by Haroun Khan
Policemen dropped their batons and tried to flee, caught in a vice, two jaws of society’s inflamed animal-spirits chomping down on them. Ishaq saw the frame of a woman through her police armour, and watched her drop to the ground as an EDL member punched her in the gap under her visor. Her body folded and lay prostrate, like discarded cardboard. The authorities’ abandoned weapons were picked-up, their own truncheons used to batter them. Ishaq tried to make a path away from the trouble but was buffeted, pushed back, by the rush of people choosing to run towards the danger. Ishaq could not tell by whom, but canisters of tear gas were released. He took breaths of fire that incinerated his innards. He inhaled a stinging pain as black smoke spread. His eyes streamed as the fog reflected light, producing a strobing effect.
Out of the gloaming a pale-grey horse charged, snorting blackened smoke and making a squeal, its visored rider wielding a baton like a sword, dipping his head to take a swipe. Ishaq dived out the way to avoid being trampled by panicked hooves. He looked back as the horseman was grappled by a masked assailant. The steed reared and shook-off its doubled load. Unburdened, the beast galloped away, the smog reclaiming it.
Ishaq heaved for breath and wiped his eyes, he drove himself upright and staggered away from the main crowd, hoping to find sanctuary. He moved between pockets of clear air and woollen smoke, holding his nose and mouth, coughing on sooty particulates, trying to stem the phlegm. He smelt the putrid decay of sewers and the burning of rubber. With the lines completely broken a surge of white men came through. Pissed-up, and angry, they initially exulted in the fight, as if this was their wildest dream come true. Shouting ‘English ’til I die’, ‘Britain first’, they had the chance to have their grievances answered with fists. Their cries gave way to panic as it was clear they were out numbered. Small packs and individuals were isolated as Muslim youth rained-in on them with whirling arms, punches, and armaments. The men started running, first back, and then in all directions, chased by the revengeful.
Ishaq saw a large gap and tried to run through, but stumbled. He looked around. He had tripped over a fallen policeman, eyes vacant. As he tried to rise his hair was grabbed, his head thrust into the tarmac. Shocked, he managed to spin round. A white man grabbed him by the neck and punched him, but only made a glancing contact. Lips bleeding from the brush of the man’s signet, Ishaq struggled as the man tried to strangle him. Legs pinned down he reached for the man’s neck, and gave faint hits to tattoo-sleeved arms. The man was wide-eyed and joyous. Ishaq closed his eyes as he drifted in pain. He opened them and saw an image of Frankie, red hair aflame, sweaty hands wilfully embracing his neck while smiling in gleeful friendship. Manic fingers crawled his throat and pressed inwards. Maybe a due retribution, a vengeance formed from failure that now had its time. He let his eyes close as he lost consciousness but then heard a sickening crack. The pressure on his neck alleviated and Ishaq gasped for breath, his lungs wanting to explode out of his chest. As his eyes cleared he saw a defiant-looking Asian man in a pristine butchers apron, holding a discarded nightstick. His absurd smile targeted Ishaq and was joined by a thumbs up. Enraptured, the man ran on and threw himself back into the delirious fray. The white man was at Ishaq’s feet, face downwards giving testament to the earth, hair black like soot, skull cracked, a trickle of blood moving down the side, unmoving, probably a corpse.
A couple of shots rang out unseen, an incentive to move further away. Touching the walls, and walking in a crouch, he got to the edge of the crowds and then navigated a mazy warren. He could see scuffles at every junction and street, with no police to be seen. Somehow he ended up on Commercial Road. Ishaq knew the river wasn’t that far, south, and that he was nearly in the clear. Men ran around him; Ishaq braced himself on a couple of occasions for a strike, and then started a shuffled jog down a long, straight road. Outside of the confusion he started to feel pain, on his arm, and around his neck and mouth, and somehow on a knee. He was constantly overtaken by other people fleeing as he hobbled along, his tongue tasting salty blood.
One chunky white man overtook him, his cheeks puffing in and out like a bellows, eyes panicked. Ishaq took a look at the man’s stumpy legs and, out of some still-intact ego, tried to raise his pace to match but failed. The man was followed, chased, by a stocky Asian wearing a hat like Shams’. Ishaq jogged a couple of steps and then his head shot up, ‘SHAMS’, but the second man paid no heed.
Ishaq heard a thunderous roar, a clash of steel, and vibrations of air. He looked up and saw a train on an overpass, fulminating sparks floating downwards. He had reached Cable Street. Under the bridge he saw Shams tackle the fat man to the ground and launch a fist into his head. The man, now dazed and on the floor, lay still as Shams stood and landed a hefty kick to the ribs. The man welped and covered the back of his head with his hands, while curling into a ball. Ishaq started running, pushing through his pain, struggling with his breathing. He saw Shams launch a punch into the man’s head and force the man to look at him. Shams paused and then brought out his knife. The man looked terrified.
Shams raised the knife in two hands with his back to Ishaq, who jumped, launching into his friend, rugby tackling him down. Both now on the floor, Ishaq saw the white man cautiously getting up and in a firm imperative shouted, ‘GO.’
Shams had lost the blade but saw it on the ground and crawled to pick it up. Ishaq grabbed one of Shams’ feet, who pulled his leg back and then launched it into Ishaq’s face. His nose stinging, and having bitten his tongue, Ishaq still held on.
Shams said, ‘Let me be, Ishaq. They deserve it.’
Shams swiped Ishaq with the back of his fist, but it was too tame to knock him off. Shams managed to get one hand on the knife, but Ishaq managed to get a hand on Shams. They struggled, bodies twisting and merging and then apart, grappling on the floor facing each other. Ishaq gripped Shams’ strained hands and tried to prise the fingers away from the handle, one by one. Ishaq rolled on top of Shams to try and pin him down. The knife turned inwards, pointing towards Ishaq’s stomach. Shams felt the weight of Ishaq’s body on top of him, felt the knife push through and heard Ishaq let out a shout. In fright Shams’ grip loosened on the knife, and Ishaq pulled away. Shams pushed himself away as he saw Ishaq reel backwards on the floor, his eyes widening as he saw the knife, pierced into Ishaq.
‘I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…’
Breathing laboured, Ishaq slowly pulled himself off the floor.
‘It’s alright…it’s alright…everything’s going to be fine…’
He took a moment to wheeze, as he kneeled on one leg as if genuflecting in prayer. The knife held steady in his right hand as he pulled it out. Ishaq pushed-off from his knee to stand. He used two fingers, wiggling them like bunny ears, to explore the newly created hole in his clothing. ‘Haha. It went through the side of my jacket…’
Ishaq smiled and laughed, at odds with the frown of fresh blood on his face. He stood slightly over Shams, collecting gulps of breath. He held the knife aloft, high and out of Shams’ reach, displaying it to reassure that no harm had been done. Ishaq extended his other hand, reaching out to help Shams up.
‘…haha, look. Nothing…no blood…let’s get…’
Ishaq was lying on the floor, looking up at the throbbing bridge above. He had been knocked back as he heard a crack like lightning, his ears now thundering. Ishaq looked at Shams, whose skin looked milky and was staring somewhere past him. He felt a numb pain that became a burning sensation in his chest where he had felt the knock. Looking down in detached fascination he saw an inky-blot sprout from his jacket, and then flower, in youthful bloom. Ishaq didn’t understand and looked at Shams again. Shams’ eyes were tearing. Ishaq felt fear. He felt scared. A fear so acute that it was as if the sky would be rent asunder and judgement had come. His vision turning into a dark mist, he looked towards the direction of sound, and Shams’ gaze, but first caught sight of the knife on the floor in front of them, still manifesting danger.
Ishaq started to sta
nd but felt a crackling pain in his ribs and had the sense of nearly passing out, seeing an insoluble blackness. He collapsed to a kneeling position and reached out for the blade. As his eyes rose, a young man came into hazy perception. He seemed to be wearing a police uniform and, wide-eyed, with legs bowed, was shaking and pointing at him with an implement of metal. Ishaq shook his head, trying to clear his eclipsed vision and disperse the fog of his mind. And then. He saw stars. Falling stars against a cloak of midnight. Wonderful speckles of light that scored his sight and drew prodigious fading arcs that made Ishaq smile. With all his summoned might, he raised his head. With all his strength, he urged his eyes to see. Ishaq met the rosy-cheeked boy’s gaze and heard one final thunderous clap.
Epilogue
He placed down two styrofoam cups of tea, sat down on the plastic seat and pulled the little table towards him. He looked up at a sliver of window, where the wall met the ceiling. Although reinforced with criss-crossing steel wire it was still slightly cracked. The rest of the prison’s meeting room was barren, a dreary off-green. He looked around and could see inmates and their visitors sat at tables, a few shedding tears, some holding hands, and others swapping deserted silence, missing each other with remote stares. Every time the door swung open he looked up, expectantly, until finally Shams came through. Shams looked healthy, well-fed and with a relaxed face. Shams extended his hand to Marwane.
‘Assalmu alaikum, bro, really good to see you.’
Marwane took his hand then stood, pulling Shams into an embrace. ‘Akhi, you look good. How’s it going, in here?’
‘Alhamdulillah, it’s all good. I’m getting by. What you up to?’
Marwane and Shams sat, looking at each other across the wobbling table. ‘I’m working now. I’ve got a job in the city. Pretty rough hours but it’s a start. So, seriously, how is everything?’
Shams took his styrofoam cup of tea and rolled it between the palms of his hands, taking in its dulled warmth . ‘It was difficult at first, but the Muslim bros in here look after me. They own this place.’
Marwane didn’t bother hiding his worry. ‘What type of guys are we talking about?’
‘Listen bro, I’m in with a good crowd, who don’t want no trouble. I know better now. I’ll admit they are a mixed lot, but you do need to be part of a group in here to survive.’ Seeing his concern, Shams tried to placate Marwane. ‘I know what I’m doing, I won’t get into anything dodgy.’
‘No, Shams. You listen here, you keep your head down and don’t mix with anyone. Keep your nose clean.’
Shams looked down at the table while Marwane spoke. He started to tap his teeth with nervous energy. ‘I don’t discuss politics or anything. I’m really getting on. If people talk foolishness I just nod my head.’
‘Ok, Shams, I hope so. You are looking settled. I’ll give you that.’
‘Alhamdulillah, it’s all so clear in here, Marwane. My mind is at rest.’ Shams took in a deep breath while making a vague indication to the world outside. ‘Here it’s straightforward. I like that. I read, do my prayers, do the bits of work they give us, read, have my meals, exercise, and that’s it. Just count the days down. How is everyone? How’s Ishaq’s family?’
‘Not good Shams. Not good.’ Marwane looked downwards; he tried to lift his gaze but found it too heavy and returned to looking down. His eyes started tearing. He felt his throat constrict. He still found it hard to hear that name. He tried to still his upper lip and pushed and rubbed at his eyes, trying to force the tears back in. As he wiped he felt some of the bitter taste. ‘They are going through a rough time, bruv. His dad is toughing it out, going to work. His mum doesn’t go out anymore…but Ayub is helping out a lot. I don’t know if you heard but he married Ishaq’s sister.’
Marwane looked for some sense, some recognition but Shams looked blank and calm. No emotion, no tears. ‘Yea, I heard. It seems an obvious match now, may Allah make it easy on them,’ said Shams.
‘Yea, may Allah make it easy on us all, Shams. They got close helping out with the justice campaign. A lot of organisations are really active on all this now. I’ve actually joined in and I’m doing bits, as well.’
Shams managed a smile. ‘Yea, I heard that too. It’s pretty funny, you becoming active like that…’
‘Well, you know…like he said, we were born into it. Can’t stick our head in the sand.’
Shams nodded. ‘I still haven’t talked to Ishaq’s family. I can’t do it…’
Marwane placed his hand on Shams’ arm, wanting to comfort him but at the same time wanting to squeeze him hard until it hurt. ‘…Don’t worry about it, man, look after yourself. One day you’ll be ready, inshallah…and maybe one day they’ll be ready.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. It was all an accident.’
Marwane watched Shams’ Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. He thought, How do you tell those born blind what it is to see? Marwane swallowed his tears while Shams swallowed sin.
‘Do you think they’ll get the guy who did it?’ said Shams.
‘The copper’s mates arrived after, and they all got together and agreed on what happened. That’s the way it goes. Anyway, he said he shouted.’
‘I swear he didn’t. I would’ve heard…but the inquiry?’
‘Headed by a bunch of people who went to school with each other. A lot happened that day but it’s like it never happened.’
They sat there in silence for a while. Marwane made a circle in the dust on the table, watching his finger go round and round without end, creating a clean space on the dirty surface. Marwane struggled with what to say. ‘Does your sister come?’
‘Yea, but I’ve told her to stop. She starts crying, making a scene. I can’t handle it. My lawyer goes to visit, to guide her through all the appeal’s stuff, but I’m not bothered about that. Not sure she is either, really. Like I say, my head is clear in here. I’d like it to stay that way for a while.’
‘Allahu Akbar.’ (God is Great)
‘Ash hadu an-la ilaha ill allah.’ (There is no god but Allah)
Coming from behind Shams Marwane was surprised he could hear the adhan being called. A couple of visitors looked in the direction of the sound and muttered something, shaking their heads.
‘Haya ala-salah.’ (Hasten to Prayer)
Marwane noted the voice, resolute and resonating. The free voice consoled him like a soothing balm. He wondered whom the caller was and what he had done to be caged here. He knew that, like him, the call transported him elsewhere, outside of this earthly confine.
‘Haya ala-salah.’ (Hasten to Prayer)
Shams noted Marwane’s surprise. ‘Yea, the block where the prayer room is is next door. It really annoys the rest of the prisoners and a lot of the screws but, like I said, we’re the biggest group in here. Got to be nearing half Muslim. They’ll do anything to avoid bad publicity and a riot or something…’
‘Haya ala-falah.’ (Hasten to Success)
‘Anyway, I better go.’ Shams got up from his chair, leaned over and gave Marwane a hug. He took a step towards the exit. Halting, he turned to face Marwane. With a wan smile he said,’You’ll come back to visit me, right?’
Marwane got up. ‘Of course, bro, I ain’t going nowhere. I’ll be here. Take care, yea. Be good.’
‘Haya ala-falah.’ (Hasten to Success)
Shams nodded and gave his friend salaams. Marwane watched Shams turn around and be escorted back through the door. The call went on. As a hundred generations had heard it, before, so Marwane listened, attending to it as if it were new and as if he alone were being summoned. This plangent link to their past. A clarion call to the eternal. He felt a weight at the pit of his soul, a sore that would never heal, yet still his heart was made lighter by the sonorous sound of the promise, the call of awareness, the call to good.
Acknowledgements
To my parents Zainab and Ayub, for all their struggles, and passing me their narrations of Burma and Pakistan. I’ll keep them well. So
phia and Soraya for childhood indulgences. My niece Sharifa, I hope you grow to value the word.
Thanks to Saeid for the lowdown, Ursula for being my earliest reader and not crushing, Leon for not judging dead nights, Nicos for finding impossible insanities.
Nathan and Dead Ink Books for making those ridiculous leaps.
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