Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  Hazma replies with a question, “Did the screw definitely agree you can grow them?”

  George nods his head “Yeah, he likes tomatoes. He said he’d bring some tomato plants in tomorrow from his greenhouse at home. But why?”

  “Trust me…” Hazma assures him. “I will explain later.”

  “Oh!” George exclaims. From thereon they queue in silence and become spectators to another Pixie ShowTime, as the chef’s demeanour changes constantly from jolly gay giant to homicidal maniac. Nobody is ever sure at any one time what to expect, or if his unpredictable bipolar behaviour is a self-calculated well-performed act, or the knee-jerk reactions of a complete psychopath. Nobody has ever been brave enough to ask either, so the show goes on, and tonight, he’s in full swing.

  One by one he gives a quick visual appraisal of each con as they shuffle across and hold their tray out before him. It resembles the scene from Buckingham Palace, where people wait in line to be knighted by the queen. Her Majesty holds a respected position of power, and a big sword… so all must bow and yield before her, and though the cons don’t actually bow before Pixie’s ladle, some would if he demanded. He’s the undisputed cell-block king; he knows it, enjoys it, and wields it well.

  Hazma whispers in George’s ear, “He’s the biggest freak I’ve ever seen!”

  George nods before shuffling across and presenting his tray to Pixie, who, in his campest accent offers the menu options, “Would you like… a big sausage,” smiling suggestively, “a cheeseburger… or tagliatelle?”

  “Cheeseburger please!” Pixie serves him without episode and George sidesteps a pace further along the queue.

  Next-in-line Hazma shuffles across, holding his breath in anticipation.

  “Ah, Abdul…” exclaims Pixie, and repeats the menu, “would you like, a big sausage,” again smirked suggestively, “a cheeseburger, or tagliatelle?”

  “Pork sausage?” asks Hazma.

  Pixie replies by overacting dramatically as if shocked; he drops his utensil, claps his flat hands together gleefully, like a delighted little girl, and announces to the world excitedly, “He wants my sausage! I’ve never given a Paki one before!”

  Hazma’s never experienced such behaviour before. He understands the sexual connotation and is disgusted by it. Feeling both angered and intimidated, he’s unsure how to handle this brazen buffoon, who picks up a long sausage between his fingers, and offers it to Hazma.

  The Iraqi sneers, “It was a question… Is it pork sausage?”

  Pixie snaps, “Of course it’s fucking pork do you want it or not?”

  Hazma grits his teeth, keeps calm and replies, “I don’t eat pork. I’ll have pasta.”

  As dramatically as Pixie’s mood snapped, it snaps back to camp. He looks longingly into Hazma’s eyes, erects a little finger and uses it to caress along the sausages shaft erotically, while in a seductive voice tempting, “Are you sure you don’t want Pixie’s sausage?”

  “Pasta!” Hazma thrusts out his tray; unimpressed.

  Pixie tosses the sausage over his shoulder and with bare hands scoops up a dollop of tagliatelle and slops it onto Hazma’s plate.

  The Iraqi’s ready to explode; which George detects and moves back to tug his sleeve. Begrudgingly Hazma turns to leave, until Pixie commands, “WAIT!”

  Hazma freezes, as the chef’s fat emotionless face giraffes towards him, with his finger beckoning… But the Iraqi doesn’t move.

  In a sweet-sounding voice Pixie encourages him, “Come closer cheeky boy… I won’t bite.”

  Hazma doesn’t budge. So the wide-eyed Pixie ungracefully levers his bulk up, climbing onto his hands and knees on the work surface, while mumbling, “If cheeky boy won’t come to Pixie…”

  Though he’s trying hard to disguise it, the Iraqi’s face has panic written all over it, as his brain attempts to fathom this unfathomable encounter. With Pixie’s full frame now balanced precariously on all fours across the serving counter, and his mouth positioned uncomfortably close to Hazma’s face, he whispers, “Don’t be scared, Ab… I like you… You have something I want!”

  “What?”

  “Two things; firstly, a question… Are you at all fruity?”

  Hazma pulls a confused face.

  “I thought not,” assumes Pixie. “Secondly… that music you keep playing, the classical music… what is it?”

  Hazma shrugs, “I don’t know.”

  “But I want it!” confirms the chef.

  There’s an awkward moment’s silence, before, from the rear of the queue, a fresh-meat convict who can’t see what’s happening yells, “Come on, we’re starving!”

  Such disrespectful dissension in the ranks disgusts Pixie, whose ears and eyebrows prick up. He forgets Hazma instantly, clambers awkwardly to stand upright on the counter and surveys the queue. Following this exertion his white tunic sags open at the top revealing the savage drooling face of his tattoo.

  A guilty-looking face blends into the queue, but Pixie’s eagle eyes spot him. All traces of camp disappear and pumping veins bulge as he screams, “YOU’LL GET SERVED WHEN I FUCKING SERVE YOU!”

  The canteen is silent, as the guards watch the show; without interfering, they don’t need the hassle. Pixie’s a big unit who takes a lot of handling. Plus, he trades with most of them: mutually beneficial business arrangements that are simply too lucrative to spoil for the sake of his tantrums. So, as normal, they simply observe, as Pixie shuffles his body around to face kitchen side, slides his legs together, holds his arms out wide like Christ on the cross, and in his campest voice commands his cronies below to, “Catch me!”

  Four men scurry into position (he’s done this before) then wait in anticipation as Pixie lifts his bodyweight up onto his toes, like a high-diver, before toppling forward, as a pop star would fall from a stage into the crowd, but this is no swallow dive… Pixie bellyflops onto his floundering rabble of chimps, and collapses them.

  •

  Chapter: 24

  Doctor’s Prescription

  Next morning, Millie curses softly as her Mini crawls in traffic, inching along a congested main street in a run-down district of London. With cars parked nose-to-tail either side, it’s difficult for traffic to flow, and practically impossible to park.

  She wills the traffic to speed up, “Come on, come on!”

  The area is populated predominantly by South Asian and Middle Eastern first-, second- and third-generation immigrants, along with a small percentage of Afro-Caribbeans. The only white-skinned people to be seen are sat in their cars, driving through the area with the doors locked.

  Pedestrians and shoppers busy the pavements and shopfronts, which are laden with trestle tables and produce bins displaying bountiful selections of fresh fruit, vegetables, clothes, exotic fabrics and electrical goods.

  “Yep Siree Bob!” Millie mutters as a parked car indicates to pull out, creating a parking space which she nimbly manoeuvres into, directly behind the rear end of a large black luxury Mercedes Viano SUV people carrier. Once out of the car she ensures it’s locked before squeezing her knees between both cars’ tightly parked bumpers. Being close to the Mercedes, she can’t help noticing its pristine condition. It looks brand new, and out of place in such a deprived area. Millie registers how the car has been partly pimped: larger alloys, blacked-out side and rear windows, and the personal registration plate reads GP1 RUP.

  Once on the pavement, she jinks and sidesteps her way along the congested footpath avoiding pedestrians like a ball receiver dodging defenders, until reaching a tall grey building nestled between two old shop fronts. A DOCTOR’S SURGERY sign hangs upon the door, amongst several shiny brass plaques, one of which is inscribed DR RUPARELA. She checks her watch, and enters.

  With a smile Millie introduces herself to the receptionist, “Hi, I’m Millennium Jones. I have an appointment with Doctor Ruparela.”

  The miserable medical receptionist appears to despise being approached and spoken to, and from her position o
f power behind the counter, gives the impression that she’s far too important to waste her precious breath by speaking. She nods towards the waiting room.

  Millie assumes this cold fish of a woman must be extremely unhappy in her job, to be so unwelcoming and morose, and wonders whether a dour demeanour is a prerequisite in the medical receptionist profession.

  The waiting room overflows with illness, and more miserable-looking people. Millie was fortunate to find a parking space outside, but inside the only available seat is between two old men engaged in a coughing competition. She decides to stand.

  •

  In a small shabby office just along the corridor, sits pinstripe-suited Doctor Ruparela. His red silk tie resplendent against a crisp white shirt, startlingly bright like his whitened teeth, that are on display as he grins across the desk at his patient: a young boy with his mother.

  Like his Mercedes outside, this well-groomed man seems positively out of place in such drab, depressing surroundings. He leans back confidently in the chair, runs his fingers through gelled-back slightly greying black hair, and eloquently rolls out his diagnosis, “This is surprisingly common in young boys…” The boy looks embarrassed and shuffles nervously in his seat, as Ruparela continues, “I know at present it is… uncomfortable, swollen, tender, etcetera, etcetera, the reason being, as children grow, their body parts develop at different rates… But eventually, everything proportions itself correctly, and when it does, tension on his skin will ease considerably; thus enabling him to pull his foreskin back without pain.” With a broad smile he leans forward, ruffles the boy’s hair and assures him, “Then you’ll be able to wash your own willy!”

  The boy looks mortified.

  Ruparela passes the mother a prescription, “Get him to rub cream into his chaffed foreskin twice a day.” And reassures the boy, “Don’t worry… it won’t fall off!”

  The boy doesn’t see the funny side, squirming in embarrassment as his mother leads him through the door.

  Moments later the doctor’s desk telephone rings. He presses a hands-free button and answers, “Yes?” The same miserable receptionist informs him miserably over the speaker that Millennium Jones is waiting. He checks the time on his Rolex Oyster, before replying, “Send her in!”

  Millie enters with a smile and confidently offers her outstretched hand, “Good morning, Doctor. Millennium Jones, CNN.”

  Ruparela stands, politely accepts the handshake and beckons her to sit. He returns the smile and replies, “Good morning, Ms Jones. I know who you are… I occasionally watch your reports.”

  “Oh, thank you!” she replies.

  As Ruparela sits, he ponders for a moment, “Hmm…” before verbally offering, “Millennium… A beautiful, but unusual name… If I’m not mistaken, it means either, one thousand years, or… a hoped-for future period of joy, peace and justice.”

  She smiles again, “Correct!” assuming he Googled the meaning.

  Leaning back in the chair, rubbing fingers through his hair, he repeats, “A future period of joy, peace and justice…” He nods slowly. “So when your parents named you… they had great hopes for mankind!” He stops nodding, “As I once did.”

  Millie corrects him, “They still live in hope… as I do.”

  “To hope… is to wish, and wishes seldom come true. Personally, I am more of a realist.”

  “A realist?” she questions his reply, “or fundamentalist?”

  “Ha!” He laughs out loud. “Straight to the point then, Ms Jones!” He exaggeratedly places a finger to his lips as if pondering the question, “Realist, or fundamentalist?” then removes the finger, looks her straight in the eye and answers, “I am both!” and continues, “On the telephone you requested an interview, for a documentary?”

  “Yes… I’m producing a CNN special report entitled One man’s good is another man’s evil.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  Millie pulls a notepad and pen from her bag and quotes, “Your outspoken condemnation of what you claim to be the oppression of Muslims is well documented, as is your proclamation for Jihad… You make it no secret that you openly support a Holy War!”

  “I voice my opinion when necessary… just as Western journalists take pleasure in quoting Jihad as often as possible… Though I must correct you and your ignorant press associates…” The doctor takes a breath before explaining, “Jihad… does not mean Holy War! Jihad means, defending your faith… with force if necessary… As Prophet Muhammad said, ‘The greatest Jihad is to speak the truth in front of a tyrant ruler’.”

  As Ruparela leans forward, to emphasise his point, his jacket sleeve rides up to reveal a Rolex Oyster wristwatch and glittering diamond clustered cufflinks. He continues, “Jihad gives Muslims a mechanism to defend the sanctity of their lives, their human rights, and freedom to worship their religion… The concept of good fighting evil is not only quoted in Islam, Ms Jones. For example: Judaism, Christianity and Islam all celebrate the prophet David, and describe in their scriptures how he defeated the tyrant Goliath with a measly slingshot. The story is quoted in all three religions, inspiring the weak to be brave… Brave, when oppressed by a stronger force.”

  Millie nods in agreement, having already discovered similar links for her documentary, “Personified also by Saint George and the dragon.”

  After considering her comparison, he agrees, “In basic terms… I suppose it shares a similar message… When oppressed by a more-powerful force… attack… can be the only way to defend.”

  Millie refers to her notebook and asks, “Using that rationale… what is your stance on terrorism?”

  Ruparela smiles again, “I’m a lover not a fighter! A humble practitioner… I work to heal the sick, and preach to heal the mind.”

  Disappointed that he ducked the question, Millie tries a different tack. “Doctor, you very kindly quoted for me your interpretations of the words Millennium and Jihad… But then you describe yourself as humble… After meeting you… humble is not a word I would choose!”

  He’s intrigued, “Why not?”

  “I understand humble to mean modest and unpretentious… and I don’t have a problem at all with people having nice things but… I wouldn’t describe your Savile Row suit, Rolex watch, or big shiny Mercedes outside as modest!”

  “I never hide the trappings of my trade,” he replies vehemently, his smile replaced by a frown.

  Millie continues, “But surely those trappings, of your wealth… don’t fit the profile of an Islamic fundamentalist!”

  His reply now wears a harsher tone, “I’m employed by the National Health Service, Ms Jones. I assure you… I do my bit for society, humanity, charity etcetera, etcetera.” He flashes his wristwatch. “I like nice things, what’s wrong with that? My extra curricula private practice provides me with very nice things… It also enables me to donate sizeable charitable contributions that I otherwise could not make.”

  Millie looks around the shabby office, “A private practice here?”

  “No…” he shakes his head, “in the City, as my private practice must make the right impression… You see I specialise in vasectomies for wealthy Englishmen.” Millie raises an eyebrow. A smarmy, slightly sadistic expression grows on his face as he explains, “I must admit… I do find slicing open Englishmen’s testicles quite therapeutic…” He laughs, “Ha! By the way, you have my permission to put that in your documentary!” and continues smugly, “My Friday afternoon vasectomies buy the fuel for my Mercedes!”

  Millie has quickly worked out that Ruparela is a master at deflecting delicate questions; as Agent Williams said, the Teflon man. He’s playing cat and mouse with her enquiries, and enjoying the chase, but her documentary needs more links, to what she already has, so after glancing again at her notepad she states, “You know Hazma Sahar!”

  The smarminess disappears; he composes himself and replies, “Yes… of course I know him.”

  “For the record…” Millie confirms, “Hazma Sahar is a convicted te
rrorist… The man you sponsored for a UK student visa, made IEDs that were used in attacks across Britain.” He remains silent. She continues, “The prosecution named you as his father figure… They described you, as his mentor, who indoctrinated him and fuelled his quest to revenge his parents’ deaths.”

  “Based on what evidence?” Ruparela shrugs. “My defence drove a red London bus through those accusations!”

  “Come on!” She’s getting frustrated. “You openly admit encouraging your followers to fight oppression, then deny indoctrinating Hazma… the sixteen-year-old who you housed, schooled and associated with for fourteen years until his arrest?”

  He stares back with steely intensity; the joviality has now gone. “Ms Jones… I’ve been asked these questions before… all of them. You’re just a typical Western journalist, tossing accusations and insinuations like hand grenades, based on dismissed theories thrown out of court because they lacked any shred of palpable evidence… I had hoped your track record of responsible conscientious journalism meant you would research both sides of the story… But now it’s obvious to me that your sleazy style is nothing short of sanctimonious slop! Sensationalism… You’re ratting for scraps like the gutter press!”

  Millie defends herself, “I… I,” stammering slightly. “I’m just—”

  He cuts her short, “You’re just stirring up hatred. One man’s good’s another man’s evil. Yes! It is! One man’s good is another man’s evil. There are two sides to every story. That’s a fact! Tell me something I don’t already know! But you’ll never see both sides… you’re too one-eyed.” He stands bolt upright, paces to the door, yanks it open and orders her to, “Get out!”

  “But I… I was…”

  “You insult me, woman. Leave now!”

  She takes a deep breath, composes herself, places the notebook and pen back into her bag, stands, and with a respectful nod says, “Thank you for your time,” and exits his office with her head held high.