Dear Infidel Page 8

  ‘I’m OK.’ His words were laboured. He closed his eyes and flopped backwards. ‘I’m just a little tired.’

  ‘Did something happen at the masjid today?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I had a nice time. It’s just ... it’s so miserable outside. It’s good to be home.’ His eyes remained shut as her hand caressed his jaw line; his neat beard bristled. She ran fingers through his hair before gripping a handful, giving it a gentle tug.

  ‘Come on. Get out of these wet clothes and come back down. Have something to eat.’

  ‘Ah, that’s lovely.’ Salman lingered over his first spoonful. His wife had just poured him a bowl of chickpea and potato soup, cooked just so. The chickpeas were tender; South Asian tender: boiled till they yielded to the slightest pressure, releasing their floury interior. Salman smacked his lips, appreciating the salty, astringent quality. He tucked in whilst his family read, played and talked around him. There was a small television in the corner and his father hushed everyone down on seeing pictures from Iraq.

  ‘Beta, turn it up a little, huh?’ Salman picked up the remote.

  ‘What can you tell us, Captain?’

  ‘Well, sir, this is a militants’ stronghold. We know that the city has become a beacon for terrorists, mostly foreign fighters, and we’re ready for a final assault. We’re gonna give this city back to its people.’

  ‘So when does the action begin?’

  ‘Well, sir, for obvious reasons I can’t tell you exactly when, but soon. Very soon. We’ve been softening up the target for a while now. We’re ready for action.’

  Husnain’s fuse burst, drowning out the reporter.

  ‘Did you hear that bloody fool?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘That soldier stands there and talks about “foreign fighters”, without any sense of irony. I mean, he doesn’t look like a typical Baghdadi to me. You know, Salman, language is so important.’

  He nodded but otherwise didn’t respond. He didn’t have a clue what his father was on about but he loved it when his dad got all worked up.

  ‘And all this talk about “softening up” targets. It’s sounding more and more like some damn computer game. And what does it mean anyway, eh? They’re blowing it all apart: homes, businesses, children’s playgrounds. And they wonder why they’re hated by us. How can they expect anything else?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad, they’ll get nothing else from me,’ said Salman, reducing the volume back to its previous level.

  ‘Be careful, Boy.’ Husnain leaned in and looked his son in the eye. ‘It’s your decision to live in this country but, whilst you do, live as a good citizen; a loyal citizen. Create good relations with your neighbours. Reach out to people.’

  Salman thought about the lady at the bus stop and felt bad.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like out there, Dad.’ He wanted to say so much but felt tongue-tied. He looked across to his own son and hoped that he would take more after his grandfather.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You have to think of the future. Their future.’ He gestured towards his grandchildren. Instinct told them not to act on their curiosity.

  ‘Enough of this!’ interrupted Bilqis, Salman’s mother. ‘Have you forgotten what day it is? This bloody war will still be here tomorrow – you can argue about it then.’

  ‘Come on, let’s start getting ready,’ said Kahina, now carrying Aaliyah.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Bilqis affirmed, noticing the time. ‘Chop chop, everybody – we should leave soon.’

  Salman took Taimur by the hand and the four of them left the kitchen.

  ‘We should get ready too,’ said Bilqis to her husband, putting a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at his wife and she thought he seemed scared. She was determined not to revive the conversation, though – at least not today.

  ‘Right, have we got everything?’ It was Salman’s stock question on leaving the house, to whomever he was with. He and Kahina were holding various odds-and-sods, household things which they were returning. The kids however were more interested in what their grandfather was holding – shiny, wrapped up parcels.

  ‘Can I see, can I see?’ came Taimur’s request for the umpteenth time, upon which Salman decided it was time to go.

  They all squeezed into the old Ford Mondeo. His Mum had Aaliyah on her lap and Kahina held a slightly restless Taimur. Salman really wanted to get a new car, one of those people carriers, but he couldn’t afford it. He sometimes felt inadequate. He breathed deeply, trying to shake off the cobwebs that were constantly settling over him. He turned back and four faces smiled his way and he felt better.

  ‘OK, Dad?’ he said, turning back to the front.

  ‘Let’s go, Beta,’ encouraged Husnain, patting his boy on the knee. Salman turned the ignition and the engine kicked into life.

  12

  Pasha approached his BMW with wrapped presents in hand and a city-style overcoat draped over his forearm. He opened the boot and placed the presents carefully before catching his reflection in the rear screen. He felt he looked good: trousers, shirt, no tie. Top button undone. He’d considered wearing a suit, he’d considered wearing a sherwani, he’d considered wearing a lot of fucking things, but he’d settled on this. He was disappointed in having become so rattled. He’d visited his mother six months ago and he was fine then – in fact he’d looked forward to it. And he’d seen Imtiaz within the last year, and Aadam not long before, when he got married. But Salman he’d not seen in, well – it had been a long time. He’d never met his wife or children. He’d bought them presents especially.

  Despite a poor start he could get there on time. Negotiating the M6 and M1 down to the tip of London would be easy; driving into the capital would be another matter though. We’ll see, he thought, happy to enjoy the clear road ahead.

  Pasha was cruising through the breezy roads of Cheshire. Trees and farm-fields flanked him on either side. A few minutes earlier, taking a short cut, he’d found himself approaching a group on horseback. He’d slowed right down and overtaken at a snail’s pace, giving the horses as wide a berth as possible. As he passed, the lady in front gestured thank you, which he’d returned with the same good grace. He looked again at the fields. He’d be back in just twelve hours, and yet he felt a sadness more akin to a longer sojourn.

  He’d never gone back to London; not to live, anyway. He’d left to go to university in Durham and fell instantly in love with its waterfront and quayside nightlife. How special was that? Sure, London had the best club scene, but Durham’s was good enough and it had other stuff too. There he was just twenty minutes from the Yorkshire Moors. In summer, parts of it got covered in lavender and from certain peaks you could look out onto a sea of purple. He had it all: nightlife, fresh air and fresh people. Even back then, so soon after leaving home, London seemed a distant, fast imploding ghetto. He’d have made his own way, somehow, had he stayed on, but it would have been more difficult. He’d have had to consciously avoid the cliques, the petty small-minded mentalities. A friend once told him how the Asians in big city universities always initially stuck together. But then, after their first year, they broke up into huddles of Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs. What prats. He just didn’t want to be surrounded by that. In Durham he was on his own but no one, virtually no one had an issue with his colour. He had prepared himself for prejudice, thinking not unreasonably that he’d experience problems, but the exact opposite transpired. People loved him. Sure, some of it was down to his relative exoticism, but what the hell – he had so many friends. Weekends were spent in the quayside bars or the Georgian theatre, where they always had live acts. They used to go on cruises on the Tees at term-end and do white-water rafting during the summer. London simply dissolved away.

  Pasha accelerated smoothly through the 80s until he hit 90 mph. This part of the M6 was generally clear and he didn’t expect any build up until reaching Birmingham. Cities, towns, places and people just swept by. Motorways were like portals; gateways connecting different worlds.

&nb
sp; He thought about his girlfriend, Jenny, and felt bad about having chucked her out of his flat yesterday. Their flat. Oh what the fuck, he didn’t have to pretend right now – it was his flat. Jenny was an easy girl. He enjoyed having her on his arm when out, and having her in his bed when in. And he liked tickling her when half-cut. The End. Their story deserved no sonnets.

  He slipped from third lane to second, letting the flashing Porsche behind him go. The driver looked across fleetingly, his face defined by arrogance. Young Buck, Big Wheels. That used to be me, thought Pasha, and his mind wandered back to the night he and Jenny got together. It was nearly four years ago, when the two of them were working for the same company. It was a small concern, a start-up, one where all the staff chipped in wherever they could: as software architect Pasha often participated in sales, and the girl who answered the phone also cleaned the toilet.

  One time they’d travelled to give a demonstration, and afterwards they were taken out to dinner by the client. Pasha was tired and had wanted to go home but it was all part of the package. Schmoozing. The sales manager was OK – very capable and thus useful as an associate, but too dull beyond those boundaries. Jim Althorp, though, as the humble northern boy made good, was a self-appointed philosopher-king.

  The four of them had gone to a steak house and Pasha got annoyed with Jim right from the start. Before they sat down they had a drink by the bar and with a nod and a wink Jim said, “Get yourself one”, to the bartender. Northern Soul. And once they were seated and the waitress had come over, he kept calling her ‘pet’, and made sure he had a chat with her before she began taking the orders. Needing immunity from the man’s ways, Pasha began to drink.

  When dinner arrived – huge servings of meat, vegetables and gravy – the waitress accidentally tipped Jim’s plate as she placed it down, spilling some of the sauce. Full of embarrassment and apologies, she frantically began wiping the table. He gently grabbed her hand and said, ‘It’s OK, pet, no harm done. Our little secret, eh?’ She walked away flustered but relieved, knowing her boss wouldn’t find out about her accident with such a prominent local man. Once out of earshot Jim leaned forward towards Pasha, seated opposite him.

  ‘It pays to be reasonable,’ he commented with a wink. ‘I’m a reasonable man.’ Pasha refilled his glass as Jim began boasting about being some modern day Scrooge (post all the spooking). He went on about all the Tiny Tims that he’d helped and kept saying we’ve done this and we’ve done that, when what he really meant was I.

  Sensing Pasha’s growing frustration, Jenny stepped in, congratulating Jim on how expertly he’d handled the situation. Jim, of course, looked more than happy at the approval he got from the young lass.

  ‘Harrison. Jenny Harrison. That’s a fine Lancashire name,’ he commented. ‘Where are ya from, pet?’

  ‘I’m a Formby girl, born and bred,’ she said, knowing the information would go down well.

  ‘Smashing,’ said Jim, overjoyed to be in the company of his own. ‘Are ya family still there?’

  ‘Oh aye. We’re Formby for generations, although me mum’s from Heysham originally.’ Dear old Jim could barely contain himself.

  ‘Smashing, just smashing,’ he repeated, his ample cheeks all ruddy. Refilling his glass he looked at Pasha and made to speak before swallowing his tongue. ‘Smashing,’ he muttered again, but with downcast eyes.

  ‘It’s OK, Jim,’ said Pasha. ‘You can ask me where I’m from as well. It’s no problem.’

  Jim stalled, unsure how to react. He looked hard at Pasha and drained his glass. ‘I said nothing, son, not because I’m rude, but because no one is sure what they can and can’t say anymore. We’re all confused, in our own country.’

  Mindful that he was here on business, Pasha let it go. Meanwhile he felt Jenny discreetly taking hold of his hand underneath the table. Jim’s wisdom turned to the police, and how full of admiration he was for the Boys in Blue, but Pasha wasn’t listening. Jenny was squeezing his hand a little and had turned to face him, holding his gaze reassuringly. She was no beauty, but she looked so tender, wearing that gentle smile. He felt real warmth, though the alcohol in his bloodstream was making him horny, too. He stared into her northern face and at her pink lipstick. He wanted to taste those bubble-gum pink lips.

  Alone in his hotel room, Pasha felt exhausted. He splashed his face over the sink before examining himself in the mirror. Water dripped off his smooth, glistening skin. Glistening brown skin. Brown skin stretched over Semitic features. He smiled.

  The room bell went and he wondered who the hell it was. Jim, he concluded, and he braced himself: either an apology or a lynching was coming. He opened the door to find Jenny on the other side. She’d changed into a nightdress but hadn’t taken off her make-up. She welcomed herself in, a drunk, playful grin on her face.

  ‘Hi, Pasha,’ she said, pressing a palm on his chest as she breezed past. He closed the door, bemused, and turned to see that she was sitting on his bed.

  ‘Get us a drink, Pasha. Wine would be good but anything will do.’ Feeling a little awkward he turned away, towards the mini-bar. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about Jim. Him getting all aggro with you like that.’

  Pasha was crouched down and inspecting the mini-bar contents. ‘Why are you sorry? Anyway, to be honest, he had a point.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He handed her a glass of red. ‘Oh, nothing. I can’t blame the Jims of this world for falling out of love with us, that’s all.’

  She looked uncertain and changed the conversation. ‘So are you married, then?’

  ‘No.’

  She sipped generously and laughed. ‘Don’t look so nervous. I’m not about to propose!’ He smiled and sat down beside her, and which point she flopped backwards and closed her eyes. ‘You’re different to other paki lads.’

  ‘Different ‘good’ or different ‘bad’?’ he asked, trying to shake off her casual use of ‘paki’. She’d clearly had more to drink than he had realised.

  ‘Different ... good!’ They tittered at her hesitation.

  ‘So are you going to get yourself a nice Pakistani bride?’

  Pasha was irritated by the question. ‘Why? Do you know any?’

  ‘Not many down my way, I’m afraid. Just us local girls. We’ve got more ... spirit.’ And with her eyes still shut she nestled up closer. Her hands were by her sides whilst she absent-mindedly opened and closed her legs, with the soles of her feet remaining together. Little butterfly wings. Flutter flutter, come taste my nectar. He considered just chucking her out and going to sleep, or fucking her first before chucking her out and going to sleep. Nip-and-tuck. Her head moved gently from side-to-side, as if she was listening to some tune. But there was no music. This was easy, too easy, and a surge of anger bolted through him. For a moment he was close to hitting her and he was relieved he hadn’t done so. Still looking down, he curbed his disdain – he couldn’t hate her, this salt-of-the-earth British girl. British women: they didn’t have the élan of the Italians, the femininity of the French or the sheer native beauty of the Spanish. No. But they had a rawness, a baseness, a kind of prostitute-quality that really worked for him. He leaned in to touch her hair and, feeling his weight, her smile widened. He ran a finger over her bubble-gum pink lips and her butterfly wings re-opened. He moved on top, pinning her, and kissed her with hunger. Enjoying her firmness he bit her neck, holding a fold of skin and flesh in his teeth, inhaling her cheap, stale perfume. Pasha’s mist descended. He sprang up, pushing her pliable legs to either side and smoothed his thumb over her knickers. He moved slowly from outer to inner labia, and then clitoral hood – mapping her out through silk. He could tease himself no longer. Pulling down her lace, he descended – bubble-gum pink to bubble-gum pink. And instantly he recoiled. She stank. She was giggling and for a second time he came close to violence, but again he pulled back. He studied her ethnic features, her blotchy pink arms and her pink, pink skin. Indissoluble pink. Jim Pink. Jenny opened her eyes and clasping his
tie, pulled him onto her.

  ‘Love me, Pasha,’ she said. And they’d been together ever since.

  He’d reached the outskirts of west London. A mortal dread gripped him. He looked around like a wide-eyed tourist who, expecting to see pinstriped suits and bowler hats à la Mary Poppins, could instead barely see a white face. Into the heartlands he went: a sari shop passed him on his left and a Middle-Eastern grocer’s on his right. Five minutes later he came up to the Lahori Kebab House, which he remembered well. He’d loved it there, being a regular throughout his teens. Part of him wanted to rush in and say I’m back!, but most of him didn’t. A woman wearing what could only be described as a tent crossed the road. Her face was covered and Pasha genuinely wondered if she could see where she was going. Turning a corner into Elmstead Avenue, he saw two Asian kids kicking a ball. One wore a polo shirt which declared that he was Proud to be Pakistani. It didn’t say Proud to be British or Proud to be British Pakistani; just Proud to be Pakistani. And there he was – number forty-five. Home.

  13

  Aadam carried two steaming mugs of tea into the living room. Bina was sitting on the floor, focused on defacing some magazine. Kishore sat slumped on the settee. His eyes were shut and he looked pale, and Aadam considered just letting him rest a while.

  ‘Tea’s up, bro,’ he soon announced loudly, and Kishore jolted awake before gratefully accepting the mug.

  ‘Oh man, that’s better. That hit the spot.’ He sighed on sipping, the ginger biting his throat. ‘Nazneen will be OK, right?’ Kishore quickly refocused without waiting for a response, and picked up the TV remote.

  ‘Oh sure, I’ll sort things out.’ With newspaper in hand Aadam settled by the dining table, trying to brush the incident off. Deep down, though, he was shaken; upset that she’d walked out. He’d really chosen badly in letting his friend trump her.

  ‘Eid Mubarak!’ came the cry from the box. On the screen was a sea of Muslims at prayer. They were all dressed in white and going into sujud, moving down from standing. To prostrate themselves. Prostrate themselves before God. Before Allah. Together. Muslims to the left, Muslims to the right: an unending sea of Muslims. Kishore changed channels. Britney Spears appeared and Bina’s head turned. She watched open-mouthed as the attractive girl went through a series of interesting moves. Daddy was watching open mouthed too.