‘No,’ said Ibrahim, with a forced smile. ‘I think I’d know if I was, and I’m not.’
Graham flared his nostrils and his pursed lips shifted over to one side. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, you’ll be ready one day, I’m sure. And I’ll pray that day comes soon.’
‘Maybe,’ said Ibrahim, lying. ‘So. Where are you guys going?’
Graham smiled. ‘Israel,’ he said. ‘The Holy Land. We’re travelling there in preparation for the Rapture.’
‘The Rapture?’
‘Yes. When all those who have accepted Christ will be taken up into Heaven, before the final conflict between Good and Evil.’
‘Right. Of course.’
‘It’s written in the Book of Revelation that this battle will take place in the Holy Land, when the prophecy of Zion has been fulfilled.’
‘The prophecy of Zion?’
‘When the Jews have returned to Israel.’
‘Right.’
‘We’re volunteering at a vineyard in Hebron.’
‘A vineyard?’
‘Yes. There are settlers there, and they grow grapes. We’re going to help out, picking grapes.’
He’d heard of Hebron. He’d heard of settlers. Words that had stirred him and his friends into a state of spittle-flecked indignation. Words that were still barbed.
‘Jewish settlers?’ he said. ‘In Hebron.’
‘That’s right,’ said Graham.
‘That’s a Palestinian town, isn’t it?’ asked Ibrahim, though it was more a statement than a question.
‘Ye-es,’ said Graham, splitting the word hesitantly. ‘This is true. But there are settlers there, and…’
‘Illegal settlers.’
‘Well, that depends on your point of view. In the scriptures…’
‘I’m not talking about the scriptures. I’m talking about people. I’m talking about the law.’
‘The fact remains, before the settlers, before they settled there, there was nothing. Nothing grew. It was arid, and barren, and lifeless.’
‘There were people there. There are still people there. Palestinians.’
‘Yes,’ said Graham. ‘Though, of course, it’s important to remember that Palestine hasn’t really existed as a country, I mean as a sovereign state, since… when? The seventh century? If ever? The Macedonians, the Romans, Byzantium, the Caliphate, the Ottomans, the British. It’s never truly been independent, so who are the Palestinians, exactly? What claim have they, if…’
‘They were there,’ said Ibrahim. ‘They were there the whole time. That’s what claim they have. Did Britain cease to be Britain under the Normans? Did the people here stop being British?’
‘No, of course not. But the subject of Israel… Those people, the Jews, they needed a homeland. There wasn’t another country on the face of the earth which they could call their own…’
‘So they took someone else’s?’
‘So we… we being Britain, America, the UN, gave them a plot of land. Not a big plot of land, but a plot of land to which they felt historically tied. Now was that the right thing to do? I don’t know. What would you do? What’s your solution?’
Ibrahim threw up his hands and laughed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I honestly don’t know. I don’t know if there is a solution.’ Graham couldn’t understand, but for Ibrahim, in that moment, not knowing, admitting that he didn’t know, felt like a victory.
‘Well, anyway,’ said Graham. ‘We’re not just going to Hebron. We’ll be visiting Jerusalem, also. The Western Wall, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre…’
‘The Dome of the Rock?’
Graham shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, smiling bitterly. ‘Funnily enough, though Muslims and Jews can visit the Holy Sepulchre, and Muslims and Christians can visit the Western Wall, they’ve made it very difficult for anyone who isn’t a Muslim, particularly a group like ours, to visit the Dome of the Rock. We made enquiries.’
Ibrahim laughed again with tired resignation. ‘Jerusalem,’ he said. ‘Why is it always Jerusalem?’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Graham.
‘Well, why did He – Allah, God – have to put the Dome of the Rock, the Holy Sepulchre and the Western Wall within the same square mile?’
‘Point taken,’ said Graham. ‘Well, He does move in mysterious ways.’
‘Mysterious? That’s just downright cruel.’
‘Perhaps. But I suppose it was men who built those things, wasn’t it? The dome, the wall, the tomb. Maybe He’s treating us like children.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you have any? Children, I mean.’
‘No.’
Graham nodded. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If you have two children, or three children, or however many children, and they’re squabbling, you sit them down. You make them resolve the argument. You don’t let them leave the table until it’s resolved. You can try separating them, send them off to different rooms or different naughty corners, but as soon as they’re back together, in the same room, they’ll just carry on fighting. Am I making sense?’
‘Kind of,’ said Ibrahim. ‘Except two kids arguing aren’t packing bombs and missiles.’
‘No,’ said Graham. ‘Quite. And let us be grateful for that small mercy.’
Ibrahim laughed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘If it was His plan to make Muslims, Jews and Christians sort it out themselves, it kind of backfired, don’t you think? We’ve had, what, fifteen hundred years to sort it out, more or less. And look at us.’
‘You have a point.’
‘And this Rapture. Happening any time soon?’
‘We believe so,’ said Graham. ‘The signs are all there. The wars, the earthquakes, everything that’s happened in the Middle East, all in accordance with prophecy. We believe it’ll happen very soon.’
‘So maybe we’ll never sort it out.’
‘Maybe not.’
Ibrahim had nothing more to say. What was left of his food was now cold. He looked out through the window, at the pools of light spread out across the car park in a grid, and at the broken-down minibus with its badly painted logo. ‘And you’re driving to Israel?’ He asked, remembering a time when he had refused to call the country by that name.
‘Oh yes,’ said Graham. ‘First to Dover, taking the ferry to Calais. From there we drive across Europe, Turkey, down through the Middle East. We could have flown to Tel Aviv, but it’s quite expensive.’
Ibrahim stifled a laugh. Surely, if Graham and his flock were right, they’d soon have no need for money. ‘That’s a long way to go in a minibus,’ he said, trying not to smirk.
‘I suppose it is,’ said Graham. ‘But it’ll be worth it in the end.’
Ibrahim contemplated these last words – ‘in the end’ – and felt the hair on his arms and on the back of his neck stand up. It wasn’t just a throwaway figure of speech, an ‘at the end of the day’ or a ‘when all’s said and done’. When Graham spoke about ‘the end’, he meant the absolute end, and though Ibrahim no longer believed any such end would come, at least not within the lifetime of anyone he knew, a part of him still wondered what that day would be like. Certainly, he had once believed in the idea of it. It was the driving force of his convictions, the central pillar supporting his every furiously held belief. The rhetoric of his friends, and of the books they read in the halaqah, was of war and destruction, blood and fury, the end of days, and he often wondered if eschatology was the one true dovetail between the religions. Forget that dusty square mile in Jerusalem, with its dome, its tomb, its wall. Forget the names that appeared in each book – Ibrahim and Abraham, Issa and Jesus. The one thing they all had in common was a fantasy, almost a fetish, of devastation; the fervour of their believers longing for battles and earthquakes like adolescent boys watching big-screen pyrotechnics. What was so terrible, so disappointing about this world that they were willing it to end?
Before he or Graham could say any more, they were joined by the younger man, Zack. He stood next
to their table, beaming down at them both.
‘I’ve called the AA,’ he said.
‘What?’ said Graham. ‘But I…’
‘It’s fine,’ said Zack. ‘The way I see it, it’s all part of the plan. These people do their jobs for a reason. So if we need help, it’s already been provided for us.’
‘Yes, but the AA…?’
‘Yes. The AA. They’ll be here in quarter of an hour or so.’
‘Oh.’
‘The guy I spoke to said it sounds like something to do with a gasket. Or something. Vans aren’t really my forte.’
‘Right.’
‘So we should probably eat up and wait outside for them. We may even get to Dover by midnight.’
Ibrahim almost laughed in his face. Dover by midnight? He must be mad. Dover was days, maybe even weeks away. Then he remembered that not everyone was walking. How quickly his perception had changed. It seemed almost incredible to him now that anyone could travel a hundred miles in less than a day.
‘Well, I suppose we should be going,’ said Graham, getting to his feet. ‘Very nice talking to you, Ibrahim. Perhaps we’ll see each other again some day.’ And he gestured towards the ceiling or the sky beyond it with a playful nod that Ibrahim found both comical and sad.
From the restaurant he watched as the wingless bumblebee of an AA van pulled up beside the minibus; as Graham and his fellow pilgrims gathered around the mechanic who, in just a few minutes, fixed the problem. Each of them shook the mechanic’s hand – that same, two-handed handshake that Graham had given Ibrahim – before sending him on his way, and minutes later they drove across the car park and out onto the motorway. Hard to imagine they’d ever make it in that beat-up looking minibus. They hadn’t, after all, travelled very far before hitting the first hurdle. Ahead of them were mountain roads, border officials, corrupt police, and all that before they’d even entered the Middle East. And once they were there, what then? What would they do when the world failed to end on time? Perhaps turn their Rapture Tour into a straightforward holiday. Pick grapes and forget about the older residents of Hebron. No room in their prophecy for unrepentant, unconvertible Muslims.
Ibrahim felt an inner snarl of resentment for the Christians – aligning themselves with Jews after centuries of pogroms in an act of collective amnesia – and a prickling contempt for their apocalyptic daydreams. How many before them had set a date on the End, only to find themselves bitterly, embarrassingly disappointed by the dull continuation of everything?
At least they were on the road, and moving, which was more than could be said for Ibrahim. Now that he was alone again, with Reenie still out there, setting up her makeshift camp, he felt defeated by the motorway, and by this nowhere place. The service station had a name, but was it ever the name of anything more substantial than a village? Was there anything here before the arrival of the motorway? No, this place was a vacuum, a whirlpool at the river’s edge, an enchanted island luring in passing vessels and dashing them on its rocks.
He wouldn’t stand for it. He wouldn’t allow himself to be marooned here, in this place between cities. He could call his sister, get her to drive out and pick him up. It would be inconvenient for her, but nothing measured against the days it might otherwise take for him to get there. She’d be grateful, in the long run. And perhaps Reenie would be happier travelling on her own. Perhaps he’d become an inconvenience to her, dragging her on at a pace she couldn’t manage. And perhaps she’d never liked him in the first place; seeing him as nothing more than a pair of hands and feet to help her on her way. How much could she really care for him? And what did he owe her?
He searched the few days he and Reenie had spent together for evidence of her duplicity, and a quiet voice beneath this reminded him that she wasn’t just any old woman. She was a Jew. Duplicitous. Money-grubbing. Interested only in her gold, she probably cared more about the birdcage than the bird. Was she walking for any other reason than to save her precious pounds and pennies? Graham and his friends, driving all the way to Hebron in a shitty, rusting minibus, and when they got there they’d be working, picking grapes, and for what? For nothing. Slave labour. Because that’s what they were like, Jews. Crafty. Very crafty. Good at calling in favours that weren’t owed. Look at how she’d got him to do all her hard work for her. Pushing that trolley. Building the fire. And her sleeping in a nice warm tent while he was outside, in the cold. Her inside a nice, warm tent, laughing at him. Stupid Muslim. Stupid Paki. Doing all the hard work for her and getting nothing in return. Because that’s what they’re like.
He sat back in his chair so violently its feet shrieked against the tiled floor, and he gasped. If he’d said any of that aloud, in front of friends – his university friends, say – he would have blamed his injury, or the time before Cardiff, before his mother got ill, before everything, but those thoughts remained unspoken, and they were his. Not Jamal’s, not Yusuf’s, not Ismail’s. Not the Imam’s, nor the Sheikh’s, nor the authors of the books they read together after prayers.
At the time of the court case, he’d heard a friend of his father’s say, ‘But they were just reading books. What kind of a country is it where you can be arrested for the books you read, or the thoughts you have? Are we living in a police state now?’ And his father had mumbled something about them ‘knowing better’ and being responsible for their actions, but those words stayed with Ibrahim. Were his friends arrested simply for the books they read and the thoughts they had? Were they only books and thoughts? For a long time he had selectively forgotten some things, and convinced himself there was nothing more to their crime, that theirs was indeed a ‘bedroom Jihad’, that they’d never once put those thoughts into action, but they had.
And now he remembered what Graham had said.
‘The father of us all.’
And those words echoed, and the echo grew louder, and he saw a name he had known for seven years, a name he had never forgotten, and he marvelled at the unlikelihood – no, the impossibility – of it all, and he understood what had to be done.
24
An angel staggered towards her through a haze of drizzle and artificial light, and Reenie squinted at it through the glimmer of dusk, her tired thoughts racing to catch up with what she saw. The angel was in stark silhouette, its body the exaggerated outline of a toddler – oversized head and podgy limbs – but framed by translucent pink wings that shimmered with the lights from the service station. She moved with a stumbling lack of grace, tiny feet splatting down into the puddles, and as the angel got nearer, Reenie heard her sobbing.
A little girl, no older than three. Precocious blonde ringlets, lips pursed in an indignant pout, chubby arms flexed as if she had rolled up imaginary sleeves and was raring for a fight.
Reenie looked around, scanning the car park for anxious parents. With a huff and a groan she eased up onto her feet – her sore, blistered, ruined feet – and edged her way down the embankment. A car was coming across the car park, and the tantruming angel was in its path.
‘Oy, love,’ said Reenie, her voice hard. She’d never quite known how to speak to children, hadn’t the time nor the inclination to start improvising maternal, or grand-maternal baby talk. ‘Oy. Love. What’s the matter?’
The angel scowled at her, hairless eyebrows knotted above tearful eyes.
‘Have you lost your mum and dad?’ asked Reenie. She was on the tarmac now, the ground cold and wet beneath her bare feet. She couldn’t remember what the protocol was these days. Were you even allowed to talk to other people’s kids? And all the time the car was getting closer.
Reenie sighed and shuffled towards the angel, feeling every shard of gravel dig into her soles, and picked her up from the ground. The child was heavier than she had expected, but she wheeled around until they were both out of the car’s way. Then, as if she’d lifted something hot or dirty, Reenie put the little girl back down again.
‘Where’s your mum and dad?’ She said, looking not at the child but scannin
g the car park for her parents. ‘Your mummy and daddy?’
Still no answer.
This was ridiculous. She couldn’t leave the trolley; someone might nick it. And who leaves their kid to go wandering off at a service station? What kind of parents…
She should have stopped that car, as it passed by. Stopped them and asked them to get help. Every second she stood there, with that frowning little mute, was as good as proof of guilt, of wrongdoing. Doing nothing was as good as kidnap, surely. That’s how the law would see it. She was too tired to even think, too tired for this to be real, and that unreality washed over her in waves. Where were all the people? The car park was empty again, the lights of the service station distant. A lorry pulled in on the far side of the tarmac, but too far away for her to get the driver’s attention. And the angel was crying again.
‘No, it’s okay,’ said Reenie. ‘We’ll find your mum and dad.’
But how? Helpless. That was the word. Helpless. And the two of them were quite alone, in the cold and empty car park. But now she saw two people, running toward them from the service station, and Reenie heard a woman’s voice shout, ‘Tilly! Tilly!’
Reenie’s throat was dry, her voice a rasp. If she tried shouting, they wouldn’t hear her, so she waved.
The girl’s parents reached them seconds later, and the child ran back to them, her arms reaching up in anticipation of a relieved father’s embrace. Hoisted into the air and held against his shoulder she began wailing. The parents – mid-thirties, smartly dressed, as if they’d come from a wedding – looked at Reenie with undisguised apprehension.
‘She was wandering out here,’ said Reenie. ‘She was on her own.’
The parents said nothing to her, turning and walking back to the service station, the father muttering a tender telling off, the mother sighing and gasping half-sentences, until Reenie could no longer hear them. No thank you, nothing. Didn’t say a word to her. Not so much as a by your leave. Maybe thanking her would have meant admitting a mistake, admitting they just weren’t paying attention when the little girl came tottering out here in the first place.
Ibrahim & Reenie Page 21
