A male voice screamed in the night, caroming round the portakabin. A solitary din, that even the odd flight arcing above could not penetrate. The windows fogged up with perspiration, blocking vision, reminding Shams of his isolation.
Charlie looked him up and down once. Then again. ‘I ain’t fuckin’ stupid, I heard you got picked-up the other night. You’ve got some heat on ya, haven’t ya?’
Hands up, palms presented forward, Shams said, ‘Where did you hear that?’
‘I’ve still got friends round your ways. You got stopped in the middle of the High Street, no? Your faces lit up like you were on the X-Factor. Just a day before you came to me. Funny that.’
‘No, that was nothing. Just the Five-O messing about as usual.’
‘So why were you held overnight?’ Charlie placed a clubbed hand towards Shams on the table before them.
‘I wasn’t held overnight, just a few hours. They made a mistake.’
Charlie grunted, rubbing his bald pate. ‘Well, me and you are done. Ain’t nothing happening between us now.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, bonehead, that the deal is off. You can sling your hook, son.’
Shams’ forehead rumpled, looking like it was collapsing in on itself. ‘Look mate…I can’t go back and tell him it’s off. You know him, he’ll go off on one.’
‘Don’t “mate” me. I can handle some piece of estate trash.’ Charlie turned around, picking up a green bomber jacket with an angry tug. The nylon jacket was embellished with a patch exhibiting insignia from the RAF during the Second World War, and an army one from the Great War.
Shams pitted both hands deep into pockets and looked around for help, before he lay eyes on the placards for the protest. ‘Wait. The police. I’ll tell them that you guys are planning on creating trouble at the march. I can bring a lot of eyes down here. The pigs, they’ll be all over.’
Charlie grabbed him by the collar and pushed him against the wall, his body slamming with a hollow thump, the feeble partition feeling like it would give way. Shams could feel the bigger man’s sweaty weight slump against him. His puttied face, all folded jowls, rubbed cheek to cheek. Charlie’s spewing breath stank of cheap alcohol. ‘What did you say, you dumb paki? Did you just threaten me?’ Charlie reached for a crowbar on shelving nearby. Shams felt crisp metal as Charlie traced a slow line on a cheek. ‘Is that what you were in for? Snitching to the police about us. Tell me. Tell me.’
Shams’s tried to turn his nose away from stale breath but felt steel pinch his skin as Charlie applied more pressure. He winced as one of Charlie’s knuckles caught the corner of his mouth, the man’s chalky-white skin highlighting every scrap of dirt collected during the day. ‘No…no…I said nothing. They didn’t ask anything about you or Mujahid. Keep my ear to the ground they said. But I don’t have to say nuthin’ if you just let this one deal through. You won’t see me again after this, I promise.’
Charlie let go. As if placated by Shams’ quivering. He pinched the bridge of his nose while snorting through it, and closed his eyes in thought.
Although released, Shams kept his back pressed to the wall, heaving air. He tried looking for the door but this blimp was in the way. ‘Look, we’re all in this together, right? Coppers don’t care nothing for people like us. As you said, you’re protesting peacefully. Nothing to hide, nothing to fear, right?’
‘Ok, ok, but the price has gone up. Tell that nigger friend of yours that I want another five-hundred quid for you trying to blackmail me, or everything’s off.’
‘I…I…can’t do that. He’ll ask why. He doesn’t know about the police.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘You’re a right fuckin’ case aren’t you? Bet your parents wished they’d aborted you when they had a chance…well that’s your fuckin’ problem, ain’t it? That’s the deal, take it or shove it.’
Shams looked at the hand with the crowbar and saw it still tightly clenched. He then looked past Charlie’s form to the door. ‘Ok…ok. I’ll tell him.’
Shams crept to Mujahid’s, clinging to the sides, not wanting to be caught in the light. Feet on their balls, toes sometimes tapping. He paced up and down, turning and looking at the red door.
The door opened. Shams almost jumped. Mujahid sauntered out, miswak in his mouth. ‘Assalmu alaikum, you gonna wear your shoes out bruv. What you doing here this late?’
‘Nothing, just came to tell you about the deal.’
‘Cool, cool.’ Mujahid looked at Shams’ empty hands and his hangdog face. ‘Why haven’t you got the package on you?’
‘That’s what I need to talk about.’
Mujahid stopped brushing, took the stick out, and shot a stern look that made Shams take a step back. ‘You’d better come on in then, hadn’t ya.’
Shams saw the pitch black that lay beyond the open door. Darkness poured into that one place. He shivered, but took a step in, guided by his patron’s gaze. Once inside, Mujahid said, ‘Ok, spit it out, what happened?’
‘That Charlie guy wants another five-hundred quid,’ said Shams, his words tumbling over each other.
Raising his voice Mujahid said, ‘What’s he want another five-hundred quid for?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me he was racist? A proper skinhead type.’
‘Don’t change the subject. Does it matter?’
‘Well yea, he hates us lot. Obviously he was going to pull something like this.’
Shams forced his best poker face, but he wasn’t gambler and was sure it was cracking under attention. Mujahid, though, didn’t show any disbelief, he just nodded, rubbing under his eyes. The man looked a bit tired, a hint of dark rings appearing.
‘I know him from way back. He used to live round here a while ago. He used to breed Rottweilers for a living.’
Mujahid remembered Charlie’s ground floor flat with its neglected garden. All discarded rakes, spades and beer cans, amongst high, tattered grass. He bred guard dogs. A great side business that was always in demand and, as illegal as it was, somehow Charlie was never hassled by the police. The wooden fencing at the back was loose enough that you could get a good view of his ramshackle cages. Mujahid would see this massive butterball, this beer bellied brute with his union jack tattoo, constantly poking at his dogs. He would swear at them and, starting off gently, use a wooden strip. Intensifying the pressure until he elicited an angered response from behind that cheesegrater mesh. The dogs would claw at the stick, try and reach Charlie with their jaws. Then the stabbing would abruptly stop, a uncertain moment of respite, before the cycle started again.
Once cultivated Charlie would encourage them to fight. He’d force them on top of one another. Hold one’s head, pressing it forward, pushing another into a corner. The only way out was by scratching and biting. Charlie was smart. He wouldn’t beat them down outright. That would make them too defeated, too docile. Instead, the constant aggro produced really fierce animals that could be guaranteed to explode in aggression when needed. They sold well.
Mujahid sat on the bottom of the stairs and left Shams standing to attention, ready for inspection.
‘I know him well enough…but…it doesn’t sound like you is telling me the whole truth?’ Mujahid sat impassive and calm, one hand stroking his slight, evenly-carpeted beard while he took in Shams’ countenance.
‘Like what?’
‘You know, Shams…we’re brothers and, like family, we survive on trust. Don’t be scared with me. Trust me, it’s better you’re plain with me, than me finding out you are hiding things.’
Jaded light from the walkway cast Shams’ shadow onto the hallway floor. He saw it, familiar, like an old friend. But now laying in a puddle beneath him, evaporating into a line that extended towards a Mujahid who was once again chewing on his stick. Shams could see hydraulics as jaws bit, and then relaxed, as Mujahid moved the stick to brush another area.
‘Ok…He said…what he said was, there was too much heat from the police.’ Shams scraped one shoe on another and looked down.
‘Why would he say that?’
‘Well…I got stopped yesterday.’
Mujahid reached out and gave Shams a gentle slap, right on a kneecap. ‘Good, good. Yea, I heard about it. On the High Street, right? See how easy that was? Don’t hold back on me. You know, so what about the police? You should have told him to mind his own business. That happens all the time. I’ve been stopped like twenty times in the last year. No stress.’
‘I told him. Nuthin’ doing.’
‘See Shams. You come across as too weak, and all this holding yourself back and hiding makes it even worse. People in our world, they feed on each other, like predators. The wolf eating the lamb, Shams. You need to toughen-up. Front-up. Aggression respects only aggression. I remember when people treat me badly. I store it within me like fuel, I do. People can sense it. They back off. It takes practice, I wasn’t always this way. You put a front up, pretend you’re tough, pretend it doesn’t hurt, pretend you’re not fussed, then all of a sudden it’s all good.’ Mujahid presented both palms outwards as if they were pages of a book.
‘Thought you said, you don’t wear masks?’
‘That ain’t a mask, bruv. That’s armour.’
Shams thought about Charlie, drawing an X in his blank puddle with a toe. ‘How long do you keep on pretending, though? At one point there must come a time that we’re not pretending anymore. Just an animal. Like that guy. I’m not cut out for dealing with people like that. I think he more than hates us, he doesn’t want us to be.’
‘Well, out here it’s like I learned inside. It’s like it’s out there in nature, it’s survival of the fittest. He’s not the fittest so he won’t survive. He’s just a useful loser needing a few quid. Anyway, don’t worry…tomorrow I’ll come with. We’re brothers right?’ said Mujahid, offering a hand.
Shams nodded and shook the hand. Mujahid’s felt warm and firm. Shams stepped to the door, stopped, and looked back. ‘You said tell you everything. That we’re safe right?’
‘Yea, of course.’
‘The Five-O…they kept us back only for a few hours but honestly I have to tell you, bruv, I didn’t tell Charlie…but I got questioned by a guy saying he was MI5. Security service.’
Mujahid pounced on Shams, grabbed him by his jacket and pulled him into the living room. He pushed him onto the sofa. Looming over him, his face only a couple of inches away. ‘Spooks. What the hell have you been up to? What did you say?’
‘I said nothing. Seriously. It wasn’t me.’
‘You grassing on me, Shams? I said hold nothing back.’
‘That’s why I’m telling you. It wasn’t me. They didn’t even ask about you…’
Mujahid held Shams, pushing down on the sofa. Shams put his hands around his head as if he was about to be hit.
‘So why did they stop you? I want an answer or you’re not getting out of here.’
Shams looked at the walls. Patches of damp, browned plaster had fallen off in places. Some spots had haphazard but annealed fillings, leaving the room looking scabrous. His mind flailed, grasping at air until he felt something solid, but not sure of its true shape. With an uncomfortable stammer, he threw it out like an offering.
‘It wasn’t me. It was Ishaq. Ishaq reported me.’
As soon as he had said it. As soon as those words made it sacrificial, he knew he had transgressed. There had always been an invisible boundary that he had skirted well. Until now. He felt an estranging fill him, a gap eaten in by his eyes and mouth. As soon as he had verbalised it, animated it, he also knew that it could not be true. Ishaq wouldn’t do that. But it was too late. Shams’ lip started to quiver.
Mujahid checked over Shams, and took in his shivering disposition as fear of him. ‘You sure? Why would he do that?’
‘That’s what the MI5 man kinda said. To save his own back…maybe. Maybe it wasn’t him but the man kinda said it was…’
‘You were all stopped though?’
‘But I was the only one questioned by them. The other bros went through normal police stuff.’
‘That little chicken-shit. He was talkin’ all nice with me just today. You asked them about this?’
‘No, I kept it to myself. By Allah, I didn’t tell them what happened to me.’
‘Good, so what did they want?’ Mujahid let go of Shams and started pacing around, taking in a surmising orbit like a bird of prey.
‘Just random questions about…a lot about Ayub’s circle. They just wanted me to keep an ear to the ground. Maybe it’s about drugs and teefing ? I don’t know.’ Shams uncoiled his body and watched Mujahid move. ‘It felt bad though, you know? Like I had done wrong even though I hadn’t.’
‘That’s what they want. They want you to feel wrong even if you are doing nothing, walk around with your head low and beating on yourself,’ said Mujahid not breaking his movement, not looking back at Shams. It was as if he were talking to himself. ‘They want you to take responsibility for everything going on among the Muslims, while they take none for nothing.’
‘I was scared.’
‘They’re scared of you. You should enjoy their fear. People who see clear. They’re such hypocrites. You know Shams…about drugs…this country once forced Indians to grow opium and then sold it to the Chinese at the end of a gun. Opium Wars. Look it up, yourself.’
Sham forced a wan smile. Not sure what he was going on about, but Mujahid seemed to be more bothered by the government than Ishaq. A good thing. ‘Like I said…I’m not sure what they wanted. They just want to stop criminals. It’s all nothing.’
‘Yea, but who are they to judge what a criminal is? Shams, do you think someone stealing an apple because they are hungry is evil? Do you? Yea, these pigs are far worse. They make systems. Massive companies to do their sin-eating.’ Mujahid had finally started looking, more like peering, at his lone audience. Shams could not keep up with Mujahid’s outpouring as he rumbled around the room, kicking-out at indistinct objects.
‘Slaves, they made them into cattle and shipped millions. Taking their names, so they don’t know who their parents were, or their religion, or what country they came from. They made people become rootless. A product. The Jews, they wiped them out in Europe. Like they were killing chickens it was so organised. Native Americans and Aborigines, they created laws stealing their land and destroying them. Then they turn around and say “my bad” and expect it to all fade away. Want us to forget, say it’s over because they say it’s over. They start shifting things, saying it is humanity’s sin, not unique to them. Then, after a while, they start focusing on our faults, until we, the boy stealing that apple, is the worst thing that ever happened in history, and they say the sin is ours alone, not spread around like theirs. But here’s the thing with that trick; we don’t forget history…it’s not over. ‘
Shams waited to see if Mujahid would continue again. The words reverberated around the room and he found it difficult to focus, but the emotion just felt true. It felt right. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Mujahid stopped pacing. ‘This changes everything. I can’t come with you now. I’m gonna protect mine, my family. So you go back and sort it yea? I believe in you.’
‘Akhi, I’m not sure he’ll listen.’
‘Shams, this is your mess now. You’re lucky you told me everything before I found out myself, otherwise you’d be in big trouble. Know what I’m sayin’?’ Mujahid leaned over Shams, the iron scaffolding of his face taut, and prodded his chest with each word. ‘So. You. Sort. This. Shit. Out.’
Shams started to reply but Mujahid waved him away and pointed to the door. As Shams trudged, his stooped body barely holding him up, Mujahid called after him, ‘Next time I see you I want my money or the products, or there’ll be big trouble. Trust.’