My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (31 page)

Edward looked into Abdul's wide, fearful brown eyes.

"Abdul. Abdul, where is Michael? Main Michael ko dhuund raha hoon." Edward spoke in both English and Urdu. He was an inch from Abdul's face and pressed his gloved hand against his mouth. "Kya aap Urdu bool sakte Hain?" Edward continued, asking Abdul if he spoke Urdu.

Abdul frowned, extremely confused and scared.

"I will break - your - neck. Nod your head if you understand," Edward said calmly.

Abdul nodded his head quickly. Tears escaped his glassy eyes.

"Michael, your teacher. Do you know who I am talking about?" Edward asked, with Abdul once again nodding his head.

Abdul wriggled his head free to gasp and speak frantically. "Aap ka taaluq kahan se hai?" Abdul asked where Edward was from in Urdu.

"Mera naam Edward hey. Mera taaluq hifaazat se hai," Edward said in perfectly clear Urdu. He told Abdul that his name was Edward and he was from security. He quickly secured Abdul once more.

He struggled like a frightened rabbit as Edward put on the pressure more forcibly.

"Rokna jidojehed. Stop moving. Stop," instructed Edward, pressing his hand harder against Abdul's face. His fingers were just under his nose, a nose that breathed in and out ever so quickly, snorting in an animal like fashion. "You were with Michael today. Yes?"

Abdul nodded his head to this question and twisted his face away once more, gasping.

"Koi baat nahi! No problem. No problem, sir," Abdul blurted.

"Where is Michael?"

"Mujhe andazah nahi. I have no idea," Abdul panted.

"Michael? Kidher? Where? Kidher?" Edward mixed his Urdu and English.

"Mujhe nahi malum!" Abdul cried.

"Ssh. Yes you do know. You do know. Jaldi Karo! Hurry up. Michael? Kidher? Where is he?"

"Aaj. Shaam main. Bura." Abdul squirmed, edging away on the bed.

"Today? This evening was bad? Why?" Edward quizzed.

Abdul shook his head.

Edward fixed on the razor blade on the bed, by the pillow.

"Mujhe yeh dena! Give me this," Edward snapped, pinching the blade with one hand and grasping Abdul's face with the other, holding the razor blade closer to his eye. "I will count. Shumaar. When I reach three - shumaar tin -  you'll be blind aap nabeena. Samajna? Understand? Eik. One. Michael. Where? Kidher? Do. Two. Michael. Where? Kidher? Kidher?" Edward squeezed Abdul's extremely fearful face hard, nearing the sharp metal razor blade closer and closer to his left eye.

He closed his eye, but Edward worked his thumb up his cheekbone and applied more pressure and dug it to his lower eyelid, pulling it downwards to expose a glimmer of white from his eyeball. He moved the blade a fraction closer, millimeters from making contact with his eyeball.

"Dad!"

Abdul's eyes widened to see Jason standing in the bedroom doorway behind them, with Mr Ahmed just a step in front of him.

"Tin," Edward continued.

"Yeh kya hai?" cried Mr Ahmed, startling Edward into turning around and seeing Jason and Mr Ahmed.

"Get him out of here!" Edward called out to Jason in a soft, but angry tone as Abdul jerked himself further up the bed, making Edward flinch and lightly cut Abdul's cheek.

"Yeh kya hai? What is this? What are you doing? Who are you people?" Mr Ahmed demanded, advancing.

"The door. Get the door!" Edward said to Jason, who turned to see someone approaching from another room out on the landing.

He closed the bedroom door, holding it firmly shut with his foot and body, preventing anybody from entering.

"Dekho!" Mr Ahmed cried out, on seeing Abdul's bleeding abdomen.

"Shut up. He did that to himself. He's a self-harmer."

"Meri tabiyat kharab lag rahi he," Abdul whimpered.

"Oh you'll feel sick in a minute," Edward promised, sitting up on the bed, glancing back and forth from Abdul to a bemused Mr Ahmed.

"You speak Urdu?"

"Sirf thori si. Just a little," Edward replied.

"Mujhe daktar ki zururat he!" cried Abdul, touching his cheek and seeing blood on his fingertips.

"You need a doctor? You'll need a doctor when I finish with you. Where - is - my - son? Mayra baita, Michael? Kidher?"

"Why would Abdul know your son? Who is your son? Please. Maybe I can help you. Abdul?" insisted Mr Ahmed, highly confused.

"Raja? Raja?" came a female voice from outside the room, making Mr Ahmed's head twitch.

"Barae meherbani kuch deyr intizar kijiye!" Mr Ahmed called out to his wife to give him a moment.

"Raja?" called the woman again.

"Shab bakhair! Goodnight!" he said loudly, turning round to Edward and Abdul, and glancing back at the imposing Jason just behind him.

"My son deals with this boy at his school. My son went missing this afternoon and this boy has information regarding his disappearance," said Edward.

"But - but how do you know this? Abdul?"

"I have significant information placing Abdul at the scene of where my son was last positively known to be."

"He is scared. I am scared. You are making him frightened. Look at him," pointed Mr Ahmed.

"I haven't even begun, sir."

Edward looked around the room and noticed something poking out from under a book. He tossed the razor on the size and reached for the knife. It was the craft knife. He began to roll out the blade which caused Abdul to gasp and Mr Ahmed to shake his head.

"Dad," Jason said calmly, intervening and trying to defuse the tense situation.

Edward looked at the terrified and trembling Abdul, quaking and shivering with fear upon the bed, tight in the corner, his knees against his chest. He looked back at Mr Ahmed, who was equally as fearful. He looked up at his son, Jason, highly concerned as to what his father was capable of doing. He looked at the ejected blade of the craft knife in his grasp. He lowered his head and sighed, briefly closing his eyes, thinking. He swallowed and took a deep breath. He tightened his mouth and turned his attention to Abdul once again.

"You will tell me everything I need to know in order for me to find my son or I will personally see it that you are put on a plane back to Afghanistan within hours. Do you understand me?"

"Kya aap ahistah keh saktay hein?" answered Abdul.

"Speak slowly? You want me to speak slowly? Af-ghan-is-stan - to-mor-row. Do - you - under - stand - me?" Edward stated precisely, taking on more of an interrogator role as he tightened the blade held in the craft knife.

"He doesn't know," Mr Ahmed interrupted, as Abdul looked up at him.

"Don't look at him. Look at me. Abdul. What happened when you left school today?" Edward said firmly.

He didn't even wait for the reply as he suddenly grabbed Abdul and dragged his body to the chair, sitting him down on it. He twisted Abdul and the chair round to face the edge of the bed. He sat down opposite Abdul.

They were now face to face.

Abdul looked at the knife and then up at Edward.

"I don't want to hurt you, Abdul. You didn't come to this country to be hurt. You came here to be safe. You can continue to be safe, Abdul, if you tell me what you know about my son."

Abdul gulped. His bottom lip quivered. His chest rose and fell quickly with fearful, pained breaths.

"Bara dam. Big breaths. Eik, do. One, two. One two," Edward commanded, mixing his Urdu and English together again.

Abdul took instant note and breathed more deeply and calmly. "I - I left my school with Sintra and-" Abdul began.

"Sindra?" Edward interrupted.

"Sintra. Yes," Abdul continued in his thick pronounced accent, but obviously he meant Sinatra.

"Sandra? Does she go to your school?" Edward inquired.

"Sintra. Sintra. Not a girl. A boy. Yes. He goes to school with me," corrected Abdul.

"And what is this boy like? Is he white? Black? Is he Afghani?"

"Africa. He is from Africa. He - Use Angrez main kya kehte hain? Torh diyaa?" Abdul asked Mr Ahmed in Urdu.

"In English? Broke? Yes. Broke. What broke?" Mr Ahmed asked. He now expressed his own keen and flustered curiosity.

"What broke? Did you break something? What broke?" pressed Edward.

"Sintra. He broke. He broke the wheel of the car. The wheel goes flat," continued Abdul.

"This boy made the tyre go flat. The car tyre?"

"Yes. Yes, the tyre. The tyre on the wheel."

"This boy, Sandra? He did this? He broke the wheel?" Edward quizzed. He never took his eyes off Abdul, who hesitated in responding to the question, glancing to his left at Mr Ahmed.

Abdul lowered his head, glassy-eyed, He released more tears. "No. Not just him. Me. Him and me," admitted Abdul.

"Then what?"

"Michael drive and the wheel. The tyre goes flat. Sintra and me see him on his phone," Abdul said as he described his time with Michael.

HOOT!

A car horn sounded out. It passed Michael's car, causing him to stop speaking and look up.

Michael frowned as he saw Abdul in the middle of the street, on the other side of the Common. He curled his lip and turned, surprised to see Sinatra next to him on the pathway. He turned again to see a group of white youths on the Common in the distance.

One was the youth who was later caught trying to steal his car stereo.

Michael briefly noticed the youth looking and then walking away elsewhere.

"Yo, hang up da phone. Do it, man," commanded Sinatra.

Frowning, Michael's tone changed as he turned again and completed his message to Rebecca's answerphone. "Yeah, I'll hopefully not be too late, my love. If I can't manage to change the wheel, then I think there's a garage down the road from work or near this common. Speak later. Love-"

"I said put da phone down!" shouted Sinatra, aggressively, as he suddenly batted Michael's phone out of his hand.

The iPhone made contact with the ground, bouncing in its rubber case and then completely out of it, sliding upon the pavement.

"What do you think you're doing!" Michael blurted out loud to Sinatra.

"Be quiet, man!" shouted Sinatra.

Abdul, who had now crossed the road, looked at the flat tyre and laughed, pointing at it.

Michael frowned at Abdul, trying to weigh up the situation as quickly as he could.

"Yes, I have a flat tyre. It's not funny. Did - did you two have anything to do with this?

"I said, shut up! Shut up, fool." Sinatra edged closer to Michael, totally in his personal space, causing him to step back to his open car door. "You're a Fed. I see you, man. I see you wid da Feds," hissed Sinatra. He pointed his finger toward Michael's face.

"Get your hand away from my face," insisted Michael, calmly, putting his hand up to gently move Sinatra's hand away.

Sinatra's chest inflated, angered by the contact Michael had just made with him. He clenched his fist and held it upwards, alarming Michael and causing him to take a defensive stand.

"You going to hit me? Oh my days. Oh my fucking days. I can't believe you were gonna hit me. Come on. COME ON!" Sinatra yelled as he suddenly delivered a two punch combination to Michael's face. One fist hit Michael's chin, making him stagger backwards and into the driver's open door. The second fist made contact with Michael's nose, instantly making it bleed. His head whipped round to one side.

"Please. No fighting! No fighting!" Abdul screamed.

Michael touched his nose, and felt the blood on his fingertips. He cupped his bleeding nostrils with one hand as his eyes flickered and his body swayed. As he tried to straighten, he lost his footing, caught totally off-guard. He set one foot forward and slipped on the fallen iPhone. His foot slid and his leg buckled, and as he fell, his hand gripped the side of the door where he left blood on the inside of the door handle. He fell awkwardly to the concrete pavement and it was then that he received a sudden, swift kick to the head from Sinatra. Michael's head cracked against the metal door, knocking him out cold.

"You fucking undercover pig Fed. Get up. Get up, man," Sinatra scoffed, as he towered above Michael's unconscious body.

"Sintra. Sintra, no!" replied Abdul, with fear in his eyes, grasping Sinatra's arm, angering him further.

"Don't touch me, man. Get your terrorist hands off me, blud. GET OFF!" Sinatra yelled, shaking loose Abdul's grip. He fixed on the iPhone and picked it up. He pulled his own mobile phone and scrolled through some numbers in his address book, dialing one on Michael's iPhone. It rang immediately.

"Yo. Get 'ere quick, yeah. I done somefin and joo gotta get 'ere wivda car, man," Sinatra said.

"Whasup blud?" came a male voice on the other end of the phone.

"I've shanked da Prime Minister and now I'm gonna kill the Queen, init? Just get to da fuckin' Common, man. Wynn Common, init."

Sinatra hung up the phone. He looked at Abdul with wild eyes and then down at Michael, whose nose was still seeping blood. He pocketed the iPhone and glanced inside the car, catching sight of the silver gaffer tape on the seat, as well as Michael's beige canvas school bag. He reached in and grabbed them both, then clenched his fist, pushing it against the car door, closing it. He stooped to grab hold of Michael's arms and pulled him upwards. He looked at Abdul and called him to come over, with a simple but aggressive gesture of his head.