The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  ‘Nah man, I is cool,’ Levi replied, his face telling a different story as his body still shuddered. ‘Those foxes are becoming bare brave, ya know. Vermin like rats. They carry disease. We should be shooting them all.’

  Ishaq said, ‘They breed like rabbits; you kill one, they just get replaced. You just have to put up with it.’

  Marwane ran up to the fox, his arms wide as if he were attempting a capture. It gave him a stare and then scampered off. ‘See Ishaq, all mouth no action, like you. In fact worse than that, they can’t even bare their teeth to try and look scary. They don’t have the face muscle for it.’

  ‘Nice one. Who told you that? You can’t have been reading a book.’

  ‘Haha. Shams – he knows his stuff, man.’

  A voice spat out at them, gatecrashing their shelter. ‘What the fuck are the three of you hanging around here for?’

  Ishaq looked in the direction of the sound but couldn’t see anything outside the bubble of light. All the boys could hear was was their own pallid breathing – Levi’s with a choking rasp – as Ishaq started to see three formless sketches approach. He placed a hand above his eyes and squinted, while his torso dipped as his body prepared to run. The watery shapes were just outside the lit area and, though bathed in the moonlight, it was hard to make out any features.

  The first broke through the barrier of illumination. ‘I said, what the fuck are you doing here! This is our area.’ The voice belonged to Mujahid.

  ‘Flippin’ hell, bruv. Mujahid, you scared us,’ said Marwane. Levi relaxed, taking his lead from the relieved expressions of the other two.

  ‘Ah, brothers Marwane and Ishaq. I didn’t see it was you.’ The voice sounded robotic, somehow devoid. ‘Did you boys not hear what that man said, on the television? It’s all going to kick-off now. I want to make sure that Muslims are safe on the estate. I’m making sure round here is a safe zone.’

  ‘Like a Muslim-only one? That’s cool, it could be like our version of Chinatown, except instead of hanging lanterns, you lot can start hanging televisions, Taliban stylee,’ said Marwane, who started laughing with Ishaq and bumping fists.

  ‘You two are both very funny. Laugh-a-minute kids.’ Mujahid pointed at his own severe face, that he extended out from the darkness. ‘Do you see me laughing?’

  The other spectres resolved into men. One came behind Mujahid and pushed at a swing. He prodded it with a single, extended, finger. Enough to make a line of swinging shadows that swayed along the ground, as the chain made a desperate squeak.

  ‘Who is this, here?’ Mujahid asked, indicating Levi only with his eyes.

  ‘Just a friend from school we bumped into.’ Ishaq felt a tingling down his spine that peaked and crashed. His skin felt clammy, he thought probably from all that running about. The silence intensified, and he smelled the pack of men mix with the whiff of decomposition.

  ‘Ok. We’ll leave you to it. Good seeing you bruv.’ Ishaq moved away, but Mujahid stepped forward and placed a contending hand on his chest. The other members positioned around the three, to make obstacles of their exit.

  ‘Not so fast. I asked who is he? Ishaq, don’t disrespect me. I’m a Brother, just like you and Marwane.’

  Levi looked at the new men, was made unsure by their frosty interaction and tried to warm them up.

  ‘Fam, I know Ishaq from school. We are friends from way back.’

  ‘Don’t ‘fam’ me. You and me are nothing. So are you Muslim?’ Levi hesitated and looked at Ishaq for guidance. ‘Don’t look at him; what are you doing out here so late?’ Mujahid put his face into Levi’s, foreheads touching. Levi cast his eyes downwards, his body hung.

  Ishaq pulled Levi away. ‘He’s not Muslim. He’s a friend, he was just telling me how he lost his cousin last week. He’s in mourning. Just on his way home, like us. You’re right. We should all be getting back.’

  The one who toyed with the swing joined his friends. They all waited for Mujahid’s response, silent while children’s amusements created playful shadows, their motion at odds with the static figures of men. Ishaq knew this was not the tranquil quiet of long summer nights.

  One of the men came just behind the shoulder of Mujahid. Ishaq recognised Saeed, he was the son of one of his father’s colleagues from the bus depot. When younger, Ishaq used to visit their house and Saeed would let him play on his games console, knowing that Ishaq’s family couldn’t afford one. That soft teenager was a world away from this shaven-headed guy. Someone had once made an inappropriate comment to his sister and he and a group of friends steamed into the guy’s phone shop and beat him senseless. So he done time. Stupid time.

  As a group they didn’t look like much. Maybe they found some some affirmation and brotherhood. Some comfort in each other’s assigned guilt. When he looked at Mujahid, he thought that he was internalising it all, and taking others with him. Allowing it to become woven in to the fabric of his being, losing hope of anything better. Just playing-up to an imposed identity, realising a destiny of malevolence endowed by others. That was what scared him about these people. They were so unknown.

  Saeed looked timid, an echo of that former life, as he whispered into Mujahid’s ear, ‘Why you hypin’? We know these guys, let them go.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up. Who asked you?’ Saeed shrank back.

  Looking at Ishaq, Mujahid said, ‘Friends? With him?’ Returning to Levi, ‘So, your boy was the guy who croaked…I heard he was runnin’ for some other lot round here, causing trouble. You should know we don’t allow that here. So, what you doing?’

  ‘Nothing fam, I was just on my way home. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘I said don’t fam me,’ shouted Mujahid, bawling at Levi, whose eyes widened and face opened. ‘Let’s see what you got on you. Jump up and down for me…I said jump.’ Levi looked again at Ishaq, and then a made a couple of half-hearted hops as Mujahid listened for signs of anything loose and metal.

  There was no method to this, it was just humiliation. Something you do just because you can. Ishaq stepped in and stopped Levi. ‘Mujahid, itaqullah. Fear Allah. What do you think you are doing? This is too disrespectful.’

  ‘What did you say? You fucking little shit!’ Mujahid grabbed Ishaq by the neck and pushed him against the metal A-shaped frame of the swings. With his free hand, he brought out a knife. ‘Don’t you fucking dare talk to me like that! Always the same with you lot, looking down on people like me, when you’re the snake.’

  Marwane moved to grab Mujahid but was held by the two other men. Pinned, Ishaq was helpless as Mujahid brought a glimmering blade to his throat. He summoned up all his resolve to stop his lower lip from quivering, offering a silent prayer that, if his life was taken, he would at least die with some dignity.

  Breathless, Ishaq said, ‘I don’t look down on anyone. You are my brother, and I’m telling you this isn’t the way. Why are you acting like this? I haven’t done anything. He hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything? You haven’t done anything? You’ve threatened me and my family. If I go back in, there’s no one to feed them. And you say that you’ve done nothing? As for these kuffar, they give us no dignity so why should we give them any. I’ll take what I want from these people and this system, no man can tell me anything else.’

  ‘Threaten you, what are you talking about?’ Ishaq stared at Mujahid’s eyes. He looked frenzied, but those eyes were clear and held a harsh focus. ‘At least let this guy go while we clear this up? He’s got nothing to do with anything?’

  Mujahid release his grip ever so slightly and, after some calculation, nodded at Levi, who in turn looked at Ishaq.

  ‘Go on, I’ll be fine. Don’t call anyone, leave us to it,’ said Ishaq.

  Ishaq’s voice was betrayed by his shaking hands but Levi nodded in thanks and ran.

  Ishaq addressed Mujahid straight on. ‘You can’t violate other people’s property. Brother, you’re fooling yourself if you think this is halal. Look where it’
s ended, a knife against another Muslim’s throat.’

  ‘You guys, in your mosques and circles, and your scholars.’ Mujahid broke eye contact and spat onto the rubber matting. ‘You heard them. They’ve called for our end…and they’ve spread their little moles and grasses, like you, amongst us. You haven’t a clue. It’s a war, out here. We do what we need to do to survive.’

  It came out in a spitted gush. His demeanour and words confused Ishaq. ‘Survive? By selling drugs? By eating your own people!’

  ‘Drugs? Foolish child, what you talking about? What’s the difference? You want to be like Mummy and Daddy…pay taxes…work ‘til you’re dead?’

  Marwane had been struck dumb, but manged to coerce some words from himself. He sounded foreign as, for the first time, Ishaq heard tremors in his voice. ‘Mujahid, this has gone too far. You’re scaring us. Allah knows what we’ve done, but we apologise if we’ve dissed you. We’re just on the way home. Subhanallah, you used to come to the halaqah. Why you acting like this?’

  ‘The circle again; all you people know is being a slave to the system. What kind of Muslims are you? If you are Muslims at all? What’s the difference anyway, we are all stuck here. You and me, both. Rules are different here.’

  Ishaq struggled against Mujahid’s clamped hold, finding some new energy. ‘The difference is the halal and the haram. Allah sees what we do!’

  ‘And you say that after what you have done?’

  ‘What have I done? You’re not making any sense.’

  ‘Leave it, bruv, you’ve made your point. Let them be. You can’t be hurting one of them, one of us, like that,’ Saeed implored Mujahid; but he was implacable, not even acknowledging him.

  ‘You stood with me just a day ago, chatting like a friend. You’re a liar! A traitor! You threaten me being able to provide. A guy who just wants to go about his business. You like talking about truths, don’t you? So I’m teaching you one now. Tell me Ishaq, for all your big words. Your big-man words from your small-boy mouth. What can you do if I decided to put out some justice on you, right now?’ Mujahid strengthened his grip on Ishaq, who could feel a crushing just below the neck.

  Ishaq’s eyes bulged and glided downwards, then over the group, as he gave out one limp, paling, word. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Mujahid finally smiled and released his grip. ‘Ok, you lot can clear, I better not hear anything about this.’

  Ishaq collected himself and adjusted his clothing. He could hear formerly-heavy breathing around him retreating to a normal pattern. He gave Marwane an uncertain look, but his friend looked away. He moved his gaze onto the others. Hesitant, he looked outside the light and went to step out.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Mujahid. ‘I want to give you a reminder to behave in future.’ Mujahid grabbed Ishaq and pinned him, again, and slashed him on the arm. Ishaq let out a powered cry. As the sound carried across the dark space into the estate and into homes, lights, that were illuminated, extinguished. The obligating burden to see, to be accountable, was too heavy a responsibility.

  Time slowed as Ishaq fought the fog of consciousness. He felt a slashing of skin. Cutting that continued for an eternity. Mujahid threw him to the floor. Ishaq saw a clump of rust invade the white of his football shirt and looked on as crimson drops collapsed on the floor. His own blood. His own blood oozing out. Blood dripping out from his fat and muscle, cut by another Muslim.

  He tried to cover the bleeding with his other hand. Marwane struggled to get to Ishaq, but was still held by two men. Breathing rapidly, Ishaq said, ‘Mujahid, this is madness.’

  Mujahid pinioned Ishaq with the toe of his boot. ‘This is mercy, considering what you done. One more thing. Tell me about Shams. Would he double deal me? Are you two in it together? Tell me the truth and I’ll let you go? Just a little word.’

  Ishaq could not believe the sheer amount of warm ooze that the cold ground leeched. He wondered if he was going to die, in his own squalid puddle. He half-heard his own words, as part of him prepared for this final destination.

  ‘…Shams is a good lad. He wouldn’t double deal.’

  Mujahid moved his foot to Ishaq’s upper arm and Ishaq screamed, this time with a chesty gurgling as he struggled for breath.

  ‘Say it again, tell me the truth. If you tell me the truth, that he’s been lying, I’ll let you go.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. He’s done nothing.’

  Mujahid moved his leg away. ‘Tell Shams, I want that money, and I better not get any more messin’ from any of you guys or it’ll be a different story next time. You’re lucky I used my knife instead of something else…you know what I’m saying?’

  Mujahid and his cohort walked-off, disappearing into shadow. Saeed had tried to kneel to take a look at Ishaq but was grabbed at the collar and told to move. Marwane helped Ishaq up so that he could lean back against the posts. Marwane’s hands shook as he took off his football top and tied it above the cut.

  Ishaq could hear a scratchy pounding and looked, his mind wandering for its origins until he realised it was his heart. Drowsy, he started to feel a chill as his clothing saturated with sweat. He stayed there, slumped across the post, for a while. At one point Marwane stood, as if he were getting help, but Ishaq used his good arm to cling weakly to a sleeve of Marwane’s t-shirt.

  ‘I think it’s ok, just get me to the hospital.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy.’

  ‘Just get me up and help me in to St Georges. It’s not too far.’

  ‘It’s way too far to walk, the way you are.’

  ‘You can borrow your cousin’s car, right?’

  Marwane closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead in thought, while Ishaq lay there stealing spasmed breath. Ishaq tried to concentrate on inhaling, but the tugs of splintered air hurt his insides, as if he were choking on pins. Ishaq looked at Marwane, tall like a tower but with no fortification. Ishaq had seen the fear paralyse him. Now it struck him hard, how that tall tower was now collapsing in on itself.

  ‘Marwane, it’s going to be ok. Just help please. Let’s get going.’

  ‘But what are you going to say?’

  ‘I’m not going to say anything.’

  ‘The man’s crazy. An animal; he overstepped the mark.’

  ‘And, if I tell the brothers, it’ll start a war. I’m just going to keep quiet for now.’ Ishaq struggled with his answers, as he used his left hand to wipe moisture from his eyes, his breathing now laboured like a man ascending a hill but afraid of reaching its peak and journey’s end.

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Please, Marwane, no more questions…no more bloody questions. Just help me. Please.’

  16.

  Europe seethed in a jealous foam; rolling, gathering astringent mass and momentum, a map of ever-shifting acrimony; each altercation different, yet always with the same result. An overzealous stop-and-search of a Moroccan woman in Rotterdam, a triumphant shout at a group of Turkish men in a Berlin cafe, the surrounding of a mosque by police in Paris for their ‘protection’. In Marseille they started burning French flags and barricading streets. French youth brought out their passports to add to the pyre, their blood-red covers melting into crimson flame.

  In London the streets were thronging and, just below the hubbub of discordant voices, you could feel a racked tension, a fraying string held so taut that it could be rent apart with the blow of a kiss. People took second-takes at others, concentrating on strangers’ hands and what they were pulling out of pockets, stealing looks over their shoulder as they went about the business of the ordinary.

  In South London Ayub looked at a menu. When they were doing their A Levels, Ayub and his friends always used to stop by this café and satiate their hunger on pieces of buttered toast, at six pence a slice. This sometimes descended into ludicrous food competitions, involving tottering mountains of cheap sliced-bread and inordinate amounts of dripping butter. The owner put up with this with great resentment, even on occasion kicking th
em out, berating them for being time-wasting students and wasting his space. And this also became part of the game, seeing how long they could go on before the owner went ballistic.

  When even younger, they used to come round with a half-made effigy of Guy Fawkes, bugging the Cypriot owner for a ‘Penny for the Guy’. The old man would chuck them some shrapnel in the form of coppers. Happy, they would move on until they had enough and end-up burning Mr Fawkes’ towelled and ragged body in some lonely car park. The smell of carbon wafers and burnt flecks floating away, crawling with a spreading glow. Poor old martyred Guy Fawkes, what happened to that night? Ayub could not remember it stopping but he had not seen any Guys on the streets for years. Old customs died quickly now and without notice. It had all seemed so innocent then. Those times were long-gone.

  Hit by a wave of paranoia he put the menu down. He eyed his backpack lying on the floor, picked it up, gently, and with great care placed it on the seat beside him, securing its important load. He took a look around at the punters, especially those passing near his bag. They were going about their day like any other, oblivious to the world outside and unaware of what was about to take place in this cafe. How the netherworld was about to visit upon them, and how utterly blameless they all were. The determined time was nearly at hand. He closed his eyes in concentrated readiness. He placed his hand until it was hidden inside his jacket, and then reached and pinched, until he felt it release.

  Ayub opened his eyes with some relief. He worked to release some other stiffened muscles around the rib, and then wound his way up and around his neck, rolling it left, then right. Once the aches and pains of approaching middle age were alleviated, he placed the bag between his legs. He did not want some local guttersnipe making a grab for it and running off with the day’s takings from his father’s grocery. Cash was king, especially when people like the one he would encounter any second now could close their bank accounts on a whim, destroy their lives in a whisper. He was ready to meet Simon, the friendly ghost, his neighbourly spook.