by Jan Needle
Ashton was disappointed.
“Respect my arse,” he went. “You telling me that Asian crumpet don’t? Because I don’t believe you, mate, no way. Anyway, you got sisters. You must’ve seen what they wear under ’em.”
“I’m not a pervert, either,” Shahid said. “And anyway, I don’t see my sisters any more, do I, I’m in the army. At the risk of sounding racist, I’m the black sheep. Shorn. Cut off without a bleeding penny. Even visiting our house I’d be safer with a rifle in me hand these days.”
“Bloody hell,” said Ashton. “Just in case you want to cop a look?” I think he was joking, but if he was it didn’t work.
“Did you do something bad or something, Sha?” I asked. “To get cut off, like, or was it just the army bit? Why did the family go against you?”
“Islam means submission,” he said. “I didn’t fancy it. I’d seen a bit too fucking much of it, growing up. I loved my sisters. Plus I’ve got two brothers and I hate them.”
“Bloody hell,” I said. “Happy Families.”
“You don’t know the fucking half of it,” he said. “One sister…” He stopped. “Well, let’s just say she’s as mental as the rest of them. Submission, see? It’s total fucking bollocks.”
“But you said it’s the same word,” said Ashton, triumphantly. “See! I got you there! So Islam’s fucking bollocks!”
I’m not religious myself, not in any way, but this all sounded wrong to me, it sounded...well...disloyal or something. I mean, would I say that Christians were all mental? Catholics? Well, obviously I would, they are. But for a Paki – somehow it seemed different. Frightening.
“Fuck,” said Ashton, when Shahid didn’t take the challenge. “You’ve got it bad, mate. You can’t hate ’em enough to want to kill ’em, though, so why join the fucking army? One madhouse to another that is, how much sanity do you see round here? Martie Martin? Bollocks Bowyer and Billy ’Unt? You must be joking.”
Sha wiped his plate down with a bit of naan. He stuffed it in and swallowed, a great big lump. Like he was trying not to say no more or something.
“There’s mad and mad,” he said, at last. “I got forced down to the mosque after school for years and bleeding years, chanting Arabic out of the Koran, the Q’ran as they call it now, can you hear the difference? The bloke that ‘taught’ me was an old prat from the wilds of fucking nowhere, could hardly speak a word of English, who told us that we had to hate you lot, the kuffar, because you’re unbelievers in a godless country. Godless! Well, I was bloody born here.”
He looked a bit upset, maybe, so I thought I’d try and lighten it.
“Well, he’s dead right there,” I said, “we’re unbelievers, that’s for sure. I mean, England’s a Christian country, spose to be, but I don’t know anyone who actually believes the crap. I mean, it’s Stone Age, bollocks, we just go along with it to save the sweat. Bloody hell, even you go to church parades, don’t you? Beats working, any day.”
Shahid finished off his pint, and his eyes cleared slowly.
“Yeah,” he said, “and that’s the bastard, innit? Stone Age bollocks, dreamed up by some fucking madman in a fucking cave, unbelievable. And we believe in it and you’ve grown out of it, we need another hundred years. I believe it too, in some sort of stupid, gutless way, I just can’t shake it. Bred in the fucking bone.”
“Once a Catholic always a Catholic, that’s what my Auntie Ellen says,” said Ashton, brightly, then thought he must have got it wrong. “What? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nowt,” said Sha. “You’ve hit it, Ashton, really. We’re a lot like Catholics, except we kill each other instead of wasting time with arguing. Sunni, Shia, Sufi, Wahhabi – each gang of them thinks their gang’s got it right and old Allah says the others must be killed, it’s only justice because he told them personal. And the good thing is, when us Brits invaded it made it all our fault, they can kill us now in any country in the world. Blow up a hundred Muslims watching the world cup? Best news a Muslim’s ever heard, and that’s official from Al Qaida. And we’re to blame. It’s marvellous.”
We, you, him, them – it was too complicated for Ashton, and me as well if I’m being honest. But my glass was empty, so I put me hand up for a waiter, and signalled three. He nodded. The universal language of the pisshead.
“We’ve got it right on one thing, though,” said Ashton. “They’ll kill anyone, your lot. I’ve studied it. I’ve read it in the Sun. No duff information there!”
“Yeah, and that’s your trouble,” said Shahid. “As a race, society, whatever. You know Jack Shit. Jack Shit about fuck all. All Jocks are mean, all Scousers thieve, French girls are all sexy, politicians all tell lies, and single mums all scrounge. So Muslims are all terrorists. It stands to fucking reason.”
“Well this bit does,” said Ashton comfortably. “All terrorists are Muslims. Now that you can’t deny, can you?”
“And I’m a Muslim in the British Army. Maybe that’s why I joined up in the first place, to show you it’s not true.” Sha paused, as if he was thinking. “Or to show kids in the places I grew up that there were other ways. You can try to do things right and be a Muslim.”
“You’re not a Muslim, mate,” crowed Ashton. “You’re a fucking traitor, I bet that’s what your family think. Fact is you couldn’t get another fucking job, just like the rest of us, and bollocks to Allah! Deny it, wanker, I dare you to deny it. Bollocks to Allah!”
The new beer was arriving, and the waiter spilled some on to the table, where it ran off on to Shahid’s leg. They both pretended to ignore it, but I thought I’d better change the subject off religion smartish. And terrorism, come to that. The trouble was, my mind was nearly blank.
“What did they say, though? Shahid? When you joined? Did they mind?”
He stared for a moment, as if he didn’t get the question. The waiter went off, but didn’t take the plates away.
“My father beat me up,” he said. His eyes turned inwards, like he was looking inside his head. He made a grimace with his lips. “The brothers brought some friends in from the mosque, they all joined in, they said it were an honour thing, I’d invited shame on the community. Honour. It’s a good word, innit?”
Ashton wasn’t listening. He made a noise and I followed his eyes to the window. A face. Pale and stupid, pressed up against the glass just like a kid.
“Shit,” said Ashton. “Rumbled. Get us out of this one, Shahid!”
Sha looked up.
“Good,” he said. “Talking of honour, here’s our meal ticket. And it means we can’t come back again. The waiter’s fucking crap.”
He’d lost the both of us this time, but he didn’t bother to explain. He watched the door open and he greeted Goughie like a long lost pal. Gough didn’t even look suspicious.
“Hi, lads. Thought I saw you earlier. What you doing?”
“On-line poker,” said Ashton, not too unpleasantly. “Can’t you see, you twat?”
“You eating?” asked Sha. “Grub’s good, mate. Get us another beer, we’ll sit with you.”
Now what’s going on, I thought. If I had much more beer I’d bleeding burst. Crap and a kip, that would be my recipe for a quiet afternoon. Maybe some movie. Shahid couldn’t mean it, surely?
“Oh!” said Goughie. He was surprised, but looked dead pleased. “Yeah. What a good idea. What’s the prices like?”
“Rock bottom. Cheap as chips. Tell the lad I sent you. Abdul, that’s his name, I think. He’s a Catholic.”
“You what? Catholic?”
Me and Ashton caught each other’s eyes, but we didn’t laugh. Catholic. What was the bastard on about?
“Aye,” said Shahid. “Doesn’t talk about it much, but you can worm it out of him. Hey!” He called across and said a lot of Asian stuff, and the waiter looked amazed. But he clocked onto Goughie’s face, then said, “Okay.”
“Go on,” said Sha. “Get us three more beers and give the lad your order. Just don’t tell him we’re army, okay
? It won’t go down too well.”
Gough hesitated – who wouldn’t – but Shahid sort of pushed him forward, smiling fit to bust.
“The dupiaza’s good,” he said. “Ain’t it, Tiny? Just as good as mother used to make it!”
In half a minute Gough was deep in conversation with the waiter, buried in a menu while Abdul poured the pints. Shahid reached across the table and shoved us all towards the door.
“What?” said Ashton. “What the fuck—?”
“Shut up you fool,” Sha whispered. “Out! Out! Out!”
“But we haven’t paid!” I said. “Christ, Shahid!”
“It’s down to Goughie,” Sha whispered. “I’ve told the waiter it’s his treat. Quick, before the bugger notices!”
He made it to the door like silent lightning, and me and Ashton were a second later. The waiter saw us go, but I guess Sha’s story covered that ’cause he didn’t shout or nothing. Out in the street Sha and Ash were into mega-giggles.
“Your face, Tiny!” Ashton said. “Don’t you like free food or summat? Hey, bloody Goughie! Like taking ice cream off a kid!”
“It’s the principle, not the cash,” said Sha, as if I’d understand. “He’ll be okay, he’s got nowt else to spend his money on, has he? Anyway, it’s that fucking waiter I was after, not old Gough. He messed my trackies up, the Bangla get, and did he apologise? Nah – because it were done on purpose, weren’t it? I weren’t going to pay in any case. Just this way, Goughie gets to take the flak!”
We’d made about a hundred metres from the cafe when there was a big commotion down the road behind us. The door had slammed open and Johnny Gough was out, cork from out a champagne bottle, running like fuck. Away from us, luckily, and chased by three Pakis (or Bangla-men, let’s get it right!). Chinese waiters in a suchlike situation carry knives and cleavers, that’s a well-known fact, but this lot at least appeared to be unarmed. And Gough was fast, fair play to him. He was a champion!
“Shit, look at Goughie go!” said Ashton.
“I never thought he had it in him,” said Shahid. “We ought to go back in and smash the dump up to show him some appreciation.”
“Nick the till,” said Ashton. “Take a contribution for the trouble they’ve put us through.”
“Especially Goughie,” said Shahid. “He didn’t even get a curry and a pint of piss. Shall we follow on and see what happens?”
We didn’t, though. We found a quiet spot down by the river and smoked a bit of shit. I kipped a bit, Ashton watched the girls and played a bit of pocket billiards, and Shahid did a bit of thinking.
Leastways, that’s what he said he did. His final conclusion, apparently, was that we should go to the nightclub later and suss out the gippo thing.
“It’s the best thing about the army really,” he said. “You can always guarantee a fight if you look hard enough. I wonder if Goughie’ll come. Hope so.”
“You what?” I said. “Why?”
He laughed.
“He’s got potential,” he said. “He’s just took on half of Sylhet single-handed, saved me the bother. If I’m not careful, I’ll have to talk to him. Make him a friend.”
“Christ,” said Ashton, as if he was suddenly deeply interested. He was.
“Look at the tits on that,” he said, pointing across the grass. “World fucking class...”
Six
You could tell that it was brewing from the start. We didn’t kill ourselves to get there and we walked again, which seemed a good plan at the time and was mainly down to Ashton. He liked to check out the local females, he said, and upset them with what they were missing. Shahid said he just liked to shake his gonads down, which Ash quite liked when Sha explained what gonads were.
In fact, he asked Sha how he knew so much stuff, big words and so on, and Shahid laughed.
“Ask Tiny, not me, mate,” he said. “He went to university, which in Blackburn terms makes him an aristocrat, first class. He’s the big words king.”
“Balls,” I said. “I don’t even know what one of them is. An errister-what?”
“Got you there, Sha!” Ashton crowed. “You’re a stuck-up twat, I always knew it. I bet you could’ve gone. Too bloody idle, were you?”
Shahid wasn’t fazed. Why should he be? We were strolling on a quiet afternoon, still warm although the sun was nearly gone, no work to do till Monday and the world our bleeding oyster.
“It were me dad’s decision, nowt to do with me,” he said. “When my teachers told him I should try for uni he lost his English, didn’t he? That’s the best thing about bilingualism. You can forget which one you’re meant to know, any time you fancy.”
“Bi what?” said Ashton. “You mean your old man goes with blokes?”
“Ho bloody ho,” said Shahid. “He’s not even bilingual, come to think of it, his English is diabolical. But when the school sent a translator he couldn’t speak Urdu neither. Or Bengali, Hindi, double-Dutch, you name it. It saved him thousands on me fees, and the translators are paid for on the rates. This fucking country’s mad.”
Comes to something when your Paki mates sound like the BNP, but I let it go. I was trying to keep the heat off me.
“So you’d have gone as well if he’d let you, right?” I said. “So why you tearing the piss out of me? A year at uni, failed, don’t make you a middle-class wanker, you know.”
“So here’s the difference,” said Shahid. “Your mum’s skint okay, but she sent you despite of it, and my dad could’ve sent me free but couldn’t see the point. ‘No bloody thank you, Mr Britain – here’s my nose, watch me while I cut it off to spite my face.’” He paused, briefly. “You should have stuck it, mate. I would’ve done. Or haven’t you noticed where you’ve ended up?”
We all laughed at that, but it didn’t feel so funny, really. For a moment I was tempted to tell ’em I’d only joined when I was desperate, and because the lying bleeding adverts said that I could learn a trade like brickeying or carpentry or plumbing, but I didn’t want to go there, it pissed me off too much to even think of it. I pushed Ashton into a pub instead, where I’d seen some totty peering through the window, and by the time we got to the Perokeeto, we were pretty well oiled and we had four exotic birds in tow (English country style!) to put the tin lid on it.
Exotic? Jesus! They were completely mental, and as ugly as an American evangelist. Ashton’s Talking Dogs, Shahid called them to their faces, but they didn’t mind, they needed “male escorts” to get in, that was the Perokeeto rule. They nearly talked our tits off in the pub, and they made me miss Bridgie, to be quite honest, because she was too miserable to talk at all most of the time. They were okay though, not after owt, and it kept up the essential blood-flow in Ashton’s keks.
It was information that we needed, more than anything, and they were pretty hot on that once we’d got them going, although they had the cheek for starters to ask me if I was a pikey, which made the others fall about. I’ve never been a tidy sort of guy, but for fuck sake! Then they said it was a joke, of course, and clinched it by saying that the barman didn’t serve gippoes in any case, so I must be all right. Anyway, said the funniest one, who was called Becks, pikies didn’t pal out with blacks and Pakis, did they? Even pikies had their standards!
I told you they were mental. They could’ve got their heads kicked in for that sort of talk, but Sha and Ashton played along as if it was the height of wit. And now the conversation was round to gypsies, Sha kept it there. He should have been a lawyer, really. He was made for it.
It turned out there was a gypsy camp about a mile away, and they’d been coming in and causing shit for ages. The girlies squabbled for a while if they were really gypsies, or “travellers,” or “diddycoys” (that’s what it sounded like), and with their crazy country accents it was quite a bit of fun. Anyway, they said, they were bloody ’orrible, and filthy, and they’d turned the place into “a praaper slum.” They chucked their rubbish over the hedges into the fields and road, they didn’t have lavatori
es, they spread disease (“it stands to reason, dunnit?”), and they all drove “Mercedeezeez and Beemurrz” and lived off the Social – special pikey rates, ’undreds and ’undreds of quid a week. And they all had fifteen children and a dog.
“They smash the pubs up, too,” said Clare. “They’re all banned, innay? They go in the lavvies and shit straight on the floor. And then they don’t use paper! They’re animals!”
“Why would they do that?” said Shahid, keeping a straight face. “Do they like getting shit up their fingernails to have a sniff at later? Or is it nice and squidgy for their toes?”
“Don’t you be so daft!” said Clare. “They paags, is what. They just durty paags!”
“Paags?” said Shahid. “Bloody Nora, what’s a paag when it’s at home?”
“You should know!” said Becks, bright as a button. “Them things you Pakis ain’t allowed to eat. Oinkers. ’Ogs. You know!”
“’E’s takin’ the piss,” said Ally. “Tent funny, matey, ’tis serious! They rapin’ girls now! They stealin’ knickers off of lines! When they were over in ’Ampshire near my aunty’s ’ouse a little baby disappeared!”
We were in Ashton’s territory now. The rest of it he hadn’t bothered with. Probably heard it all before about his family, back in Manchester.
“Told you, lads,” he said. “Baby stealing, well-known fact. Fuck that though, you can always get more babies, what’s this about rape, that’s much more interesting. Have any of you lot been done? Or don’t you fancy that sort of thing?”
“It’s true!” said Clare, completely scandalised. “Tell ’im, Leigh-Ann. You knew a girl, din’t you? She knew a girl! She did!”
Leigh-Ann was the quiet one, but she managed not to blush.
“Thass right. Me cousin’s mate. I even know ’er name if I could remember it. Sarah... Sasha... no, summink like that. Oh it was terrible. In hospital for months, she was. Turned her nearly inside out they did.”
“Ten of ’em!” said Clare. “Thass what I ’eard!”
“Nah,” said Becks, the voice of reason. “Four. Five, top whack.”
