‘Don’t most of your chums think the same?’
Abbie walked back towards me. He raised his finger to my blinking eye and pressed down gently on the eyelid. ‘He’s more Taliban about it than the others. I was like him once but it’s what we do that counts not what we think.’ He raised his finger off my eye. ‘Open your eye now. Is it better?’
I slowly raised the twitchy eyelid and, despite some blurred vision, my sight hadn’t been affected. I could see them all clearly now. They were a dishevelled, disinterested bunch ambling around in a sparse, mediocre room which was short on colour as well as character. It reminded me of Paul back home and a few of the other bewildered, directionless boys I’d seen shuffling around the town. There was no spark, energy or organisation here; only a drab, dreary place where global fantasies were imagined and pipsqueak orders were carried out. If this was jihad then I was disappointed. Wasim had been fooled.
The woman’s name was Ayesha but I didn’t see her again that day. The bike had gone and so he had she. Abbie told me she was 23 years old and brought food and supplies for the ‘Brigade Boys’ whenever she could. Her mother cooked a special rice pudding for the boys on a Friday and Abbie couldn’t wait for the day to come round so he could savour the sweet, melting taste in his parched mouth. He said he hated it when Ayesha rode in on her bike and didn’t have that small white bag placed in the rectangular black basket at the back of the bike. On the rare occasions that happened, it had usually been confiscated by a hungry Iraqi soldier at a checkpoint or Ayesha’s mother simply couldn’t make it because of a rice shortage. It was clear to me that Ayesha was an important part of the set–up. Abbie talked about her more than Wasim.
Abbie told me all this over a hot glass of tea after I had been on one of my futile throat–clearing marathons. He insisted I didn’t use the sink in the toilet but a blue plastic bowl in front of him so he could watch me cough and splutter. As I bent over, I almost had tears in my eyes because, as usual, hardly any mucus came out save for a tiny amount of sickly liquid. The front of my body, particularly my chest and stomach, throbbed with excruciating pain. Abbie patted me on the back and finally took the bowl off me. I got up and told him I was off to find Wasim – who I hadn’t seen since he’d kindly taken the blindfold off my head. Abbie grabbed hold of my arm.
‘He’ll be back soon,’ said Abbie. ‘Don’t worry about him. He’ll just make you unhappy.’
I shook my head and looked across at the green blanket. I tried to take my first step but my left knee almost caved in. I could hear Abbie snigger over my shoulder and I wanted to turn, if I could, and clip him round the ear but I knew it would waste more energy and that was pointless. I looked down at the floor and the bright calligraphy on the rug set off my blinking eyes again. I got up to the green blanket and waved it to the side. I held it for a moment and looked in. There was a tight corridor and two rooms, one on each side. I walked in and immediately to my right there was a tiny room which was obviously a washing area and toilet. There were a couple of robes hanging down from the hooks, a half–filled kettle of water, a hole–in–the–floor toilet, two pairs of sandals and a small bar of soap.
I walked further down the corridor and on the left there was an entrance with no door. I stopped and looked inside. I could see Wasim lying on a sturdy but scruffy double bed with his hands behind his head looking up at the whirring ceiling fan. He still had his trainers on and they hung over the front edge of the bed. I hesitated and then walked into the room. I walked towards the bed and stood over it. I folded my arms and waited for Wasim to acknowledge his grandfather’s strife. He didn’t. He continued to look at the ghastly yellow–painted ceiling and keep his fingers locked behind his head. But what was that on his face? I looked closer and couldn’t see the rampaging idealism and certainty in his eyes that I normally felt. His cheeks were puffed–up, his eyes were moist and his umbrella mouth looked as though it had been weathering the storms from high up.
‘Been crying?’
He didn’t answer. I sat down on the bed and crossed my hands. It felt relaxing; it was nice to sit on a comfortable surface for once.
‘Come home, right now.’
‘I’m not coming. I’m settling here…’
I turned and faced him. I tried to grab his extremely warm hand but he managed to move it away.
‘Where are you going to live? In the desert?’
‘Got my plans.’
I huffed and got up off the bed. I looked at the five x–shaped wooden Quran holders neatly stacked side by side on a dressing table but with no book of God to complement them. They were bright, polished and gleaming; unlike the rest of the room.
‘Which one’s yours?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘Which Quran holder is yours?’
‘We share things over here…we don’t own.’
I nodded and walked over to the Quran holders. I wiped away a bit of dust from one of them. I remembered rows and rows of them in Faisalabad in the early days after I was sent to Molvi Rasheed’s for my so–called education. The swaying motion was enjoyable but I didn’t have the foggiest what I was saying. Memorise or be hit was the mantra. As I rubbed my finger across the smooth, immaculate carving on one of the holders, I almost expected a bamboo stick to pop up behind it. But there were enough weapons here already.
‘I’m not standing for this anymore,’ I said. ‘Get your things, we’re going home.’
Wasim didn’t answer but slowly sat up. He felt the back of his neck and then picked up the pillow behind him and laid it vertically against the bed rest. He leaned back and folded his arms.
‘I’m sorry for everything that’s gone down,’ he said. ‘It weren’t my fault. When Abdullah found out you were around, he wanted to find out more about you. He were fascinated…’
‘Abdullah?’
‘Abbie…’
I nodded and walked back towards the bed. I sat down and touched Wasim’s knee.
‘Forget about Abdullah, come home and make your mother happy…’
‘I can’t. It’s more complicated than that.’
‘There’s nothing complicated. Just get your bags and let’s go.’
Wasim lowered his head and there was silence for a few seconds. He was about to answer but then looked over my shoulder after hearing the sound of thudding footsteps down the corridor. He looked me in the eye with a resigned, puppy–dog expression.
‘I’m in love,’ he said. ‘I’m gonna get married.’
My head was swirling with confusion. How could this stupid boy even contemplate such a thing? Saad appeared at the door, out of breath. I looked over my shoulder and was about to tell him to get lost.
‘There’s firing and kufr soldiers at Shami’s down the road,’ said Saad. ‘Abbie wants us all down there now.’
Wasim got up instantly and straightened his hair with his hands.
‘You’re not going,’ I said. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘You can’t tell me what to do. This is what I’m here for.’
An image of Wasim tooled up with bullets and a rifle came into my head. Matching his conviction was the only way to gain respect.
‘I’m coming too,’ I said. ‘I go where he goes.’
‘No old man,’ said Saad. ‘Abbie says you stay. You’ll be safe here.’
I got up off the bed but nearly fell over. There was a lack of co–ordination and the vocal tics began again. I held my throat and took a deep breath. ‘Over my dead body,’ I said, in a slurred voice.
We drove away at speed and I glanced across at the caramel–brick building with its incongruous blue door and realised it was much smaller than I thought. There were a lot of wet patches underneath the two tiny windows and I imagined they were persistent splashes of water where wuzu had been carried out before prayers. Outside, the sandy grass was dissected by the pebble–laden path – which had done its damage to the soles of my feet – and there was a clothes line hung in semi–circle formation acr
oss the front of the house. But my creaking neck didn’t allow me look over my shoulder for too long. Abbie was like a man possessed, screeching down on the accelerator as though his life depended on it – and it did. We got to Shami’s in under five minutes and already the sound of rapid gunfire could be heard. Abbie’s car skidded to a halt on a side road outside Shami’s house. Saad and Wasim were in the back with me, with rifles in their laps and keffiyahs round their faces. The front seat was again unoccupied. The black gate was already open and everybody got out.
‘Stay in the car, nana jee,’ said Wasim. ‘The trouble’s out back. You’ll be fine here.’
‘I’m with you all the way now.’
Abbie was already a few yards ahead of us but stopped and turned when he heard us talking. He ran towards Wasim and pulled him away.
‘I told you not to bring him,’ said Abbie. ‘He talks too much. An imam will straighten him out this evening.’
‘You’re the one who needs straightening out,’ I said.
Abbie ignored me and ran through the open gate. Wasim and Saad ran in a few yards behind him. Wasim looked over his shoulder.
‘Come on, nana jee,’ he shouted. ‘Stay close to me.’
I had less fear than I expected. I wanted to see why so many people wanted to do harm to each other. I didn’t understand it. What did it achieve? There was actually shooting going on? I wanted to see if this was really happening. Why hurt so many people in one go? I could hear explosions now as well as gunfire; they helped me get a move on. I managed to run towards Wasim and it was easier than I thought: the pain and stiffness was drastically reduced. Wasim looked over his shoulder but he needn’t have worried: I was almost floating now. I sprinted past the black gate and ran into the house. I followed the others down the sparkling, clean corridor and through an immaculate room with framed paintings of Mecca, Medina and the Al–Aqsa mosque on the sky blue walls. It was the most glittering room I’d seen since I’d been in the country but, unfortunately, I would only see it for a few seconds. I could see Abbie up ahead open a back door and, suddenly, even with my decaying ears, the crackling sound of gunshots, rifles and explosions was too close for comfort. I followed the others into the open area at the back of the house – you couldn’t call it a garden – and the picture was vivid and terrifying. I stopped at the door and squinted as the scorching afternoon sun beat down on the dirty golden landscape. Abbie, Saad and Wasim joined Shami on the ground behind a concrete wall. Shami continued to fire his rifle over the wall despite trying to stop the bleeding from a shoulder wound which had defaced the upper part of his white robe. In the distance, about 10 cricket pitches away, I could see a small mud hut which was popping relentless fire across the crystal blue sky towards Shami’s house. Bullets were whistling into the walls, the back door, the wheelbarrow and the arched windows at the back of the house. I stayed by the door, uncertain and riddled with doubt. I had been ready for anything a few moments ago but now I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t expected to see bullets flying past my nose so soon. I watched Wasim as he crouched down by Shami and prepared his rifle for combat. I realised now it had been a terrible mistake to allow him to come here. He had so many years left – and I would be responsible for him wasting them. I also realised that my desire for experience was misguided. These people would continue shooting at each other irrespective of what I thought or did. There wasn’t much room for a Q&A session here. I should have stayed in the safe house and demanded Wasim did the same. I decided I had only one option. First, I tried to take some deep breaths using Bilu’s techniques but his methods were demolished by a crushing anxiety. So I picked out my inhaler and took a few insignificant puffs. I then stepped out into the long grass and ran as fast as my legs could take me towards the brick wall where the boys were haphazardly firing their rifles. A bullet pinged against the wheelbarrow to my left but I got there quicker than expected and cowered by the side of the wall. I looked up at Wasim who was bobbing up and down gripping his rifle tightly. He had a rage in his face that I’d never seen before: it was unpleasant and unnerving. His rifle technique was better than I expected and I shuddered each time he sprung up and emptied another round. This wasn’t my grandson: it was a teenage boy lost in the haze between madness and belief.
‘Who do you want to get married to?’ I asked.
‘WHAT?’
‘What’s her name?’
‘GO HOME. IT’S TOO DANGEROUS.’
Wasim glanced down at me as though as I was a worm. The speed of his firing slowed down. He turned around to face me and slid his back down the wall. He sat down but held his AK–47 as tightly as ever.
‘Nana jee, please go home, You’re causing major aggro.’
‘Is she Iraqi?’
Wasim was enraged and got up. The scowling and conviction was back again and he started firing more wildly than ever. The horrific noise of the multiple gun fire was almost unbearable: my ears were popping and I thought I was about to go deaf. Everything was vibrating: my body, the wall and the ground.
‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’ shouted Abbie. ‘FIRE AT THE KUFR’S, NOT THE TREES.’
‘I AM! STOP SHOUTING AT ME.’
I looked at the four desperate men in a row – all willing to lay down their lives for a cause I didn’t understand – and realised, I too, would have to do something desperate to make any sort of impact. So I got up and wiped the blades of warm grass off my numb backside. The wall was about four feet high so I could comfortably see over it – or even climb over it and head towards ‘the enemy’. But I decided that it would be a bit of an escalation so I simply raised my arms and gave a criss–crossing gesture to the people who were shooting at us.
‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?’ shouted Wasim, grabbing me and pulling me down to the ground.
‘GET THAT OLD BASTARD OUT OF HERE,’ screamed Abbie. ‘HE’LL GET US ALL KILLED.’
I fell over and my nose squashed against the long grass. I turned around and got up. I was prepared to do the same again but Wasim held me down.
‘Go back, both of you,’ said Abbie, ripping off his keffiyah and throwing it behind him. ‘You’re no good to me here…’
‘But I want to stay,’ said Wasim.
‘YOU’RE NOT STAYING.’
‘Give us the car keys then?’ I asked.
Abbie looked astonished and I almost felt he was about to turn his rifle on me. ‘Can’t you see we have a wounded man? Now get lost!’
‘But I want to fight,’ said Wasim.
‘YES, BUT YOU’RE ALREADY FIGHTING HIM. GO NOW BEFORE I GET ANGRY.’
‘NO, I’M STAYING.’
Abbie stopped firing and pointed his rifle at Wasim. I grabbed hold of Wasim and tried to usher him away. He stood for a moment – I could tell there was a lot of pride in the boy – but he reluctantly and eventually turned my way.
It would have been nice to have the car but it was out of our hands. In the end, it took about 45 minutes to get back to the so–called safe house and most of it was spent in silence. As Wasim and I walked the long road home, the sound of rifles and explosions faded into the distance. But that sense of relief was tempered by the fact my walking pattern was deteriorating with every stride. My hips and toes were under so much strain that I felt I was waddling along like a penguin. I tried to make conversation with Wasim but he strode a few yards ahead of me, kicking the odd stone and ensuring I suffered the maximum distress for taking him away from a potentially life–threatening situation. I didn’t expect him to grateful. He had left his rifle down there too so that wasn’t improving his mood either. At least he couldn’t shoot me with it, I thought.
The journey took us past an elderly farmer grazing his sheep, a couple of hastily–built, white–plastered homes and three boys playing marbles near an anorexic palm tree. The boys walked towards us but Wasim gave them a cold stare and they backed off. After seeing those boys running back across the grass, I decided to walk on the green stuff rather than the extremely wide, potholed road even
though it took more time. It was less painful on my feet. Wasim continued to walk right down the middle, perhaps sadistically, and revelled in putting his feet in the biggest and deepest of holes.
The relief when I spotted Abbie’s shabby, insignificant building was incredible. I watched Wasim go in first, about six cricket pitches ahead of me, as the late afternoon sun thankfully lost its brutal authority. I trudged in about five minutes later, breathing heavily while trying to repress my whispering cough and a bout of drooling. I glanced over my shoulder at the swathes of barren beige land with the odd mud huts dotted on the hillside and relished the total, therapeutic silence. It was a world away from the carnage I had just experienced.
I groggily walked in to the main room and it was empty. Where had all those men gone? They weren’t with us at Shami’s house so had they chickened out? Perhaps, Abbie asked them to scamper down to Shami’s after we had left. I didn’t care anyway: all I wanted was a drink of water and a lie down.
I walked to the end of the main room and hesitated as I came to the green blanket hanging from the door. I didn’t really want any confrontation with Wasim, as I was exhausted, but knew it couldn’t be avoided because there was nowhere else to go in this cramped, claustrophobic excuse for a home. I pulled away the green blanket and walked down the corridor. The toilet door was locked so I guessed Wasim was in there. That gave me a boost and I walked down towards the bedroom, half–expecting that it would be empty. I turned left and walked into the bedroom. To my surprise, Wasim was getting changed into a set of Umbro tracksuit bottoms and a white t–shirt. He didn’t look at me and lay on the bed once he’d finished. After a couple of minutes of excruciating silence, with only the murmurs of the ceiling fan seeping into my ears, I heard the toilet door outside open and close. I imagined it was one of the men and expected the person to head for the main room, or somewhere else, but the footsteps got louder. Wasim looked up at me for the first time. The door opened and I turned around. It was a woman wearing a dark green silk headscarf, navy blue trousers and an elegant red v–neck sweater. It was Ayesha.
A Fistful of Dust Page 10
