The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  He felt the hand on his back, Fahid gently patting him, soothing him, and fear made him throw up again. Zed clung to the toilet and kept his face averted for as long as he could, until there was nothing left inside him to throw up, no reason to stay on his knees other than abject fear.

  “Feeling better now, little brother?” Fahid asked.

  A glass of water was pushed into his hand. Zed swilled out his mouth and spat out the water. As he stood, Fahid flushed the toilet.

  Zed washed his face and drank the rest of the water.

  “Hope that wasn’t something we ate,” Fahid said.

  Okay to look worried now. “Oh no. You don’t feel ill, do you?”

  “I’m fine.” Fahid pressed a hand to Zed’s forehead. “You’re hot. Sweaty. Go back to bed. Stay in bed. When I go to the mosque for Israq, I’ll tell the imam you’re not well today.”

  Zed nodded and made his way back to his room. Had he just been handed an opportunity? Israq was the sunrise prayer so Fahid would be leaving around five. Not back until almost six because he inevitably found someone to chat to. Zed lay awake, watching the red lines on the digital clock mark the time down.

  But as he thought it through, he worried this wasn’t the moment to take. On virtually empty streets he would be seen.

  He thought some more. He needed to call the police but use the new non-emergency number 1-0-1.

  When Fahid came downstairs at five, Zed was waiting. “I feel okay now. I want to go to the mosque.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that. No shalwar kameez?”

  “Needs washing.” It didn’t but he didn’t want to wear it today.

  Zed had his question ready as they left the house. “Do you think a tally is kept of the number of times we pray?”

  “Our private prayers or those at the mosque?”

  “Both. I can’t shake off the thought of angels holding lists of names ready to tick off when you’ve prayed.”

  Fahid laughed. “You’re thinking too literally. I’m sure all our good and bad actions are known to Allah—peace be upon Him. A good Muslim should pray five times a day plus Friday prayers, but beyond that there is no particular number of private prayers that each person is required to make. It would hardly be fair on those who died early through accident or disease.”

  “That’s true.”

  As he’d hoped, his observation set Fahid off and he talked all the way to the mosque allowing Zed to hide his nervousness.

  They completed wudu side by side, sitting on the special seats to wash. Once their du’as were said, they waited for entry into the place of worship.

  “Are you able to work for the imam today?” Fahid asked.

  “Yes. I’ll speak to him after Israq and ask what he needs me to do.”

  “You’ll have to wait. He’ll be busy.”

  “I’ll find somewhere to sit and be patient.”

  When Israq was over, Fahid went off to speak to someone and as soon as he was out of sight, Zed slipped out of the door in the midst of an exiting group and hurried to the Tube. He wanted to run but he made himself walk. The less attention he drew the better. There was a public phone near the ticket office.

  He walked straight up to the phone. There was no point hesitating. The longer he waited, the more likely he’d lose his voice. His heart pounded as he listened to a recorded message telling him he was being connected to his local police service centre. Zed was torn between keeping his face hidden and checking to see if there was anyone around who knew him. But if the latter was true, he’d had it anyway.

  Finally, a man spoke. “Can I help you?”

  “I want to talk to someone about a bomb attack at the Olympics. I overheard them plotting. I can’t speak for long now in case I’m missed. I need to meet someone. Not anyone in a police uniform.”

  “O…kay. What’s your name?”

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Then tell me more about this plot.”

  “Four suicide bombers. Three at the 100 metre final on Sunday, August the fifth. The other at the shopping centre that’s near the Olympic Park.”

  “Who are they? Where do they live?

  “Not now. I can’t. There’s no time. I’ll meet someone in St James’s Park. There’s a bench that looks onto West Island. Today at eleven. If not, tomorrow at the same time. This isn’t a joke. I’m telling the truth. Please send someone.”

  He put the phone down, looked around, saw no eyes on him and hurried back to the mosque. The relief that no one was around to see him slip back inside was tempered by the worry that he’d been missed. He went into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, washed his hands and emerged to find the imam talking to a man Zed didn’t know. Zed stood to one side and waited.

  When the guy walked off, the imam beckoned Zed. “Al-salaamu alaykum.”

  “Imam. Wa ‘alaikum assalam. Fahid said that you might have work for me. I wasn’t well last night and I thought I was okay this morning, but I don’t feel well again. I’m sorry but I can’t work for you today. I waited to ask what work you require me to do, the hours and where I should work.” Argh, too much blathering.

  “Ah, I did mention to Fahid I was looking for someone but I’ve already promised the work to another young man. I thought I’d told Fahid.”

  “Oh. I’m glad you’ve found someone. Ma’aasalaama.”

  Zed backed away feeling relieved but worried. For Fahid to have sent him for a job that no longer existed seemed strange, though not dissimilar to what had gone before. Maybe Zed was looking for problems. If it was a test, what was Fahid testing? Zed found himself heading away from the house. He could claim he’d been disappointed there had been no job and wanted to keep looking. Would that convince Fahid?

  It had to.

  He headed back to the Tube and when he reached St James’s Park station, he bought water and a salad. Fuck the fasting. That made him think of Caspian and he smiled. That would have been exactly what Caspian would have said. Zed didn’t want to fast, but he did need to fit in. The salad and water in the bag he carried felt like scarlet letters.

  Zed didn’t want to believe anyone could be following him, but it was hard to shake off the feeling he was being watched. He didn’t go into the park but wandered down the Mall, back up Birdcage Walk, searching for faces he recognised, until he convinced himself of his stupidity. His pulse still raced as he headed into the park. People were sunbathing on the grass. Others were walking dogs. Children were playing games. Normal lives, and he carried a secret that would rock the world.

  He made his way around the lake to the west end, then sat on the bench—an hour too early.

  Would anyone come? Would he be believed? Would he be arrested?

  He drank the water but he couldn’t eat the salad. He worried he’d throw up. So he went down to the lake, and fed the ducks the lettuce, peas and cucumber, followed by grapes he’d bitten in half. He wasn’t sure about nuts, so he didn’t throw those.

  When he turned to go back to the bench, a man was sitting there holding a newspaper as if he was reading it but watching him. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, had curly brown hair and glasses and looked to be in his mid-thirties. Was this who’d come to speak to him? Zed sat down at the other end of the bench.

  “Glad to see you’re not feeding them bread,” the guy said. “It’s not good for them.”

  “I know.” Oh crap, is that the best I can do? Zed kicked at the dirt with his heels.

  “Do you like to do good things?”

  Zed shot him a quick glance. “I’m not going to suck your cock.”

  The guy laughed. “Thank goodness for that.”

  Zed had figured if this wasn’t the guy he wanted it to be, he’d have got up and walked away after a comment like that.

  “My name’s Jackson. I don’t wear a uniform.”

  Zed exhaled.

  “You have something to tell me?” Jackson spoke quietly from behind his newspaper.

  “Are you a policeman?” Z
ed whispered.

  “MI5. You know what that is?”

  “Yes. British Intelligence. Thank you for coming.” He released a shaky exhalation. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “The beginning is always a good place.”

  But maybe not if he could keep Tamaz out of this.

  He took a deep breath. “I ran away from home a few weeks ago and was given a place to stay by a man called Fahid.” He told the man the details of what was planned for the Olympics, every name he knew, every address, and how he’d sneaked away to make the call that morning and then come to the park today.

  “You didn’t write anything down.” Zed glanced at him.

  “I’ve recorded it.”

  “Oh.” He felt stupid for not thinking of that.

  “Do you think you’ll be asked to take part in the jihad?”

  “For a while I worried that might happen, but now I think Fahid has deliberately kept himself away from the others physically, and I live in Fahid’s house. I think that keeps me safe. He must know he’d get asked questions after the attacks, but there would be nothing to link him to the others apart from them being acquaintances. But he knows a lot of people. The house is always full of different guys. All Muslim.”

  “So why not you? Why didn’t he send you to live with the others?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t feel he knows me well enough to trust me. Maybe he thinks I argue too much. Maybe he has something else planned for me or perhaps I’m his alibi. He thinks I’m a good Muslim. I go to the mosque. I’m fasting for Ramadan, well—until today, but I’m not a good Muslim. I’m…” Can I say it? He swallowed hard. “I’m gay.”

  The guy didn’t react at all. “Is Fahid gay?”

  “No. I’m… No.” He’d been going to say he was sure, but he wasn’t.

  “No one knows about you being gay?”

  “No.” Only Caspian.

  “Tell me about your family.”

  “No.”

  “Mother, father, brothers, sisters?”

  “I won’t talk about my family.”

  “Where did you use to live?”

  “I won’t tell you.”

  “Your name?”

  “You can call me Zed. You could trace my family through my real name.”

  “Right. You aren’t prepared to trust us enough to give us your name. How do we know we can trust you? How do we know you’re not deliberately sending us in one direction while havoc is wreaked in another? How do we know this isn’t some prank? A dare that you’ve been forced to go through with or chosen to go through with to impress a friend? Do you know how many reports we’ve been given of possible terrorist activities while the Olympics is on? You think you can overwhelm us, spread the security services thin?”

  The guy never raised his voice but his words made Zed tremble.

  “I’ve told you the truth. I’ve told you everything I’ve seen and heard.”

  “Have you been to the house where Parwez and the others are living? Seen bomb making equipment? Belts? Explosives? Timers?”

  “No.”

  “So they might be testing you, letting you overhear to see what you’ll do.”

  Zed’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe. But I wasn’t followed here. I was careful. I went in circles for a while. No one was watching me.”

  “I was, as soon as you came anywhere near this end of the park. I have your picture in my phone now.”

  “Okay.” What was he supposed to say? The moment he’d set up the meeting, he’d known everything in his life was going to change.

  “We need more detail. We need to know if the explosives are at that house. If not, when will they arrive? How are the three of them getting to the Olympic Park? If Parwez has a ticket, where is he sitting?”

  The list of what he wanted to know went on and on. Zed had understood in his heart that the authorities weren’t going to go straight to the two houses and arrest everyone, but he’d nursed a little hope that was what would happen.

  “Can you find out more? Safely?”

  “I can try. When you arrest them, you have to arrest me too so they don’t suspect me.”

  “We can keep you safe.”

  Zed wasn’t sure that was true. “I need to go now. I’ll have to explain where I’ve been most of the day.”

  “Visiting a friend?”

  “I don’t have any friends.”

  “You do now.”

  No, he didn’t. Jackson wanted to use him. He wasn’t his friend.

  “Where can we meet that’s safe for you?”

  Zed thought for a while. “The piano in St Pancras Station.”

  “Okay. Wednesday. One o’clock. You can follow me to a café. Can you remember a phone number?”

  “Yes.”

  Zed repeated it back to him, thought of a way to keep it in his head, then nodded. “I’ve got it.”

  “Good,” Jackson said.

  “All you have to do is stop them,” Zed whispered and he walked away, dumping the empty water bottle and the rest of the salad in a bin.

  Before he’d left the park, he’d thought up an excuse for having come into the city. He’d buy a gift for Fahid to thank him for his hospitality.

  When Zed emerged from an Oxfam shop with a rehal, an X-shaped foldable wooden bookstand for Fahid to rest his Quran, he saw a dark-skinned man watching him. The guy looked away quickly but Zed had seen him when he’d left the park. He remembered his yellow shirt. Jackson’s guy or Fahid’s? If it was Fahid’s then Zed would have to think of a reason why he’d spent the best part of an hour sitting in St James Park. His heart thumped.

  He could do that. His mother’s favourite park. They used to feed the ducks there together. It was true. If it was Jackson’s guy, so what if he followed him? If he went all the way to Islington he’d know Zed wasn’t lying. But it was a tense journey, wondering what he was going to be confronted with.

  Fahid wasn’t in. He owned a few travel agencies and went to each of them in turn. Zed wrapped the bookrest in some kitchen towel and put the Oxfam bag under the sink with the other carriers. He wasn’t sure whether Fahid was eating at the house that night, but Zed prepared a meal anyway. There was always plenty in the fridge.

  Bademjan. Aubergine and tomato stew. He began by cutting and frying the aubergine, followed by the onion. No garlic. Fahid wouldn’t eat it. You weren’t supposed to have either onion or garlic before you went to the mosque but how could you make a stew without onion? Concentrating on preparing the meal calmed Zed’s mind. He wished he was brave enough to go into Fahid’s room and look through his things. Caspian would have. Zed decided he’d take the risk if he couldn’t get information in any other way.

  Finally, the shimmering red-gold stew was done, a sheen on the surface indicating it had cooked long enough for the oils to rise to the top. The rice would be ready by the time the sun went down and they were permitted to eat. Another twenty minutes. Zed would eat alone if—The door slammed and Fahid walked into the kitchen.

  His face was tight with fury but when he saw Zed, he smiled. “You tempt me to break my fast at this very moment with that delicious smell. What is it?” He lifted the lid on the saucepan and sniffed. “Ahhh.”

  “It’s an Iranian dish my mother used to make. Bademjan.”

  Fahid sat at the table. “My poor stomach. Sit down. What have you been doing today?”

  “I asked the imam about the job, but he’d already given it to someone else. So I went back into London to see if I could find work. There was nothing. Then I went to St James’s park and fed the ducks. My mother…” He let his head drop and took a deep breath. Does he believe me?

  “Oh, I bought you a gift.” Zed jumped to his feet and handed Fahid the badly wrapped present. “To thank you for letting me stay here.”

  Fahid unwrapped the bookrest and for a moment Zed thought he’d made a mistake, until Fahid beamed at him. “JazakAllahu khair.” May Allah reward you with goodness.

  He reached across the tabl
e for Zed’s hand and clutched it tightly. “You’re a good boy.”

  No, I’m not. Not for you.

  Prayers were over and Zed had just put the stew and rice on the table when there was a knock on the door.

  “Shall I see who it is?” he asked.

  Fahid nodded. He was already helping himself to the food.

  When Zed opened the door, Wasim pushed past him and went into the kitchen. Someone else in a bad temper. Zed followed him and Wasim stopped talking when Zed came in.

  “Get a plate for Wasim,” Fahid said. “Sit down, Wasim. Eat with us. Zed has cooked. I think maybe this boy needs to work in a restaurant.”

  “Bismillahi wa ‘ala baraka-tillah,” Wasim said. In the name of God and with God’s blessing.

  Fahid smiled. “Bismillāh-ir-raḥmān-ir-raḥīm.” In the name of God, the gracious, the merciful.

  Zed muttered under his breath.

  “You need to learn how to cook rice,” Wasim muttered and poked at the solid lump on top of the rice.

  “That’s the tahdig. The best part,” Zed said.

  “It’s burnt.” Wasim scooped rice from below.

  “Tahdig means the bottom of the pot,” Zed said. “In Iran the rice is boiled then steamed and it leaves behind this buttery slab. I put it on top because it’s the treat. If you don’t want it, I’m happy to have all of it.”

  Fahid laughed, broke a piece off and put it in his mouth. “Don’t eat it, Wasim. You won’t like it. More for me and Zed.”

  Zed smiled.

  Every mouthful of the stew and rice was eaten and Fahid put his fork on his plate. “That was magnificent.”

  “It was very good,” Wasim said. “Alhamdulillah il-lathi at'amana wasaqana waja'alana Muslimeen.” Praise be to Allah Who has fed us and given us drink, and made us Muslims.

  Fahid repeated it and Zed said, “Alhamdulillah.” Praise be to Allah. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He got up to clear the table.

  Wasim caught his arm. “Leave us.”

  Zed nodded and went into the lounge. He put on the TV and sat in the chair closest to the door.