A Fistful of Dust

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘I haven’t been allowed to see him today. Only thought that place existed in the papers and the TV…’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Strangeways. At least he hasn’t got a control order, I suppose.’ She moved away from the window and walked across to the mantelpiece where I had neatly piled up a sizeable stack of mail. She picked up one of the envelopes, checked the address but put it back again. She walked back to the dining table and sat down. She picked up a solitary chick pea from my plate and put it in her mouth. She reached across and held my hand. ‘Sorry, but it’s all going to come out now. You might have to take the stand.’

  ‘But he’s changed. He’s been taking care of me. He’s started a campaign.’

  ‘Lawrence said they’ve got evidence on that, as well…’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She picked up my glass of water and took a sip. ‘During the raid, they picked up a list from his laptop of people suffering from asbestosis, cancer and other lung diseases; they’d all worked at Turners. They were all Muslims…’

  ‘…I don’t understand.’

  ‘Lawrence says the prosecution will use that as a sign of separatism; that he hadn’t changed at all, that he was racially and religious intolerant, that he wasn’t fully integrated. I honestly couldn’t believe what I was hearing…’

  ‘But he was using that list as a starting point, as a means of inspiration. He wanted to raise money door to door, mosque–style, that’s all. There would have been a new building for sufferers. I can’t believe it, the authorities have gone mad.’

  My voice was breaking and my jaw was like a rock. I felt dizzy and confused.

  ‘Where’s that Amjad solicitor, anyway? Can’t he do a better job for us?’

  ‘Can’t get hold of him. Seems to have disappeared.’

  Nadia’s mobile rang. She spoke for a few minutes. After ending the call, she got up and stood in front of the mirror. She threw her shawl onto the sofa and tilted her head, running her fingers across her eyebrows. ‘Mrs Lorenzo is so disappointed you couldn’t take up the post. She wants to thank you for your interest and wish you the best of luck for the future.’ She turned and looked at me. ‘Best of fucking luck. We’ve really had some of that, haven’t we?’ She walked to the sofa and sat down. ‘Mama would have dealt with all this better, don’t you think?’

  I got up and headed towards the door. ‘I need to lie down.’

  ‘Have you had your medication?’

  I shook my head. Nadia followed me into the hallway. She put her arm round me as we walked up the stairs.

  ‘Sorry about the job,’ I said.

  She smiled and squeezed my shoulder. ‘London scared me a little anyway. We’ve got a bigger fight on our hands now.’

  We walked into Wasim’s sparse, cold bedroom. Nadia looked around and shook her head. ‘You can’t sleep in here, anymore.’

  ‘I’ve got attached to it.’ I walked over and sat on the bed. ‘At least, they’ve taken the oxygen cylinders away…’

  ‘Oh I forgot, I need to order some more…’

  ‘Don’t bother. They’re not needed.’

  She walked over to the bed and straightened my pillow. ‘I don’t need another crisis. The doctors must have some idea…’

  I looked doubtful and lay down on the bed. Nadia drew the curtains.

  ‘So when’s he in court, then?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks. Might be a marathon…’

  ‘What about bail?’

  Nadia shook her head.

  I turned over in bed and put the cold duvet over my battered body. ‘I haven’t stepped inside a court in 73 years, and I don’t intend to start doing it now.’

  Nadia sat on the bed and pulled out her phone. She handed me one of the earphones but I refused.

  ‘We’re all De La Soul, now,’ she said.

  * * *

  I had expected Salim and Nadia to pull together in the hour of need but, obviously, it was too much to ask. Their relationship had broken down completely but I hadn’t realised how much until a couple of days before the charity match. I was having an uncomfortable morning, having to get rid of vast quantities of phlegm while trying to deal with the new sensation of being hunched over more than usual: no matter how much I tried to straighten my spine, it simply curved round again making my shoulders sag and my neck stiff. I felt a touch better when everyone had left for school or work but the pain and discomfort was its height when, at about 11am, Salim popped into the kitchen with another woman, who he introduced as Nikki. Wasn’t he supposed to be at work? He grabbed a tube of Pringles and filled up a huge plastic bottle with water. He headed back outside. He acknowledged me but said nothing. About half an hour later, he came into the living room – where I was taking my lunchtime nap – and sat down beside me.

  ‘Soz about that,’ he said. ‘You know it’s finished between me and Nadia. That’s Nikki; known her since sixth form. I’m moving in with her in a few weeks. It’s difficult round here now, people are looking at us because of Wasim and all that shit. I know it might be hard for you but, believe me, it’s rough for me too.’ He got up and walked to the door. ‘Oh, and please don’t tell Nadia I brought Nikki here…’

  ‘She’s knows about your…arrangement?’

  ‘She’s known for ages.’

  ‘Why do you need so much water?’

  ‘Thirsty engine. I’m driving down to see the folks. They want to know about the raid and stuff.’

  Salim’s parents lived in Northampton. They had moved there after getting annoyed by the amount of community intrusion in Rochdale. The last time I saw them was at Fareeda’s funeral. I wondered what they thought of their son now and his dalliances with his sixth–form sweetheart?

  Salim walked off but turned around as though he’d remembered something. He walked towards me and stopped inches away.

  ‘Got pregnant, didn’t she,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Fuck could I do?’

  He offered a resigned shrug and walked out of the house. I wondered how long Nadia had known about these disgraceful antics. Months? Years? It didn’t matter now because he was going. The sooner the better. We could take care of the Wasim issue ourselves. But something he said intrigued me. ‘People were looking at us,’ he said. I’d hardly been out so I wouldn’t know. Were Edmund Street’s beady eyes fixed on us? As far as I could tell, only Mr Shafiq had visited after the raid to ask how we were getting on and offer his sympathies. The rest had stayed away. In fact, many more had come when we had returned from Iraq. Were they scared or ashamed? With this in mind, I got changed and prepared to go out for a walk. The plan was to amble down to the Variety Food Store on Spotland Road and browse around for nothing in particular. That way I could gauge the mood of the locals and see how they responded to me. As usual, things didn’t work out that way because my gorgeous–smelling socks (Nadia had bought a batch of ten online) led me to make fists of my toes and carry out soothing exercises with my feet. By the time I’d finished, Elisha came home from school and the momentum was gone. She was at least 15 minutes early and looked extremely glum. I was at the bottom of the stairs and she breezed past me without making eye contact.

  ‘Have you been bullied?’ I asked. ‘Are they taunting you about your brother?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, nana jee,’ she replied. ‘I got a lift off Debbie’s dad. That’s why I’m early.’ She got up to the top of the stairs and peered over from the landing. She hesitated and then spoke breathlessly. ‘Rachel threatened me. She’s been dumped by Ali but blames me for it. Ali asks me for advice and I give it. She just can’t take it.’

  Elisha waited on the landing for a moment and then disappeared into her bedroom. I walked up the stairs and stood outside her bedroom for a few minutes. Ali and Rachel’s love affair wasn’t exactly top of my to–do list but I felt Elisha needed my support so I knocked on the door and waited. She came to the door and had just unfastened her hair. The red lamp on her dressing table made he
r face glow. She had the same nose as Fareeda, I thought.

  ‘If it’s about my brother, I don’t want to know,’ she said.

  In the days leading up the charity match, an image of Fareeda dominated my thoughts. She was captivated by a Play for Today drama in 1975 which involved a barrister called Rumpole. I had heard of the TV series Rumpole of the Bailey (although I had never watched it) but the story of that particular episode fired Fareeda’s interest because a black man had been accused of a stabbing. I remembered having to get up early for my shift at Turners and went to sleep halfway through but Fareeda remained on her wicker chair, her eyes fixed on the flickering, black and white Ferguson TV. It was as though Fareeda was fantasising about what could happen to the son she never had in a hostile land far from home. That man on the stand could have been her son. Ours. Now, I felt Wasim was that boy. Nadia kindly dug out the drama for me on DVD. I learnt it was called Rumpole and The Confession of Guilt. I didn’t enjoy it at all.

  There was little benefit in all this Rumpole business but it did prepare me for a number of calls from Lawrence the lawyer. He wanted to glean some information from me but I had I absolutely no intention of encouraging him. He did get me thinking about the nature of the judicial process, however, and it didn’t seem too appealing. I always imagined Crown Court as a Test match arena: the respectful hush of the public, a calming dash of cerebral white, barrister matchwinners putting shine on the ball and a jury in the pavilion absorbing every detail. The reality was probably more brutal, particularly in a terrorism case, but I had no desire to experience it. I could see myself coughing and slurring my speech when taking the stand. It was out of the question.

  I put it all out of my mind on the Friday of the match. Nadia made me a wonderful breakfast of pancakes, yoghurt and soft–boiled eggs which set me up perfectly for what I knew was going to be an extremely long day. Len had agreed to pick me up outside the Golden Mosque when afternoon prayers were finished. I hadn’t been to a mosque for Friday prayers for 17 years. The two Eid’s? Without fail: but once I left Turners, the small mosque–going community I had been part of was broken up and I simply made no effort to revive it. Once I started umpiring, this state of affairs became even more acute. So I walked into the Lower Sheriff Street mosque, where I’d been welcomed with open arms almost 40 years ago, and took off my shoes. I realised I hadn’t done my wuzu and figured it would be too late now anyway so I soldiered on and carried out my prayers. If this impurity disqualified me from an official prayer then so be it: the charge sheet was long enough as it was. However, I noticed something else even more disturbing: my body was stiff and dangerously rigid. In fact, I found it so difficult to sit with my hands on my knees that I thought my ankles were going to break. It was an agonising experience – and I was thankful when the imam put me out of my misery and asked the packed hall to look east and west. It had been a mistake to come; I was ill–prepared.

  I rushed out as soon as our cupped hands brushed over our faces. Thankfully, no–one recognised me, although I noticed the brothers Ghulam and Liaqat Deen from Pilling Street staring at me as I walked out. I didn’t know them very well at all but that never stopped them from passing judgement on the apocalyptic state of the country – and why we should all go back to our real home. One day, I would put them straight. I walked out and enjoyed the cool breeze on my warm cheeks. I spotted Len in his daughter’s Vauxhall Astra on the corner of Lower Sheriff Street and walked briskly towards him. The engine was running and he didn’t notice me until I got in.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said. ‘Faith difficult to find, was it?’

  ‘No, my body was…’

  Len smiled and put a CD into the stereo. ‘Look, I’m only driving this horrible thing as a favour to you. If it was up to me, I’d burn the lot of them.’

  ‘You sound like my grandson.’

  We both laughed and Len drove off. Dusty Springfield’s All Cried Out played on the stereo. I knew this because Len told me it was Sylvia’s favourite song. He couldn’t stop talking about her on the way to the match. I felt hopeful again.

  15.

  Only in this town. Before the match began, two brothers called Wayne and Dan Turner entertained us royally by letting everyone at the club throw fruit at them, make fun of them, humiliate them and chase them round the pitch with cricket bats and balls. I didn’t get it at first but, eventually, Len put me in the picture and it all became clear: Turner Brothers. Everyone wanted to have a go at them; that’s what we were here for. I joined in and tried to hit Wayne with a pebble but missed by a long way.

  But once the serious business of the match began, I soon realised I’d made a mistake by staying away so long. The pitch was like a green electric current fizzing through my body. Len and I smiled as we strode out into the serene strip of gold in the middle. I checked my pockets to ensure I had all the little treasures: bails, hanky, scorecard, coins, packet of Polos and, of course, pebbles. The bails came out and everything felt right again. A gust of wind blew them off the wickets the first time but once I replaced them, I felt a strange calm descend over me, as though I’d finally returned to a sacred and holy place. Play began about 10 minutes later. There was light applause as The Bosses’ opening batsmen came out into the middle. They were booed and jeered mercilessly. The field was brought in by The Workers’ captain Stuart Parrington so they were almost on top of the batsman. As the first gentle delivery came down, I was stood at square leg and the sound of willow onto leather provided the kind of comfort and longing I thought had gone forever. I felt alive again. As I strode forward after six balls, I stood behind the wicket and started counting those pebbles. The bowler ran past and delivered. It took an eternity to reach the other end but when it did The Bosses’ opener smacked it away past point for four runs. The Bosses were in charge.

  The match itself went very fast, particularly the second innings. A steady drizzle fell during the latter half of the innings but it didn’t disrupt the game: we were used to inclement weather. At the interval, we enjoyed Sylvia’s buttered scones, hefty tuna rolls and tangy lemon cake with custard. I was amazed how easily most of it went down. The Bosses eventually won the game by 62 runs after posting 132 in their 20 overs; the Workers’ batting was woeful. Once it was over, Len disappeared with Sylvia even though the bugger said he’d stay with us for the entirety. It was the first time I regretted not bringing Nadia with me. Everyone was eating, chatting or drinking in the Pavilion suite while I looked and felt sheepish sitting at a table on my own. There was a buffet, specially prepared by Sylvia, but I had no room for any more food. I had made the decision to use the payphone at the club and call Nadia to pick me up when Stuart Parrington walked towards me, with a paper plate stacked full of pizza slices, onion–heavy salad and cheesy garlic bread. He also had a bottle of Holsten Pills dangling between his index and middle finger and smiled as he sat down next to me. He tried to start eating with his plastic fork but threw it across the table and picked up a pizza slice with his hands.

  ‘Len’s giving us a lift home,’ he said, wiping the crumbs from his mouth. ‘Did you come down with him?’

  ‘Wished I hadn’t…’

  ‘He’s in the kitchen with Sylv. Got his mojo back.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Stuart finished his meal. I sensed he wanted to know how ill I was but was too afraid to ask. He took a lengthy swig of his bottle and grimaced.

  ‘My dad collapsed a few yards from the mill but they still didn’t give him a penny. Only 42–year–old and they made up fairy stories about a phantom lung condition.’ He looked up at me and felt reassured enough to continue. ‘Turnout was so shit today. I expected a few more to come down.’

  ‘What was your father’s name? I might have known him.’

  ‘Robert…’

  I shook my head.

  ‘No–one really knew him,’ said Stuart. ‘He kept himself to himself.’ Stuart’s mobile phone beeped. He reached into his trouser pocket and checked his message
s. ‘Mam’s asked me to pop into the offie on the way back. She wanted to come but didn’t want to dredge it all up again.’

  I pictured Stuart’s mother sitting there in her flat, house or bungalow and wondered how many more people there were like her in and around the town. Lives shattered but no–one listening: an army of muted voices in the wilderness.

  ‘We just take it in this country,’ said Stuart. ‘We go abroad and start wars but we sell our folk down the river.’

  I took a deep breath and cleared my throat.

  ‘So you didn’t agree with Iraq, then?’

  Stuart looked at me as if I’d propositioned his mother.

  ‘Afghanistan was right, fuck the Tallie Scallies but Iraq’s gonna make us bleed.’

  Something within me shifted. I reached into my trouser pocket and laid the six pebbles across the table.

  ‘Do you know where they’re from?’ I asked.

  Stuart picked a couple of them up and rubbed them with his fingers.

  ‘Probably, Hollingworth Lake, somewhere like that…’

  I carefully picked one of them up.

  ‘They’re from Iraq.’

  Stuart nearly choked as he took another swig of his beer.

  ‘You’re gypping us. Did some fucker fire them as bullets from a magic gun?’

  I smiled and shook my head.

  ‘Well, how the fuck did you get them, then? Did you go down there?’

  I continued to look proud like a veteran soldier finally getting the praise he deserved.

  ‘I went out there to spread the game.’

  ‘Bull. They don’t play cricket out there. Why would you go all that way for something like that?’

  ‘It’s true. They were quite enthusiastic. There was one boy – Madrid Boy I called him – who had a lot of potential.’

  Stuart grinned and took another swig of beer. He took one of the pebbles and dropped it into the bottle. He looked through the bottle and watched it floating on the small amount of beer that was left.