The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  Dearden no longer looked the suave scourge of terror that he imagined himself to be a few minutes before. His hair was dishevelled, he had trouble focussing and his jaw flopped around like a limp fish.

  Edwards had helped him up from the floor and on to a chair. He explained that when his father was at school he was on the tubby side and was landed with the nickname Billy Bunter. When Edwards himself started school he too was a bit fat and history repeated itself, thanks to a friend’s mother who had known his old man as a child. This gave him the jip and whenever he was called Billy Bunter he hit out.

  “It got to be automatic if you know what I mean, so when you whispered in my ear…It’s like a reflex thing. You know, like this –”

  He struck Dearden on the kneecap and the young officer yelped in pain as his lower leg jerked forward. “See what I mean? That’s a motor reflex thingammy. So no hard feelings, our kid?”

  Dearden nodded, grimacing.

  “Champion!”

  Edwards grinned. “So what’s all the palaver about?”

  Dearden told him about the code he had cracked, explaining the flawless logic in his meticulous reasoning.

  The detective inspector scratched his head thoughtfully as he read the print-out.

  “The Madrasah of Islamic Britons. I was on the beat when it opened. Hell of a big do with a load of toffs. Back in Yorkshire I used to hang about with some of these Muslim characters. At first I thought they were a right bunch of wing-nuts but after a bit I changed my mind. They’re honest, mind you. With these guys what you see is what you get. Some of me mates back then were AC/DC, if you know what I mean. But them lot were stand up fellas; the whole lot of ’em. One time, I asked one of them if I could go to one of their talks and he says you’re welcome, jus’ like that. No push off, your face is white. No none of that. So I went to the talk for five days in a row. What an eye-opener! A scary-looking bloke with a big beard and big shoulders did the speaking and boy did he have a pair of tongs on him or what! He could’ve blown away any opera singer. But do you know the scariest thing? All he talked about for those five days in a row was Judgement Day and Armageddon; you know mountains crumbling, oceans boiling, angels giving you a proper hiding. It gave me nightmares but he was so excited.

  “Afterwards I got to thinking that this lot are more serious about life and death than our lot. How many young people do you know that think about resurrection and heaven and hell and all that malarkey? None I’ll bet. That’s why they’re so proper and formal. Not because they’re unfriendly but because they got other things on their mind. Anyway, if we gotta go, we gotta go.”

  He looked sternly at DC Dearden.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this? Because if you don’t mind me saying so you look like a right yogurt!”

  Musa walked over to the mirror and studied himself. He sighed heavily and lifted his chin up. He didn’t feel any different. Truth be told, it was uncomfortable as hell; and he smelt his breath each time he exhaled. He looked out of the window and surveyed the world from the perspective of a veiled Sister. The world tottered on, much the same as before. A few stalls selling vegetables and fish were being set up on either side of the road. Two elderly drunks lurched unsteadily along the pavement, their arms round each other’s shoulders. There was however no sense of filter, no sense of segregation. Perhaps it was as they said, thought Musa, the real veil is behind the eyes.

  He smiled sadly and prepared to disrobe just as Ali and Basto pushed open the door. He turned with the speed of a ballerina, then crouched and stuck out his arms as if preparing to hurl himself at the two intruders. Incredulous, Ali and Basto froze as they considered the bizarre spectacle of a Sister preparing herself for man-to-man combat. For a few minutes no one dared speak.

  It was Ali who came to his senses first, while Basto timidly hung back.

  “Musa, is that you?” he asked, warily.

  “Who else, you dumb fool?” retorted Musa angrily.

  Just as Ali prepared to launch into a tirade they heard a commotion downstairs followed by the sound of heavy footsteps heading towards the door. In strode Edwards and Dearden and a bunch of Holy young men with excited faces filled the doorway.

  Ali scowled at them. “Hey you baboons! Knock it off! Don’t you have any manners? Did none of your parents teach you how to behave when visitors come around?”

  He slammed the door and turned and glared at the two policemen. Dearden looked awkwardly at Edwards, who nodded.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen and… lady,” he began awkwardly. “We are from the anti-terrorism branch and have some questions to ask you but first we must point out that we are not placing you under arrest.”

  He stopped, smiled suddenly, walked towards Musa and stretched out his hand.

  Musa turned his face sideways and in a smooth fluid movement he slapped Dearden across the face. Still suffering from his superior’s earlier attack, the police officer groaned but instinctively squared up to his assailant, momentarily forgetting Musa’s assumed gender.

  Edwards quickly stepped between them and frowned at Dearden.

  “You can’t shake hands with Muslim women. What do they teach you at university nowadays?”

  “But it’s not what you think!” began Basto. “He’s not a woman.”

  Musa slapped him hard across his face too. Basto stumbled and fell backwards.

  Edwards nodded towards Musa and said to Ali, “Cor! She’s a feisty one.”

  “I suppose you could say that,” agreed Ali. He caught Musa’s eye and pointed towards the door.

  “Leave!”

  Musa shot towards the door but slammed into Edwards who jumped in front of him. Musa fell back and landed on Basto. A combination of two intestinal sounds was heard as his head made contact with Basto’s abdomen.

  “What a carry-on this is!” Edwards chortled as he surveyed the struggling forms on the floor. “Let’s start again,” he suggested.

  “Assalaam-u-alaikum. I am Detective Inspector Edwards. There are only two ways from here on. My way or the high way. My way is nice and easy. All you gotta do is just come with us and answer a few questions. None of you is under arrest. I will say that again for the record. You’re not nicked. Like my colleague said, all we wanna do is ask a few questions nice and polite like. And all we want you to do is answer, nice and polite like. So are we ready or are we ready?”

  Edwards smiled and gave a thumbs-up sign, as though he were a game show host ready to signal the start of some fantastic fun. Musa and Basto got up. Musa carefully arranged his veil. Ali shook his head in disgust and the three of them made their way out, followed by the dazed DC Dearden.

  In the narrow corridor, the Holy young men waited.

  “Hey where’s Musa?” “Who’s the Sister?” “What are the policemen doing here? Are you selling drugs?” “That’s not Islamic you know!” “How come you gotta Sister in there?” “That’s not Islamic you know.”

  Edwards placed himself directly in front of Musa and shouldered his way through. A few steps further and the number of inquisitive Holy men multiplied. Edwards made a sweeping motion with both arms looking as if he were doing the breast stroke in a sea of crazed Holy men. Musa was pushed up against Basto’s back and his veil brushed against the sweat on Basto’s neck. There was a wall of volume on either side of him that heaved with distaste and excitement. Basto, aware of the responsibility of his role as Musa’s protector, grew indignant and raised his voice: “C’mon guys, give them a break! Ain’t any of you got sisters yourselves?”

  More laughter and more chuckles and more sneers. Dimly, Musa was aware they had reached the staircase but that did not alter their rate of progress. Even the stairs were packed. Where had the Holy men come from? He couldn’t recall seeing so many people at breakfast or even prayer. But nonetheless they were all here, crucifying him with their venomous intrigue. Musa curled his gloved hand into a fist and prepared to strike at the mob but as he did so, he felt his entire body lunge forwards.
Slowly, it dawned on him that his feet were no longer touching the ground: he was suspended in this bedlam of bedevilled Holy men. Like a dark angel, he wafted down the stairs held aloft by the rabble.

  After they dropped him Musa realised they were in the foyer and at the far end of this sun-lit space was the main entrance. The rabble had momentarily calmed down but like a crazed swarm of bees they re-grouped and hustled Musa all the way to the exit. Dimly he was aware of Ali and Basto’s furious protests as they fought, pushed and cussed their way out.

  Relieved to be outside Musa prepared to take off his hijab, but reconsidered the action. It wouldn’t look good at this particular moment: they might start thinking he was a transvestite and that would do irreparable damage to his reputation as a Holy man. That demented impulse he’d had to foray into the psyche of a Sister! It all seemed to be such reckless folly now.

  Detective Inspector Edwards opened the door of a flattened, white Audi with a flashing revolving beacon and announced proudly,” Welcome to the bat mobile!”

  Looking directly at Musa he asked,” You wanna go first, Madam?”

  The anti-terrorist unit’s detention room reflected none of the fabled goodwill of which its proprietors liked to boast. No more than a squalid cell it was lit with ferociously bright bulbs, their wattage so intense the mould in the corners of the room was obscured. Musa, Ali and Basto sat on creaky wooden chairs alongside a metal table. The door remained open although that in no way offered a possibility of escape for, wedged in the doorway, was a large, dour-faced policewoman.

  “Do you think she’s a lesbian?” Musa whispered to Ali.

  “Dunno. I read somewhere that all senior people in the police are freemasons, and most freemasons are racists. And I remember hearing Imam Faisal say that a lot of racist people are gay,” replied Ali, also in a whisper.

  “So what does that make her? A racist, a lesbian and a freemason?”

  “Does she have to be all three?”

  “Maybe not, but even if you picked your best two we’re still fucked.”

  Just then the policewoman moved aside for Edwards and Dearden who closed the door behind them. Edwards pulled up a chair and with a slow deliberate casualness leaned back and placed his right ankle on his left knee. He then placed his hands at the back of his neck and beamed at them. Dearden sighed heavily and did likewise, grimacing slightly as he smiled due to the large swelling on his cheek.

  Musa, Ali and Basto stared at the pair with their brilliant smiles. They then looked at each other and, as if some telepathic conference had taken place, they put their hands on the table.

  The detectives maintained their fixed smiles, a second became a minute and a minute became much longer until it finally dawned on Musa that the dazzling duo were expecting a reciprocal gesture. What would a Sister have done at a moment like this? He couldn’t guess and briefly had the urge to remove the veil and bare all. There was the small chance that such a gesture would tickle the British funny bone to such an extent that they might forget why they were here in the first place. But to presume upon their sense of humour would be as wise as walking across the M1. He watched as a bead of sweat from DI Edwards’ temple coursed down his face only to be diverted by a dimple on his cheek to the bottom of his lower lip.

  Edwards undid the holster on the side of his belt and took out his pistol. He undid the magazine catch and slowly separated it from the rest. With great care he placed the two parts side by side on the table, the beatific smile still fixed on his face. DC Dearden followed suit, accepting that the finer mysteries of life would forever elude him. The two then leant back with their legs in exactly the same position as before, radiating goodwill through the glint of their incisors.

  The dawn of comprehension at last broke in the minds of Ali and Basto and they leant back, folded their arms and smiled. Musa gave them a hesitant thumbs-up sign. DI Edwards’ smile grew even broader and he chuckled in appreciation of this newly formed coalition of friendliness.

  “You see, folks, we’re not here to hurt you or to make you feel afraid! We’re keeping the peace so we can increase the peace, if you get what I mean. We know you guys watch the news and think policemen are all bell-ends, they wanna lock you up and throw away the key! But it’s not like that at all! Isn’t that right?”

  He turned to Dearden who gazed at the three and shrugged in a non-committal way. Edwards laughed. “Don’t mind him. He’s a joker and a half is this one!” He paused.

  “There is something I want you to know. I was born and brought up in Yorkshire and some of my best mates there are Pakistani. Every time I go back they say to me, ‘Harvey, you must have a pint with us.’ Or, ‘You must come down in your policeman’s uniform and do a little talk in our mosque.’

  “One time, honest to God, it’s no lie, I found a girl crying on a park bench and I asked her what’s up. She tells me that her mum and dad are putting pressure on her to marry her cousin who she hates. I ask if he lives in Pakistan but she says he lives next door! So I say to her, ‘You just gotta give it time, love. Every relationship is like that. You hate someone and then you love them and then you hate them again. It’s like that for all of us, black, blue or white.’

  “I take her home and her parents are so pleased they invite me to have my supper with them. While we’re eating I say to her dad, ‘Don’t force her! You gotta respect whatever she says. And if it’s no, it’s no’. And I says to the girl, ‘Your mum and dad want what’s best for you. They’ve seen more of life than what you have and moving next door is no big deal. You’ll settle down in no time.’

  “That was five years ago and every time I see her she’s gotta little’un.” His eyes softened. “So you see. We’re all friends. I am not Johnny Westerner and you aren’t Ali Pakistani. We’re all the children of Adam and Eve. You get what I’m saying?”

  Musa, Ali and Basto nodded their heads.

  “Good. Let’s get to it. DC Dearden, take it away!”

  Dearden cleared his throat.

  “Let me begin by reiterating the sentiments of my colleague. We all want a swift and amicable resolution of this matter. Now, a little while ago, we intercepted an electronic communiqué which contained what appeared to be a code. After some careful analysis I found the source of the communiqué was the Madrasah and on further analysis it was discovered that the mode of electronic transmission to Pakistan was a webcam which upon even further analysis led to the discovery that this communiqué emanated from your room.”

  “All we did was ask at the reception if anyone had a webcam!” interrupted DI Edwards.

  Dearden gave his superior officer a disdainful look and carried on.

  “Now, if I may, I would like to read aloud the first line of this apparent poem.” He paused.

  “‘In the cave that is our soul…’ I was immediately struck by the menacing tone of this first line, its deeply negative interpretation of a man’s soul, equating it to a dark, forbidding cave. It struck me, as I am sure it must strike you, that these are the thoughts of someone who is essentially a loner, someone who is deeply entrenched in pessimism.

  “Then the second line.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “‘The darkness is our desire for power’.

  Musa, Ali and Basto fidgeted nervously.

  “Darkness, power. Darkness, power. Darkness and power. The dark and then the power. The power that comes from the dark. Do you see how that follows on as an attacking blow? Now we see the psyche of a person who is empowered by the dark murmurings of his soul which he thinks is a cave. Then the third line.

  “‘Blind bats flee from our call’. At this point we see the desperate plight of someone who is trying to call out, trying to connect, but instead of finding sympathy and compassion, he discovers that everyone is running away and in his hatred he labels them as being blind because they cannot understand his distorted view of the world and himself.

  “The next line. ‘To nest in a sane man’s tower’. Do you see now how suddenly the whole tone of
the poem changes? Can’t you feel the dark intensity of the metaphors? The person is now clearly distinguishing between himself and the sane man. He sees the sane man as someone far away in a tower, while he is languishing in his quagmire of pessimism and negativity. Then the fifth line…

  “‘Laden is the heart that seeks respite…’”

  Dearden folded his arms and looked coldly at the three men facing him.

  “Eh? There’s summat a bit dicky mint about that line,” mused DI Edwards.

  “Dicky mint, precisely sir,” replied Dearden. “Now if viewed in conjunction with the final line, ‘From this world’s deadly fight’, an ominous pattern emerges.”

  “What’s that?” asked Edwards excitedly.

  “Cave – power – tower – Laden and then…fight,” answered Dearden.

  Edwards frowned. “Um…I don’t mean to sound thick, but just what are you blathering on about?” he asked.

  “Cave power tower Laden fight. Who do we know that lives in a cave and is known for an event concerning a tower and has the name Laden and calls for people to fight?”

  “Osama bin Laden!”

  “Precisely, sir.” Dearden smiled. “Now which one of you is the author?”

  The three young men were aghast.

  Musa spoke first. “DC Dearden, you’ve got it wrong. It’s a different kind of Laden. You see Laden in Osama bin Laden’s name is pronounced Lah-den; whereas Laden in the poem is pronounced lay-den, meaning full up. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick!”

  Dearden was curious.

  “Did you write this, madam?”

  Musa nodded warily. Ali and Basto cut a glance to each other, aware of the potential for further disaster.

  “Why’s that then?” inquired Edwards.

  “Well, you see sir, the thing is I’ve always had a way with words. I like to read and I have a diary and I write things in that diary whenever I get the urge. It’s just the way I am.”