A Fistful of Dust

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘Nah, you must have gone for another reason.’

  ‘That pebble’s quite precious. Can I have it back?’

  ‘It’s being westernised…’

  He continued to peer through the bottle.

  ‘Don’t lie like the government. Tell us why you went or I’ll drop all six in the bottle…’

  I had underestimated Stuart but, as Workers’ captain, I shouldn’t have. I remember Len telling me he was a member of UNISON and worked as a voluntary care worker in and around the town.

  ‘It was for the cricket,’ I said. ‘I don’t get involved in politics…’

  Stuart picked up another pebble and plopped it into the bottle.

  Before I could respond, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw Len wiping his hands on an apron. He sported the widest smile I could remember. It was the stroke of luck I needed, although it only lasted a few seconds.

  ‘Am I still on for a lift then, Len?’ asked Stuart.

  ‘Aye, no problem. Primrose Street, yeah?’

  Stuart held his bottle up to thank Len and then took a swig. One of the pebbles ended up in his mouth and he bounced it around for a while before spitting it out onto his hand. He smiled and offered it back to me.

  ‘Used to being wet, aren’t they?’

  Len approached Spotland Bridge and slowed down. He had a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and kept looking down at the screen of his mobile phone. I didn’t know he actually had one. He told me it was a present from Sylvia. His constant flitting from mobile to windscreen made me nervous because the rain was teeming down and his windscreen wipers were failing to cope. I was in the back seat, keeping my eye on Stuart who was in the passenger seat without his seat belt on. He hadn’t said anything since leaving the cricket club.

  ‘Turn left here,’ said Stuart.

  ‘But Primrose Street is up the other way.’

  ‘I know where I live. Just turn up here. I want to visit my gran.’

  Len indicated left and then raised his hand impatiently to ask whether he should go up Edenfield Road or Rooley Moor Road. Somehow, I knew he’d point towards Rooley Moor Road. I felt a surge in my chest because I hadn’t been up the ‘Rock and Rooley’ for nearly 20 years. As we drove up, I thought about the sons, daughters, mothers and fathers rushing away after marathon shifts, eager to get home for some warmth and comfort. They all headed away from a monstrous pit of reward and despair, unaware that, one day, it would become an irremovable stain on the face of the town. Yes, the giant factory had been demolished but, as we drove further up the road and the rain lashed down in a southerly direction, it was though the dirty fucking mill was having one last release at our expense.

  ‘Turn right up here,’ said Stuart.

  ‘There’s no way through there, lad,’ said Len.

  Woodland Road was inaccessible, or at least it looked that way, with the overgrown bushes on one side and green railings on the other. Len put his indicator on and pulled in, mounting the kerb. Stuart reached down into his bag, pulling out a Size 7 Duncan Fearnley bat and a munched–up cricket ball. What the hell was he doing? He opened the door and a violent waft of wind and rain swept over me making me shiver. He started running down Woodland Road and then, amazingly, slung the bat as far as it could go like a powerful hammer thrower. Len got out too but I was staying put whatever happened. I felt a jolt of icy air ravish my body and a mild sickness was also gathering. Stuart stopped and turned around.

  ‘Where were the fuckin’ mill? Here?’

  Len shook his head: he’d never been up here before. I had, but I swear I couldn’t remember this exact spot. Wasn’t the mill behind us or further down the road? Everything looked different now.

  ‘Come on lad, let’s get you home,’ said Len, walking back to the car.

  Stuart raised his index finger to Len and then turned around. He dropped his trousers and started urinating on the long grass. ‘FUCK YOU, MURDERERS,’ he shouted. ‘THIS IS WHAT YOU DESERVE.’ He zipped his trousers up and smiled at us. He then ran ahead and picked up the cricket bat. He tossed the ball a few inches in the air and smacked it into the distance. He ran forward and disappeared into the woods. ‘AZBASTARDS, AZBASTARDS… AZ–FUCKIN–BASTARDS…’

  Len shook his head and got back into the car. He looked at me but I couldn’t respond. My ears were ringing and my breathing was becoming extremely shallow. There was a sharp pain in my right shoulder making my body veer towards the left. I was beginning to drool and my mouth was drying up rapidly. I put my hand on the window in the hope of a fresh sensation but it just felt numb, cold and lifeless. My whole body felt as though it had just come out of an underheated swimming pool: shivery, sweaty and ever–so fatigued. Then I coughed – so painfully and acutely that I thought all my insides would come out – and tilted my head forward against the back of the passenger seat. I tried to reach over to Len and tap him on the shoulder but the power in my arms was diminishing by the second. I coughed again and the pain was unbearable. Black spots were appearing in front of my eyes. The weakness in my body was almost total. Oh how I’d love to see that chimney again. Love it.

  * * *

  Bleeping sounds, heavily–equipped beds and plastic chairs. A nurse to the left washed her hands in the sink. A frail old woman lay in the bed by the window, oxygen mask on but eyes rolled up to the heavens; a young man, in overalls, sat by her side holding her hand. I tried to take a deep breath but my rock–like chest was buried under the spaghetti junction of wires and tubes. I felt as if a medicine cabinet had been dropped on my head with the flying wreckage of the pills and syringes wreaking havoc across my body. My snooker–ball eyes would surely pop out at any minute, the sickly–sweet mouth as dry as a desert. It was a relief to be lying down: it felt oddly blissful and safe.

  The nurse looked over her shoulder and smiled. She quickly finished cleaning her hands and then disappeared. She returned a few minutes later with Nadia and Elisha. As I watched my daughter and granddaughter walk in, I longed again for Fareeda. Her soft hand on my ice–cold claw would have made everything all right again. Elisha walked ahead of her mother and approached me. She reached over and kissed me on the cheek. Her supple, delectable features shouldn’t have to see this; it felt all wrong. Nadia sat down on the chair and put her hand on my leg.

  ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she said. ‘Why did you go up there?’

  I mumbled a reply but it didn’t come out too well. After licking my lips, the next one fared better.

  ‘…Stu’s idea.’

  Nadia looked away from me. She gestured for Elisha to leave but Elisha shook her head. Nadia then shifted her chair forward and moved closer to me.

  ‘You’ll be moved to a ward tonight,’ she said. ‘You’ve been in for two days already. Pneumonia. If we keep the antibiotics going, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘…Don’t fucking feel fine.’

  The swearing felt good. No wonder, I felt so terrible: I’d been here for a couple of days, pumped relentlessly with wild drugs. My back was like an ironing board. Where the hell were we anyway? Instead of questions of mortality, I was thinking more about an article I’d read in the Observer that said emergency services might move to another town. Had we gone? Was I in some other Lancashire town or further afield? How about moving the whole fucking NHS service to India or something?

  ‘We’re in the infirmary,’ said Nadia, in reply to my question. ‘They won’t be moving for years yet…’

  ‘Mum’s put in a request for Wasim to be allowed out for a few hours,’ said Elisha. ‘You know, just to see you and that…’

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ said Nadia. ‘Look, forget about him. I’ve tried to track down Dr Howarth to come and see you. I don’t trust these other doctors.’

  ‘I brought Fareeda here that morning…and now I’m here.’

  Nadia tutted and grabbed my arm. ‘Stop talking like that. That guy, Stuart, he’s in the waiting room now. He wanted to see you and apologise but I said I’d ask you
first.’

  ‘…Later, not now.’

  ‘Mum, tell him about the letter,’ said Elisha. ‘It’ll make him happy.’

  ‘Not now, Leesh.’

  ‘If it’s from Wasim, I don’t want to know.’

  Nadia shook her head. ‘It’s not from him. Anyway, you’re not in any state for it now. Let’s wait till we get you back in the ward.’

  ‘I may not get in the ward. Who’s it from?’

  ‘NO! you’ll find out later.’

  ‘…Fareeda would tell me.’

  Nadia took a deep breath and gave Elisha a cold look. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a tatty envelope, which had already been opened. I recognised the stamp on it immediately. A rush of adrenaline was unexpected and welcome.

  ‘It came a couple of weeks ago,’ said Nadia. ‘It was addressed to you. I wanted to protect you from any more stress and trouble. But I was curious, so I read it. I felt I had a right after what I’ve been through.’

  ‘Not a good habit; reading other people’s mail.’

  ‘You should know.’

  Nadia put the envelope back in the handbag.

  ‘Oi, what are you doing?’

  ‘It’s not the right time,’ she said. ‘It was from a man called Gulzar.’

  The murmurs of improved breathing were felt after Len and Stuart visited me on the ward. It may have been a placebo effect but the small triumph of letting my chest expand while feeling about 30 per cent less pain was real. A small team of doctors came to do their rounds and confirmed my tentative analysis: they were happy with my progress, the antibiotics were working. I wasn’t sure about that: I’d get a better understanding from Dr Howarth. But where was the lazy bastard? Didn’t he care about his patients? At least, the asbestosis hadn’t progressed, however, or at least that’s what the tall, ever–so slim specialist said to me after a surprising late afternoon visit. He also asked me about Fareeda. It was a nice touch. I didn’t need Dr Howarth after all.

  In the evening, with the help of the nurse and Nadia, I sat up in bed for the first time. I was as stiff as a wicket and the breathing improvements I’d noticed earlier in the day had diminished. But I did manage to eat a light roll and some soup. Most of it got stuck in my throat and was thrown up but the rest brought some much needed strength. Nadia was on her mobile for most of the evening: she was in and out of the ward and didn’t have many words left for me. I felt guilty about the amount of strain on her but was desperate to ask her about the Iraqi letter. She said she would read it to me later in the day but hadn’t mentioned it all.

  ‘What did Gulzar say?’

  Nadia was eating an apple, texting on her mobile in deep concentration.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man from Iraq?’

  Nadia continued to text and reached into her handbag with her other hand. She handed me the envelope. I took it tentatively and my shivering hands pulled out the letter. I opened it and then looked up at Nadia but she continued to tap the keys on her mobile. I was on my own.

  Dear Shah,

  I hope you are well. When you left us, you seemed in better health and I hope this is the case. Playing on those beautiful green fields will surely help. Stay away from work at all costs!

  I remember our time together in Iraq as though it was yesterday. You were a true friend and you brought so much wisdom and wonder to our blighted country. The situation has improved slightly since you left but not much.

  As for my own situation, it has improved a great deal. Ibrahim’s sister–in–law, Misha, and I have been engaged for three months and have decided not to wait too much longer to get married; people disappear very quickly over here so we don’t want to have any regrets! It would have been great if you could have been here to give your blessing but I suppose we can’t have everything.

  But there are some people who are not happy with this union – not Ibrahim or his family, they have been very supportive – but others who feel I should have waited longer before banishing the memory of my first wife, my children and my parents. They have not been through the fire like some of us. They are the lucky ones: their families are well and their homes remain untouched. There are thousands of these green zones in the country. But I am no green zone. I need comfort and support like everyone else. Can I not start again?

  My friend, I have rattled on like a UN session. I just wanted to share with you a little piece of joy I feel and desperately wished you could be over here to, how do you say, straight bat a few people. Obviously, that isn’t going to happen but I hope you can be here in spirit.

  One more thing, although it is a trivial one. A British man came to my house – God knows how he got the address – and asked a few questions about Wasim. He seemed to know a lot about him but wouldn’t tell me the nature of his business. So I told him nothing and he sloped off. Looked like a legal man to me. Takes one to know one!

  Is Wasim okay back at home? I hope all is well. He was a confused boy and I pray for him. I’m sure he won’t think of going against the family again.

  And finally, I hope you kept those pebbles. Spread them around in that little town of yours to show solidarity with the ever–suffering people of our country.

  Your eternal friend, Gulzar.

  I folded the letter and looked up at Nadia. She was already looking right into my eyes. She had a tear in her eye. She got up and carefully took the letter out of my hands.

  ‘Wasim’s not worth getting upset about,’ I said.

  ‘Who says it’s about him?’

  Nadia put the letter in her handbag.

  ‘Elisha’s cooked an omelette for the first time,’ she said, smiling as the tears rolled down her face. ‘She’s bringing it over this evening.’

  I was discharged after five days. I could barely walk and the cold was tearing into my bones but I understood the need for beds for sicker people than me. I couldn’t avoid the sight of my bed being manically stripped and prepared for the next poor bugger unfortunate enough to be wheeled in; hundreds of Turner victims must have passed through these wards, I thought. Len, who hadn’t said much throughout my stay, helped me get into the back of the Nadia’s car. He then walked off and said he’d catch the bus despite Nadia urging him to get into the car. I could understand Len’s concern about my health but his gait and manner were less assured than I remembered them. But it didn’t take long for me to understand why. Nadia told me he had broken up with Sylvia again which wasn’t really a surprise – but the reason given by Sylvia could have plunged me back into A&E immediately. Sylvia blamed Len for being two and a half times over the limit – and nearly getting me killed in the process. I felt that was harsh: the weather – and perhaps the stress levels – were the main factors in my sudden deterioration but was it really true that Len – careful, precise, safe Len – had downed a few before taking the wheel that night? He would have never contemplated such a thing. Love may have been in the air but Len always saw the bigger picture. Nadia then handed me a recent copy of the Observer, opened at the relevant page.

  DRINK DRIVING UMPIRE SUSPENDED

  This was Len we were talking about? He had been breathalysed at the infirmary after bringing me in. He had been arrested and spent the night in a cell. He was to appear at Magistrates Court in a few days. He had been suspended by the cricket club until the case was settled. I didn’t read the whole story: I felt sick. The charity match felt like a distant memory now. Did it really happen? How much was raised? I didn’t know; I didn’t care. I simply wanted to get home and plant my head underneath the sheets for a long time – and read Gulzar’s letter again for some hope.

  After visiting Wasim in Strangeways one rainy afternoon, Nadia tentatively suggested we should move out of Edmund Street when I got better. She said it wasn’t because anyone had sent hate mail or been abusive – on the contrary, most people had been supportive – but because she felt ‘soiled’ due to the raid. After a short discussion, however, she withdrew the suggestion saying it was a ‘demented
’ idea in the first place. For the first time, I sensed I was becoming a burden on my daughter.

  During those early days back in that misty bedroom, I wondered how Wasim was getting on in that horrible cult prison, although I did read a story in the Manchester Evening News that it had improved in recent times. No matter, I would never set foot in there. This was not because of any fear of criminals, I had been to a war zone after all, but more the strength and toxicity of antibiotics, pills and other medication which were leading to more disturbing symptoms of anxiety and mood fluctuation. Yes, my body was the main reason I couldn’t go very far – the stony chest, the spine curving by the day and the matchstick legs – but I was afraid the man Wasim would see in front of him would act less appropriately than some of the inmates he shared the prison with. So I chose to do the next best thing: ask Nadia to hastily dictate a couple of letters on my behalf and send them to the young lad. That would keep his spirits up. I still believed he’d be found innocent, without my input.

  Len, however, wasn’t so lucky – or maybe he was. He was fined £1,500 and banned from driving for 12 months. He walked a lot anyway so I hoped it wouldn’t bother him much. He rang Nadia to pass on the message to me. He apologised for not telling me about it at the hospital. Thankfully, the cricket club lifted his suspension. I sensed he was embarrassed because Alice was so desperate for her mother and father to get back together. Alice being a copper probably didn’t help either. But I felt he should have come round so we could have talked things over like we always did. I missed him, particularly at about 4.30pm on weekdays.

  But I did have Gulzar’s letter to keep me going. Nadia had ‘loaned’ it to me and I kept it under my pillow for comfort. On cold, dark nights I reread it and thought about the sweltering days we spent together in Baghdad: his house a little corner of calm in amongst the carnage and destruction. I dreamed that, one day, Gulzar and Misha would turn up on my doorstep and have dinner in the house. After lunch one afternoon – which consisted of a soft jacket potato and runny lentils – I even envisaged them sat at the dinner table offering tales of romantic scrapes, wild gunfire and epic family gatherings. But they were not there and Nadia snapped me out of it. She was sitting at the dinner table, hands on her chin, looking out of the window having not eaten her stodgy jacket potato. She had been very irritable all afternoon, since coming home for lunch from university.