This Broken Land

by H M Sealey

  The man looked more shocked than angry at Asim’s impertinent words.

  “Your father should whip you for insolence.”

  “My father’s not here.” Those words made Asim’s position quite clear. I’m in charge. I’m the head of this household right now.

  To Asim’s surprise, the big man’s scowl morphed into a grin. “Well, you’re the man of the house then. All right. Maybe the man of the house shouldn’t be playing hide and seek in attics.” He craned his neck and looked into the still open trapdoor. “What’s up there anyway?”

  “Nothing sayyid. Just old boxes. And the odd pigeon that gets in through the eves.”

  “So you say. Is there a ladder?”

  Asim nodded. “Be careful sayyid, it’s old and broken in places. We don’t really use the attic so Baba never bothered to buy a new one.”

  Asim dragged the ladder down from its home inside the hatch and locked it into place. It really was very old. Buying a new one would make it too obvious the attic was used.

  The rungs creaked dangerously as the big man disappeared through the hatch; Asim stood at the bottom of the ladder, holding his breath, hoping that Dai would have the sense to stay hidden. Footsteps thudded above his head and boxes were moved, scraping across the beams.

  The man gave a yell that set Asim’s nerves on fire, he didn’t breathe again until he heard the man curse the pigeon that had clearly frightened him. A few moments later, the large man clambered back down the ladder. He reached the floor and held out his hand. On his palm lay the curled crust of an old sandwich.

  “You sure pigeons are all you have up there?”

  Asim nodded. “Yes Sayyid, though sometimes I eat my own supper up there where it’s quiet.” Asim bit his lip and continued to stare into the man’s unsympathetic face. “Please don’t tell my father. He’s always scolding me for taking food up into the attic. Mama is frightened it will attract rats.”

  The story sounded good, and Asim had learned to tell them well, he hoped Allah would forgive his deception.

  “Akhi! Come here!” One of the other Mutaween, a gangly man with long arms and big hands, called from one of the bedrooms. The big man tossed the crust away and followed the voice, crashing into Alaia’s room with the pink walls and the rows of plush furry animals Alaia had kept from childhood on the shelf above her bed.

  “What is it?”

  To Asim’s horror, Alaia’s clothing was strewn around the room, including the clothes she wore as Abdullah, although nobody seemed to have noticed those. What the man had found though, was something much worse. He emptied the wooden chest onto the bed, revealing at least two dozen books, all in English, all belonging to a time before this one.

  The big man stepped forward and picked up one of the books – the book with the pirates in it – as though it might bite him. The other books were romance novels where men and women were shamelessly lost in one another’s arms and nobody wore Hijjab or turned their eyes to the floor. But the romance novels weren’t the worst. There were Alaia’s textbooks too. Science with the diagrams and descriptions of evolution denying any God had created the world, western philosophy and British History before it had been re-written to be shameful.

  The very worst book though, the very worst, was entitled A Critical Study of Islam by an American scholar who had argued against the formation of the BSI and against whom many death threats had been made.

  The pirate looked from Asim to Alaia and back again.

  “Who do these books belong to?” He asked in a quiet, deadly sort of voice. The voice that would soon order severe punishment for such infractions.

  “Mine!” Asim said without hesitation.

  “Yours?”

  He nodded. “I was hoping to…..to go to university and so I wanted to read a variety of texts.”

  The man towered over him. “You realise these are haraam? Forbidden?”

  “They’re not his!” Alaia stepped forwards and raised her eyes. The defiant light in them terrified Asim even more than the prospect of punishment. “They’re mine! I want to learn. I want to know things! So I read.”

  The man was clearly unused to being addressed by a woman. “These books are full of blasphemous nonsense. To read them is to revile Allah.”

  “They’re just books. I would never revile Allah, may He be exalted.”

  “We’ll throw them away!” Asim jumped forward. “I promise.”

  The man shook his shaggy head. “This is serious. I don’t think you realise how serious.”

  Fadia, panting slightly from the stairs, rushed into the room. She saw and interpreted the situation swiftly and terror washed over her face. Asim grabbed her hand and squeezed. She glanced at him and he shook his head briefly. He was the man, he would deal with this.

  “Sayyid,” He addressed the big man who seemed to me in charge. “These are not my sister’s books. Does she look clever enough to read such things?” Asim ignored the expression on Alaia’s face. He had to be strong. Better that she hated him but was safe. “My sister is loyal and wishes to protect me, that’s all, for she is a fine sister, but she is a woman, and not clever enough to even know I had hidden them in her room.”

  The big man stared at Asim, then at Alaia, whose own face was a mask of emotions.

  “Where did you get them?” He demanded.

  “The maktaba. The library. There were boxes of old books when they cleared out the cellars. I took these before they could be burned. My parents know nothing about this.”

  The man looked briefly at Fadia. “Is this true?”

  Fadia swallowed. If she defended Asim he would now seem like a liar and Alaia would be taken away to the Qism alShurtah to be held with criminals. Again she caught Asim’s eye and she felt his desperate need to protect his family, to keep them from harm.

  “I …..I think…..yes.” It was hard to say that.

  The man nodded. “Then we’ll just take the boy.”

  Fadia grabbed Alaia and held her tightly. “Please, he’s so young. He didn’t understand what he was doing.”

  The man took his arm and began to push Asim ahead of him down the stairs.

  “They’ll take that into account when they sentence him.” He said. “He might get away with a few dozen lashes. It depends on the Qadi.”

  Fadia and Alaia watched, helpless and terrified, as Asim was pushed into a large, battered pickup truck that bore the flag of the BSI on either side. The other Mutaween clambered into the back and the truck rattled away along a road that had badly required resurfacing for at least five years.

  ~

  ~ Fourteen ~

  Josh

  I think I doze for a while, curled up against the tree, my arm throbbing where the GPS was removed and my head spinning with the events of the day.

  I’m free though. Right now, here, I’m free. I can say what I want, think what I want. I don’t have to police every thought and action. That’s a good feeling and I raise my face towards the stars and smile at God. I try not to dwell on what will happen if they take me back to the Rainbow Centre.

  I have no idea what time it is when River shakes me awake.

  “Come on sleepyhead. This way.”

  “River?” I wake up, realising I’d fallen asleep and was lost in my usual nightmare about the day I was taken away from my family. I can still see Rachael’s face. She called out to me. She calls out to me a lot in my dreams although I doubt I’d even recognise her today.

  “We can get through into the Border. The Border Police will look the other way. Once we’re over it’s all corrupt as hell. All you need is something valuable to trade.”

  “We don’t have anything valuable to trade.”

  “You don’t you mean.”

  “River, you don’t have any magic money.”

  “No, but I have information. Information is the best currency of all.”

  My interest is piqued, I climb to my feet and shake the dust from my jeans.

  “What information?�
�

  She grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  She’s right, I would. This woman is infuriating. I have no idea what’s truth and what’s a lie any more, but I follow anyway; what choice do I have?

  River goes first, pushing the large, heavy door aside and beckoning me into an uninspiring building made of breeze-blocks and little else. It looks as if it’s been thrown up in a hurry. We pass along a corridor and I catch a glimpse of a group of armed men in army fatigues playing cards and smoking. None of them look up as we pass.

  “River,” I whisper. “What did you offer them?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You didn’t, you know? Do anything with them?”

  “Actually no, not this time. I didn’t need to. They’re greedy and I know what they want.”

  “Hold on,” I whisper. “If you have some magic information that gets you past armed policemen, why didn’t you use it to get out of the Rainbow centre?”

  River gives me an irritable look before checking all directions and quickly pushing open the unlocked door at the end of this oppressive passage.

  We step outside into a street. There’s a sign that reads Welcome to The Border in several languages and a road leading towards a vast, cluster of lights that looks in better condition than any road I’ve seen for a while. There are working streetlights at regular intervals and a sign with a green arrow saying all directions.

  We walk quickly in the direction of the lights. River doesn’t answer my question until we’re half a mile away from the border. Then she turns sharply.

  “At the Rainbow Centre they genuinely think they’re doing something good. Something righteous. It’s like the Spanish Inquisition. They want to save our souls. You can’t bribe zealots with what I have.” She pauses. “Here they’re greedy. They don’t make any pretence at doing anything for your own good. It’s completely different.”

  I can hear faint music now, and cars. I can hear cars. Not just one car, but lots of them. I’ve never seen more than one vehicle pass by at a time, there are so few left. I’m curious as to what this Border country is really like.

  Now we’re closer I can see illuminated buildings looming up on the horizon and the countryside disappears, swallowed up into concrete and brick. Nothing seems broken or boarded up and everything looks clean. A road sign reaches above our heads with the words Nuneaten on one side and Banbury on the other with town centre in the middle and an arrow pointing ahead. There are Arabic words too, only I can’t read them.

  River nudges me and I look up as two men in dark blue uniforms approach. Even from here I can see they carry guns on their belts. They march smartly and approach on polished boots.

  “You’re out late.” One of them remarks. “Can I see your ID please?”

  I shrink back against River.

  “I don’t have any.” She says simply. The men don’t look impressed.

  “Show me the back of your necks.”

  Surprised, we both turn and River lets her scarf drop. The men examine our necks briefly, then seem satisfied.

  “Sorry. We have to check. Occasionally slaves get away and need to be returned to their places of work.”

  River nods as if people check her neck every day. The bigger of the two men grins at her.

  “Nice buzz cut love, suits you.” River returns the smile and runs her fingers over her head. I wonder if this man knows what that sort of haircut means?

  “Thanks, felt like going short. Long hair gets hot.”

  “I still like a bird with long hair mind, but your looks pretty sexy.”

  Bird? Is that a slang term for a women? Words like that were banned a long time ago in Old Britain. River doesn’t look offended.

  She smiles at him with a look that could mean anything.

  “So where are you two heading? You know you shouldn’t be out without ID. You don’t want to be mistaken for slaves.”

  River looks completely comfortable. “I’m just running an errand for Diana Lamont.”

  The men straighten up at the sound of the name.

  “Ms. Lamont?” Respect eases its way into his voice that wasn’t there before. “Fine woman Ms. Lamont.”

  River glances innocently from one man to the next. “She’s staying at her house in Logan Gardens. Would you like to call her to check? Her personal number is 098645543211. She might get a little irritable being woken up at this time, but she’ll vouch for me.”

  The two men exchange what I think are cautious glances. Then they smile, nice, ordinary smiles.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary miss.” The deference in his voice is astonishing. “We won’t keep you any longer.”

  “Give our regards to Ms. Lamont.” Says the other, pointing to his name badge that reads Kyle Armstrong. “Anything she ever needs, day or night, we’re only too happy to serve.”

  River gazes at both the name badges and returns the smile. “Thank you. Goodnight.”

  The men tip their caps and continue on their way. River watches them for a few seconds before taking my arm and shoving me along the pavement.

  “That Josh,” She whispers, “Is how I get in and out. I made up that number by the way. The trick is to name drop and call their bluff. They wouldn’t risk doing anything that might upset Diana Lamont. The only way to advance here is by personal recommendation. It’s the land of greasy palms.”

  We walk until we reach a street with closed up shops. Not boarded up shops, just closed, metal grills over the windows but clearly functioning businesses. Streetlights burn brightly on each side, and the sound of music and merry voices floats out of one of the open pubs. A car rolls past and I jump.

  “Did they really talk about slaves?” I ask. River nods without looking at me.

  “Why do you think all the manufacturing businesses came here? NuTru was taxing them at something like seventy-five percent, so they all moved here. And yes, slavery’s legal.”

  “But that’s awful.”

  “What do you think you were, back in Old Britain? What do you think everyone is in that socialist paradise of theirs? At least the slaves here don’t have their thoughts enslaved quite as much as you did.”

  We cross the road and avoid a group of men drinking and smoking on the corner, their cigarette ends glowing red.

  “Hey sweetheart!” One of them calls to River. “Come and have a drink!”

  River turns as she walks, a merry smile in her face that’s completely at odds with how I’m feeling right now. “Maybe later.” She calls, waving, then she guides me onto a smaller road.

  “This city’s called Coventry, it’s a lot bigger and richer than it ever used to be in the old days. It’s a sort of capital city for the Border. There’s not much of a law here.”

  I gaze around at the cleanliness of the city. “If there’s no law, why isn’t there anarchy?” Why aren’t people killing each other and rioting?

  “Because everyone who lives here has a financial stake in the place. Or they’re a slave and can’t walk the streets at night. Nobody smashes up something they have money invested in.”

  “But not everyone can have money invested, not everyone has money.”

  “And people without money are either deported, or end up as slaves. There isn’t any sort of welfare here, no safety net.”

  “I don’t like it.” I say.

  “Freedom for the rich.” She says with a shrug. “Things don’t change much really do they?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “A little restaurant I know. Are you hungry?”

  “Of course I’m hungry. But we don’t have any money.”

  River grins. “Don’t worry about that.”

  We pass people out in the streets and more cars slide smoothly by. To my surprise I see a group of Muslims, conspicuous in long robes and full beards. They give us both a cheerful smile and wish us masa alkhair before continuing along the road, joking and laughing. I don’t think I’ve seen Muslims except in textbooks and on
the Internet.

  I let River lead me along a side street, there’s no litter anywhere, no graffiti.

  “Do any normal people live here?” I ask. “Or is it just rich people and slaves?”

  “Oh no, normal people are here too. There are jobs not filled by slaves, security officers, shop assistants, construction workers. The money’s not great but there’s no limit on how many hours you can work. That’s why they have to be so careful who they let in, otherwise there’d be a flood from both sides. You might have noticed there aren’t a lot of jobs left in Old Britain, unless you want to be a Diversity Officer which might as well be renamed the Gestapo or the Mutaween.”

  “The what?”

  “The Religious Police. Well, they’re the actual police now too I think. The BSI is a funny mixture of strict Islamic practises mixed up with bits left over from Britain. I bet people from the Middle East wouldn’t even recognise it.”

  We reach a small restaurant, The Golden Condor with a picture of a big, gold bird on the sign, and River pushes the door open. The bell tinkles above our heads and I gaze around at a pleasant room with plush, pink seats, white tablecloths and flowers in baskets. The lights are dim and the music muted. It’s a lovely atmosphere, I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere quite so pleasant.

  A waiter with a black bow-tie steps forward to greet us. “Table for two sir? Madam?”

  River shakes her head. “For three. We’re meeting a friend.”

  “Ah. I have just the table. The gentleman in question is already here.”

  The Waiter leads us to a corner table in a neat little booth. There’s a man there, reading a newspaper., his dark head hidden behind the white sheets.

  “May I get you a drink?” The waiter asks and River nods.

  “Just water please.”

  “Excellent choice. We have some beautiful water shipped all the way from China.”

  “Sounds great.”

  The waiter disappears and River and I slide into the booth. The man lays his newspaper down on the table and regards us both through a pair of thin, wire glasses. His hair is greying and his coal-black eyes catch the light of the candle in the centre of the table.