The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  Karim had smiled warmly. ‘I wouldn’t trust it myself.’

  The Australian looked at him and then, mimicking what he had picked up as a local gesture, awkwardly touched his hand to his heart and looked down at the ground. ‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t —’

  ‘Forget it. I get mistaken for a bloody Paki all the time.’

  ‘You had me fooled.’ The man looked up, relieved he hadn’t caused some sort of cultural incident. ‘So where’re you from?’

  Karim decided it was too good an opportunity to pass up. He laughed and stuck out his hand. ‘Sydney. My name’s Rashid.’

  ‘Really? You got a hell of a pommy accent.’

  ‘I did most of my schooling in England and my degree at the LSE.’

  ‘Fuck me! Small bloody world.’ He shook hands. ‘David Magnus. “Foreign Affair”.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Channel Nine.’

  ‘Oh.’ Karim had cursed himself. A couple of sentences and already he was out of his depth. His mind raced for a way to claw back credibility. ‘I usually only watch SBS. Unless the cricket’s on.’

  David glanced over his shoulder at his friend who was engrossed in haggling over the price of the CDs. He turned back to Karim. ‘So what are you doing here?’

  ‘Buying trip. I buy carpets and ship them back home,’ Karim said. Even though it had come out so quickly and effortlessly, he decided it was safer to shift the attention back onto the Australian. ‘And no prizes for guessing what you are doing.’

  ‘Bloody war. Waste of friggin’ time.’

  ‘Really? I would have thought careers were made at times like this.’

  ‘Yeah? If you’re working for fucking CNN they might be,’ David said with more than a touch of bitterness. ‘Two weeks we’ve been trying to get a decent story, but it’s all happening over the border and unless you’re a fucking Yank with a lot of cash and a huge audience no bugger is willing to let you in.’

  ‘But there must be a lot of other angles —’

  ‘You’d think so. But none the network wants to run.’ He laughed. ‘You mentioned cricket, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I was so desperate for a story I rang a mate back in Australia and he gives me this yarn about how there’s an Afghan cricket team playing a match here in Pakistan, right?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cute story — turns out to be true. But was Sydney interested? Not on your fucking life.’ He shook his head sadly and added, ‘Pity, because I watched the buggers play and it was the worst display of bowling you ever saw. I fuckin’ near died laughing.’

  Karim smiled. The image in his head would have made great television. He had enjoyed watching cricket in England and in his mind he conjured up a Taliban attempting to bowl medium-pace leg breaks … ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘They reckon nothing much is going to happen so they’re pulling us out in a —’ He stopped, something suddenly occurring to him. ‘Listen. You don’t know where I can get one of those T-shirts with bin Laden on them? It’s just I promised a mate I would take him one.’

  They had waited until the sound recordist, Timbo, had purchased his CDs and then Karim had taken them to an alley at the eastern end of the market where a pokey little shop was doing a brisk trade in bin Laden paraphernalia. After David had bought a T-shirt and a poster, they sat and drank tea together. Deciding to stick on safe ground, Karim directed the conversation back to the Australian’s work as a journalist. And David talked at length.

  It had been an enjoyable meeting and he had come away from it slightly more confident about straddling the cultural divide. He had liked David Magnus and had happily taken down his contact details.

  Karim glanced in the mirror to see his uncle standing behind him. The time had come.

  ‘The car is ready,’ Javed said flatly.

  He turned and led the way down the stairs, where Hassan and Taher were waiting to say farewell.

  ‘I will visit you,’ Hassan said slowly in the English he had picked up from Karim. ‘You will look me a kangaroo, yes?’

  ‘And a …?’

  ‘A ko …ala?’ The boy looked up at Karim, his wide eyes pooling.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Karim tousled his hair then hugged him. ‘Look after your father.’

  ‘Yes.’ The boy sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand over his nose.

  Taher embraced Karim.

  ‘Go with Allah,’ Taher said curtly. ‘And be careful. Don’t forget these Australians are fighting along with the Americans.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’

  He took his small bag from his uncle and went over to where the driver was waiting with the car door open.

  ‘Embrace my brother for me,’ Javed said and, not one for elongated goodbyes, turned back to the shop.

  PART TWO

  On the first leg of the flight, the images in Karim’s head were of London and Brighton, of rolling green countryside and English pubs. Australia was too far away to contemplate.

  As they came in to land in Karachi, he began to tense up. It was here the real journey began and, if the plans had fallen through, it was here it might end prematurely.

  He pushed the idea of failure out of his mind and forced himself to prepare for the next stage. Out of the window he caught a glimpse through the smog of Quaid-e-Azam International. It had always been his favourite airport because it was from here that so many of the best things in his life had begun. Hopefully it would remain so, Insh’allah.

  At 1 pm, just ten minutes behind schedule, they landed. As he walked into the Jinnah Terminal he had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Of course he had been here many times during his years at school and at the LSE, but, more than that, the cool ivory tones and modern design brought a sense of the world outside Afghanistan. Pakistan might be a chaotic country but it didn’t show here. Everything was clean and modern. He glanced around and couldn’t see so much as a broken light bulb; even the pot plant in the centre of the luggage carousel looked healthy. And, as if to validate his suspicion that the plant was real, a neatly uniformed man stepped over the travelling carousel and watered it. Karim grinned.

  He checked his watch. The courier wasn’t due until three-fifteen. He grabbed his bag and went in search of something to eat.

  Just after 3 pm he scanned the arrivals monitor and saw that Singapore Airlines flight 418 was due five minutes ahead of its scheduled ETA. Knowing that it would take some time for the passengers to clear customs and immigration procedures, he finished his tea before stepping onto the moving walkway leading towards the arrivals area.

  The space was packed with people awaiting friends and relatives. To one side stood a group of tour guides holding up boards displaying their company or client’s name. Karim unzipped his bag, took out the sign Zulfi had prepared and moved to join them.

  It was another ten minutes before a trickle of people started to come through the exit from the customs control area. Karim suddenly felt apprehensive. What if the man wasn’t on the flight? What if he had been stopped because the passport wasn’t up to scratch? There were so many things that could go wrong. Irrationally he wondered if it was meant to be today or had he got the date mixed up? He took a deep breath and sternly told himself to relax.

  More and more people emerged, pushing what seemed like mountains of luggage on their trolleys. The duty-free shops at Singapore’s Changi airport must have been doing booming business. A harried-looking Pakistani in a western shirt and trousers waited impatiently in front of Karim as his wife struggled with their trolley.

  ‘No sign of my bloody driver.’

  It took Karim a moment to realise the man was addressing him. ‘I’m sure he’s here somewhere, sir.’

  ‘If he’s not then the lazy mongrel will be out on his fat arse.’

  He turned away and snapped something at his wife. She looked exhausted. He turned back to Karim. ‘Some holiday.’ He extended his fingers and shook his hands on either side of his he
ad as if to demonstrate how near to exploding he was.

  Karim was wondering what to say when he felt a touch on his arm and looked around to find a tall man smiling confidently at him. For a second he thought he’d seen the man before. But then he realised he hadn’t. It was just that he bore a remarkable resemblance to the Rashid Khan who had looked back at him from his bedroom mirror in Peshawar.

  ‘Ah, Pureland Tours.’ The man spoke softly. ‘Sorry if I kept you waiting.’

  ‘No, really —’ Karim began, but the man had picked up Karim’s bag and was guiding him out of the throng.

  ‘I do need to keep going. I trust you have my schedule?’ He looked enquiringly at Karim. ‘I’ve got your itinerary here,’ he added and patted his pocket.

  ‘Oh … yes.’ Karim had a split second of panic as he realised that he hadn’t checked his jacket pocket since leaving home. He patted it and gave a sigh of relief. He took the packet out and handed it to the man. ‘Your … er … schedule.’

  The man took the envelope and, after a quick glance at the notes inside, tucked it into his own jacket. Then he took out a slightly bulkier envelope and handed it to Karim. ‘It’s all there. Have a great trip, mate.’ He winked and vanished into the throng.

  Karim was nonplussed. It had all happened so quickly. And so easily.

  Ten minutes later he was in a taxi heading to the Pearl Continental. Considered expensive by Karachi standards, the PC, as it was known locally, was classy and the food had a great reputation. Karim had done a quick calculation in his head and realised that for sixty-six American dollars he could get a better night’s sleep than if he slummed it at the Airport Hotel in Stargate Road where he had always stayed as a student.

  In the back of the taxi he opened the envelope. As the man had said, everything was there: his Australian passport and the return ticket to Australia via Singapore. He flipped the ticket open and checked the flight times. Everything was in order. He slipped it into his pocket and turned his attention to the passport. Tucked between the pages was a small amount of Australian currency: eight twenty-dollar and two ten-dollar notes. Karim transferred them to his wallet. He opened the passport again and examined it carefully. To his considerable relief it appeared genuine. I should have smiled, he chided himself as he examined the photo. His face looked out of the page blank and emotionless. Cold as stone. He thumbed through the passport and noted that Rashid Khan had travelled in and out of Australia several times in the last two years. Twice to Pakistan and once to England. It was a nice touch of authenticity. He made a mental note to memorise the dates and construct a story for each of the trips, not that he expected to be asked. As he ran his fingers over the cover he felt a shudder of pleasure. This was not just a passport to Australia … it was a passport to a new life and a reunion with his father.

  Karim turned his attention back to the envelope. Inside were a few small-denomination coins and a Sydney bus pass. There was also a key attached to a plastic key tag on which was written: 5 Walsh Avenue, Glebe.

  Two days later Rashid Khan checked out of the PC and returned to the airport in plenty of time to catch the flight to Singapore. He went through security and emigration without a hitch and twenty minutes before take-off found himself with a window seat towards the front of economy class. For a few brief moments he entertained the fantasy that he would have an empty seat between him and the Chinese woman on the aisle, but shortly before departure a rather overweight Englishman plumped himself down in the seat with a grunt and introduced himself as Malcolm Sands. He and Karim made polite small talk until take-off, when the man pulled out a paperback and settled in to read. Karim snuck a look at the cover, wondering if it would tell him anything about the man. It didn’t. It was A Place of Execution by someone called Val McDermid.

  After dinner, Karim made an attempt to watch the in-flight movie but soon found himself dozing off. He removed the headphones and, after positioning a cushion, curled up against the window. Despite the discomfort, he was sound asleep within minutes.

  The man was built like a bear; his hands, huge slabs of meat, made the Kalashnikov look like a toy. Karim wondered that the Talib could get such fat fingers through the trigger-guard. The man looked at him with undisguised disgust then shouted, demanding something that, strangely, Karim couldn’t understand. To emphasise his demand the man raised his weapon and poked Karim in the ribs with the muzzle. The sudden pain caused Karim to cry out and instinctively he held up his hands in surrender. To his dismay they were covered in blood. His head swam and waves of nausea swept over him as it dawned on him he had been shot; the blood was not from wounds to his hands but from his stomach and legs. Dizzy and wanting to sit before he collapsed, he looked down at the ground, but all he could see were twisted and broken bodies. The Talib laughed and pushed Karim back into the darkness. The laughter echoed around him and for a long time he plummeted through cold blackness. He knew that this was what death felt like: falling endlessly in the dark. A shooting pain in his gut caused him to double up and he awoke needing to go to the toilet. Beside him the Englishman was snoring gently, his book still in his hands.

  Karim unbuckled his belt and stepped carefully over the man. The Chinese woman looked up at him with eyes wide and nervous. He nodded reassuringly, stepped over her and groggily made his way to the toilet in the middle section of the plane.

  When he returned he realised he must have disturbed Malcolm, for he was awake and ordering a cup of tea from a hostess.

  ‘May I have one as well?’ Karim asked as he slid into his seat and fastened his belt.

  The hostess smiled and said something to the Chinese woman, who shook her head.

  Malcolm stretched and yawned. ‘Bloody dreadful way to spend the night. Hate flying. You?’ He looked at Karim enquiringly.

  ‘I don’t mind it, not that I’ve done a lot.’

  ‘Too much, me. Throws my body clock out of kilter something dreadful. God knows what time it is at home. I lose track.’ He craned his neck and peered blearily down the plane. ‘Bloody sardines. That’s what we are.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Still, I guess it beats walking, huh? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name …’

  ‘Rashid Khan.’

  ‘So, what takes you to Singapore?’

  Karim hesitated, then decided that the sooner he got used to being Rashid the better. ‘On my way home to Sydney.’

  Malcolm smiled. ‘An Aussie, huh? I would never have picked the accent. Always thought I was good with accents. I guessed you might be Anglo-Indian.’

  ‘Anglo-Pakistani. I have family in Peshawar, but I was educated in London.’ Stick to the script, Karim reminded himself. Don’t embellish. Don’t dig holes to fall into. Keep it simple. ‘What about you? Are you going just as far as Singapore?’

  Malcolm nodded. ‘Recruiting. A lot of good young brains in the IT field out there. Better than anything we produce back home. I run the IT side of the Polymer Research Centre at the University of Surrey.’

  ‘In Guildford?’

  ‘You know it?’ Malcolm looked pleased. ‘We do work with British industry to meet the targets for waste management … ‘ He paused and glanced at Karim. ‘Sorry, this is the boring part. Ah, the tea!’

  He took the small tray from the hostess and passed it over to Karim, then took his own and quickly emptied a sachet of sugar into his cup. Noticing that Karim wasn’t using his sugar he gestured towards it. ‘Mind if I have it? Bit of a sweet tooth, I’m afraid. So, you’ve spent time in Guildford?’

  ‘No, not really.’ Karim blew gently on the tea to cool it. ‘I flatted in London with a friend from Surrey. He showed me round a bit, and twice took me to visit his parents in Chobham.’

  Malcolm looked extremely surprised. ‘Chobham? Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, I love these strange moments. Out of left field …’

  ‘Sorry? I’m not sure …’

  ‘Of course not,’ Malcolm laughed. ‘It’s just that in the global scheme of things Chobha
m is a pimple on a pumpkin, but it’s my village. My parents were both born there and I’m the first member of the family to escape. Mind you, I go back whenever duty or father calls. Same thing really.’ He guffawed loudly. ‘Chobham. So tell me, who was your friend?’

  ‘Webfoot Philpot. His real name’s Hugh Philpot but everyone calls him Webby.’

  ‘The Web-Feet from Philpot Lane. Their bloody fields are under water half the time. Father Tim, mother Janice — right?’

  ‘Yes. Amazing.’ It was Karim’s turn to be stunned. Webby Philpot.

  The name stayed with him as he settled back against his seat.

  He remembered Celtic stone and the green of Chobham, an English family dinner. And then, in the railway underpass at Waking that night, the gaunt black wraiths, the words ‘nigger’ and ‘black cunts’. Darkness. And then …

  ‘You smell what I smell?’ The voice was soft and menacing.

  ‘Yes,’ hissed another from the shadows.

  ‘Smells rotten.’

  Webby pushed Karim to one side and turned to confront the men. ‘Look, we’re not bothering you, so leave it, eh?’

  There was a moment’s silence and then the leader of the skinheads stepped forward. He was in his twenties, big boned, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. He made a low whistling noise, sucking air in through clenched teeth as he looked Webby up and down. ‘You know what, lads? If there is one thing that smells more rotten than fucking black cunts, it’s fucking nigger lovers. Am I right, lads?’

  ‘Fuckin’ yeah.’ A scrawny pale-faced boy of eighteen or nineteen stepped in beside the leader. ‘Smells like shit to me.’

  ‘Just drop it, eh.’ Webby turned away, his voice now tinged with fear. ‘Come on, Karim.’

  ‘No,’ Karim said coldly. ‘I don’t think so.’ He stepped up in front of Webby. ‘I wouldn’t call me a nigger, would you, Webby?’

  ‘No … but …’

  ‘It seems to me that if I’m not a nigger then you can’t be a nigger lover, which means these gentlemen owe us both an apology.’