A Fistful of Dust

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘So the journey you undertook,’ said Mr Lees. ‘It was from Manchester to Vienna and then to Erbil in Kurdistan. Did you take your doctor’s advice?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him.’

  Mr Lees gave me his first strange look, as though he hadn’t expected that answer.

  ‘A soldier doesn’t consult a doctor if he has an urgent rescue mission to undertake.’

  I almost regretted it as soon as I said it but this environment was making me more combative than usual.

  Mr Lees then started to probe the Iraqi leg of the ‘adventure’. It was quite pleasant talking about this because I had only happy memories of generous people and a rugged but expansive terrain where you could breathe properly. The Iraqi questions were very specific: when did I first set eyes on Wasim? What was my relationship with Bilu like? What kind of exorcism was performed on me as a hostage? I felt I responded to these questions quite well and regularly looked across to Nadia to see if she nodded or gave me the thumbs–up; the fact I couldn’t actually tell if she’d done so wasn’t really important. Mr Lees was also interested in how I persuaded Wasim to come back home and what transpired once we got here.

  ‘When did you first notice him taking an interest in your health – and therefore – the whole Turners saga?’

  ‘He first asked me in Iraq but when we came home, he started getting books, going on the internet and looking at campaigns. He really wanted to help. He wanted to start a new group.’

  ‘…And his Islamic radicalism?’

  ‘He hardly mentioned it.’

  ‘Did he pray?’

  ‘Of course, but now he had a cause he really cared about: in his town, with his people. He admitted he had made a huge mistake in the path he had taken and wanted to put that right.’

  Mr Lees delved further but concluded his questioning by mentioning the police raid on our home.

  ‘After all you’d done – with your progressive illness and noble intentions – how did you feel when armed police stomped into your home?’

  ‘Sick.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  I shook my head. Mr Lees read out statistics on the success of these raids and pointed out that they had only lead to a tiny number of convictions. Most of the time, they were fishing expeditions, he said. There were no more questions from Mr Lees and Mr Hammond got up and glanced at me. He looked smaller and more muscular close up. His wig tilted slightly to one side and he liked to cross his hands while talking.

  ‘This is as easy as 1–2–3,’ he said. ‘First, you receive a letter from your grandson, Mr Rafeeq, clearly informing you that he has, let’s say, jihadi and radical ideas and that he is fighting allied forces. Did Mr Rafeeq inform the authorities or the police? Of course not. Second, in a pique of madness, Mr Rafeeq boards a plane to Iraq to try and find him. Eventually he finds his grandson but doesn’t think it wise to inform the coalition authorities so they can protect the public or at least gain some intelligence. Why on earth not? And third, when the two men returned home, wasn’t it Mr Rafeeq’s duty to tell the police here that his grandson may have been a threat to himself and others after his Iraqi adventure? Of course it was but Mr Rafeeq didn’t do that. Instead, he took a risk that no one would find out and it eventually backfired because a police raid smashed up his house. I put it to you, Mr Rafeeq, that you failed on every level to inform the authorities and failed in your duty to protect your own family and the public at large.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  I turned away from Mr Hammond and looked at the judge, in detail, for the first time. She was the same age as Fareeda. She was like the Queen, I thought: looking but not feeling; tanked up in regal attire, a museum piece. I hoped she was on my side. Mr Hammond started talking again so I was forced to look at him again. I thought barristers softened people up and only roasted them at the end of their argument. I had been wrong. He had given me a bouncer straight away and I had no means of dealing with it. I only knew one thing: if I got out of here in one piece I would never step in here again – and it didn’t matter if Wasim was taking the stand: good luck to him.

  Mr Hammond had the bit between his teeth on Iraq and claimed I’d been naïve in making the trip. It was a relentless, forensic probing of each action I carried out, each scrape I got into and each place I ended up in. I was exhausted when he completed the Iraqi barrage – it must have been at least 25 minutes – but then he ridiculed Wasim’s so–called ‘awakening’ when he came home. The bastard was now really enjoying himself.

  ‘Do you think anyone can be cured of jihad?’

  ‘No, but they can be shown a better path.’

  ‘The defendant took up the asbestos cause – a noble intention, I’m sure – but was it genuine?’

  ‘Of course it was.’

  ‘So why did he knock on so many Muslim–owned houses? Was he getting new recruits to the cause?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was still an Islamic radical, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No.’

  Mr Hammond opened a file and picked out a sheet of paper. ‘When he was in prison, the defendant got involved in a fight with a fellow prisoner. One of the guards heard him say and I quote. ‘You’re all fuckin’ white animals. On the day of judgement, Allah will spare none of your pigswill arses.’

  ‘I didn’t know about that.’

  ‘Didn’t know much did you? I put it to you that, throughout this tawdry tale, you colluded with your grandson to cover up his dangerous, terrorist–related activities.’

  ‘No, I simply thought it was a family matter.’

  ‘How, precisely, is blowing up coalition forces a family matter?’

  ‘He didn’t do that.’

  ‘But he was prepared, capable and willing to do it.’

  I could feel the pressure growing around my lungs. My swallowing was becoming drier by the minute. I found it difficult to listen to any more. Hammond’s questions became repetitive and challenging in the extreme. I needed to get out immediately. Why not just feign a collapse right here? I’d be out in no time. I once knew a man at Turner’s who had epilepsy and he’d feign a seizure anytime he was in an awkward situation. I remember him winking to a group of us gathered round him after he had a so–called fit while the foreman placed a cushion under his head. I could do the same: I couldn’t take this anymore. The plan was set. I’d let him rip into me for two more questions and then I’d stumble to my right and collapse in a heap. At least, there’d be no shortage of witnesses to see what happened, I thought.

  ‘He’s a member of Al-Qaida isn’t he? And you know all about it.’

  ‘No, that’s absurd.’

  This was the one. As soon as Hammond opened his mouth I’d be out for the count. I did not deserve this kind of obscene interrogation. Hammond looked down at his papers and then looked up at me.

  ‘No more questions, M’Lady.’

  The jolt in my chest was severe. I held onto the side of the witness box. I should have shown these bastards that this was no way to treat a sick, old man; a man who had laid his body on the line, literally, for his town and his community; a man who had rescued his grandson from annihilation. I still wanted to go down but saw Nadia from the corner of my eye. She had suffered enough and another traumatic, worrying episode – particularly one that was manufactured – would be downright unfair.

  ‘Mr Rafeeq, you can step down now,’ said M’Lady.

  I hesitated and fantasised how a tumble right in the middle of the courtroom would go down with the jury. I looked directly at the 12 solemn faces sat beyond the wig merchants. They were all – to a man and a woman – staring directly at me. Their faces indicated to me that the sympathy was already there: no need to push things too far. I realised there had been enough drama in my life since Wasim’s letter dropped on our doormat at Edmund Street. Now I needed some peace.

  19.

  The jury had been deliberating for four hours. Nadia, who was with Elisha in court, phoned me with an update. She wante
d to come home but knowing her luck, she said, they’d deliver the verdict while she was driving down Manchester Road. Once I got off the phone to her, there was a restlessness and hyperactivity about me that was unusual. It was late afternoon and I started wandering around the house: upstairs, downstairs, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the back garden and, finally, in the cellar where I started to rummage through my belongings from Maple Street, some of which were still boxed up. I explored a dusty cardboard box and knew exactly what I was looking for, although I had to get past a green cagoule, a couple of Bollywood LPs and a pair of knitting needles to find it. The tartan drawstring bag was in better shape than I expected. I blew away the cobwebs and looked inside it: the tiffin carrier and flask were both in there, nice and compact; unused for God knows how many years. I placed them both on the floor and checked my trouser pocket for my six pebbles. As I got up, I also noticed a crumpled leather wallet inside the drawstring bag. I picked it up and zipped it open. Inside there was a back door key from Maple Street, a few till receipts, a folded up town map of Rochdale and a tiny, black and white picture of Fareeda. Her eyes shone so bright that I looked at the photo for much longer than necessary. I slipped the photo into my pocket and walked out of the cellar. In the kitchen, I began preparing items to put in the tiffin carrier: an apple, fruit yoghurt and a sandwich. Tuna salad would be fine, I thought, but slicing the cucumbers, tomatoes and onions into decent sizes was a bigger challenge than expected. The onions didn’t make it. I looked at the clock above the fridge and hoped I could get there for the start. I hadn’t been to the cricket club as a spectator for at least 27 years but somehow Wasim’s fate co–incided with a midweek Under 11’s game and it was too good an opportunity to miss. Put simply, there was no other way to relax.

  I took a deep breath and placed the sandwich, apple and fruit yoghurt carefully in the tiffin carrier. The cardamom tea was nicely brewed and poured into the flask. I raised the drawstring bag over my shoulder and walked to the front door. I checked behind me to ensure I hadn’t left the keys in the lock. As I walked down Edmund Street, I could hear my hushed, hurried breath accompanying each stride. I wondered whose heart was beating faster: Wasim’s or mine? It was no contest. Five minutes later, I was in Spotland Road. The bag felt heavier on my shoulder than it used to. A grey mist hovered over Spotland Bridge but as long as it didn’t rain I didn’t care. I looked across the other side of the road and imagined both pavements packed with exhausted workers, head down, hunched, streaming back from the factory: their thoughts extinguished by the slog of a 12–hour shift. They were strong, resolute and resourceful. They knew what mattered: to provide and be responsible. So how had that come to this? How did a boy from this town get involved in the dead–end of jihad? Nadia said he wasn’t immersed in the host culture but I didn’t agree. Hundreds of taxi drivers weren’t immersed in football, pop music, politics or even the English language yet they were still well adjusted and weren’t interested in ‘saving’ their ‘brothers and sisters’ around the world by force. They knew where their bread was buttered. They knew that struggle was about working hard and securing a future for your family not parachuting into a conflict zone thousands of miles away where every living being becomes the enemy. There’ll always be too many enemies so why not make some friends closer to home?

  This raw, irritable line of thinking subsided once I reached Spotland Bridge and prepared to cross into Bridgefold Road. I looked to my right towards Rooley Moor Road and couldn’t stop my hands from adopting a cup–like, prayer motion: one for Bernie’s venture which I hoped would create hundreds of jobs in the town and wipe away the legacy of Turner’s forever, and the other for Wasim, the little boy with a cause on the brink of throwing it all away. But who would pray for me now? Wasn’t I to blame for placing the lad where he is now, with the state scenting blood? Of course, I was to blame for the chain of events that lead up to his arrest and trial. If I hadn’t gone to Iraq, none of this would have happened. But I had a sentence too: my decaying lungs without Fareeda’s hand to soothe them. As I crossed the road, I cupped my hands for longer than necessary. An elderly woman walking her dog saw me and eventually said ‘hello’ after a short pause. I nodded politely and responded with a ‘good afternoon’. Would Wasim have responded in the same manner? I wasn’t sure. Live life where you’re at or you’ll live no life at all.

  I had to cling onto the seat to catch my breath. The match was already in play but I could hardly see that far: I wasn’t used to being so far away from the action. My breathing was now fast and heavy rather than the hushed and deep tones I had when I left Edmund Street. The journey to the ground, on foot, was hardly marathon standard – in fact, it was comfortably less than a mile – but I had been naïve to think it would be so easy, the Iraq adventure seemed a long time ago.

  I threw my bag down and held my painful shoulder. I sat down on the cold green seat and was thankful the few people already in there had their eyes attuned to the game. I couldn’t see any of the staff I knew, which was a relief: it wasn’t a day for small talk. It took me about 15 minutes to clear the razor–blade viciousness in my throat. I spat most of it beneath my seat and immediately felt guilty about staining a playful sanctuary that had been so good to me. I settled down and picked up my bag. I opened it and pulled out my sandwich and flask. I looked out at the pitch and started eating my sandwich. It was a glorious sight: young boys looking so calm and considered, talking about field placings, easing into forward defensives, clapping a new batsman in. Whether it was the boys in front of me or the food I was eating, I was feeling better by the minute.

  An hour and half must have passed and we were well into the second innings. I had drunk most of my cardamom tea from my flask and wished I’d made some more; there had certainly been room for it. A light drizzle had started but the boys were still giving it their all. I had started counting some of the overs with my six pebbles to ensure the umpires got it right. One of the fielders, on the boundary, was very close to me, about 20 yards away. He looked older than 11 – he must have been 14 at least – and wasn’t as enthusiastic as the other players. He had been on the boundary fence since the innings started and I wished he’d get more involved. He looked over his shoulder and glanced at me a couple of times – and I offered a nod of encouragement – but it didn’t make any difference. I wondered how well he was integrated into the team: where he went to school, what his family were like, who he hung around with. Suddenly, I got a tap on the shoulder. I turned and saw Nadia with a stern look on her face.

  ‘Where the fuck were you?’ she asked. ‘I rang home about 10 times.’

  ‘Needed to get out. What happened? What’s the verdict?’

  Nadia sat down beside me. She picked up my bag and rummaged through the items, shaking her head. She put the bag down and looked out on the pitch. She said nothing as a batsman ran four after a comical overthrow. Then, without looking at me, she slowly raised her index finger. I closed my eyes and tried to take the deepest breath possible but only managed a strained, pathetic one.

  ‘How many years?’

  She didn’t answer. She looked down at my hand and noticed the pebbles. She stretched out my hand and took the pebbles one by one. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE…She took the last one and closed her hand.

  ‘Six years?’

  She looked at me and didn’t answer again. She clenched her fist and then laid out the pebbles in her palm. She pushed her hand right under my nose.

  ‘Add six,’ she said.

  There was a moment’s silence as I absorbed the gravity of Nadia’s equation.

  ‘Twelve!’

  ‘He’s got a lot of time to watch Countdown now.’

  ‘Twelve bastard years! How? We had a woman judge…’

  ‘We’re cold bitches sometimes.’

  ‘But he made a silly little mistake. We’ve got to appeal.’

  Nadia didn’t answer and handed back the pebbles. I took them but my hand was shaking. I looked down at the
open flask and the tiffin carrier which were resting on top of the tartan drawstring bag. I put my hand on my throat to stem the soldering–iron sensation ripping into it. The asbestos fibres from the flask, bag and tiffin carrier had surely entered my being again and, this time, the body felt weaker than ever to resist them. Of course the items had been washed but why did I go into that cold cellar to bring them back to life once more? I tried to swallow but my tongue kept getting in the way. I felt dizzy and the heart was beating faster. This couldn’t be happening now: Dr Howarth said I was doing well. I was desperate to swallow the torrent of saliva gathered in my mouth but it was beginning to escape. Nadia hadn’t noticed – and I couldn’t bear to burden her again now. She would have that beautiful black hat on her head this summer at university and I’d be the proudest father in the world. In the World.

  ‘Nadia, please…’

  ‘Shit, Daddy, watch your head!’

  I ducked as the ball somehow leaped off the boundary rope towards my face. It was as if it came in all the way from Iraq. My neck twisted to the right. A deep, crushing sensation was choking my windpipe. My head lopped foward and hit the plastic seat in front. Bad, bad light. Blinking. Wasim’s dark night of the soul at Strangeways. I fell to the right and my face pouched into Nadia’s lap. Double vision and tingling. The smell of burning grass and the sickly taste of willow. Her palms were on my cheek but as she mouthed some words down at me, I couldn’t respond – a savage ringing in my ears had erupted to make me almost deaf. She called someone on her mobile – it was too late for help now. I looked into her eyes and dreamed of clutching her degree in my hands. She bent down and kissed me on the forehead. A sweet kiss of lifelessness. The twelve pebbles fell from my hand and most of them fell into the flask of cardamom tea. Some escaped. A few years off for good behaviour, I thought. Hope for Wasim – if not for me.

  There was only one martyr in this family.