I nodded and instantly felt better. There was still hope of a beautiful sun–drenched day later in the year when Nadia would come out in the right sort of black garb and make her father proud.
‘I’d like to go for the whole case,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure I could see it through…’
‘I think you should stay at home until the big day.’ Nadia picked up her bowl and headed for the kitchen. ‘But that Iraqi bloke, can’t remember his name, he’s giving evidence first…’
‘Who the hell is this Iraqi man? I’m sick of it.’
‘Don’t get worked up about him. I’ll find out for you.’
‘If I don’t see his face, I won’t get a night’s sleep for the rest of my life.’
18.
The two of us drove up in good time. Nadia insisted I wore the navy blue trousers and beige cardigan she had bought for my last birthday but which had been sitting in my wardrobe, clean as a whistle but terribly unfamiliar and loose–fitting. I had read up on some of the cases that had just gone through at Manchester Crown Court and, naturally, they didn’t make pleasant reading: rape, drugs, paedophilia, drunken assaults; it really was depressing. There wasn’t a single terrorism case as far as I could tell: except this one. How could we have got it so wrong?
There was immense inner satisfaction that I had reached the court in decent shape – but it wasn’t to last. As ever, the corridor of uncertainty can do strange things to people and this was one was no different. I was fine until I saw two barristers – one man, one woman – walking briskly in their flowing gowns, one with a mobile phone to her ear and the other carrying the thickest file I’d ever seen. As they brushed past me, it was as though a waft of toxic air floated across into my body making me violently and physically sick within seconds. The early morning potato pancake had no chance and rose up my body into my throat: some of it landing on the corridor and some of it on the entrance to the men’s toilets. I was extremely fortunate that Nadia was on hand to help. The message was clear: I didn’t belong here. It was quite intimidating.
Thankfully, I had improved sufficiently to take my seat in the courtroom. There didn’t seem to be any other people in the public gallery apart from the two of us: there were at least the same number of reporters sat at the press bench to our left. One of them – a beady, overweight sort – hadn’t stopped staring at me since I’d sat down. He only relented when proceedings began and he was forced to finally open his notebook and, perhaps, do some work. Then he came out. Wasim was a few feet away from us, surrounded by etched glass, accompanied by a guard who took off his cuffs and watched him sit down (standing only when the judge sauntered in). He didn’t look round and it was a good thing because Nadia would have cuffed him one – the true long arm of justice if there ever was one. But I spotted something on the side of his face: was it a scar? Had he been beaten up? I kept my eyes on him as he made his plea and the jury was sworn in. He cupped his hands as though he was praying. Too late for that, boy. The prosecution started to make its case – and the smooth, stocky bastard was so persuasive that even I began to believe him.
‘…Get a good look at the defendant, Wasim Rafeeq, a man who has travelled thousands of miles to actively fight against the Queen’s forces. He did not tell his mother, he did not tell his father, he did not tell his grandfather. Would you believe a man who took up arms against the country of his birth while selling his family the ultimate dummy? Of course, it is beyond most people’s comprehension. Yet we know what he did believe – global jihad – and we also know that it isn’t long before the radical eye is turned in this direction and demolishes those he went to school with, those he played with, those he dined with and those he called best friends before they, too, become infidel fodder…’
And on he went. He delivered his case so well that I wondered why we’d turned up at all. I was desperate for Ben Lees to get up and stop him in his tracks but he calmly went on, even spouting outrageous lies that Wasim had Al-Qaida links. Lees finally got his chance. He got up and looked an impressive sort: tall, lean, glasses with reassuring arm movements; finger on chin and then arms folded and then back again. His voice was lower, however, and didn’t have the range and authority of the stocky supremo. But he grew in confidence and did improve after a few minutes.
‘…This young man cares more than most. He travelled out of this country to help victims of an earthquake and he came back to these shores and took up one of the most noble causes in the town. So what, may you ask, happened inbetween? A little ditty called Iraq is what happened. Didn’t we all fail in that most tragic – and still live – episode. Didn’t the state make errors? Didn’t the security services make errors? Didn’t US and UK forces make errors? Didn’t our leaders make errors? Didn’t we all, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, make big and small errors? Because if you agree with that, then you must agree that Wasim Rafeeq too, made an error. He was there to help like everyone else. He may have been swayed – but that’s all he was: swayed. The evidence before and after suggests he cares deeply about his community and family. After his error, he showed his true character in becoming a carer and campaigner for his sick grandfather. This is the real Wasim Rafeeq, not the lost boy afflicted by the madness of Iraq – for which we all share culpability. His errors were our errors too…’
I felt a surge of hope after Mr Lees had concluded his opening argument but both cases sounded persuasive, detailed and ridiculously plausible (apart from the Al-Qaida links, of course). I looked at the jury – a grey–looking bunch with lots of glasses and woolly jumpers – and made a crude calculation: the Iraq war enthusiasts would return a verdict of guilty and the anti’s would do the opposite. The undecided’s would veer on the side of caution and probably want to convict. The problem was, apart from the Government attack dogs and newspaper cheerleaders, I didn’t know any Iraq War enthusiasts. Yes, there was Eric Davy’s dad – who came to support his son at the cricket club – and wanted ‘Saddam Out’ but even he said ‘God, I hate those Americans’ so whether he counted in the ‘pro’s’ I wasn’t sure. I deduced from this that we were on good ground in terms of Iraq – surely the jury had major doubts about it – and what it would come down to was evidence on these shores, or at least evidence that showed the lad was threatening to harm Westerners. Was there any?
Stocky supremo got up again. He was called Mr Hammond although Mr Hammy felt more appropriate. He called his first witness: Mr Shakeel Ali Hameed. A familiar feeling of strangulation returned to my throat. There was a pause as everyone in the courtroom waited. After an excruciating delay, a man walked in and as soon as I set eyes on the tiny, hunched over frame the jolt in my chest was so severe I thought I was having a heart attack. I grabbed Nadia’s hand instantly to stop my fingers throbbing. The sweat gathered on my forehead as I looked again at the old, old man in the shiny shoes ambling into the witness box. I couldn’t believe my eyes but it was clear and unmistakable. The man about to give evidence against my grandson was Bilu.
He had an interpreter by his side and it was clear he was going to give his evidence in Arabic. Most of the early questions Mr Hammond put to him went over my head in a fog of confusion, mild panic and bewilderment. How could the man who helped me so much betray me so cruelly and deeply now? I didn’t have to wait long. Mr Hammond plunged his scalpel in almost immediately. He asked Bilu if he had found anything while Wasim lived in his shoe–selling slum and Bilu nodded and elaborated. I hadn’t heard him speak so much before – and it came as a shock. He was fluent in Arabic and couldn’t get the words out fast enough. I looked at the jury and wondered what they were thinking: how much Arabic had they been exposed to apart from the war on terror stories on the nightly news? These alien (and some would say, enemy) sounds in such an esteemed – and triumphantly democratic – institution couldn’t have helped Wasim.
The interpreter translated Bilu’s evidence in a slightly regal, pompous accent. He said Bilu’s shop had been bombed last year and in the clear–up, two more m
obile phones belonging to Wasim had been found by Bilu. There were also memory sticks, a compass and a personal diary. Bilu said he had no knowledge of them and they had been stuffed in a hole underneath the sink close to where Wasim had slept. He had no idea why Wasim had left them there: perhaps, he had simply forgotten because he did have a habit of rushing off in emergencies.
Mr Hammond probed the diary first. The jury heard some of Wasim’s entries which were hardly surprising to me but sounded quite chilling in a courtroom.
‘Together, we’ll chop off the invader’s hands, throw them on the floor and crush them with our feet. Those who cry in agony will get a megaphone in their ears with sayings from The Prophet (PBUH) to soothe their tortured minds…’
‘A black fog is descending on this land and will infiltrate the kufr’s heart. He will have nowhere to hide and nowhere to run. If he does not go home, we will create the biggest explosion he has ever seen and he will only go back on the wave of the hell fire…’
I lost count but Mr Hammond was well into double figures in relation to these entries. I stopped listening after the third one. Then it was the mobile phones which showed badly–taken photos of amateurish–looking weapons, a group having a picnic sat on tied keffiyah scarfs, another group smiling while standing over a body in a puddle and plenty more. At this point, Nadia looked at me and rolled her eyes as if to say ‘another thing he kept from me’ but I could only acknowledge her with a weary nod; a tide of drowinsess descended upon me without warning and I wanted to leave the courtroom immediately for a nap. But Mr Hammond began to wrap up his opening salvo – saying the images and entries spoke for themselves – and handed over to Mr Lees for cross–examination. I hoped I could ride out the fatigue for a bit longer.
‘Mr Hameed, I can understand how a hard–working man like you would feel betrayed by what happened in your country,’ said Mr Lees. ‘You were born into the country of Mesopotamia but it became another country with a new flag and a new leader when you were a mere four years old. You have sweated blood and toiled away for more than 70 years for your new country and what has it given you? Assassinations, coups, wars, sanctions, hardship and finally an invasion in 2003. And yet you were still going strong. Until that is, your shop was bombed last year and your business went up in smoke. After seven decades, that must have been hard to take. Isn’t it true you saw an opportunity for compensation and that is the only reason you are here today?’
‘Laa…’
Bilu said this a lot and his sidekick followed up immediately with ‘no’.
‘Wasim Rafeeq was campaigning, at the time of the bombing, on the streets of his home town, so you don’t claim he had any involvement?’
‘Laa…’
‘So why hand over this so–called evidence now? Why didn’t you do it when he was living with you?’
There was a long pause and, for the first time, Bilu glanced over in our direction. Had he seen me or was he looking at his old tenant Wasim? He rubbed the back of his neck with his finger and then gave his longest answer. He claimed he was too busy selling shoes. Business had improved because so many people’s footwear had been lost, blown–up or left behind when they were running away in fear. He said he had nothing against Wasim: he actually liked him. He had no idea he was involved in serious wrongdoing. But he was sick and tired of his country being a playground for foreigners: they had ruined it. He had been close to attacks and bombings before but this kind of direct experience had led to a lot of soul–searching. He was told it was a sectarian attack but after discovering Wasim’s items he wasn’t so sure. He felt he had to strike a blow for justice if his country was ever to get rid of ‘bad elements’. He did not want to be a bystander any longer.
The repetition of Bilu’s words into English left me beaten: it was simply too tiring to hear the same answers twice in different languages. There was also a feeling of suffocation and tightness around the chest. I realised it would be an extremely difficult morning to get through, never mind the afternoon. I tapped Nadia on the shoulder and explained but she urged me to hold on for a break which she forecasted would come quite soon. So I tried to straighten up once more but my head began to drop to the side towards my shoulder. Nadia looked at me and quietly helped me up and out of the courtroom with as much discretion as possible. She said I was going home. She ordered a taxi and said she’d hang around and fill me in later. I couldn’t argue with her because she was right. When I got home I was relieved to get back in one piece but annoyed that I couldn’t stay for the duration of Bilu’s evidence. I didn’t fully grasp how hard it would be to listen and concentrate for a concerted period. It was a draining experience. It was impossible to go back in a few days and be the centre of attention; the pressure would be increased tenfold. Sleep, peace and relaxation was what I needed – and lots of it. A little massage from Bilu wouldn’t have gone amiss either but I understood that the Bilu I once knew had gone forever. He was now a grumpy little bastard like the rest of us.
The sleep was good until I heard a knock at the door about 90 minutes in. I rolled over and hoped whoever it was would go away – and they did after about four knocks. But then to my horror, I heard the front door open and someone slowly coming up the stairs. I grabbed my hot water bottle but realised my hands were already burning up.
‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Is anyone in?’
At least it was a woman, I thought, less chance of getting a pillow over my head to suffocate me.
The woman came across the landing and stopped outside my bedroom door. There was a knock and then she opened the door. She popped her head around and jangled a set of keys in her hand. It took me a while to recognise her because she kept most of her body behind the door but it was Mrs Gleeson.
‘You left your keys in the front door,’ she said, placing them carefully on the bedside table. ‘Someone could have waltzed into the house and had a field day. You need to be more careful.’
‘Er, thank you, Mrs Gleeson…’
‘Have to go now; got an appointment with the doctor’s.’
She smiled and left the room. Where was the appointment? What condition did she have? I wanted to ask her but didn’t have the guts. She went down the stairs and the front door closed. I could only think of Fareeda. I imagined her on freezing afternoons such as this tucked up beside me, advising me and instructing me on what to do next. As I heard Mrs Gleeson’s shoes grace the pavement outside, the message was clear from Fareeda: take a principled stand for your family; the rest can wait.
Now the gowns and wigs really were intimidating. There was a deathly hush as all eyes set upon me in the witness box. My bowel was twisted in knots and I was convinced I’d leave a puddle if I got up: best to tense those bony cheeks and hope for the best. Len had joined Nadia in the public gallery to offer support. I was grateful for their presence but they seemed a million miles away. The session took such a long time in getting going that I wondered if they wanted to speak to me at all but once Mr Lees stepped up, he soothed my anxiety almost instantly.
‘So Mr Rafeeq, at 73 years of age, having been diagnosed with asbestosis, having lost your wife five years before, having been forced to sell your home after 39 years and having to move in to a new home with all the upheaval that would bring, why did you travel to Iraq to rescue your grandson?’
‘It wasn’t really to rescue him, just to see if I could find him…’
‘Just let me get this clear, you worked at Turner Brothers Asbestos for how many years?’
’21 years and a few months…’
‘Hmm, 21 years. And you were diagnosed with asbestosis…let me see…about 19 years after you were made redundant. That must have been difficult for you?’
‘It was, but others suffered too…’
‘So going back to my original question, how did you, as it were, decide to take the plunge? I understand you received a letter from your grandson.’
‘Yes, it was the first we knew that he wasn’t in Kashmir, but in Iraq
.’
‘That must have been a shock to you?’
‘It was.’
‘Why hadn’t the parents – your daughter and her husband – done more to avert these delicate circumstances?’
‘They just didn’t know. Thousands of people travel to Kashmir every month. He sent letters, he seemed happy. If they’d known I’m sure they would have done something.’
‘So the letter drops on your doormat and you read it. Did you decide immediately that ‘I’m going to get him?’ I mean, you did know you were travelling into a war zone?’
‘I didn’t think like that. I read his words and they made me angry. I wanted to do something about it.’
‘Didn’t you think of your illness?’
‘It was better to do something rather than nothing. I didn’t want to become housebound.’
‘So what did your preparations consist of? I understand you purchased some cricket equipment from Romida Sports shop in Newhey…’
‘Yes, there were a few things including the cricket gear. I felt I could help take the sport to a new territory.’
Mr Lees looked down and picked up a letter. ‘M’Lady, I have a letter from the ECB – the England and Wales Cricket Board – concerning Mr Rafeeq. I’ll read out a short, salient passage. ‘We had a programme of spreading the game in Basra where most of our forces were based but we were overjoyed when we started hearing reports of Kwik Cricket emerging in Baghdad. We investigated and discovered that Mr Rafeeq had helped children take up the game and, further, there was a massive surge of sales of cricket bats, balls and wickets. We can only thank Mr Rafeeq for his considerable efforts in taking this wonderful game to a region blighted by war and sectarianism.’
The letter provided an exceptional boost. I suddenly felt like a fluent batsman at the crease; all flowing strokes and smooth, boundary–hitting potential.
A Fistful of Dust Page 24
