This was the third time this week that Kramer had watched Eve Carver and the rest of the faces. First in Leytonstone and then in Slough‚ before moving onto Hounslow. All areas heavily populated with Muslims.
He watched Carver bring the microphone to her mouth and clear her throat. It came out loud and crisp through the large box speaker. One of the Asians shouted something unoriginally offensive at her. A copper shook his head at him and he quietened down. Kramer took the second and final bite out of his sausage roll as she started.
‘I went to the supermarket today. I thought I’d do a little experiment. I counted thirty tills. Twenty-eight of them were manned by brown faces.’ She paused. She smiled. She continued. ‘Isn’t that strange? It’s strange to me. And it’s not just our supermarkets. Step into any hospital and chances are you’ll be treated by a brown doctor. Step into any school and chances are your child is being taught by a brown teacher. Have you asked yourself‚ what are they teaching our children?’
‘What are you teaching our children?’ an elderly Asian man‚ who had stopped to watch‚ countered. His small voice was lost in the commotion as his wife hurriedly ushered him away.
‘Take a look at our council‚ our government. The Mayor of Hounslow is a Muslim. The Mayor of London is a Muslim. Every day‚ five times a day‚ I hear the Islamic cries for Prayers. They are not adhering to our laws. We are adhering to theirs. Believe me‚ Sharia Law is spreading like the sickest of diseases. Here. In our country. In our England.’
Kramer yawned‚ loud and wide. He’d heard this or a variation of this three times already this week‚ and a hundred times before. This little show would be filmed and plastered over Social Media. Their profile would increase. Their numbers would increase. If they were lucky‚ a fight may break out and they would find themselves in one of the local papers. National even. But ultimately not a thing will change. Kramer wasn’t here for that.
He tuned out as Carver moved onto All Muslims are complicit in Terrorism‚ and scanned the crowd. The two young lads weren’t difficult to find. Black bomber jackets‚ skinny black jeans and red Doctor Marten Boots. They were the reason that Kramer was there.
He placed a call to Terry Rose.
‘Rose.’ Kramer sat in his car to block out the noise. ‘They’re both here.’
‘Course they are‚’ Rose replied. ‘You talked to them‚ yet?’
‘About to.’ Kramer glanced in his rear-view mirror. The two lads were mouthing off at the Pakis‚ intent and anger burning brightly in their faces‚ hands balled into tight fists‚ ready to fly. There was a third with them‚ younger‚ dressed the same‚ but looking painfully out of place. He stood close by and tried to imitate them but Kramer could see that he did not hold the same passion. ‘There’s another with them.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know. He’s been hanging around them all week. Could be a friend.’
‘Alright. Suss him out‚ and call it‚’ Rose said.
Kramer ended the call. Brushed the crumbs from the sausage roll off his face and stepped out of the car just as the demonstration was dying down. He approached one of the lads that he knew by name and reputation only.
Kramer stood beside him. ‘Simon Carpenter.’
Simon‚ his thick arms crossed‚ his face set like flint‚ stared at what was left of the dwindling Asian group as they started to disperse‚ to his satisfaction.
‘Look at them go‚’ Simon said‚ eyes forward. ‘Off to plot. To plan. We’re not careful‚ they’ll bring this country down to its knees.’ Simon turned to look at Kramer. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Kramer‚ a few inches over six foot‚ was taller and wider than Simon. But not by much. Simon was built like no other eighteen-year-old. The other lad joined them. Kramer knew him as Anthony Hanson. He was taller than his friend‚ but he didn’t carry the bulk. Taut‚ wiry‚ and handy with his fists. Had a history of substance abuse. Kramer had done his homework.
‘Anthony Hanson.’ Kramer smiled‚ producing crooked teeth.
Anthony gave him the once-over and then looked across at Simon. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’
‘I’d like a word‚’ Kramer said.
*
In the absence of a coffee shop close by‚ Kramer took them to a dessert lounge a few doors down from where the demonstration had taken place. He ordered three coffees and waited for them to arrive before starting.
‘I’ve seen you both at the last few rallies‚’ Kramer said.
‘Yeah‚ so?’ Anthony said.
‘I’ve seen you‚ too‚’ Simon said. ‘From a distance. Never seen you join in‚ though.’
‘Don’t agree with it.’ Kramer shook his head. ‘It’s not right.’
‘We got a Paki-lover on our hands‚’ Anthony said‚ his attitude clearly bolstered by having his friend by his side ‘Prime example of all that’s wrong with our country. If we can’t stick up for our own then –’
Kramer shot him a look‚ one that had shut down many in the past. He made a show of interlinking his meaty fingers and Anthony’s eyes travelled down to the red St George’s Cross tattoo on his middle finger‚ just above his knuckle.
‘What do you want?’ Simon slipped off his beanie hat to reveal a freshly-shaved head.
‘You’re wasting your time‚’ Kramer said. ‘These rallies won’t get you anywhere. Their beliefs sit side by side with my beliefs‚ but the objective is a political one.’
‘It’s something‚’ Simon said.
‘It’s not enough. And I think you know it’s not enough.’
‘That supposed to mean?’ Anthony said.
‘Last year. The attack on Sutton Mosque.’ Kramer left it at that. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.
Anthony glanced at Simon. Simon quietly kept his eyes firmly on Kramer.
‘How’d you know about that?’ Anthony asked.
‘The attack on the Mosque was celebrated across the country‚’ Kramer replied. ‘I made it my business to find out who was responsible.’
Anthony looked around nervously. Kramer smiled behind his coffee as he took a sip‚ amused at how Simon held his gaze like an equal.
‘Who are you?’ Simon asked.
‘I am one of many. And we’re making a stand.’
‘So are we?’ Anthony shrugged.
‘Don’t be daft‚ son. You think a few fucking marches and rallies is making a stand. Talk is cheap‚ and ineffective.’ Kramer leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘After desecrating the Mosque‚ you hid when you should have built on its momentum. Instead you wear a hole in your Doc Martens‚ marching relentlessly‚ trying to spread the word.’ Kramer straightened up‚ took his time looking them both in the eyes. ‘I work with a small organisation whose members believe that...’ he paused. ‘Action speaks louder than words. A belief that you once shared.’
‘We still do‚’ Anthony said‚ then looked across at Simon who slowly nodded his agreement.
‘That sounds like words to me‚’ Kramer said. ‘If I see that you are serious‚ if you are capable in making a difference‚ a real difference‚ then...’
‘Then what?’ Anthony asked.
‘My partner‚ who runs operations‚ would like the two of you to join us.’
The door to the dessert lounge opened with a cheery chime. The third lad‚ who’d been hanging around with Simon and Anthony‚ walked in and tentatively approached the table‚ trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with Kramer.
‘Where were you guys?’ he said‚ softly. ‘I was looking for you everywhere.’
Simon leaned over the table and locked eyes with Kramer. ‘Tell your partner we’ll show you both just how serious we can be. And...’
‘And what?’
Simon glanced across at the boy who smiled unsurely at him. He turned back to Kramer.
‘Tell him there’s three of us.’
6
Imy
I never did find the remote control so‚ back at my fla
t‚ I had to go back in time and operate the television up close and personal. Channel set to Sky Sports‚ I settled in‚ a bowl of crisps‚ two glass tumblers next to a jug of water‚ a bowl of ice and an unopened bottle of Jameson on the coffee table in front of me.
Compact was the word I would have used to describe my flat to any potential clients; pokey would have been more apt. The rent was set quite low‚ but I paid even less‚ one of the few perks of being an estate agent. A touch of damp on the walls‚ questionable décor courtesy of the previous owner‚ and a carpet which electrocutes. It sat nicely above The Chicken Spot which some may find distasteful – especially as the smell of greasy food was a constant guest – but‚ geographically‚ I found it convenient.
It was far from perfect‚ but for now it was all I needed. I could have easily moved in with Stephanie and Jack into their comfortable home in Osterley‚ and that remained the eventual plan. I know that she would like that‚ and Jack would be absolutely thrilled to have me always there playing Dad. However‚ for the time being I was enjoying living on my own after having lived with my Khala for the last twenty years. She was my mother’s elder sister. They were both originally from Pakistan‚ but while mother had moved to Afghanistan‚ my Khala had built a life in England. Both following their husbands in the name of marriage.
Khala brought me up with more love than I could ever have wished for. I owed her everything‚ but eventually I’d had to get out and do my own thing. Even though I’m thirty-six‚ she was horrified at the thought of me moving out.
‘People will talk‚’ she had proclaimed when I finally found the courage to tell her. ‘They will say that I kicked you out.’
I didn’t patronise her‚ she was right. In our community‚ people did talk. The textbook thought process was: Thirty-six. Not married. Not living at home with his parents. Something terrible must have happened!
I had to go though. I had to find a way of making things work with Stephanie and Jack – and I couldn’t do that living at home with my Khala. She wasn’t happy when I left home‚ so God only knew what her reaction would be when she found out that I have a white girlfriend who has a son from a previous relationship. For now‚ that had to be my secret.
*
I glanced at the time on my phone‚ considered pouring myself a small shot but decided to wait for Shaz who had just texted his arrival. He was downstairs ordering a bucket of hot wings. I shifted along the the two-seater as I heard his footsteps approach my door‚ which was left on latch so I wouldn’t have to get up.
‘You know what I don’t understand?’ Shaz opened with‚ as we touched fists. I could tell from his eyes that he was already high. ‘If you’re gonna hit a deer‚ would you get out of your car to check if it’s alright?’
‘You got skins?’ I asked‚ before he unloaded whatever was on his mind.
‘It’s a fucking deer‚’ he said‚ flinging a packet of king size silver Rizla and a small ziplock bag of skunk onto the coffee table. He placed the bucket of chicken on top of it and I knew that he would very soon be searching for the gear. ‘And then‚ and then‚ he goes to the boot of his car and finds something to put the deer out of its misery‚ as his bird who‚ by the way‚ is wearing a posh frock‚ ’cos they’re on the way to a dinner party in the middle of a fucking forest‚ looks on from the passenger seat. I mean what the fuck does he know about whether the deer is suffering? For all he knows‚ it could just have a sore fucking head‚ it could be right as rain in a bit. That shit is just wrong‚ taking a metal cross spanner to the deer’s head and going to town on it‚ whilst he gets soaked in deer blood just to impress his girl!’
‘The match is about to start in a minute‚ Shaz. Is there a point to all this?’
‘Just this film I was watching. It won two Oscars! Shit‚ what was it called again? Whatever! The point is... what’s my point?’ He shuffled out of his puffa jacket and sat himself next to me.
‘Why didn’t he just run the deer over?’ I know Shaz‚ I know how he thinks.
‘Yes! Why didn’t he just run the deer over? If he really wanted to put it out of its misery‚ drive back and forth over the fucker until it’s finally dead. There was no need to bludgeon it to death! I swear they give out Oscars like penny sweets these days.’
I liked Shaz. He liked to talk and I liked to listen to him muse about the unimportant things in life. It was one of the reasons that I was desperate to find the remote control. Frequently I needed to pause live television so he could spill whatever random nonsense that popped into his head.
I first met Shaz – Shahzad Naqvi‚ when I started working at Kumar’s Property Services. The first few months I was kept in the office carrying out basic admin as Kumar inducted me. Shaz had been there for almost a year and had graduated to viewings. He would check back to the office twice a day‚ and I’d smell the alcohol on him. I’d see the red in his eyes. It’d make me furious that a Muslim would behave in such a manner.
After my induction‚ Kumar sent me out to shadow and learn from Shaz. Every lunch time‚ Shaz would take me to The Rising Sun pub.
A pint for him... a lemonade for me.
I couldn’t help myself‚ I couldn’t let it be. I had to ask. ‘Are you not a Muslim?’
‘Course I’m a Muslim. Fuck‚ man! Kind of question is that?’
He took a sip of beer‚ wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve‚ and before I could question the contradictory action‚ he beat me to it.
‘I take it you don’t drink‚ Imy. Sup to you‚ yeah. That’s your business. I ain’t hurting no-one. My parents bought me up right and correct‚ mate. I know the difference between good and bad. Everything else... Well‚ it’s just noise.’
Shaz took another sip‚ waved his empty glass and winked at the barman.
‘Why you lookin’ at me like that?’ He grinned. ‘I pray too‚ yeah‚ before you ask. Every night‚ in bed‚ a direct line to the man upstairs. I say whatever’s on my mind. A thanks‚ a wish‚ world fucking peace‚ whatever! That’s how I pray. I ain’t saying other Muslims are wrong‚ but personally I don’t think that I was put on this Earth to bow down five times a day‚ reciting Arabic prayers that I don’t quite understand and – with all due respect – most other Muslims don’t understand either. Going through the same motion day in day out. You know what they’re thinking as their heads are bowed? What’s on TV tonight? Where’d I leave my sunglasses? What time’s the gym closing? Tell me that ain’t true. Look... It’s like this‚ I know I ain’t Muslim of the year and when I do go and God judges me‚ I probably won’t get to sit at the top table with the Mashallah crew. I’ll most likely be in the nosebleed seats‚ with a pillar blocking my view! But trust me‚ yeah‚ I ain’t going to hell. Way I see it‚ we’ve been given the gift of life. Live it‚ man‚ you’ll be alright. You hear me?’
I heard him. It was all I could think about. I managed to convince myself that if I picked up a glass‚ smoked a little weed‚ there was no way I’d ever be suspected. It was the perfect cover. But really‚ I wasn’t convincing anybody.
I easily fell in love with the lifestyle. I easily fell in love with having a choice. I easily fell in love with a girl.
Soon after‚ when Shaz and I went to the pub it was;
A pint for him… and a pint for me.
Now Shaz was a regular feature‚ and he was also the funniest person that I knew – mostly unintentionally. He helped me find laughter that had been absent for years.
Like me‚ he was a Muslim‚ and like me he wasn’t much of one.
He rested one foot up on the edge of the coffee table. ‘Let’s take a moment or two to admire my new desert boots.’ He said. And in that instant… I was back there again.
*
Most of what I remembered from growing up in Afghanistan was my impatience to grow up. In fact‚ just before all it kicked off‚ my biggest concern was that I was done with being nine. I had been counting down the days until I hit the all-important doubl
e figures. In my village in Afghanistan‚ ten was a big deal; ten brought you a certain amount of respect‚ responsibility and power. Ten was being a man. Though‚ whichever way I chose to look at it‚ the truth was‚ at ten‚ I was still a child. And at that moment‚ when everything changed‚ I had never before felt more like a child.
I remember my father telling me to run. I remember my mother screaming at me to hide. I remember that being the last thing they ever said to me.
The sound of gunshots was not rare in our small village in Sharana. For us children who were in a hurry to grow up‚ the sound signalled one of adventure. The presence of the Taliban was not uncommon; they would ride in on their dusty jeeps or their dusty horses and once in a while shoot a hole into the sky just to make us aware of their presence. We would surround them with respectful smiles and sometimes they would let us hold their rifles. My parents hated it but acquiesced‚ because really‚ what choice did they have?
The sound of these particular gunshots were different. Cleaner. Relentless. Getting closer. Moving from home to home until they were pounding down our door. From my hiding spot‚ under my bed‚ I hear a muffled question‚ a nervous reply. My mother’s scream‚ my father’s anguish. Heavy feet making their way through our home. My parents separated. My father taken to our small kitchen and asked the same question over and over again. My mother taken into the bedroom‚ screaming‚ and forced to perform what should only take place between a husband and a wife. I couldn’t move‚ my shalwar wet and stained‚ my eyes closed painfully tight and my hands clamped over my ears but still unable to block out the sounds of the final two shots.
Homegrown Hero Page 3