I settled down and finished the glass of water, which was nowhere near enough. ‘But you said umpiring was in your blood…’
‘It was, but worse things get into your blood and you have to fight them.’
The instant headrush from the tablets forced me to get up and walk back to the sofa to lie down. I picked up a cushion and balanced it on my forehead.
‘Checked him out proper, this businessman?’ I asked.
‘It’s been going on a couple of months now. His assistant – or what–have–you – has been communicating with me. They’ve got a man doing the website already and the charity’s in the process of being registered so we’re already up and running.’
‘How many jobs does he think he can create?’
‘About 200 at least, he says, but who knows? It’s a long process with the planning application, building work and, you never know, there might be protests too.’
I slowly lifted the cushion from my forehead and rolled over onto my left side, with my back to Len. ‘So many martyrs in this town…’
‘Not the word I’d use but I follow you. There are literally hundreds of people in this town suffering, or at risk, from this disease and it’s my duty to help them. And you, of course.’
I sighed and rolled back onto my right side. ‘So are you coming to Strangeways or not?’
Len shook his head and took a final drag of his Woodbine before stubbing it out on his own portable ashtray on the mantelpiece. ‘Sixty eight years without having stepped in a single jail cell or prison and now you want us to do two in the same year?’
‘Just make sure you don’t have any Vodka in the car.’
Len smiled and slowly raised his index finger for the last time.
Nadia’s mood had changed: the twin appointments of visiting Wasim and meeting Lawrence had been organised. She even agreed, after a feisty exchange, to let Len take me to Strangeways. But as I watched Len drive down the A56 from the back seat, I knew I had made a mistake. Wasim’s environment was causing me anxiety. How bad was Category A status? How big was his cell? Did he eat enough? Did he get enough exercise? Was there any Islamophobia? It was a stupid oversight on my part. Due to the exceptional family circumstances, I felt Nadia’s presence may have caused a tense, claustrophobic experience but it was actually the opposite: I had much less freedom with Len; I couldn’t tell him what was on my mind. Wasim’s dreadful plight was engaging me so much that, as we approached the red–brick, Victorian building with its tall, fountain–pen tower and dome, I even envisaged this thuggish institution as a mosque: replace the red bricks with Arabic calligraphy and the minaret and dome are already present, I thought. If Nadia was here, none of this silliness would have come to the surface.
But I needn’t have worried. About 25 minutes after we arrived, Nadia suddenly appeared – out–of– breath, slightly red and with her hair straggling down one side of her face – to insist I couldn’t go into the jail alone. Len had helped me to the entrance and then, stubbornly, went back to sit in the car because he was adamant ‘family business was nowt to do with him’. I had already been searched from top to tail, frightened by a metal detector and frisked so hard I thought the guard’s giant hands would be stuck to my body for ever. Of course, I had been prepared for it but it was more invasive and disturbing than I expected. Nadia got through the search much quicker and had some banter with the guards. We eventually got in to see Wasim about 15 minutes later than scheduled; reducing the visit to 45 minutes.
The visiting area was like a giant, disused canteen with endless rows of wooden tables with numbers on them like C2 or D4. There were embedded plastic chairs on each side of the table – one side red, one blue – and a raised wooden parting in the centre to separate prisoners and visitors. The ceiling didn’t look level and the orange rails, boulders and bars across the windows completed the suffocating, imposing environment. There were also a few tall, anorexic plants dotted around, the odd vending machine and, of course, a few white–shirted guards. One of the guards was sat cross–legged on a podium, elevated above the prisoners, looking down on the rabble like a king on his throne.
We took our seats and counted three families already in there, talking to their young men, no doubt cursing their hard–luck stories. We waited a couple of minutes and, eventually saw Wasim approach us wearing an odd–looking green vest – like a lifejacket – and an extremely loose pair of grey tracksuit bottoms. As he walked towards us, I was sure it was a completely different person: he was bulkier, smaller and had more white in his eyes than I’d ever seen in Wasim. A few feet away, and the trick of the mind disintegrated as fast as it had arrived: it was my grandson all right; he had either been eating raw meat or spending hours in the gym – or both. He looked quite enthusiastic and sat down opposite us. He reached over the centre partition and touched my hand.
‘Big respect for being here, nana jee,’ he said. ‘Heard about the pneumonia stuff: what does the doctor say?’
‘Better now – but I’ve got Nadia to look after me…’
Wasim laughed in a loud, scattergun manner.
‘Course…’ he said, trying to get the next word out as he continued to laugh. ‘…It ain’t gonna be my Dad who’s gonna tuck you up at night.’ He was laughing so much that he drew the attention of the guard at the podium who was watching our table. ‘My old man taught me a lot. He was in here the other day and couldn’t stop apologising for leaving Mama to deal with all this shit. He’s always been there for me but not there, if you know what I mean. What’s the reason for him fucking off anyway? He obviously didn’t have the balls to tell us.’
There was a moment of silence. I looked at Nadia and a knot of strangulation floated across my throat but thankfully it passed.
‘I get it. As usual, I’m the last to know. I’ll find out soon enough when he comes running back home.’
‘Like you did?’ said Nadia.
‘Mama, don’t start.’
Nadia closed her eyes and ran her forefinger and thumb down the bridge of her nose. ‘Your nana jee’s here for you.’ She opened her eyes but didn’t look at Wasim. ‘He’s going to talk to Lawrence later in the week. People are more inclined to believe his story than yours.’
Wasim gave his mother a cold look but her gaze was elsewhere.
‘How are they treating you in here?’ I asked.
‘Eh?’
‘Are you getting on okay?’
‘Er, yeah. I suppose there were one little thing but it weren’t much. One of the guards wanted me demonstrate how we pray and, as I went down to place my forehead on the ground, he shouted ‘the last prisoner pissed right there, where your lips are’ and then walked out of the cell. There’s been a couple of other name–calling things but that’s about it. I do seem to get wound up much quicker though. I need to get out of here so I can get back to helping you, nana jee. We’re gonna fight those mill crimes to the death.’
‘Let’s get you out first and deal with the rest later.’
‘Did you put him up to this?’ asked Wasim, looking at Nadia. ‘He’s fucking ill, don’t you understand? He nearly died when he was Iraq – and now you want to him to drop dead in court. Fucking hell, missus!’
I tried to swallow but the shortness of breath was immediate and severe. A big ball of saliva had formed in my mouth, but after licking my lips and dry mouth, my chest expanded and the breathing returned to a manageable rate.
‘We’re not in Iraq now,’ I said. ‘We’re in jail. If you don’t want my help, I can find the door.’
Wasim grimaced and held his head in his hands. He unlocked them and did a slow neck roll. He looked over his shoulder at the guard, giving him a resigned, nonchalant look.
‘I used to think big, very big, but this place makes you think small,’ he said. ‘If I could go back in time and find that man who roped us in, I’d deck him…’
‘Who do you mean?’ I asked.
Nadia rolled her eyes and looked disinterested.
‘Shareef, the lad who worked at the pharmacy, told us a new imam had come in from Muscat and was living in Blackburn,’ said Wasim. ‘I think I’d just turned 16 at the time and there was a general election campaign going on. I remember that because Shareef said he wanted to vote. Anyhow, Shareef told us this guy was the dog’s bollocks, fucking amazing, and we had to listen to what he had to say. He said it would blow our minds. There weren’t much to do around Spotland so Liaqat and me agreed to see what the fuss was about…’ He took a deep breath. ‘…I need a fuckin’ spliff now.’
‘You’re in the right place,’ said Nadia.
‘Anyhow, we got there and it was some kind of community centre and there were only about 15 to 20 people there. They were all watching this weird bloke with a Cossack–type hat and a long robe standing out front with a table by his side. On the table, there were a can of Coke, a wad of dollar bills, a can of Heinz baked beans and a record player…’
‘Do we really need all the details?’ said Nadia, with a weary sigh.
‘No, but nana jee wants them. Anyhow, as the Cossack bloke talked, I laughed at most of what he was saying. He said Coke written backwards said ‘No Mohammed, No Mecca’. Then he said the all–seeing eye on every dollar bill was to do with the Freemasons and world domination. Then he played Madonna’s Like a Prayer backwards and said she was singing ‘Oh hear us Satan’. By the time he got to the baked beans, we were giggling so much we didn’t pay attention.’
There was a moment of silence as Wasim’s relish at telling this story turned to something more reflective.
‘…But then he got onto serious stuff. He showed us a map of Arab countries before 1916 and then after. He showed us the oil fields. He showed us the flags of the new lands and the Royals and dictators who controlled them. He then told us how America had become the global superpower. Honest to God, I’d heard nothing like it at school. It made me think about the world in a completely different way. Everything I was seeing on the telly was making sense now. No–one spoke in the hall. We are all eating out of this man’s hands. Not the baked beans but you know what I mean. We must have gone to about 30 or 40 speeches in all. They just got more and more interesting.’
Nadia glanced at me. ‘He told me he was watching Oldham Athletic at Boundary Park with his mates. I didn’t even know what division they were in, never mind when the season ended.’
‘Yeah, guilty on that one Mama. I did go to the last home game of the season against Stoke though. Bit of trouble that night too.’
He stopped talking abruptly and looked beyond the both of us. I waited to see if he had really finished because his speed of delivery was wild and unpredictable.
‘…The day I heard about the Kashmir quake, I decided to fly out immediately,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stay here and watch the suffering. Mum told me not to go but she was hardly around anyway. I didn’t get the grades for the university I wanted – and I didn’t want to go anywhere else – so I thought why not? I tried to look for a job after my A–levels but there was nothing around so I just thought ‘I’m off’.’ He shook his head and banged the table with his fist. ‘People disposed of, man, just like that. Made me sick.’ He chuckled nervously. ‘Then, of course, we had Iraq. I didn’t want to go, at first, but then I saw that chipmunk’s face on a TV in Quetta. Wanted to bash it in.’
I moved forward, laying my hand carefully on his. ‘I hope you’ve been completely truthful to the solicitor. It’s the only way we’ll get out of this.’
‘Course I have, like WMD, it’s the only way to be. I don’t recognise this court but, for you, nana jee, I’ll make an exception.’
‘I’m being serious Wasim. I’m worried sick about you. That’s why I’m doing all this. Nadia is worried sick about you too…’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. Families are good at worrying. Honest to God, I’d rather be back in Iraq than this shithole. The Baath Party’s got nothing on these screws.’
‘Speaking of Iraq, I got a letter from Gulzar…’
Wasim interrupted with a laugh. ‘Phew, that’s another story. That first Iraqi letter I sent to you was a real mission. There was no postal service in Baghdad, so we had to smuggle that out by other means, through other countries…’
I waited for his laugh to die down. ‘Coming back to the point,’ I said. ‘Gulzar said someone was asking questions about you. They were probably looking for evidence for this case.’
Nadia sighed and folded her arms. ‘They’ve got someone already.’
‘What?’ I swung round and looked at Nadia.
‘I don’t remember the name but Lawrence told me the prosecution have a strong Iraqi witness. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to protect you…’
I looked at Wasim. ‘Did you know about this?’
Wasim laughed. ‘Nana jee, of course, I knew about it. Larry Legal has been pummelling the questions my way for yonks. Mama and I felt it was right to keep you away from all of this.’
‘So who is it then, this Iraqi witness?’
‘…What was his name, Mama? Shakeel something?’
‘He’s just given a witness statement. Lawrence hasn’t met him.’ Nadia moved closer to me and put her arm on my shoulder. ‘Look Daddy, forget about it. Maybe this was a stupid idea after all. You shouldn’t have got roped into it. Whatever happens will happen. I can call off the meeting with Lawrence. He won’t mind. We’ve got an uphill battle anyway.’
I coughed and looked at the guard on the podium. He uncrossed his legs and put his hands behind his head. His security face could have earned a nice little number in Iraq, I thought.
‘…I don’t remember anyone called Shakeel.’
17.
Lawrence put me at ease straight away. His shoulder rose each time he started a sentence but, apart from this oddity, his grasp of our tricky situation was admirable in its calmness and candour. He spoke briefly about my illness and made me promise that I would stop him if things got too detailed or too sensitive. Nadia was also there, in the front room, but not always paying attention. To begin with, Lawrence took an hour or so over lunch savouring the delicate pakoras and chutney she had prepared along with the chicken biryani. Then we spoke about his time in the East Coast of America and how he felt it had toughened him up in terms of the work ethic and dedication needed to become a solicitor. Even then, Lawrence didn’t begin the serious stuff: he talked about his father – who was a PE teacher at Green Hill School (later Falinge High) and how he’d wanted him to be a professional Rugby Union player. He did try it, he said, but ended up preferring Rugby League, much to his father’s annoyance. So we finally got to the important business, late in the afternoon, by which time I was stiff and tired. Lawrence sensed my unease and rattled on. He listed the things in our favour: my appearance would ‘push the emotional buttons’ of the jury and, therefore, the chance of an acquittal for Wasim was greater; the ECB (England and Wales Cricket Board) had been contacted and given a glowing reference specifically naming me as spreading cricket in Iraq and being a force for good; my Turner Brothers story would elicit sympathy; a sick grandfather travelling thousands of miles on a rescue mission; and so on. He also said something very interesting about whether Wasim’s so–called crimes could be deemed as such because they were committed during what some people would call an illegal occupation. There was much more (something about public interest immunity, whatever that meant) but I couldn’t absorb it all and needed a toilet break. When I came back, Lawrence had a laptop on his knees and was bashing away ferociously and then looking at his watch.
‘Nadia told me there’s an Iraqi witness,’ I said, walking back to sit down on the armchair.
‘Shakeel Ali Hameed,’ he replied, glancing up from his laptop. He sighed and lowered the cover of the laptop so it was nearly closed. ‘Don’t worry yourself about the prosecution’s case: it’s pretty strong and that’s not going to change. They’ve got an imam from Blackburn, witnesses from Rochdale, a grocery seller from Quetta, someone from Iraq… quit
e a few people all saying the same thing: that our Waz was a GI Joe; in this climate it won’t be easy to go up against that lot. But now we’ve got something in our favour: you. I think you can swing it for us.’
I felt quite important as I sat down and picked up my mug of cardamom tea. I took a sip and looked at Nadia, who was fiddling about with her mobile. She glanced up and sensed I was mildly pleased that Lawrence had come to the house. She smiled and carried on poking the mobile keypad with her fingers.
‘You know, it’s odd, but I believe that Waz made an innocent, stupid mistake,’ said Lawrence, warming to his task. ‘Yes, it was dangerous, of course, but so was I when I was speeding down the motorway doing 120 while high on weed at the age of 19. Young people do bad things – but the key question is: has he changed? Is he doing those things now? I think the answer is no.’
Lawrence’s powerful voice almost made me want to march down to the court now. I imagined myself out in the middle of a packed court, being probed by a sneaky barrister but giving him as good as I got. I would pepper my assured oratory with confident glances at the jury so they’d be in no doubt where the balance of truth lay. The arena would be tailor–made for me and the calm, composed delivery of my story – with the Turners tale at its heart – would see them eating out of my hand.
‘I can’t wait forever,’ I said. ‘When’s the trial?’
‘God knows,’ replied Lawrence. ‘The average at the moment is about 18 months after being charged.’
‘Another year? Bloody shocking…’
‘It’s a complex case…’
I almost stopped listening. How could I go another year waiting for this pathetic circus to get its house in order? I remember Len getting his case done and dusted in days and then there was Alice who had to give evidence in a more serious case – when she witnessed her partner being assaulted on patrol – but even that was resolved in about seven months so why did these so–called terrorism cases take such a long time? MI5 and MI6 must have something to do with it. It must be about their methods – and about what can and cannot be said in court. They cooked up a nice number before Iraq and now they were cooking up another one about my grandson. Over my dead lung.
A Fistful of Dust Page 22