by Rashad Salim
“Do not bullshit me, Tom. Tell me the truth.” There was anger in Nadeem’s voice Tom had never heard before and it almost made him tremble.
Tom sighed. “I think I might know where Mobeen might be.”
“Is that what you were talking to Atif about?”
“What makes you say that?” Tom asked.
“Because you don’t know anything about Binford. You can barely make your way to a coffee shop without getting lost.”
Tom sniggered despite the circumstances. He couldn’t help it.
He recalled the time he had asked Nadeem about local coffee shops and how he had gotten lost and needed Nadeem to guide him over the phone to the shop Nadeem was in. This was only three months earlier. Simpler times.
“Look, all I’m gonna do is take a look.”
Nadeem stared at him.
“Come on, Nads. What do you expect me to do? Sit at home and watch TV all week?”
There was an awkward silence between them for a long moment.
Nadeem leaned back in his seat. “Alright, but let me just give you this warning for your own good. You are not in Nottingham anymore. You are not even in London, my friend. You are in Binford now and this town will eat you up and shit you out if you cross it.”
19
Tom’s phone rang around five o’ clock that day. He was in his flat when the call came. It was Atif. He answered and anxiously hoped for some good news.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Atif. Do you have anything for me?”
“Yeah, I do. More than I thought I would.”
“What have you got?”
“I spoke to my mate Nawaz? You know him?”
Tom struggled to picture who Atif was talking about. “No.”
“Anyway, Nawaz told me some proper shit about Mobeen. I don’t even know if it’s true. But if it is then fuck me.”
“What is it?”
Atif spoke fast. “Mobeen’s hiding out at a mosque but it’s not even a real mosque!” The words tumbled out of him. “I couldn’t believe it, he was saying-”
“Slow down, Atif! Slow down. What’s this about a fake mosque?”
“It’s just the top floor of one of the shisha bars on Binford Lane.”
“The one his cousin owns?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the name of the bar?”
Atif giggled. “Get this,” he tried to restrain his laughter, “It’s called ‘The Escape Lounge’!”
“Makes sense, I suppose. How come Nawaz knows about this?”
“His cousin told him about it. Said he went to that mosque once for one of the prayers and didn’t realise ‘til he got in that it was practically run by Defenders of Islam.”
“Who are they?” Tom asked.
“A local Islamic fundamentalist group. Just a bunch of thugs who found god and now use their thuggery to preach their version of the religion.
“Anyway, Nawaz’s cousin was up there and he walked into one of the side rooms by accident and found Mobeen lying on a mattress, fast asleep. Looked like he had been there for a while.
“Nawaz’s cousin told him, Nawaz told me and now I’m telling you. The question is who are you gonna tell? DS Barker?”
That would be the sensible thing to do, Tom thought. “Yes,” Tom said. “I’ll tell him and see what he can do about it.” He told himself he would tell Barker what he had learnt from Atif. But only after he had gone down there and taken a look around for himself.
He had to find out if there was any truth to these rumours first otherwise he’d run the risk of wasting police time and suffer their wrath.
“Good,” Atif said. “’Cause there’s no way you’d even get through the front door, you know that right?”
It was obvious. A white man like Tom trying to enter the mosque would send everyone’s alarm bells ringing.
Tom got the directions for The Escape Lounge. He thanked Atif for the information and hung up.
Half an hour after receiving the call from Atif, Tom drove out to Binford Lane and parked his car down a side road at a safe distance away from The Escape Lounge. He got out and started walking towards Binford Lane.
It was dark outside and a total difference between walking the streets and driving past them in the safety of his car. He passed through crowds of busy shoppers and all kinds of shady looking people. There were homeless people taking refuge next to various shops and buildings, a bunch of winos drinking beer on benches and more juvenile delinquents loitered the streets than Tom had anticipated.
He was passing a fried chicken shop when one of the black boys in a crowd of four outside the shop caught his attention. He recognised the boy as one of his students. Dwayne.
A close friend of Marcus’ as Tom recalled. However the two couldn’t have been more different. While Marcus had been pure trouble, Dwayne was well behaved and always obeyed Tom’s requests.
Tom stopped and waited to catch Dwayne’s attention. He was depending on the respect he had from the boy now. This was an unexpected opportunity Tom could not pass on. He watched Dwayne anxiously while trying not to get his hopes up, telling himself whatever he learnt from Dwayne, if anything, would be a bonus.
Dwayne was deep in conversation with two of the other boys when he finally noticed Tom’s presence. He stopped talking and took a few steps closer to Tom.
“Mr Smith? What you doing here?”
Tom smiled. “Just doing a little grocery shopping.”
Dwayne laughed. “I never thought I’d see you around here.”
“I live in Binford.”
Dwayne nodded. “I heard about you and Mr Jones. Sorry to hear what happened.”
Tom shrugged it off but he didn’t want to appear nonchalant. He just wanted to shift the focus away from himself.
“Did you get a good look at them?” Dwayne asked.
Tom studied him and wondered if he knew more than he was letting on. “It’s funny you should ask, I was going over it with the police and they said it was most likely some disgruntled students.”
“You think one of us boys would pull shit like that?”
“No, no. I don’t.” Tom smiled at him. “But it got me thinking. I started wondering who might have it in for me and you know who crossed my mind?”
Dwayne shrugged.
“Your mate Marcus wasn’t too happy about me getting him expelled, was he?”
Dwayne smiled in embarrassment at being associated with Marcus.
“I never understood what you were doing wasting your time hanging around with a boy like that.”
“Me and Marcus go back, sir. Way back.”
“What about now?”
Marcus stared out in the distance. “Shit, a lot has happened since he got kicked out.”
“Yes, I heard he ran away from home, didn’t he?”
“I don’t think he ran away,” Dwayne said and his eyes widened. “I think his mama kicked him out the house ...after you kicked him out the school!”
For a second Tom thought Dwayne blamed him for Marcus’ downward spiral but there was no resentment in Dwayne’s eyes.
“What happened?” Tom asked. “She got tired of his antics too?”
“Something like that.”
“What about you?” Tom asked. “You still put up with him?”
Marcus shook his head. “I ain’t seen him in time.”
“How come? Where is he these days?”
Dwayne shook his head again. “He’s everywhere and nowhere, that’s where. He’s a full time gangster now.”
“Is that right?” Tom pondered what kind of activities Marcus was up to now.
“He tried to get me into that shit too but he knew I wasn’t having any of it.”
“Drugs? Pushing them?”
“He’s up to no good. Let’s just leave it at that. I’ll tell you this though. You don’t wanna get mixed up with him now. Lions Crew got his back now.”
“Who are they?”
Dwayne stopped walking and
looked at him. “A big time local gang.”
“Lions Crew?” Tom remarked. “Tell me... you think they’d think twice about stabbing up a teacher?”
Dwayne shook his head. “Shit, man. I dunno.” Dwayne looked around. “...Who knows?”
“Killing a teacher in broad daylight,” Tom said. “Sounds big time to me.”
Dwayne nodded.
“Not many losers in this town have the balls to try something like that,” Tom said.
Dwayne raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know this town well enough.”
“Maybe so but you know what I think? ...I think now that Marcus is rolling around with the big boys, he thought he’d settle his vendetta against me.”
“Maybe,” Dwayne said. “Maybe not.”
“He said he was going to kill me, Dwayne. You remember that, don’t you? You were the one holding him back when he said it.”
Dwayne nodded and scowled.
Tom guessed he had drudged up a painful memory.
“Where is he, Dwayne?”
The boy took a step back and looked away. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t fuck about, Dwayne. Not now. Mr Jones is dead. I was almost killed too.”
Dwayne raised his hand to fend off the enquiry. “Alright, alright! I get it, okay?”
They stood in silence for a moment. They watched cars pass by and pedestrians walk around them as if Tom and Dwayne weren’t even there.
“Cool Pool,” Dwayne said. “It’s a pool hall on the other side of town. I think he might still go there. If you wanna find him, you could try there.”
“You go there too?”
“Fuck no. It’s where a bunch of Lions Crew hang out. The last I heard of him, someone said that’s where he still hung around.”
Tom nodded.
Dwayne frowned. “You ain’t thinking about going there yourself, are you?”
Tom paused, careful to how he answered. “No. Of course not.”
“Good. ‘Cause they’d kick the shit out of you if you did. Cool Pool’s no place for people like you.”
20
After parting with Dwayne, Tom focused his attention on The Escape Lounge.
It dawned on him that he could phone DS Barker right then and inform the detective of both the mosque above The Escape Lounge where he believed Mobeen was now living and Cool Pool where Marcus frequented.
He was amazed he had managed to find out so quickly these potential leads and wondered how the police had failed to do so themselves. Then he remembered hearing how the locals in Binford didn’t like talking to the police. In this regard, he felt he had become a major asset in the investigation of Chris Jones’ murder and this bolstered his spirits.
Once he reached The Escape Lounge he realised before walking in that he hadn’t planned out his approach well enough. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say once he entered. He stood outside in the street and watched the entrance to the shisha bar.
The mosque above the bar didn’t even have a sign like most mosques he had seen. It had its own entrance but nobody had entered or exited in the five minutes he had been watching.
Tom entered the shisha bar and surveyed his surroundings. He wasn’t a smoker himself so he didn’t think there was much in there to busy himself with while he spied.
It was darkly lit inside and traditional classical Middle Eastern music was playing on the sound system set up around the bar.
Various groups of patrons were scattered all around the bar. He noticed a few of the patrons – the odd young man in his twenties here and there – turning to get a look at him but he tried to act normal and continued onwards.
He was instantly aware that he was the only white person in the bar – most of the patrons were Asian or Middle Eastern – and hoped he didn’t stick out too much, attracting unwanted attention from those around him. He started wondering if coming to the bar had been a mistake but it had to be done and no one else could do this on his behalf.
He reached the bar counter and perched on a stool. There were only three other stools beside his and they weren’t occupied. He realised he was probably the only patron by himself in the bar and wondered if anyone had recognised him. He felt his paranoia growing by the second and tried to reassure himself he was in no danger despite the warning he had been given by Dwayne about this place.
There was no one behind the counter. A waiter passed Tom and ignored him.
Eventually an overweight Asian man, who looked to be in his late thirties, walked out from the staff room and stepped up behind the counter.
Tom smiled and said hello.
The man looked at Tom for a second as if confused by his presence and then asked Tom what he would like to be served.
“You serve Fosters?”
The second the words left his mouth Tom regretted saying them. It had slipped his mind that he was not in a traditional bar and was now mortified at asking this man, who was without a doubt a Muslim, for an alcoholic drink. He was aware alcohol was forbidden in Islam and was frowned upon by most Muslims and kicked himself for risking offending the man. It was not the kind of impression to go down nicely when he was desperate for answers.
“Actually, scratch that. I’ll have...” He looked at the menu on the wall beside him. It was in small print and there were too many drinks to choose from. “...Orange juice please.”
The man gave Tom a wry smile. “We serve beer too.”
Tom laughed nervously. “Orange juice is fine, thanks.”
The man poured Tom’s drink and handed it to him. “First time in a shisha bar?”
Tom nodded and took a sip of the drink. His mouth had become dry and he had been finding it harder to talk. “How did you know?”
“Haven’t seen you around before,” the man said. “Are you just visiting?”
“Oh, no. I live around here.”
The man stared at Tom and nodded.
Tom was at a loss for words. He didn’t know what to say next. He didn’t think he’d gain anything by just waiting around for hours in the hope that Mobeen would show up. And he didn’t know how he’d get around to determining if Mobeen was around either unless he tried the direct approach.
Screw it, he thought. He decided he would just be as natural as possible and be open about his motive for being there, figuring a hidden agenda would be obvious to anyone he came into contact. “I work at Binford Secondary School. The Sixth Form too.”
“Teacher?”
“Yeah.”
“I see.” Tom sensed the man was more relaxed now and was glad he had abandoned the idea of maintaining a ruse. “We don’t get a lot of teachers in here.”
“What about students?”
The man smiled. “We check ID’s, so no. Over 18’s only.”
Tom looked around and spotted a few college-age boys slouched on sofas and sucking on the hookas. “Must be popular with the college crowd though, right?”
“Yeah, we’re popular with everyone,” the man said.
“I can imagine.”
“How did you find out about us?”
Tom looked at the man and hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to finally come out with it or bide his time some more.
“Some of my students told me about it. As a matter of fact, I heard one of them is related to the owner.”
The man perked up at that. He gave Tom a wary look. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” Tom said, feeling his heart rate increasing rapidly.
“Who’s the student?”
“Mobeen Uddin.” Tom kept his eyes on the man, watching for a reaction to the name.
The man looked away and nodded.
“You know him?” Tom asked.
“He’s my cousin.”
“Ah,” Tom nodded. “So you own this place?”
“Yep.” The man moved away from Tom and started reaching for something under the counter. Even though Tom knew it was an irrational thought, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the man was reaching fo
r a baseball bat or something else to scare Tom off.
“You say you’re Mobeen’s teacher?” the man asked. He was still scrambling under the counter out of Tom’s view.
Tom began to grow nervous, half imagining himself running for his life in the next second. “I was his teacher. Before he was expelled.” He felt his whole body tense.
“I thought so,” the man said. “Mobeen doesn’t go to Binford anymore. He was kicked out.”
“That’s right,” Tom said. “He hasn’t been around here, has he?” Tom hoped the change in his line of questioning was as smooth as possible.
The man stood up and placed both hands on the counter. “Why?” He had a blank expression.
“Well, I was just wondering if he was. I hope he’s been staying out of trouble lately.” Tom tried to make it sound as casual as possible but felt like he had just done the worst acting ever.
“Mobeen’s a good boy.”
Tom nodded a little too much. “I’m sure he is.” He could feel himself sweating now.
The man gave Tom another wary look.
Tom realised the man had grown deeply suspicious of him. He took a long sip from his orange juice, just to buy some time to think of what to say next.
“What was your name again?” the man asked.
“Mr Smith.”
“I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
“That would be great.” Tom felt his time was up and in a final attempt to learn something he said, “by the way, what is he up to these days? He’s not doing an apprenticeship, is he?”
It was a step too far.
In the corner of his eye Tom saw two figures approach him from behind. He looked over his shoulder and saw two bearded Asian men in their late twenties standing there.
One of them, a tall man, remained there while the other, a muscular man in a black T shirt, sat on the stool beside Tom.
The man on the stool exchanged greetings with the barman before surveying Tom up and down.
“Who’s this?” the man beside Tom asked the barman, as if Tom wasn’t even there.
“He’s a teacher from Binford,” the barman said.
“Hmm,” the muscular man said and looked at Tom.
Tom smiled at him. The man didn’t smile back.
