The three visitors kissed him and left after thanking the nurse for her trouble.
Hassan opened the airmail aerogram from Copra Island and began to read. It was from his father and was brief and to the point. He was to telephone home to hear important news. He decided not to confide the contents of the communication to Iqbal and of this he was subsequently glad.
Saturdays and Sundays were half days for Hassan. In the mornings he worked shifts and was free for the rest of the day. As soon as his Saturday morning shift at the car park came to an end he got on the tube to Earls Court buying a take-away doner kebab on the way, arrived home and ate the kebab which he washed down with coffee. He put a sum of money into his wallet and left the room.
He took the tube to Leicester Square and walked to the head post office at Trafalgar Square where he booked an international person to person ‘phone call. Standing in the kiosk while the operator made arrangements for him he felt tension build up in his stomach and chest and sensed intuitively that something was amiss. Eventually the operator said he was through to speak to a Mr. Ifthikar Husseini at the given number.
“Hullo. Hullo. Father, can you hear me?”
“Hassan, God bless you. You are ‘phoning so you must have got the letter.”
“Is everything all right?”
“I want to say it is but there is a problem at home.”
“What is it?”
“Your brother Hussein is in hospital. Suba General Hospital. He is out of danger but has suffered severe concussion and internal injuries.”
“How did it happen?”
“The Abbas family did it. Hussein talked to their daughter Ayesha at a wedding and they did this.”
“My God!”
“There is nothing we can do because the authorities here won’t help us against people who are so much higher up than us.”
“The Copra Island people are all the same.”
“They always will be the same son.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Send some money to Israel. The Muslim world deserves what they do to them. If our leaders treat us like this it is better for Israel to take over.”
“How much do you want me to send?”
“How much can you afford?”
“The most is ten pounds.”
“Send that then. Don’t get into difficulties though.”
“How is mother taking it?”
“She wants to speak to you.”
There was a pause for a few seconds and then he heard his mother’s voice.
“Hullo Hassan. Can you hear me?”
“Yes mother. How are you?”
“It’s been a shock and you know Hussein can’t go to school for some time. Are you going to do what your father said?”
“Yes.”
“Do it and keep it a secret. It is the only way we can do something against the Muslim what do you call them?”
“Elite?”
“Yes. Our leaders.”
“Hullo mother listen to me. Don’t get…”
The pips started.
“…The pips are going. Don’t get too emotional.”
“God bless you. I curse the Abbas family. Write regularly.”
“I will mother. Also I’ll do…”
He was cut off.
Hassan walked back to the tube station at Leicester Square with his mind full of thoughts. On the train he marshalled his cognitions into an orderly sequence of things to do and prepared to put them into action. He decided not to inform Iqbal because he was already aware of a social gap between the two of them and a shared knowledge of an incident such as this would exacerbate that. It was clear that the Husseini family was too low in the hierarchy of the Muslim community of Copra Island to cope adequately with the problem this situation brought about and almost as clear as that that the best solution was to find allies to strengthen the Husseinis hand. His father was, in Hassan’s view, right to conclude that retaliation against the Muslim world was appropriate, hence the donation to Israel. Hassan decided on the tube train to go a step further and declare his willingness to help the Israelis against their Arab opponents in particular and Muslims in general in return for reciprocal assistance. He knew that in all Arab countries people who worked secretly on Israel’s behalf were well supported, feared and respected. That was the path he intended to take. The problem with his plan was that Copra Island was not an Arab country.
On arrival at home he wrote out a cheque made payable to “State of Israel” and a covering letter stating his willingness to work for Israel. He posted the cheque and letter at a nearby post box and then came home to make a cup of tea.
When Iqbal returned late that evening he remarked on Hassan’s gloomy demeanour. Hassan said he had been having an upset stomach and steered the conversation onto television programmes. Iqbal was suspicious but did not attempt to pursue the subject of Hassan’s unhappiness. Iqbal had a wider and richer social life than Hassan and attributed his glumness to peevishness about that. They studied each at his own desk, cooked and ate a meal, studied again and went together for a walk to Chelsea and back without entering any pubs and then went to bed.
The next morning Hassan explained to Iqbal that he had been having difficulty with some work on his course and that was an additional reason why he was upset the day before. Iqbal, bearing in mind Hassan’s pedestrian mind, thought that was a likely explanation and declared he had no grudges.
The stresses and strains of term time at their respective colleges continued. Iqbal found coping with the more abstract aspects of double-entry bookkeeping, management, business law and data processing easier than Hassan did for his tasks on his engineering course. Privately Iqbal considered himself to be a near brilliant student who, with good fortune on his side, was destined to be a leader in the field of accountancy in Copra Island. He planned to subscribe to the British professional magazine “Auditing Today” after his return to Copra Island. He reckoned that Hassan, not being particularly bright, would probably have a bare pass grade at the conclusion of his electrical engineering course. He did not think Hassan would ever be appointed to or be able to keep if appointed a senior decision making engineering post. An English acquaintance of his who had met Hassan at a college social told him that he, Iqbal, was brighter and probably worth more than Hassan. After being told that Iqbal decided that after they had both passed on from being students he would either not socialise with Hassan at all or would deal with him from a socially superior position. Both Iqbal and Hassan realised that the Azeez family had better European and North American contacts than the Husseini family and this underlined the social differences between the two families. Iqbal knew that his Azeez family had never attempted to obtain upward social mobility from the Jews but this did not worry him. He thought the British and Americans were enough. If he knew Hassan had been in contact with Israel he would probably have wanted two bodies out in the back garden.
They carried on visiting their different types of prostitutes, never ventured near Euston Station and kept their word not to mention the subject of Patricia. Their landlady Mrs Simpson added to the compost heap which was subsequently rained upon and compacted under its own weight.
However, one day nearly a year after Patricia’s death, Iqbal asked Hassan to look through a window at the compost heap. Hassan did so and said he saw nothing unusual.
“Look again Has. Look carefully” urged Iqbal.
Hassan pressed his nose against the glass and breathed down to avoid misting the glass.
“No change Ikki” he said.
“Then go outside and see from closer.”
Hassan opened the back door and walked right up to the heap. He examined it carefully and then put his hands on it. Then he put his hands right inside it with surprise lighting up his face. He scrutinised the heap again from all sides from top to bottom. Then he returned back to the room.
“It’s a miracle Ikki. What have you done to it?”
“Not me. It’s God’s blessing. You see when Almighty God wants to give us something he shows signs and takes care of his gift afterwards. It’s chemical combustion. Did you feel the heat?”
“Yes. Also there is a smoky smell.”
“I am ashamed for you. You are supposed to be the scientist. That’s internal spontaneous combustion going on. After it’s over Mrs Simpson will be able to use it for manure. You didn’t know?”
“Hell man I am not a chemist. How did you know all that?”
“It’s my general knowledge. You know it’s said to be a good thing to know a little about everything and everything about something.”
“Well, I suppose there is no danger for us is there?”
“No. Definitely not.”
Iqbal regarded Hassan assessingly. He decided then and there that the time for pretended social equality between the two of them was drawing to its final chapter. In a half dozen months they would both be taking the examinations which would end their student careers and after that he, Iqbal, would show his strength and quality by talking down to Hassan if he spoke to him at all. Iqbal concluded that Hassan had little initiative or leadership qualities to bring him to a good position. That kind of thing, he thought, was the exclusive preserve of the Azeezes of the world. In the fullness of time Hassan would be taught to eat humble pie if not by himself then by others. Iqbal had learnt privately about Hussein’s situation and considered that if the same thing had happened to a member of his own family the Copra police would not have rested until the culprits were arrested and charged. Whole districts would have been questioned and a reward offered if the perpetrators were not known. If the police failed in their duty individual officers would have carried the can. In this case, apparently, the authorities were doing nothing and the Husseinis were disgraced. Iqbal’s contempt for Hassan deepened.
One fine day Iqbal’s Auntie Fithumi invited him over alone for lunch again and informed him that her younger brother and sister in law wanted him to get married to someone called Ayesha.
“I don’t know the girl,” he said.
“Well, you know your mother’s good friend Saleema.”
“Oh yes Saleema Abbas. They live close by.”
“You’re getting the idea. She has a daughter called Ayesha.”
“How old is she?”
“Your parents told me she’s eighteen.”
“I don’t know what to say Auntie.”
“You don’t know what to say? I’ll do all the talking. All you have to do is accept the advice of your elders unless you have extremely strong feelings against it.”
Fithumi arose and went to a chest of drawers from which she extracted an envelope. From this she produced a small colour photograph which she handed over to Iqbal. He scrutinised it.
“Now Iqbal that is not a good photograph. It was taken at her most recent birthday party.”
“I can see it isn’t posed.”
“That girl has a very good name. In addition to her looks that you can see she is good at her schoolwork and is carefully brought up, as all real Muslim girls should be.
“Bound to be a virgin I suppose?”
Blood shot into Fithumi’s face making it darker. She controlled herself and after a pause resumed.
“Ikki, if there was the slightest doubt in anybody’s mind the matter would not have been allowed to come so far. In fact no boys are allowed to go near her except her brother Mubarak who is going to America to study medicine. I think its medicine. Or dentistry. Something good with status anyway.”
“I will have to think this over in my mind Auntie. You know I don’t know what I will have concluded after I have thought it out but I can tell you this straight away. I must have two things from my wife. Firstly, she must be one hundred per cent pure and secondly, there must be a good dowry at the marriage itself. I won’t wait for her parents to leave her anything when they finally pass on. It must be paid promptly on marriage.”
“The way you speak I see you have the raw material to be a real accountant Ikki.”
“That’s what I am going to be.”
“Have you thought about this kind of thing before?”
“No not exactly” said Iqbal “I know what type of wife I am going to have.”
“What’s that?”
“You know Auntie I don’t work at accountancy when studying or at employment just for fun. I am a future businessman or business professional. When I do something which takes up my time and my trouble, and my time is valuable, I expect a good return.”
“Well spoken. You are an Azeez man. I can see that.”
“What I am not going to do is turn out like that, what the name of that fellow who went out to England and failed his exams?”
“I am not sure.”
“Abdul Shah Jahan. That’s his name. I remember now. He failed his examinations and when he went back he was the laughing stock of Suba. Personally, I think the British did not like him and did not help him in his studies. That’s probably why he failed.”
“Iqbal, I know you are worthy of this girl. You are in your early twenties and you already know that for us, the elite in an undeveloped country, the road to personal advancement comes from finding favour with the white people.”
“I knew that even when I was in senior school in Copra.”
“Tell me more about Shah Jahan.”
“What the talk is is that when he came back he could not get a proper job and now he is working as a clerk in a shop in Suba. The disgrace of failing his London exams is such that his family could not get him a wife according to his family standing.”
“Previous standing you mean after what happened to him.”
“Anyway they couldn’t. And privately just between the two of us what I hear is that he can’t even afford the good quality prostitutes his former classmates at school use and he has to go elsewhere.”
“The white man’s anger is terrible and the Azeez family has avoided that by being on good terms with the authorities here.”
“He’s still not married and I don’t know when he will be. I remember him from years ago.”
The family conversation eventually came to a close and Iqbal went home for his evening meal with Hassan.
“You still haven’t seen the sense of it Jabir” Mazook, Saleema’s brother, looked steadily at Jabir.
“It was probably not necessary,” replied Jabir.
“You think it was not necessary you mean” Saleema said sotto voce, “your children are my family’s children also and they know what to do even when you don’t do your duty as a father.”
“The plain truth, Jabir, is that you are fortunate to have married into our family,” said Mazook.
“Listen to him Jabir,” urged Saleema.
“This is not some liberal western society and you are not re-living your student days in London again” said Mazook.
“I know that,” said Jabir.
“So you have to make the right adjustments” continued Mazook, “here in Copra Island we are Muslims and just because we have to be on good terms with the West to keep our positions does not mean, I repeat does not mean that we are all to be white men in our hearts and minds.”
“Listen to him” urged Saleema again.
Mazook continued. “God in his wisdom has given us favour with the white man so we have our God given authority and status in our own country. But God did not intend us to be white people or he would have given us white skins as well.”
“I am listening. I believe in God,” said Jabir.
“God be praised,” sighed Saleema.
Mazook pressed home his advantage. “In our Muslim culture we do not allow our girls to run around talking to every Tom, Dick and Harry. A girl has to get married and how can she get married when she is known to have consorted with every Tom, Dick and Harry? You answer that. Can you answer that?”
Mazook looked defiantly at his brother in law.
“Tell me Jabir. Would you have married me if you knew I had been talking to every Tom, Dick and Harry?”
“Well, probably not” he said.
“Probably not you say,” said Mazook “definitely not I think. Do you think your dear parents would have sent you to London to study law so you could come back and marry somebody who talked to any strange man who wanted to talk to her?”
“No” admitted Jabir after a pause.
“That Hussein Husseini is a nobody as far as the three of us in this room are concerned,” said Mazook “now I don’t know what was really going on in his mind when he approached Ayesha but I do know what the public would think. They would think that he thought she had gone so far down or her family had gone so far down that he could just go up to her and talk to her. That’s what any reasonable sensible member of the public would think.”
“We made enquiries and found how little wealth the Husseini family has.” said Saleema “the kind of dowry we could give for Ayesha if we wanted would make them think they had won the jackpot. Not only that, although some of them have been to the West they don’t have the kind of Western contacts and support we have. We made discreet enquiries at several foreign delegations before we did anything and I can give you a categorical assurance that we have not upset any people who count.”
“Thank God for that” said Jabir.
“Not only that. The white people do not want us to be liberal like some of them” said Mazook “they want us to keep our standards high just like the best people over there.”
“Is that so?” said Jabir.
“That is so,” said Saleema “and we are among the best people over here. We have been approved and selected by the white people – they control the whole world except for the communist countries – and they do want us to keep the others in line for their sakes as well as ours. They don’t want us to be contaminated by riffraff like the Husseinis.”
“When we made enquiries we heard it from the horse’s mouth” said Mazook.
“To change the subject slightly, what’s all this about Ayesha and your friend’s son Iqbal?” asked Jabir.
“Well, she put it to me and I am considering it” said Saleema.
“You said before he is studying to be an accountant,” said Jabir.
“Yes. In fact he is going to be an auditor. I know he will probably succeed because he is known to have the determination and probably doesn’t have the sort of enemies who can sabotage his career. The Azeez family is in the good graces of the British. They are right wing politically. The British won’t put any impediments in his way and they won’t have any reluctance about giving him his qualification” said Saleema.
“After he has passed out what?” asked Jabir.
“He will work in his father’s firm. The Western authorities know that he will inform them if he finds out anything they need to know in the course of his professional work. You know the Azeez social position in this country,” said Saleema.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. I don’t suppose personal attraction plays a part in all of this?” said Jabir.
“Shut up,” said Saleema.
“I hear he is messing about with an English girl,” said Mazook.
“Rushida told me that’s no problem,” said Saleema.
“No problem?” asked Mazook raising his eyebrows.
“No problem at all. It’s just fun for the time being between the two of them” said Saleema.
“You’re sure?”
“Rushida is sure.”
As the conversation between brother and sister went on Jabir became even more aware than he was before of his position in the deciding of his children’s futures.
It was a glorious Saturday afternoon and Iqbal and Hassan were motoring all the way to Southampton for a day of rest and relaxation away from their studies. Their final examinations were only a few months away and this was one of the last times they would be able to take a whole day away from work.
The main “A” road was relatively clear and Iqbal pressed down on the accelerator in order to shorten the time it would take them to reach the port city. They were taking turns at driving and the one who was not at the wheel looked eagerly out of the side window and soaked in the appearances and smells of the rolling countryside. The Cortina fairly flew along and from time to time, especially when Iqbal was driving, they overtook other vehicles. Conversation was brief and to the point. They were going to watch the harbour and walk along the coast for a bit to get really fresh air into their lungs.
Small town after small town went by. Fields and copses with their trees still bare of leaves at late wintertime disappeared behind them.
“Iqbal, why did you ask me to bring so much money?” Hassan asked at length.
“I want you to have a small surprise. Something to do with the horse races.”
“Can’t you just tell me what it is?”
“Nothing bad I can tell you. Just wait and see.”
Hassan lapsed into a silence. He wondered about how old habits of obedience and deference to the Azeez family back in the homeland transferred so readily to England. Somehow he realised dimly that the basis of it was the approval and approbation the Azeezes enjoyed from Western sources which had eluded the Husseinis despite all their best efforts. Hassan privately pondered the many rumours about the Azeez method of auditing and the well-known fact that Ahmed Azeez had contacts with the security services of half a dozen Western powers; he had even been glimpsed entering and leaving American and British diplomatic complexes after hours. There was no greater evidence of approval than this. In the light of all this Hassan wondered why the British had not supplied Iqbal with a real girl to make his June fact not fiction.
The outskirts of Southampton heralded by road signs proclaiming the name of the city came and flashed past. The variegated grey blocks of the city took over from the countryside and Iqbal slowed down the car. The sign of true arrival at Southampton was the first major traffic jam since they left London.
Iqbal had visited Southampton before and by memory he steered the car onto where he knew the harbour area was. Eventually he turned off a main street into a side road and parked the car. When they left the car they both made sure it was safely locked. There was a sort of salty oily smell and taste to the air mixed up with gasoline vapour and industrial odours. The sounds were those of any other city but there was in addition a sense of an empty open vastness beyond. They went down some streets and round several corners under Iqbal’s guidance before drawing themselves up at their first sight of the harbour.
Hassan at once felt regret for not bringing his camera along. In fact he had thought of taking it in Earls Court that morning just before departure but had decided not to mostly because of the cost of buying and developing film. A great transatlantic liner rode at anchor, white and reposed, the decks empty and gleaming in the sunshine. Lesser ocean going vessels were at rest in that harbour and small motor pleasure boats sped to and fro between them. Somewhere in the distance at what they both judged to be near the mouth of the harbour were sailing boats with vividly coloured sails. The freedoms of the sea captured both their hearts. They strolled along the quay and absorbed all they could see of the assorted marine craft and the sea front. There were a large number of passers-by who crowded the sea front, many of them no doubt day-trippers from other cities like themselves. On this day there seemed to be a large number of Chinese people around.
Presently Iqbal suggested going into town to find a meal to which Hassan assented and they landed up at a small Chinese take away. There were two tables in the front area for the use of those who chose to eat on the premises and it was at one of these tables that they took their lunch. It was a cheap establishment and they ordered from among the more expensive items. They shared the final bill and felt replete. Finally they staggered out into the sunlight.
“Has, now for the surprise.”
“OK. Tell me what it is.”
“No. Not yet.”
Iqbal, with Hassan following, walked down a main street and then turned off it into a residential road with terraced housing on both sides. After a while he became hesitant and stopped a middle-aged woman on the pavement to ask where Derby Rd. was. She looked him up and down and then walked briskly away without saying a word. He then asked two men who were walking along the same thing and they too walked away fast without replying. However, when they were at some distance away they hooted with merriment.
“What is this Derby Rd. Ikki? Why are we going there?”
“It’s something good. You wait and see.”
“Other people seem to think it is a peculiar place to want to go to.”
“Other people are not as good as you and me.”
They walked along together and eventually Iqbal walked into a small ethnic looking newsagents shop after asking Hassan to wait on the pavement outside. Sounds from within indicated to Hassan that he had made a sensation. Then Iqbal emerged again.
“I think I know now,” he said.
With Iqbal taking the lead as usual they kept walking in the same direction down the road past several turnings. At one point Iqbal looked from side to side and all around. Then, judiciously, he crossed the street, turned left and walked along. Eventually they found themselves in a street of utterly ordinary brick terraced houses with “Derby Rd.” posted up on the corner of a wall.
“What have you come to see?” asked Hassan.
“Ho! Ho! Wait and see” rejoined Iqbal.
Iqbal scrutinised the houses closely and at this point Hassan noticed signs on doorways redolent of his nocturnal Soho forays. Presently, Iqbal jabbed his finger at a doorway and said he was going there.
“Find somewhere on your own Has. Good luck!”
Hassan stood stock still on the pavement while Iqbal walked down the short paved path of the house and rang the doorbell. After a minute the door opened a crack and a conversation ensued between Iqbal and whoever was within. After a while it seemed some sort of agreement was reached and Iqbal stepped into the house sideways. Hassan had a fleeting glimpse of a young woman examining him before the door shut.
Hassan felt abandoned and let down. He had actually thought that Iqbal was going to introduce him to friends or acquaintances in Southampton or take him to some other sort of treat. At any rate he now knew why Iqbal wanted him to bring so much money. He wandered down the pavement and stood indecisively outside several doorways. He did not really feel like having a sexual encounter that day but for fear of being ridiculed by Iqbal later he pressed the button of a doorway marked “Model” written up behind some dirty glass in the door.
Half an hour later they teamed up on the pavement outside the house Iqbal had entered and decided to walk back to the car. It seemed they had both paid exactly the same amount of money. Iqbal said he had visited the same girl before and declared his satisfaction with her. Hassan said his girl was OK. She was a dark haired thin woman who had done her best for him. They agreed to swap girls if they ever returned to Southampton.
The conversation on the drive back to London was exclusively about prostitutes and their career prospects.
Saleema sat between her two brothers Mohideen and Jofur. They were older than her and looked magnificent in their slightly crumpled but well cut European suits.
Superintendent Masjid sat behind his desk facing them. The product of an elite Copra Island school and the holder of a good honours degree from the island’s only university he was a dapper man in his mid thirties and sported an air force style moustache.
“Now, lady and gentlemen my time is at your disposal” he said.
“We want to talk about the Hussein Husseini case which is public knowledge,” said Jofur.
“That boy who was attacked by hooligans?” asked Masjid.
“Exactly that. We, the three of us take responsibility,” said Jofur.
“You are taking the responsibility?”
“We and we alone. The three of us” said Jofur.
Masjid’s face registered surprise not shock.
“It is my duty as a police officer to request and require you to give me more information.” Mentally Masjid focussed upon the bell under his desk which he might have to use if the interview got sticky.
“As you know we are the Abdul Makar brothers and this is our only sister now Mrs Abbas wife of Mr Jabir Abbas” said Jofur.
“The lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Please go on Mr Makar.”
“It brings shame to my heart to relate the insult to our family but I am a law abiding man and I must do my duty” said Jofur.
There were soothing and urging sounds from his siblings.
“Some time ago there was a wedding at the Coral Reef Hotel…” said Jofur.
“Whose wedding and the date?”
“Mr Mohammed’s eldest daughter’s wedding and it was…”
“About mid April” said Saleema.
At this point Masjid started to take notes.
“Please go on,” he said with pen poised.
“Now being a Muslim yourself you are familiar with our customs,” said Jofur.
“I am indeed. Please don’t worry on that score. Please proceed.”
“As you know as is fit and proper the men are separated from the women and infants at such gatherings but the exception is the throne room.”
“Yes, I have attended at some of the best weddings myself. Go on Mr Abdul Maker.”
“The sexes are allowed to be in the throne room at the same time but it is a matter of trust and is allowed to enable everyone to see the bride and the throne.”
“Yes. Yes. I know.”
“Well, what does this bastard Hussein Husseini do but accost our sister’s unmarried daughter and converse with her in the throne room!”
There were sounds of subdued indignation from his siblings.
“And the lady’s daughter’s name?”
“Ayesha Abbas” said Saleema.
“Her age?”
“Eighteen then. Just now she is nineteen,” said Saleema. Now that Jofur had led the way Saleema felt able to follow through.
“What happened after that?”
“Hundreds could have seen them conversing. Thank God he stopped before something happened!” she said.
“If we had seen him at the time we would have done something then and there” said Mohideen.
“A police officer has to deal with the pathology of the law and more generally with the pathology of life so with my experience I can take all this in my stride. You can repose your trust in me with confidence.”
Saleema paused to take a breath.
“I was informed of the incident by friends, my family and well wishers. Naturally I questioned my daughter and confirmed what he had done.”
“The girl admitted he had accosted and said things to her?”
“Yes.”
“What and what did he say Mrs Abbas?”
“He started to talk about himself and his family, his education and everything just as if she was up for grabs and he was eligible to be married to her.”
There were snorts of contempt and indignation from Mohideen and Jofur.
“Hurt as your mother’s heart is my sister you must be calm and exact when speaking to a police officer,” said Jofur.
“I understand all this but why is your husband not here too?” queried Masjid.
“My husband is an intellectual. My husband is a lawyer. My husband is a sportsman. But my husband is not a man of the world” said Saleema.
“Lawyers are men of the world because they deal with all the world,” said Masjid. He sensed three pairs of antagonistic eyes focussed on him.
“He deals with the civil law and he is not fully aware of the different stations in life almighty God has selected for us,” said Saleema.
“That’s why he is not here?”
“He is not involved. My family, my brothers and I have dealt with the matter.”
“Jofur and I made the arrangements and secured the co-operation of the Dam Street thugs to avenge our family’s good name,” said Mohideen.
“Did any money change hands?”
“That question I will not answer unless I am ordered to do so by a judge in a court of law” said Mohideen.
Masjid knew better than to pursue the point. He thought long and hard in the silence that followed.
“Well, I know your family’s position in the community. If the Husseini family start anything I will do what I can to see that they get nowhere” Masjid said at last.
Saleema and her two brothers shook hands with the superintendent and departed.
Detective P.C. Stella Hawkins read the letter from social services in Harrogate, pondered it and then switched on a computer terminal; she shook her head.
“Peter, come over here please.”
Detective P.C. Peter Aitkins walked over and looked at the monitor screen over her shoulder.
“Strange. Nothing more recent than that date?” he asked.
“There is this letter.”
She handed over the letter.
“Looks a bad business Stella. Look, let the application of common sense prevail. How about visiting her parents and then mobilising the public?”
Hawkins nodded.
The next day two police officers visited the Upton family house in suburban Harrogate. The encounter with the family was emotional but factual and the parents gave their consent to an enquiry about their daughter’s whereabouts.
John Upton, Patricia’s father, was a clerk at a local clothing firm. His wife Joan was the proprietor of a sweetshop cum newsagents in central Harrogate. They had sat together tensely on the living room sofa as the conversation with the police progressed. Their younger daughter who was standing listened to the conversation from the corner of the room. All three members of the family had agreed that something was most probably seriously wrong as regards Patricia. The police noticed the lower middle class surroundings and assured the parents that something would be done soon.
About a week later a poster appeared on the Harrogate central police station public notice board with a black and white photograph of Patricia and some print appealing for information about her. From the very beginning of the formal enquiry London was thought to be the most likely place Patricia would have gone to and the Metropolitan Police was informed. Soon similar posters appeared on London police station notice boards and on public libraries.
Staff and pupils at Patricia’s comprehensive school were interviewed and asked to contribute information which might be even remotely relevant. The consensus of the views was that the missing girl was emotionally stable, outgoing and not likely to behave irrationally or to panic except under extreme pressure.
Patricia’s general practitioner agreed with the school and said that in his view London was the most likely destination. He ruled out suicide except under the most unusual circumstances.
Ayesha followed her mother into the dining room expectantly. She had become of a more nervous disposition ever since her disgrace at the Coral Reef Hotel and still recalled with dread the beating her parents had administered to her for talking with Hussein. In fact, she felt demoted and degraded. After the beating her parents spoke of the care and money they had taken to bring her up which would be wasted if she spoilt her name in any way.
“Ayesha, we have received a proposal for your marriage which we think is a good proposal.”
“Who is it?”
“You must know Rushida who comes here and we visit her house?”
Ayesha thought rapidly. Rushida had only one son and she remembered him as an oily self-assured senior schoolboy to whom she had taken an instinctive dislike.
“Yes. So?”
“It’s her son whose name is Iqbal.”
Ayesha’s fears were now confirmed.
“I don’t know him well. I saw him before he went to England. What sort of person is he?”
“You know the family and everybody expects him to qualify as an auditor like his father. Their family is as well thought of by the West as ours so they are elite like us and they can consider marrying their son to you.”
“How much have you talked about this?”
“Rushida and I have talked the matter over. He has an English girl friend but that is no problem because it is not going to lead to marriage. His having that girl shows that he has something so you can feel encouraged.”
“When I saw him before he left for England I don’t think I liked him.”
“That is only natural. But you will find that time will cure that.”
“But I remember him Mother. I don’t like him.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t take the same attitude to that Hussein Husseini fellow. What we are suggesting is good for you so why complain? Why argue child?”
“I don’t want him.”
“I felt the same way when my parents made me marry your father but now I can see they were right and I was wrong.”
“So you say.”
“That is what I am saying. Do you think your Mother is a fool? The whole thing has been thought out already for you. We will have to pay Iqbal a dowry but the money he will get from his parents and the earnings he will get from his accountancy work will recoup the expense to your children. To your children mind – I am thinking ahead. You are thinking about your own selfish likes and dislikes and we are thinking about the future, about our grandchildren.”
“It’s all so awful Mother.”
“This is our Muslim way and it is the best way. You don’t have to do any hunting around like those European girls. You’ve seen those films? Do you want to be like those shameless women?”
“No of course not. I am Muslim.”
“That’s the spirit. Now we are a relatively liberal family and we allowed you to see those films in the cinemas but that was only because we trusted you to take only the good and not the bad from the West. Similarly for our son. We trust him to take only the good from America not the bad.”
“Will you force a marriage on him?”
“That remains to be seen. First, we want Mubarak to qualify. After that God will provide the right opportunities for those who deserve it.”
Ayesha felt herself being forced into a corner. She already realised that if she persisted in refusing to acquiesce her father, then uncles and aunts, perhaps even more distant relatives would be recruited to drum sense into her. She felt miserable.
“I’ll think it over then,” she said edging away.
“That’s a good child.”
Hassan hated studying on Saturday afternoons in his room with its stale curry smells and the influence of the beds. On such afternoons he was accustomed to walk to the Kensington Public Library with all the books he would need and spend all day there.
He walked into the library through the main door on the ground floor and stopped dead in shock. Right there on the noticeboard was a picture of Patricia! The writing on the notice was a request from anybody who had seen her since a certain date and a contact ‘phone number. He felt his heart thumping heavily in his chest. His first instinct was to run back to Earls Court to tell Iqbal but Iqbal he knew was still out. He crawled up the stairway and found a seat in the reference section. He wondered whether the staff or other members of the public noticed he had just suffered a shock.
Hassan sat at the enclosed desk and, taking his engineering books out of his carrier bag, he arranged them on the desk and on the shelf above. Then he found he could not work. He stared listlessly at the books, flicked them open, shut them, rippled through the pile of foolscap paper he had brought and looked around the tiny enclosure but he still could not work. He sat fidgeting for half an hour before he realised he was achieving nothing. So he gathered his possessions together and walked out of the building hardly glancing at the terrible poster as he egressed.
He walked over to Kensington Gardens in a dazed state. Once the grass and the trees surrounded him he began to feel better and his reasoning faculties returned.
“Well, sooner or later they were bound to cotton on that she had not re-appeared. So they are bound to start looking aren’t they? And this kind of poster thing is the usual way. It was so many months ago. Who would remember us with her now? The body is still there but Mrs. Simpson has not moved the manure heap and in fact has added to it. Even if she removed the whole of the heap now there isn’t anything on the ground itself to tell her what is underneath.” So he reasoned within himself.
After walking around the park he stopped over for a cup of coffee on the Gloucester Road before heading home again. He felt more composed.
He found Iqbal there watching television when he arrived.
“Iqbal, I’ve seen that girl’s photograph on a poster!”
“Who?”
“That Patricia. Her full name is Patricia Upton and there is a notice about her in the public library!”
Iqbal stood up, shock registering on his face.
“What library? Earls Court Library?”
“No. I saw it in the Kensington Public Library.”
“What time is it? Four thirty. What time does the library close?”
“Five o’clock.”
“OK. I want to see it.”
Iqbal flung his old duffel coat on and they walked rapidly to the tube station. They caught a High Street Kensington train and at four fifty arrived at the library.
Iqbal surveyed the terrible poster carefully.
“OK. That’s it then. Let’s walk around” he said.
They commenced to enter the hall of the library.
“Closing time ten minutes” announced an educated female voice.
“Let’s walk a bit then vamoose,” said Iqbal.
They separated and sauntered around some shelves of books.
“Five minutes to closing time. Please start leaving. The library is closing.” spoke the same voice.
They rejoined at the main entrance of the library before returning to Earls Court this time by foot. By the time they reached their room Iqbal had had time to reflect on how matters stood.
“OK. I know it’s a shock but you know it’s all to be expected. The girl hasn’t come back home and she hasn’t turned up anywhere else either so the hunt has begun.” Iqbal sounded sombre.
“What have we gone and got ourselves into?”
“Have faith in God. Faith! What we got ourselves into since you are stupid enough to ask is a good shag. She was a good shag wasn’t she?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“I know you do because you had a second go. That was not a prostitute. That was an amateur and they’re the best.”
“You still haven’t said what we are going to do! They are searching for her here in London but she was from somewhere else wasn’t she?”
“Calm down. Don’t try to get involved in anything military. You have no head for trouble. You can’t deal with stress.” Iqbal felt more superior to Hassan even as he spoke.
“You’re the professor. What are we to do?”
“Nothing. You did right to tell me and now you just do nothing.”
“Nothing for me. What about you?”
“Nothing too.”
The dawn of realisation swam into Hassan’s eyes.
“Look Has. When she hasn’t come home they get worried and the next thing is the poster. They probably realised she was likely to head for London.”
“I see.”
“That’s all there is to see. No more.”
Hassan sat down on the edge of his bed and pondered.
“That’s all you have to do Hassan!”
Hassan acknowledged the wisdom of the approach.
“That’s what they have to do Has. Who saw her with us? Who will remember? It was night time.”
Hassan began to feel lighter in spirit. Iqbal turned the television on.
Over the television Iqbal spoke again.
“Has, one thing only has to be remembered.”
“What’s that Ikki?”
“What Man can’t do God can do. He sent us that girl to reward us for believing in him. We must pray.”
They decided to go to the Regents Park Mosque that very evening after their evening meal.
After their take-away meal washed down by stronger than usual coffee they went by tube to Baker Street station which was close to the mosque.
The British built mosque glowed in the tranquil twilight. It radiated peace and calm. The floodlights had just begun to be switched on.
They entered and walked downstairs to cleanse themselves ritually as a preliminary exercise to the rigours of prayer. Both of them took extra care to be thorough as they washed arms, feet and heads. They also took care to be word perfect as they recited the prescribed prayers which accompany ablution. Eventually, after taking much longer than usual they walked up another staircase to the main hall of prayer.
The stained glass around the massive dome still contained external light from the darkening sky of evening. The vast hall was almost empty. A few people were praying as solitary individuals and some others were sitting on the ground propped against the wooden panelling of the lower walls with their legs stretched outwards. Iqbal took the lead and led Hassan to the front near the niche occupied by the Imam on Friday afternoons.
The rituals of bowing, kneeling and abasing their heads to the accompaniment of the ancient prayers first taught by the Prophet to his original small faithful band of followers during the earliest dawn of Islam massaged comfort and security into their souls. At this time they thought they felt that they sensed the finger of the Almighty who had provided the reward for two of his believers warding off trouble that might otherwise impend in consequence of what they had done.
Having performed all five of the daily prayers in succession they returned to the washroom. After scrutinising the mosque’s notice board they went home.
Ifthikar and Zareen faced Jabir and Saleema across the sitting room of Jabir’s house.
“So on payment of this compensation you vow on the eternal Qu’ran that you will do no further harm to my son?” Ifthikar’s voice quivered with emotion.
“That is correct,” said Jabir.
“In view of the scandal he made in disgracing our innocent daughter…” interjected Saleema.
“Quiet Saleema please. It is best for men to handle this.” Jabir was firm and authoritative.
Saleema leaned back in her chair and contemplated the father and grandfather of the criminal.
“It is agreed. We will give you the money tonight,” said Ifthikar.
Father and son walked out of the house to their old motorcar which was parked on the street just outside. They drove away.
Two hours later Ifthikar drove back alone, handed a cheque to Jabir at the front door and went away.
Gladys MacDonald was on her way to her daily cleaning job in Paddington from her home near Kings Cross. A middle aged and generously proportioned woman she walked down the streets of central London at six fifteen in the morning alert and enjoying the calm of the pre-rush hour city.
The police station notice board was not a subject of particular interest to her and she glanced only cursorily at it as she moved along. She took in the contents briefly and walked past, shifting her internal attention to the routine of the work she was about to do.
Gladys cleaned a floor of an insurance company’s offices as part of a team which worked from six thirty to eight fifteen. Theirs was a labour of routine which followed a weekly schedule. Mondays were when the linoleum was scrubbed, the canteen walls washed and the cutlery in the canteen re-rinsed in very hot water. Gladys had never had educational or social aspirations and found satisfaction in her humble pathway through life. Her husband Ritchy was a recently retired junior civil servant and her children had already grown up and left home.
A janitor opened the staff entrance to the insurance offices to her and she walked up to her floor to begin the chores.
Being of a reflective turn of mind Gladys found she could cogitate many things as she worked. Normally she thought about her children who were both working out of London and about television programmes earmarked for viewing after her return home. The grime of a week lifted under the brushes of her electric floor cleaner which emitted a whine that travelled far down the corridors. Both above and below her she could hear the whines of similar machines being used by other women on different floors.
“Everything all right Gladys?” It was her male supervisor speaking.
“Yes fine” she said.
“Enough detergent is there?”
“For today and next week.”
“Thank you Gladys.”
“Traa Mr Johns.”
The routine continued and Gladys worked and thought. Gradually the interaction of her supervisor’s enquiry and her previous thoughts mixed to form new associations. That walk to work was so quiet, so familiar but there was something she had noticed and didn’t follow through. The soapsuds around her machine frothed as the brushes churned out more lather. Now what was it?
If anything had interrupted her at this point Gladys would have gone no further in her thoughts but there was no interruption. The soapsuds on the floor changed formations and momentarily she was reminded of a face and then it disappeared into fresh shapes. The machine went on and Gladys stroked the floor with long practised sweeps.
After the washing came the rinsing and this had to be done by hand with a mop. She returned the electric floor scrubber to the floor’s cleaning cupboard and brought out her mop and pail. Each movement had been carried out thousands of times before and required little effort of consciousness so her thoughts were elsewhere. That face on the floor. What had it been?
After work at eight thirty that morning Gladys walked back the way she had come and this time stopped at the police station notice board. The face, which had been on the floor, was now on poster. So that was the solution. The explanation resolved, Gladys continued on her way home.
Time can hang heavily on a person with only a part-time job and Gladys set about her domestic chores in her usual steady way. She was not of a fanciful disposition but wondered why the girl on the poster had made such an impression on her.
Jabir, Saleema, Ahmed and Rushida conferred together in Jabir’s living room.
“So what I am saying is that I am prepared to pay a lump sum to the couple of that amount,” said Jabir.
“We think there should be more,” said Ahmed.
“Well, we can negotiate that point a bit later. Now about the transfer of the property.”
“That is the major point,” said Rushida.
“Yes. The main point. I agree there,” said Jabir “now these are the properties and as you can see the valuations are alongside.”
Ahmed and Rushida bent together over the paper.
“Who made these valuations?” asked Ahmed.
“Chartcross the surveyors and the figures are as from March last year,” said Jabir.
“Can we see the evidence of this?”
Jabir left the room and presently returned with a file from which he removed some sheets of paper. These he put before Ahmed and Rushida who studied them.
“OK. So according to Chartcross the valuations are as such at that date. Now the rental valuation is the other aspect of course,” said Ahmed.
“Yes. I have prepared that.” Jabir pulled another sheet of paper out of the file.
Ahmed and Rushida bent over the papers again. They talked in soft whispers and resolved to compare the valuation and rents of each property. They spotted discrepancies and asked questions.
“Yes, well you know sometimes you get an old tenant who has been paying the same rent for a long time” said Jabir.
“You don’t like to review and raise the rents from time to time?” Ahmed’s voice had a querulous tone.
“You can do that but sometimes you lose the good tenant. The known devil.”
“OK. OK.” Ahmed carried on the whispered conversation with his wife.
A servant arrived to announce lunch and the four of them trooped off to the dining room. They ate with their hands and talked about money. Saleema ordered more food and drink from the kitchen and towards the end of the meal the two women joined in the debate.
The seminar continued after lunch. Ahmed won Jabir’s consent to have all the properties valued by another surveyor and to have all the rents checked for veracity by an accountant from his own firm. There remained the matter of the cash payment and this was increased by a small margin.
Eventually, the matters having been brought to a close for the day Rushida asked to speak to Ayesha. Her mother brought in the girl.
“Hello Auntie and Uncle” she said to the two visitors.
“Hello Ayesha. We have been discussing the preparations for your marriage to our son Iqbal. What do you think?”
“I will do as my mother and father tell me.”
“You know I was just like Ayesha at her age. I was not at all sure I wanted to have anything to do with Jabir but I did as my parents told me and it turned out for the best” burbled Saleema.
“Somehow it is appropriate that young people do as their elders tell them on certain matters” said Jabir.
“Sit down Ayesha,” said Saleema.
Ayesha sat down.
“How is Iqbal?” she asked the visitors.
“Well, he is highly occupied at the moment because he is working for his final accountancy examinations and soon he will stop working at the firm of accountants where he is employed to study full time” said Rushida.
“I see,” said Ayesha.
“Do you remember Iqbal? I seem to remember you must have seen him at some get-togethers in the past” said Rushida.
“Yes. I remember seeing him.”
“Our only daughter is rather shy,” explained Jabir.
“How are you getting on at school?” asked Rushida.
“All right.”
“Can’t you say more than that?” said Jabir.
“Well Auntie, I am specialising in languages.”
“Which languages?” asked Ahmed.
“The two local languages and English.”
“Why are you studying both local languages at specialist level? Couldn’t you have done just one local language and taken up another European language?” asked Rushida.
Ayesha asked for the question to be repeated and Rushida asked again.
“Oh, I want to learn more about the local languages and I chose English because it is the most important foreign language.”
“Didn’t you advise her to study more foreign languages?” Ahmed asked Jabir.
“We both told her. In today’s world English is the most important of course but other modern languages which are international help” said Jabir.
“Then why didn’t she do that?” asked Rushida.
“Oh well, we allowed her to do what she preferred in this matter” said Jabir.
“Do you normally go against your parents wishes?” asked Rushida.
Ayesha was tongue-tied.
“No, we allowed her to do this thing,” said Saleema.
“Can I go now?” asked Ayesha.
“Yes, child, go,” said her father.
Ayesha departed.
“There is one non-economic matter that has to be made sure of,” said Jabir.
“What’s that Jabir?” asked Ahmed.
“This English girl he has been messing around with. How do we know he will drop her and marry our daughter?” asked Jabir.
“He says it is only a temporary affair,” said Rushida.
“We want to be sure. We want to be completely sure,” said Saleema.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Ahmed, “we will write to Iqbal and ask him to confirm in writing that there is no obstacle once the dowry matter is settled to everybody’s satisfaction.”
“That sounds like the best thing,” said Jabir.
Shortly afterwards the meeting broke up.
Iqbal sat next to his Auntie Fithumi in the Ice Dream Parlour on the Fulham Road. Each of them had a large and complicated ice cream confection and a milky coffee on the table before them. Iqbal had been ‘phoned that morning by his aunt who had asked to see him that very day. He had visited her that afternoon and she suggested going out for coffee. It was four thirty on a cloudy Sunday.
“I like this place Ikki. I would come here more often but I feel I shouldn’t come alone.”
“It’s a good place but I don’t blame you for not wanting to come here alone Auntie.”
“Somehow it’s this cosmopolitan lifestyle. You know you feel the whole world is represented here.”
“That’s right. Not like Copra Island with just the local people and a few Europeans.”
“But Ikki people don’t want to immigrate to Copra Island. What has that place got to offer?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s an eye opener just going to Heathrow Airport. You get planes from everywhere, people from everywhere in that one place alone.”
“What I don’t understand Auntie is why the British allow the blacks in. They lower the standard.”
“I’ve seen so many blacks not so much in Fulham thank goodness but have you been to Brixton?”
“No.”
“I went to Brixton Market and I thought my God these British must be mad. There were Jamaicans, Africans, there were more black people than others in that place.”
“Why do the British allow this Auntie?”
“I don’t know Iqbal. There are things an old woman like me doesn’t understand.”
Both were digging into their ice creams and sipping coffee.
“But we can be allowed here Auntie. With our ancient civilisations and our achievements we are a credit to this country or any country.”
“Yes. We can be proud of our heritage. Nobody can deny our standing in the world.”
Iqbal nodded.
“Ikki, there is one thing I have to say to you. Your parents and Mr and Mrs Abbas have been discussing the terms of your marriage and the dowry matter is almost settled. My brother is going to have some buildings and rents valued independently and you know the cash settlement.”
“Yes.”
“The Abbases, however, have stated their concern that you are at the present moment involved with another person.”
“Well, I have already explained all that.”
“Yes. You explained it to me but the Abbases see it differently.”
“In what way?”
“You are going to marry their daughter and you are still seeing…”
“June.”
“June. Naturally they are concerned and worried. Wouldn’t you be?”
“I can understand their point of view.”
“Your father wrote to me” she fished inside her handbag and produced a crumpled aerogram, “the Abbas family is worried about our son having an emotional relationship with another person while arrangements for his marriage to their daughter are being made. They want hard and categorical evidence that Iqbal is going to do what he has said he will do and that there are no bars or obstacles.” “I am quoting word for word.”
Iqbal put his spoon down and pondered the street outside.
“What do you suggest I do Auntie?”
“We, your parents and I, thought it best for you to write to the Abbases and confirm in the clearest possible way that there is no obstacle at all to you and their daughter being united.”
“OK. I’ll do that.”
“You have the address?”
“I have it in my head.”
“Will you show me a copy?”
“OK.”
They walked over to the counter, paid their bill which had been deposited on their table already and left the Ice Dream Parlour.
Two hours later Iqbal re-read the epistle which he had written to his future parents in law:
“My dearest Uncle Jabir and Auntie Saleema,
I hope and trust that by God’s mercy you and your family are well.
I have been kept fully informed about all the arrangements made for your daughter Ayesha and myself. If it is the wish of Almighty God in His infinite wisdom that we are to be man and wife I will not raise my finger or my voice to object.
My family has informed me that you have expressed concern that I have a girlfriend. I will not attempt to deny this fact in confidence to you such is my respect for you. However, I swear there is no impediment to the marriage. This I have put down in writing to show my good faith and I declare my sincere intentions in this regard on the Holy Qu’ran.
My studies are progressing satisfactorily through God’s will and if the Almighty wills I will return to Copra Island a fully qualified and experienced Auditor where I will marry Ayesha.
May the peace of God be upon you whichever way you turn.
Your respectful future son in law,
Iqbal”
Iqbal sealed the aerogram, addressed it and went out to post it.
Dr Saidi, a neurologist, made a cathedral of his hands as he contemplated Zareen, Ifthicar and his wife Sareera.
“What I have to say is not welcome I know but this is the best that we can do.”
“Of course I know you are doing your best but we are very worried,” said Hussein’s mother.
“Normal education is in doubt then?” asked Ifthicar.
“Well, these are early days still and we are yet to get the psychologist’s report.”
“The psychological report aside you say as a specialist in your field that there is a certain amount of physical damage?” Zareen was trying not to be emotional.
“I think I can say yes to that. The skull was fractured, there was concussion and the brain was damaged.”
Sareera began to cry softly. The three relatives exchanged glances.
“Dr Saidi, I want to thank you for all the trouble you have taken. We have taken up your time and I hope we will be in touch again.” Ifthicar was tense and he felt perspiration coming out of all parts of his body.
“Not at all. It has been my pleasure.” Dr Saidi gave them his best professional smile.
The three visitors exited with lowered heads.
Later a council of war was held.
“That boy’s future is almost ruined,” sobbed Sareera.
“Crying won’t help Sareera. We must take steps to limit the damage,” said Ifthicar.
“Why did he try such a thing with that girl in such a place?” wailed Sareera.
“England is the best place for treatment,” said Zareen.
“No hope of that. We can’t afford British private medical fees,” said Ifthicar.
“Here in Copra the medical services are so basic and Dr Saidi is not the best in the field,” said Sareera.
“We can’t send Hussein abroad for treatment even if we didn’t have Hassan to pay for. And that money we had to pay the Abbases…” Ifthicar shivered internally at the recollection of his dealings with that family’s outrage.
“With the effects of having paid that sum of money to the Abbases it is without doubt that I conclude Hussein has to be treated in Copra Island itself.” Zareen felt for the consequences of his words on his grandson.
“St. Simons want to know whether he is coming back or not,” said Sareera.
“I’ll write to the school. I’ll tell them how the position stands,” said Ifthicar.
“Will they take him back after so long especially if his brain is injured?” asked Sareera.
“I will give them the facts. They can decide,” said Ifthicar.
That rounded off the discussion on Hussein for the day.
It was a general get together of Copra Island students at a flat in Dollis Hill. This flat was rented by a group of young men who had travelled out together to study in London and had stuck together since arrival. The air was rich with the smells and savours of Asian cooking, the savoury smell of the main course being prepared as well as the sweeter ones of the coconut based pudding.
There were about twenty-five people in the flat that evening, almost all of them young men. There was one elderly man and his wife included in the gathering. This was Uncle Six renowned for his cricketing exploits when he himself was young both in Copra Island and at university in England in the 1940s. He sat in a large arm chair giving a ring of young men around him copious helpings of advice on subjects ranging from the best ways of approaching the British authorities for favours to examination techniques and the points worthy of note of young unmarried girls on the home island. His listeners knew he stood on solid ground because he was well up on the ranking of stockbrokers and they knew the British would only allow an acceptable person to go that far. Uncle Six was also a marriage broker and they all knew he was assessing the bachelors around him with that function in mind. His lady wife was silent and listened pleasantly to all he said and to all that was put to him.
Iqbal was surrounded by a group of friends whom he had known, for the most part, since middle childhood. He had gone to school with some of them. All acknowledged him as a bright star over Copra Island’s eastern horizon. All belonging to the dominant band in their own society, they knew that bonds formed then would last them in good stead for a lifetime. The buzz of conversation around the group clustered around Uncle Six rose and fell as they discussed matters appropriate to the rising young elite. Prominent among their priorities was the acquisition and maintenance of Western contacts and in fact this was the kernel of their discussion.
“You know Mohideen Mohammed is out of the Foreign Ministry.”
“What man! Are you saying he is out?”
“Yes he is.”
“What happened? I went to class with him.”
Brief silence.
“He went to Washington DC. He was recalled and soon he was out.”
“How the hell?”
“He won’t say. The truth is the Americans sent a letter and the FM gave him his marching orders.”
“He must be a damn fool to go to America and get on the wrong side.”
“Nobody knows what was in that letter except the people in the Ministry who fired him.”
Most of the young men within listening range trembled internally for they all realised the consequences of losing Western backing.
Iqbal listened with the air of a judge. He knew that such a fate was not likely to await him. His own nuclear family and other more distant relatives had imparted the secrets of securing Western patronage to him. These things happened to the inexperienced from the middle ranks of the Copra Island hierarchy who attempted to go too far too soon without the guide ropes and helpful invisible hands he had access to.
Hassan realised he could not participate in the centre of such a group and drink the privileged whisky. He was given a glass of pure orange juice and graciously permitted to sit just outside the periphery of the huddle around Uncle Six. Although he was in London he was by sitting there re-absorbing the customs, traditions and values of his native land through this approved channel. This night he had learnt how to write to professional institutions asking for exemptions in examinations based on qualifications from the homeland, the best study methods (Uncle Six had once read Teach Yourself How to Study), how to obtain work permits from the Home Office, which medical departments at universities around the country were most inclined to accept applications from Copra Islanders and points for and against various Muslim girls on the island. He was asked whether he had ever noticed any girls he was interested in and he shook his head. He knew that if he admitted to an interest in anyone it would go straight back to the island and to the girl’s family.
At the far end of the room, around a study table, was a group of four playing contract bridge with a few onlookers. Hassan, after watching the card players from a distance, asked a man near him whether or not it was possible to count all the different hands possible in a game of bridge. His listener was a science student who was known to be gifted at mathematics. He smiled at Hassan and asked him for a piece of paper. This he took and wrote “52! /39!” and handed it back to Hassan who twigged.
In the kitchen of the flat the cooking preparations were going on apace. This was the workshop of the party and clouds of steam and condensation flowed out of the kitchen’s open door into the living room. One of the cooks, a fledgling architect, at length announced that all was ready. This was the signal everyone had been waiting for.
The chairs, armchairs and the settee were arranged in a rough circle in the living room. Then in approximate order of social precedence the gathering queued up for the kitchen where the main course was served out onto paper plates. Uncle Six’s wife helped to serve the food out. Although she and the cooks served themselves last of all that did not indicate that they were low in the social pecking order.
While eating with their fingers the gathering conversed about examinations and job prospects in Copra Island, the Middle East and England for those who qualified. Uncle Six refereed the debate and assessed each speaker according to a system of appraisal he had worked out in his own mind. He noted those who were silent and judged why this was so in each case. Hassan was one of these and Uncle Six reckoned that this was because he felt intimidated by the seniority of some of the others in the room.
As each person finished the main meal he went to the kitchen to wash his hands and help himself to some of the pudding. This was eaten with plastic spoons out of paper bowls. The drinks for after the meal were a selection of tea, coffee, fruit juices, beer, lager and lemonade in paper cups.
While the cooks tidied up the kitchen the groups reformed in the living room. Hassan gravitated back to Uncle Six and his wife. She declared she could read palms and demonstrated her skills on members of her group one by one. After a while it was Hassan’s turn. While he held out his hand she said he was shy, hardworking and likely to marry early. One wit leaned forward, made out to study Hassan’s palm too and pronounced that it was bad for him to go to Soho. Chuckles all round. Even Uncle Six chuckled while his wife dropped her eyes so that her expression could not be observed. Hassan did not know how to react and smirked self-consciously.
On the long way home to Earls Court in the Cortina, while Hassan drove through the night in the heavy traffic, he and Iqbal talked about the people at the party, their backgrounds and prospects and how their families stood in the social ratings. Hassan now knew that the secret of his nocturnal excursions was out but felt, now that it had happened, that it was not as bad as he had once feared.
Dr. Tawfiq Moheed, one of Copra Island’s three Deputy Directors of Public Prosecution put his ‘phone down.
“Sadaam! Bring both those damn files here!” he ordered his personal clerk, a thin bespectacled youth who obeyed his order with alacrity. The nervous Sadaam put the two files on his desk.
Dr. Moheed put his glasses on and studied the files one by one. Keeping both files open he compared figures while doing mental arithmetic. Finally, after about twenty minutes, he picked his ‘phone up and dialled.
“Dr. Moheed here. Superintendent Masjid please.”
He sat there with the ‘phone clasped to his ear.
“Yes. Personally. I don’t want to send a message.”
Another wait.
“Ah Superintendent. Glad to speak to you again. How are you?”
Pause.
“Ah, that’s good to hear. I’m fine thank you.”
Pause.
“I have been looking at the Revenue Taxation records of those two feuding families. Your hunch was right.”
Pause.
“Yes. Absolutely. There is enough difference for there to be no basis of comparison.”
Pause.
“Yes. Right again. You sound on the right track for a move up Masjid. Your judgement is good. Yes.”
Pause.
“The difference is so great there is absolutely no basis for comparison at all. Way over the five per cent level.”
Pause.
“Yes. Those Western government contacts make the girl’s family invulnerable as far as that Husseini fellow is concerned. Right on!”
Pause.
“Yes. No state prosecution. Option of private prosecution and the Court will throw it out.”
Pause.
“Yes. Superintendent Masjid, your work has been good to excellent recently I hear. You should be hearing from me soon.”
Pause.
“Thank you Superintendent. Regards to your loved ones. Goodbye.”
Inspector Marsden pulled some envelopes out of an envelope.
“Now, I want you to look at these photographs carefully Mrs McDonald.”
Gladys started turning the photographs over slowly on the table.
“Now, Mrs McDonald I want you to listen very carefully – I am prepared to repeat myself – there are several different people in those photographs. Do you understand me?”
“Yes” whispered Gladys.
“I think the Inspector will give you time dear” said Ritchie.
“I won’t rush you,” said Inspector Marsden.
“There are 25 photographs and five separate girls among those. Do you understand me clearly?”
“Yes” a barely audible affirmation from Gladys.
“Will you begin now?”
Gladys began scrutinising each photograph carefully. Some were school photographs and others were in a home setting. They were all fairly similar looking, fair haired and impish. Gladys turned each photograph over before examining the next one on the pile. After studying them all and after receiving Marsden’s assent she started all over again. This continued several times over about half an hour. Inspector Marsden and her husband sat silently throughout.
Gladys turned the pile over again and this time removed five photographs which she put on a separate pile on the table.
“I am not sure because it was so long ago but I think those ones are most like who I saw at Euston” she said pointing to the small pile.
“Have you been influenced by the picture on the poster?” asked Marsden.
“Yes I have but those ones are most like the girl I saw at the station I think”.
The policeman took up the two piles of photographs and went out of the room.
“The five she picked out were all of the Upton girl,” he said to his sergeant.
“It might have been the poster.”
“That’s what I was thinking. She says she was influenced by the poster but she seems a level-headed person.”
“Well, she picked the winners. No doubt about that” said the sergeant.
Inspector Marsden returned to the interview room.
“I think I can tell you that the photographs you picked out were all of the missing girl. You left none of her out” he said
“I see,” said Gladys.
“We have your home number and address. I think it is probable that we will get in touch with you again in the near future.”
“I am happy to help,” said Gladys.
After shaking hands Gladys and Ritchie left.
Dr. Al-Fey and Mohideen Makar sat close together on armchairs in the headmaster’s study at St. Simon’s College.
“I understand what you are saying Mr. Makar” said the headmaster.
“I respect St. Simon’s and I respect you personally Dr. Al-Fey. Your high qualifications and achievements are well known.”
Dr.Al-Fey smiled.
“I would like you to respect our family in reciprocation” Mohideen Makar continued.
“Of course. One hands washes another.” Dr. Al-Fey turned over a bank cheque in his hand.
“What happened to my niece is not tolerated and will not be allowed, not as long as the Makar family can help it.”
“Of course. Of course.”
“We have made all proper enquiries and made a clean breast of this to the police. Our family has the best contacts with the police – the top.”
“Of course. Of course.”
“We have also made enquiries at the Neurological Department of the General Hospital. It all points to one thing – that young bastard should not come back to this good school.”
“I agree,” said Dr.Al-Fey who was still fingering the cheque.
“I would like you to do me one favour. Please send me a copy of whatsoever you write to his father. This is my postal address.” Mohideen Makar took a small hand-written note out of his suit pocket and gave it to the headmaster.
“That I will do,” said Dr. Al-Fey while putting the cheque into his wallet and the note on the corner of his nearby desk.
“Coffee Mr Makar?”
“No. Unfortunately I am already late for my office.” The visitor left.
“You know, it is shortly before the examinations that you need to do it with a woman the most” said Iqbal.
“I see,” said Hassan.
“We can’t go round to those stations any more” said Iqbal while jerking his head towards the garden.
“Is there anywhere else we can do it?”
“Too damn risky man.”
“Bus stations?”
“Victoria Coach Station you mean?”
“You know yes like that.”
“No. You know why? We would have been seen going round those railway stations before that night and on that night. By now anyone who saw us will have forgotten. You see?”
“Lapse of time you mean?”
“You’re catching on Dr. Watson.”
“But and this is a big but if they see us again they will recognise us.”
“But they can recognise us anywhere. Yes but they are more likely to recognise us if they see us in a similar setting like any other kind of station including a coach station. Especially if they see us talking to a woman.”
“You sure about this Iqbal?”
“Course I’m sure. Why did the Yorkshire Ripper get caught? Because he kept on doing it especially after there was an alert.”
“Then how did the other Ripper Jack the Ripper avoid getting caught?”
“Probably because he knew when to stop. If he was smart he would never have gone again to that area where he killed those women in case anyone recognised him in that setting.”
“You’re wise Iqbal.”
“You’re lucky you have me to advise you Hassan.”
“So we have to pay the professionals from now on?”
“Yep. We have to pay our way. But that’s part of the reason why we work. That’s why you do overtime.”
“I guess so Iqbal.”
“I wonder what that girl would be doing if she hadn’t met us,” said Iqbal contemplating the compost heap through the window.
“I don’t know. I expect a lot depends on whether or not she got the abortion Ikki.”
“I broke my rule. I said we were not to talk about it.”
“So long as we keep it between ourselves.”
Iqbal now looked at the sky through the window and then consulted his digital watch.
“It’s five thirty already. I’ve got an idea. We’ll start cooking now and then – when did you last see a woman?”
“That last time we went off. Three weeks ago or so.”
“OK. So you haven’t done it since.”
“No.”
“What I suggest is we have those lamb chops and potatoes whatever. Then we go on the town.”
“All right.”
“You can afford it?”
“I save up for this. I don’t save for anything else.”
A model of co-operation they brought out the cooking equipment and food and put the potatoes to boil while simmering the lamb chops in a frying pan. Seasonings were added. Both drank fruit juice while cooking. Iqbal checked the potatoes from time to time by prodding them with a fork and turned the lamb chops over the low heat of the gas cooker. The room filled with lamb and potato odours. Hassan went over to the window and opened it a fraction. Outside, in the darkening garden the compost heap took on the hues of twilight.
“OK. Has. It’s almost ready. Will you make tea or coffee?”
“
posted by Ali @ 8:28 AM
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