Fallen Angel

by John Ling

  Seething, Samir felt his way around the circumference of the pond and found wires. He followed them, and they led him straight to the power socket. He tore off its plastic cover and yanked the electrical plug loose. The water stopped bubbling. Good. The fish could freeze for all he cared.

  He turned his attention to the smooth rocks decorating the edge of the pond. Picking up one as big as his palm, he weighed it in his hand. Too small. Too light.

  Dropping it, he chose another rock, this one as large as his fist. He had to stretch his fingers to grip it. Yes, this one would do nicely.

  Cradling the rock against his chest, he drew his gun. He looked past the patio, past the deck chairs, past the potted plants. Finally his eyes settled on the glass door that led to the living room.

  He thought of his children, Abu and Fatimah. Still so young. Still so innocent. He hoped they would understand. He hoped they would be proud. And with that, he thumbed his gun’s safety catch off.

  2

  Abraham Khan had just sat down for dinner when his wife gasped. He frowned and lowered his fork to his plate. Following her gaze, he looked out the windows.

  Belinda pointed shakily. ‘There’s someone in the garden.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Abraham pushed his chair back and stood. Craning his neck, he swept his eyes over the fish pond. The flower beds. The shrubs. The fence line. But all he saw were their plants swaying in the drizzling twilight.

  Eventually, he shook his head. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Abe, I’m telling you, there’s a man outside.’

  Abraham reached for a switch on the wall, flipping on the spotlights. They blazed to life, blanketing the yard in a warm glow, chasing away all the shadows. He gave everything another look. Nothing. No bogeyman anywhere.

  He turned back to his wife, agitation creeping into his voice. ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘We should call the police anyway.’

  ‘We are not going to call the police every time you imagine a prowler.’

  Belinda scrunched up her face. ‘I didn’t imagine it!’

  Abraham wanted to snap back, but he dug his fingernails into his palms instead. They had been on edge for two months now. It had started with phone calls threatening obscenities, then dog shit stuffed into their mailbox, red paint splashed on their bonsai shrubs, arsenic dumped into their fish pond.

  Eventually, the police had arrested the boy and the girl responsible – religious nuts who had taken things too far. That should have been the end of the matter. But not for Belinda. She had remained a nervous wreck ever since. Always jumping at shadows. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that there were more crazies out there. Watching. Waiting.

  Abraham forced himself to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. ‘The rain and the wind are playing tricks on your eyes. You have to let it go.’

  Belinda gazed down at her plate. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Try, darling.’

  ‘Don’t you know how scared I am?’

  Belinda blinked back tears. She looked so small right then. So vulnerable.

  Abraham regretted his tone. It wasn’t like them to get angry with each other. It wasn’t like them at all. Softening, he reached out to touch her, to comfort her. ‘I’m sorry—’

  That’s when the glass door in the lounge behind them exploded. Fragments shrieked, peppering the floor.

  Abraham froze in mid-step.

  Belinda clutched her mouth.

  A hooded intruder loomed on the patio just outside, smashing away at the glass frame with a rock before plunging his arm through, reaching for the door handle.

  Abraham stared with his eyes wide, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to comprehend, panic shutting down his brain, paralysing his limbs. Everything was happening in slow motion. But then Belinda’s scream jolted him, and he snapped out of his stupor.

  He knew they had to get upstairs.

  Damn it, their only chance was to get upstairs.

  So he caught Belinda’s arm, pulling her to her feet, her chair toppling, and he spun her around, pushing her towards the staircase, urging her to run like the wind.

  Dear God...

  The intruder was already through the door, his shoes crunching on broken glass, his voice booming, calling Abraham a blasphemer, calling for him to die.

  Belinda hit the stairs with her legs pumping, surging ahead, taking two steps at a time, and that’s when Abraham heard a click. It was an ominous click, a terrifying click, like a gun’s hammer being cocked.

  Fear squeezed his throat shut.

  God Almighty.

  He choked, wishing he could move faster and wasn’t stuck in slow motion. He could feel an icy spot building right at the back of his skull as if a bullet was going to smash into him at any second and blow his head apart.

  3

  Hot tears spilled from Samir’s eyes, streaking his cheeks. ‘Blasphemer! Blasphemer! You must die!’

  He remembered the oppressed ummah, the brotherhood of believers around the world, and swearing he’d strike a blow for them all, he pulled back his pistol’s hammer, aiming it one-handed. At last – at last – he had the apostate in his sights, and this was the moment of moments, his moment of moments, and he knew he was an instrument of the divine.

  ‘La ilaha illa Allah.’ There is no god but God.

  Samir squeezed the trigger, and the pistol roared and kicked, its power making his blood rush, causing him to stagger back two steps, gunpowder scorching his nostrils.

  Up on the staircase, the wall beside the apostate’s head exploded, white plaster misting the air. The apostate lurched, and his wife screamed.

  Samir recovered his footing, realising he had used the wrong grip, the wrong stance, and that he’d been hasty, much too hasty. So he lined up another shot, this time clutching his gun with both hands, locking his elbows, vowing he would not miss because the apostate was already at the top of the stairs, already darting into the hallway beyond.

  Samir squeezed the trigger, and it clicked, not firing.

  Confused, he squeezed it again and again.

  No. No. No.

  Not now.

  Not when he was so close.

  He smacked his palm against the gun, racking the slide back, trying to clear the jam, a round ejecting, flipping, arching. He squeezed the trigger again, and it still wouldn’t work, and he racked the slide again, ejecting another round, squeezing again, but still nothing.

  What to do?

  What to do?

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  Hurling the gun, sending it crashing against the dinner table, dishes clattering, he stormed the stairs, his heart thudding in his ears, knowing he would have to kill the apostate with his bare hands.

  In between breaths, he stuttered a prayer, ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim...’ In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.

  He had almost reached the top when he stubbed his foot on the lip of a step, clumsy, so clumsy, and he twisted his ankle and fell, cracking his head against the staircase’s railing. White-hot pain flowered in his skull, and his hair felt wet and sticky, and curses, he was bleeding all over.

  Gasping, shaking, he picked himself up and limped into the hallway, a door slamming ahead of him, and he could hear screeching and thumping on the other side. It sounded like the apostate and his wife were shifting furniture against the door, barricading it.

  4

  Belinda Freeman-Khan sobbed and screamed herself raw.

  Hot, bitter vomit climbed up the back of her throat, scorching her senses, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and the room around her seemed to warp and blacken and spin. Her knees almost buckled, and she wanted nothing better than to collapse and curl up into the smallest, tightest ball and pass out and hope against hope that this wasn’t happening and—

  Dear God.

  She doubled over and vomited, her insides churning, cramping.

  Her
husband was behind the dressing table now, his face stricken as he grunted and heaved and pushed. He was yelling at her to get up, to help him, to stay strong.

  Belinda stumbled over, still puking as she went, and together, side by side, they pushed and pushed. But the table was heavy as hell and kept getting caught up in the carpet, creaking, jerking, her jewellery falling, her cosmetics falling, all her precious things falling. But she didn’t care, couldn’t care, because all she wanted to do was to keep the bad man away, and they had to hurry because he was coming, definitely coming.

  They managed to shove the table against the door, and that’s when the bad man crashed against it with a terrible bang.

  Belinda yelped, slipping, falling, and she scooted backwards, the carpet searing her butt through her skirt, her hands covering her face. Suddenly she found herself hating Abe for being so stubborn, so naive, so blind, refusing to face up to the danger all these months, all these damn months, and now it was too late, much too late.

  Peering through the gaps between her fingers, Belinda caught her husband scrambling this way and that way around the bed, straining and panting as he tried to shift it. The sight of him made her stomach turn, and she gagged, feeling the urge to vomit, but she was all spent and thirsty as hell, and there was nothing left to vomit.

  Oh God.

  No, she didn’t hate Abe.

  How could she hate him?

  She loved him.

  Damn it, she loved him despite it all.

  Quitting her self-pity, Belinda rose and got beside him even though her limbs were numb, so terribly numb, feeling as if they weren’t hers anymore. But – screw it – she shook her head, snivelling, forcing away the blackness squeezing in on her consciousness, and inch by excruciating inch, with the bed groaning as it shifted, she pushed and stumbled, pushed and stumbled, her muscles burning, her lungs screaming.

  Her mind was on autopilot, no longer thinking, just fighting to survive, just fighting to survive because – damn it – she wasn’t ready to die just yet.

  5

  Samir hurled himself against the door, crying out with each impact, determined to overpower them with his righteousness. But, curses, they had wedged something larger and heavier against the door, and no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t budge.

  It was no use, no use at all, and curses, he would have to find another way, so he sagged against the wall, lurched back towards the staircase. He descended, retching and coughing and spitting out bloody saliva, the pain in his skull throbbing, his vision growing fuzzy, his spirit wavering.

  No, no, no. Do not doubt now. Do not despair. This is a test of faith. A test of commitment. God is watching you. Always watching you. The Compassionate. The Merciful. The Gracious. The Evolver. The Fashioner of Forms. This is jihad. You cannot falter now. You must not falter now.

  Clutching his head, Samir found the kitchen and made for the stove and started fiddling with its knobs, half-crying, half-laughing. Yes, he would use fire, cleansing fire, to destroy the entire house. He would be a shahid, a martyr, the greatest of honours. Oh, how much he ached to be a shahid like the great Osama bin Laden, to avenge the Holy Prophet, to be rewarded with paradise, to make his family proud and—

  That’s when Samir blinked and saw that the stove was electric, not gas.

  He howled.

  Why, God, why?

  Mad with rage, he swept his arm across the dish rack, plates flipping, shattering. He tore out drawer after drawer, cabinet after cabinet, scattering their contents, breaking out in feverish sweat.

  He launched himself against the fridge, rocking it back and forth until it toppled, bursting open. He was delirious, oh so delirious, and he didn’t hear the sirens, the footsteps, the voices until the two police officers were right on top of him, screaming, their tasers drawn.

  ‘On your knees now! On your knees!’

  ‘Comply! Comply!’

  Panting, Samir picked up a meat cleaver. He raised it above his head, and he charged them. ‘Allahu akbar!’ God is great!

  The officers fired their tasers.

  There was a whoosh of air and a hissing sound.

  Samir felt a stinging sensation in his chest, and it swelled into a wave of numbness and nausea. A thousand volts of electricity rocked him, and he slumped to the floor, convulsing. The last thing he felt before his consciousness winked out was his arms being forced behind his back and handcuffs biting into his wrists.

  Samir gasped.

  Oh, my Prophet, my Prophet. I have failed you.

  PART TWO

  .

  6

  ‘Good morning. If you’ve just joined us, you’re listening to Tough Talk. I’m Hayley Ngata. Today I have a special guest with me here in the studio. Reverend Jonah Vosen probably needs no introduction. He is the founder and director of the Ascension Group, a think tank and advocacy foundation based on Christian values. No stranger to controversy, he is well-known for his biting social commentary. But love him or hate him, you have to agree that he’s always an interesting man to talk to. Reverend, thank you for being here, and welcome to our programme.’

  ‘Gidday, Hayley. Hello, everyone.’

  ‘Reverend, as we all know, Abraham Khan and his wife were attacked last night by an armed intruder. The nation is shocked, and it’s put us all on edge. What are your thoughts?’

  ‘First, let me just say that I’m thankful that Mr and Mrs Khan are safe. I can only imagine how traumatised they must be. What they have gone through is appalling. I am praying that they find strength during this very difficult time.’

  ‘Even though Mr Khan is a Muslim and his wife is agnostic?’

  ‘I pray for them anyway. I don’t discriminate.’

  ‘Good on you, Reverend. Now, regarding the incident itself...’

  ‘Shocking, yes, but hardly surprising. This has happened because we have allowed undesirable cultures to take root in this country.’

  ‘You are referring to Mr Khan?’

  ‘No, Hayley. Goodness, no. I’m talking in general here. For instance, let’s take the radical who tried to murder Mr Khan. His name, I believe, is—’

  ‘Um, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to stop you there. My producer’s in my ear, telling me that the suspect has been granted legal name suppression. We can’t allow his name to be broadcast.’

  ‘My mistake. I apologise. Well, let me put it to you another way. Most immigrants arrive on our shores with a genuine desire to contribute to our beautiful land. To add to our diversity. But it appears that some are failing to assimilate. They are either unwilling or incapable.’

  ‘Reverend, isn’t that racist?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, the prime minister has called you a far-right xenophobe. She’s attacked you as being out of step with modern, multicultural New Zealand. And many Christian and Muslim leaders agree. They accuse you of perpetuating a separatist cult.’

  ‘Come on, Hayley. That’s a weak argument, and you know it. I have Dutch, Welsh and Maori blood running through my veins. I do understand the value of multiculturalism. In fact, I celebrate it. But at the same time, I’m also a pragmatist. By any chance, have you read Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I have. But I do know that it’s been cited a lot since September 11th. Something about cultural fault lines...’

  ‘That’s right, Hayley. Fault lines. Flashpoints. Mismatched cultures in violent collision. Everything else is just icing on the cake.’

  ‘Icing on the cake?’

  ‘Here’s an example. Saudi Arabia is the largest exporter of oil; the United States is the largest importer of oil. And guess what? Fifteen of the nineteen hijackers on 9/11 were Saudis.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay.’

  ‘Consider that for a moment. Why would Saudi citizens attack America? Their single biggest customer? Does it make sense? Does it add up?’

  ‘No, I have to admit it doesn’t.’

  ‘You see,
it’s not a traditional conflict over resource or territory that we are witnessing. It’s really a conflict over hearts and minds. A cultural conflict. A conflict that you and I aren’t even aware of until it creeps up on us and explodes in our faces. That’s what so many fail to understand.’

  ‘So you’re against... what? Muslim immigrants?’

  ‘Just those who seek to take us back to the seventh century.’

  ‘Extremists, then.’

  ‘Yes, extremists. Radicals. Jihadists.’

  ‘Reverend, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re pretty radical yourself. Isn’t it hypocritical and unfair to be singling out Muslims and dumping it all on them?’

  ‘I’m not discriminating against any one religion.’

  ‘Yet you seem to be drawing a direct link between Muslims and violence.’

  ‘Will you allow me to put it all into context?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  ‘Okay. You’re familiar with how critics make fun of my faith and the things I hold absolutely sacred. Does that justify me going out and murdering them? Wrecking violent vengeance upon them? Of course not. Yes, their comments may cause me outrage. But I must still tolerate their right to say what they want to say. It is the rule of law. It is the cornerstone of who we are as a society. So, to be clear, I’m only against those who reject freedom of speech in favour of barbarism.’

  ‘But shouldn’t free speech have its limits? I mean, insensitive portrayals of Prophet Muhammad have hurt Muslim sensibilities in the past, and we’ve seen the consequences of that overseas. Should we allow free speech to run amok when we know what it will lead to?’

  ‘Hayley, the freedom that gives naysayers the right to insult God is the same freedom that gives me the right to share my faith. It works both ways. It’s how a mature and dynamic society works. Now, we may not always agree with one another. But we can at least accommodate dissenting opinions. Censorship is not the answer. As a journalist, you would know that.’