Dear Infidel Page 7

  He lived in Watford, in a block of flats that backed onto the high street, but he couldn’t see the life outside from where he was. A row of purposely-laid conifers separated the shops, pubs and restaurants from his residential complex, and he was just below their tops. He liked those trees. Tall, evergreen and dense of shrub, they did a surprisingly good job of blocking the sights, smells and sounds emanating from the world outside, providing an almost hermetic seal. It wasn’t impenetrable, however, and on a Saturday night he could often hear the boom-boom being pumped out from Destiny’s nightclub, just a short walk away. But this was early Tuesday morning and Watford’s youth still had days of sobriety to endure, before kismet would once again come calling.

  On this night it was the fireworks from the park nearby that had woken him, and he wondered how – from where he stood this was no extravagant display. In fact, “sparse” was the defining adjective. Rather than a festival of lights and sound being sprayed into the night sky, he’d seen four modest affairs in the last three minutes. It was as if each rocket was being launched with all the care, forethought and hesitancy of a homing pigeon. And they were clearly not expensive: instead of their last moments being an orgy of colour and noise, each whimpered along its final arc apologetically, before expiring. He really was staggered that this had woken him and made a mental note to buy some more Night Nurse; only alcohol and paracetamol would guarantee a deep sleep these days.

  He remembered Eid from his childhood, recalling the almost surreal pleasure of that day. Couples – even jaded parents – had love in their eyes, and children were fussed over and made to feel so special. Imtiaz began drawing mental pictures: he could see little faces wrapped up against the cold, and sparkling eyes peeking out from under coat hoods. The sense in which a child became everyone’s child, society’s child, was a beautiful aspect of traditional culture and he took a surprising amount of comfort from acknowledging the fact. All on his own, though, the irony of his take on tradition soon made him uncomfortable; he couldn’t even indulge in romanticising.

  It had started to rain, no – spit gently – and he watched nascent droplets pitter-patter down, illuminated by the lamps accompanying every second tree along the boundary. The lamps straddled the entire perimeter, providing light where needed most along the parking bays. He felt tired and considered ending his window-side vigil, but he also knew he couldn’t sleep without drinking something. A trip to the kitchen would be needed but right now that seemed too far. What to do? He felt sedated, numbed or, more accurately, lobotomised; he couldn’t reach a decision. He eventually concluded he was comfortable enough, and so inertia settled the dilemma.

  A heavy, low creaking noise came from outside, as the gates providing vehicular access slowly opened. A car waited for what seemed like an age before idling through and swinging into a bay directly under Imtiaz’s gaze. Glad for the distraction and safe from being spotted, he followed the car as it ground to a halt, the gravel crunching satisfyingly under wheels. The whirr of the engine died along with the headlights and moments later his neighbour got out, exaggerating a shiver. Rubbing his hands, he jogged round to help his wife, emerging laden with bags. Imtiaz looked on in respectful silence as the man adjusted the scarf around his wife’s neck. He was saying something, and although Imtiaz couldn’t catch the exact words, his tone was encouraging and he wore a warm smile.

  Imtiaz rubbed his heavy stomach. He hadn’t eaten for several hours and yet it felt like a stone lay in his belly. His nose was blocked, his ears were blocked, all digestion had ceased and he was constipated. Combing his hair in the mirror this morning, he for the first time saw what he would look like as an old man; he’d lost all the gloss of youth. Forced to breathe through his mouth he felt his forehead. No, no temperature there, thank God. He was relieved to not be developing some acute condition. The generic symptoms of an accelerated ageing process he could cope with, but he didn’t want to be coughing and sneezing. Not tomorrow, or rather not today – Eid would be tough enough. He’d lived alone for too long and slowly, slowly, the daily grind had worn him down. But the day to come would still bring the same questions. Why no contact? What people were occupying his life? Was he busy? If so, then doing what? He’d arrive at their banquet a beggar, feeling terribly exposed. But were they being too demanding? Probably not. For success to mean anything, there had to be losers. And he’d lost. But he couldn’t explain that for him, just making it to the end of the day was achievement enough. To be fair, the astute ones had now figured that a line had been crossed. His aunties used to be playful, badgering him about not being married, but they’d since tired of such conversations. Tactful smiles, suspicious glances and forced, polite conversation had replaced the warmth with which they once approached him.

  ‘Oh Imtiaz,’ his Bilqis Aunty had cooed some years ago. ‘There’s this lovely girl from Manchester. I’ve seen her and she is so pretty – a real Urdu princess. You must meet her.’ He never had done. He couldn’t even remember why now. He’d always been her favourite, and the delight in those dark eyes as she’d sidled up to him that day touched him even now. She had looked at him like a mother would at her own son, as she tried to sell him this blue-chip daughter of Pakistan. What would he say to her later today? How the hell had it come to this? He remembered a moment of revelation.

  Scouts. He was twelve, maybe thirteen, and the whole Pack had gone camping for the weekend. It was his first time away from home; away from Mum and her constant struggles and non-stop weeping. And Dad – always grumbling about dinner and getting angry. Homework and helping and being a good boy. For one weekend the rules could be forgotten. For two whole days they were troopers, adventurers. Men. He wanted to be just like the older ones – tall, strong and wearing his gear like it was part of him. They came to rest and made bivouacs under fading light whilst the Scoutmaster assembled logs for a campfire. Night came and they were exposed under stars but for once Imtiaz had no fear. He was one of the gang. He felt it. He knew it. As they sat around the crackling logs, he felt free. His stained, grubby hands resembled those of everyone around. Even his clothes and boots were the same: soiled. Just like everyone else’s.

  One of the older boys returned to the campfire with a plastic bag, and a huge cheer rang round as he pulled out cans of beer. Along with all the younger ones Imtiaz wasn’t allowed to drink, the Scoutmaster saw to that, but when the older lads started passing round some magazine, he didn’t stop them. Some of them were getting really excited, turning the pages and pointing in disbelief. Sometimes they turned pages quickly and other times they just stood and stared, cooing with satisfaction before breaking again into excited shrills. Just what was this magazine? Imtiaz had no idea, but when one of the lads came up to show him, he was giddy with joy at being allowed in on the joke.

  ‘Get a load of this, Imtiaz,’ jollied the biggest scout in the pack, sitting down next to him like an elder brother. He’d long since forgotten his name but his legacy had lived on. After all, he’d opened up Pandora’s Box.

  None of us can recall our biggest “firsts” – our first step, our first word. The first time we smelled a rose in full bloom. These moments are for parents to treasure, to sustain them as dawn’s fresh promise gets broken. But Imtiaz broke no promises – he was always such a good boy, always trying to make Mum happy but she was still sad. Always trying to spend more time with Pasha but he wasn’t interested. And he kept working hard at school but he was forever stuck on C-. And he was starting to feel things. Things he didn’t understand. He wanted to say something to the girls on the bus, but they didn’t even see him. They were too busy giving attitude to the footy boys. Now they knew how to get the girls’ attention. How did they do that? He’d ask but he wasn’t part of their crowd.

  But within a blink of an eye, none of that mattered. Lucy was here, smiling ever so sweetly whilst he stared at her, hypnotised by her shame. Look at that, and THAT! This was the key, the one he didn’t even know was missing.

  And suddenly he
’s alone, alone with her. Her smile doesn’t fade. And there is no more weepy Mum or angry Dad, or another C- from some bored teacher. No. Lucy’s not ignoring him or demanding that he be special. Lucy is uncomplicated. She’s the only one that makes sense, the only one that he can turn to. There is simply nothing as pleasurable as spending time with Lucy.

  The weekend ends and he goes home, and whilst he talks excitedly about building a bivouac, he keeps Lucy a secret – they’re already special friends. And soon Dad is shouting again and Mum is crying more and more, but it’s no longer as bad because Lucy is always there. And the best part is she’s got lots and lots of friends. Who cares about the girls on the bus now? They can get lost ‘cause none of them are as attractive as Lucy and her mates.

  Imtiaz is fifteen, sixteen and a lot of the boys have girlfriends. They hang out in the evenings and, experiment. Sometimes he’s invited and sometimes he goes, but he just can’t find a way in. It’s different from when they’re in class. And the girls, they – they frighten him. It’s just too difficult, too uncomfortable. And Imtiaz needs comfort. Lucy opens up her arms.

  Imtiaz is eighteen, nineteen and school’s out. There’s a big do, a final bash. The class of ‘90 together for one last time. The boys are all wearing tuxedos. They look like men. They are men. When the hell did that happen? And the girls. Women. Young women. He’s sat next to them for the last seven years but tonight they are unrecognisable. The disco lights flash, splashing whirligig colours onto a canvas of flesh, making them seem transcendent, other-worldly. Long legs, silk stockings, black high heels. Click, click, clickety click. Sunshine hair swishes on a crowded dance floor but Imtiaz has no courage. And besides, all the girls have a guy – the natural order of things. There’s no room for a spare part.

  Pert bosoms strain against fine cloth and he turns away. But wherever he looks he’s being taunted, mocked by a parade of riches that he’ll never know. He catches Fiona’s eye and she blanks him. He sat next to her for two years, during History. He helped her with the French Revolution. She’s wearing an off-shoulder purple gown and she’s put some glittery stuff on her chest and hair. She’s with Graham as a slow number starts up. The lights dim and she sparkles. He watches them kiss. There’s nothing romantic about it – like everyone they’ve both been drinking and Graham’s hungry like the wolf. From where Imtiaz sits it looks like he is chewing her face. Yeah, he’s chewing her and kneading her. Enjoying her. She’s ten feet away and completely out of reach. He sees this clearly for the very first time and feels anger; resentment. Something’s gone wrong – horribly wrong. Why is he so disconnected? It’s too big a question and as he leaves that night he buries it. It’ll be ten years before it resurfaces. On getting home he seeks solace in Lucy and her mates but the illusion is shattered – the relationship has lost its innocence. Over that summer he graduates in another sense, though – he discovers hardcore pornography. In truth, Lucy and her playmates had long since begun to lose their charms, but this ... oh yeah, THIS. And that goes in there and that goes in there and that goes in there and that goes in there. There was nothing else in God’s good world to compete.

  Imtiaz is twenty-two, twenty-three and he knows there’s a problem. He has a big, big problem. He cares about zilch and only one thing in life excites him. But the more he thinks about it the more down he gets, and the more down he gets the more he needs a release. RELEEEAAASE. Take me to another place. And then the Internet arrives. All thought of escape is now futile.

  Imtiaz is twenty-five, twenty-six, seven, eight, nine. He contemplates suicide. On the eve of his thirtieth birthday he believes there is only one way out. Mum, Dad, Pasha, work and friends – he has lost all meaningful contact. He now exists only in a bubble which he shares with Cindy, Sandy, Jenna and Mandy. He hates himself. He hates them more. But they’ve snuffed out his light and he needs them to see, to feel, to know he’s alive. He just can’t look away. Sometimes he tries. Days pass, a week, two weeks. But eventually, inexorably, Cindy pulls him back. She does things. She looks so ... Oh Sweet Jesus. He would sell his own soul to experience that, just once. Her tight body and pixie face, her groans and sighs and ups and downs. Oh Allah, please. But Jesus doesn’t come and Allah doesn’t come. He’s stranded.

  The fireworks had stopped. Exactly how long ago he wasn’t sure but he now felt the chill in the air. His hands and feet were cold. Where has all my blood gone?

  Turning away from the window he faced the black hole of his room, the sole light provided by the clock radio. He was only mildly surprised at how long he had spent doing absolutely nothing. Knowing that he could not sleep in he walked towards the kitchen with something approaching haste, determined to get a drink and end the day. He switched on the fluorescent light, staying by the entrance until it had reluctantly spluttered into life. He stood his ground, surveying the sight before him. The furnishings and equipment were all now old and the Formica top was chipped in several places, but everything was in order: no dishes piled high, no foul smells, no mess to clear up. He had learned to tread water admirably, but he wasn’t sure if anyone considered stoicism a virtue any more. Walking to the sink, he filled the kettle before locating a jar of assorted herbal infusions and taking out one chamomile tea bag. Warm, soothing and sleep-inducing, he felt comforted by the very thought of the slightly sweet brew. He returned to his bedroom and climbed back into bed, sitting comfortably with outstretched legs. Lifting the saucer, he basked in the rising steam, caressing his face. He stirred lovingly, precisely: an act of worship. Squeezing the bag, he studied the last of the liquid fall through: the drops coalesced, looking thick; almost unctuous. He sipped. The tea was hot but he held a spoonful, letting it coat his throat. A healing syrup. So much pleasure from such a small thing. He closed his eyes, imbibing more this time, and felt the warmth from his trachea spread outwards, and his chest loosen. The desire to sleep was overwhelming him fast now, and taking a final gulp he let exhaustion draw a veil over the day. The radio was still on, but with the volume down low he curled up and drifted back to sleep. Rest. At last. For now.

  11

  Salman turned the key to his front door and warmth greeted him. He entered the hallway and touched the radiator – piping hot. No one was in sight, though muffled voices from the kitchen, along with the hiss of the pressure cooker, provided all the information needed. There was no place like home.

  All of a sudden the living room door opened and his children tore out.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’ screamed Aaliyah, running with arms raised.

  ‘Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!’ shouted Taimur, holding up a model car. ‘Look what Majid Uncle gave me!’

  The boy looked so thrilled. Salman couldn’t wait to give him his own Eid present. It was really from him and his wife but it was Salman who had chosen it. He cupped their chins, feeling their soft, soft skin, their tender baby fat. They were talking excitedly and he was listening, full of interest in their stories, but he was also a little lost. He was looking at the sparkle in their eyes, the ringlets in his daughter’s hair which bounced along with her jerky movements. He was the richest man alive.

  Walking into the kitchen, steam and heat assaulted him. He smarted at the change of environment but his kids flew past unaffected, making for their grandfather at the kitchen table. The old man was reading a newspaper and looked deep in concentration, but didn’t mind being bothered by his grandson’s toy car for probably the fiftieth time that day.

  ‘You look cold, Salman,’ his father observed. ‘You should have taken your long coat.’

  ‘You’re right, Dad. I made a mistake.’

  His mother and wife, both standing by the cooker and engrossed in some gossip, looked surprised to see him. It was a happy surprise, though, and Kahina squeezed past, pushing a chair in to reach her man.

  ‘Ooh, you are cold,’ she confirmed, wrapping arms around his neck and kissing him lightly on the lips.

  Salman smiled. ‘Eid Mubarak to you, too!’ he said, and his w
ife giggled.

  ‘Was the Masjid full, son?’ asked his mother. She was stirring an open pot, bubbling vigorously. It smelled great and he suddenly felt hungry.

  ‘It was totally full,’ he said. ‘I had a good time, everyone was there. But why are you cooking? Aren’t we going to Arwa Masi’s soon?’ Salman was hoping, praying that there’d been a change of plan.

  ‘Yes, in about one and a half hours,’ she suggested, turning towards the wall clock. ‘But we’ll not eat straight away so have something now.’

  Salman looked at himself in the mirror. His father was right – he should have taken his long coat. He was still wearing his leather jacket and was studying his reflection. It wasn’t that he was wet or cold or even somewhat dishevelled – it’s just that he looked so damn absurd. I should throw this away now, he considered as he took it off. He turned back and made to adjust his turban but it was the one thing on him that wasn’t out of place. Despite his parents being from Karachi, his strong features and broad shoulders told of a lineage from further north. He’d put kohl around his eyes and the blackness of the make-up contrasted his pale face. Black eyes, Pathan skin. He thought he looked like a mujahid; a warrior from history. His mind wandered to a more glorious past and he imagined himself as a companion of Babur, conquering Hind in the name of Allah.

  ‘Don’t worry, Salman, you’re still a handsome man.’

  He turned abruptly to see Kahina by the bedroom door, grinning widely. He felt angry but also somewhat silly, so said nothing. She walked towards him and held him and his negativity melted away. They kissed, but with no urgency, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  ‘You look troubled,’ said Kahina, studying her husband’s eyes, his pallor, his slight hunch.