Dear Infidel (24 page)

Arriving at Waterloo East there was a lot of activity: swarms embarking and disembarking. A cacophony of youthful banter arrived in the shape of two young men – Australian – and two young women – English. They looked in their early twenties and, from their conversation, they’d not known each other long. The girls were laughing regularly, on-demand, little shrill shrieks accompanying every Aussie utterance.
Slam dunk.
The two lads were tanned, tall, athletic – real fair-dinkum Aussies; the English girls were punching well above their weight. No wonder they were trying so hard. And they were competing with each other:
Don’t want her, want me,
pouted each girl eagerly. Something snapped. He bent forwards and held his head, his palms over his eyes. He wanted to stop – stop seeing, stop hearing, stop thinking. He was trying to find some stillness inside but he didn’t know how. He just couldn’t shake this really bad feeling. The train of thought was relentless. Well fuck it, fuck it all: fuck French cinema and its existential nausea, and fuck the “Lucky Country”, which wasn’t so lucky for the Abo’s. And fuck the Muslims, with their desert hearts and desert nations. And fuck Britain, with her oh-so-glorious past and her maggot-infested future. All he wanted was her.
Please Allah, please.
He opened his eyes as Southwark Cathedral approached. By day it was impressive but by night it was transcendent; a balm for the soul. Huge lamps at its base threw light up the cathedral’s walls
and the effect was utterly beautiful. It looked haunted – less a House of God, more a memory of a House of God, in a Godless land. The train moved on but Aadam felt a little calmer as they pulled into London Bridge.

He was home and sitting in his living room all alone. The light from the ceiling was insufficient, produced as it was by a 25W bulb. There should have been a 60W bulb there – at least a 40W – but when the old one went they only had one left in the cupboard. He was meant to get some more but he’d forgotten.

On reaching, he’d immediately noticed that their car wasn’t there and that no light was on indoors. But did that mean Nazneen hadn’t yet got back, or that she’d come and gone? He went straight to their bedroom and the first thing he looked for was her suitcase above the tall cupboard. It was still there. He then went to the chest of drawers and pulled open the top one, and held a handful of her knickers to his chest.

Suddenly a key entered the latch. At first he thought he’d imagined it but then he heard the front door swing open followed by the sound of someone climbing the stairs. The steps had a softness, a lightness, a familiarity to them. Aadam was mortified.
Be a man
, he told himself – whatever was about to unfold. She entered the living room but stayed standing by the entrance. Aadam bolted to attention.
Be a man.

He studied her face as she moved towards him. Would he be reprieved or was he about to be condemned?
Be a man
. He was trying, he was really trying. They were staring at each other but her expression remained blank. He started trembling and he leant to offset it, trying to affect a casual pose. It didn’t work, though; he looked more awkward. She now stood right in front. He was still trying to hold his ground but it was getting too much. His head dropped; too many conflicting messages. He was desperate not to cry but he’d failed to hold it back, his dread spilling over. His face crinkled, a quite pathetic attempt to conceal a quivering lip. She decided to end it. She put her arms inside his and wrapped herself around him, resting her head on his chest. Instantly he pulled her close, burying his face in her neck, her hair veiling him.

‘It’s OK,’ she said softly. She knew he didn’t make her eyes catch fire, the way they should, but at times she did feel love for him. Sort of. They rocked together to and fro, arms interlocked and bodies
meshed, if not quite souls fused. He started whispering her name – not mantra-like, more wish-upon-a-star.

‘I’m not letting you go now,’ he whimpered. She felt bad that his love hadn’t melted her more.

‘I love you, Aadam,’ came the reply, and she still didn’t know what those words meant.

Nazneen had been sitting in her car, two minutes’ drive from home. Her and Aadam’s home. But she couldn’t go there yet. She needed time to figure out what to do, what to say, what she wanted to hear. The streets were empty, not a soul in sight. She could drive off right now, just keep on driving ... She thumbed her mobile, teasing the
call
button, a number already loaded. A new number, saved from earlier today.

‘Hello?’ His voice sounded unfamiliar, in a neutral tone.

‘Hi, Martin.’

‘Nazneen...’ He almost whispered her name, stretching it out like he didn’t want to let go.

‘I ... I remember Red Rocks, too.’ She giggled self-consciously, thinking she sounded ridiculous.

‘Red Rocks?’

‘Yeah. You mentioned it this morning, when you called.’

‘It was a pretty special time, huh?’

‘God, yeah. You know, I’d not forgotten. But life goes on, I guess.’ Through the windscreen she peered up into the blackened sky, as if searching for clues. There were no stars adorning the London night and the naked heavens seemed reduced, stripped of all mystery; just a mechanical device, ticking pointlessly on.

‘I know I shouldn’t have called you today. I knew you’d have moved on, settled down, but...’

‘Go on, Martin. Talk to me. I’m here.’

‘You know what I remember most about Red Rocks? The stars. And standing tall on that soil and looking hard in every direction.
Nothing but earth, sky and stars. A billion specs of light, whispering a symphony.’

The Scooby Doo air freshener was lying prostrate on the dashboard and grinning right at her.
He won’t stop fucking grinning.
She grabbed it firmly, constricting its rubber body, and tried to break its head off with her thumb but it was too elastic and it snapped back, its grin undimmed.

‘Nazneen?’

‘How did things get so fucked up? Can you tell me that?’ She slammed the air freshener down by her feet. ‘I mean, this isn’t real. You’re not real. All we’re left with is damn memories.’ With trembling hands she fumbled for a hanky, wiping the regret that was oozing out of her, staining her face.

‘Shhh. It’s OK, it’s OK.’ His voice, so formal on picking up, was now swaddling her.

‘Sorry, it’s just ... today. I wasn’t expecting any of this today. Why resurrect this now? I wish you hadn’t called.’

‘What? Oh, I get it – just ‘cause it’s inconvenient for you. I should fuck off now, should I?’

‘No! Sorry, I didn’t mean that.’

‘Oh, have I upset you? Disturbed your cosy little life? You know I’ve never even come close to recreating what we had. I’ve spent the past three years trying to forget you.’

‘Martin, don’t. I’m sorry...’

‘Sorry? Is that the best you can do? You know, you never actually explained to me why you left.’

‘Please, stop it...’

‘No, hang on – one moment we lived together, studied together, planned today and tomorrow together. And then all of a sudden you ended it. Why?’

Silence. She remembered her gran, and Ramazan arriving one year and it suddenly meaning something.

‘We’d had a great time at uni but it’d finished, right?’

‘What had finished? The good times or just uni?’

‘Martin, please. You must’ve had a reason for getting back in touch. And I’ve not returned the call by mistake.’

‘But I need to know. I mean, all couples bicker but I don’t remember us tearing chunks out of each other, or us drifting apart and getting bored.’

‘And you think I’ve forgotten? Why the hell do you think I’ve called you?’

She let go of her hanky and it fell by her feet, her sorrow now running freely.

‘Look, it’s OK. Forget it. I don’t want it to be like this. I just wanted to hear your voice, one last time.’

‘Wait! Don’t go. Let’s just talk for a while, huh? There’s no harm.’

She adjusted the rear-view mirror and studied her reflection; her earlier glow from Eid, a day of pure celebration, completely washed away.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Nazneen.’

‘I know. Hey, I reckon that’s probably our first proper fight!’ She giggled innocently, her relief for the change in mood blinding her to the irony.

‘Great timing, huh? So what about you and your husband – do you fight?’

‘If you were, you know – getting intimate with someone – and a friend unexpectedly popped round, what would you do?’

‘You what?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

‘But he loves you, right?’

‘Yes, yes he does. He’s crazy about me. It’s just he’s so ... I think he’s forgotten how to live. So have I.’

‘And do you love him?’

‘What the hell is love, huh? Will someone please explain that damn word to me?’

‘Shhh, Nazneen.’ Again, swaddling her. She giggled briefly and bent to pick up her hanky and found the Scooby Doo by her feet. Holding it up, she carefully lifted off some debris collected from the floor mat and planted a kiss on those ever-wide lips.

‘It’s OK,’ Nazneen conceded. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore. So tell me, how are you finding life in the Big Smoke?’

‘Oh, I’m still a small-town boy from Branscombe. For most of my life even Bournemouth was a dizzying metropolis; London’s a crazy place.’

‘So you like my city, then?’ Her voice was playful, all tension gone.

‘It’s all right, my dear. Very cosmopolitan.’

‘So what can’t the small town boy get used to, eh?’

‘It’s been crazy round my area today. Really mad.’

‘Oh yeah? How’s that?’

‘The Asians. There’s lots round here. There’s some festival every other week.’

‘Eid,’ she underlined. ‘Today’s festival was called Eid. That’s why you caught me when you called this morning. I’d have been at work otherwise.’

‘Right, right. But you were never into all of that, were you?’ There was an edginess, a stiffness in his voice.

‘No ... Yes ... Things change, you know? Haven’t you changed?’

‘Not really. I like the same things, I dislike the same things. Actually, there is one way in which I’ve changed.’

‘Yeah? How’s that then?’

‘I was always an easy-going guy. You know, happy-go-lucky; I could get on with anyone.’

‘Yeah, totally. Being with you was like a ticket to anywhere. That’s still you, though, right?’

‘Look, I take people as I find them. I mean their colour, their race, where they come from – it’s all irrelevant bollocks to me. But religion? I ain’t got no time for that one.’

She closed her eyes, a numbness surrounding her.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I always took you as you were – you should know that. I never thought of you as Asian or ethnic or Muslim. You were just you.’

‘And you were unique. My lover, my finest friend. And yes, I do love my husband, but what me and you had ... Don’t get bitter, please. Think of what we shared. Colorado, Keystone. Do you remember that lake? It was so beautiful, right? We used to go swimming and biking up in the hills. And Red Rocks? Think back to our last night, Martin. World’s End, under the stars.’

‘Those memories are a fucking prison. You left me because I’m not Muslim, didn’t you?’

She recalled speaking to Nikki in the morning, and her trying to wish her a happy Eid, and flicking idly through magazines in their Colorado hut and suddenly wanting to torch the world.

‘Don’t you love your culture? I love mine.’

‘Our culture’s the same;
was
the same. But I didn’t ask you about culture. Are you into your religion?’

‘So if I said “yes” you’d see me differently, would you? I wouldn’t just be me any more.’

‘Basically, yeah. Look, if people want to believe in fairies or Father Christmas, let ’em. I won’t interfere. But when they start believing that they’re gonna go to some heaven and get seventy virgins to fuck till eternity, and all for killing Infidels, Jews and Hindus, then I got some serious problem with that. How can you love that?’

There was simply no answer.

‘How can you go back to that? Did we reject you? Did Britain reject you? This country gave you everything.’

Nazneen sat still, letting herself drift into the void.

‘It’s no good saying it’s all the media’s fault, focussing only on the nutters. I live around these people. I see it all with my own eyes.’

‘What, you see Muslims on street corners, distributing leaflets on how to kill Jews and Hindus?’

‘Don’t be facetious – you know what I mean. The Hindus and Sikhs – they’re all right; they just get on with their lives. They work hard; they want to fit in. It’s just ... it’s just the Muslims.’

FUCKING JEWS, FUCKING HINDUS, FUCKING MUSLIMS.
It’s so hard to love, there’s so much to hate.
Hate, hate, HATE,
HATEHATEHATEHATEHATE
... She pressed hard on her scalp, wanting to rip it apart.

‘Goodbye, Martin.’ She brought the phone down and held it in her lap; paused, for one last moment, and then ended the call. It was time to go home.

‘Pasha, Pasha!’

Salman cups hands to his mouth and shouts at the top of his voice. They’d been hunting for clues, scrapping and running for hours through woods and down bridle paths, across streams and farmland. Old Spam Head, their Scout master, had sought special permission – not everyone got to trample all over the English countryside like them. And here he was, young Salman, the first to reach the hilltop checkpoint.

He breathes deep, greedy for fresh air and looks down at the chasing pack, which includes Pasha. Surveying green fields with cows out to pasture, he stretches up towards the English summer sky – a light, fresh blue with lots of fluffy, white clouds.

‘Come on, Pasha!’ His cousin needs all the encouragement he can get – at eight he’s a year younger than the others and a right skinny little runt. Still, it’s lovely out here, in the country. He’d like to live somewhere like this one day.

The chasing pack closes in and Pasha crosses fourth. He was heading the others until the final ten metres or so. He collapses onto the earth, panting heavily, as Andy, Rob, Clem, Jon and all the others sprint for the finish, throwing themselves forwards for the last two yards.