‘You’ll have to tidy up your language if you want to join the police, Wasim,’ I said. ‘Len’s daughter’s in the force, she’ll help you out.’
‘Not that again.’
‘Don’t tell me, it’s about trust.’
Wasim shook his head and moved up a gear. He looked at me and smiled.
‘Will it make you happy if I fill in an application form?’
‘Proud.’
He simply gave me a thumbs–up and then stuck a ghastly CD in the stereo. No matter, I felt the rehabilitation was almost complete. I had taken him from a position of great peril to one of stability and calm. I was extremely proud of my achievements. I looked in the wing mirror as the Falinge flats faded in the distance.
Nadia brought up a tray of coriander naans and bitter melon for supper. She rested the tray on the small table beside my bed and rushed back downstairs. I wanted her to stay with me (it had been such a wonderful day) but it became apparent she had more pressing matters. I could hear her having a row with Salim downstairs and it put me off my food. The day had largely been symptom–free but, as the voices down below became more strained, I could feel a shortness of breath developing and the gathering storm of needles in my throat. I had to abandon my meal and head to the bathroom to clear my throat – but I was adamant no amount of stress would be allowed to affect my balanced mood. I came back to bed after a flimsy bout of coughing and finished my meal. The food went down exactly how I wanted it to go and then I lay down, putting my head under the duvet. After a few minutes, I heard footsteps thudding up the stairs. Nadia came in and sat on the bed. She looked preoccupied and distant. She got up and picked up the tray. She said nothing and headed for the door again.
‘What’s he said now?’ I asked, sitting up in bed.
She waited at the door and looked down at the greasy plate. Her hands were shaking and the tray looked as though it was about to slip from her hands.
‘I got a job offer in London,’ she said, without looking up. ‘I sent some designs down there. They liked them. I really want to go…’
I could not deny it: there was surge of joy, elation almost, that my daughter had gained some recognition after years of toil. She had taken inspiration from her mother who passed on her eye for quirky clothes and unusual design. If she was looking down on us now, tears of pride would be running down her cheeks.
‘I want Elisha, you and Wasim to come with me,’ she said, finally looking into my eyes. ‘Salim doesn’t like it but I don’t care about what he likes or doesn’t like anymore. He couldn’t even have a mature conversation about it. He’s gone to see his mates, anyway.’
I tried to respond but excess saliva flooded my mouth, allowing only a pathetic mumble. I swallowed the saliva and licked my lips.
‘But what about Elisha? Her school and all that?’
Nadia didn’t answer but tightened her grip on the tray. I may have been wrong but I was sure she was about to throw it across the room. She took a deep breath and left the room without replying. I tried to get out of bed and follow her but when I reached the door a searing pain raged across my collarbone. A wave of cold entered my body and my right arm felt completely numb. I started to shiver and got back into bed straight away. The trembling continued even as I wrapped the duvet – and an extra blanket – tightly over my body. A few minutes went by but there was no noticeable difference. Now, I couldn’t even tell if I was hot or cold. A bout of coughing started; it was so deep and involuntary that my eyes were watering. I eased to the left and flailed around trying to pick up my jumper from the chair but it was no use; I knocked the chair over and the jumper ended up on the floor. I made fists of my hands and curled up as tight as possible. Thankfully, I heard the thudding footsteps again. The sound of the door jolted my left shoulder. My jaw trembled and I had bitten my lip. Nadia walked in and kneeled down by my bed. I glanced up and touched her warm hand. Nadia took off her shoes and snuggled in beside me in bed. She moved closer to me and held me in a deep embrace. The warmth of her body sent a tingle around my icy bones. No matter what, we would stay together. She had the right to choose.
The morning came quicker than ever. Nadia screamed as the door crashed open. The door came off it hinges like a flimsy slab of polystyrene, thudding onto the carpet. A vicious draught was coming in through the frosty landing. The light came on as if by magic. Uniformed men swarmed in like an army of giant ants. They must have come down from the sky. They wore big boots, dark glasses and helmets. Some had guns and waved them around wildly. Was I in Iraq again? Nadia jumped out of the bed but one of the men pushed her back onto the bed, nearly making her fall over. She retreated and grabbed hold of me.
‘IS THIS HIS BEDROOM?’ said one.
‘WHAT?’ said Nadia.
‘IS THIS HIS FUCKIN’ BEDROOM?’
‘YES, BUT MY FATHER IS ILL. SHOW SOME RESPECT.’
The shouting, screaming and pointing of weaponry battered my ears and left my temples on the verge of eruption. I tried to keep my stomach in check but last’s night wonderful meal became an ugly, ferocious fluid which partially missed the bucket and ended up on the carpet. A scorching pain ripped into my abdomen and remained until I released some more dreadful, smelly sick – this time onto the side of the bed and my hand. From the corner of my blurry eye, I could see one of the men – who looked about 8ft tall – use his weapon to tear down the Islamic map from the wall. Somebody shouted at him about ‘evidence’ but I could hear little else. The piercing, ringing sound in my ears was all too dominant. My mouth became saggy and I started to drool. Nadia helped me get my stone–heavy head right over the bucket. Another man walked round the bed towards us. He stopped a few inches away. All I could see were his trousers tucked inside his big black boots. He whipped out a small bottle of water from his equipment belt and handed it to Nadia. She unscrewed the cap and delicately eased the bottle towards my lips. I took a drink but found it hard to swallow. She helped me lay back on the bed. As I settled down, I could see most of the other men searching Wasim’s drawers, cupboards and files. His laptop, dumbbells and bags were being taken away. The invasive noise was still too much for me – a pounding migraine had started on the right side of the head.
‘Suppose you’re gonna tell me those oxygen cylinders are for the old fella here,’ said the water carrier.
Nadia didn’t answer.
‘Is that your son downstairs?’
‘Where is he?’ screamed Nadia.
‘In a nice little van.’
I gestured to Nadia that I didn’t want any more water. She handed the bottle back to the water carrier.
‘Keep it. Looks like he needs it.’
Nadia stood up and moved closer to him. She looked into his dark glasses and placed the bottle carefully back in his equipment belt. I couldn’t tell if he was angry; I couldn’t see his face. She sat back down on the bed and slipped her ankle–length boots on. She stood up and moved across to me. She placed her hand on my shoulder and softly asked me if I needed anything. Peace and quiet was all I needed. She picked up the bucket of vomit and calmly walked towards the invisible door.
‘Where are you going, love?’ asked the water carrier. ‘The lad’s already gone.’
She held the bucket up and walked out. A few feet away, one of the men was ruffling through my bag which made me feel sick again. He pulled out the blue Kwik Cricket bat and threw it onto the bonfire of evidence already gathered. The water carrier smiled and moved away from the stuffy window, leaving the sun to pierce my eyes. It drained the last ounce of energy from me. I lay my head on the pillow and could feel my eyes closing. There was only one thought swirling around in my head: how many days detention without charge was it? Fourteen, 28, 90? I really should have kept up with these things.
14.
Salim came rushing into the bedroom as I ate from a carton of sticky dates and watched the sun go down. I glanced at him but he only had astonished eyes for Nadia who was sat on the carpet texting a man about making
the necessary repairs to the front, living room and bedroom doors. She had the Manchester Evening News open on her lap with a saucer of croissants and a mug of coffee resting on top of the newspaper. She didn’t look up at her husband. Salim put his palms on his head and walked over the bed. He sat down and folded his arms.
‘We were fuckin’ raided?’ he said. ‘DON’T TELL ME WE WERE FUCKIN’ RAIDED!’
Salim got up and walked over to the window. He looked outside and ran his hand across the back of his head. He smacked his fist against the window.
‘Have you been down there, yet?’ he asked, looking at Nadia.
Nadia didn’t reply.
‘Nadia went to the station this morning,’ I said. ‘They took all the details. She couldn’t do anymore today.’
‘Who asked you? It was your fuckin’ fault anyway. If you hadn’t gone out there, he’d still be a free man. It’s you they should be interviewing, not him.’
I spat out a huge seed into a saucer and picked up another date. ‘I’ve just given a statement.’
Salim nodded his head sarcastically. ‘Yeah, about counting pebbles, was it?’ He walked briskly to the door. ‘I’m bombing down there, now. We’ve still got time to sort this out. He hasn’t been charged with anything so we have a right to some answers.’
‘Not a wise move.’
Salim put his hand on the unhinged door which had been resting upright against the wall. He got his fingers round it and slammed it down onto the floor.
‘WAS GOING TO IRAQ A FUCKIN’ WISE MOVE? EVERYTHING FUCKED UP AFTER YOU MOVED INTO THIS HOUSE.’
Nadia sprung up from the floor and rushed towards Salim. She stopped inches away and looked into his eyes. She took a deep breath and calmly raised her hands up and down.
‘Can’t you see we’re trying to get things repaired,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to break anything else.’
‘Fuck that. I’m gonna sue the bastards.’
Nadia moved away and sat down again.
‘He’ll be released soon anyway,’ said Salim, picking up the door and resting it against the wall again. ‘Just like that bullshit Old Trafford plot a few year ago. Most of them were Iraqis. Funny that. Fuckin’ war has been bad for each and every Muslim.’
Nadia took a bite of her croissant and then used both hands to compile a text message on her phone.
‘So you’re not going to London, then?’ asked Salim.
Nadia paused and rubbed her forehead. She shook her head and carried on texting.
‘Right, I’m off to see my son, then.’
Salim waited for a response but none came. He straightened his silver wrist chain and left the room. I picked up the last date from the saucer but chose not to eat it.
I had never met Len’s daughter, Alice, but she appeared with her father on the doorstep of Edmund Street on the fifth day after Wasim’s arrest. To say it was a shock was an understatement. She was off–duty, or so she said, but that wasn’t going to stop me taking guard like the most cautious of opening batsmen. She was wearing a camel–coloured jacket, faded light blue jeans and Reebok trainers. She also had a black beanie hat pushed down almost over her eyebrows. I thought she could have been the girl working at the local Lidl store rather than a copper; perhaps that was her intention. I invited them both in and Alice went immediately to the kitchen and prepared tea and butter Crinkle biscuits for the old men. I nudged Len, who had a copy of the Observer tucked under his arm, and asked why she was here. He shrugged and started reading his paper. We sat at the dining table and finished our tea – I had decided to stop eating biscuits all together because they caused me indigestion – and Alice wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. She turned her chair away from the dining table so she could stretch out her legs and fold her arms.
‘I heard Nadia on local radio yesterday,’ she said. ‘She didn’t sound too good. Dad knew her so I just thought I’d come down and show my support.’
I placed my ice–cold hands on the steaming cup which fired a warm, soothing sensation throughout my body. ‘Do the police usually have tea at suspected terrorists’ homes?’
She smiled and looked at Len. She finally took off her beanie hat and straightened her short, spiky hair. I noticed a small scar on her forehead, just above her eyebrow. It became bigger when she smiled.
‘I wouldn’t know a terrorist from a taxi driver,’ she said. ‘The only Asian lads I know are cabbies, restaurant workers and call centre guys. I went to school with a lot of them. The sexy, glamorous work of stopping bombs is done by bigger beasts than me. I’m not allowed to get involved; they’re very precious.’
I looked at Len. ‘Did you put her up to this?’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Alice, with a smile. ‘He couldn’t wait to get over here and tell you about my mother. He might be getting back with her.’
‘Bit premature to say the least,’ said Len, rolling his eyes.
Alice playfully slapped Len on the thigh. ‘Well, it’s better than immature which is what you two have been for the past 18 years.’
Len looked uncomfortable and got up from the dining table. He lit up a Woodbine and paced casually to the door. Alice watched her father and then moved forward in her chair. She touched me on the knee which made me notice how stiff it was.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
‘My bones feel brittle after that so–called raid but, generally, I’m not too bad.’
‘Fucking raids,’ she said, resting back in the chair. ‘Macho posturing.’ She stuck her hand into her beanie hat and stretched it out as wide as possible. She laid her hat on the table and moved forward again. ‘Anyhow, when I had cancer, I ran a half marathon. I didn’t want to do it, at first, but when I saw the community rally round and create an unbreakable spirit it made me proud. We can do the same again.’
It had taken me a long time to work out. I simply could not swallow the fact that Alice, who Len had spoken about for years, had chosen this precise moment to visit the house. There had to be more, apart from the obvious reason of a neighbourly copper fishing for useful information. When Alice’s intention became apparent, it partially lifted the soiled cloud of the raid. I was heartened that a young woman put such a premium on family values.
‘So it’s all about the charity match, then?’ I said. ‘You’re desperate for Sylvia and Len to get back together again.’
‘Kind of,’ said Alice. ‘Mum’s uncle Geoff worked at Turners in the Fifties and was sick for a long time…’
‘She didn’t tell me about Geoff,’ said Len, interrupting his daughter.
‘She didn’t tell you a lot of things. Anyway, her firm’s organised all the catering. It’ll be a shame to cancel it now.’
‘We won’t get another slot till next season,’ said Len.
I expected to feel pressurised but that wasn’t the case. Alice’s compassion felt genuine. She had given me an unexpected boost and, crucially, allayed any scepticism I initially had about her. I couldn’t imagine her in uniform. Had she arrested anyone lately? I couldn’t see how that was possible.
I sighed and looked at Len. ‘When’s the match again?’
‘Two weeks on Friday…’
‘Have you got another umpire lined up?’
‘No, it’s just me and you, like old times.’
Alice had swung it for the workers. She knew I was mobile enough to attend; I knew it too. Further, I probably could hit a few balls and do a bit of fielding at long leg too if I wanted. Whereas I had been meek and hesitant, she had taken the initiative and pulled the main players into line. Weren’t daughters the greatest gift to the world? What would happen if Nadia did happen to move to London and left me to cough and splutter my way down Edmund Street? She was unlikely to do that now but could anyone blame her? Perhaps, she was gone already.
Alice reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. She handed it to me and was quick to speak first.
‘Just so you know, I have suggested these solicitors to Na
dia already. He helped me and might do the same for you.’
The card said ‘Lawrence Fitton and Co’ but I didn’t read the rest; the print was too small. I nodded and slipped the card into my trouser pocket. My hand stayed in my pocket to count pebbles. Somehow, this flimsy piece of card provided hope. I wanted to get Wasim down to the game, in his whites to prove he wasn’t a bad kind of lad. I reckoned he’d be released by then anyway. If not, surely there was a chance of bail while his case was ongoing? They’d let him out for that because he now cared for asbestos sufferers. I had no doubt about that.
‘It’s a Friday, you say?’ I asked, suddenly feeling five pebbles between my fingers rather than six.
‘Is that prayers day?’ asked Len. ‘You don’t go to the mosque anymore.’
‘We’re in need of all the help we can get.’
Nadia came in through the back door flicking her shawl over her shoulder while taking her earphones out. I could see her through the living room window as I sat at the dining table hurriedly trying to finish the plate of brown rice and chick peas she had left me for lunch. She came into living room and hesitated, perhaps not expecting me to be there. She walked over and handed me one of the earphones, urging me to put it in my ear. It wasn’t something I usually did but today, I would make an exception. I awkwardly smuggled the earphone in and waited. It sounded pleasant enough, if a little thumpy. At least, it wasn’t a racket which is what I expected. I listened for a couple of minutes until I was irritated.
‘De La Soul,’ said Nadia, taking the earphone from me. ‘Wasim was 12 when he danced to that.’ She looked out of the window and said nothing for at least a minute. ‘He’s been charged with inciting an act of terrorism overseas and a couple of other things too…I didn’t pay attention. They said he was part of a group but the rest aren’t in the country now so they’re off the radar. Typical fuckin’ sheep, he’s the one that got caught.’
A Fistful of Dust Page 18
