Shams loved that dank, metallic smell of the underground. The caressing whoosh of air across your face as chained carriages shot by the platform – bullets exiting a gun barrel. Brap, brap, brap. His first experience of the tube had been on a shopping trip with his mum. The clandestine nature of stations far underground was thrilling. A dark parallel world, under London streets. He loved the danger, the violent rush of trains that could take your life in an instant, and the loud tannoy warning to ‘Mind the Gap’. He remembered that he had always been terrified of that pitch-black gap, that one small step between train and platform. Scared of falling into an abyss, scared of the unknown.
Shams rose with the escalators and exited Tooting Broadway station. He stood outside, squinted pupils sipping in the once familiar area, his small but stocky stature lost in the shadow of Edward VII. The regent’s plinth lay adorned with bronze plaques of the female personifications of Peace and Charity. From 1911, this King of the United Kingdom, British Dominions and Emperor of India had stood here, day after day, on his granite stage. As the seasons revolved, through sun and sleet, he looked outwards, surveying his lands and family’s acquisitions, his depilated head decorous with bird poo. Shams wondered why this bloke was looking to the horizon, away from the station, rather than to what was behind, when he just needed to gaze downwards. Under his metal cast feet all of those dominions were now waltzing around him, hurrying to and fro, paying the loveable bearded anachronism no heed.
The station felt comforting. He had spent his early years as a local. As he grew into his early teens and gained the autonomy to explore without his parents’ searching eye, Shams often played truant from school. He ventured with friends, to random tube stops just to see what was out there, the underground map and its rainbow lines a vast landscape of possibility and adventure, new worlds other than the constricted horizons of the council estate: a city of millions; hundreds of square miles of mysterious territory; abandoned docks and stretches of rust-dappled water in the east; Heathrow, dispatching winged emissaries around the Earth, in the west; and, on a map’s blurred edge, pastoral tableaux and verdant fields, in his mind’s internal reckoning.
They used to kick around by asking people for their unused Travelcards and gathering knowledge of which stations were unmanned and un-gated. As more stations started to introduce electronic gates, they crossed rail lines and cut across private property to avoid capture. Modern day mudlarks scavenging for excitement, adept at jumping over barriers or tailgating other passengers before the gates slammed shut. Shams had enjoyed that time with Ishaq and Marwane. Spending hours talking about random subjects: the experiences of their parents and what they would do in the future. He had a big interest in animals and entertained the possibility of working in a zoo or helping to save the giant panda. On occasion, he dragged them out to the more bucolic edges of London to see what the countryside was like. Marwane used to point things out. ‘Ok lads, this thing is a ‘Cow’, say “Mooooo.” These people are ‘good folk’. This air that smells like shit is ‘fresh’.’ When they were about twelve, Shams took them to the Chalk Farm underground stop, because there must be a farm there right? They got there and found it was smack bang in the middle of North London, about as poshly urban and residential as you can get, and in fact also held its own dingy council estates. Ishaq and Marwane took the piss so much that day. They chastised him for being simple. He ran off in tears, promising never to speak to them again. But of course, as always, he returned.
Now, shuffling on Tooting Broadway, his soles scraping as they barely escaped the ground, Shams glimpsed the college that he used to attend. It was wedged above a large Sainsbury’s supermarket in what was called a mixed-use development. Ishaq used to rib Shams about how the grocer’s and school shared the same building, that there was probably a revolving door that churned, thrusting hapless students out into good shelf-stackers. In other places, they would probably have a major bank or an accountants sharing the building; Marwane said that in South London they were just lucky it wasn’t a Maccy D’s or Carphone Warehouse.
Shams hadn’t stayed the course. His attendance hadn’t been great and he was fed up of being upbraided by teachers. He quit. Trying to get work, he sought apprenticeships at mechanic’s and at builder’s but these got filled before he’d even deposited his application form. It really was who you know; his teeth clamped shut every time he found out someone like the son of a contractor’s mate had taken his position. Not even a gofer job, even if he was willing to get paid at a really low rate like some Eastern European Piotr. One day he replied to a nearly hidden ad for sales staff, in the Metro. Getting an interview straight away, he dressed in an aquamarine suit with silver flecks that his mum found in a charity shop. It was nice, a bit oversize, but looked spanking after a brush-down. Mum’s proud face gave him confidence as he went to their office on the edge of an industrial estate. It went well, they complimented him on his wonderful suit even as they saw him struggle with the sleeves flowing over his hands. That same day they told him that he had passed, and as nervous as he had been he was just as excited for Monday.
On his first day, face flushed with nerves, but psyched, he was given a bunch of papers to sign. Halfway through he realised he hadn’t quizzed his new employers on what they sold. Better not to make waves though, this was a fresh chance, an opportunity to impress. Someone had seen his potential.
That done, he was introduced to Clive. Tall, skinny Aussie who looked slick in his three-piece suit, a senior member of the team who he would be shadowing. Fast talker. Too fast for Shams to butt in, Clive gave some patter about the freedom of the job and how it built independence. ‘The sky’s the limit,’ he said. At the end, Shams managed to ask where the shop was and watched as Clive reached under a desk and handed him a polyester duffle full of t-shirts and electronics, an assortment of Chinese phones, GPS, and language translation devices. The tees looked cheap, the tech archaic. It all moved quickly, Shams stayed quiet as the senior proceeded to take him out of the office and into high-street shops. He saw, an impassive external observer, as animated Clive, all flailing tapeworm limbs, pitched their wares to sales staff. About half-way through the day, he just went with it. It was an opportunity. Just go for it. Suck it up. So off he went with this stranger onto the streets of London, suited and booted, selling electronic diaries made in Taiwan and t-shirts made in Bangladesh.
After a few days of this, it was obvious to Shams that the whole thing was an elaborate setup with a blurred legality. The business worked as a pyramid, so if you hired any of your friends or others then you gained a percentage of their sales. The ghost ship of an office was laid out with empty desks and chairs, and business dress codes were enforced in maintaining the pretence. Fiery, motivational speeches were given every morning. Then again at the evening count up. The lead salesperson, an American, would give a pep-talk citing how much they had earned. Shams never used the word but it popped into his head that this was a real live ‘Yankee’. A cowboy. A proper bullshitter.
Lead man tried to instil his sales technique into everyone, reinforcing the same points again and again.
1) Maintain firm and friendly ‘Eye Contact’ with the customer. It builds trust and gives you their attention. Build that confidence. Build that rapport.
2) ‘People are Sheep’ – Try and drop into your spiel how their neighbour has bought a load and see if they follow.
3) ‘Fear of Loss’ – Invoke the fear of missing out. FOMO, my friends, FOMO. Talk about how scarce the products are, how you’ll only be in the neighbourhood today. Let the buyer handle the item. Then once you see they are interested, tear it, no, rip it out of their hands. Mention that the discount is a one time deal or gone forever. It all helps to nudge the customer along.
4) And finally ‘Hit Rate’. You need to hustle. To see as many people as possible to maximise your chances. There’s a sucker born every day. You only need one.
With revelatory astonishment, Shams found this actually worked and he enjoyed it. He would practice facial gestures in the mirror before work. He took pleasure in polishing his sales patter, and relished the feeling of holding someone under your sway, the feeling that you could nudge them one way then the other like a hypnotist’s pendulum. And he was travelling all over London on the tube, finding greenfield areas to sell his wares. It was like being paid to indulge his childhood.
He wasn’t scrubbing around, had some decent cash in his pocket, bills he could feel in his hand, but sometimes the doubts gnawed. The inclination that they were skirting the law and teetering on society’s edge. For so-called independent traders they were told what to do a lot. You could only go to shops. You could never knock on residences. You couldn’t tell friends.
He managed to get a copy of the form he had signed and it was all complicated verbiage. He thought about the unctuous nature and credulity of the senior salesmen; individuals who had bought their own snake oil, taken a resolute gulp and blissfully slathered the rest all over their greasy bodies. The whole thing was iffy. Why didn’t they just say what they were, just upmarket vagrant hawkers. The company had a couple of hundred pounding the streets every day, so the barons at the top earned well. The chief constantly harped on about the Corvette that he had bought; no one had the heart to tell him that here we thought American cars were shit.
The leader regularly took Shams and a few other high earners out to lunch. He would tell them they were the chosen few, waxing on about how he had skipped uni for this business and that it was the best decision he had ever made; that there was no need for a degree when there was so much money to be made. Behind women’s backs, he would also regale them with stories about how much sex he was getting because he earned so much. Tongue licking the constant enunciation of ‘shagging’, his American twang enjoying the novelty of the word and thinking it showed how down he was with the locals. Shams didn’t believe the chatter but enjoyed the attention and couldn’t help admire the American’s manic energy, his complete lack of shame. It was novel. One co-worker, a concerned Nigerian girl, who was most definitely going to university to become a lawyer, always told Shams not to believe the man’s hype. Just nod, earn some cash and get out.
The mornings before everyone went out with their lumpen duffle bags were fun. Energised voices reigned loud as people practiced their pitches. The smiling American, or ‘septic tank’, as some would have it, would get people to shout out his sales mantras, geeing them up for the day ahead. Shams caught him ditching that greasepaint smile behind the backs of some beggars whose recital wasn’t up to his theatrical standards. Shams met a lot of new people. He enjoyed looking around his group. Aussies on their travels, immigrants from around Europe, loads of Irish and Saffers, students, even some single mothers who he did feel sorry for. This was a beginning for him, a means to an end, not a final destination.
Then, one day, it all came to a crashing halt. The day started bright. In fact by 11am he had achieved his best sales tally ever. He had sold his whole bag of goods to one guy. While pitching at a mechanic’s an onlooker was having his car serviced. He had taken one look at Shams and his bag and called a mate, who he said would be interested. That mate gleefully bought everything, even the bag. Shams went back, proudly boasting of how good his spiel had become. He had even sold the bloody duffle bag, over 300 quids worth. He finally had the honour of ringing the golden bronze hand bell. As he had actually sold three times the qualifying amount, he revelled in ringing the bell multiple times, tenor and peals imparting his glad tidings. He was all smiles, cheeks rosy like an angelic choirboy, as his colleagues gave him high fives, just like they had been drilled to. He relished their envious faces as they offered begrudging handshakes and covetous ovation. His team leader was colder, more sceptical as Shams handed her the guy’s payment. She eyed the paper cheque and gave Shams a strange look. In her Afrikaner accent and with slitted eyes she said, ‘You sold the bag…and they gave you this?’
‘Well they needed something to carry everything, and I got a good extra price for the bag. They gave me the cheque for everything. What a bonus, right?’
As a child of the digital age, Shams had never seen a cheque before. He didn’t realise that you needed a card to guarantee it and a few days later it promptly bounced. He had been had and defrauded. A street kid himself, he had not even been duped by a sophisticated trick. He was just a credulous fool. But that’s life, shit happens. He went for the next day’s pick-up and sensed people stealing quick looks, conversations dampening as he walked by. He was greeted with grim-faced aggression by his team leader, and managers further up. They brought out his forms, forced him to recognize the shaky scrawl of his signature. They told that him that it was a disclaimer and he had agreed that he was a separate entity. In effect he was acting as his own company and was liable for the cash. After an argument Shams got out, limbs shaking. They threatened legal action, started calling him constantly on his mobile and at his mum’s place. His mum was already weak at the time and he made up excuses to keep her happy. The job wasn’t right. He was moving onto other things. It was all a misunderstanding. Shams was too ashamed to tell Marwane or Ishaq about the hawking and what had happened. Would the hawkers now call the police, or take him to court? Everything about them was dodgy. Would they dare? A couple of weeks later, the haranguing calls stopped for good but left him with an elemental fear.
So once again he was on the look out for a job, and after finishing his brisk walk from the station he was standing outside the bright red door of this 10th floor flat. He stared at the chipped entryway and took in a sedating breath. He could see his reflection in a circular portal at the top that was turning to a silver silk with his breath, and shepherded back a few wayward strands of matt black hair. He took a look back at the landscape that he had sped through, hoping no eyes had stalked him and only saw tower blocks of caried teeth in a consuming black maw. He did a flight check of his jeans to make sure his fly was done up. This was a regular problem, forgetting, sometimes only to be informed by the abashed look of a shop assistant. He moved through life with an uncertain feeling that his privates were undone for all to see. Ready, Shams pressed the doorbell. He heard a muted chime go off within the flat to the tune of Greensleeves. He had a vague recognition of the melody from his childhood but struggled to place it. After waiting a while, he pressed the bell again. Still no response. Shams’ feet started to scrape and shuffle. He swore that Mujahid had said midnight sharp.
Shams tried the ringer once more. On this third time he used a clenched fist to pound the door. No messing around, even if it was Mujahid. Impatient, he looked around in case of any other doors peeking, then he looked at the letterbox, lifted the cover and bent over, peeping through the opening. He heard some heavy steps on the stairs, lethargic thuds, and dropped the cover, quickly straightening himself.
‘Who is it?’ Shams heard Mujahid say in muffled bass from behind the door.
‘It’s Shams. You said to meet you tonight.’
Wiping his bleary eyes with a shirtsleeve, Mujahid poked the door ajar and took a peek at Shams in his puffer jacket and a strange cap. Satisfied, he opened a gap just about large enough for Shams’ wide frame.
While nodding, Mujahid said, ‘Ok, ok, Assalamu alaikum, bro, you want to calm down with the knockin’. I was getting out of bed. No rush.’
‘Wa alaikum salaam. I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if you were about.’
‘I heard the letter box. You weren’t about to try and snoop, were ya? In Islam, a man’s privacy is serious business.’
Mujahid yawned, his mouth creating a cavernous opening before he remembered to cover it with a hand, and then continued with baffled speech after it passed.
‘You know in the Sharia I would be allowed to poke your eye with a stick through that letterbox. Blind you if I need. A house is a man’s castle.’ Mujahid took a look past Shams left and right on the landing and beckoned him in with a firm grasp on the shoulder which made Shams shift under the nettling touch.
Shams walked in and heard the door shut and the lock click into place. ‘No, I was knocking. I wouldn’t peek. You know me. Anyway bro, what’s with the ice cream van music?’
‘That thing? The doorbell’s from ages back. Just never got round to changing it. So you stayin’ cool? What you been up to?’ said Mujahid
‘Just, you know, mixin’ it up. Trying to keep my head above water. You see that police sign down the road. Some stabbing?’
On the way to the flat, Shams had seen one of the police’s yellow signs appealing for witnesses. If anything had gone down Mujahid would have a sniff of what happened. He was known for patrolling the estate dishing out his version of justice. A righteous enforcer, both judge and jury. Someone you could go to if you had problems from less salubrious residents. Mujahid had recently been given a warning about harassing a Lebanese Muslim shopkeeper, sinful parasite who sold cheap alcohol to the local community without care. No one was sure what Mujahid actually did for a living. There were rumours. He gave out odd jobs. Ishaq and Marwane warned against him, but Shams reminded them how they always said you should think the best about your brother, and how they shouldn’t indulge in unsubstantiated whispers as this was a form of back-biting – ghibah, a major sin.
Dismissive, Mujahid kissed his teeth. ‘Yea, same ol’ shit. Rats taking bites out of each other. Some outsider. Whenever I see strangers round the block I make sure that they know not to mess around here. I don’t accept no messin’. Anyway, I wanted to see you, you’re looking for work right?’
Shams paused, standing feet fixed in the hallway ‘…yea, I just need some seed money for this business I’m doing. But I don’t want to get into anything dodgy.’
‘Bro, c’mon man, I wouldn’t ask you to do anything funny. That’s proper offensive. Dodgy?’ Mujahid laughed off the suggestion as he wiped a bit of grit from his eye and then started rubbing both. ‘What’s this business about?’
‘I have this cousin in Bangladesh who knows a lot of clothing factory owners. He says he can hit me up with the contacts and start doing some imports if I get the cash. Start off small you know, then try and build up.’
‘Mashallah, that’s good. Brothers should be earning their own way. Not relying on the kuffar for their jobs and income. The centre of our struggle, our Jihad, is money, bro. You can’t do anything without money. If that means taking from and exploiting the enemies of Islam, then so be it.’
Shams looked unsure, ‘I…don’t know…what do you mean about taking? Stealing is haram. I’m talking about trade.’
Mujahid returned a hand to Shams shoulder. ‘ Of course it is bro, but stealing ain’t stealing when you are taking from an unjust, oppressive system and giving it to people living under that oppression. Just sayin’. Nothing meant by it. Chill.’
Entering the living room, Mujahid brushed some soft toys and a heap of children’s clothing off a sofa that had seen better days. Holes in the couch’s green fabric allowed the upholstery to make a break for freedom in sprouting tufts. Shams took a seat, being careful to avoid a wet patch. As he sunk deep, the cushioning made a despairing sough. A few wrinkled books were cast around the floor. The Crusades Through Arab Eyes, Foucault’s Pendulum, and what seemed to be a compendium of medical diseases. Mujahid sat down on a plastic folding chair opposite, picked up another book and showed Shams the cover in triumph. It showed a picture of Christian and Muslim knights on horseback, flailing their sword and scimitar at each other.
Mujahid rubbed the cover of the book in a caress, while still warding off his slumber. ‘I’ve been reading see. Taking from the warmongers who once stole from us is not stealing. You feel that don’t you? Our countries have been invaded for 1,000 years, since the Crusades, bro. And they’ve kept invading, killing, and taking ever since. That’s how they made their money. We owe no loyalty to that. In this book, I was reading once about this one Crusade. There was a town the Christian invaders lay siege to called Ma’arra. After they took over the town, they killed the survivors and ate them out of hunger. Butchered them, and roasted children on spits. All these animals blessed by the pope. Cannibals. They’ve been hungry and biting bits of our flesh ever since.’
Shams eyes widened. ‘Seriously bro, I never heard of that.’
‘Yes, I read, see. All the time. All those friends of yours think I just hustle, but I spend a lot of my time learning. Learning our history. Learning is power. I think and make plans.’ Muajhid looked at Shams, checking to see that he was suitably impressed, ‘Anyways, I do have some errands that you can do for me. Pays good cash.’
Shams looked down at his seat, making as if he was examining the sofa. ‘I’m not sure that I’m interested. If the brothers from the halaqah found out, I’d get in trouble’.
Mujahid stopped shifting and went quiet, the atmosphere altered as if Shams had uttered a taboo that petrified the air. Mujahid had attended the same circle as Shams and the boys, but his attendance became erratic and he faded from the scene. Some didn’t think anything of it. It was weird for Shams, being back on this estate but not going to that group. They were his crew. He respected Ishaq, who he also thought was strong but in a different way. Ishaq didn’t get drawn into crowds and always tried to do the right thing. Shams remembered when a local pusher offered him a different odd-job, a courier gig, by bringing out a wad of bills. To Shams, the man was like Willy Wonka. He held little tickets of freedom bound in a shining gold money-clip. As he had reached to take it, Ishaq had stopped him. It was not our way. Shams had pulled back. The grubby, pockmarked dealer then lent over Ishaq, held him by the throat and asked everyone who the little cunt was. He told Ishaq that there were no other ways here and, with a gravelled hoarseness, said, ‘Everyone does it, do you think you’re better then them, better than me?’ Shams remembered the chill down his spine, how everyone had frozen. He remembered how Ishaq’s eyes widened and body went rigid, but then how clearly and without his voice breaking he had said, ‘You’re a drug dealer.’ Ishaq closed his eyes, already flinching in anticipation of the blow. The dealer stared at Ishaq, licking a shrivelled lip, hesitating, and then told everyone to fuck off. Shams asked Ishaq afterwards whether he was being brave or stupid. Ishaq had replied, ‘I don’t know, Shams…it’s just right and wrong.’ Since then he had always turned to Ishaq for advice. But those days were gone. Ishaq and the others had left him.
Mujahid wiped his lower lip with a finger, his face all angles and flatness like hewn stone. ‘What those poodles? Praying in the mosque and having their religious conversations but doing nothing. Do you think they respect you Shams? You’re like me, like the guys I met in prison. In there, there was true brotherhood. That’s where I found Islam. We fasted and prayed, and we were there for each other. Coming out, it’s every man for themselves. No nothing, no one has time for anyone else. You see this?’ Mujahid pointed to a sinuous trail on his right cheek, ‘In prison, one of those racist white pigs had a go at someone like you. A brother. A brother in Islam. I weren’t having it, so I stopped it. The guy had a razor and slashed me. I hit that guy so hard, his cheek caved in. No mandem dared try cut me after that. Or touch my friends.’
People converted in prison, came and went through the circle and local mosques, sometimes never to be seen again. Their temporal needs sated or a return to being misplaced in the world. Mujahid was different. With others that he had met or connected, it was rumoured that he had indeed started down the path of his old ways, but this time with a tincture of Islamic-based defiance against the establishment. He forged his own way and Shams liked that.
Shams tried not to stare at the scar. Seasoned, curling almost into a coil. Paid for with trauma, a currency that could never be taken away. Mujahid didn’t take any crap and had respect. Respect meant no one would try to mess. He enjoyed being a fly in the ointment. Early on, his ragtag group was called the ‘Muslim Boyz’. Their very basic graffiti tag was seen around a lot of the estate. Shams remembered Ishaq laughing at it, he thought the changing of the ‘s’ to a ‘z’ in the spelling was predictable and comedic, yet the group so unpredictable and tragic. He said their use of Islam was ‘a stain on us all.’ Shams had stayed quiet. Ishaq never seemed to understand the need to have a group that had your back. He mentioned the tag’s spelling to Mujahid once. Mujahid had given it the dismissive grunt it deserved.
Mujahid continued, ‘Now, out here, no one was helping me out so you have to do your own thing. I know you feel that way too, Shams. You want to do something properly for our Ummah, our nation. I’m trading away and I’ve got big plans.’
‘Like what?’
Mujahid grinned. In the evaporating light cast, by a sole naked lightbulb, his tarred yellowed teeth blended into one long strip.
‘Well, you can’t expect me to tell you everything straight away. You have to earn and deal yourself in. There’s loads of people that I could have called in to start helping us out, but I see something different in you. Something special.’
‘What do you mean?’ Shams asked, growing unsteadier.
Mujahid’s paternal smile pushed down and held Shams, their eyes fixed in an unyielding vice, ‘You struggle like me and my boys. You know what hardship is like. Those circle boys and the old men in the mosques are soft. On these streets we are living in times of war, and we are the warriors of Islam. We must live our lives like mujahideen in this land, not like those others spending their life pretending.’
Mujahid stood, his smile dissolving into a look of fizzing anger as he banged his right fist into the other open palm, as he continued a righteous oratory.
‘Pretending that we are going to be here forever. They don’t like complaining or raising a fuss. Just want to get on. Just pretend that everything is all right. That this is a just society. And if you don’t, pretend everything is ok. If you say that you’re a victim of the police or racism, people say you’ve got a chip on your shoulder. They start blaming you, the victim, instead of the oppressor. And if you continue going on about it then they become uncomfortable. Uncomfortable that a man can feel. That a man can feel injustice deeply. They don’t like being reminded of the truth. So it’s easier to wear masks. Happy ones. Busy ones. Positive ones. Never showing our real faces. The painful and angry ones. We all wear these masks you see. Oils our way through life. Lets us be comfortable with each other. And if someone’s mask drops we crap ourselves, because we might see ourselves as well as them. People like Ayub. I refuse to be like him. I refuse to wear a mask. I refuse to pretend. I think you feel that way too.’
Shams felt a tingling down his body, a new sensitivity to his surroundings, a craving swelling inside. Mujahid’s reddened face loomed, like a preacher delivering a fiery sermon. But, as impressed as he was, Shams knew other preachers. ‘But Ayub says we have to stick within the laws. Try and be good. Try and be better?’
Mujahid mouth contorted. ‘Laws? The only law is Allah’s law and Ayub has no control over that. His word isn’t divine.’
‘But he is learned,’ Shams said, almost in a whisper, sinking further into his seat as Mujahid’s form bore over him.
Both of Mujahid’s arms were out in front. Fists clenched, one finger out, stabbing at Shams. ‘A few phrases in Arabic don’t make you learned. See, what people like him don’t understand is that outside in the real world laws are there for other people. People who have their family to support them. People who live in areas where the police come. People who have backup. People who live in nice warm houses looking at crazy events on tele from ways away. They live in delusion. They think that there are laws, rules that govern our society. But there are no rules, not for us. And those types of people are hypocrites anyway. They’ll look down on a gangster hustling to feed his kid. But a banker earning millions from doing haram, from doing what harms all of us, well as long as he has the big car, nice suit and big house then they give that guy big time respect. They gather like flies to honey. They can’t help themselves. They make laws to keep people like us down. Especially Muslims. They always create new laws for us and pretend it’s justice. We owe nothing to that unjust system, made by men with bad souls. Tell me Shams, all these laws, how do they help you?’
Shams had never seen Mujahid so animated. The air itself shook as if in fear. In a world of lies these words were a howling wind of truth. He felt as if this knowledge was implicit, that it had always been lying there unspoken. Mujahid had chosen him to share this deep well of experience and obvious hurt that lent gravity to his speech, his passion sanctifying inviolate truths.
‘I dunno…they…don’t.’
‘You do know. I see it. People like you and me who have none of that, know the truth. All I want to do is give you an opportunity to start being a man. Making your own way. Nothing dodgy, just legit work.’
Shams’ eyes flashed, labouring to take in the feeble light. ‘…What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing dodgy, and this isn’t stealing, this is a business transaction, pure and simple. All you need to do is take some cash and hand it over to this guy who works at the airport. He’ll give you a package and that’s it bro. All legit.’ Mujahid pulled out a thick wad of banknotes.
Shams rubbed the side of his head up and down, motioned to say something, stopped, then said ‘…What’s in the package?’
Mujahid took his seat again and his voice settled on a more soothing tone. ‘Trust me brother, nothing dodgy. You can take a look yourself if you want, once you get it. And if you do well, I’ll cut you in on the profits.’
‘Why can’t you go yourself?’
‘Hey, hey, questions. As you can see, I’m a busy man. Let’s not kid ourselves that you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t interested in doing the job. Come on Shams, you know I have people doing jobs for me all around the place, all the time. This place is miles from here. I can’t spend all day going back and forth. This is just one more on my list. I’m really relying on you. You can earn your cash for whatever business you need, then be off on your way, but I think that you’ll stick around. You’re the boss of yourself. Your own master.’
After the street hawking Shams had searched for other jobs. He managed to get work at a local supermarket. He remembered his row with a supervisor that no doubt was racist. The guy always made a beeline for him, only him. Shams refused to handle bottles of booze. Other Muslims and a Jewish guy who complained about pork had been given other duties, but Shams was forced to work the alcohol aisle. He quit after they asked him for ID to buy his mum a simple paring knife. They knew him, what was the need? He wouldn’t accept being treated like some potential thug. Always the same.
Shams looked at the thick pack of money ‘…Ok, but I will take a look at what it is?’
‘No problem, here’s the address. Take this phone too. He’ll be expecting you. Drop the cash off, and he’ll give you another day to come and pick it up.’
Shams looked on as Mujahid placed the notes carefully in an envelope, sealed it and placed it on a child’s pink play table in front of him. He had never seen so much cash. He wanted to reach out and touch it. Here, now, at night he felt the room whirl with endless possibilities, but he carried a fear that if he reached out and clutched a strand it would all wither to a earthly reality.
Mujahid said, ‘So we safe?’
Shams replied, ‘I still need to think about it, I think.’
Shams watched as Mujahid nodded, slid the envelope back and tucked it into the band of his trackie bottoms. ‘Ok, but decide soon. Take the phone, it’s got one of my numbers and the guy’s digits.’
Mujahid offered the phone. An old Nokia candybar, it had a low-res picture on its scratched and dilapidated screen that Shams barely looked at before stashing it in a pocket. Mujahid stared at Shams, who was forced to return the gaze. ‘I’m doing you the favour here, working for me, remember that. It won’t come again. Opportunities like this don’t come often. As you know, other people round these ways are doing stuff for me and doing well. You could be like them. If you say no, I’ve got a line of them looking for a chance. You know that’s truth, but you were alright with me way back so I want you to be the one.’
Shams nodded. ‘Bruv, I appreciate it. I’ll definitely give a think and give you a shout.’
The men stood up, Shams needing a second attempt to bounce upwards from the couch. Shams gave Mujahid a hug. He left the flat and could feel Mujahid’s gaze follow. He looked out high over London, cars going to and fro, scurrying like ants. He heard the door shut once again, felt his body relax, felt its thirst, and quenched himself on the cooler air like a man coming out of a fever. As he walked and saw London walking with him, he remembered that Ishaq liked to climb to the top of these towers to stare at stars and memorise constellations. It had always been a pain, getting Ishaq to come along with him and Marwane on those tube adventures. Ishaq was reticent about steaming behind a passenger, and preferred to ask commuters for their unneeded passes. Shams thought it a strange code of behaviour when they were completely dodging fares either way. Ishaq said that his dad worked in transport and could get into trouble if they were caught. Shams remembered laughing as he called Ishaq a pussy, and how irritated he became when he was coolly ignored. Ishaq would say jumping the barriers only worked a few times, until you finally got caught. It was better to work through the system as much as possible, even if it was a total sham.
Ishaq and Marwane were not that far from where he now stood but they were as distant as those ants. At some point the adventures stopped. The thrill had gone. They had been frontiersmen bucking boundaries, making their own stories and histories. Now they were just ordinary travellers.
Shams took the lift down and exited the block, once again walking past the police sign that was partially obscured by a mound of consolatory flowers. The notices were so common now. Yellow harbingers of peril. There was probably no alternative, no real substitute for the police anyway. You had to bring focus to the crime and they didn’t have the manpower to go door to door for potential witnesses. Still, they added to an underlying feeling of gloom. Shams felt it whenever he came back. So permeated and soaked through that locals didn’t even notice it. That took an outsider’s eye.
In the shadow of one of the large towers, Shams passed a rare grassy patch and remembered one such interloper: a well-dressed woman, well put together, in a royal blue suit jacket and pleated skirt with pearl earrings and necklace. From an affluent part of Surrey, she woke up one day, and took the train all the way into London for a trip. Once there she boarded a bus and somehow arrived at the estate. Probably the first set of high rises that could be seen when entering the city from the south, away from her own home and community, ready to make her statement to the world. She proceeded to climb one of the tall towers, ascending as far as possible, one floor below the roof. She took in the view. And then jumped. As her body fell, revolving, descending from the heavens, crashing into the indifferent earth, a febrile whisper dashed around the estate like lightning. Upon hearing, Shams, with Marwane and Ishaq and some other friends, ran to take a look at the body. Getting there just before the medics, the ten year-old boys egged each other on as to who would dare touch the body. Shams didn’t take part. He just stared at the cadaver. He had expected a pool of blood, but the body had hit that rare grassy bank and somehow remained intact. Her skin had turned a translucent pale and her face was fixed, not in fear or despair, but in peace. The medics arrived and took the body away. The first dead body Shams had seen. Some gatherers strained their neck to take a gander, and said it was such a shame, and voiced some quiet sorrows. A white youth with a more prosaic mind called her a dumb bitch and jogged on. Shams ignored them and went home. No words, his face showing no reaction or emotion. But he felt anger. The first real anger he had experienced. Anger that someone rich had come from outside to inflict their misery on the estate, as if they should simply accept it as a humdrum part of their lives. It wasn’t enough that they had all the chances that people here never had: they had given up, and in that capitulation wanted to make their suffering more important than anyone else’s. Shams thought that he would never end up that way. He would get out. Whatever it took.