“I’ve got some shit with me. Me brother got it off some guy who comes in the shop.”
Sam’s brother worked in the local sex shop. She guessed he saw all sorts in there. He held out his hand. Inside was a small, crumpled plastic bag, containing some small blue pills, stamped with the shape of a tiger’s head. She shrugged and took two from the little pile. Her friend grinned.
“Let me know how you get on.”
Chloe thought she’d have a word with Tom afterwards to see if he fancied trying them with her.
A few hours later, with midnight approaching, she found herself trying to climb the narrow staircase. She needed a pee badly. But her legs were struggling to keep her upright. She leant on the wall for a breather, grabbed on tightly to the bannister and tried to stop the world spinning round her. Shit, was it the pills, or the Stella? Something wasn’t agreeing with her.
With an effort of will, Chloe finally managed to navigate her way to the toilet. Trying to find her way back to the top of the staircase, she spotted an open bedroom door. There was no one in the room, but the bed looked inviting. Maybe a little kip would sort her head out. Chloe fell into the room, sprawled onto the bed and passed out.
The next thing she remembered was being woken by something moving around next to her. Her eyes snapped open and she shook her head to clear the fog. For a moment Chloe had forgotten where she was. Then last night flooded back. Oh yeah, the pills, the beer and the party. Then she looked warily down to the bottom of the bed and could make out a cropped head of hair slowly emerging from a pile of crumpled bedclothes.
Oh shit! She searched her mind in vain for any clue as to what had happened after lying down on the bed. But it was just a complete blank. Who the hell was she sharing a bed with? With a mixture of relief and alarm, she made out the familiar features of Tom.
“Hiya.”
Chloe’s voice was a little sheepish. She hoped he could remember what had happened. But if he did, he wasn’t telling. At least he wasn’t letting on today. He smiled weakly at her, hopped out of bed, and swiftly disappeared out of the door.
“I’ll call you later.”
That was his parting shot as he stomped along the corridor to the bathroom.
December 2007 – The Party
Tom was sitting on the bench in the park bandstand, when he got the text from his friend. He replied quickly, then went back to looking at the photos he’d taken from last month’s parade. He was just imagining himself in uniform, when he was startled by a voice close to his ear.
“Have you got the money?”
From the strong whiff of perfume he gathered that his friend had arrived. She meant the money for the party. That was one thing his mother did provide, cash. Well not exactly provide. He’d nicked a tenner from her. It was a regular occurrence, but she didn’t seem to mind or even notice. As long as she had enough for her own fags and booze.
Tom grinned and held up a crumpled bank note like a trophy. His friend explained she knew someone who could get them sorted with beer. So he stretched himself off his seat and joined her in the search for some party fuel. An hour later, he found himself at the scene of the celebration. It was being held a few streets from his own, in a small terraced house.
The Stella was going down like liquid nectar. He’d had five bottles already. Now, he was lying on the cramped living room floor, with his back supported by an old tatty sofa. He supposed the house was a bit of a shit hole, but it was way better than the way his mam usually left his own gaff. Tom closed his eyes and was about to drift off when he felt someone slump down next to him.
“Fancy, one of these?”
Chloe was stretching out a hand in front of her, with two round blue pills in the centre.
“What are they?”
“Dunno. Sam brought them with him.”
Tom gazed across the gloomy expanse of the living room. There was a young couple snogging furiously in the corner. Three girls were making a desultory attempt at dancing on the threadbare carpet.
Then he spotted the boy with the long hair. He was propped up against the doorframe on the opposite wall. Sam was looking at Chloe’s hand and gave Tom a conspiratorial wink. He shrugged, picked up one of the pills and gulped it, washing the small circle down with beer. Then he resumed his prone position on the floor and closed his eyes again.
The next thing he remembered was flinching, as a ray of low, bright winter sunlight played across his eyes. They flickered open. Tom surveyed the scene. He was lying at the foot of the bed in a small back room. The wallpaper was patterned with grimy pink flowers, and was peeling away where it joined the ceiling. There was a sheet draped over the window in lieu of a curtain. It was ripped and the tear was letting in the light that had woken him up.
A crumpled pile of bedclothes was conspiring to push him onto the floor. Tom gave them a casual prod with his knee and elbow to try to get a bit more room. Something stirred, and a groaning sound broke the silence. Shit, Tom thought. What was that? A tousled head emerged, and Tom saw what it was, Chloe. Embarrassed, he grinned sheepishly, slipped out of the bed and made a swift exit from the room.
As he went into the bathroom to relieve himself, he tried to make sense in his mind of what had happened. Chloe was his best mate. Surely, nothing had gone on between them. I mean, that, he was bound to remember. Wasn’t he? He shook his head to try and evaporate the beer mist. As his mind began to clear, Tom had the distinct impression that this situation was going to get awkward.
July 32 A.D. – Galilee – The Vase Story
The small group of walkers were conversing quietly as they approached the barn in the bright summer sunshine. Nearing the building, they could see a hive of activity. Several men were waiting patiently outside, leaning casually on sheaves of wheat. Behind them were two donkeys, one was still loaded down whilst the other had just been unburdened.
Within the barn, in one corner, they could see where wheat sheaves had been spread out on the floor. Donkeys with threshing sledges were being walked all over to separate the stalk from the grain. The farmer was at the back of the shed busily winnowing. He was throwing the grain vigorously up into the air. The light chaff was getting blown away, while the heavier grain fell down to the barn floor.
The teacher bade his men to stay just outside the barn, whilst he went inside. A few minutes later, he returned to them with a group of workers from the farm building. He began to talk, starting with his usual message.
“I am the light from the eternal kingdom. Everything you see was created from the light. If you listen to the message I give you, the light will grow inside all of you.
But if you close your ears, you will be like the woman who walked home from the mill with a jar of grain. The jar had a hole in the bottom, and without the woman noticing, all the grain was spilt on the ground. Truly I say to you, if you listen not to the message I give, the light will spill from you as quickly as the grain from the woman’s jar.”
The crowd listened in silence. The farmer who was one of the older men raised a question.
“But I am already nearing the end of my life. Surely it is too late for me to change myself now?”
The teacher replied.
“If a shepherd has one hundred sheep and loses one of them wandering out amongst the hills. Does he not spend every minute looking for it, and when he finds it, is he not happier to see its face, than all the other ninety nine?”
The man conceded this was true.
“Well, then, I say to you, that greater rejoicing there will be over any sinner who repents and starts to live a good life, than all those who have lived righteously.”
The man bowed his head and became a believer. And he vowed to live his life according to the teacher’s instructions. The preacher was pleased with his afternoon’s work. He gathered his followers around him and set off from the barn, wandering off slowly over the fields.
January 2008 – First Blood
Malik hadn�
��t waited for his eighteenth birthday. His father’s reaction had been enough for him. He had returned to the Mosul Internet cafe on a regular basis. He was a tall boy and intelligent. He could already pass for an eighteen year old. Malik hung around the edges of a group of older boys. Gradually, he’d found himself taken into their confidence. They all knew his brothers had been killed in a demonstration against the hated, US supported regime.
Shortly after he’d reached seventeen, a preacher from a mosque in the city centre came to Malik’s house. The mosque was renowned throughout the city for its radical policies. The man had sought permission from Hakim to speak to his son. And it had been duly granted.
The man from the mosque had heard talk of Malik’s interest in jihad, the Holy War. He didn’t reveal the sources of his information. But he wanted to check out for himself how serious Malik was. He was absolutely serious. His obvious sincerity shone through his answers and he impressed the preacher with his fervent desire for revenge on the invaders of his beloved country.
And so it was that thirty days later, tickets for Islamabad had arrived at Malik’s house. Mosul airport had recently reopened and it was possible to fly to Pakistan via Baghdad, albeit that it would be a difficult and arduous trip.
Malik found himself standing in the entrance hall bidding farewell to his parents. Paula was distraught and she could barely make herself understood through the tears streaming down her face. His mother gave him one last desperate hug, turned and fled back into the living room. Her departure left Hakim standing facing his youngest son. Two packed rucksacks lay waiting on the floor between them.
“Good luck my son. I wish I was younger and could join you in upholding the honour of our family. If I live long enough I will see you return as a hero, inshallah.”
Malik was moved, thinking that he wished his father had been talking to him like this in better times. When they were in the good old days, during the time that Saddam had been in charge. And things had worked. The community was safe, schools and hospitals were open and supplies were plentiful. And when his family was complete, his brothers alive. But thanks to the actions of the Infidel Americans and British those good times had gone for keeps.
Hakim had something in his hand. It was a small leather pouch. Malik presumed that it contained some keepsake photos, or maybe a copy of a Holy text, for him to take with him. But it wasn’t that. His father opened the case and took out a folded piece of paper. He opened it up. The weak sunlight shining through the doorway illuminated the document, revealing its age. Hakim held it up and started to explain.
“I have been working on this for many weeks. It is an old document from the Museum. It dates from the olden times of the Frankish crusaders. It is a message from another age when our beloved country was once before invaded by Unbelievers from the west.
I haven’t the knowledge it would take to translate the European words. But there is a note on the front in old Arabic. It states that this was given to one of Badr al-Din Lu’lu’s commanders by one of the Frankish invaders.
It is supposed to be a description of some old Frankish secret. The court scholars of the Atabeg were of the opinion that it should be taken by any Believer who was to be engaged in hostilities against fighters from England. Nearly a millennium from when it was written, it seems as though you will be engaged in just such a fight. I hoped you would consent to take it. It is all I can think of, that I can do for you.”
Malik was deeply touched by his father’s gesture. But he could think of no words, which would suffice as a reply. The moment was significant enough by itself. Slinging his rucksacks on his back, the young man turned and walked straight out of the door, without even a backward glance. His future lay in front of him. He would become a fighter for his beliefs.
When he’d arrived in Pakistan, Malik had made his way to the FATA region in the north. He’d been given a contact and address of a madrasa in Miram Shah. The FATA, (Federally Administered Tribal Areas) region, had been created by the British a century ago, to provide a buffer between Afghanistan and British India. It consisted of seven tribal regions, Khyber, Kurram, Orakzai, Mohmand, Bajaur and North and South Waziristan. The area was home to more than 4 million local Pashtun tribesmen. And it was a hotbed of jihad militancy.
It was to this remote and inaccessible region that many of the Taliban fighters had fled after the US invasion of Afghanistan that followed 9/11. It was here that the Taliban had established religious schools and military training camps. They were very effective at turning out warriors committed to the jihad. This was where Malik had come to train. And he proved a quick and able learner.
The Taliban instructors were insistent that their recruits should demonstrate they understood their lessons, before embarking on the perilous fighting in Afghanistan. They also wanted to demonstrate who was really in charge of Waziristan.
One particular morning six months after his arrival in Pakistan, a representative from the madrasa had called in on the house that Malik and five of his fellow students from the class shared. The name of the tribesman had been given to the group, along with strict instructions on what to do. The group gathered their Kalashnikovs up and rapidly left the building.
They walked purposefully and quickly through the narrow streets, not glancing to either side. The streets were deserted. The local population knew better than to get in the way of armed Taliban, students or not.
The roads in this area were just dirt tracks, lined on either side by irregular mud brick walls. Overhead, electricity cables were strung out above the walls, periodically crisscrossing the narrow streets. The group turned left up an alleyway. Either side of them were larger compounds, enclosed by five feet walls. At the third house along, the leader of Malik’s group pulled up sharply.
The compound’s wall was punctured with a small, crooked metal gate. The man in front used his shoulder to rudely barge it down. Malik and his comrades swiftly and confidently entered the small dirt courtyard behind. The heaviest set of them moved to the front and with a swift kick knocked the wooden door off its hinges. It was flimsy and offered little resistance. The six entered in single file, the man in front shouting at full volume.
“Keep still! Keep quiet!”
The leader had been told in which room to search, and the others followed. By the time Malik entered the bedroom, a man was standing with a filthy cloth bag over his head. Two of the other jihadis grabbed his hands and pulled them tight behind his back. Malik took the nylon rope that had been draped over his shoulder and secured their captive’s hands in that position. A rifle was placed in the middle of his back and orders barked.
“Quick! Get moving!”
Watched by the shocked members of the man’s family, the group left as quickly as they had arrived. Two blocks away, they found an old, battered, dirty, white Toyota Landcruiser parked at an angle. The keys had been given to them that morning. They bundled the man into the boot and crammed themselves into the vehicle. Within minutes they were speeding away.
Ten miles out of town was a small village. The Landcruiser raced noisily down the hill that led down to a small group of houses and into the front street, trailing a dusty cloud. It came to a sudden halt, skidding sideways across the road. It was still early in the morning, and a few of the locals were already out enjoying the morning sunshine.
The swift arrival of the vehicle was sufficient to clear them away. The six men bounded from the Toyota, Malik pulling their captive with him. Stumbling, he was moved to the front of the car and the back of his legs kicked to force him into a kneeling position. The man, who had led the capture mission, raised his Kalishnikov and fired a volley of shots into the air. He gave a shout, his voice carrying far in the clear air.
“Watch, I implore you! Watch what happens to the enemies of Islam. To anyone who would side with those opposed to the jihad. Those who would harbour treacherous thoughts against the brave and committed defenders of our land.”
With that exu
ltation, he nodded to Malik. The young Iraqi knew what was expected of him. He lowered his weapon and shot their prisoner through the back of the head at point blank range. The man crumpled to the floor. His dead body was lying forlornly on its side. The group turned, climbed back into the Landcruiser, and left as quickly as they had arrived.
It was many hours before the villagers gained enough courage to emerge from their homes and dispose of the body of the dead man. By that time, Malik was already in his first lesson of the day. He hadn’t given the shooting incident a second thought.
May 2008 – Leaving School
After five long years, Tom still felt as though he didn’t belong at school with the others. He stood outside the main entrance door and listened. The sound of freedom crashed through the ether. Never mind that there were exams that still had to be taken. For two hundred sixteen year olds, the school experience was over. A few hours of answering exam questions in front. Thousands of hours of listening to tedious teachers were behind.
Everyone was carried away on a wave of breakup enthusiasm. Someone had plugged their iPhone into a set of speakers. Alice Cooper was screaming ‘Schools Out for Summer!’ It was all very retro.
The young boy was slouching along cocooned in a bubble of despondency. It was his usual school mood. He didn’t have a lot of friends of any sort at school. His only close friend had been Chloe. And now they weren’t on intimate terms. Tom couldn’t speak for Chloe, but after the party last December he had just been too embarrassed to talk to her. And the longer the silence between them had gone on, the harder it seemed to be to break. Or it was for him at least. Chloe had tried to heal the rift on several occasions. But Tom just wasn’t able to open up.
So on Tom’s last day in formal education, his body language was screaming leave me alone, and the message was being listened to. He was left in isolation as he trudged down the school path. He passed through the dilapidated gate for the final time. He wouldn’t be back. He wasn’t bothered about exams. Wouldn’t pass and didn’t care.
The Furness Secret Page 8