Carney's War

by James T. Emry

  CONTENTS

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Three

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Four

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Conclusion

  Glossary

  Copyright

  “If you wound the body of a dying man the wound begins to heal; even if the whole body dies within a day.” Primo Levi.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  The helicopter blades were kicking up the dust such that visibility was all but nil. Boxes, rucksacks, bags, hardtop cases and weapon systems were all being unloaded at speed off the tail-end along the human chain. Joe looked down the length of the helicopter hold, right and left, and saw men in dishdash, turbaned, with beards and guns and then the faces of Az and Cam.

  He suddenly woke up; the right flank of the front wheel hit the kerb of the central reservation, but luckily the car bounced back onto the road and he controlled the steering to compensate for the momentary lapse. The lights of other cars were like discs chasing each other across the carriageway through the fog. They moved around and then disappeared into the gloom. The speed freak had been tight on his rear in the grey, damp evening and in that instant he had dozed Joe noticed that the car had suddenly held back.

  “That’ll teach you, you silly bastard,” Joe thought to himself. “At least if I crash I’ll take you with me!”

  It was 6.00pm on a Friday in the October mist and he had been up since 5.00am; dropping off Alison, his wife, and Charlie, their baby, at her parents in Bedford, then going back to the office in London afterwards. He’d not slept well for several nights and was now paying for it. There was no way he would be fit enough for the drive early in the morning to Scotland and he wouldn’t risk it with Alison and the baby. They would stay in Bedford and then go up on Sunday. It made little difference as he had the next week off work anyway. The decision made, he steadied himself and felt more confident, slowing down as he knew there was a speed-restricted area coming up.

  “Hopefully the idiot behind me will overtake, and then speed through it and get a ticket,” he thought. “Knowing my luck the camera’s a dud.”

  He thought back over the last decade of his life and he started to recall events in brief. They gradually emerged, snapshots in time, coalescing, re-merging, then becoming illuminated by time and recollections. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip to Scotland.

  ***

  There was a crack as the underground train broke out of the tunnel. He stumbled up to grab a rail, shifting feet whilst checking the stop and fighting past people whose lower bodies were now familiar. It was the rush hour and Joe Carney was looking forward to the short walk from the station in the sunshine of the September afternoon in 2002. Once out of the station building he ambled up the ramp to street level. He changed the route around the traffic islands every day crossing the junction and dodging the traffic.

  On the other side he went down the steps and along the sunken road, with terraced cottages on the left side, to the next flight where he ascended the ten steps to the upper street level of the old village, then passing through the alley, the sun blinding him as he stumbled forward. He went along by the graveyard, with the church just visible through the trees, and the great overgrown oaks and sycamore trees bent over. A couple of small kids were kicking a ball around one of the back streets and an old, heavily turbaned Asian man sat on a bench set back just off the pavement resting his head on his hands, which were clutching the top of his mahogany cane.

  Joe had spent the last few years making the journey back to northeast London from his job with a central London engineering firm and wondered how people could keep it going; the constant, relentless commute. People received medals for acts of bravery: he wondered why you got nothing for long drawn out acts of tedium involving personal sacrifice. Presumably the ying-yang thing of complementary opposites didn’t work in that sense. You could do this for forty years and who would know, or care?

  But his thoughts paled when set against a late summer afternoon as warm as this. The warmth had brought back memories of working in hot countries for four years in the nineties during the recession of that decade. Most of his then fellow college graduates had gone abroad, many of them for good. The intensity of the sun had reminded him of the dry heat he had often experienced when he had been working on engineering projects funded by various agencies in Africa and Asia, until 1997 when he returned home to work in his chosen field.

  And there had been plenty of work; London engineering firms had been gasping for young talent and for anyone with the right skills it was the right time to be looking. Now five years on, he no longer feared the scrap heap, but had decided it was probably not the long-term vocation for him any more. He was therefore no longer certain that his career would move along without interruption and in a predictable direction. He had, after all, tended to work against predictable outcomes in life. He was considering other paths, but with little idea of what his experiences and interests would incline him towards. He had reasoned that he would have to flow with it for a while and see what happened.

  He strode past a main line station and on up the hill towards his two-bed, ground floor Victorian flat located near the edge of the forest. It had been part of a large residence on three levels before conversion and he was only now becoming conscious of the sheer amount of work required to get the place habitable.

  ***

  Azhad was sitting on the bench on the edge of the graveyard, discussing various family and personal issues with his cousins Khalil and Wazir. He felt compromised by their comments and decided to show some restraint, while at least being candid: “You’re right guys: I’ve got to get some decent work and sort out my education.” The three of them got up and headed down the path.

  “Az: it’s all done by men in top hats with smoke and mirrors you know,” said Khalil in an effort to cheer up his cousin. They started walking along the narrow road towards the house owned by Shakil, Azhad’s brother. A group of young teenagers were kicking a ball around on the edge of the graveyard. The local priest had long since given up trying to drive them away. Azhad had a sudden flashback to his schooldays – in his teens he had gone to a school nearby and he and three of his mates had all been soccer mad back then in the eighties. “I wonder what happened to those lads: Dave, Raz and Jay C?”

  His attention was then grabbed by Khalil. “Still here cuz?” Khalil, at thirty-two, was older than Wazir by three years. Azhad (or Az as they better knew him) was a year older than Khalil and two less than Shakil. Both Haqim, the father of Shakil and Az, and Abdul, the father of Khalil and Wazir, had worked hard for their money. They had been the youngest two of five brothers and two sisters originally from Pakistan. The grandfather had been a civil servant spanning the decades of change in South Asia from the 1930s until his death in 1963. The two men had come to the UK in the mid-1960s and went down separate career paths. Haqim (Haq to his family) became a pharmacist and eventually went back to Pakistan with his wife, Farida, in the late 1990s. Abdul had been an import-export businessman and had retired with his wife to a new life in a West Sussex village in 2000. They had a daughter late in life. She had recently moved to Lahore and was engaged to a businessman.

  Haq had managed to keep the house in Waltham Forest they had purchased in the late 1960s and passed it on to Shakil. While growing up in northeast London, Az and Shakil had spent many summers of their youth in the Midlands with other members of their extended fami
ly. They still had an uncle and aunt on their mother’s side there.

  The four boys had all gone to private schools and then on to higher education. Az had spent three years doing electrical engineering, and then flunked out of his postgraduate course. He had started a part-time masters course, but a lack of funds was putting him off the final modules. He picked up temporary work in retail parks when he could. Shakil had done a degree in computer science and worked in a local retail park. Khalil had completed a business degree in central London and ran his own IT business. Wazir was taking a year out from a surveying course while drifting into IT and working part-time and taking evening classes.

  “So what’s new then, Az, any scandals?” Az frowned at the banality of the question from Wazir. Khalil’s brother always managed to say the wrong thing.

  Az grinned at Wazir. “You know, Waz, where would we all be without you around? You back on that college course again?”

  “Yeah, my old man would kill me if I wasn’t. You know what he’s like. I have to pay my way, Az. We all do.”

  “Don’t I know it, Waz! And your sister is she OK?”

  “Yeah; all loved up.”

  “Come on, Waz; that man’ll be a blessing for your family.”

  “Yes, of course he will be; as we are constantly reminded,” piped up Khalil.

  “I know; that’s why I said it.”

  “And what about you Az?”

  “I just don’t know; I really want to go back to Pakistan. I’ve just had it up to here recently, trying to find something.” He paused. “Like I said I’ll go back to college and get something local.”

  “Yeah, life does get a bit much,” replied Khalil. “I think we’re all feeling it.”

  The men paused at the door of the house and then greeted Shakil.

  “Salama Aleikum.” Az kissed his brother on both cheeks.

  “Walaikum asalam,” Shakil replied.

  They all sat down in the lounge.

  “So much for education,” said Az, continuing his conversation with Khalil. “I don’t really see where this course has got me.”

  “Just stick with it. It’s just a piece of paper that will get you onto something better,” Shakil interrupted.

  “You mean a proper job, bruv?” said Az.

  “Dream on, boys. I’ve been trying to sort one of them out for a while now,” said Wazir.

  “Boys, boys: let’s have some positives, shall we?” said Khalil raising his voice.

  “We’re all smart lads and Shak and me are doing OK. Az and Wazir just need to keep on their courses, night classes, whatever. Stop being so down hearted. Anyway things are looking good generally. Take advantage.”

  They chatted about the house. It was a medium-sized, three-bed Edwardian affair and badly in need of redecoration. Shakil had done very little other than basic maintenance over the years. Khalil was wondering how small it appeared now compared to in the past when the whole family was there.

  Az was tired of the conversation and went off to make the tea. He had never really worried about what his cousins thought about anything. More recently he had ceased to care what they made of his unkempt beard and loose clothing. He had his own style. In fact, Khalil and Wazir had both joked that afternoon that he now looked like some large Goth with dark, flowing clothes.

  In reality his world was torn between different competing thoughts and he had become disorientated and confused. He could go back to college and take on the rat race again, but his instincts were leading him in a different direction.

  ***

  At the flat Joe got his messages: some friends organizing a weekend trip, and the offer of dinner with the family that weekend. However, he had other commitments. He had already packed his kit for the two-hour journey ahead of him.

  The phone went; it was his ex, Sita. She often rang up even though she had been engaged to someone else for the last six months. Her Hindu father had run off with a Swedish woman when she and her sister were still young. She had gone on to become a doctor, which paid the mortgage on the mother’s house, as well as her own flat in Hampshire.

  “Are you away again, Joe? You never seem to be around these days.”

  “Yes; why? Were you planning something?”

  “No not really. You sound stressed; it’s Friday. Chill out, my love.”

  “I know, sorry; I am trying to get all my crap together. Friday evening is always the same before a camping weekend. Once you are there it’s OK. Why are you calling?”

  “Oh, you know, bored. Thought I would see how my old flames are doing.”

  “I feel honoured; it’s early. I must be in top spot.”

  “No, you are just near the beginning of the address book; only joking. I wondered if we are going to see you down here some time soon.”

  “I was planning on looking in after a few weeks, but the weather has been crap recently. And I know that your part of the world is getting a good soaking.”

  “You’re right. Could you make it a Sunday? I’m doing shifts in the hospital on Saturdays.”

  “Yes, OK; just text me when you know what day suits you best in the next few weeks. I look forward to it.”

  “OK then, Joe; ciao.”

  He had never been angry about splitting up; he had rationalized that it was an essential part of the process of finding the right woman which was hard enough so he was in no hurry. His main aim was to set himself up financially and if things changed on the personal front then fine.

  He’d had several good years with Sita in Yorkshire in the mid-nineties where they had both been at college before he had started out on a long period of travelling and working abroad. She had joined him for some of that. They had lived the last two years of their time in Yorkshire in a run-down Victorian suburb in Leeds once home to a thriving industrial area. What had made the area different to many other local communities was that the locals were mostly Asian; originating from only two villages in Pakistan.

  There was something odd about the juxtaposition of “Brave New World” and worn-out apartment blocks with terraced housing. He had left college in Leeds as a civil engineering graduate in the middle of the nineties’ recession. Eighteen months spent working on building sites after leaving college then stood him in good stead for paying off his debts while Sita worked at the Leeds General Infirmary.

  The challenges of working on sites had taught him that things could go wrong without too much prompting. He had been responsible for some of the new fire-proofing work in various local authority tower blocks and he’d had access to every flat and communal area. He saw the blocks in their entirety, about fifteen of them, in Armley, Hunslet, Seacroft as well as other parts of the city. Within them, generally, lived old people, single mums, as well as a few prostitutes and drug dealers. Some caretakers kept buckets in which they put the syringes they found every morning taped to the handrails of the staircases.

  Joe had been present the day the police had finally managed to get one of the main drug dealers in a block of flats in Armley. However, it was sadly ironic that many of the repairs that he had organized were in fact due to police raids on flats, and not vandalism caused by the drug gangs as some supposed. When his own bedsit was robbed, it was a local gang from Morley that had done it. Another tenant in the same block had lost a motorbike, and they had then seen the gang riding around on it in the streets and local parks. The police had told them to stay out of it; and promptly did nothing. But Joe had always noticed that amongst the general mayhem the local community was silent, so silent in fact that no one would have known that they were there most of the time.

  That had been confirmed after speaking to a local primary school teacher he had got to know at a bus stop. “But they are a bit too different, some of the folk round here,” had been one of her parting comments when she got off the bus one morning. He hadn’t known exactly what she had meant at the time: which folk exactly? It was something that had stayed with him down the years. And he had wondered exactly what she had meant.
It had eventually got churned up with his other memories.

  After the motorcycle incident there had been a brief affair with a gorgeous nurse from the Leeds General Infirmary he had met on the same bus route. This straight after another girl he had got to know at an evening class had given him the palm-off. It was those failures and conquests that meant more to him in those days than peripheral things like policing, politics and social divisions. Moreover Beeston had been a good enough place to live, despite the dreariness, providing local work while the recession was in full swing down south.

  As he reflected, other memories came into his mind including the spontaneous fighting one Saturday in 1992 in Halifax between Asian and white youths. And it wasn’t just a few youths; it seemed like the whole town was fighting. That was one Saturday morning shopping trip he wouldn’t forget.

  He also recalled the attitudes of some of the local white people in South Leeds. “You live in the Paki half, I’m from the white half,” was what one young engineer technician had said to him at a friend’s house party. To Joe that had sounded odd, as there were a good many local white people in the streets around his own place in Beeston. The young man had also completely ignored the fact that Joe himself was of mixed parentage. His mother, Sally, was white and from Sidcup originally. His father, Donald, was a West Indian from St Lucia. Donald had died only three weeks after Joe had returned from working on a construction project in Uganda in late 1995. Joe had been staying with his father at the old family house in Wanstead, where he and his sister, Corah, had grown up.

  His mother had often told him what it was like having mixed race children in London in the 1960s. Even people she had known for years had turned against her. It had been difficult for her own mother to accept, but she had finally come round before the wedding.

  For Joe early life in London in the late 1970s was tough; every other teenager was a skinhead, especially around Walthamstow where he hung about a lot. But gradually it turned round; he got into Ska music, bought a Vespa and started going to the Flowerpot club in Tottenham. One gig he remembered was Hazel O’Connor at the Rainbow in Finsbury Park in 1979. It was wall-to-wall skinheads sniffing glue and pogoing; but it was heaven, as he’d met his first girlfriend there.