Dear Infidel Page 4

  ‘What’s up, Osama? You fancy a piece o’ that as well?’ He was grinning broadly and willing Salman to meet his gaze.

  ‘Yeah, don’t blame you mate,’ chipped in another. ‘All that time stuck alone up there in them mountains – you must be gagging for it.’ All five started to titter. Don’t look at them.

  ‘Oi, Ozzy!’ began a third, raising his voice despite Salman now being alongside, ‘You get cable up there?’ Don’t look ... ‘No? You’ve probably not even knocked one off in yonks. No wonder you’re so uptight, all this Jee-had and stuff.’ They were all laughing openly.

  ‘Tell ya what, Ozzy, the next one’s yours, mate. On the house!’

  ‘A gift from her Majesty!’ was the final volley rolled off. All he could hear was unabashed laughter and he pictured them bent over in hysterics. He was relieved to finally be out of their range.

  The wind picked up again, this time accompanied by rain. It wasn’t a downpour but Salman’s initial grit had now gone: torpor was setting into his mind, inertia in his body. He saw three Asian men pulling up the shutters of a shop front. It was a restaurant and he figured they were opening up early, especially for Eid. All three wore suits that, whilst not objectively pricey, were probably the best in their wardrobes. Ties were done up with the knots made neatly, and two of them had meticulously gelled and combed their hair. All in their Sunday Best, especially for Eid. Just who do they think they are?

  Seeing a bus stop up ahead he decided to wait under the shelter. He figured that getting a bus now wouldn’t save much time; in fact it might even make for a longer journey, but he just couldn’t face the walk – not anymore. He veered underneath the roof and felt immediate relief, hearing the wind and rain batter tin and glass, instead of him. He looked down the road but no bus was on its way so he just stood there, foregoing the empty seats.

  ‘Gosh, what a miserable day!’

  He turned round, startled to see a woman smiling at him. She was heavily pregnant; late twenties, early thirties and with bags of groceries by her side, and a rosy glow to her cheeks.

  ‘Yes, yes it is,’ he replied tentatively, before considering his response to be somewhat effete. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. You’re right – it is a miserable day. I can’t wait to get home.’ The woman looked at him quizzically and he smiled with embarrassment.

  ‘Get home?’ she remarked. ‘My day has only just begun! Do you work nights or something?’ Salman smiled, feeling more relaxed. She was still catching her breath and her words were mixed in with puffs and pants. The supermarket was only nearby but in her condition and this weather, and all those bags, one could quickly get despondent. Yet here she was, wiping matted locks from her forehead and enjoying being alive. Salman thought of a robin in a snow-covered landscape, busily foraging for berries: winter cheer personified.

  ‘No, no, I’m not working today. I’ve got the day off.’ He tensed a little before continuing, ‘I’m a Muslim and today is Eid. It’s like our Christmas.’ He paused, waiting, actually expecting to see a note of discomfort as he mentioned the M-word, but it didn’t come. ‘I’ve been at the mosque this morning and I’m going home now to celebrate with my family.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice!’ exclaimed the woman. Her eyes were bright and her face seemed full of genuine delight. Salman felt renewed – such an elixir, the milk of human kindness. ‘Do you give presents to each other?’

  ‘Yes, of course. And we have a feast and enjoy being together. It’s exactly like Christmas, minus the drink and the Queen’s Speech!’ Salman revelled in his own joke.

  ‘Ah, that’s wonderful. How many children do you have?’ She settled into one of the seats and looked up, her smile uncomplicated.

  ‘I’ve got two – a boy and a girl. They’re right little terrors.’ He pictured his Taimur and Aaliyah and wanted to be home now more than anything. ‘And you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got just the one, young Emily,’ and she opened up her handbag and prised a passport-sized photo from her wallet. She handed it to Salman who looked at a miniature version of the lady herself – all big smile, rosy cheeks and strawberry blonde hair.

  ‘And another one on the way, I see,’ he gestured merrily at her bump whilst handing the picture back.

  ‘Yes, yes. Only one month to go now!’ She caressed her stomach before breaking once more into that pinball smile. ‘Emily has already said that she only wants a baby sister, and that if we bring home a boy she’ll leave him outside at the bottom of the garden!’ The two of them laughed, enjoying the innocence of a child. ‘We have so much to look forward to, sometimes it makes you desperate for those whose futures are so bleak.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh you know, what we’re doing in Iraq. I feel almost guilty when I look at what I have – especially when my country is wrecking the futures of others.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a sad business,’ offered Salman simply. He’d never discussed the issue with a non-Muslim and took a cautious line.

  ‘It’s more than sad,’ she stressed. ‘It’s an absolute travesty. Did you know that Iraq is being forced to pay reparations – even post-Saddam? Is that not sick?’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said, still unsure how to react.

  ‘No? Well it gets worse. A lot of that money is going to big business. People don’t even have clean water and there are dogs eating corpses in the street, and yet Iraq is forced to handover money to American Express, Texaco and Toys-R-Us.’

  Salman was in rapture. He’d never heard a British person speak like this. He looked at her, her face thoughtful, all that sunshine gone.

  ‘You shouldn’t feel guilty, my dear. If God has been generous to you in this life, then just thank Him and enjoy your bounty!’

  ‘I’m not a believer. It’s not that I definitely don’t believe, more that I don’t know or care. God isn’t going to come down here and wave His magic wand. It’s up to us, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hmm, hmm.’ Salman wasn’t listening, his mind having got stuck at the point where she said she didn’t believe. He noticed a bus finally appear on the horizon.

  ‘Tell me, what does your faith give you?’ Trying to avoid the question, Salman stayed focused on the bus.

  ‘It gives my life meaning.’

  ‘But my life has meaning,’ she retorted. ‘I love my child and my partner and they love me. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘I’m glad it is for you,’ muttered Salman, cursing the bus’s slow progress.

  ‘So why do you need more?’

  Salman turned sharply.

  ‘Look, lady. Islam is Allah’s gift for humanity, His final word. We’re all bound by His commandments. If you choose to ignore them then that’s your loss.’ The bus pulled up. The front door opened and Salman bolted for it, but then he remembered her condition and all that heavy shopping. He hesitated but picked up a couple of bags. She expressed mild surprise and smiled awkwardly, but he avoided any eye contact. He let her in first and after paying for his ticket he followed behind. Laying the bags at her feet he sprung up to make for the upper deck.

  ‘Well, have a happy Eid!’ She spoke quickly before he was out of sight.

  ‘We say Eid Mubarak, actually.’ He glared, hissing his displeasure. He waited until she forcibly looked away before rounding the corner and going upstairs.

  7

  Imtiaz was cold. Finally in bed after exhausting the night’s entertainment, he wrapped the duvet around himself tightly; a spent force entombed. On his side he brought his legs right up, his knees close to his chest. The position though was uncomfortable and he soon gave up, bringing his hands together in his lap. He had recently cum however and his too-thin semen had spread and begun drying off. His lap, therefore, was both cold and damp. How can my cum be cold?

  The mercy of sleep beckoned, though, and accepting gratefully, he began sinking. As he went below the surface he took one last glimpse at the clock radio, establishing that it was 10.01 pm and that the radio was on low. And then ... nothin
g. He slipped into slumber gently, belying the frenzy of the day just done. Stillness. Stillness and quiet, or rather almost quiet. If you listened hard, you could just make out the radio, the broadcaster introducing the new show, but Imtiaz was no longer listening; gentle waves were lapping his shore. Come, come my son, the night beckoned. Enter my waters and drift away. Seduced, he sank, offering no resistance. He landed softly on the water’s bed, and with arms crossed and legs tucked under he simply was: no eye movement, a minimum of brain activity. A mere babe in an incubator. Heal me ...

  Then suddenly Imtiaz is rising. Propelled upwards by a force other than his own he looks up at the approaching surface. There are lights, big bright lights. And people – lots and lots of people. He breaks through and is met by a din. Such a din. But now Imtiaz is rising beyond the crowd; the noisy, passionate spectators. And the searing heat isn’t going to distract him either. Or the tension, or the drama. For destiny is calling the Boys from Pakistan.

  Imtiaz squats behind the stumps and claps his gloved hands together. ‘Come on, Imran!’ he shouts, but Imran is well out of earshot. He is busy instructing his men, marshalling those of his troops that are nearby. The match is tight, delicately poised, but the initiative is now shifting England’s way. The Pakistan captain must engineer a change. Imran Khan gestures to the man standing about twenty yards deep, square of the wicket on the off side. Pull further back, he says with his hands. Inzy obeys, his eyes locked on his captain.

  Cricket. Baseball for gods. Carried by the force of empire but adopted with relish by Indian princes, Pathan warriors and the sons of slaves. Now the time has come to teach the old master a lesson, and there’s no better stage than the World Cup Final.

  Imtiaz surveys the scene whilst his captain continues fine-tuning. He rocks his head back to look into the Melbourne sky at night, but is hit full-face by the massive light towers. There is no night inside the Melbourne Cricket Ground – the MCG is all lit up. The stadium is packed, every seat taken. There must be 85,000-plus in here. Most are Aussies and Imtiaz wonders who they’ll be supporting. The home team was knocked out some time ago and now, as hosts, they have to entertain the Pakis and the Poms. Poor bastards ... The rest are Englishmen and Pakistanis, and Union Flags and Crescent Moons abound. The green-and-white is still flying, though not as proudly as it was – Fairbrother and Lamb are starting to take the game away. But as Imran had said in the dressing room, ‘Don’t forget, we fight like cornered tigers.’

  The volume in the stadium dims and Imtiaz looks up – the Great Khan has finished his instructions. Everyone is in position. In the company of his men, the captain is once again alone. He’s walking away from the centre towards the boundary, the perimeter of the playing area. His walk is perfect, each step seeming measured. Four tiers of spectators home in on one man, releasing their emotions: awe, expectation, love and hate pour into the night sky.

  Imran Khan turns back towards the playing arena: the eye of the storm. Thud! He gazes at the ball in his hand before looking up. Alan Lamb is staring straight back at him. Man takes on man within the team game. Imran can feel his heart pounding. His face is pulsating, his ears are pulsating. Waves of heat emanate off him. One last check to the left and one last check to the right – he sees several of his men dotted in a loose ring around the wicket. An ambush of tigers, just waiting to pounce. First in line is Imtiaz, the wicket keeper. He’s already crouching down behind the stumps and is well back, maybe even twenty yards. He’s judged that well, thinks Imran. This is juicy Melbourne turf and I’m extracting a lot of lift. That Imtiaz is a good kid with a steady head. He’ll go far. From Imran to Fairbrother to Lamb to Imtiaz, there is almost a straight line. Bowler, batsman, batsman, wicket keeper. Pakistani, Englishman, Englishman, Pakistani. Who is vulnerable now? The slip fielders, taking their cue from the trusty Imtiaz, lock into position – a trap just waiting to be sprung. Slips one and two, gully, cover point, mid-wicket and square leg. Check. Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Imran begins running in. The noise inside the cauldron increases, the excited overspill of anticipation. With ball in hand he hits the crease and leaps into his delivery stride, an archer drawing back the bow ... Whoosh! Lamb has half-a-second to play with: he’s got to judge height, angles, the bounce once the ball pitches as well as speed, but he’s seen it all before. It’s not quite child’s play but it’s well within his compass; he sights the ball early and sees it big. Tonk! Alan Lamb drives sweetly through the off-side. He hasn’t adopted the classic position but has lazily let the ball come onto him, his head over its line all the while. Cock-sure ... The ball cuts through cover-point and gully before clattering into an advertising hoarding. An Aussie brewer is grateful for Lamb’s shot selection. Four runs. It’s the end of the thirty-fourth over and from here the Englishmen needn’t sweat. Imran stands with hands on hips, watching his team chase air. It’s a painful display and he’s got to turn this around quickly. Panic arrives in the heart of the warrior. Meanwhile, Alan Lamb plumps his feathers and begins strutting around, chewing his gum with renewed gusto.

  Imtiaz stands up. Not wanting to see a creeping dread in his teammates’ faces, or for them to detect the same in his, he surveys the grandstands, now rippling with Union Jacks. It looks magnificent. This is magnificent. He is here and this is as real as the sweat on his brow. Despite the situation he is alive like never before. He throws his head back and pulls his top away from his drenched chest. He’s so hot.

  Imtiaz tossed the quilt away, giving his body the chance to cool down. He was breathing through his mouth, his nasal passages having become congested. The virus entered several hours earlier and established itself inside his nose. It did as viruses do and multiplied and multiplied and multiplied again, leaving it ready to take off. And the destination? The throat? The ears? The sinus cavities in the bones of the head? Luckily it was detected and histamine was released. Blood flow to his nose increased and his nasal tissues swelled up. His core temperature was raised to stop the virus reproducing, but he was wrapped up too tightly, preventing his system from self-regulating. A message was thus dispatched to disentangle himself, and he duly obeyed.

  All the while the radio had been on, broadcasting to dead ears. In the speed of his descent he’d forgotten to switch it off; all those jokes, snippets of punditry and sober news items had simply wafted off. News bulletins came and went. Sports roundups left Imtiaz unmoved. He didn’t know it but Pakistan were actually preparing for a big game, the Platinum Jubilee match being held in the majestic Eden Gardens, Kolkata. He’d have been excited by that, had he known – Eid 2004 was promising to be a real cracker. The present could wait, though, for he was deep in the past. Glory beckoned. He could almost taste it, they all could – but a change was needed. Wickets were needed. This partnership between Fairbrother and Lamb had to be broken.

  Drinks break. The crowd takes a breather, the players take a breather. A cart is wheeled onto the pitch and everyone grabs some refreshment. Fairbrother and Lamb meet in the middle, away from prying ears.

  ‘Nice shot there, Lamby,’ says Fairbrother, praising his partner’s efforts. They greet by knocking fists, the batsman’s high-five.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ states Lamb, trying to sound underwhelmed, but Fairbrother doesn’t buy it. Lamb’s mid-wicket stance, all leant up against his bat, is close to a pose. He’s chewing some gum, checking it all out and tripping his nuts off. Fairbrother meanwhile sees Wasim come in from the deep.

  Wasim Akram. A legend, a natural-born leader, a prince among men. That’s all to come, though, for tonight he’s only twenty-five and a star-in-waiting. He strides with purpose over to his mentor, his gait graceful, fluid. Athletically built and tall, he looks down at Imran, whilst looking up to him. He sniffs the air, the night air – it’s nowhere near damp but the day’s heat has dissipated, even within the cauldron of the MCG. It’s now humid. Perfect. He picks up the ball and inspects.

  ‘I think I should come back for my second spell, Captain. What
do you think?’

  ‘It’s a bit early. Let me bowl a couple more and keep rotating Ijaz and Sohail from the other end.’

  Wasim isn’t convinced.

  ‘There’s some moisture in the air now, Skipper. And look at this ball’s condition ... I reckon I can get it to reverse swing from the Pavilion End.’

  Imran looks his protégé in the eye. He’s right – if these two keep going, the match could be all but finished in six overs. A cornered tiger always comes out fighting. Lamb is picking him off easily because he’s not getting any movement, whereas this kid can talk to the ball, make it dance for him. Imran places the ball in Wasim’s hand; he himself doesn’t let go.

  ‘Come on, Was,’ he both commands and pleads. ‘Do it for us. Get us some wickets.’ Mission accepted.

  The drinks cart is wheeled off and Fairbrother sees Wasim adjusting his run-up marker.

  ‘Don’t do anything flashy against Was, just see him off,’ he warns Lamb.

  ‘Let’s not lose momentum. Look for five to six runs an over. And be sharp on the singles,’ Lamb retorts, re-asserting his seniority in the partnership. Meanwhile, Imtiaz crouches down behind the stumps with Wasim turning round at the other end.

  Imtiaz was getting cold. The virus’s progress had been checked and his temperature had lowered. His chest, though, was still exposed and he was losing heat. He was nearly awake and nearly asleep and re-wrapped the duvet around himself. Facing the radio he lifted his groggy eyelids to check the time. 12.05. Then a word pierced his mental fug: Eid. ‘... Tonight for most of our listeners is just another night. But for Muslims, not only in this country but worldwide, tonight marks the end of Ramadan, the annual month of fasting,’ the broadcaster began introducing the new item. ‘And tomorrow is Eid, a day of celebration. However three years after 9/11, we have assembled a panel to discuss the issues facing Muslims, and Muslims in the West in particular. Can they respond to contemporary challenges whilst preserving their identity? Can they be loyal citizens in Britain and in Europe, or will their first allegiance always be towards the Ummah, the worldwide Muslim community? Over the course of the next hour we’ll be putting these and other questions to our panel.’ Imtiaz drifted back to sleep.