Dear Infidel (25 page)

‘Well done, lads,’ bellows Old Spammy, patting down each of his boys as they spread out over the slope, quenching their thirst and replaying every trivial incident of the day. Pasha looks upset but Salman goes to him and he soon cheers up. He really looks up to his older cousin.

‘Right!’ Old Spammy commands after their panting subsides. ‘Last leg now, lads – back to base camp!’ He puffs full of purpose and his boys dart up and mount their backpacks. ‘Blue team, yellow team – you got your maps?’

‘Yes, Spammy!’ chipper back bright, unbroken voices.

‘OK!’

And with that his young charges break free, leaving him to keep watchful guard from the rear.

Soon they are back in the forest, lost in another world – one in which dense trees lock horns, making daylight unwelcome. A riotous nature fans out: moss smothering bark, wet and dank, and fern leaves weaving an emerald carpet, shrouding a subterranean world. Unseen birds chipper and squawk and a mist freshens the air, cool and alive. But the lush, flat earth soon dips – imperceptibly at first, with the gradient starting to challenge as the terrain morphs – lustrous greens giving way to a powdery red, holding nothing but loose stone, atrophied vegetation and dead roots. The boys stumble, caution each other, continue with renewed resolve, for they are determined to solve this riddle, of how life and death can mock them; taunt them by appearing as comfortable neighbours, ignoring the human need for a mighty ocean to keep them apart.

The decline levels out and they stand again on even ground, panting in silence, quenching their thirst, and finally, cautiously looking out. Water, clear and trickling, moving softly over pebbles. A wide bank sits either side, uncut grass and reed bending uniformly with a gentle breeze, the benevolent sun making everything shine. Horses arrive. From where it is unclear, as they are in a valley, with each apex touching the horizon. The herd approach leisurely: four, five, six of them, heads bobbing with their gentle pace. They come right up, seeking contact, and a couple of the boys back away, turning towards Spammy for reassurance. Standing deliberately back he simply nods, giving them the confidence to touch the beasts, stroke their flanks, and immerse themselves in this strange encounter. The horses nicker and snort, letting them all take their turn before moving off, back toward the stream. Their pace again is so gentle the boys consider it an invitation, and thus follow the herd into the middle of the valley, to the stream, hopping over the larger stones, the water rippling on regardless. They look around, survey the space, the
sheer expanse making them at first dizzy but then heady, intoxicated with their achievement in making it down here.

Clem picks up a stone and hurls it up into the air, and they watch its flight, high, high into space, before hurtling back down. Immediately the boys all dart down to grab their own, with Salman and Andy making for the same one.

‘Oye!’

‘Leave it – it’s mine!’

They tumble and roll, neither of them willing to let go. The others enjoy the scrap, cheering on both of them. It’s in Andy’s hand but Salman manages to prise it out of his grasp.

‘Leave it, you paki!’

Suddenly a big hand grabs each boy roughly by the collar, yanking them apart.

‘Right, you pair of monkeys!’ Old Spam Head looks angrily at each of them, and despite both feeling aggrieved and wanting to protest, neither dares say another word.

He clasps each boy firmly, one to each side. Their heads are bowed, cheeks glowing with anger.

‘Look,’ he booms, but both heads remain defiantly downcast. He tightens his hold of each boy, leaving them in no doubt that disobeying twice is not an option.

‘Look out there,’ he commands, and both heads are reluctantly raised. They look out but don’t really see ... The expanse of lush green, the horses playing, cantering, blind to the fragility of what they have; of the barren, infertile drop flanking them, bearing down on them, locking them in.

‘You see that?’ he begins, his eyes moving from the wasteland they descended to the oasis of the valley itself. ‘All this.’ He waits until silence rings around. ‘These horses will be here till the end of time. No matter what surrounds them, God will provide. God or Allah – ‘cause it’s all the same, in’t it?’ No response comes forth and he re-applies pressure. ‘In’t it?’ He looks down to his left and right.

‘Yes, Spammy,’ muffles a chastened Andy.

‘Salman?’

‘Yes, Spammy.’

‘Good ... Good. Right, shake hands.’

And Andy extends a speculative hand which Salman takes.

Salman was back home and alone in the kitchen. It’d been a silent return drive and everyone had gone to bed within minutes of reaching. Salman, though, needed to think. Sipping water, he sat by the kitchen table, flicking through the day’s paper. One article grabbed him: an interview with one of Iraq’s few remaining Jews. He was an old man, one who could remember his thriving community from years gone by.

‘Why don’t you leave for Israel?’ the interviewer had asked the Arab Jew.

‘Because this is my home. I was born here and I’ll die here.’

Salman stood outside his son’s bedroom. He couldn’t hear anything and, presuming Taimur to be asleep, he was about to walk away, not wanting to disturb him after such a long day. But then he heard some sounds. Salman pressed up against the door to hear his son in animated conversation with himself.

‘
Sergeant, we’re under attack! Rat-at-tat-tat.
’

He opened the door a little and peeked in. Taimur had his back to his father and was playing war. His motley collection of toys were all out, forming two random armies. Not in any advert would you see a homemade Humpty Dumpty, a twenty-five-year-old train set and some camp-looking toy soldiers collaborating in war games. Taimur was holding the gun given to him by Aadam, like his life depended on it – he was clearly excited by this latest addition to his arsenal. Salman wondered where his own present was. He knew that Taimur would never pick it up without his mother or father pestering him to do so. But he was only eight – the Holy Book could wait.

Salman shifted his weight and the floorboards creaked. Young Taimur turned abruptly, a little startled. It was only his daddy, though, and he gave a big smile. Salman entered, remembering that he smacked him today. He knew that his son would always remember that: the Eid day when his father hit him. He sat down on the carpeted floor and Taimur hopped up onto his dad’s lap.

‘Do you like Aadam Uncle’s present?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, Dad! It’s the best ever!’ he said, his small voice scaling octaves. ‘When I grow up, Daddy, I want to be a soldier!’ His eyes glistened and his cheeks shone with health.

‘And why is that?’

‘Because they have big muscles and big guns!’

Salman laughed, his heart instantly filled with joy. But then a question.

‘And who will you fight for?’

Taimur considered it, his little brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand, Daddy.’

Salman said nothing – he just held his son. He kissed and tickled him and Taimur squealed with delight.

‘Daddy?’ asked Taimur after a while, now back on the floor and making adjustments to his battlefield.

‘Yes,
Beta
?’

‘Michael from school is having a birthday party on Saturday, round his house. Can I go?’ There was silence as Taimur continued tweaking, now bringing his Action Man into the equation. ‘Daddy?’ persisted Taimur.

‘Sure, son. Why not.’

Imtiaz sat with his mum. They were in the kitchen by the breakfast table and he was trying to comfort her. Arwa was wiping her nose with a scrunched-up tissue, her tears all spent. The evening had unravelled so fast – Pasha, Nazneen and Aadam all leaving abruptly, without any goodbyes. They’d heard raised voices when watching the film and Arwa was ready to go back in but Bilqis had suggested that they stay away.

‘They’ll get tired soon,’ she’d assured her sister. ‘Let’s enjoy the film, yes?’

She had run outside to catch Pasha; to beg her son not to leave like this, but it was too late. By the time she had reached the pavement his car was hurtling down the road. Bilqis and the others had only just begun consoling her when they saw Nazneen leave – without Aadam. Husnain went into the kitchen to find Aadam half-crying and half-fighting with his brother, and before he could establish what had happened, Aadam, too, had left. Arwa’s special day didn’t so much finish as get aborted – it was simply flushed away.

And here she was, alone with Imtiaz.

‘I’ll give Pasha a call tomorrow. It’ll be all right. He’ll be back down before you know it.’ Arwa didn’t answer but continued wiping away the last of her tears and mucus. ‘He wouldn’t have meant to upset you. He’ll be feeling really bad right now.’ His expression jarred with his words, being more diplomatic than emotional.

‘You boys have failed us, failed us as parents.’

‘Actually, it’s more the other way round. But never mind.’

Arwa looked at her son, surprised but not hurt. She sniffed back some more.

‘You know, your father never supported me. I could see that things were going wrong but I couldn’t do anything by myself.’

‘Never mind,’ said Imtiaz, sounding a little bored.

‘I’ve always loved my boys. I have a lot of love, a lot of
pyar
to give you both.’ She leant towards him, clearly seeking reciprocity.

‘I don’t want your
pyar,
’ he said, and with that he put his specs on and walked out.

Before getting on the train, Imtiaz went into a petrol station; one combined with a small supermarket. He was cold and uncomfortable but once inside he relaxed, unbuttoning his coat and unfurling from his hunch. He didn’t particularly want anything but nevertheless he took his time, browsing the various shelves. There was so much in here – nappies, watermelons, fresh spinach and jam. Not that long ago it was novel to pick up a coffee and a paper with your fuel and now you could choose between Galia and Honeydew melons. It truly was fucking amazing. Imtiaz strode leisurely towards the freezer section, where he picked up some luxury ice cream. He was pretty sure he had some at home but it’d been a bloody long day and he deserved a treat. With small tub in hand he began his journey to the tills, making one final stop by the magazine section. A lifetime’s instinct made him look up towards the top shelf, but these days all the adult mags were sheathed in an opaque, plastic covering. His gaze fell to about halfway down, to the lads’ mags. Cover after cover featured openly lustful women. It still seemed so bold, this unleashed, raw, female sexuality.
Where do they find them? Are these girls real?
They were all striking some sort of pose and dressed in gear that was guaranteed to flick that switch. Imtiaz swallowed hard. There was a blonde girl – a tall, leggy fantasy of a woman. She was half-squatting and wearing nothing except elbow-length black leather gloves, knee-length black leather boots and black tassels over her nipples. And nothing else. She was looking at Imtiaz kind of menacingly, as she held the fingertips of one glove between her teeth, ready to rip it off. Imtiaz shivered. He looked around nervously before picking the magazine up. He held it unopened, reverentially, and could feel his heart smacking into his ribs.

‘
It’s never too late,
’ he remembered Kahina saying. ‘
We can help you find someone
.’ But this cover girl was looking so mean, so damn
dirty.
Someone has actually enjoyed this woman
, he contemplated.
Probably several men, maybe a dozen or more
. Imtiaz felt dizzy as the thought scrambled his mind. He opened the magazine. Flicking impatiently from page to page he gorged on the pictures; there was so much flesh but he wanted more. Breasts were good, nipples were great and smooth legs, stomachs and arses were devoured with relish, but his appetite was just increasing. He bought the magazine and walked with haste to the train station. Making sure no one was in sight he went through it a second, third and fourth time, stoking his hunger until there was nothing else – just a meat feast.

‘It’s never too late.’
It is too late. What does she know? Go ahead, son. You deserve it
.

Imtiaz got off at Oxford Street before jogging down to Wardour Street, towards Soho. Soho – the word, the promise. Right now he wanted this so much. Despite the cover of night he could see everything clearly, as he still had his specs on. The start of Wardour Street was quiet and dark but West End life soon made its presence known: bustling cafés and swanky bars. He passed a pub and glanced into its warm hearth, catching a sliver of the glow therein. Gentle laughter, glasses clinking, soft conversation – he’d missed out on so much. Still walking briskly, he passed a woman standing outside some office building, having a fag. She was stamping her feet, trying to keep warm. She was clearly not comfortable but she wanted that fag more; Imtiaz knew how she felt.

‘
Porn isn’t damaging, Imtiaz. Not necessarily, anyway. The trouble is you have no checks and balances.
’

Yeah, Yeah. You enjoy yourself. Everyone needs to cut loose every now and again
. A couple walked past arm-in-arm, full of the goodness of life. There were lots of people swilling around now, heading in all directions. Everyone looked so young, even those clearly older than him.

He took a right into Peter Street and finally he was there. Neon lights, winking at him.
LOVELY SEXY GIRLS
. Blues, pinks, reds and greens spoke their message, leaving him in no doubt – this was truth. He continued on and approached a small entrance.
LOVELY YOUNG MODELS
. Discreet pieces of cardboard informed him that heaven awaited, on the second and third floors. He stopped, transfixed by those little cardboard signs, and the promise of something lovely and something young. He was seeing frilly things; soft, velvety things.
Itsy-bitsy things. He entered. The stairwell was putrid, the stench of urine strong. He continued upwards, past the first floor. And then he was there. The door to the second-floor flat was decorated: lots of glitter, lots of colourful little hearts, lots of promises.
SLIM SEXY MODEL HERE TODAY. NO RUSH – GOOD TIME
.