I looked at him as he leaned against the door with his arms folded and thought about how his neck and chin resembled Nadia’s. She had the same sharp chin and sturdy neck and it only felt like yesterday when I was telling her off in the same manner, usually about why she shouldn’t take up fashion or design as a career: the children and her husband were more important.
‘So did Dr Graham finally find out what were wrong with you?’ asked Wasim.
I shook my head. Hearing my former GP’s name threw me off balance. He was the last person I wanted to talk about because of his insistence I was depressed because Fareeda had passed away and, subsequently, didn’t have a medical condition. He caused me a lot of physical and mental anguish. Luckily, for me he was away when one of his colleagues decided to refer me to the specialist (Dr Howarth) because of my breathing problems. One of the few benefits of moving to Edmund Street was that I could change GPs and, hopefully, never see Dr Graham again.
‘I don’t know why you bother with those corrupt doctors,’ he said. ‘They just have the same illnesses for all older Muslims: TB and diabetes.’
‘Not for me…’
‘What? I know an imam just outside Baghdad, he could get you cured straight away.’
‘Exorcism and beads is it?’
Wasim shook his head and looked angry. He moved away from the door and walked towards the shoebox. He sat down and ran his palms slowly over his face. ‘You see, nana jee, you’re just not taking any of this seriously. I don’t care what you think because I’m staying here. I’ve already helped hundreds of people and sorted out plenty of others. I totally respect you and stuff but I’ve made my mind up.’
‘Well, wherever you go,’ I said. ‘I’m coming with you…until you decide you want to go home.’
It was a long time since I’d shared a bed or mattress with anyone, let alone a member of my own family. But that was the price I had to pay for finding Wasim who spend most of the day evading my questions. I wanted to know about his resistance group, his movements and why he was living one day with Bilu and rest with his evasive chums. He didn’t answer any of these things satisfactorily and instead spoke at length of the work he did after the Kashmir earthquake. He told me the things he’d seen there horrified him to such an extent that he felt suicidal, impotent and worthless. The lack of help from General Musharraf’s government inflamed him further. But I reminded him there was another person, much more important to him, who was also inflamed and angry. I remembered the sadness in Nadia’s voice when she told me on the phone of Wasim’s decision to leave England when news of the earthquake was breaking. I obviously had no idea of his movements at the time but she said he had been hanging around with a ‘different crowd’ for a while. They were a highly–educated, devout bunch who gathered in ‘Taz’s cellar’ a couple of nights a week and on those particular evenings, Wasim didn’t get home until 1am. After that, she noticed changes in his behaviour like clearing out his bedroom of all CDs, DVDs and video games, reading the ingredients labels on food cans and getting up in the morning for dawn prayers. I put these things to Wasim but he shocked me by saying his mother was trying to be a ‘material girl at the age of forty–odd’ because of her fashion degree.
That evening was spent in near–silence as Wasim and I ate our food with not so much as a glance upwards. Bilu wanted to celebrate our reunion – and had made a big bowl of halva for dessert – but I was full up and simply couldn’t get any more food into my bloated stomach. As a mark of respect, I nibbled two spoonfuls and retired to lie down on the mattress. Wasim didn’t find it as difficult, however, as he knocked back three helpings of the date–dominated dessert and calmly got up to do wuzu and then read namaz in the corner of the room. I wondered how he knew which way Mecca was because I didn’t have the foggiest.
So an awkward evening became a harsh, lonely night as Wasim slipped in next to me in his striped boxer shorts and white t–shirt. He had offered to sleep on the floor but I couldn’t let him do that so there was no option but for him to tuck up beside me on the mattress. I shouldn’t have worried because he got to sleep about 10 minutes later while I continued to monitor the ceiling for cracks. He didn’t snore but the way he had his arm right over his forehead made me think his brain may have hurt throughout the day because of all that certainty, vigour and righteousness. I wondered if he was suffering from a kind of sickness too: an ideological one that gripped even tighter and had even more fatal consequences. I came to the conclusion that grandfather and grandson were as sick as each other and, with that semi–pleasant thought, rolled over and got to sleep quicker than expected.
The blistering, frightening sound of an Azaan woke me up. I sat up on the mattress and looked across to the corner of the room where Wasim was reading namaz. He looked left and right and then swivelled round to pick up his mobile which was directly behind his feet. I could see that he was angry because of the way he glanced up at me before answering the call.
‘Fuck, I thought you’d give us another half an hour,’ he said, using the mobile to scratch his forehead. ‘You’re outside Bilu’s now, yeah? Okay, I’m coming.’
He ended the call and cupped his hands to officially finish his prayers. He then picked up the prayer mat, folded it up a couple of times and threw it into the corner of the room. He stood up and slipped his mobile into the back pocket of his black jeans.
‘I’m going now, nana jee.’
‘Just a one–night stand then is it?’
‘You knew that when you came. My brothers are waiting for me. I think you should go home.’
I ignored him and got off the mattress with a sense of purpose. I could feel my breathing increase rapidly as I ran through the possible scenarios in my head but I didn’t care; I was going with him. It was time to see if Bilu’s breathing exercises really did work when the pressure was on.
‘Wait, I’ll only take a minute to get ready,’ I said.
‘No, I’ve given Bilu some money to take care of you…’
‘I don’t need money, I need you.’
I reached over into Bilu’s straw basket for my shirt and put it on as fast as I could. I could hear Wasim sighing behind me but I felt if that was the extent of his frustration then I didn’t have much to worry about. After a few seconds, I could feel his breath on my neck and knew he was inching closer. Each time, I expected him to say something but each time only a sigh came out of his mouth. So I got my trousers and white woolly jumper on, picked my bag up and quickly headed to the cracked sink to have a wash.
‘I’m going now…’ said Wasim.
‘Hold on, I’m nearly ready,’ I said, my face frozen by the torrent of water crashing across my face. I turned off the tap and used the damp hand towel to wipe my face. ‘Right, let’s go. Have you got everything?’
Wasim looked at me but didn’t say anything. He walked towards the door and opened it.
‘We are coming back aren’t we?’ I asked.
Wasim left the door open and walked out.
The back door of the silver Hyundai was open. The wheel rims were missing, the windows were blacked out and there was a big dent in the passenger door. The engine was running and I could see two pairs of legs in the back seat, one was unmistakably Wasim’s. I glanced left and right and wondered where Bilu was. Had he been paid off? Was he dead? They were silly thoughts, of course, but I could never control my brain at the crack of dawn.
‘Get in, old man,’ said the driver, after winding down the window. ‘It’s lucky I like your grandson.’
I could only see the man’s eyes because his black and white–checked keffiyah was tied tightly across his face. He pulled the scarf down slightly and revved the engine. It was intimidating so I naturally stepped forward. I bent down and got into the car. It was a bit of a squeeze in the back seat because Wasim was on the far side, next to the window, and another man was in the middle. There was no–one in the front passenger seat which I couldn’t understand.
‘Need more room back t
here?’
‘Er no, it’s fine,’ I said, crossing my hands.
The driver didn’t move off as expected. Instead, he got out of the car and walked round to the back door. He opened it and reached into his trouser pocket for a small item which was difficult to describe. But once he stretched it out, I could tell what it was.
‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way, baba,’ he said. ‘Which is it? Because you must understand one thing: we love jihad, grandad – and we’re here to stay.’
‘What are you doing, Abbie?’ said Wasim. ‘You said you wouldn’t do this…’
‘I found this in the handbag of a contractor’s wife,’ said Abbie, looking into my eyes. ‘She couldn’t sleep at night because of the bombs and the noise. Her husband tried to kill us but we got to him first. The wife’s gone back to Canada now but I have all her items – and this is my favourite. So what’s it to be, baba?’
Abbie stretched out the fashionable pink and black sleeping blindfold and moved it closer to my face. I knew I was trapped and there was no way out ahead or behind. I looked over my shoulder at Wasim but he sat back and stared at the driver’s seat ahead of him. Abbie moved forward and slowly began to place the blindfold over my head.
‘Wait,’ I said.
‘What now?’ replied Abbie. ‘I don’t have much time.’
‘Smell it for me.’
‘What?’
‘Smell it or I’m not putting it on.’
Abbie rolled his eyes and looked beyond me at Wasim. ‘Hmm…your grandson told me about your problems.’
Abbie raised the silk blindfold up to his nose and smelt it.
‘What does it smell of?’ I asked.
‘Some shit perfume,’ said Abbie, taking the blindfold away from his nose. ‘So will you play or wrestle?’
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nostrils. I thought of Fareeda and the way she used to spray her perfume on her wrist and then push it up to my nose for a verdict. I didn’t care much for the perfume but liked to keep my nose on her tender wrist for as long as possible.
‘Did it smell nice?’ I asked.
‘Yes, like a western bitch’s pussy,’ said Abbie. ‘Put it on now.’
He carefully placed the blindfold over my head.
‘If you even think about taking it off, Saad will clump you…’
He lowered the blindfold over the bridge of my nose and then straightened it. I kept my eyes closed and dreamt of a nice Canadian woman.
7.
I expected to feel much worse but the cosy, intimate blindfold provided the kind of refreshing sleep I hadn’t experienced for years. The whirr of the Hyundai engine lasted for a few minutes but the rest of the journey was a beautiful blur: a black hole of peace and restlessness that I thought would last forever. It was a pity it had to be disrupted – and in such a brutal manner too. There I was dreaming of Wasim doing a shift in a giant mill where he was being thrown red cricket balls and had to bat them away up into a chimney when the car ground to a shuddering halt in what I presumed was a ditch. Then Abbie came running round towards the back seat and smuggled me out of the car. I tried to place my feet on the ground but my co–ordination was array; the bumpy, uneven surface left me hoping for the best. Mercifully, it wasn’t as hot here as in Sadr City: the sun wasn’t as penetrating and there was a light breeze blowing onto my cheeks but my face still felt like’s Roddy McDowall’s in Planet of the Apes. I remembered watching him at the ABC cinema in Rochdale in the late Sixties with Liam and Jim after a savage shift at Turners. I felt sorry for him under that mask. Not now. At least he could take his off.
Abbie quickened his step and I stumbled across the ground until we came to a halt on an even surface. We shouldn’t have stopped. The moment of relaxation – and probably the deep sleep that preceded it – led to my listless body almost crumbling in a heap. I felt Abbie’s meaty fingers dig painfully into my shoulders to help me keep my balance. Then there was a moment of silence and an extraordinary bout of laughter from Abbie. I didn’t hear anyone else’s voice, only his. It was a high–pitched, squeaky laugh which didn’t pause for breath and only stopped when he put his hand on my back again and ushered me forward.
‘This is no place for you, baba,’ said Abbie. ‘The invaders vowed to stop terrorism but they’ve unleashed a hell that will last a thousand years. You need to go home because we’re the real pioneers here. We’ll have a state before you leave this miserable earth.’
I was about to respond but Abbie pushed me in. Why hadn’t Wasim said something? Did he not want to protect his grandfather? As soon as we walked inside, I could hear the noise of a ceiling fan wafting its cool air onto my head. But that was the only soothing sensation. My mind was beginning to drift into darker territory like ransoms, hostages and even, beheadings. In another age and another place, it might have been seen as merciful to finish me off because workers with industrial disease may spill the beans at a later date about the ‘source’ of their condition but I wasn’t sure Abbie and co wanted to delve into my background in too much detail. Whatever they had in store for me, this wasn’t the place I wanted to say my final prayers. It was a long way from home.
After a short walk, someone opened a door in front of me. I walked forward a few steps and then felt Abbie’s hand on my shoulder; I had got used to it. I could hear people talking – some in Arabic, some in English, some in both. It felt like a big room because I could breathe better and I sensed the ceiling and windows were high up. I felt Abbie’s hand on the back of my head and sensed he was about to take off the blindfold – or sleeping aid as I preferred to think of it – but instead, he stroked the back of my neck which made me feel extremely ticklish.
‘Man Friday, come here…’ said Abbie.
I didn’t know who he was talking to but thoughts of hostages and beheadings suddenly morphed into cannibalism. I imagined being stirred and boiled in a big black cauldron and then being eaten by the famished, keffiyah–wearing soldiers who hadn’t eaten for years. Luckily, the paranoia didn’t have much time to set in because the blindfold was yanked off almost immediately. Within seconds, I felt a sword of light burning through my right eye from a tiny gap in a partially–covered window. I put my hand over the eye but it was blinking rapidly – and went on doing so even when I left it shut. I eventually took my hand off my eye and looked behind me. Wasim was stood there with the blindfold in his hand.
‘He made me do it, nana jee,’ said Wasim.
‘Did he fucking make you come to Iraq too?’
Wasim threw the blindfold onto Abbie’s chest and it fell meekly onto the floor. He walked away towards a small entrance which had a green blanket hanging down from it. He flicked away the blanket and walked through. I wondered where he was going. What did he do back there?
Abbie bent down and picked up the blindfold. He smelt it and closed his eyes, relishing no doubt the scent of the Canadian woman. I used the moment of freedom to glance around the room. It wasn’t as big as I’d initially thought: about the size of two cricket pitches laid next to each other. There was a giant rug underneath my feet with red and black calligraphy but it didn’t quite fit the room because one end was folded up against a wall. I counted six people in the room, apart from Abbie and Saad, who was now leaning against the dark blue wall smoking an extremely long cigarette. Three tired–looking men with keffiyahs hanging loosely over their shoulders were sat down on the floor with their backs against the wall. One of them was holding a Kalashnikov rifle behind his neck and had it gripped tightly with his fists as though it was a form of exercise. He was staring at me while the other two men chatted limply and without conviction. In another corner of the room, an older man was crouched over a younger man, cutting his hair with a tiny comb but a huge pair of scissors. The black mountain of hair on the see–through plastic sheeting almost made me jealous. There was also another person in the room but I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman because the person was bending down fiddling with th
e wheel of a bicycle. The short hair, pale skin and stud earring in one ear confused me because it was so different to everyone else in the room. Abbie walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder.
‘We rule here. No Sykes–Picot in these parts.’ He handed me the blindfold. ‘Now take this. It’s a gift.’
I hesitated but then took the blindfold. ‘I like face masks. If only I’d worn one for all those years…’ I stuffed it into my trouser pocket with more difficulty than expected. ‘Why do you call my grandson ‘Man Friday’?
Abbie laughed and looked across at the person tending to the bicycle.
‘Do you see her?’ he asked.
I was about to answer but the woman’s glance over her shoulder distracted me. She was wearing a black short–sleeved shirt, a baseball cap and tight navy blue trousers. How could I have mistaken her for a man? Her slender arms and ankle high boots completed my sense of embarrassment.
‘Do you think Americans or other kufrs could relate to a sister in a burka or niqab?’ asked Abbie.
‘One look at her and their front tail pops up.’
‘She works for you?’
‘Nobody works here,’ said Wasim, abruptly. ‘We just do our duty.’ He looked annoyed and walked towards Saad, grabbing his cigarette. He took a drag and handed it back to Saad.
‘And what about Wasim? What’s his duty?’
‘Oh yes, Man Friday,’ he said, perking up again. ‘He’s here because he believes in our cause. The only thing we disagree on is the subject of men and women worshipping at the same mosque. He thinks mosques should only be for men and women should stay at home. I think women should be allowed in. So I called him Man Friday.’
A Fistful of Dust Page 9
