they’re feeling your nadgers in the local nick. They should get a proper job.
They also took my gold necklace, wrist chain and leather wallet with silk interior which made us feel a little empty. But thankfully, I got these back when I got out of the cell, although the wallet seemed to be lighter and I’m sure a 50 quid note were missing.
I thought I’d be released but they still wanted to interview us. I also wondered if Pearly, Molly and Lassie had been arrested too. Surely, if they’ve grabbed us, they’ve also got their mitts on the others? All I knew were that we had agreed on a position in the club car park just before Partington’s shock sacking. The story were that we were only in Tiffs for a short while and that we stayed in our own group and never met anyone else. That may not have been the complete truth but it seemed to work for most of those questioned in The Bill. I mean, if they say ‘yeah, it were me guv’ then the show ends there, doesn’t it?
I walked into the interview room and Jamil were sat there sipping a white paper cup of coffee. As far as I knew, he’d never been a solicitor or had any law training but that never stopped him advising people, particularly members of the community. They swore by his every word, especially
humble families whose English weren’t great. They asked him for advice on buying a house, starting a business or getting a new passport and Jamil would charge them a small fee for it. He always said it were down to two things: the fact that he were always well dressed and his bulging contacts book. The community were a sucker for it, he said, and he would milk it for all it were worth. So these activities, added to his football and restaurant interests, brought in some serious cash for him. As he brushed a piece of dust off his pinstripe jacket, I could see where some of it went.
I sat down next to Jamil who smiled but said nothing. A balding plain clothes officer sat directly opposite us with his hands clasped together on the table. For the first 10 minutes of the interview, I thought it were going to be a cakewalk, but then he loosened his tie.
‘You don’t drink do you?’ he asked.
‘You don’t need to answer that,’ said Jamil, leaning forward.
‘No I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why it’s important but no…I don’t drink.’
‘Well, it’s important because your team-mates said you’d probably remember more than them because they were a bit tipsy, or even pissed.’
‘Well, as I said before, I don’t remember any more or any less. We must have been there for less than half an hour and we didn’t meet anyone else out of our group.’
‘So Terry Rathbone’s a liar then?
‘I don’t know a Terry Rathbone.’
‘You didn’t meet him at Tiffs?’
‘No.’
‘Why does he say you did?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you leave Tiffs in a bit of a rush?’
‘I can’t remember, I don’t think so.’
‘A punter saw your car outside and thought you were leaving a bit hastily.’
‘Oh, we didn’t realise.’
‘It’s only later the punter found out about Mr Mercer being hit with the ball. He then put two and two together and thought you lot might have something to do with it.’
Season of Sid Page 11