by Haroun Khan
Their empty presence meant that in the case of crime there was little hope of restitution. You could resort to paying other, rather more robust, members of the estate to distribute natural justice, but that could always have blowback. It was best to try hard to avoid unnecessary interactions and just keep your head down. As the car slinked off, Ishaq, the only rodent around, spotted a decent sized rock. He put the toe of his right trainer over it, rolling it around to fathom its heft. He looked at the car, at the rock, at the car, savouring the possibility of defiance. But this gave way to a feeling of pettiness. It wasn’t becoming, it was the act of a reactionary, and he could be better than the police. Ishaq gently rolled the rock under a bush at the side of a road.
2.
Shams loved that dank, metallic smell of the underground. The caressing whoosh of air across your face as chained carriages shot by the platform – bullets exiting a gun barrel. Brap, brap, brap. His first experience of the tube had been on a shopping trip with his mum. The clandestine nature of stations far underground was thrilling. A dark parallel world, under London streets. He loved the danger, the violent rush of trains that could take your life in an instant, and the loud tannoy warning to ‘Mind the Gap’. He remembered that he had always been terrified of that pitch-black gap, that one small step between train and platform. Scared of falling into an abyss, scared of the unknown.
Shams rose with the escalators and exited Tooting Broadway station. He stood outside, squinted pupils sipping in the once familiar area, his small but stocky stature lost in the shadow of Edward VII. The regent’s plinth lay adorned with bronze plaques of the female personifications of Peace and Charity. From 1911, this King of the United Kingdom, British Dominions and Emperor of India had stood here, day after day, on his granite stage. As the seasons revolved, through sun and sleet, he looked outwards, surveying his lands and family’s acquisitions, his depilated head decorous with bird poo. Shams wondered why this bloke was looking to the horizon, away from the station, rather than to what was behind, when he just needed to gaze downwards. Under his metal cast feet all of those dominions were now waltzing around him, hurrying to and fro, paying the loveable bearded anachronism no heed.
The station felt comforting. He had spent his early years as a local. As he grew into his early teens and gained the autonomy to explore without his parents’ searching eye, Shams often played truant from school. He ventured with friends, to random tube stops just to see what was out there, the underground map and its rainbow lines a vast landscape of possibility and adventure, new worlds other than the constricted horizons of the council estate: a city of millions; hundreds of square miles of mysterious territory; abandoned docks and stretches of rust-dappled water in the east; Heathrow, dispatching winged emissaries around the Earth, in the west; and, on a map’s blurred edge, pastoral tableaux and verdant fields, in his mind’s internal reckoning.
They used to kick around by asking people for their unused Travelcards and gathering knowledge of which stations were unmanned and un-gated. As more stations started to introduce electronic gates, they crossed rail lines and cut across private property to avoid capture. Modern day mudlarks scavenging for excitement, adept at jumping over barriers or tailgating other passengers before the gates slammed shut. Shams had enjoyed that time with Ishaq and Marwane. Spending hours talking about random subjects: the experiences of their parents and what they would do in the future. He had a big interest in animals and entertained the possibility of working in a zoo or helping to save the giant panda. On occasion, he dragged them out to the more bucolic edges of London to see what the countryside was like. Marwane used to point things out. ‘Ok lads, this thing is a ‘Cow’, say “Mooooo.” These people are ‘good folk’. This air that smells like shit is ‘fresh’.’ When they were about twelve, Shams took them to the Chalk Farm underground stop, because there must be a farm there right? They got there and found it was smack bang in the middle of North London, about as poshly urban and residential as you can get, and in fact also held its own dingy council estates. Ishaq and Marwane took the piss so much that day. They chastised him for being simple. He ran off in tears, promising never to speak to them again. But of course, as always, he returned.
Now, shuffling on Tooting Broadway, his soles scraping as they barely escaped the ground, Shams glimpsed the college that he used to attend. It was wedged above a large Sainsbury’s supermarket in what was called a mixed-use development. Ishaq used to rib Shams about how the grocer’s and school shared the same building, that there was probably a revolving door that churned, thrusting hapless students out into good shelf-stackers. In other places, they would probably have a major bank or an accountants sharing the building; Marwane said that in South London they were just lucky it wasn’t a Maccy D’s or Carphone Warehouse.
Shams hadn’t stayed the course. His attendance hadn’t been great and he was fed up of being upbraided by teachers. He quit. Trying to get work, he sought apprenticeships at mechanic’s and at builder’s but these got filled before he’d even deposited his application form. It really was who you know; his teeth clamped shut every time he found out someone like the son of a contractor’s mate had taken his position. Not even a gofer job, even if he was willing to get paid at a really low rate like some Eastern European Piotr. One day he replied to a nearly hidden ad for sales staff, in the Metro. Getting an interview straight away, he dressed in an aquamarine suit with silver flecks that his mum found in a charity shop. It was nice, a bit oversize, but looked spanking after a brush-down. Mum’s proud face gave him confidence as he went to their office on the edge of an industrial estate. It went well, they complimented him on his wonderful suit even as they saw him struggle with the sleeves flowing over his hands. That same day they told him that he had passed, and as nervous as he had been he was just as excited for Monday.
On his first day, face flushed with nerves, but psyched, he was given a bunch of papers to sign. Halfway through he realised he hadn’t quizzed his new employers on what they sold. Better not to make waves though, this was a fresh chance, an opportunity to impress. Someone had seen his potential.
That done, he was introduced to Clive. Tall, skinny Aussie who looked slick in his three-piece suit, a senior member of the team who he would be shadowing. Fast talker. Too fast for Shams to butt in, Clive gave some patter about the freedom of the job and how it built independence. ‘The sky’s the limit,’ he said. At the end, Shams managed to ask where the shop was and watched as Clive reached under a desk and handed him a polyester duffle full of t-shirts and electronics, an assortment of Chinese phones, GPS, and language translation devices. The tees looked cheap, the tech archaic. It all moved quickly, Shams stayed quiet as the senior proceeded to take him out of the office and into high-street shops. He saw, an impassive external observer, as animated Clive, all flailing tapeworm limbs, pitched their wares to sales staff. About half-way through the day, he just went with it. It was an opportunity. Just go for it. Suck it up. So off he went with this stranger onto the streets of London, suited and booted, selling electronic diaries made in Taiwan and t-shirts made in Bangladesh.
After a few days of this, it was obvious to Shams that the whole thing was an elaborate setup with a blurred legality. The business worked as a pyramid, so if you hired any of your friends or others then you gained a percentage of their sales. The ghost ship of an office was laid out with empty desks and chairs, and business dress codes were enforced in maintaining the pretence. Fiery, motivational speeches were given every morning. Then again at the evening count up. The lead salesperson, an American, would give a pep-talk citing how much they had earned. Shams never used the word but it popped into his head that this was a real live ‘Yankee’. A cowboy. A proper bullshitter.
Lead man tried to instil his sales technique into everyone, reinforcing the same points again and again.
1) Maintain firm and friendly ‘Eye Contact’ with the customer. It builds trust and gives you their attention. Build that confidence. Build
that rapport.
2) ‘People are Sheep’ – Try and drop into your spiel how their neighbour has bought a load and see if they follow.
3) ‘Fear of Loss’ – Invoke the fear of missing out. FOMO, my friends, FOMO. Talk about how scarce the products are, how you’ll only be in the neighbourhood today. Let the buyer handle the item. Then once you see they are interested, tear it, no, rip it out of their hands. Mention that the discount is a one time deal or gone forever. It all helps to nudge the customer along.
4) And finally ‘Hit Rate’. You need to hustle. To see as many people as possible to maximise your chances. There’s a sucker born every day. You only need one.
With revelatory astonishment, Shams found this actually worked and he enjoyed it. He would practice facial gestures in the mirror before work. He took pleasure in polishing his sales patter, and relished the feeling of holding someone under your sway, the feeling that you could nudge them one way then the other like a hypnotist’s pendulum. And he was travelling all over London on the tube, finding greenfield areas to sell his wares. It was like being paid to indulge his childhood.
He wasn’t scrubbing around, had some decent cash in his pocket, bills he could feel in his hand, but sometimes the doubts gnawed. The inclination that they were skirting the law and teetering on society’s edge. For so-called independent traders they were told what to do a lot. You could only go to shops. You could never knock on residences. You couldn’t tell friends.
He managed to get a copy of the form he had signed and it was all complicated verbiage. He thought about the unctuous nature and credulity of the senior salesmen; individuals who had bought their own snake oil, taken a resolute gulp and blissfully slathered the rest all over their greasy bodies. The whole thing was iffy. Why didn’t they just say what they were, just upmarket vagrant hawkers. The company had a couple of hundred pounding the streets every day, so the barons at the top earned well. The chief constantly harped on about the Corvette that he had bought; no one had the heart to tell him that here we thought American cars were shit.
The leader regularly took Shams and a few other high earners out to lunch. He would tell them they were the chosen few, waxing on about how he had skipped uni for this business and that it was the best decision he had ever made; that there was no need for a degree when there was so much money to be made. Behind women’s backs, he would also regale them with stories about how much sex he was getting because he earned so much. Tongue licking the constant enunciation of ‘shagging’, his American twang enjoying the novelty of the word and thinking it showed how down he was with the locals. Shams didn’t believe the chatter but enjoyed the attention and couldn’t help admire the American’s manic energy, his complete lack of shame. It was novel. One co-worker, a concerned Nigerian girl, who was most definitely going to university to become a lawyer, always told Shams not to believe the man’s hype. Just nod, earn some cash and get out.
The mornings before everyone went out with their lumpen duffle bags were fun. Energised voices reigned loud as people practiced their pitches. The smiling American, or ‘septic tank’, as some would have it, would get people to shout out his sales mantras, geeing them up for the day ahead. Shams caught him ditching that greasepaint smile behind the backs of some beggars whose recital wasn’t up to his theatrical standards. Shams met a lot of new people. He enjoyed looking around his group. Aussies on their travels, immigrants from around Europe, loads of Irish and Saffers, students, even some single mothers who he did feel sorry for. This was a beginning for him, a means to an end, not a final destination.
Then, one day, it all came to a crashing halt. The day started bright. In fact by 11am he had achieved his best sales tally ever. He had sold his whole bag of goods to one guy. While pitching at a mechanic’s an onlooker was having his car serviced. He had taken one look at Shams and his bag and called a mate, who he said would be interested. That mate gleefully bought everything, even the bag. Shams went back, proudly boasting of how good his spiel had become. He had even sold the bloody duffle bag, over 300 quids worth. He finally had the honour of ringing the golden bronze hand bell. As he had actually sold three times the qualifying amount, he revelled in ringing the bell multiple times, tenor and peals imparting his glad tidings. He was all smiles, cheeks rosy like an angelic choirboy, as his colleagues gave him high fives, just like they had been drilled to. He relished their envious faces as they offered begrudging handshakes and covetous ovation. His team leader was colder, more sceptical as Shams handed her the guy’s payment. She eyed the paper cheque and gave Shams a strange look. In her Afrikaner accent and with slitted eyes she said, ‘You sold the bag…and they gave you this?’
‘Well they needed something to carry everything, and I got a good extra price for the bag. They gave me the cheque for everything. What a bonus, right?’
As a child of the digital age, Shams had never seen a cheque before. He didn’t realise that you needed a card to guarantee it and a few days later it promptly bounced. He had been had and defrauded. A street kid himself, he had not even been duped by a sophisticated trick. He was just a credulous fool. But that’s life, shit happens. He went for the next day’s pick-up and sensed people stealing quick looks, conversations dampening as he walked by. He was greeted with grim-faced aggression by his team leader, and managers further up. They brought out his forms, forced him to recognize the shaky scrawl of his signature. They told that him that it was a disclaimer and he had agreed that he was a separate entity. In effect he was acting as his own company and was liable for the cash. After an argument Shams got out, limbs shaking. They threatened legal action, started calling him constantly on his mobile and at his mum’s place. His mum was already weak at the time and he made up excuses to keep her happy. The job wasn’t right. He was moving onto other things. It was all a misunderstanding. Shams was too ashamed to tell Marwane or Ishaq about the hawking and what had happened. Would the hawkers now call the police, or take him to court? Everything about them was dodgy. Would they dare? A couple of weeks later, the haranguing calls stopped for good but left him with an elemental fear.
So once again he was on the look out for a job, and after finishing his brisk walk from the station he was standing outside the bright red door of this 10th floor flat. He stared at the chipped entryway and took in a sedating breath. He could see his reflection in a circular portal at the top that was turning to a silver silk with his breath, and shepherded back a few wayward strands of matt black hair. He took a look back at the landscape that he had sped through, hoping no eyes had stalked him and only saw tower blocks of caried teeth in a consuming black maw. He did a flight check of his jeans to make sure his fly was done up. This was a regular problem, forgetting, sometimes only to be informed by the abashed look of a shop assistant. He moved through life with an uncertain feeling that his privates were undone for all to see. Ready, Shams pressed the doorbell. He heard a muted chime go off within the flat to the tune of Greensleeves. He had a vague recognition of the melody from his childhood but struggled to place it. After waiting a while, he pressed the bell again. Still no response. Shams’ feet started to scrape and shuffle. He swore that Mujahid had said midnight sharp.
Shams tried the ringer once more. On this third time he used a clenched fist to pound the door. No messing around, even if it was Mujahid. Impatient, he looked around in case of any other doors peeking, then he looked at the letterbox, lifted the cover and bent over, peeping through the opening. He heard some heavy steps on the stairs, lethargic thuds, and dropped the cover, quickly straightening himself.
‘Who is it?’ Shams heard Mujahid say in muffled bass from behind the door.
‘It’s Shams. You said to meet you tonight.’
Wiping his bleary eyes with a shirtsleeve, Mujahid poked the door ajar and took a peek at Shams in his puffer jacket and a strange cap. Satisfied, he opened a gap just about large enough for Shams’ wide frame.
While nodding, Mujahid said, ‘Ok, ok, Assalamu alaikum, bro, you wa
nt to calm down with the knockin’. I was getting out of bed. No rush.’
‘Wa alaikum salaam. I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if you were about.’
‘I heard the letter box. You weren’t about to try and snoop, were ya? In Islam, a man’s privacy is serious business.’
Mujahid yawned, his mouth creating a cavernous opening before he remembered to cover it with a hand, and then continued with baffled speech after it passed.
‘You know in the Sharia I would be allowed to poke your eye with a stick through that letterbox. Blind you if I need. A house is a man’s castle.’ Mujahid took a look past Shams left and right on the landing and beckoned him in with a firm grasp on the shoulder which made Shams shift under the nettling touch.
Shams walked in and heard the door shut and the lock click into place. ‘No, I was knocking. I wouldn’t peek. You know me. Anyway bro, what’s with the ice cream van music?’
‘That thing? The doorbell’s from ages back. Just never got round to changing it. So you stayin’ cool? What you been up to?’ said Mujahid
‘Just, you know, mixin’ it up. Trying to keep my head above water. You see that police sign down the road. Some stabbing?’
On the way to the flat, Shams had seen one of the police’s yellow signs appealing for witnesses. If anything had gone down Mujahid would have a sniff of what happened. He was known for patrolling the estate dishing out his version of justice. A righteous enforcer, both judge and jury. Someone you could go to if you had problems from less salubrious residents. Mujahid had recently been given a warning about harassing a Lebanese Muslim shopkeeper, sinful parasite who sold cheap alcohol to the local community without care. No one was sure what Mujahid actually did for a living. There were rumours. He gave out odd jobs. Ishaq and Marwane warned against him, but Shams reminded them how they always said you should think the best about your brother, and how they shouldn’t indulge in unsubstantiated whispers as this was a form of back-biting – ghibah, a major sin.