The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  “Javid is panicking,” Wasim said. “We assembled the belts this afternoon and he freaked out. I don’t know if we can trust him. If he looks like he does now, anxious and sweaty, he’ll get stopped before he’s in position.”

  “He could change roles with you or Parvez.”

  “But then he might betray three rather than just himself.”

  “You think he’ll run?”

  “He might. What about using him?”

  Me? Zed froze.

  “He’s not ready,” Fahid said. “I’ll come and talk to Javid. What about everything else? Any problems?”

  “No. Everything is ready. We’re excited. This is our chance to show the world who we are and what we believe in.”

  “You’re a good, brave man, Wasim. Your reward will be great. I’ll come with you now to speak to Javid.”

  “Bring him. You might as well see what he’s made of.”

  “No. His time is not yet here. This belongs to you and Allah. Peace be upon Him.”

  Fahid opened the door of the lounge and Zed sat up on the chair and turned to face him. Look normal.

  “I’m going out. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Fahid glanced at the TV. “Everest?”

  “A series about the world’s greatest mountains. I wish I could climb it.”

  “There are higher things to aspire to,” Wasim said at Fahid’s back. “Like getting a job.”

  “I’m trying. But no one wants me.”

  “You’re a young Muslim. What did you expect? We’re the last choice when it comes to employment.”

  Fahid patted Wasim on the back. “Come, let’s be off.”

  The door closed and Zed shuddered. How could Wasim and the others strap explosives to themselves and look into the faces of those they were about to murder? How could they see happy families and children and not care about what they were about to do?

  The thought of what might happen gave him new resolve. There was still enough light in the house not to need to put on lights. He went upstairs and cracked open the door of Fahid’s room. A bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, a desk and open curtains. Zed went inside. The desk was hidden from the window which meant the laptop was too but it was switched off. Zed didn’t know enough about computers to risk turning it on. Fahid was bound to have a password.

  Zed didn’t really know what he was looking for. There were lots of utility bills and piles of receipts but only from supermarkets or to do with the travel agencies. Nothing about bomb making equipment. Though Zed had no idea how a bomb was built. Maybe some of the things were relevant. There were lots of business files but everything seemed relevant to the travel agencies. He was really careful to put things back how they were. For all he knew Fahid had the sort of memory that would instantly tell him someone had been messing around with his stuff.

  Maybe it wasn’t Fahid that Zed should be looking at, but Parwez.

  Chapter Twelve

  Caspian and Jason had nothing in common except for being locked up in the same cell. When Jason talked about his woman and how much he missed not just fucking her but spending time with her, touching her, her softness, her laughter, even her moodiness, Caspian thought about Zed. When Jason went into details about hand jobs he’d had, sensational blowjobs, condomless sex, Caspian imagined that with Zed and turned himself on. Ironically, his erection convinced Jason he was into girls—if he’d needed convincing.

  “You need to watch yourself,” Jason said. “You’re too good-looking. Stick with me and you’ll be okay but some of these guys don’t care if you’ve got a cock. There was an incident a couple of weeks ago. A guy ended up in hospital, his arsehole ripped. He had to have two hundred stitches.”

  Caspian clenched his arse cheeks, his muscles opening and closing like the wings of a bee. Prison rules said sexual activity between prisoners wasn’t allowed and yet the booklet also said there was a ‘condom policy’. It was almost enough to make Caspian laugh. However long he was in here, sex was not going to happen. Not with anyone other than himself.

  “Don’t smile like that,” Jason said. “If you do get cornered and that’s what they want from you, either to fuck you or stick their cock in your mouth, don’t fight. It’ll hurt less.”

  How can I not fight?

  “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking because I thought that too, but there’s only one thing that’s important, getting out as soon as you can. You can’t let this place get to you and it will fucking try. Choices are everything. Choices make your time here something you can deal with. Use this staircase, not that one. Choose this programme on the TV, not that. Find classes and go to as many as you can. Fill your time. Borrow as many books from the library as you’re allowed.”

  Yeah, right, well one should last him a month.

  “Enjoy the decisions you can make,” Jason said. “’Cos the stuff you have no choice about, like being banged up every night, when to eat, when to go outside—that eats away at you.”

  He knew Jason was giving him good advice, advice that would make the time he spent in here something he could cope with. If Caspian wanted to survive with his head intact, and maybe his body, he had to make the most of what he could control.

  “And say no to drugs,” Jason told him with a grin.

  Caspian laughed. “I thought you were a drug dealer.”

  “Outside of this place yeah, you buy my dope, though I’m not going to do it no more. In here, leave it the fuck alone. There’s more trouble over drugs than anything else. Who you buy it from, where he gets it, where you keep it, if you end up buying stolen gear… There’s always an excuse to make trouble. Drugs is a slippery slope. I’m off it and I’m not going back on it.”

  Caspian wondered why Jason didn’t ask him more about his life outside, but it seemed to be an unwritten rule that it was off-limits. Caspian wondered whether he ought to lie, assuming it ever came back as an accepted topic of conversation. Telling anyone about the life he’d had, the sort of home he’d lived in, the holidays he’d taken would set him apart from the rest. His voice already did, though he’d tried to tone down his accent. Blending in was key. Blending in until no one noticed you were there was the answer. Caspian hated conforming, but he wanted to survive with his arse and teeth intact.

  Only day one on the wing and he’d already seen what happened to those who were perceived to be different. The way an effeminate man was bullied. The way a pale-faced guy labelled as a nonce was tripped, spat at, beaten up though the fight had started elsewhere over something entirely different. The names he was called: kiddie fiddler, animal, beast, along with fuckhead, dickhead, bastard, shithead and bacon bonce—that one Jason had to explain, bacon bonce rhymes with nonce, though Caspian still didn’t get the bacon part. Prison had a language of its own. The guy was moved to the vulnerable prisoner unit with a broken jaw.

  Caspian’s first night was a sleepless one. The noise went on and on. Banging on the pipes, guys calling to each other, passing messages along.

  “New fish in 47,” someone shouted.

  “That’s you,” Jason muttered.

  “Sing us a song,” the voice called.

  “Don’t,” Jason said. “They’re the Window Warriors and they won’t let up.”

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star. Sing it now or we’ll fuck you over tomorrow.”

  Caspian’s mouth was so dry he couldn’t have sung even if he’d wanted to and he didn’t want to.

  “Sing it, sing it, sing it.”

  The demands went on and on. Lots of guys shouting now, threatening.

  “If you sing it, they’ll tell you to sing it again, and again,” Jason said. “And when you finally stop and say you won’t do it anymore, they’ll do what they threatened to do if you didn’t sing it in the first place.”

  Caspian stared at the wall and tears fell again.

  The next day, Caspian kept his gaze down and was careful where he walked, showing respect to both inmates and screws was rule number one. But trouble walked into him
in the form of Lewis Wilcox.

  “You owe me,” Lewis said. “You want to keep your pretty face, I want a packet of cigarettes before dinner.”

  Caspian fled back to Jason and told him what had happened. “What do I do?”

  “It’s Lewis. I’d give him what he wants. Buy them from Des in 22. He’s reasonable.”

  “And when he wants another packet?”

  “When you give him the first, you make it clear it’s the last.”

  “What if that doesn’t work?”

  “Just hope there’s new blood he can pick on.”

  Caspian bought the cigarettes. Used a chunk of his precious money, and quietly seethed.

  Just before it was time for dinner, Lewis came to the cell. “Fuck off, Jason.”

  Jason fucked off. Caspian didn’t blame him. He’d have done the same.

  Lewis held out his hand. His huge hand. He was tall, only a few inches taller than Caspian but he was all muscle.

  Caspian had intended to hand over the cigarettes, but he could see the future unfolding in front of him. If he gave in now, he’d have to give in forever. Even if Lewis ended up walking out with what he’d come for, the harder Caspian made it for him, maybe he wouldn’t ask again. Or alternatively, Lewis would beat him to a pulp for being awkward.

  “No,” Caspian said and then wondered if that had really come out of his mouth.

  Lewis swung a fist and Caspian ducked. He was good at avoiding, less good at landing punches, and in the end, no match for Lewis who’d probably boxed his way out of his mother’s body. But Caspian didn’t give up. He kept fighting, kept getting back to his feet after Lewis had knocked him down. They were both bleeding when Lewis stopped hitting him. Or maybe it was all Caspian’s blood.

  The doorway was blocked by spectators who dispersed once the action was over.

  “Give me the fucking cigarettes.” Lewis wiped his mouth with the edge of his hand.

  Caspian stood there panting.

  “Your teeth or the cigarettes.” Lewis held out his hand.

  He left with the cigarettes.

  Everyone watched the Olympics, either in their rooms or in the communal area on the ground floor. There were a whole range of nationalities in there, everyone roaring support for athletes from their countries. But it seemed everyone, regardless of where they came from originally, was rooting for Usain Bolt, the fastest sprinter in the world, ever.

  Caspian imagined himself being that good at something, the best in the world. How brilliant would that be? The men’s 100 metre final was the following Sunday and guys were betting on the exact time Bolt would take to win. Caspian hadn’t joined in. He saved every penny he got. No way was he asking his father for money.

  Interest in going to the gym increased, as if they thought it gave them a chance to be like the athletes they were watching. Caspian had made good use of the one hour a day he was allowed, building his muscles, trying to make himself harder, tougher inside and out. Lewis hadn’t bothered him again. Caspian had been asked about his injuries by his PO but he knew what to say—that he’d slipped, that it was an accident. His PO didn’t even press him.

  So far he’d refused to see any of his family. He had to refuse to see Betsy too because he worried his mother would be mean to her if he agreed to see her. Because Caspian was only on remand, visitors could come seven times a week for up to ninety minutes. As far as he knew, his family had only tried to see him on three occasions. The idea that he was causing them pain was of some comfort. Even his mother. Let them imagine what they wanted. His father thought he’d beg to come home and that wasn’t going to happen.

  They wrote to him. Somehow his brother found out he was allowed a games console. An Xbox, Wii or PlayStation. Let me see you and I’ll bring you whatever you want. His mother had asked—did he want clothes, toiletries, his fucking teddy bear? Seriously? She had no idea. Probably thought Woodbury was like a hotel except you didn’t get a key to your room. His sisters wrote letters where they talked about what they’d done that day. Everything he couldn’t do. When he read that they’d been into the treehouse, he was filled with fury. But it faded. He could do nothing, so there was no point getting bent out of shape about it. He had to learn patience.

  Because Jason was right. All he needed to do was get out as soon as he could. Behave. Survive.

  Zed seized his opportunity when he saw Parwez at the mosque and grabbed the spot next to him when they knelt to pray. He’d never really liked Parwez who always seemed angry about everything. But Zed’s head was filled with horror at the knowledge that Parwez was counting down the days left in his short life. Was he scared? Excited? Resigned?

  At the end of prayers, Parwez turned to him and said, “Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah.” Peace be upon you and God's blessings. But he glared at Zed as if he was disgusted by him.

  Zed spoke the same words in return, then Parwez got up and walked away. Once Zed had collected his shoes, he hurried to follow Parwez outside.

  “Are you angry with me?” Zed asked. “What have I done to offend you?”

  Parwez stared at him. “You ran from your home. You had a home and you ran from it. You had a father and you ran from him. You ran to Fahid.”

  Ah, you have no father and you think Fahid is yours. Zed struggled for the right thing to say. “I was afraid my father would kill me.”

  “What did you do to make him want to do that?”

  “Failed to be the best in everything I did. I tried. I worked hard, but no one can be good at everything. Even the things I was good at, I still wasn’t good enough. He made me feel worthless.”

  That wasn’t true. His father had tried to make him feel worthless but the way he’d treated Zed had made him believe he deserved better, that he could make his life what he wanted it to be and not what his father wanted.

  “I only ever tried to make him happy, make him proud but it was impossible,” Zed said. “He stared at me and saw failure.”

  Parwez looked at him a little differently then, as if something had hit home.

  Zed sighed. “I don’t want to be a failure.”

  Fahid clamped his hands on his shoulder and that of Parwez. “My little brothers.” He beamed at them. “I have something that needs collecting from an address in Tower Hamlets. Go together. Keep each other safe.” He handed Parwez a piece of paper and asked, “You have money?”

  He nodded.

  “Come straight back.”

  Parwez looked at Fahid as if he were looking into the face of God. Such love, such awe, such desperation to please, and Zed understood part of why Parwez was intending to do such a terrible thing. Whatever Fahid asked, Parwez would do and Fahid would make it seem as if Parwez was a hero.

  They set off toward the Tube, Parwez with his hands tucked into his pockets and his head down.

  “How long have you known Fahid?” Zed asked.

  “A year.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I came to this country hiding in a lorry with six others. The police stopped the driver and I ran. I was the only one to get away but I had no money, nowhere to go. I’d been living rough and begging for two months when Fahid saw me. He brought me to his home, gave me food and a bed. Then he found me a job and a place to live. I was falling and he caught me. He made me see there could be joy in life, that my life could be important.”

  “How?”

  Parwez glanced at him.

  “Only I haven’t got to that point yet,” Zed said. “I’m still falling.”

  “You have a home.”

  “But no job. It’s not fair. I’m fed up of being treated badly because of my religion and the colour of my skin. The way people look at us…”

  “I know. Well, they’ll learn.”

  Zed’s heart thumped. “When? It’ll never happen.”

  “Yeah it will.”

  They went down into the Tube station. Zed knew he had to be careful. Parwez might be misguided but he wasn’t stupid. They stood together
on the train surrounded by those travelling to jobs in the city. Most people were messing with their phones.

  “I wish I had a phone,” Zed said, though he had no one to call.

  “You don’t have one?” Parwez gaped at him.

  “My father wouldn’t let me.”

  “You’re not at home anymore.”

  Zed forced a smile to his face. “That’s true though I have no one to phone.”

  “You have a brother. Maybe Fahid will give you a phone.”

  Zed felt as though something was clamping around his chest, squeezing his ribs. He didn’t want Parwez to talk about Tamaz. Was Tamaz in any way involved with this? Oh fuck.

  “You know my brother?” Zed asked, aware that Parwez had been at Fahid’s house at the same time as Tamaz.

  “I’ve met him a few times. He seems like a decent guy, a good Muslim. He’s at uni, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  They got off the train at Whitechapel and Parwez pulled up a map on his phone. Zed tried to think of what information he could get out of Parwez that might be useful to Jackson.

  “What’s Wasim like to live with?” he asked finally.

  “He’s cool. Though I liked it better with Fahid. There’s always more to eat in his house.”

  “Did me coming push you out? I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I’d taken your room.”

  Parwez shook his head. “I’d already moved out weeks before. I think…” He sighed. “I was jealous of you, that’s all. But I’m not now.”

  “Good.” Shit.

  The address they went to was a flat above a barber’s shop. Parwez rang the buzzer.

  “Hello?”

  “Fahid sent us,” Parwez said.

  A moment later the door opened to reveal a guy in a white thobe, an ankle length long-sleeved gown. He had the darkest, shiniest skin Zed had ever seen and the biggest, whitest smile. It was impossible not to smile back.

  “Parwez?” He looked at Zed.

  “I’m Parwez.”

  The guy handed him an envelope. “Asalamu Alaikum Wa Rahmatullahi Wa Barakatuh.” May the peace, mercy, and blessings of Allah be with you.