Guantanamo Boy

by Anna Perera

  If Mum ever found out that Khalid sneaked downstairs to talk to Tariq for hours on end, in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, she’d have a fit. But if she knew how much he was learning from his cousin, not that he was ever going to tell her, then perhaps she wouldn’t worry so much. He could talk to Tariq about stuff that his friends wouldn’t care about. They were probably all going to stay in Rochdale their whole lives, but Khalid wanted to see the world. He didn’t want to end up like his dad, working hard for someone else all his life. Khalid was always telling his dad to set up a restaurant of his own, but he wouldn’t listen.

  “There’s nothing I haven’t seen,” Tariq writes in his e-mails to Khalid. “I’ve been to Turkey, to Medina, seen the first mosque at al-Quba. You wouldn’t believe how green the dome is.”

  Khalid tries to imagine a green that’s brighter and greener than any other green, but he can’t. Green is just another color to him.

  Tariq tells him about the sacred places of Islam, especially Medina, where the Prophet Muhammad is buried. But they are places Khalid finds it hard to care about. His curiosity sometimes closes down when he reaches these bits of Tariq’s e-mails. The places that interest Khalid are cold and isolated, like remote parts of Iceland and the Arctic. Countries with few people and loads of floating icebergs would suit him. He hates being hot. Greenland, for example, he’d love to go there.

  Plus he hates being preached to. It annoys him because it makes him feel he’s back in school, not at home chatting to his cousin. Tariq’s only two years older than him, yet sometimes he treats him like a little kid. For a start, Khalid doesn’t know where any of these places are. He’s only been to Pakistan once, and that was eleven years ago, to see Uncle, his mother’s brother, who moved there from Turkey. He hadn’t met Tariq, who was staying with his grandmother at the time. All Khalid could remember was the heat and the dusty roads, plus the curved gold sword on the wall in Uncle’s living room. It’s not much of a memory.

  He’s never been to Karachi to visit Dad’s sisters. But he imagines it to be just as boring as the small town near Lahore where Tariq and his family still live.

  The bits of Tariq’s e-mails that really interest Khalid are about computer games, and now that Tariq has invented a game of his own, Khalid can’t get enough of their online sessions.

  “Khalid’s actually touch-typing now. You should see him,” Dad boasts to anyone who’ll listen. Mostly, that person is Mac, their Scottish neighbor from number 11, with daughters the same age as Khalid’s sisters. “He types faster than the wind.” Mac pats Khalid on the head whenever he pops round, which makes everyone laugh. Then Dad and Mac wander outside to talk about petrol gauges, drive shafts, tuning, or something else that the rest of them don’t care about.

  Mum hurries Aadab and Gul to get in the bath and the kitchen falls silent. Always the best time of day for Khalid.

  The barrage of words from Tariq begins the moment the kitchen door closes and Khalid is at last alone in front of the computer, which takes up all the space on the smaller corner table.

  “Hi, cuz,” the e-mail starts. “I haven’t had time to look at Rochdale Football Club’s results for Saturday. How did they do?”

  “It was a draw—a bit of a tough game,” Khalid fills him in.

  “Which means they have to win the next match or they’ll be in danger of being relegated, yeah?” Tariq types.

  “Looks that way.” Khalid sighs as he waits for Tariq’s response.

  “What a shame for Rochdale. The only real lesson I learned today is that no matter how much you learn there is always more to find out. Reading many books has shown me how little I know about anything! And I thought that match was going to be a sure-fire thing. For something happy I will tell you what I have been doing today . . .”

  Khalid rushes through the news about Tariq’s Arabic lessons. Scrolling quickly down the page to the bit he wants. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, to grab every detail.

  From the very first sentence, “Latest game news,” Khalid hangs on every word of his cousin’s ideas and plans, whether he understands them or not.

  “I haven’t decided what to call it yet,” Tariq begins, “but I think six characters placed in different countries would be the best. Then we can have multiple players online at the same time dissing each other. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, six would be brilliant,” Khalid types quickly. “It’s gotta have a real cool name, though!!!!”

  Khalid doesn’t notice time passing as he reads about the complexity required to implement the programming language. Plus the goals, rules, mathematical framework Tariq’s been working on to put the game together make it sound as if his invention is going to be even better than Counter Strike. Khalid loves Counter Strike, a war-based shooting game that he plays at Nico’s place on his console. One team are the terrorists and the other are the Special Forces who have to sneak in and defuse the bomb. Tariq and Khalid both love playing Grand Theft Auto too, getting an adrenaline rush from blowing stuff up and stealing cars. Starcraft, the online strategy game set in space, is their favorite at the moment, but they chat about loads of other games while Tariq finishes off his own invention, which doesn’t have a name yet. It’s going to be basic, but it’s much more fun knowing that it’s their own private game.

  These e-mails make Khalid feel so much better that he forgets about giving Dad the letter from school. Then the door opens and Mum silently crosses the kitchen to pluck something from the fruit bowl.

  “It’s half past seven. Get off the computer, Khalid!”

  It’s always the same. There’s never enough time to talk to Tariq. Reluctantly, Khalid quickly types, “Later, cuz!” and then closes the computer down.

  “Nations around the world are strengthening their anti-terrorism laws. Pakistan is providing America with more military bases and airports to use for its attack on the Taliban,” the newsreader states from the TV in the living room.

  “Haven’t you got any homework to do?” Mum sighs.

  “I can’t work with the TV on in there,” Khalid says.

  “Oh, that’s a good one.” Mum refuses to be taken in by his excuse for a moment, then gives him an only-kidding smile before heading back to the living room and shutting the door behind her.

  Dragging his school bag to the table, Khalid is soon absorbed in Galileo.

  Galileo, the genius who knew everything about astronomy and mathematics. He even managed to improve the telescope. Khalid sits back and folds his arms. How did Galileo know the telescope needed improving? Thinking about this makes his mind go fuzzy. There’s so much to take in and most of it Khalid has to read twice before it makes any sense at all. One thing Khalid’s sure of, though, is that Galileo is way cool. Everyone throughout history knew that. He even took on the Catholic Church.

  “We’re all part of this misery.” Dad pops his head round the door to get a glass of water. Khalid doesn’t know what he means or what he’s talking about. Nor does he ask. But he thinks about it for a moment. That’s Dad all over. He says things you can’t pin down, which is a major part of the problem between them. How exactly is Dad going to react when he hands him the letter? He just doesn’t know.

  The thought flashes through Khalid’s mind that his friends, if they were here, might think Dad was a bit weird saying something like that out of the blue. But then his family aren’t what people suppose they are. Mum has never worn the veil and neither did her mother in Turkey, where she was brought up. Maybe Dad was referring to the fact there has been more hostility in the neighborhood lately towards Muslims. Though Khalid hasn’t been called any names, or been punched or anything, a couple of the Muslim guys at school said they felt totally unsafe being out at night now, while before 9/11 they had felt fine.

  OK, they sometimes say Friday prayers and usually eat halal food, but that’s as far as the Muslim religion goes in Khalid’s family. Dad was brought up in Karachi, Pakistan. His father, who is now dead, owned a fu
rniture shop there and Dad was the last child born to his mother, when she was thirty-nine years old. His three sisters are much older than him and only the oldest is married, so the others live with her and her husband.

  “Those whispering ninnies!” Dad calls them. He doesn’t like them much and hardly ever mentions them.

  “Your dad’s just like my grandpa,” Nico says. “Always telling you to straighten your shirt and comb your hair before you leave the house. As if anyone cares about that stuff any more!”

  Whenever Khalid sees Nico on the street, he’s wearing a black T-shirt and blue low-riders, eating a bag of chips. Always grinning like a lunatic, as if he’s just seen something mad. Nico’s a mate but he’s also the main supplier of alcohol to kids in the area. Being lucky enough to have an eighteen-year-old brother, Pete, who looks just like him, Nico only has to flag up his brother’s ID at the local store to buy crates of beer, which he then sells at inflated prices. Why he spends so much on chips, Khalid can’t understand. But then Nico always has an answer.

  “Eating chips, drinking beer and nailing those steroid heads in the park, how’s that for a brilliant life, eh, mate?” His deep laugh sounds more like a barking dog than a fifteen-year-old boy, which makes Khalid laugh too. Nico’s never mentioned nailing Muslims and Khalid doubts he ever will. He’s not that kind of kid. None of his mates are. They don’t see color, race or religion, any stuff like that. And the kids they call the steroid heads are a bunch of eleven- and twelve-year-olds with shaved heads who live on the estate behind the school and get their kicks from acting hard and bullying old ladies.

  “You finished your homework?” Mum’s back in the kitchen and watching Khalid out of the corner of her eye as she makes a cup of mint tea.

  “Yeah. Think I’ll go round Nico’s for a bit to talk about the match tomorrow.”

  Mum’s mouth twitches as she sits down at the table with a magazine. “Ask Dad first, Khalid. I don’t like that cocky boy!”

  “Mum! Nico’s top of the class in math and his brother’s at Manchester Uni doing electrical engineering. Dad says you don’t get much cleverer than that.”

  “All the same, there’s something strange about him. I don’t care what you say.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever!” Khalid kisses her on the cheek, pretending to be interested for a moment in her World of Cross-Stitching magazine. The sudden smell of her jasmine perfume catches him before, quick as a flash, he grabs his cool blue cap and dashes out.

  “Wait a minute, son!” Dad lifts his head from under the hood of Mac’s old Ford Fiesta as Khalid scoots past. “You can’t go out in your school clothes. You’ll wreck them.”

  Khalid puts on his innocent face. “I’m only going to Nico’s to check some math—a few equations and that.”

  For some reason this makes Mac laugh.

  “When I was your age we didn’t go round bothering our heads about math and footie when the streets were packed with girls.”

  Dad sighs. He hates Mac passing on advice like this to Khalid. But at fifty-four Mac is always that bit out of touch, so Dad doesn’t need to worry that Khalid is listening to him properly. Khalid tries to imagine what it would be like for Mac to hang round with his mates in the park, see what life is really like now.

  “Aye, you couldn’t move for hotties round our way!” Mac laughs to himself.

  “Yeah? Cool!” Khalid grins, wandering off. “See you later.”

  At the end of the road, Khalid rolls back his shirt cuffs, pulls his school trousers low until they sag, turns right, then second left and cuts through the cul-de-sac to the park. Once there, he runs past the swings. Straight to the spot by the oak trees where everyone hangs out on the broken benches.

  “Eya, Kal! Whassup?” Tony Banda grins. “Nothing’s like going on here, mate.”

  They were all there: Nico, Mikael, Holgy, Tony, a few other random kids from school, all making their own entertainment. Rough-readying each other with fake punches, dirty jokes, cigarettes and the odd can of lager. Fighting each other for the last of the Pringles.

  “Idiot face! Give it back!” Holgy tries grabbing the green tube from Tony.

  “Nah, you ate all mine last week!” Tony whacks him over the head with it. Then Holgy, thick brown hair in his eyes, elbows Tony until he drops the Pringles. Nose-diving the tube as he runs backwards, pouring crumbling crisps down his throat. Everyone laughing because, let’s face it, Holgy’s a nutter.

  “Goal. Goal, yay!” Mikael shouts out the picture flashing at the front of his mind, which makes Khalid smile. The main thing they have in common apart from school is the fact they’re on the same five-a-side football team on Thursday evenings. How their little team is doing is never far from anyone’s mind, especially Mikael’s.

  “We need a game plan for tomorrow’s match.” Tony Banda looks at Nico.

  “Let’s just try and win for once.” Nico drags on a cigarette. “How about that for a change?”

  “Yeah, we were a bit sluggish last week,” Khalid adds.

  “A bit sluggish?” Holgy roars with laughter. “We haven’t scored a goal in ages and, Tony, try not to get another card from the referee for spitting tomorrow, eh?” A nifty goalie with big calf muscles, Holgy croaks like a sea lion with every spectacular save he makes. He’s the best player of the lot.

  “Leave it out,” Tony says. “That wasn’t my fault.”

  Tony’s a great attacker, Khalid thinks. He pushes forward like no one else. But no matter how long Tony’s played foot-ball, he still can’t keep to the rules. It’s a shame his mind is usually somewhere else.

  “Where’s Lexy tonight, Tony?” Mikael asks. The mention of Lexy makes Tony go all gooey. In fact, with her blonde hair, big blue eyes and a great figure, she makes them all go gooey. Standing there on the sidelines at every match, dressed in a pink duffel coat whatever the weather, she runs up to Tony in her high-heel black boots when he’s sent off (which happens every other game) and throws her arms round him as if he’s just scored a goal.

  “Dunno,” Tony says. “She’ll turn up, I expect.” And, just like that, there she is, tripping towards them in her high heels.

  “What does she see in you, Tony?” Nico shakes his head in disbelief as she comes across the park.

  “Lexy needs her eyes tested,” Mikael states, and they all laugh.

  “Too right she does,” agrees Khalid. Lexy is fit, but he really fancies this Irish girl from school, Niamh. Why am I too shy to do anything about it, though? he asks himself, falling back in the damp grass to stretch out. There’s a sudden chill in the darkening clouds, which adds to his nervousness as he finally rips the envelope from his pocket.

  “Whoa!” says Nico, whooping with laughter as he spies the school’s crest.

  “Go on, Hanwood, do your worst,” Khalid announces. Holding the envelope to the sky, he tears it open and begins reading in a teacher-like voice for everyone to enjoy:

  “Dear Mr Ahmed,

  Your name was mentioned at the committee meeting today for the school fête, which is being held next term on July second. We wondered if it would be at all possible for you to set up another curry stall as you did so successfully last year? Blah, blah, blah.”

  Khalid kills himself laughing at the wasted hours he’s spent worrying over nothing. “Hanwood said he was going to write a letter about my behavior in the lab.”

  “He’s said that to me a million times. School fête? It’s still only March,” Nico says.

  “So you’ve learned the months of the year, have ya, Nico?” Holgy grins.

  “Januwaree,” Mikael joins in. “Febooraree.”

  “Shut up!” Nico kicks him.

  Then, beyond the dissing, a spiraling warmth breaks out between them. These lads of the same age who share the same streets and school. The same teachers. Same gelled spiky hair. The same stupid jokes and sometimes the same dreams that just might, one day, come true.

  2

  BLOOD’S THICKER THAN WATER


  The next evening, Gul and Aadab are chattering away in the warm, cozy kitchen, bathed in the glare of the red shade hanging from the ceiling. The whole family sits at the table, finishing off a delicious plate of chapattis, curry and vegetable fried rice. The room smells of fried onions, tomatoes and garlic, Khalid’s favorite smell, and he’s happy about more than the delicious smell of food today because Mr. Tagg gave him a B plus for his essay plan on the Spanish Inquisition. Not that it changes anything once Mum tells everyone what’s happening.

  “We’re going to Karachi next week for the Easter school holidays,” she says casually, as if announcing they’ve just run out of salt.

  Khalid sits bolt upright. For a moment he’s too stunned to speak. “What? That sucks!” he moans. But Mum just frowns at him, as if to say, Don’t try that. Don’t start that. But surely this can’t be right? “There’ll be nothing to do there. If we have to go, why can’t we stay with your brother near Lahore instead? I’d rather see Tariq than those whispering ninnies you’re always complaining about, Dad. You can all go, but I’m staying here with my mates.” He slumps down, exhausted by this sudden shower of protests.

  “That’s enough from you!” Shocked by his outburst, Mum shakes her finger at him, while Dad lowers his eyes. “Dad hasn’t seen his sisters since before you were born and, well, maybe you’ll think twice when you know your grandmother has just died and that’s why we’re going.”

  “What?” Khalid looks from one to the other, suddenly ashamed. It’s typical of Dad to hide his news and get Mum to tell them what’s happening. It’s also annoying to Khalid that he’s shot his mouth off so quickly and ended up embarrassing himself.

  “Of course the funeral happened within twenty-four hours, so we’re too late for that,” Mum adds.

  No one speaks for what seems like a very long time, though it’s probably no more than a couple of minutes. Then Mum gets up. Gul and Aadab follow to help her clear the table, making faces at Khalid for being in the wrong, leaving him and Dad sitting there in deathly silence. No mention of the pieces of nutmeg cake in his pocket they always fight over after dinner. No mention of the half-eaten potatoes and chickpeas thrown in the bin during Dad’s time at the restaurant today. No mention of the grandmother Khalid’s never met who’s just died.