The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  ‘He told you? No matter. He’s doing work for me. I take care of him. He’s more my younger, more my type of people, than you are. You know that the Prophet, peace be upon him, said that only a minority will be on the right path. Shams is like me, struggling to find the right path. You don’t see that. You look at him but don’t see him.’

  Ishaq listened-out for any others around.. Once something was outside, it was earwig central. Any drama providing easy entertainment. Loves, fights, domestics, deals, hustling, all human life could be assayed on the balcony. Naked souls, people who were stripped and truly revealed, without the common places to hide.

  He could see why Shams had bonded with this guy. People love glorying in the ascension of struggle and significance of victimhood. Especially if that’s all they’ve got. You still need to take a step back and look at what is right and what is wrong. Sometimes there is no meaning, no abstruse message. Life is just graft and shovelling shit, and you cope as best you can. Ishaq saw Mujahid bring his spliff to his lips. It looked like a burning tumour eating away at his face.

  ‘Shams is a good kid. He’s easily influenced. Don’t let him get into trouble, yea?’

  Mujahid put out his fat joint and stuffed it into an inside pocket of his army surplus jacket. He craned over at an angle into Ishaq’s face. Threads of saffron spread through to the stalks of his eyes. ‘Awww, Issy is just upset at having a fine one just drop into his lap like that, is he?’

  ‘Yea, she was a good looking girl, but it’s not that.’ Returning Mujahid’s look, Ishaq laughed. He was actually making him feel better. ‘Ok, so you want a proper explanation? I’ll give it to you as long as you promise not to get offended, whatever I say. Ok?’

  ‘Ok…’ Mujahid had seen this kid running about for the best part of fifteen years, and other than a short period of salaams, the most they’d exchanged was ‘hello’, ‘alright’, ‘night’, ‘laters’ and, as the kid had grown, ‘I wish you’d stop smoking weed around the kids on the estate’ and ‘Fuck off man, don’t you dares tell me what to do’.

  Ishaq outlined the Field Negro and House Negro conversation. He explained it, being careful around the N-word, gauging Mujahid’s response, hoping that the much bigger man didn’t punch him in the face. After Ishaq finished, Mujahid retrieved his joint, lit it using a match that he struck on the sandpaper surface of the railing. He took in a massive draw.

  ‘So you pakis are nicking our words now?’ Mujahid stressed the word ‘paki’ as if he were trying on a new coat, feeling how it draped over his shoulders and fell in a clean line around his body. ‘Only joking, we brothers ain’t we?’

  Ishaq normally felt the violence of the p-word but coming from Mujahid he wasn’t bothered a bit. ‘Well, the guy who came up with that allegory was a mainstream Muslim in the end.’

  ‘I know who it was, you fool. I’m not a fucking moron, whatever everybody in this block thinks. I read…like you…”Allegory”…’ Mujahid lips curled, as if tasting something sour. ‘Tell me, what you up to nowadays?’

  Ishaq could see him mulling it all over. Like an autodidact, Mujahid could come up with some sense, use wise words. Arguments that were completely factual, but then he would go on to make random connections with no thorough reason or arrangement. Overeaching. People like him lived life on wits not structure, an inherent instability that shredded at their nerves, making them fragile and volatile. Ishaq took his parent’s example that, though lots of people could say perceptive things, the ultimate calculus of their soul was how they lived, and their works; their ability to endure and take responsibility, their capacity to build a dignified life however small, and their self-control.

  ‘Uni.’

  ‘A proper one or one of those ones full of immigrants.’

  ‘ It’s one of the decent ones, not a visa factory.’

  He could see Mujhaid checking him out then viewing the estate. He noticed a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead that glinted in the light. He wondered what he saw. His domain? A place where he was immune from the judgement of outsiders, or was it another prison. When Mujahid starting speaking again, it was different, it sounded humble.

  ‘You think you know it all but you haven’t a clue. A boy with boy thoughts. You know, I see you going round doing your business as if you’re floating above the estate. You, and your mates, like that Arab one. Something about you guys…it’s like you’ve checked into a hotel and anytime soon you’ll be checking out.’

  Ishaq kissed his teeth. ‘Mujahid, that’s bollocks. I know what I’m about.’

  Mujahid lightly wiped his forehead, his tongue briefly coming out to wet his lips. ‘I don’t mean that in a a bad way. I know you guys think I’m some kind of waster but let me tell you, I’ve lived a life, man. You’ve lived one small one. And I’m telling you that whatever I did, or wherever I went, I never really left this place. Seen too much, did too much. Too much of a rebel soul, don’t no man or woman telling me what to do or when to do it. Whether it’s sense or not, I was never no monkey and anyway there’s no drumbeat big enough to make me dance like one.

  ‘You guys ain’t leaving either. Maybe, if you were like those Sri Lankans on the corner who only let their kids go out to school and come home, you could, but you lot have been running around since you were kids. Poking your eyes and noses in places where you shouldn’t have. Difference is, you are smart and got some options. You got given good family. Just like that girl. Some rich family come and offer you their hot daughter, and you’ll be all set up. Out of here. And you turned it down. You must be crook’d in the head, bruv.’

  Ishaq examined Mujahid’s scarlet eyes and realised that it wasn’t the ganja but that Mujahid had been crying. He felt a twitch of pity but put it away, he knew how Mujahid would take it. As condescension, being patronised. Mujahid was still the type of person who saw empathy as a weakness or a subterfuge.

  The walls of towers bore witness around them, mute and firm. In the washed-up light it was only when you got up close you realised how stained and pitted they were. Mujahid’s large frame relaxed. Ishaq saw the man. Mujahid surveyed out over the balcony, looking like he would test the estate with a shout. To see if it would echo his words around the rock and gravel. But words poured out as fine grain.

  ‘But I know what you feelin’. You don’t want to be pushed. Whenever I got pushed, I pushed back and harder. With my parents, then school, then any job. I wasn’t takin’ shit from nobody. I’m my own man. I couldn’t see the good if there was any. Now I’ve got three baby mamas in three different places. I do a bunch of shitty jobs whenever I can get them, and hustle on the side so that I can give them some cash and hope they hate me a bit less. I do the best for my kids and hope they grow up better than me. And, trust me, bruv, I will be there for them. So what I’m saying is, be thankful for what you can and could do. And whatever brave shit every man come up with…actually if I could go back and tell my young self anything, it’s that over a life, face up, sometimes it’s better to be a House Nigger than a Field Nigger, any day.’

  Ishaq stood there static, feet nailed, knees locked. Three doors down, he heard a shout coming from Mujahid’s flat. Ishaq realised that for all the years Mujahid had been around here, he had no idea what was behind that blue door.

  A female voice screamed ‘Michael! Get back in here right now and sort your dumb kid out before you go again.’

  13.

  A male voice screamed in the night, caroming round the portakabin. A solitary din, that even the odd flight arcing above could not penetrate. The windows fogged up with perspiration, blocking vision, reminding Shams of his isolation.

  Charlie looked him up and down once. Then again. ‘I ain’t fuckin’ stupid, I heard you got picked-up the other night. You’ve got some heat on ya, haven’t ya?’

  Hands up, palms presented forward, Shams said, ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I’ve still got friends round your ways. You got stopped in the middle of the High Street, no? Your fac
es lit up like you were on the X-Factor. Just a day before you came to me. Funny that.’

  ‘No, that was nothing. Just the Five-O messing about as usual.’

  ‘So why were you held overnight?’ Charlie placed a clubbed hand towards Shams on the table before them.

  ‘I wasn’t held overnight, just a few hours. They made a mistake.’

  Charlie grunted, rubbing his bald pate. ‘Well, me and you are done. Ain’t nothing happening between us now.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means, bonehead, that the deal is off. You can sling your hook, son.’

  Shams’ forehead rumpled, looking like it was collapsing in on itself. ‘Look mate…I can’t go back and tell him it’s off. You know him, he’ll go off on one.’

  ‘Don’t “mate” me. I can handle some piece of estate trash.’ Charlie turned around, picking up a green bomber jacket with an angry tug. The nylon jacket was embellished with a patch exhibiting insignia from the RAF during the Second World War, and an army one from the Great War.

  Shams pitted both hands deep into pockets and looked around for help, before he lay eyes on the placards for the protest. ‘Wait. The police. I’ll tell them that you guys are planning on creating trouble at the march. I can bring a lot of eyes down here. The pigs, they’ll be all over.’

  Charlie grabbed him by the collar and pushed him against the wall, his body slamming with a hollow thump, the feeble partition feeling like it would give way. Shams could feel the bigger man’s sweaty weight slump against him. His puttied face, all folded jowls, rubbed cheek to cheek. Charlie’s spewing breath stank of cheap alcohol. ‘What did you say, you dumb paki? Did you just threaten me?’ Charlie reached for a crowbar on shelving nearby. Shams felt crisp metal as Charlie traced a slow line on a cheek. ‘Is that what you were in for? Snitching to the police about us. Tell me. Tell me.’

  Shams’s tried to turn his nose away from stale breath but felt steel pinch his skin as Charlie applied more pressure. He winced as one of Charlie’s knuckles caught the corner of his mouth, the man’s chalky-white skin highlighting every scrap of dirt collected during the day. ‘No…no…I said nothing. They didn’t ask anything about you or Mujahid. Keep my ear to the ground they said. But I don’t have to say nuthin’ if you just let this one deal through. You won’t see me again after this, I promise.’

  Charlie let go. As if placated by Shams’ quivering. He pinched the bridge of his nose while snorting through it, and closed his eyes in thought.

  Although released, Shams kept his back pressed to the wall, heaving air. He tried looking for the door but this blimp was in the way. ‘Look, we’re all in this together, right? Coppers don’t care nothing for people like us. As you said, you’re protesting peacefully. Nothing to hide, nothing to fear, right?’

  ‘Ok, ok, but the price has gone up. Tell that nigger friend of yours that I want another five-hundred quid for you trying to blackmail me, or everything’s off.’

  ‘I…I…can’t do that. He’ll ask why. He doesn’t know about the police.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘You’re a right fuckin’ case aren’t you? Bet your parents wished they’d aborted you when they had a chance…well that’s your fuckin’ problem, ain’t it? That’s the deal, take it or shove it.’

  Shams looked at the hand with the crowbar and saw it still tightly clenched. He then looked past Charlie’s form to the door. ‘Ok…ok. I’ll tell him.’

  Shams crept to Mujahid’s, clinging to the sides, not wanting to be caught in the light. Feet on their balls, toes sometimes tapping. He paced up and down, turning and looking at the red door.

  The door opened. Shams almost jumped. Mujahid sauntered out, miswak in his mouth. ‘Assalmu alaikum, you gonna wear your shoes out bruv. What you doing here this late?’

  ‘Nothing, just came to tell you about the deal.’

  ‘Cool, cool.’ Mujahid looked at Shams’ empty hands and his hangdog face. ‘Why haven’t you got the package on you?’

  ‘That’s what I need to talk about.’

  Mujahid stopped brushing, took the stick out, and shot a stern look that made Shams take a step back. ‘You’d better come on in then, hadn’t ya.’

  Shams saw the pitch black that lay beyond the open door. Darkness poured into that one place. He shivered, but took a step in, guided by his patron’s gaze. Once inside, Mujahid said, ‘Ok, spit it out, what happened?’

  ‘That Charlie guy wants another five-hundred quid,’ said Shams, his words tumbling over each other.

  Raising his voice Mujahid said, ‘What’s he want another five-hundred quid for?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was racist? A proper skinhead type.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Does it matter?’

  ‘Well yea, he hates us lot. Obviously he was going to pull something like this.’

  Shams forced his best poker face, but he wasn’t gambler and was sure it was cracking under attention. Mujahid, though, didn’t show any disbelief, he just nodded, rubbing under his eyes. The man looked a bit tired, a hint of dark rings appearing.

  ‘I know him from way back. He used to live round here a while ago. He used to breed Rottweilers for a living.’

  Mujahid remembered Charlie’s ground floor flat with its neglected garden. All discarded rakes, spades and beer cans, amongst high, tattered grass. He bred guard dogs. A great side business that was always in demand and, as illegal as it was, somehow Charlie was never hassled by the police. The wooden fencing at the back was loose enough that you could get a good view of his ramshackle cages. Mujahid would see this massive butterball, this beer bellied brute with his union jack tattoo, constantly poking at his dogs. He would swear at them and, starting off gently, use a wooden strip. Intensifying the pressure until he elicited an angered response from behind that cheesegrater mesh. The dogs would claw at the stick, try and reach Charlie with their jaws. Then the stabbing would abruptly stop, a uncertain moment of respite, before the cycle started again.

  Once cultivated Charlie would encourage them to fight. He’d force them on top of one another. Hold one’s head, pressing it forward, pushing another into a corner. The only way out was by scratching and biting. Charlie was smart. He wouldn’t beat them down outright. That would make them too defeated, too docile. Instead, the constant aggro produced really fierce animals that could be guaranteed to explode in aggression when needed. They sold well.

  Mujahid sat on the bottom of the stairs and left Shams standing to attention, ready for inspection.

  ‘I know him well enough…but…it doesn’t sound like you is telling me the whole truth?’ Mujahid sat impassive and calm, one hand stroking his slight, evenly-carpeted beard while he took in Shams’ countenance.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know, Shams…we’re brothers and, like family, we survive on trust. Don’t be scared with me. Trust me, it’s better you’re plain with me, than me finding out you are hiding things.’

  Jaded light from the walkway cast Shams’ shadow onto the hallway floor. He saw it, familiar, like an old friend. But now laying in a puddle beneath him, evaporating into a line that extended towards a Mujahid who was once again chewing on his stick. Shams could see hydraulics as jaws bit, and then relaxed, as Mujahid moved the stick to brush another area.

  ‘Ok…He said…what he said was, there was too much heat from the police.’ Shams scraped one shoe on another and looked down.

  ‘Why would he say that?’

  ‘Well…I got stopped yesterday.’

  Mujahid reached out and gave Shams a gentle slap, right on a kneecap. ‘Good, good. Yea, I heard about it. On the High Street, right? See how easy that was? Don’t hold back on me. You know, so what about the police? You should have told him to mind his own business. That happens all the time. I’ve been stopped like twenty times in the last year. No stress.’

  ‘I told him. Nuthin’ doing.’

  ‘See Shams. You come across as too weak, and all this holding yoursel
f back and hiding makes it even worse. People in our world, they feed on each other, like predators. The wolf eating the lamb, Shams. You need to toughen-up. Front-up. Aggression respects only aggression. I remember when people treat me badly. I store it within me like fuel, I do. People can sense it. They back off. It takes practice, I wasn’t always this way. You put a front up, pretend you’re tough, pretend it doesn’t hurt, pretend you’re not fussed, then all of a sudden it’s all good.’ Mujahid presented both palms outwards as if they were pages of a book.

  ‘Thought you said, you don’t wear masks?’

  ‘That ain’t a mask, bruv. That’s armour.’

  Shams thought about Charlie, drawing an X in his blank puddle with a toe. ‘How long do you keep on pretending, though? At one point there must come a time that we’re not pretending anymore. Just an animal. Like that guy. I’m not cut out for dealing with people like that. I think he more than hates us, he doesn’t want us to be.’

  ‘Well, out here it’s like I learned inside. It’s like it’s out there in nature, it’s survival of the fittest. He’s not the fittest so he won’t survive. He’s just a useful loser needing a few quid. Anyway, don’t worry…tomorrow I’ll come with. We’re brothers right?’ said Mujahid, offering a hand.

  Shams nodded and shook the hand. Mujahid’s felt warm and firm. Shams stepped to the door, stopped, and looked back. ‘You said tell you everything. That we’re safe right?’

  ‘Yea, of course.’

  ‘The Five-O…they kept us back only for a few hours but honestly I have to tell you, bruv, I didn’t tell Charlie…but I got questioned by a guy saying he was MI5. Security service.’

  Mujahid pounced on Shams, grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him into the living room. He pushed him onto the sofa. Looming over him, his face only a couple of inches away. ‘Spooks. What the hell have you been up to? What did you say?’