My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (21 page)

"Hello. My name is Abdul. Abdul Rah-Maan."

"Hello Abdul. I'm Detective Greer."

"I'm Detective Mosley. Hello Abdul."

"Where are you from, Abdul?"

"I am from Afghanistan. Kabul, sir."

"Kabul?"

"Yes."

"When did you come here, Abdul? To the United Kingdom?"

"He is quite new to this country. His father was a journalist in Kabul," stated Mr Ahmed.

"Interesting. And Abdul, how are you finding life in London?"

"Finding?" replied Abdul, confused by the word.

"Do you like life in London?" Mosley asked.

Abdul received a look from Greer. "Yes. I like London, but I cry for home and my family."

"Thank you, Abdul. You can play your game now," Mr Ahmed waved him away, turned and smiled at the detectives.

"Do you go to school, Abdul?" asked Greer.

That caused Mr Ahmed to scrunch up his face. He thought the quizzing of Abdul was over. He straightened, rolled his aching neck, which expressed that he was fine with further questioning for his foster-child.

"Yes. I go to school."

"Do you like it?"

"Sometimes. The teachers are nice."

"And the pupils? Are they nice?"

"Sometimes nice. Sometimes not nice."

"Like all schools, detectives." Mr Ahmed, chuckled and gestured Abdul to leave, with a nod of his head, which he did.

"Goodbye. Thank you," Abdul said, turning as he took a copy of 'Call of Duty Black Ops' from a shelf near the house plant before he left the room.

"A nice boy," stated Greer.

"Yes. Very polite. Very grateful," answered Mr Ahmed.

"Is Abdul ever in trouble in school?"

"No. Never in school, sir."

"Out of school?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. No."

"We've been aware of some Afghani gangs in the area."

"Really? Where are the gangs, detectives?"

"They're quite prominent in Woolwich market. A market stall is run by an Afghan man. He heads a group of younger Afghanis. They sell mobile phone covers and unlocking services, sometimes hats and cigarette lighters. They're known to bully customers as well as the people who work for the main man who owns the stall. If Abdul lives in this area, he's more than likely to know about the stall," Greer told a greatly concerned Mr Ahmed.

"I will pay more attention to Abdul's whereabouts, Detective, however I state to you that Abdul is a good boy. He comes straight home from school. I would know if he was at the market."

"What about at weekends?"

"He goes to cricket or visits Croydon. Is Abdul in trouble with the police, Detective? I thought you were here to discuss burglars."

"Yes, yes of course." Greer closed his folder and stood, towering above Mr Ahmed, who was still in his chair.

Mr Ahmed stood up and clutched his own hands. He smiled warmly at each of the detectives.

"Well, it was nice meeting you and thank you for your time," said Greer.

"Please look after those plants," Mosley said. She smiled which made Mr Ahmed more at ease.

He smiled at her, warmly.

Walking down the street, Mosley and Greer made for an Audi.

She shook her head as she eyeballed the file in Greer's hand. "Who were the faces in the file? I've not seen those before."

"Photoshopped images. They're created. Computer generated. What do they call them? Sims. Not real people. Nobody is real anymore."

"And the vehicles? None of them had registrations or they were all obscured."

"They're just vehicles. We'll monitor the boy. He did seem a bit nervy and the foster dad just wanted to get rid of him."

"He's lost his family, Tom."

"All the more reason for him to become hostile."

"I don't see it. Not with him. He appeared to be a normal teenager."

"We're in a high state of terror alert, Jackie. Nothing is as it appears," replied Greer, as he unlocked the car and opened the driver's door. He clambered inside behind the wheel.

Mosley snorted as she rounded the passenger side.

Abdul lay on his single bed. He stared up at the ceiling in the lilac painted room. His mind was elsewhere and eyes were glassy. He had a pained expression and his mouth was tight with fear and anger combined. One of his shoulders was bare, as he had rolled his T-shirt up over it. Abdul scrolled his thumb on the metal roller of a cheap cigarette lighter to ignite a flame. He rolled his thumb off and the flame disappeared. He did it again. Almost like a light switch - on /off - on /off - on /off. Was it out of boredom or was it some kind of distraction? In between the fingers of his other hand was a craft knife. The blade was out as far as it could go as he pressed it into the upper forearm that gripped the cigarette lighter. He dragged the blade across his tanned skin, cutting and slicing. It left a line on his arm like a bloody snail trail. Abdul, without looking, took the lighter and heated up the blade for several seconds and continued to harm himself, pressing the blade down hard upon his bicep. It made another scarring cut upon his flesh. He winced with pain and released a tear, all the while staring continuously upward at the ceiling. Abdul never blinked once. There was a knock upon his bedroom door, which caused Abdul to blink suddenly. He took his attention immediately away from his trance-like state and instantly sat up. He rolled his shirtsleeve back down to cover his bicep, but there wasn't enough material to cover the new cut in his arm. There was another knock on the door.

"Abdul," came the voice of Mr Ahmed.

Blood trickled down Abdul's arm. He leaned across the bed to a cabinet and opened a drawer into which he tossed the cigarette lighter. He was about to put the craft knife in as well, but hesitated. Instead, he closed the drawer and noticed a school exercise book upon a desk.

Another knock upon the door sounded out.

"Abdul, I am coming in," announced Mr Ahmed from the other side of the bedroom door.

Abdul slid himself off the bed and strode to the desk where he flipped open the exercise book and put the knife just inside the front page. "One minute, sir. One minute please," he called out, as a droplet of blood fell onto the white plastic of the desktop. Abdul's eyes widened with fear. He slid the exercise book over the blood and grabbed a hooded top from the back of a chair, pulling it on just as the bedroom door opened.

Mr Ahmed was in the doorway. He looked at Abdul, standing to attention, arms by his sides, as if awaiting instruction, like a soldier. "Is everything all right, Abdul? Why did you not answer the door when I knocked?"

"I did not hear you, sir," answered Abdul.

"You did not hear me? I knocked twice and called out your name."

"I was thinking, sir."

"Thinking? What were you thinking?" Mr Ahmed asked.

"Home, sir. Always thinking of home."

Mr Ahmed nodded his head, understanding Abdul's reply. His eyes searched Abdul's room. The muted portable television depicted the Channel 4 soap Hollyoaks.

He fixed on the exercise book and Abdul followed his eyes to it, side-stepping to block Mr Ahmed's view.

"Why, sir? Why they come really?" Abdul asked, causing Mr Ahmed to frown suspiciously and look at Abdul closer.

"Why do you ask this question? Are you in trouble?"

"No, sir. No trouble. No trouble."

"You do not think chori is important enough for police to investigate and ask us questions?" quizzed Mr Ahmed.

"I don't know."

"Yes, I think you do know," stated Mr Ahmed, in a more serious tone.

"Uncle, I not bring police here."

"Who do you speak with at school, Abdul? Who do you tell about yourself? What teachers do you trust?"

"I do not understand, Uncle." Fear broke into his voice.

"Police detectives do not just appear at my front door and only my front door. Do you understand? I see them leave and get back into their car. They do not go to the next house and ask about chori. They just leave. These police are not in uniform, Abdul. They are special. They do not wear uniform. They are like a spy, Abdul. Do you understand?" Mr Ahmed said, passionately.

"What is this word? I do not understand."

"A spy, Abdul. Jasoos. Jasoos." Mr Ahmed repeated the word in Urdu and Abdul shook his head in an instant, fear was in his eyes.

"Jasoos? No. No, Uncle."

"Yes. Have you brought jasoos to this house? To speak with me? To look at my family? To come into my house? The house I work hard for? Abdul? Answer me!" Mr Ahmed shouted and took a step nearer Abdul. He raised his hand to strike him.

Abdul cowered and turned a shoulder to Mr Ahmed, who held his hand upward, in a karate style chop fashion, above his head.

"Please, Uncle!" Abdul cried out, holding his hands to his face, to shield himself from a potential chop to his neck. He opened his eyes to connect with Mr Ahmed's, which stared wild at Abdul, thinking, hesitating and wondering if this boy had brought trouble to his door or if it was a coincidence.

He lowered his hand and nodded his head.

"No more television. You will polish Auntie's silver and brass and then shine all the shoes. Do you understand?" Mr Ahmed barked his order, firmly, in Urdu.

Abdul lowered his head and stared at the carpet. His eyes followed Mr Ahmed's brown leather slippers as they pivoted, in military fashion, and stepped to the bedroom door.

The door opened and Mr Ahmed's brown leather slippers stepped out.

The door closed leaving Abdul to continue to stare downward at the bedroom carpet. He took a deep breath and slowly looked up. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked around the room. It was a nice room, but it still wasn't home. Abdul's home was approximately 3,547 miles away. From London to Kabul, Afghanistan. The home he shared with his mother, his father, his older sister and younger brother, aged four.

Abdul's father was a businessman. A part-time journalist, he also had his own company in Kabul and it often required him to be away. Travelling to other countries. He had several shops. They sold tobacco mostly. Sometimes car tyres and spare parts. A peculiar general store, with the occasional newspaper thrown in.

Contrary to popular belief, Kabul is a thriving city. A safe city. It even has a university and Abdul's sister was enrolled there.

Abdul missed them all, especially his younger brother. His brother was just two years old when Abdul left for the UK. He shed tears of sadness when he remembered him. He shed tears of hopelessness when he thought of his mother, for when his father was away on business and when she was without a man in the house to look after her and his sister and brother. He slowly removed his hooded top and pulled it over his head as to gently slide his arms from the sleeves. Abdul winced with pain as the recently cut skin he sliced a heated knife into had scabbed over and caught upon the cotton, causing it to bleed and weep again.

"Abdul!" bellowed out the voice of Mr Ahmed from downstairs.

"Coming Uncle!" Abdul hollered out as he unbuckled his belt and slid off his jeans. He picked them up from the floor and folded them tidily, quickly placing them on the chair by the desk. In his briefs, he opened a drawer and retrieved a pair of grey jogging bottoms. He sat himself on the bed and pulled on the tracksuit pants, sliding them over his feet, his shins, his knees and to his thighs. He stopped and his eyes fixed upon his thighs. Both had dozens of self-harming scars upon them. Slash marks lined across his thighs, from his knee up to his groin area. They were not as fresh as the scars on his arms, however they looked truly awful. Some might think he had ran blindfolded through a barbed wire fence and continued on and on through several more.

Abdul pulled the jogging bottoms over to his waist and stood up. He took a deep breath, retrieved the matching hooded top and pulled it on once more, stepping to the door. He gripped the door handle, paused for thought and set foot outside to the upper landing of the house, closing his bedroom door.

Sinatra Umbundo sat on the edge of a single bed in his bedroom, playing GTA 5 on his X-Box. His Nokia phone beeped and indicated a text message. Sinatra paused the game and retrieved his phone. He read the text: FEDS SHOT DED KILLAZ. Sinatra widened his eyes and lowered the phone. He was in shock.

An alarm sounded out and Michael opened his eyes to the shard of sunlight that shone through the white blind against the window of his bedroom. He looked at Rebecca, who lay beside him as the Samsung mobile phone alarm sounded again.

Rebecca stirred and reached for the phone on the bedside cabinet, next to a glass of water. She snoozed the alarm and put her head back on the pillow.

"Is it waking up time?" Michael yawned.

"Mmm," she answered, still with her eyes closed, nestling her head deep into the pillow as Michael leaned over and kissed her.

Michael slid himself out of the bed, working his feet into his slippers. He retrieved his glasses from his nearside cabinet and grabbed a blue toweling dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door. He pulled it on.