‘COME ON, NANA JEE,’ shouted Wasim, standing in the corridor. ‘FUCK THE CRICKET.’
The good breathing lasted only a few seconds as the searing heat roasted my nose and the toxic fumes sped up my nostrils. I clutched my right ear because the sound was unbearable. Or was I going deaf? I shuffled as fast I could down the corridor and didn’t look back. I desperately wanted to look over my shoulder for one last look at the golden centre but felt my neck would snap if I attempted it. I imagined running back and grabbing the wickets before they were levelled by the bomb merchants – it made me feel better if nothing else. My eyes went into spasm but I could still see Wasim making giant strides down the corridor like a pumped–up Olympic sprinter. He was right down the other side. Gulzar was thankfully, only a few feet ahead of me and waited until I reached him. I had a fast, shallow breathing now and was grateful as he grabbed me and pulled me away with him. We rushed down the corridor but my legs were weakening with each flimsy stride. Walking or running fast was impossible. It was also harder to keep my balance but I kept thinking about forward defensives and straight drives. The number of bullet rounds didn’t diminish but the sound was fading slightly. Gulzar had to work harder to drag me through with him. His sturdy fingers were digging painfully into my shoulder and I longed for us to see the main room, the green blanket and then the bedroom. I closed my flickering eyes and hoped for the best. I felt like a hard red cherry being flailed for six, flying through the sky, not knowing where I was going to end up; not knowing if I was going to land safely in someone’s warm lap or smash a window or break a limb. So I kept flying and stopped counting. After a few knocks and stumbles, I tentatively peeped out and saw the outline of the toilet and the bedroom. The relief was instant but temporary; the sound of gunfire could now be heard at the front of the house. We got into the bedroom and Wasim was already there on his hands and knees pulling out his Kalashnikov from underneath the bed. He also had a duffel bag unzipped, loaded with ammunition.
‘Get up, we’re leaving,’ said Gulzar, walking towards him.
I could tell Gulzar was in no mood for compromise. He kicked away the duffel bag and grabbed Wasim’s neck. Wasim stood up and tried to shrug him off but Gulzar was too strong.
‘GET OFF ME, YOU TOSSER! I’M GONNA FIGHT.’
‘That’s what my son said…’
‘YEAH, AND HE WAS A WIMP JUST LIKE YOU!’
I realised Gulzar was ready to tonk my grandson so I rushed quickly towards them. I wasn’t fast enough, however, because Gulzar elbowed Wasim in the head – while still holding his neck – and then threw him onto the bed. He then picked up the duffle bag and the Kalashnikov and flung them at Wasim who managed to avoid them.
‘WELL, WHO ARE YOU FIGHTING AGAINST? TELL ME?’
Wasim was about to answer but a bullet smacked against the grey–brick wall right next to the window. I lowered my head and stumbled across to my bag. I kneeled down as best as I could and tried to put the bag over my shoulder but it was so weak that the strap kept falling off. And then something occurred to me.
‘That is the Americans, isn’t it?’ I asked, turning around and looking at Gulzar.
Gulzar looked doubtful and walked towards me. He took the bag off me and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go. Leave him if he doesn’t want to come.’
Wasim was in a zone of deep concentration as he started to load his Kalashnikov again. I watched him and realised my exasperation and frustration was its optimum level. The black forest of my right lung was on fire and couldn’t handle another snub. So I walked up to him and sat down on the bed. Gulzar shouted something but I didn’t hear it. My head was like a furnace and my speech was strangled and distant. I opened my mouth and mumbled something. It didn’t come out right. So I cleared my throat and tried again. Nothing but a squawk. I pursed my lips and took a deep breath but my heart began to race so I abandoned that. I looked at Wasim but he was ignoring me. What a pathetic little boy, almost dribbling over his weapon like he did with his Super Mario Brothers Nintendo on his sixth birthday. I put my hand on his weapon and gripped as tight as I could. Finally, there was a glance. He scowled and gave me a blank look but his eyes activated my own speech muscles.
‘Do it for your grandad, Wasim. You may not see me again.’
He sighed and turned away. He gave Gulzar a frightful, filthy look. He turned to me again and his expression softened. He managed a slight nod which was worth its weight in gold.
‘Okay, but I take my rifle with me.’
I looked at Gulzar who nodded. ‘But only if you leave it in the front seat, where I can see it,’ he said.
Wasim grabbed me by the shoulder and helped me up off the bed. ‘I still hate this world, though,’ he said.
I shook my head but decided not to challenge his latest line of wisdom; Gulzar was already walking towards the door. I felt uncomfortable with Wasim’s arm on my shoulder – he was overdoing the nursey stuff – so I politely told him I didn’t need it. I scoured the room one last time to make sure there was nothing I’d left behind and it evoked an unexpected rush of sentimentality, probably because it was still in one piece. I stumbled towards the door but as it swung open it caught my left knee creating a vicious, agonising pain. I clutched my kneecap and knew I couldn’t move, never mind walk or run. Bullets rasped against the wire–netted window but they became a secondary concern. Gulzar turned around and looked down at me. He put one arm round my shoulder and one round my legs and swept me up off the floor. It was so swift and effortless that Gulzar was already scampering through the main room before I had any time to object. My eyes were inches away from his chin as I bobbed up and down with every thumping stride. I noticed the stitches on his chin ran much further than I thought – right down to his throat – although his light stubble did a good job of camouflaging them. We were close to the front door now and it was already ajar. Sparks flew across the rumbling black sky and a vicious draught came through the door to seep into my tender, aching bones. Wasim was a few yards ahead again and had his Kalashnikov at the ready, the stupid boy. Gulzar stepped out of the door and it was almost pitch black, save for the distressing, thunderous noises of random fire. I closed my eyes and couldn’t control my drooling – a zooming ball of saliva trickled down my neck and onto my chest. Where the hell was the shooting coming from? And at who? With each passing shot, my bladder’s defences were taking a pounding. I counted to six and back again, to relieve the pressure. Gulzar nearly tripped over as he searched for the path and his grip on my body loosened. One of my legs was dangling dangerously close to the ground but he managed to regain his balance and somehow kept me on board. I opened my eyes and was stunned to discover we were rushing headlong for a vehicle that was partially on fire. I felt sick and needles danced in my throat. Ibrahim’s white and orange cab was parked haphazardly on the edge of the dirt–track road and its front left wing was in flames. Gulzar let go of me and rested me down a few feet away from the car. It may have been battered and bruised but it was my shield for now.
‘WASIM, OPEN THE BOOT!’ shouted Gulzar. ‘THERE’S A BLANKET AND SOME WATER IN THERE.’
Wasim frantically picked out the partially–torn black blanket and the small container of water from the boot. He rushed to the front of the car and threw the blanket over the front wing. It had minimal impact. He tried to open the container of water but dropped the bottle as a volley of gunfire pelted the front of the house. I couldn’t watch. I looked down at the ground and prayed outside for the first time in 33 years.
‘SHAH, GET INTO THE CAR,’ shouted Gulzar, as he got in the driver’s seat and started the engine.
The prayer didn’t get very far. I stumbled across the back door on my hands and knees and got in. My knee was so sore that I was sure I had done permanent damage. I slumped on the piping hot seat and looked out as Wasim emptied the whole bottle onto the wing. The flames diminished slightly but they were still raging. Gulzar ushered Wasim to get in the car and Wasim ended his fi
re–fighting attempts by spitting at the flames in frustration.
Wasim got into the back seat because the front passenger seat was too close to the fire. As soon as he closed the door, Gulzar drove off with intent across the bumpy dirt–track road. I looked out to the right to see who was firing at us but the black woods were calm and silent. There was someone, somewhere in amongst that dark wool harbouring the kind of grudge that sent me into a deep depression. If only I could have helped them like I helped Hashim, many more could have embraced the beautiful game.
As we drove away, Gulzar raised his finger and touched the cube underneath the mirror, changing it from the American flag to the green Islamic one. Somehow, it did the trick because the fire slowly began to die down. I breathed a lengthy sigh of relief and turned to look at Wasim. He was sitting right up against the door, looking out of the window. I raised my hand and touched his shoulder.
‘Did you not see Hashim?’ said Wasim.
‘No…’
‘He was lying dead in the middle of the pitch with his son.’
I slept for most of the journey and had never been so grateful to see that Lidl bag again. Amazingly, the bag was still floating around near Gulzar’s house although the barefooted beggar, who’d initially taken it off my hands, was nowhere to be seen. I wanted to pick up the bag and take it home because it provided solace and comfort after the traumatic experiences I had suffered but it ended up perched on the end of a broken telegraph pole and, hence, could not be shifted. But it did help clarify my thinking. A few hours earlier, I had been questioning the whole exercise and whether it had been right to enter the country and repair a private matter, no matter how noble. Now, perhaps because I was still in one piece, I came to the conclusion I had been right to take the plunge because I had carried out my mission of finding my grandson while dampening down his militant tendencies. I assessed it had been the right thing to do. It had been an adventure – and my life had been short of those.
I took a final glance at the carrier bag before I walked into Gulzar’s house. The front door was wide open, which surprised me because of the security situation, but the reason was clear as I went in: sitting in the living room were Azaad, Ibrahim and, to my great surprise and pleasure, Bilu. Azaad and Ibrahim sprung up from the sofa and hugged me with warmth and vigour. Their faces lit up and their pats on my back gave me an immense source of pride and vindication. Bilu remained sitting in the corner of the room, not looking our way, but his mere presence was enough to give me an incredible boost. Ibrahim ushered me over to the sofa and I sat down next to Bilu. I put my hand on his thigh and he nodded in acknowledgement. He then grabbed my hand and started cracking my fingers. I smiled and politely asked him to wait until later to get to work, pointing to my knee. He obviously didn’t understand and pushed his index finger into the back of my neck.
Wasim remained standing by the door and was still, perhaps, unhappy with Gulzar because he had thrown his Kalashnikov out of the moving car during the journey. He told Gulzar that he wanted a ‘feast to remember’ because he was starving. He may have got his wish because from, what I could tell, Ibrahim and Azaad’s wives were here preparing a bumper meal for us, although I never saw them. Strangely, I wasn’t that hungry, even though I hadn’t eaten for properly for six hours. A small snack and long sleep would have sufficed. But I knew I couldn’t be so ungracious after all that Gulzar had done for me. I had to stick it out.
So we took our shoes and sandals off – and in Wasim’s case, trainers – and sat down on a big white sheet on the floor which was nicely embroidered with four tiny red ships in each corner. I found it difficult to cross my legs so I leaned against the sofa and stretched them out. Azaad and Ibrahim brought through all the food from the kitchen and placed it down, making a point of pushing most the dishes in my direction. I was very tired and sleepy but the sight of a steamy dish of tangy bitter melon filled with mince meat provided a much–needed jolt of energy. I hadn’t recalled telling Gulzar it was my favourite dish but I didn’t care – the lizardy green skins of the melon gave my drooling a purpose. Wasim hated bitter melons – he said they were like poison – but he laid into the other dishes with relish, particularly the chicken and aubergine concoction which he eventually devoured with his hands once the crispbread had run out. During the course of the meal, I asked Gulzar about Abbie and if he knew what had happened to him.
‘It was probably him shooting at us,’ he said.
On any other day or night, I would have probed further but Gulzar’s answer was curiously satisfying. It made a strange kind of sense. I didn’t really want to know anymore about what went on in this country, who was fighting who and whose fault it was. I came here to find my grandson and spread the game. I wasn’t satisfied with the cricket aspect but at least I found Wasim. I couldn’t control anything else that happened so there was no point in exploring further; I figured there were too many layers to unpick, too many grudges and too many conflicts. There were enough of those going on in Edmund Street.
It was nearly 12.30am when we finished our meal. Gulzar got up and put his hand on my shoulder. He whispered in my ear that I should get compensation for my industrial disease when I go back to England. Before I could offer my stock answer, he walked off into another room. I was about to follow him because I was desperate for the toilet but he came back quickly and handed me a brown, oblong–shaped biscuit tin. I took it from him and placed it on the floor, near the empty dishes. I looked up and realised everyone was looking at me. I slowly opened it and immediately saw two Austrian Airline tickets, clear and unmistakable. What a relief it was to be reunited with them. I picked them out and felt them but, wait, what was that underneath? I slipped my fingers across the bottom of the tin and felt some beautiful little pebbles. They were delicate, smooth and shiny; grey, black and faded, corky–ball red. But how many were there? I started counting and my hand trembled like never before. One, two, three, four, five…SIX.
‘They’re from all parts of Iraq,’ said Gulzar. ‘The River Tigris, Basra, Erbil, Kerbala, the Euphrates and Mosul. I got my friends to send them.’
‘But how did you know?’
Gulzar pointed at Wasim, who was still raiding the fruit bowl. I realised what I’d always known: that no grandson of mine could be so wild, zealous and ignorant. There had to be some of my genes swimming around in his muscular body.
‘He’s a good lad really,’ I said.
PART TWO
The little war on our doorstep
11.
Wasim flicked through my 1979 World of Sport annual as we took a breather before checking in at Erbil International Airport. The journey from Baghdad had exhausted me so much I had to sit down and recharge for a few minutes before the next stage of luggage handling and passport checking. I was sat next to Wasim but had Fareeda on my mind. She would have been so proud of my actions in bringing Wasim back home and she would have taken a certain joy in feeling the six Iraqi pebbles in her fingers. Those six jewels were for her. Wasim snapped me out of my nice thoughts, however, and handed me back the treasured annual. I let it rest on my lap for a few minutes to show my disapproval but it didn’t matter, he was already checking his mobile in that classic manner people did when they claimed to be occupied. I wondered if this was the right time to tell him the exact nature of my illness. Wouldn’t that shake him out of his superiority complex? I decided against it because the clean, sparse environment of an airport didn’t feel right for a grubby tale. It was too pristine. He put the mobile in his pocket and then reached down into his bag. He smiled at me and then pulled out what looked like a small kitchen knife wrapped in a blue embroidered handkerchief. What the hell was he doing? Amazingly, he displayed a puppyish pride as he raised the knife up towards me to show me its gleaming blade.
‘She were a good cook,’ he said. ‘If I can’t take it, I’m not going.’
‘Are you insane? Give me that.’
I snatched if off him and met less resistance than expected. He
was angry but said nothing. The soft smile had turned into something sinister but I couldn’t care less: I wasn’t going to have my successful run chase destroyed at the last minute. I wrapped up the knife in the handkerchief and knew precisely what to do. I spotted an airport official a few yards away tending to a little boy who had something in his eye while his fashionably dressed mother, in sunglasses and a hijab, held the toddler’s hand. I got up and walked towards them. I stopped inches away and put my hand over my mouth as I cleared my throat. The official finally looked at me although he was more intrigued by my stubby, swollen index finger. I handed him the knife and handkerchief and told him I’d found them near my seat. He didn’t even look at them and put them in his inside pocket. He gave me a pleasant smile and then continued to tend to the boy. I walked back towards Wasim and sat down. He ignored me and got up.
‘I’m going to the bog,’ he said.
‘Be quick. We’re going to check–in now…’
He didn’t answer and walked away to the toilets. I watched him stride off in that easy swagger of his and imagined the reception he would get back home. It didn’t make me feel any better. I envisaged wall–to–wall feasts, intimate hugs and even heroic pats on the back from some people. A few would be disapproving, of course, but they would keep their thoughts to themselves. Did I get this type of reception in 1967 when I entered England for the first time? Course not. A revolutionary thought then popped into my head. I had an old friend called Maajid Mir, who shared a damp kitchen floor with me all those years ago in Peel Street just a few weeks after I’d arrived in Rochdale. There were at least 22 other people in the house because, even in those days, I liked to be up with the numbers. But now Maajid, who had a big, bushy moustache, golf ball cheeks and hairy forearms, owned properties where asylum seekers and immigrants could live while getting themselves attuned to the environment and populace. I knew he had one such property in Clement Royds Street. I hadn’t seen Maajid for at least five years, when he somehow found out about Fareeda’s funeral and came along, but now his house would be the perfect place for Wasim to learn some harsh lessons about the world and how his grandfather had struggled when he first set foot in Rochdale. Wouldn’t it be great to see Wasim slumming it with 20 or 30 asylum seekers from Somalia and Afghanistan? I wanted to take it even further. I wanted to call Nadia straight away and tell her to empty Edmund Street for one night so that Wasim would think his family were so sickened by his disappearance that they had left the town. He had to learn. These exciting thoughts were gathering momentum when Wasim returned. He sat down by my side again and continually rubbed his hands.
A Fistful of Dust Page 14