The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  Shams broke out of his stupor at this last question. ‘Obviously a lot better than you, that’s why you’re doing this job.’

  The duty officer looked at him and smirked, shaking his head as he went on to explain the circumstances of his arrest.

  ‘Do you understand why you have been arrested?’

  ‘Yes, for walking down the street like a normal person…’

  Another admonishing shake. Another patronly smile. Shams’ phones were seized and placed in plastic evidence bags that were then sealed. His rights and entitlements were explained. When asked if he wanted to call someone, Shams felt a slight shiver and declined, but heard himself hoarsely accept when he was offered the advice of a solicitor.

  The police searched him again and made him take his shoes off. Shams made an affected show of struggling as they held his hand on a glass screen to take his fingerprints. He watched as one-by-one they came up on the computer screen. Ridged contours and swirls forming in a way that was unique to him as an individual. He wondered how far down those impressions went before everyone was the same again. Not satisfied with what they had taken from the outer, they took a buccal swab to Shams’ cheek and snatched a piece of him forever. DNA for the national database.

  Shams was taken to a cell and heard the door shut with a sharp click. He sat on a padded bench with his back to the wall and pulled up his knees, curling into himself. A man shouted from one of the other cells, carrying brutality down the corridors, ‘Fuckin’ pigs. Why don’t you just kill me? I swear I’m going to shit myself and shove it all over these stinkin’ walls.’ Shams heard an officer shouting back. Then the sound of flailing limbs. Then nothing.

  He waited. For a long time he thought. Then a knock on his door and a guard said to him, ‘They want you. Get up.’

  ‘Has my solicitor arrived?’ The guard stayed silent, cuffed him and led him away, physically manipulating him when he needed to turn a corner in what was a labyrinth of corridors.

  Shams was escorted into a bare and narrow room where he was uncuffed. It held nothing more than a table and two chairs. The guard motioned to him to take a seat. Shams sat; he had expected something like a one-way mirror but this enclosure was spartan. The only indication that the room was different was a CCTV camera in the corner. It did not move and bore no active light, but Shams thought someone must be watching him and he guessed that they could listen as well.

  There was no clock and no window. He was not sure if twenty minutes passed or two hours. As he sat, he sometimes exchanged looks with the taciturn guard. Shams started to make a rhythmic rap of his knuckles, on the table, that faltered under a stymied stare. Shams asked, ‘What’s taking so long? Why bring me in if no one is coming?’

  The guard, expressionless, said, ‘Don’t worry, someone will come for you.’

  Shams tapped his toe on the floor, ignoring the guard. Were they looking for something to jail him on? Was his lawyer here? Was this a good sign or a bad sign? Was the guard a bit dim? He rested his forehead on the table but, as soon as he did this, he sprung up as a new man entered. Not in a police uniform but in a navy blue suit that was smartly cut, in an expensive cloth, with a crisp, white shirt and a striking blood-red tie.

  He took the chair opposite, settling himself and a few folders on the table, as Shams studied him. ‘Shamsuddin Haque? Mr Haque. My name is Theodore and I’m with the Security Service, also known as MI5. Do you know what we do?’

  Shams sat upright as if a rod had been inserted into his spine, ‘Uh…what’s this about?’

  Striking, athletically built and straight-backed, Theodore looked like what Shams envisioned a spy should be. Shams noted his silver cufflinks, a sure sign of sophistication. Theodore continued; his tone was light, airy, yet economical and straight to the point.

  ‘You’re someone we’ve been keeping an eye on. You have been keeping, shall we say, ‘interesting’ company recently and we would just like to have a chat. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious.’

  Shams immediately thought of Mujahid and couldn’t help a concern wash over him. Could this guy tell? ‘I don’t know nothing about anybody’s business.’

  ‘Well…we think you do, or at least you have some basic information that could help us,’ said Theodore, fingers meeting and arched as if in pious contemplation.

  ‘Like what?’

  Theodore kept up a fixed stare. ‘That’s a nice beard you have there. Tell me, Mr Haque, would you call yourself a devout Muslim?’

  ‘Yes…no…yea…depends what you mean? What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Just getting to know you. Do you pray five times a day, for example? Do you regularly attend a mosque?’

  ‘Yes… of course I do…I go to just the local ones…I don’t understand why you’re asking this. It’s got nothing to do with nothing.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I just want to get to know you. Nothing sinister,’ Theodore said, as he affected an oversized smile.

  ‘If you’re MI5 then you would know me already, right?’

  Theodore laughed, to reveal two tracks of browned and rotting teeth which veered off in unpredictable ways. Whenever he smiled, or laughed, his teeth made him look carnivorous, as if he had been gnawing on bloodied meat.

  ‘Well Mr Haque, we’re not the Gestapo. We do have our limitations. Are you part of any political organisations?’

  ‘No…nothing.’

  ‘Ok, ok. Out of interest what are your views on the British Army abroad?’

  ‘I have no views.’ Shams failed to control his lower lip from flapping like a bird’s broken wing.

  ‘Come now, I find that hard to believe. You must have views on our best lads going abroad, defending our country, no?’

  Shams bit down on his lip and tasted some of his own blood as it oozed, the pain giving him focus. ‘Like I said, I have no views.’

  Theodore nodded, opened a brown foolscap folder, took out a wad of papers, flicking through a set. ‘You don’t work – or at least don’t do any work that contributes to the tax system. Signing on too, I see.’ Theodore looked up.

  ‘No. I’m not signing on, that’s a mistake.’

  Theodore looked again. ‘I stand corrected. Not signing on. That’s a surprise. Anyway, the other two lads who were brought in with you are doing well. Studying. Have good prospects. You’re a bit of the odd one out, aren’t you? Must be difficult to be left behind.’

  Shams gave a contemptuous sniff, anger darting over his face; he was sure it had betrayed him before he reined it in. ‘I’ve known these guys since we were kids. No one ain’t leaving anyone behind. They’re my best friends.’

  ‘Ok, fair enough. But we have been told that you, yourself, do hang out with extremist groups. You have been seen at gatherings with the Caliphate mob. Do these childhood friends of yours know that?’

  Shams pursed his lips. A man like this could know things, or was it another fishing expedition? Either way, he should get to the point as he was getting amped. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Well you were at a rally supporting the veil? Funny, since your sister doesn’t even cover her head. Another one, by the way, who is doing a lot better than you.’

  Theodore took out some photographs and handed them to Shams. They were shots of him at rallies. Captured so close that you could make out where he shaved his cheeks to keep his beard trim and well groomed.

  As if he were reading Shams’ thoughts Theodore said, ‘It says in your Koran, about Allah and the believers, “We are closer to him than his jugular vein.” Now, Mr Haque, although we aren’t God we’re the nearest thing available in this country.’ Theodore smiled, smug and self-satisfied at his flourish.

  Shams looked at Theodore, needled at this brandishing of God’s word in frivolity, as something to bait him with. He hated the sneering as the man made an elaborate intonation of the name Allah. And in his hate, Shams lost some fear.

  Theodore seemed to see something shift in Shams, some discomfort. ‘Oops, that wa
s sacrilegious wasn’t it? Never mind, it really would be in your best interest to be helpful and truthful. Theres not much we can’t dig out, eventually.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t support the veil. I don’t care one way or the other.’

  ‘So why were you there?’

  ‘Well, just because people like you are against it.’

  Theodore looked to be taken aback by the answer, eyes narrowing, and took to flicking through his foolscap for more.

  ‘And the other demos?’

  ‘Well…I just have friends who go.’

  ‘Ah, another set of friends. You’re a very friendly person, Shams. Very friendly. I can call you Shams, can’t I? That’s why we’re interested in you. These other friends, they are the types of people who picket dead soldiers. Why do you go? Just to cause unrest?’

  Shams had never gone to one of those death pickets. If Ishaq and Marwane were to find out they would be furious. He couldn’t deny a light thrill when he heard of British soldiers dying, but he dared not speak of it. He felt both delight and shame to the point that it confused him. Delight in an act of revenge, however small. Something that was absolutely nothing compared to what these soldiers and their governments had done. Ashamed because it was a human life, after all, he felt diminished by this instinctual reaction. It was his dirty secret. One time he had skirted around mentioning the subject to Ishaq, but received such a lecture. Ishaq said he could understand the anger, but how wholly unacceptable it was to feel that way. Everything was this way with Ishaq nowadays.

  ‘I don’t get involved with that stuff. Listen, I want a lawyer.’

  ‘Relax, this is just a friendly chat,’ said Theodore, with a Chehire Cat grin. ‘We can get lawyers involved but it will become a lot worse for you. Now, do you know how reprehensible, how offensive, these types of demos are to normal British people? These brave men fight for all of us, including you.’

  Shams’ ears caught the word ‘offensive’ and rolled it around in his head, groping and poking at it. This man didn’t know that meaning of what real offence was. The world was just a game of Cowboys and Indians for them. These people who liked to remember their dead but not those they killed.

  ‘Not against the law are they though, and like I said, I don’t go.’

  ‘But you hang around people who do go. You boys honour terrorists and killers.’

  ‘I’ve done no such thing. I would never call for the death of civilians…’

  ‘But soldiers?’ interrupted Theodore.

  Shams was puffing, his nerves threatening to overwhelm him. However advanced society was, he knew the world was like the street. You could still batter, bully, and kill your way to legitimacy. Games and films all lauded the violent man taking charge of his destiny and rising above. Like all mythology, they were stories of the unreal that allowed escape from the petty vicissitudes of the mundane. Open shows-of-strength were seen as honest, concealed-thought seen as cowardly. Right and wrong was just an application of power. The power to say: this was a justified murder, and this was not. People would always gravitate to those of influence; in their fear and desire they would compromise their senses and morals when it came to the most lauded and successful. Might was always right. These people said they wanted capitalism, and a free market for all, yet they treasured a monopoly on violence.

  ‘I’ll always support people protecting their home from invasion. You call some poor villager who’s never heard of the Houses of Parliament, or the Eiffel Tower or whatever, and who’s defending his country…you call him a killer? Soldiers here have armies…and history, and structures…and lines of command…all of that hides them from their real actions…you make it like they’re not killing, they’re ‘serving’, like they’re not ‘responsible’when they’re always the ones bossing-in other people’s countries. I do nothing against the law. I’ve n-never h-hurt n-obody.’ He finished his outburst, his insides spasmed and convulsed, lips and tongue trying to draw strength from the air.

  Theodore concentrated elsewhere, a finger giving an idle flick to some pieces of lint . One silver piece of fuzz on his suit, and then another, while he waited for Shams to finish. ‘True, not against the law, but not exactly conducive to society. We are this thing called a democracy. You can write to your MP or vote.’

  ‘I’m peaceful, I’ve done nothing…nothing against the law.’ Shams looked upward at the camera, both hands gripping the table.

  ‘Not yet you haven’t, but you hang around people who do. Do you think those people care that you’re here, alone, and by yourself? We can get them on something else and throw the book against them. Just like we could do with this stolen phone. Alternatively, a lot of the policemen here or in the prison service are ex-squaddies; I could just let them know of your views and leave a door open some day. What do you think to that?’

  Shams looked straight at the door, expecting it burst open at any moment. He must have heard of a dozen or more deaths in custody. Whispers dancing around the estate about someone’s cousin from an estate in North London or somewhere else. Always a brown or black man. Always someone poor, or without big-time family and friends. Someone who wouldn’t be missed or made a fuss about. Someone like him. And he couldn’t think of even one copper going to jail over it.

  He looked around the confined room and saw it warp and buckle as it constricted his chest, and he struggled to take in breath. He looked at Theodore through a strobing effect, his stuttered view making him nauseous.

  Slowly in a whisper, he forced out, ‘Please…I just want to go home.’

  ‘Look Shams, we have enough on you. If you don’t help us then you will be considered a terror suspect under Schedule 7. We can initially hold you for up to nine hours, and then if we’re not happy…well, after that, anything is possible.’

  Spasms of fear rushed over him. Coming in he had felt weak and scared but, as that subsided, he now felt angry and forceful, wanting to strike the man in front of him. Shifting between the two left him confused.

  Theodore pulled out more photographs. This time they showed brothers from the circle exiting the flat: Ishaq and Marwane coupled in laughter; lots of shots of Ayub, and even of that white guy he saw him chatting to; close-ups taken with a tele-photo lens, but at an angle from a concealed vantage point. They had probably been through his bin bags, too. Like unhinged paparazzi, snipping away slices of your life, except where the celebrities got cash, and fame, he was being threatened.

  Theodore continued, his voice calm and mellifluous like an avuncular Sunday school teacher, ‘But if you help, home you will go. I just need to know a bit more about the other two with you? What groups are they involved with? Anything you know of, other than this gathering?’

  ‘The other two are just friends…’

  Theodore paused offering nothing back.

  Shams looked at him and felt the silence. The room’s darkness flooded his eyes. One hand palpated the other arm. He remembered an old bible story from his C of E middle school. Samson and the Philistines. He always daydreamed about wiping the smile off someone like Theodore, bullies and wrongdoers, by bringing the whole stinking edifice down around them all. A righteous reckoning. But for now he needed to fill the void in another way. ‘They all attend this circle. This talk that’s done weekly at that flat, but nothing dodgy goes on. Just talk, nothing more. Believe me.’

  Theodore nodded slightly. ‘Good, good, we’re getting somewhere. See, it’s just little things like that that we are looking for. Harmless isn’t it?’ Theodore pointed at Ayub and Adam. ‘So what do you know of those two? What do they talk about?’

  ‘I don’t know the white one. Ayub normally gives the talks. He’s a good man. A peaceful and religious man.’

  ‘And are the other two active in the community?’

  ‘Not especially. I know my rights, you’re not allowed to ask me about anyone else? Shouldn’t you just be asking about me?’

  Theodore pushed back his chair and swung one of his legs onto the other,
tapping the toe of his top brogue against the steel leg of the table.

  ‘You have quite the sense of humour. What rights? You’re quick to talk about rights and at the same time try to undermine those rights. You’re lucky that this is a country that has rule of law.’

  ‘I know my rights…’ insisted Shams.

  Theodore stopped tapping. ‘Go on then. What are your rights?’

  Shams was silent. Talking about terror, it was terror that possessed his body. His mouth dried and held a bitter taste. He looked at the door hoping that it would open with help, but it stood there entrenched.

  Theodore broke into another delicate laugh. ‘Listen, I’ve been doing you a favour. Going softly-softly like a friend, but if you can’t help us that may need to change. Now don’t panic, this is friendly advice. We are not charging you with anything but you do need to give us a bite. No one will know. Give us something and you’re free to go right now.’

  ‘I can go?’

  ‘If you actually have some info for us. Plus you should probably think about why you’re in here with me, while those two have already been let out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say that individuals with your profile can be a worry, and concerned friends can sometimes be a source for mentioning such individuals.’

  ‘What are you sayin’…they reported me?’

  ‘Like I said, we can’t discuss sources but you do need to have a think about where people’s loyalties lie. I want to help you. I can see that you’re not a bad lad. Not in too deep. Just confused. We get loads of people through here but we don’t offer them such an easy way out. If others have given us harmless bits of info and got on with their life, why can’t you?’

  Shams was positive that Ishaq and Marwane wouldn’t have reported him. But when he told them about Mujahid, they did ask a lot of questions. They were always concerned about who he hung out with. He looked at Theodore anticipating an answer, and thought that all he needed to do was give him something. Anything. Even if it wasn’t true. Just to keep him off his back.