Dear Infidel Read online

  Dear Infidel

  Dear Infidel

  Tamim Sadikali

  Published by Hansib Publications, 2014

  Hansib Publications Limited

  P.O. Box 226, Hertford, Hertfordshire, SG14 3WY

  United Kingdom

  www.hansibpublications.com

  Copyright © Tamim Sadikali, 2013

  ISBN 978-1-906190-70-5

  ePub: 978-1-906190-91-0

  Kindle: 978-1-906190-90-3

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no

  part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or

  introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or

  by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording

  or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the

  copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  Printed in Great Britain

  For Farah –

  For your derring-do; for rolling the dice; for the leap of faith; for making me stand an inch taller.

  For Shehrebanu and Haider –

  In the hope that you will grow into your names, and thus wear them well.

  Acknowledgements

  The passage on the Summer Grinch was written and performed by Zina Saro-Wiwa, on the late John Peel’s BBC Radio 4 programme, ‘Home Truths’ (20.09.04).

  Salman’s final chapter, wherein he recalls an adventure as a young boy, was inspired by Micky’s reminiscences of the Blue Falls in Christopher Nicholson’s excellent novel, The Fattest Man in America.

  Finally, whilst I’ve largely bootstrapped my own writing skills, in the early days I was helped beyond measure by Johanna Bertie, who not only gave me her time, but also the best piece of writing advice I’ve ever received: “Make every word count.” Johanna, thank you.

  Prologue

  Imtiaz

  It’s the lows that you’ve got to watch out for. And the highs. The tedium of everyday is a danger, too. Sometimes I need to shut it all out and cut loose. Escape ... But whilst you reach for a bottle, I reach for something else.

  Others take things in their stride, the background noise having dulled their senses. But my senses remain heightened and I have no answer. Touch, taste, sight, smell and sound; I receive the same data as you, but I process things differently. They say a blind man’s hearing is more acute – I guess the same principle applies.

  When I was a boy I loved The Incredible Hulk. I used to wait for the terror of the metamorphosis, sneaking peeks at the TV from the safety of my dad’s lap. Sure, the growling green monster throwing men and cars around was damn cool, but looking back, the real power lay in the rising tension – of the quiet man seeking a simple life, but then getting disturbed.

  I am The Incredible Hulk. I am the Wilderness, locked in a cage. I Am Become Death.

  Nazneen

  ‘The snow’s coming, the snow’s coming!’ Nazneen hears someone shrill, some way down the corridor. Whoops of delight reverberate along its length, with every maid and maintenance man joining in. ‘All right!’ ... ‘Yeah!’ ... ‘Let’s catch some Big Air!’ Footfalls rush inwards and as some girl dashes past the room Nazneen’s cleaning, she sticks her head in.

  ‘Hey, didn’t you hear? The snow’s coming!’ She beams momentarily before darting along, thus denying Nazneen the chance to look too busy to care, throw her a patronising smile or – her latest favourite – condescend charitably.

  ‘Honestly, it’s like rattling a monkey cage,’ she mutters, pissed at losing her stage to bitch. Laughter from the now-gathered cluster further sours her mood, but despite her determination to poop the party, she can’t resist turning to verify the claim. And instantly her eyes sweep over Keystone Lake, basking under glorious Colorado sunshine. It lies perfectly still, but for the most gentle of rippling across its surface, confirmation of its beating heart.

  A solitary bird flutters down, landing softly. Nazneen watches it drift, falling under shadows as it nuzzles its fine down. A lakefront conifer welcomes the guest with an evergreen drape. The bird accepts without fuss, head turned to the phalanx awaiting their turn. And thus drape follows drape, a seamless patchwork of green, broken only when the bird falls under the deciduous Autumn Purple Ash. Nazneen could have sworn this tree’s leaves were also green, and thus despite the brilliance of the sunshine, she gets the message: nature’s cycle is turning.

  She traces upwards, past the lakeside trees and the hotels behind them, across and beyond the fir-lined hills close-in, and finally out towards the Rocky Mountains, tearing into the distant heavens. They sit back but dominate, with peaks like jagged teeth snarling, just waiting for God’s final command to snap the world shut. And yes, just like that tree ... Those peaks, there’s definitely more snow on them now. Her summer – her and Martin’s summer – it’s almost over. But still, behold: this irresistible lake, shimmering under late summer sun. Nazneen bows her head, cognising majesty. She just knows, something inside tells her – this must all be preserved: this time, this lake, this summer’s end. Whatever happens from this point forth, these memories must remain vivid. Some day they’ll sustain her.

  Salman

  Most people’s growing pains are confined to their teenage years, stretching at most till their early twenties. First comes the physical stuff but alongside arrives competition, and with it the duty to compete. Subtle and not-so-subtle forces compel you to get in the ring, but unless you’re a prize-fighter, you don’t enter with relish. But there’s no going back. You know next to nothing but this one thing you are sure of: the protection of childhood has gone for good. You must raise your fists and fight, as much for your own safety as well as to beat on others. And thus one begins clambering for a seat at life’s top tables. And just like in any other race, it’s the initial exchanges that count. If you mess up your schooldays you’ll not get into the right university, or onto the right course, and it’ll be uphill from there.

  Salman recalled some graffiti, scribbled underneath a toilet-roll dispenser in his university’s library: ‘sociology degrees – please take one’. All these years later and it still brought a smile to his face, but it held more than a grain of truth: he had a 2:2 in Accounting & Finance from a new uni/old-poly, and it was worth shit.

  Ultimately, though, nearly everyone adjusts. With age comes the acceptance of mediocrity, and you learn to get by. Your partner might not resemble your adolescent fantasies, but it was just that – fantasy – and this is exactly this – reality – and we all know the difference, right? And anyway, you love them (or loved them once), and that will sustain you (or at least for as far as you have vision). And beyond that? Well it’s nothing to worry about. You live in the Free World.

  Only a few get to leave the ring outright (either through off-the-scale success or dedicated substance abuse), but it no longer matters – you all find some ground to call your own. You see yourself reflected in everyone around, and it’s comforting.

  Salman never got there so smoothly, though, for Salman was a Paki.

  Aadam

  It was 10.01 pm and most commuters were long since home, but for Aadam and a few other weary souls, the working day was only just done. His train had been due at 9.52 but it hadn’t even been announced. All eyes were on the boards. Waiting, waiting ...

  Aadam was near the top end of the concourse, just in from the Boadicea pub when he noticed a man stagger out, covered in blue. He was sporting a blue shirt, a blue hat and a spherical beetroot face, and he held a blue flag with intent: he was a Chelsea fan. Out of the pub he came and into the Burger King next door he went. Home fr
om home. Aadam looked around. No-one else seemed to have noticed the scarlet and blue clown, save for a young girl holding her mother’s hand. Aadam waited expectantly and the encore duly came: out of the BK hobbled Bozo, before plonking himself into one of the plastic seats outside.

  Again, Aadam checked his surroundings: still only he and the little girl were appreciating the artist at work. No matter – the show went on. Bozo sat and ate: burger, chips and shake. It was clearly a struggle, though, as successive chews were being teased out, as if he were masticating glue. And his eyes would regularly shut before he’d spring back scowling, occasionally grabbing his unfurled flag for those who ventured too close. But all on his own, Bozo could only dig deep and stay low. But then, suddenly, salvation: the cavalry arrived. Seven, eight, nine of his comrades poured out of the Boadicea, all sporting the same beetroot and blue – the colours of the King’s Road. Bozo locked with each of his Brothers in Arms, relieved for friendly company. Emboldened, he walked in front of his men and, unfurling his flag, sounded the battle cry like the buglers of old: ‘Who the fucking, who the fucking, who the fucking hell are you? Who the fuck-in’-hell-are-you?’ William Williams’s eighteenth century devotional, capturing the march of the Israelites to the Promised Land, had found a new twenty-first century home. For the Chelsea fans were in the Promised Land, too – they’d just won a football match. The whole ensemble, a modern-day choir, joined in and sang. And in unison they pointed their arms at the commuters, who in that peculiarly British way, simply pretended it wasn’t happening.

  ‘Oh dear, the natives are restless,’ quipped Aadam, deliberately loud enough for the chap nearest to hear. Aadam threw him a beaming smile and the guy stared back. Result! He’d long since given up caring about PR. No-one else commented and neither was there any movement – save for the woman now marching her daughter away, to the girl’s obvious displeasure.

  Aadam turned back to Bozo, whose expression morphed from glory to hate. And with good reason – only him and his chums were allowed to enjoy this victory, and he’d make sure those fucking suits knew it. But once on a train, Aadam knew those very same suits would prefer Bozo’s company, to his own brown-skinned self. Whether Bozo be quietly dribbling spittle onto his jeans or treating everyone to a verse from ‘No Surrender to the IRA’, there was no way he’d win that beauty contest. But it wasn’t always thus. Things had changed. That one day, 9/11 – it had been seriously inconvenient. But he understood. He couldn’t hate them back, the British – God knows he’d tried. Perhaps it was now time; time to jump ship, bail out, start again. A new life – him and Nazneen. He wondered what she’d think of it.

  The British fleeing the likes of him tended to go to Australia, and so it made sense for him to head in the opposite direction. Dubai – The East served up on a Western plate. Perfect. He’d talk to her – she’d see the sense in it. It was time they refreshed their vision.

  Pasha

  Camphor. Tight curls of vapour spin out of control, penetrating and musty. We burn it constantly, especially at night, to keep demons at bay and our garden safe. For there will be no more trials, once you land safely on our shores. We will wipe the tears from your eyes.

  Your World and our Garden. So exposed is your heart and so perilous your journey. But you have a choice. Crave knowledge and we will hold your hand. Revel in your world and we will watch you drift.

  I am the Witness. I was there as your lungs took their first breath and I’ll be there when ... I am closer to you than your jugular vein.

  I drift in on an eternal lake. A heavy mist hangs low but my all-seeing eye is not impeded. I see Pasha, lost in the embrace of music. You may hope for another year, another day, another hour – but time runs dry. My advice? Die before you die.

  Part One

  ‘All this is a dream. Still, examine it with a few experiments.’

  MICHAEL FARADAY (1849)

  1

  Aadam ascended the basement stairs to meet his clients. Rounding the top his eyes fell on an overcast Wigmore Street, yet he still smarted at the natural light. Basements truly sucked. Outside a horn blew and some loose words were exchanged, but by the time he reached the doors all evidence was gone. Vehicles shunted forwards in batches, like sections on a caterpillar’s body. Aadam smiled. First rain drops smacked into windows and his smile broadened. He observed the human stream, rippling as scarves got adjusted and brollies opened up. Aadam’s heart did a little dance, for today he was immune – the short days and early nights, the cold that would only get colder and the rain that would not relent – today they couldn’t touch him. For tomorrow, tonight ... the fasting would end and the feasting begin. All troubles would be put aside and the good things indulged in. This innocuous dying day, for Aadam, heralded renewal.

  ‘Hi Sarah,’ he said, smiling as he propped himself up by the front desk. The receptionist drew near, her aura light and pleasant. ‘I’m expecting some people – from the Capital Actions project. Looks like they’re late.’ Absentmindedly he looked back outside.

  ‘The Capital Actions project?’ She straightened her spine, hands braced for action. ‘Which meeting room are you in?’

  ‘Oh, none – they were all gone.’

  She looked alarmed and began checking the bookings.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘It’s OK. We’ll hold it right here.’ He gestured towards the foyer. ‘I’m going there now. Bring them over, would you?’

  ‘Of course, Aadam,’ she demurred.

  ‘Oh, and buzz George once they’ve arrived. Some teas and things would be nice.’

  He dropped onto the settee, upholstered to the ostentatious demands of a West End lobby. It squeaked as he adjusted, sinking slowly, one arm resting on fine leather and the other holding meeting notes. He checked his watch and planned the day’s end: discuss the project, write up some notes and then straight home. He’d be in another world come this time tomorrow.

  He looked up at a widescreen above the mock fireplace, constantly tuned into BBC news. The volume was off but there were subtitles as well as looping headlines: another American soldier had been killed in Iraq. His curiosity roused, Aadam nevertheless changed channel; he fancied a nibble of the story while he waited, but not when served up for the British palette. For this morsel, a dollop of American pathos would go down nicely. He kept flicking, looking for something more laissez faire, current affairs US-style, cut for the man on the street. He stopped on seeing some anchorman flirting with a weather-girl, the dainty love giggling dutifully. Meanwhile a banner flashed on-screen to present the next item, which Aadam reduced to: ‘Would Eid herald an increase in terrorist activity, in the new colonies or the Free World?’ Bon Appetite ... Sitting behind a front desk that resembled a Möbius strip, the anchorman introduced the debate, along with two pundits seated either side.

  ‘Sir, can we expect the lull in militant operations that we witnessed over Ramadan to now end, and end violently?’ Anchor threw the opening gambit to the spokesman from the Department of Homeland Security, who deftly ignored it.

  ‘Before we begin, I’d like to extend our deepest condolences to the family of Private Archer. We mourn every one of our departed servicemen and women, and hope that his loved ones are comforted in knowing that his death was not in vain.’ The spokesman looked back at Anchor who expertly took the baton.

  ‘Well I’m sure that all of us here as well as those watching at home, echo those earnest sentiments. Our thoughts and prayers are with Private Archer’s family and friends.’ It was delivered with such decorum that when Anchor turned to the other pundit to ratify the consensus of the civilised, the man could only oblige with an ‘Absolutely’. He paused just a little before affirming, though, and Aadam wondered whether he was thinking of the wedding party that the Americans had blown up, just the day before.

  Prayers. Thoughts and prayers. Aadam breathed deeply and took a long look at Anchor. He wasn’t young – definitely over forty – but he wore his age well: his shoulders were broad, his feature
s firm and his muscles still defined. But if you looked hard enough, you could see so much more. Behind him was his wife: past her prime but way off menopausal and, crucially, still desirable. And to the right were his kids. There was giddy, young Jessica, full of energy and ideas, a bud just waiting to blossom. And Jake, that chip off the old block: working hard, thinking of the future and determined to stay on the team. Anchor was an anchor, the heart and soul of America. But when did he actually last pray? This morning before he put on his crisp, linen shirt? Last night as he kissed his children, fast asleep in their beds? Maybe it was at Thanksgiving, as he praised the Lord for his bounty. No? Still further back? And what of his thoughts? A penny for your thoughts, Anchor. Was he thinking about what he’d have for dinner or who’d win the game at the weekend? Maybe he was preoccupied with that girl from the typing-pool that he’d love to nail. Or maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of Private Archer’s mother, sitting alone on her kitchen floor and clutching a picture of her son, aged five, blowing out the candles on his birthday cake. Maybe ... Human suffering in all its density, spirited away by civil words, technology and that fucking Möbius strip. Thoughts and prayers indeed, ya cunt.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts?’

  Aadam whipped around. His boss, George, was commanding the ground right in front and next to him stood two others. He grabbed the control and searched desperately for “mute” before bolting to attention. George introduced the senior member of the delegation, followed by a much younger guy who wore a distasteful expression.

  Was I thinking out loud? He shot a second look at the younger chap whose curled lip remained. Panic infested him, freezing him to the spot. The thought was too terrible. But soon George was singing Aadam’s praise and his generous smile and fatherly hand dismissed his fears. His boss gestured and the delegates took their seats, the delight in their plush surroundings evident.