by Haroun Khan
‘There’s a march by that anti-Islam lot outside East London Mosque. They were discussing whether to go to the demo against it.’
‘To start a fight?’
‘No. No. Just to show support for the mosque.’
‘But, if things got out of hand, would they be the type to get involved?’
‘Yes…no…probably, I don’t know. They just get on with their own thing.’
‘Are you sure? Like I say…be truthful and you can leave.’
‘Yes. The only people I know like that are your lot. Those who like getting pissed on Friday nights and then beating the shit out of each other,’ said Shams, in a sudden rush of acrimony.
Theodore looked like a disappointed parent. ‘Now, now, Shams. No need to be rude. A bit more and you can go. You are doing very well.’
Shams thought Marwane and Ishaq probably wouldn’t go, and if they did it would be harmless. They would stay well away from trouble.
‘Well, they know how to look after themselves. Let’s say that. They are estate lads. And they do talk about protecting the community a lot.’
‘Ok, good. Well at least we have their photos,’ said Theodore, as he tapped their pictures with a stern finger. ‘See, we highlight individuals from both sides to the police beforehand. It’s better for them and for everyone. Keeps everyone safe. See, that was easy wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ok, that’s enough for now. Here is my number. It would be in your best interests to use it if you hear anything.’
Theodore shuffled and organised his papers and then knocked on the door for the police attendant.
‘By the way. I’ll be keeping an eye on you. I may call, or bump into you, from time to time. Be a good boy, yes?’ said Theodore, lofting over a casual wink as Shams left.
Shams was quickly processed out. They didn’t ask about the phone. He walked outside; the cool night air brushed against his face, providing relief, but sent shivers down the rest of his body. He noticed that his shirt was impregnated with sweat and his face felt dirty. He saw the figures of Marwane and Ishaq playfully wrestling at the bottom of the steps.
Marwane came up smiling. ‘Well, that was a waste of time. Flippin’ pigs. Got nothing better to do than give us hassle.’
Ishaq gave Shams an odd, disquisitive examination. ‘You look like crap. You get scared? What took you so long, anyway, what did they ask you?’
Shams looked at Ishaq and Marwane. He noticed how unaffected Ishaq looked. How unkempt Marwane’s hair was, how carefree. They were starting to look older. Could these friends really have reported on him? Shams wiped his face with his hands and looked around at the now lightless sky. ‘How did you know I was coming out?’
‘Well we were delayed because custody was busy and there was a wait in the booking queue. That intern wannabe screwed everything for them so they let us go, and they told us you wouldn’t be that long after. What happened with you?’ insisted Ishaq.
Shams stared at these two strangers, these two unfamiliar beings. ‘Nothing brother. They let me off. Exactly the same as you.’
11.
Shams left Mujahid’s flat. Hot coals of rolled fifties, in an envelope, created an obtrusive bulge in his puffer jacket. If he got mugged, would Mujahid believe him? Embarking on his journey, going underground, he looked around with his hand placed over the burden. A woman opposite him shifted in her seat, looking at him with concern as his pincer fingers struggled awkwardly at something within his bulking coat.
Shams arrived at the industrial compound just outside of City Airport in East London. He wandered through a maze of rotting pallets, piled steeple-high and teetering Jenga-like. The sky was overwhelmed by amorphous clouds; Shams strained his eye to see if he could make out any shapes but the patterns always changed as if out of spite. Planes roared continually over the area, flying so low that you could identify the carrier and even their tail numbers. They loomed so large that he lost himself in plumed shadow, feeling that he could reach up and touch one. Mouth slightly agape, he wondered at how they kept aloft in the air. Shams had heard that one had once clipped the top of a local hotel. He couldn’t imagine having responsibility for so many people.
Raising his pace in case a pallet-tower collapsed, he neared an opening. Just before the exit Shams saw a stringy cat cornered by a far larger dog, a mangy German Shepherd that shed fists of blackened hair. Quivering, with no hope of escape, the wan feline arched its back to a distressed breaking point, trying to roll into a furry ball and make itself as unthreatening as possible. The canine, eyes fixated on its prey, approached — stately, imperious, savouring the exalted power it held. Nearly eye to eye it lowered its head and tensed its neck muscles, baring jagged teeth, globs of saliva dripping down the sides of its expectant mouth. Shams was about to move away when the cat, gecko-eyes blood-red in terror, let out a piercing scream and flung a set of claws that ripped at the dog’s head. The shrill pitch of the cat’s howl hurt Shams’ ears. Bloodied, the dog returned a timid welp and ran away in shock. The cat crooked its neck and stared at Shams, who raised his hands in anticipation of it pouncing. But, after one brief look, the cat jumped and vanished into a nest of pallets.
Shams found the work unit as the text on his phone indicated. An abandoned portakabin stood outside, looking quite empty. The metal loading doors of the unit were down. Shams reached and took a tentative tug at the handle but it would not budge. He walked around the side of the building and saw a door. He heard sharp voices from behind it, and the disturbed frequency of a radio blaring out the day’s news.
‘I don’t know what this country is coming to. Some guy shoots some Taliban terrorist and he gets life. Some other guy is a dirty paedo and he’ll probably be out in a few years.’
‘Yea, it’s sick, but to be fair that guy was in custody. In cuffs, they said. On his knees.’
‘I don’t give a fuckin’ shit, you don’t think that raghead wouldn’t have done the same to our lad. We’ll probably get all his relatives coming to Britain claiming benefits and houses, we’re so pathetic. What’s happened to our country?’
As he earwigged, Shams tensed and steeled himself. He knocked twice like it was the beginning of a bad joke. A wiry white guy opened the door. Shams caught sight of a tattoo of St George’s flag within a shield spread over the man’s skinny upper arm. Shams thought the face somehow familiar. The man looked Shams up and down, not impressed, his red-veined countenance showing disgust.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘I’m looking for Charlie.’
‘What the fuck for?’ The man was spitting out his questions, just as he inhaled through his nose and also spat out a green globule of phlegm, that flew and splattered close by Shams’ right boot.
Shams took a slight step back away from the gooey detritus before him. ‘Just some business. He knows.’
The man took another good look at Sham through his spider’s web of a face and slammed the door. Although muffled, Shams could hear him give out a shout. ‘Charlie! Some little fat paki at the door. Say’s he’s got some business with you.’
Whenever the ‘P’ word was used, Shams felt fear, anger and helplessness, a potent cocktail that made him want to lash out. Such a rancid mix of casual racism and violence. The perpetrator hurling it onto innocents, absolving themselves of all responsibility. The onus was suddenly on the receiving person to be a victim and ignore. Or agitate, possibly to the point of violent conflagration, by making sure his honour, and any others the opponent might meet, is upheld. Maybe they wanted an overreaction and ignoring it was indeed the best action. Anyway, every time it happened, a decision had to be made. Be a victim or aggressor, there was no middle way.
The door reopened and a belly came into view that moved as one solid mass, like a ripened jelly. The lump’s adjoining host, presumably the man known as Charlie, came out, looked around and ushered Shams into the portakabin.
Within the cabin, Shams saw signs strewn everywhere. ‘
WE WILL NEVER SURRENDER OUR LAND, OUR ENGLAND’ and ‘STOP FOREIGN OCCUPATION. NO MORE MOSQUES’ and ‘NO TO FASCISTS AND PAEDO RAPISTS IN ENGLAND. SAY NO TO MUSLIMS’.
Shams couldn’t believe that Mujahid had done a deal with this guy. Barely standing near to this obese, sweaty-faced man made Shams’ skin crawl. This was the type that would insult him and his parents when going out, like it was routine. Some filthily cast comment about their skin colour, or going home to their own country. Shams had promised himself that he would never take such humiliation.
He recalled his witty mother feigning incomprehension, pretending not to understand English. He remembered his father acting as if he had not seen or heard a verbal assault, or tirades of insulting invective. They dared not raise their head. Deaf, dumb, blind; rather than their humanity, they embraced disability.
Shams didn’t want to please these guys with his emotion. ‘Nice guys you work with.’
Charlie replied, ‘Who, little Billy? He’s harmless. Fuckin’ idiot. I’m pretty sure that the nurse used forceps on his head when he was born and pulled too bloody hard. So, have you got the fuckin’ cash or wot?’
‘I know you. Why did I need to come all the way out here?’
‘That estate is heaving, if you know what I mean. Nobody gives a shit what happens out here. Why didn’t that black guy come? Too busy banging his head on carpet?’
Shams’ eyes narrowed ‘You’ve got a thing about Muslims, then? What’s with all these signs?’ Shams indicated the placards with a jut of his chin. Shams had seen these placards just the other day on the news. An Islamic group had rented out an amusement park in Windsor near Slough, for a Muslim kids fun day. Britain First had taken umbrage and decided that their Battle of Tours, their titanic Battle of Lepanto, the coming of the apocalypse, was to take place at Legoland.
Ishaq and Marwane had considered making their own signs for a counter-picket. Legoland for Legolanders only. We will never surrender our Lego. Take the Mecca out of Meccano. In the end, the day had to be cancelled due to Neo-Nazi threats. Shams could not understand how the other two could take it so lightly. He had decided if he had seen one kid crying, because of some rancid picket, he would go nuts.
The man’s face took on a sheepish air but then he caught himself and replaced it with defiance. ‘Just freedom of speech. Just expressing a viewpoint. They’re for the march against the mosque expansion. Anyway, I’m not here to chew over this politics shit…so, you just gonna stand there gawpin’? You got something for me or you fuckin’ wastin’ my time?’
Shams felt this man’s eyes laughing at him, as if he was a nobody, an annoyance, a fly to be swatted, or gum on his shoe. Yet, who was he to think this way? An out of shape, ageing nobody, with a crap job and no prospects, surrounded by toadies who would probably turn on him given the right incentive. How dare he think he was superior? He should say or do something? Defend his own…but, if he screwed this up, Mujahid would be furious. Shams put his fingers down into his chest and lifted the envelope from his internal pocket. Eyeing the leery man, he passed it over warily.
‘You should count it.’
‘Don’t worry mate, I will.’ He gave his sausage-shaped fingers a lick and flicked the notes, bludgeoning his way through. ‘Ok, that’s fine.’
‘We done, then?’
‘Of course we’re done, you muppet. What the fuck do you want, a chat and cup of tea? You fuck off now and tell your mate it’s all sorted.’
Shams looked at the thick pieces of plywood attached to the signs. The man saw Shams’ face turn. After a pause, the man smiled and said, ‘Just messin’ with ya kid, no point getting your knickers in a twist. Tell your boy it’s done. I’ll call you when it’s all ready. We cool?’
His teeth clamped shut, Shams affected a reply. ‘Ok, fine. See you next time.’
Shams walked back to the station. His body lighter but mind heavier. This was England. There was no distance, no space in this tarmacked landscape. They had no choice but to interact. But it was like two sticks being rubbed together, waiting, just anticipating some strands of scrapped kindling to catch a cruel blaze. Shams was unsure how this had all gone but the payment was made. He had done his bit and could forget.
12.
Ishaq tripped head first into the flat, mounting an unforeseen jumble of shoes in the hallway. Kicking his trainers off he managed to jump three steps before he heard his mother calling from the living room. ‘Ishaq, come here, son,’ she said, in polite Urdu, ‘we have guests, give salaam.’
Ishaq looked upwards at the landing. The summit was within reach, but he thought of his mother losing face in front of guests. Pivoting one hundred and eighty degrees on a big toe, he took thudding steps down and rambled through the beaded curtain into the living room.
Scanning the scene from left and then right, he saw his mother in one chair, wearing a pristine salwar kameez with a golden-lined dupatta, worn with an ostentatious piety. His father, in another, was holding a saucer precariously between the thumb and finger of one hand, and stabilising a cup on top with the other. On the table there was a pile of crisp and flaky samosas and a few juicy seekh kebabs. A teapot sat there smouldering, giving off smoke signals. Mother’s best china. He’d never been allowed to even touch it. On the three-seater he saw a smartly dressed Pakistani couple, about the same age as his father. Sandwiched between them was a young girl of roughly Ishaq’s age. He knew what this was: an ambush.
His father introduced the family. ‘Son, these are very old friends of ours, the Shaikhs. Uncle Amir and Auntie Ruby. You know, when we first came here in the sixties, they stayed with us in our small, poky flat. Two couples, and lots of friends coming and going. It was difficult in those days.’
Ishaq returned his father’s genteel smile and tried to break the air of formality. ‘Well the poky flat hasn’t changed, has it, Dad?’
Ishaq’s smile was battered down by his father’s admonitory look. Ishaq took the visual chastisement and gave salaam to the guests. He shook the elder man’s hand and slightly bowed his head, so that both the man and woman could touch it. He gave a cursory nod to the girl.
The man asked Ishaq to take a seat. All the settee spaces were taken. Ishaq saw that the only dining chair in the house had been brought to the living room. It was a rickety wooden affair with no padding and a painfully rigid back panel. More of a medieval instrument of torture or a savage cure for scoliosis than a functioning piece of furniture. It was only ever used by Ishaq’s mum to retrieve spices from high cupboards.
Ishaq took the seat, ready for inquisition. He was placed facing the three seats but he made sure that he was near the table. At least he could satisfy himself on those always-delicious appetisers, rather than on the prospect of other-worldly desires.
His father pointed to the other man with an open palm and said, ‘Amir bhai was on the buses like me, but then they moved to Dubai. Alhamdulillah, they have become very successful with import-export.’
Everyone was smiling at this point and Ishaq heard himself say, ‘Mashallah, that’s nice to hear.’ He had heard of a lot of Asians with import-export businesses and was never sure what that actually entailed. He managed to control his urge to ask what they actually imported and exported. He knew that it wasn’t his role to start any conversation of interest.
This Uncle Amir was a very smiley chap, with a happy girth. He wore his brown flannel suit well, along with a white shirt, paisley tie, and a golden tiepin. His chipmunk cheeks inflated and deflated as he gnawed at some samosas, until a paper napkin was forcibly shoved under his eyes. Catching his beloved’s hand, then her stare, he put his plate down, giving a quick lick to his oily fingertips before a grin broke out. Taking the serviette to wipe his hands, he said, ‘Ishaq, you’ve grown up quickly. Last time we were here you were at my knees. Do you remember us?’
‘No, Uncle, I’m sorry, I don’t.’ Ishaq replied politely, while noticing Auntie Ruby wipe a finger across a plate and then inspect it, presumably for dust.
‘Your father tells me that you are a very good student, mashallah. What do you study?’
‘Mostly history, with a bit of political science.’
Before the husband had time to respond, Auntie Ruby leaned forward and said, ‘Oh no. Not proper science or computing…What do you actually study? And what kind of job will you get?’
Ishaq had been through this with elders many times. He found it tiresome and it narked him. Somehow he was a slacker for studying something he was actually interested in, rather than getting a degree that licensed him to print money. His parents had no qualms about his studies. They were just relieved that he had made it. However, whenever they heard a comment like this he could see their concern and doubt.
‘Well, everything after this point is the future. Everything before this point in time is the past. The past is history. That is what we study. Pretty simple.’
The room went silent. He forced a staccato laugh, as appeasement. ‘As for work, well I might study on. Plus, most major companies, including accountants, have training programmes for people from any degree.’
Auntie Ruby looked pleased, tapping her husband on a knee. ‘Oh, so you might become an accountant.’
Ishaq detected a statement rather than a question. ‘No, I think I’d find that too boring. I might do something in the social sector. I’m not sure yet.’
Ishaq’s father abandoned his tea, the glass table top giving sharp reverberations from the strike of bone china. ‘He will probably study on. He is not sure yet. He is young but very responsible. He will do what is best.’
Ishaq wasn’t sure whether this was fatherly support or parental pressure.
Auntie Ruby talked with certainty, like she had it all under control. ‘In Dubai you will have much more than you have now. A house and car. A good area and nice neighbours. Your mother says you are religious. That’s good. You have big Islamic banks in Dubai, you can get a good mortgage and make a good life.’