On the wall, above Ayub’s head, lay a canary-yellow clock. Probably a plastic Made-in-China jobbie from Tooting Market, or the pound shop. The second hand was stuck. Ishaq stared as the hand attempted to move forward, only to be rebuffed each time. Forcing its way onward, only to instantly snap back. There was something captivating about the movement, the hand seemingly destined to repeat the same moment, endlessly thwarted by some invisible force.
He was sitting with his legs crossed in front of him. His body leaning back, petitioning the wall to support him and keep him upright. He had given up trying to be attentive. As Ayub finished, Ishaq looked down, gazing towards his navel for revelation .
‘As the great companion of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, Abu Hurarrah, may Allah be pleased with him, narrated: “The believer is the mirror of the believer.” As you do before you leave your house, you check in the mirror, for dishevelment in your hair, or dirt on your clothes, and you rectify this. Accordingly when you see your brother, his shortcomings are your own and you should advise them, in a nice way and with wisdom, on what reformation is needed. Of his character and soul.’
Ishaq looked up and saw Marwane sidling nearer, breaking into a simper. He met those conspiratorial eyes and returned them with exaggerated intensity. Marwane must have heard of his humiliation.
‘The prophet, peace be upon him, also said: “This religion is sincere advice.” So your intentions should be pure with regard to your brother. You should show kindness and humility. Advice should not be given with the intention to make one feel lesser. It should be a reminder to you both. As Allah says in the Quran: “The believers are indeed brothers, so make peace and reconciliation between your two brothers and fear Allah, that you may receive mercy.”
‘And this mercy spreads out into your community. There are many sayings of the prophet, peace be upon him, that whether in love, pain, and kindness, our people, our community, we are like one body. What is felt in one part spreads and is felt in the others…’
As Ayub finished Shams came towards the boys ,bearing a tray with rattling cups of tea that chimed, and a crumbling pack of digestives. Giving his salaams he sat down, giving each a hug, and dished out the cracked porcelain as the boys scrambled for the best biscuit. ‘Assalmu alaikum, ain’t seen you both for time.’
Ishaq looked away, fished his mobile out from his tracksuit top pocket and checked the time. ‘Wa alaikum salaam, we’ve been here Shams. What have you been up to?’
‘Just a bit of this, bit of that, ducking and diving etc.’ Shams gave a nervous laugh that petered out under Ishaq’s sudden gaze.
Marwane came in closer and put an arm around Shams, clasping him tight. ‘It’s good to see you bro, you should come round more often. So, how’s the job-hunting going?’
‘I can’t find any job, can I? I haven’t got qualifications like you lot. Plus you know how it is? They screen CVs. If you have a Muslim name, you’re loads less likely to get to the next stage.’
With faux solemnity Marwane said, ‘True dat.’
Ishaq shrugged his shoulders while playing with his phone. ‘Well you just have to keep on trying. Life is tough for a lot of people.’
‘Well add brown skin to the name and you’re automatically in trouble. Didn’t you hear me? I said they sift-out CVs. There was a program on telly where they sent a bunch in with two different names and all the English ones, the Smiths, got interviews. The Abduls got jack.’ Shams looked at Ishaq for a sympathetic word.
Marwane reached over and put a hand over Ishaq’s screen. ‘Well, change your flippin’ name then. You could be Sam and Ishaq can become Isaac. Actually, he’s totally more like a right Kevin.’ Marwane started laughing at Ishaq, looking for a response, but only received a roll of the eyes. ‘Honestly, like that Gandhi actor…what’s his name?’
‘Ben Kingsley?’ Ishaq volunteered, while trying to prise Marwane’s concealing hand away.
‘Yea, Ben Kingsley; his real name is Krishna Bannerjee or something.’ Seeing the incredulity of his friends, Marwane continued: ‘Seriously. He changed his name and now he’s a proper-successful rent-an-ethnic. He gets hired as anything from a Zambian to an Eskimo.’
Ishaq gave up on the phone, wiping the screen with a thumb and stuffing it back in his pocket. ‘That’s not dumb ya know, I bet he’s made loads of money.’
‘Nah, I’m not down with that.’ Shams’ speech sped-up as he talked, emphasising points with waves of his hand. ‘That’s really sad. I hate it when you meet some guy called Abdullah but who’s named himself Joe just to get on. That’s some proper Uncle Tom, bounty bar, coconut crap going on. You live like that, you’ll hate yourself.’
Shams looked at the boys, making sure he held their attention. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a hook-up with a cousin in Bangladesh who knows a factory that does clothes for a lot of the stores here. He can get a good deal, and I may be looking to do a bit of import-export. I just need a bit of seed money…’
Ishaq interrupted the excitable flow. ‘Sorry akhi, you know I’m a skint student.’
Shams looked at Ishaq, folding his grey thobe under him with a violent tug. At sixteen Shams’ family moved away to the much larger Bangladeshi community, in East London. He made the effort to come back down and hang out with the boys. They never came up around his yard. When Shams struggled at his GCSEs, just about getting a place in that technical college, it was obvious they had gained good grades. Ishaq and Marwane didn’t go into details, their parents’ smiles and their unspoken confidence told it all. Shams had plainly asked for their results but they wouldn’t tell him. He could tell that they didn’t want to make him feel bad. They didn’t need to be like that. He was as strong as any of them.
‘Astaghfirullah, may Allah forgive me. I wasn’t angling for some money. I’m getting it together myself.’
‘Thought you said that you weren’t working?’
Shams could see question upon question in Ishaq’s eyes, in his tone. From warm friends, who would share, Ishaq had started talking down, constantly trying to ‘educate’ him. Marwane was a bit better, but his interest ran hot and cold and he used Shams only to get in sly digs at Ishaq. Anytime he asked them about uni they would blurt out appeasing sentences. As if he was too dumb or unsophisticated to understand.
‘I’m doing some odd jobs…’
‘Who for?’
‘One of the brothers.’
‘Which brother?’
‘You know, just one of the estate lot.’ Shams bowed his head.
‘No, I don’t know. Who are you talking about? Spit it out.’
‘…Mujahid.’
All three boys went silent. Marwane and Ishaq exchanged concerned stares. Ishaq put his hand on one of Shams’ wrists.
‘Shams, Mujahid is dealing drugs; what the hell you doing with him?’
Shams jerked his arm away. ‘Astagfirullah, Allah forgive us, you can’t say that. That’s slander and backbiting.’
‘I know that he…well, that’s the word on the estate. He never comes here any more and I always hear about fights with wannabe thugs,’ said Ishaq.
Marwane saw Shams’ face fix. Pulling Ishaq’s arm back in his direction he said, ‘Shams is right. Ishaq, you can’t say that, unless you got proof. Still Shams, that bro is a bit off his head. I’ve seen him around, eyes always bloodshot, looking scary. Be careful.’
‘It’s legit, he’s got a hook-up at the airport to bring some stuff in cheap and then he sells it o…’ replied Shams.
Not paying heed to Marwane, Ishaq continued, ‘You seen this “stuff”, have you?’
‘Yea, of course…I ain’t stupid, man.’
‘Who’s this hook-up, then?’
Shams scanned the room, noting-out who was new and who he remembered from before he left the area. Around that time these two started attending circles. He couldn’t get them to go on any excursions. The swearing stopped, and it went unspoken that they would not countenance anything with the hint of illegality. They were good at just getting on. Shams felt the distance, a lingering gap that he couldn’t even enquire about. That there was some secret to life that they had decided not to pass-on.
‘I can’t say. Some friend from the estate.’
‘Alright Shams, it all sounds well-shady but you’re a grown-up now. Just be careful. If you get in trouble, even if you’ve done nothing wrong, you and me don’t get second chances like posh white boys do. Remember that…so, other than clothes, you got anything else going on?’
Dry air, in the flat, pressed his cheeks; Shams pulled his collar to let some of it flow around his skin and felt his finger slide against perspiration at the base of his neck. ‘I’ve got plenty of ideas. All you need to do to make money off of rich white guys is to sell them an experience. They’ll spend money on any crap, especially the Yanks. It doesn’t even need to be anything decent. I saw this report about one guy who became a millionaire by making USB keys shaped like food. Like sushi or hamburgers. He just buys these cheap ones from China and gets them to add some plastic mould, and then the jobs a good ‘un. Can sell them for ten times what you buy them for.’
‘Yea, classy, Shams. That’s really what the world needs, an endless supply of crap electronics shaped like fast-food.’
Marwane laughed. ‘Mr Negativity straight-in there, killing it like a bullet. I’m with Shams. Who cares, as long as it’s a halal living.’
Ishaq smiled. ‘You mean like making no bacon sausage shaped USB keys?’
‘Yea…right…good one…that was nearly funny. Just saying it’s not like you’re selling haram-drugs or anything. If you made a few grand doing that then you’ll be laughing. Then you could do something proper with that cash. You can’t be picky from the start with everything. The point is that Shams is just looking for something to set him on the way, right bruv?’ Marwane said, as he pumped Shams’ shoulder with a fist.
Shams broke into a broad smile. ‘Exactly bro! That’s what I’m sayin’!’
Ishaq perked up at the chance to wind Marwane up. ‘Well tell me, what’s halal then? You’re using a bunch of plastic that’s polluting the earth, and probably using a load of child-labour down the line…’
‘Subhanallah, seriously, who made you governor of the earth?’ said Marwane. ‘If you try and be perfect on absolutely everything then we’d all be naked and homeless.’ Marwane and Ishaq eyed each other, waiting for one to budge.
Shams slumped back, away from the other boys, pushing the tray towards them to give him space. ‘Anyway, I’m just using it as an example; the best thing is to try and sell it with a story. Take it how you want. They like experiences, no need to know if it’s true. Like you can do a restaurant and do a bunch of dishes and say they were from Kashmir, for some Mughal prince who wrote poetry.’
All three broke out in laughter. The flat was a small one-bedder, and the living room was just large enough to hold about a dozen people if they were all sat on the floor, Bedouin-style. The brother who provided the space had thrown out all of the furniture just for this purpose, leaving only a bookcase situated on the wall furthest from the boys, shelves that were filled with ornately-bound books in Arabic. Ayub was kneeling by the case, flicking through a tome while deep in conversation with some new white brother bearing a large bushy beard. Ayub looked around at the three. Marwane caught his eye and nudged the other two, pinching his lips, indicating to them that they should quiet down.
Shams looked round his shoulder at Ayub and then, in a considered hush, said, ‘I’m serious. We get such bad press, but you can sell stuff by being exotic. I had another idea, about selling food in tiffin boxes. I was reading about those dabbawallahs in Mumbai. They deliver thousands a day without any mistakes, you could make a great story out of that.’
‘But Shams, you’re not Indian or Kashmiri,’ said Ishaq.
‘Yea, but I’m brown. Most people won’t know the difference. Our lot won’t be coming anyway.’
Marwane chimed in, ‘You know, that second one is a really good idea. Properly cynical, but could work.’
It went quiet for a moment but then Ishaq looked at Marwane. He tried to stifle a laugh while he said, ‘Alhamdullillah, some good ideas, but selling yourself on being exotic? It’s like just accepting you’re a slave to their stereotypes. What do you think M?’
‘Wooooahhh, subhanallah, man, you is properly mental bruv. Ishaq, I respect you a lot, bro. You’re deep and all that. But seriously…you get dealt cards in life and you deal with them. Shams isn’t thinking of walking around in a salwar kameez shouting “a thousand apologies, effendi.”’ Marwane bobbled his head from side to side and tried to put on what he thought was a generic South Asian accent. Unfortunately, it came across as a sorry mix of Michael Caine meeting Amitabh Bachchan. ‘So what does Caliph Tabrizi say to that?’
‘Firstly, man, don’t try that accent again. It was pathetic. Secondly…secondly…’ Ishaq could see that he was getting a rise out Marwane but saw Shams expectant face. He recognised it as the same one that Shams pulled when they used to run for the ice cream van and it looked like they wouldn’t make it. ‘Yea, sounds like you’ve got some really good ideas, Shams. Inshallah, make dua, and try your best. That’s all any of us can do.’
Ishaq and Marwane continued to exchange volleys, Shams slurped contentedly on his tea. He made a decisive dip of his biscuit into his chai. Everything tasted better with a dunk. He kept it submerged so that it softened as much as possible but overplayed his hand. He looked in horror as his biscuit broke free and crumbled into the milky swell, like a house tumbling off an eroding coastline. He checked if the others had seen and, although tempted, resisted the urge to retrieve the whole soggy mess with his hand.
‘Ok boys. If I come up with something decent, maybe you could all give me a hand. That is if Ishaq isn’t too busy boycotting Starbucks or something. By the way Marwane, are there any more biccies?’
‘There’s a pack in the kitchen if you want to grab it.’
Watching Shams get up to fetch supplies, Marwane threw Ishaq a glare. ‘You are proper taking the mick, you know that?’
‘Look, I know. I backed off, right.’
‘Whatever problems me and you might have, we still have more options than Shams.’
‘Calm down. We’ve been friends since we were kids. You want me to still treat him like one?’
Marwane replied, any previous amusement doused, his long torso slanting forward, ‘No, I want you to treat him with a bit more respect and listen to him, and not give-off that ‘it’s beneath me vibe’. Be a friend. The guy needs encouragement, not verbal waterboarding. Seriously?’
Ishaq, his aspect slightly pained, tested the carpet with a finger. ‘Ok, may Allah bless you for the advice. You’re right. He just raised some interesting issues, and I was just messing.’
‘I know that. No one wants to be a ‘sellout’, and we want to do what we want to do. But this isn’t about having some random intellectual conversation. He hasn’t got that luxury. This is about life.’
‘And you’re not worried about Mujahid?’ asked Ishaq. ‘That brother is bad news. He’s always slating people from the circle, saying we are like the kuffar. We should be fighting for Islam…whatever that means in his head. He’s even talking nonsense on the streets about creating a Muslim-only zone. Stupidness. He is going to cause big issues one day.’
‘Well…just keep an eye on him, yea.’
They parted as Shams returned with a new hoard of biccies, eagerly handing out some Jammy Dodgers. ‘So, Marwane, how’s tricks; keeping busy yourself?’
Seeing Ayub peering over again, Marwane puffed his chest and raised his voice, bringing it down an octave. ‘All praise is due to Allah, we pray that he guides us all, brother.’
Ishaq’s face took on a mischievous grin. ‘Shams, you haven’t heard, but Marwane doesn’t watch telly anymore.’
‘Well brother, I try to remember Allah often,’ said Marwane with mock solemnity, ‘and try to not indulge in frivolous activities, but then again here I am talking to you two?’
‘Frivolous activities. Joker. Remember that time you played skateboard warriors and scrapped-up your face on the paving. You went home bleeding; your mum took one look and gave you bare licks,’ said Ishaq. ‘Didn’t let you out for two weeks, after that.’
Shams and Ishaq laughed as Marwane pouted. ‘Well I was a proper Braveheart as a kid. Kill a man for being too damn brave, real guts, not like you two midgets. Issy, you were proper sly in games, getting digs in without anyone noticing. I see you.’
They would find an incline somewhere, steeper the better, and two lots of two would sit on skateboards. The boards sped-up, kicks and punches thrashing-out as they rolled down helter-skelter. The speed, or opposing bandits, would always get you.
Games got serious, got out of hand. It was always getting out of hand. That was the fun of it. One winter some chief had the bright idea of hiding rocks in their snowballs. You always retained the shock of that first smack in the head. That fluffy John Lewis scene slamming you in a combo of pain and sharded ice. Your head reverberating as it smarted from the pop. Balls were already being scrunched as hard as possible. And it became an arms race after that. The projectiles getting bigger and bigger, experiments with size versus flight. Testing arcs through the air, and the sharpness of rocks. Kids split into shifting teams, staging pitched battles and ambushes. Until you realised this wasn’t fun at all. It hurt. A lot. So you stopped going out until the melt came.
There was also British Bulldog on a epic scale. In between the towers there was kind of a plaza. Kids used to line up against one side, and run from one side to the other. There were brawls but it was hilarious. Always finding bruises in random places days afterwards. Shams and Ishaq were both shorter than the rest, but Shams was a bit on the larger size then. His mum called it ‘plus size’. If they were watching him huffing and puffing, ‘Don’t worry; Shams is just ‘plus size’.’ ‘Your son is getting fat, no?’ ‘No, he’s just ‘plus size’.’
If someone sucker-punched Shams, or tripped him from behind, Ishaq would make a note and get the kid back in the next round. The estate was great for playing hide n’seek. Shams would always choose the same place, the large bin-areas where the chutes ended, sometimes even climbing into the skips. He would take it seriously. Some kids thought it funny to leave him there hiding for hours, but Ishaq always made sure to do a round of the bin-stores to fetch him.
If any kid, especialy an older one, dared him, Shams would bite. Wall of Pain: a handful of kids would line up and face a wall a couple of steps away, bridging the gap by resting one arm. One kid would pass under the bridge and be punched and kicked until they managed to get out. Shams was always up for it, pleading that he could do it, but Ishaq never let him play.
‘What’s that thing you used to say when we were playing tag?’ asked Ishaq.
‘Oh that, if you were out then…’ Shams hunched forward, his voice just above a conspiratorial murmur, ‘there’s a German in the grass with a bullet up his arse, pull it out, pull it out, pull it out.’
All three started with a soft chuckle.
‘Oh yea, and that other one, remember? When you were ‘it’.’
Shams’ head dipped lower. ‘Can’t tell you in here, tell you outside.’
‘Saddos. Only us losers who couldn’t get their hands on a proper phone played that stuff. I would have preferred Playstation. Billy had one, remember, everyone kissing his backside trying to get an invite. He had Fifa,’ said Marwane.
Ishaq detached himself from the huddle, leaning back, eyes softened. ‘I remember him. Nice kid. Haven’t seen him around for time.’
‘I see him around. Tries to call himself Will, now; see him with his workmates sometimes, trying to be big. Always on the verge of saying something but too scared in case we’re alone. You know the type I mean.’
‘Sounds like an idiot. Anyway, Pro Evo rules,’ Shams said. ‘So, seriously, you don’t watch television?’
‘Firstly, like I said, I don’t waste my time watching television, my honourable brother. I read Quran or take part in more beneficial activities…’ Marwane saw the white brother look over and shake his head, so turned down the volume, ‘…Seriously. It’s all bad news now and it vexes me, and most films vex me too.’
Ishaq, nose raised, sniffing blood. ‘Yea, right, you watch enough. Go on, tell Shams why you don’t watch Western movies. What you told me last week.’
‘Chill, I’m not embarrassed. Well, Shams, take Pride and Prejudice. The elephant in the room is that Mr Darcy, or whoever would definitely be a slave-owner.’
‘Shams, let me clarify this for you…Marwane won’t watch an imaginary period-movie because the imaginary character might have had imaginary slaves,’ said Ishaq.
Marwane looked on Ishaq as if he was a naive child. Pursing his lips and with an exaggerated shaking of his head he said, ‘Pride and PREJUDICE. You may laugh, but all the rich white people in these stories probably got their money from slavery, so I don’t care who they get married to or how they do it. All their petty issues, talking about love and relationships, when they were oppressive, forcing everyone else to just think about survival. Yea, I said it. Mr Darcy. Racist.’
Ishaq observed Shams, who was moved to give his input. ‘Ishaq, thinking about it he’s right, you know?’
Ishaq held his head in his hands, one hand sliding down pulling at a cheek. ‘This is why I don’t like joking with you lot. I just hear madness. You guys are cracked. Ok M, what about Chariots of Fire?’
‘Well, yea, a story of triumph, at an Olympics with no black people. It doesn’t count when you win like that, does it, really? They only win because there are no ethnics. An Olympics with no one of West African descent, no Kenyans, Ethiopians, or Moroccans. Proper joke. Just like slo-mo black and white Fred Perry. No proper opposition. As they say round Shams’ area, ‘Innit’.’
Ishaq looked at Marwane trying to ascertain if he was being serious. It was hard to tell sometimes.
‘Bruv, that is proper off-key. I love that movie. Like the Scottish guy who wouldn’t run on a Sunday because it was against his code and religion. See, there were people like us back then. It’s about personal struggles. An individual in their world. When there were things more important than making money or just consuming. You know…what you’re saying is like non-Muslims asking why no one is talking about suicide bombing in a documentary on Zidane. Or like reading the Arabian Nights and complaining it doesn’t talk about Hamas.’
All three boys used to stay at each others on the odd occasion when their parents needed a sitter. Ishaq tried to avoid Marwane’s as his mum always gave chores. He tried proclaiming that he was a proper guest, like some white person, but would receive a bunch of ironing in the face. Shams’ mum was pretty cool, though, as they were allowed to watch old movies together, as long as they just shut the hell up. ‘Ok how about Zulu?’
‘You’re taking the P.I.S.S now. I know you’re trying to wind me up. Proper transparent. Won’t work. Bunch of colonialists, dying while killing natives, and even then they are supposed to be heroes. Bollocks. I don’t watch that stuff. All these stories. When they are brave, we are aggressive; when they are smart, we’re crafty. Playground stuff. Pure wish-fulfilment.’
Shams said, ‘Yea…but Zulu’s got Michael Caine and he married an Indian. He’s cool, right?’
‘Even if it’s got Michael Caine in it, my distinguished brother,’ said Marwane, reverting to a playful solemnity.
‘Man, you can’t watch anything.’ Ishaq kissed his teeth and waved a dismissive hand at Marwane.
‘I’ll make my own movie then,’ said Marwane.
‘You won’t be able to make jack unless it’s some half-arsed story about some random repressed Muslim girl who secretly wants to wear lipstick and a mini skirt, or a guy who becomes a suicide bomber. They’re not interested in any other stories.’
‘I’d do it. I’m slick. I’d break the mould.’ Marwane passed a hand through his fuzzy mop of hair as if he were combing it.
‘Mould? You need stereotypes, otherwise how does anyone understand each other?’ said Ishaq, enjoying the taste of sarcasm. ‘You have to have the call to prayer at the beginning or something. It’s like the oldest cliche in the book. It would ring around the desert and show how romantic and alien we are.’
‘Nah, I’d be like an Algerian James Bond.’
Ishaq punched Marwane’s thigh. ‘Hahaha, you’re the brown guy who gets killed in the first ten minutes. At best you’d be of ambiguous morality, or a noble savage, and in your case M, we can drop the noble part.’
Wide eyed, as if he had had an enormous epiphany, some grand realisation, Shams spoke up. His interruption startled, hushing the other two. ‘How about The Italian Job?’
After an extended moment Marwane gave a generous grin. ‘Brother, everyone loves The Italian Job. ‘This is the Self-Preservation Society.’ Makes you proud to be British.’