There’s an oasis of silence and peace inside the house as the door closes. The dark wall-hangings create a sense of cave-like gloom. Though his temporary home is familiar, it provides no comfort to Khalid as he pauses to gaze through the open door of the dark back room to see Uncle Amir curled up, asleep as usual, in the far corner.
Everyone else, he can tell, is in the other room, listening hard. Knowing it’s Khalid by the way he kicks off his sandals before he heads towards them with hesitant steps.
Looking round at the sea of questioning faces, Khalid thinks that the whole neighborhood seems to have crammed itself into the living room. There’s barely space on the small tables for another bowl of sugar cubes or cup of half-drunk coffee. He suddenly has no idea where to start. All at once, hundreds of inquiring voices fire questions at him in Urdu and Punjabi, neighbors and distant relatives crowding round him. The aunties wring their hands, sobbing. Mum stands in the corner, wailing. Gul and Aadab, pale and shaken, are close to screaming.
“I dunno where Dad is,” Khalid says when everyone eventually falls silent. He goes over the chain of events as quickly as possible, not bothering to mention the demonstration and the hordes of angry men he’d come across.
The moment Khalid finishes, leaving people none the wiser, everyone begins sounding off with their own ideas and gesturing to heaven for help. A stream of desperate prayers begins to flow from their downturned mouths. No one notices Khalid slip away to grab a glass of water, wash his dusty face and hands and flop on the kitchen floor. At last, he gets to sit on his own in a state of total disbelief at his useless, wasted search.
He is tired out of his mind, head spinning from too many hours without rest. The wooden ceiling fan seems to loom over him as he builds a nest of red cushions on the floor, their gold tassels swinging as he lies down. Soon falling under the gentle hypnosis of the fan’s whirring and faint clicks, he enjoys a moment’s peace until people begin coming and going, stepping over him. Clattering cups, brewing coffee, whispering, trying not to be noisy, even though they can see he’s not asleep.
In the end their constant interruptions force Khalid to get up again. He pads back to the living room, where Gul and Aadab stare from one sad face to another, wondering if anyone will notice if they eat the rest of the sugar cubes in the green glass bowl. Gul reaches to grab a handful and pass some to Aadab. Both try hard to enjoy the cloying sweetness while pretending not to be eating anything and, along with Khalid, gaze sadly at Mum. Fatima and Roshan stand with their backs to them at the window, looking out. Aunt Rehana listens blank-faced to a neighbor who’s brought a pot of honey and some walnuts to cheer them up.
Everyone is in the same state of lonely grief, only half here in this room, their minds overloaded with stories they’ve read in the papers about people who’ve gone missing and are later found dead from bomb blasts, accidents, murders. It’s easy to think the worst here.
Later, after a few hours tossing and turning in bed, Khalid gets up. He moves quickly, pulling on his jeans, hurrying to hear what’s happened. Peeping into the living room, he sees the same faces, feels the same hopelessness, and steps back. Rushing instead to the computer cupboard, where he half expects an e-mail from someone, anyone, who might be able to tell him what’s happened to Dad.
He opens the door and is amazed to find Abdullah on the computer. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” Abdullah clicks on the corner of the page he’s looking at so it disappears. Quickly turns to face Khalid with a calm, unsurprised smile.
“That’s our computer,” Khalid stutters.
“I have permission from the family to use this, but I have finished with it now so you may continue your game,” Abdullah says in his annoying formal English and scrapes the chair back.
The thought flashes through Khalid’s mind that he’s never told him about Tariq’s game, but then anyone could see what he’s been doing online because he didn’t log off the last time he used the computer. From now on, he’ll log off each time and shut it down properly.
“Don’t worry. I am not interested in what you are doing on the World Wide Web. I am not a spy,” Abdullah says, reading his mind. “Myself, I am only reading the newspapers, as I have always done. My brother and my sister’s husband, they come here to do the same. We have not been doing this for some days because your family are here. I was looking to see if there was any news of your father.” He stands up and walks off, leaving Khalid standing there, unable to say anything back.
He feels guilty for a moment, but quickly forgets as he checks his e-mails. There are three: one from Tariq, suggesting the time to play Bomber One tonight; one from Nico, rambling on about how he’s downloaded a bunch of songs for free on his MP3 player; plus one from a kid at school called Jamie, who’s doing his history coursework on Galileo too.
“He could have had a stroke,” someone says from the hall, their thoughts clashing with the lovely smell of curry that’s building in the air.
After a while Khalid closes the computer down and steps out of the dark cupboard, surprised to see Abdullah is back again with his wife. They are smiling at everyone and their arms are loaded with dishes of steaming food.
“Bottle gourd curry and chapattis. Chickpeas too for you!” Abdullah says.
Someone bangs on the door, too calmly for it to be urgent news about Dad. Another neighbor, Khalid thinks, heading down the hallway and opening the door to a familiar face.
“Hiya, how’s it going?” Jim smiles. “Just thought I’d pop in on my way to the airport. Everything OK?”
Khalid shakes his head. “Nah, Dad’s not here.” Mum and the aunties disappear from the hall after seeing it isn’t anyone with important news.
“We still, like, don’t know what happened,” Khalid says, hogging the doorway. Hearing Abdullah and his wife offer to put the food out in the kitchen, all of a sudden Khalid’s stomach twitches with hunger.
“Have you checked the hospitals?” Jim asks.
“The neighbors have.” Khalid nods, all of a sudden wanting to talk about something else in case he gets worked up again. “We’re just about to have some food. Do you want to join us? One more mouth won’t make a difference round here.”
“Nah, I’ve gotta go. Thanks, though. Just wanted to see how things were going. Wish it was better news.” Jim sighs. “Well, best of luck, mate. Hope you enjoy the rest of your Easter holiday.”
“Thanks.” Khalid closes the door as Jim jumps back in his taxi. Remembering Easter at home, a picture of his town, Rochdale, flashes through Khalid’s mind. Suddenly he’s walking with his mates down a pretty cobbled street—York Street. The shops are crammed with chocolate Easter eggs as they make their way to the shopping arcade. He feels such a strong connection to the lovely old mill town that for the first time in his life he realizes he loves it there. Then Abdullah’s suddenly behind him with a suspicious look on his face.
“Yeah, what?” Khalid asks, feeling annoyed again.
“Who’s that man?” he says, expecting an answer immediately.
“Just some bloke.” Khalid’s tempted to tell him he’s a grenade thrower, but stops himself, not trusting Abdullah to take it as a joke. “I met him in the market. He’s a student in London and he helped me find the address of the flat Dad went to.”
“What else?”
“Nothing else. What do you mean?” says Khalid, thinking, None of your business.
“What things did he tell you?” Abdullah asks.
“Things? What do you mean? Nothing. He’s from Liverpool. He’s English. Look, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything proper since yesterday.” With that, Khalid wanders off. He suspects Abdullah knows more about his dad’s disappearance than he’s letting on. That suspicious look on his scarred face isn’t right and the sick feeling Khalid has in his stomach won’t go away. Luckily, when Abdullah comes to get some food he doesn’t mention anything about Jim in front of the others.
Later in the evening, when the neighbors have gone home and the aunties and Mum have finally been persuaded to go to bed, the house falls silent once more. The latest decision is to go to the police in the morning. A group of male neighbors are preparing a list of questions to ask.
There were some questions Khalid wanted to ask Abdullah, but Mum stopped him by putting a finger to her mouth. She warned him not to speak out of turn, even though the knot in Khalid’s stomach is still there. All this is on his mind as he switches on the computer. The familiar ping is the best sound he’s heard all day.
“Hiya, cuz.” Tariq’s already there waiting for him with a message.
“My dad’s disappeared,” Khalid types immediately. Tells him the whole story without quite believing it himself.
“I heard from my father,” Tariq replies. “Everyone is so worried. They’re saying the War on Terror is getting worse each day.” Tariq sends Khalid some links to online articles written in English, knowing he hasn’t seen any newspapers he can read since he’s been here.
“Why my dad, though? He’s no one,” Khalid questions after scanning the reports.
“He’s a man, isn’t he, you dorkhead?” Tariq types. “That’s good enough reason for them.”
“I don’t get it,” Khalid answers wearily, worried sick again.
“Come on. Log on to Bomber One. Your dad might be back by the time we finish this game,” Tariq says. “The others are ready and waiting.”
Khalid eventually clicks through to the game, hoping for a simple distraction. The other players quickly line up their soldiers, moving them to the target points to start. The fighter planes shift into view. All the points from the last game are quickly calculated to the highest fraction before the battle begins.
Losing himself in the desire to win, Khalid types wildly. His fingers start tapping to the beat of the pictures on the screen until the keyboard appears to be playing the game on its own. Spontaneously battering every plane in sight. Using up bombs to bust the targets with effortless ease. Blasting the enemy’s boats out of the water, power surges through Khalid with every explosion. Finally he’s not thinking about anything else but the game and suddenly his mind feels lighter, despite the complicated scoring system.
At last, coming up for air, Khalid pauses to dash to the loo. Hurrying, jeans half zipped, he’s determined to get back to the computer before it’s his turn to man the rockets, when the front door swings open. Immediately excited and distracted, Khalid rushes back down the dark hall to the door. Surely only his dad could be coming through the door without knocking at this time of night?
But he’s badly mistaken. Blocking the hallway is a gang of fierce-looking men dressed in dark shalwar kameez. Black cloths wrapped around their heads. Black gloves on their hands. Two angry blue eyes, the rest brown, burn into Khalid as the figures move towards him like cartoon gangsters with square bodies. Confused by the image, he staggers, bumping backwards into the wall. Arms up to stop them getting nearer. Too shocked and terrified to react as they shoulder him to the kitchen and close the door before pushing him to his knees and waving a gun at him as if he’s a violent criminal. Then vice-like hands clamp his mouth tight until they plaster it with duct tape. No chance to wonder what the hell is going on, let alone scream out loud.
Stunned and shaking, Khalid feels his world slow down to a second-by-second terrible nightmare as they grab at his ankles and arms, handcuffing them tight before dropping a rag of a hood over his head. Then, without missing a beat, someone kicks him in the back, ramming his body flat on the floor. A heavy boot lands firmly on his spine, forcing Khalid to moan with muffled pain, while dust from the rug works its way inside his nose, making him sneeze uncontrollably through the threadbare hood. This simple reaction makes the strangers add a sharp thrum of boots to his side and a fiery agony explodes over Khalid’s body as, stunned and shaken, he snorts desperately, trying to get air in through the tape stuck fast across his mouth.
Dad. Dad, Khalid pleads silently. This must be what happened to him. Khalid twists and turns, unable to breathe or scream or stop his heart from thumping. He recoils in terror as they lift him like a crate, hot fists on his legs and shoulders, and silently carry him out. Dumped in the back of an open truck, he groans as his face and body smash hard against the floor. The sudden movement of the truck jolts him from side to side as it drives off, the men breathing heavily and crowding over him with their smells of warm flesh and tobacco.
Paralyzed by fear, Khalid wonders desperately where they are taking him. Who are they? Why him? What for? Questions he can’t even speak out loud.
The sounds of the city die away as the truck speeds along a potholed road that sends Khalid rolling across the truck in agony. He breathes in oil stains and the stench of animals, knocking his head on the uneven metal floor. A hefty boot kicks him back to the center each time he slides their way. Pictures of his kidnapping flash quickly, one after the other, through his mind, building to an overwhelming fear that he’s going to be dumped at the side of the road any second and left there to die.