Iqbal andd Hussein

INTRODUCTION

I wrote this short story in 1989 when I was living in a hostel in Central London and working as a clerk at a statutory institution that registered professional people to be employed in the public sector. It was written in the evenings after work and at weekends.

The story is set in the world of 1979 ten years before when Iran was headline news because of their revolution and the American Tehran Embassy hostage crisis. There is a background of the Cold War and the tight hold of Third World countries by the Western powers to keep them out of the Soviet gravitational field by controlling their social elites such as the Abbas family.

Iqbal and Hassan are the chief characters of the story and it is named after them. They are, of course, villains but made so I think by circumstances. They are young Muslim males in a non-Muslim environment and full of the rising sap of early manhood. They are students and need to be able to study well to pass high professional standards in examinations which would control their destinies for the remainders of the courses of their natural lives.

Iqbal and Hassan need sex like most young men but being Muslims they cannot get it from their own community. A young Bengali descended man, a multi-level marketeer, told me in the early 1990s after I had written this story that if a Muslim man needs sex he has to go outside the community. He did not add and I did not say that that is part of the reason why Muslims are so unpopular in the non-Muslim world. Iqbal and Hassan too have to go outside their community for sex and find, like most South Asian students in Europe and North America, that it is only a privileged minority of Muslim men like Imran Khan the cricketer who have Western girlfriends; the others have to make do with prostitutes if they can afford them.

If our two villains try to be chaste they will find themselves trapped in the situation the psychologist Maslow so ably described in his theory of the hierarchy of human drives. If a basic biological drive is blocked higher drives become extinguished. If a man is dying of thirst in a desert he cannot think about higher mathematics or moral philosophy. If Iqbal and Hassan do not have sex they will find they cannot study or sleep well.

In nations where Muslims are the overwhelming majority the plight of young men in this regard is pathetic; foreign women are constantly stared at and pestered and propositioned. Women and girls have to be guarded and made inaccessible because the men are too pressurised to be trusted and it is difficult and dangerous for females to work outside their homes.

Another feature of Iqbal and Hassan is that it addresses the treatment which top people in Asian societies give to their social subordinates. Frequently these dignitaries are hand picked by Western powers to whom they are highly deferential; not so the way they interact with their inferiors. An Arab mathematician once told me of an Iraqi poet who wrote of the tyrants who “act like mice towards their foreign masters and like lions to their own people”. The treatment meted out to the Husseini family first by the Abbas family and subsequently by the Azeez family illustrates this. Western apologists say that such people are needed to “keep the others in line” presumably to keep good order but some may not be sure that that should be the only option available to the suffering masses of Asia.

Copra Island is an amalgam of the Muslim communities of Sri Lanka, Pakistan, Bangladesh and India all of whom send students to Europe and North America to study most of whom find themselves in Iqbal’s and Hassan’s situation. The truths of this sad story will be apparent to most people who have spent time as South Asian students in the West although there are some who will find the truth unpalatable.

My story is based partly on my memories of some young Asian men who went to London railway stations in a car at night hoping to pick up girls. I knew them through a friend who was related to me through the marriage of one of his relatives to one of mine. It is also based on my memories of a European female student at university whose father had worked in Middle Eastern countries and who knew about the Muslim lifestyle. She knew that Muslim girls don’t have sex. She tried hard to tempt me to proposition her for sex so she could report me and, she hoped, get me expelled from the university. I didn’t and she failed.

All art is supposed to reflect life and that includes fiction. While this short novel portrays the seamy side of Muslim life I, the writer, have no solutions to offer. As long as Islam persists in its present state it will bring these stings in its tail. A Westerner once studied Islam in all its aspects and as a result wrote a pamphlet entitled ‘The Dead Hand of Islam’. The religion states that there will be no more prophets. Perhaps some future sage, saint or philosopher will arise and show us all a way to avoid the predicaments of the major personalities in this little story but he or she has not yet arisen.

All I can ask is that the reader reads what I have written and attends to the song not the singer.













IQBAL AND HASSAN


Jabir walked out of his house early that morning with a jaunty stride. It was a clear cool Sunday morning and his next assignment was at the Harbour Yacht Club not that Jabir had a yacht but the name sounded good. In truth Jabir did have a single-seater double handed rowing skiff which he kept in dry-dock as it were at the Yacht Club paying the Club a rent fee for the accommodation of his boat. Jabir was jaunty because he was riding the crest of a recent wave, more specifically, he had piloted an important case in his law practice to a successful conclusion and the grateful client had rewarded him with more than the nominal fee.

Jabir walked on through Tamarind Avenue down to Dock Road along which he went to arrive at the Yacht Club. Twenty-five minutes after leaving home he was afloat, paddling his way around the harbour breakwater. Not normally religious he found his faith in God strengthened whenever he was in his little boat which climbed and fell through the hills the rolling waters made. Jabir trusted the construction of his imported boat and knew it would rise to the challenge of the next wave but he was too wise to risk either his boat or himself too near the broken water at the harbour wall with its large concrete slabs half in half out of the sea along its entire length to absorb the force of the waves in rough weather. Jabir’s greatest fear was of man-eating sharks.

Most people who knew of him in the small world of Copra Island thought of his solitary marine outings as a harmless and slightly endearing feature of this unusual lawyer. Most inhabitants of the island feared the deeps and never ventured farther than ankle deep into the sea. It was a popular practice to wash feet in the sea, however, since it was thought to be healthy for the lower extremities. Sharks, that scourge of the tropical oceans, were kept away from the coastal waters by a coral reef but not near the harbour mouth which was where Jabir went. On this account the local inhabitants who sometimes walked along the top of the harbour wall considered Jabir adventurous, even brave. Occasionally he would recognise a face and return an acknowledgement with a smile or a wave of a hand.

Jabir was a member of the Copra Island elite. He had attended a leading school on the island and had gone on to qualify as a solicitor in England. Arriving home after his successful student career he joined a better-known law firm and was in due course made a partner. Now, in his fifties, he was the head of the firm and one of the best-connected men of Copra Island.

Later that day, seated at the head of the table for lunch, Jabir gazed fondly at his wife Saleema and children Mubarak and Ayesha. Yes, he thought, I have not done too badly, not too badly at all. It was a happy house, relaxed and effective family life internally, well respected externally; the Abdul Abbass family had a better lifestyle than most. The servants brought the food and the family set to eating.

“Are you going to your brother’s?” asked Saleema.

“Unless you want to cancel,” said Jabir.

“No” said Saleema.

Mubarak and Ayesha aged eighteen and fifteen respectively exchanged glances. They liked going to their Uncle Mazook’s house. A retired central banker living alone after his wife died their Uncle Mazook was slightly lonely and glad of visits from friends and family. His own children had by now married and left home. He was at his best reminiscing about his old student days in London and some of the more colourful incidents in his banking career. Mubarak and Ayesha were now too old to be allowed to be close to one another but found they could more easily in the casual atmosphere of their Uncle Mazook’s house. Mazook had a life long love of strange and exotic coffees which he would prepare and serve personally when his brother Jabir and family came to visit.

The family rose from the table and trooped to the kitchen to wash their hands. Saleema called for the car to be brought to the front of the house in ten minutes after they had freshened themselves up and a quarter of an hour later they were on their way.

He blinked in the tube carriage which was taking him home after his shift at work. Hassan was a part-time security guard at a car park and a full time student of electrical engineering at the London School of Engineering. The train was taking him to his bed-sitter in Earls Court which he shared with Iqbal, an accountancy student. The windows in the tunnels were currently dark. Was this what space travel was like? He had a limited imagination but good average intelligence and had seen a number of American science fiction films in both Copra Island and in England. He wanted to travel into space at least once before he died although he realised that the era of mass space travel might arrive after his lifetime. Meanwhile, there were other things to attend to.

He found Iqbal already there when he entered the room. A strong odour of chicken curry and rice pervaded the atmosphere of their one room home. Iqbal said “Howdy” and continued to stir the chicken broth with a large metal spoon.

“How were things today?” enquired Hassan.

“OK. How about you?” asked Iqbal.

“So. So. Pretty boring.”

Iqbal carried on stirring the chicken broth. He glanced over at Hassan and said, “Put some music on. Tape or radio. I don’t mind.” Hassan put a Queen cassette on and fetched the plates out of the dresser. He knew that if Iqbal cooked he would have to wash up alone. He laid the table and walked over to the window to see the car. It was still there all right, an old white Cortina bought jointly by the two of them a few months previously. He felt the prestige of being a car owner more than Iqbal.

“Everything set for tonight?” he asked Iqbal.

“Yes. Why not?”

“OK. I wash up and you tidy up. Then we go.”

“OK.”

Some half an hour later they were in the car driving along Oxford Street with Iqbal at the steering wheel and Hassan in the front seat next to him.

“It’s Kings Cross then if nothing doing Victoria. OK?” said Iqbal not taking his eyes off the road.

“OK Ikki.”

“It’s a Saturday night so there is a good chance for one place at least if not for both.” Iqbal made a wry face.

“If you say so Ikki.”

They travelled on in silence. The small world of the car interior seemed all-sufficient and the flickering lights of Oxford Street and then Tottenham Court Road had the insubstantiality of a film. Each young man was wrapped in a cocoon of private thought into which the perceptions of current reality seemed barely to penetrate. Iqbal was a good driver but took no extra risks by clamping down on the accelerator.

They arrived at Kings Cross at last. Going at a dawdle past the brightly lit main entrance of the railway station Hassan was the eyes of the venture.

“Any prospects?” Iqbal sounded like an amateur astronomer looking for a new comet.

“There might be but you can’t tell. Not at this stage.” Hassan saw a mill of people walking in, walking out, standing around and walking past the station front.

The car crawled on and Iqbal took a turning.

“Any point looking at Euston?” asked Hassan.

“Hell no. We haven’t covered Kings Cross. Kings Cross is the best place I tell you. And there is more fuzz in Euston. Do you want to talk to a copper?”

Hassan subsided. They went on past the huge side of Kings Cross Station between it and St. Pancras Station.

“Remember no pros,” admonished Iqbal.

“How the hell do I tell the difference between a pro and a lost girl?”

“Ask me if you’re not sure.” Iqbal sounded as assured as his driving skills.

They went on at a faster speed past the back of the station, over a bridge and round to the front again. Iqbal slowed down.

“Can’t do this too often. The fuzz.” He said.

“This shouldn’t be illegal. Bloody shouldn’t be” Hassan muttered between clenched teeth.

“Say that to the judge.”

The car crawled on. Hassan drank in all he saw of the station. Iqbal made a few quick glances but took no risks of a traffic mishap. They were both looking for someone who had been there on the previous circuit. This was judgement in a complex and ill-defined environment. Both sweated slightly with tension.

“Anything?” Iqbal’s tone contained irritation but not impatience.

“”There are some women, girls standing around but you can’t tell at this stage. Might be waiting for someone. Fucking boyfriends.”

“Fucking’s the word,” sighed Iqbal.

They took up the turning again and picked up speed. Iqbal suddenly slowed down and then parked the car. The road was narrow and dark like a scene from a film of a Dickens novel.

“Hassan, I’m being serious. We can’t go round too often. We’ll be noticed.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We’ll go round once again and then we park here. We wait for ten minutes and if we see someone there who has been there from the beginning after that …..get me?”

Hassan nodded. He understood.

Iqbal started up the engine and brought the car round to the station entrance once more. This time as they crawled past both of them stared at the station entrance with almost unexceedable intensity. Iqbal drove round the corner again and parked the car in the space he had used before. Hassan produced a packet of filter cigarettes and lit up for both of them.

“What do you think?” asked Iqbal.

“I can only think of one and that is the girl in the blue coat. Did you see her?”

“Hey yes. I know who you mean. That’s the best one. Anybody else?”

“No Ikki. Bloody hell there might be more inside the fucking station you know. That’s the only one I saw because she was outside the doors.”

“I didn’t see anybody else but you’re right. There may be more.”

“Yes.”

“Listen Has listen. We have been careful before, we have to be careful this time and we have always got to take a care doing this. If not it’s talking to a copper in a police station. We are never safe until after the bird has agreed to let us spend some money on her and we’ve done that. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“OK. We walk out of this contraption and walk over to near where she is. Then you let me do the talking.”

“OK.”

They left the car and Iqbal made sure it was locked. The dimly lit road looked like a set for a sad film even more than previously. When they arrived at the front entrance of the station they pretended to saunter. The girl was in her late teens in a worn out blue overcoat and stood apparently quite dejectedly near a pillar. Cold sweat broke out on Hassan’s back and sides. Iqbal nudged him and walked towards her. Hassan remained stationary and tried his best to look unconcerned but his head was teeming with confused thoughts. Would he make it with her and if so what would she be like and if not what were the alternatives for tonight? He had promised himself sex by midnight come what may.

Iqbal walked forwards and adjusted his face for the encounter.

“Pardon me. If you’re newly arrived can I do anything to help?”

The girl turned round and appeared to come out of an unhappy stupor.

“What?”

“Can I help you?”

“What do you want?”

“We were walking and saw you. If you need assistance we can help. My friend and I.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m John and my friend is Stefan.”

“Oh look, no please.”

“You can trust us. This is a dangerous area.”

“Really?”

“Muggers, rapists you know that kind of thing. We’re good people. Do you want a meal?”

The girl stared intently at him then relaxed and looked out at the street.

“What’s your name?”

“Emma.”

“I’m prepared to be your friend Emma. Everybody needs friends.”

She walked slowly away from him, then quickened her pace. Hassan made violent motions with his hands for Iqbal not to follow her. Iqbal walked back to Hassan.

“No fucking good Ikki. I could see that from here.”

“Yep. Let’s scram. She may call the fucking fuzz.”

They walked back to the car without conversation looking straight ahead. Once inside the car Iqbal produced a packet of cigarettes and let Hassan light up for both.

“That’s that” said Iqbal.

“I’m not blaming you. Fucking bitch.”

They sat in silence for a while and the little interior of the Cortina filled with smoke.

“What did she say Ikki?”

“What the hell man? She’s no good. Guarding her fucking pussy.”

“Yep. That’s it. Same as our Muslim girls, some of them anyway.”

“I feel like killing her.”

They relapsed into a silence, inhaling and blowing out smoke as if training to be dragons.

“Victoria Ikki?”

“OK. But let’s get something to drink first. There’s a café not far away.”

“OK.”

Ten minutes later they were drinking tea at a little café on the Pentonville Road eyed with mild interest by the Asian staff. They warmed their hands around the cups and hoped it would not turn chillier on this cold November Saturday night. They sat for the most part in silence. Then they left.

Some forty-five minutes later they were walking around Victoria Station with the Cortina parked in a side street nearby. It was ten forty five but the station was still busy with most of the forecourt shops still trading. Presently they sat down and surveyed the station interior from a stationary position. After that came the inspection of the taxi rank followed by the walk back to the car and the drive home.

Iqbal sat on his bed drinking de-caffinated coffee and Hassan was in the spacious room’s only armchair drinking tea.

“You can’t win all the time,” said Iqbal “you’re not blaming me are you?”

“No but I hate that bloody girl.”

“Tell you what. I’m not going to just sit here and then go to bed. I am going to get myself a shag.”

“Me too” said Hassan “I’ve got enough money.”

Iqbal carried on drinking his coffee and drained the mug. Hassan accelerated the imbibation of his tea and then both offered to wash up. After a friendly altercation Iqbal won and began washing up. Hassan proceeded to put on his dark anorak. The minds of both young men were full of moves, strategies and plans but the guidelines were already set. Both of them had long-standing girl problems delineated by economic limitations. Iqbal had a better allowance from home and with his accountancy job earned more than Hassan. Therefore he had the luxury of visiting prostitutes who operated from their own flats and advertised through telephone numbers pasted onto telephone kiosk interiors. Nobody seeing Iqbal entering a building where a prostitute he was about to visit had reason to suspect what he was really doing. Being well informed he knew that being known to visit prostitutes was liable to adversely affect his student career and future as a respected accountant. Hassan longed for the anonymity Iqbal enjoyed but his purse would not allow it. With his allowance from Copra Island and meagre wages from his security job he had no recourse but to visit the cheapest outlets for his sexual energies namely prostitutes who worked in rooms in the Soho district. These women advertised by means of notices on the open doorways of the buildings where they worked and anybody who saw Hassan going there knew exactly what he was doing. Hassan acknowledged the existence of Iqbal’s fictitious girlfriend whom he mentioned casually to people at social get togethers with admiration and envy. How many people who knew him had seen him by now? He didn’t know and now that the need to have sex was running strongly in him he didn’t care. He had had several refusals from prostitutes’ maids before finding his first accepting girl and that had taught him politeness.

Hassan walked out to the tube station busily selecting his target. Last time, about a month before, he had visited a North Country wench calling herself “Wendy” who worked in Berwick Street. The maid had taken him in straight away and afterwards the prostitute had invited him to come again. During the brief conversation – he longed for social contact with girls as much as the sexual – he elicited from her that “Wendy” was not her real name but she refused to tell him more and he didn’t insist. Yes, he thought as he walked towards Earls Court Underground Station, “Wendy” was a good bet. He’d go to her again. His anger against Iqbal for his ability to be discreet based entirely on money and bringing in its train the immense social advantage of a fictitious girlfriend mounted. Hassan supported Iqbal’s story of her existence – her name was June – and had told other Copra Islanders that he had met her. He knew only too well what Iqbal’s respected and feared Azeez family would do to him if he let the cat out of the bag.

The train alternated through light and dark while taking him to his destination Piccadilly Circus Underground Station. While at South Kensington a sudden thought occurred to him. What if a girl on the game accosted him in the street on his way to “Wendy”? Should he abandon his lover “Wendy” and follow the new star? No, he decided. The Copra Island community in the United Kingdom was full of stories of their men who had been ripped off by women who didn’t deliver. This had never happened to Hassan and he didn’t intend it to. He decided it would be much better to pay in the whore’s room and not before on the street outside. He concluded it would be good policy to reject the allurements of any girl who said “business?” to him on the street. For his twenty-two years Hassan was fairly sharp.

He hated the walk from an underground station to a brothel. How many people might recognise him? Hassan was glad he was wearing his dark anorak as he pushed his way past the crowds at the entrance to Piccadilly Station. He was too nice to molest any woman on the Underground and had seen what could happen. He had seen with his own eyes a woman slapping an Arab and then sticking like glue to report him whenever he tried to exit from the Underground system. Hassan was no fool.

Walking out of the station Hassan felt the familiar psychosis creep up and into him, always the same feeling and always whenever he was on his way to a prostitute. Gone were thoughts of all other goals, including all other women, excluded for the sake of his own approaching sexual release. He walked fast into the heart of Soho revelling in the lights and allurements which were, however, not at this time for him. Down Great Windmill Street with its brightly lit soft porn cinema, Brewer Street and then the sombre relative darkness of Berwick Street he went. Gone were the daytime fruit and vegetable traders of Berwick Street Market, closed were the shops, but he knew the street’s remaining major trading outlet stayed open till after midnight and it was only eleven fifteen. He looked around and the street seemed deserted and he concluded that it was unlikely someone who knew him was tailing him. He walked faster into a dimly lit open doorway. He flew up the stairs, found the closed front door and rang the solitary brown bell push labelled “Wendy New Model”. On another part of the wall was a notice with an arrow pointing to a flight of stairs going up to the next floor with the words “Sophie." Slim young brunette”. Hassan had never been to “Sophie”. After about half a minute the door opened a crack and a suspicious hostile middle-aged woman peered out at him.

“Yes. What do you want?”

“I’ve come for the girl. Wendy.”

“You’ve been before?”

“Yes.”

Recognition strengthened in her eyes.

“You know then? Eight pounds?”

“Yes.”

“There is another customer. Do you want to wait?”

“OK.”

The woman opened the door wider to let him through. He walked into the sitting room and was motioned into an armchair in the corner. The woman drew a curtain around him. Strange, he thought, anybody could see me walking in and out of the building but once in the penultimate sanctum of sex such care to ensure that customers didn’t see each other. He felt enclosed in a cloth wrapped womb. There was a light above him and a low table with pornographic magazines. He picked up a magazine and flicked through it looking at the photographs and cartoons but not reading the articles. He could hear the maid moving about outside his tiny enclosure and it sounded as if she was making tea or coffee. He knew he would probably not be invited to anything in that department. Eventually, the sounds stopped and he continued waiting, flicking through magazines. Strangely at this stage, coccooned in his womb, he did not care if he had been seen walking in but he would still mind being seen walking out. “What the hell”, he thought, “there isn’t a bat in hell’s chance of my having a fictitious girlfriend like “June”. It only takes one person to see me connected with a place like this.” He carried on desultorily inspecting the magazines and finally put down the last one. Then he spread his legs, leaned back in the armchair and waited. After a while he heard the woman on the other side of the hanging fidgeting.

“You all right in there?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“She won’t be long now.”

The silence resumed its reign. Suddenly the doorbell rang and he heard the woman opening the door.

“Sorry. She’s busy. Come back later.”

“How much later?”

“Half an hour.”

“How much is it?”

“You come back and then I tell you.”

The door slammed. He heard it all clearly. The silence resumed its interrupted reign. Straining, Hassan could just make out street noises and what sounded like subdued conversation in “Wendy’s” room. It sounded as though the customer had had his sexual encounter and they were talking while he changed. He heard the door open and the voices became much louder.

“Thank you” said an unwimpish male voice.

“Thank you. Goodbye” said “Wendy’s” voice. It was the first time her voice was unmistakable that evening.

“Bye” said the male voice. The door closed audibly.

The curtain swished open and “Wendy” stood there in a bathing suit.

Iqbal finished the washing up and stacked the dishes to dry. He took the cassette out of the tape recorder and switched on the small colour television for a few minutes till the things were dry. While putting the plates and cutlery away to the accompaniment of a documentary about Nicaragua he thought out his next moves. His usual girl “Silvia” who had operated in Warwick Avenue had, on his last visit, given him his money back and told him to go away and never come back. And all because he had offered to pay more to have sex without a rubber. Iqbal thought she must have had VD on the brain. That very afternoon after his expulsion he had walked to a telephone kiosk and found another woman who operated in Paddington but he was not sure he wanted to go to her again. She had been a disappointment and a bit of a washout. Since then he had made telephone enquiries and noted down the address and flat number of “Julie” who operated in Nevern Square, Earls Court about five minutes walk from his own home. This would require him to introduce himself to good effect to get past her door. He put on his raincoat, combed his hair, checked his money and left the room.

With such a destination Iqbal did not fear being discovered and walked leisurely to Nevern Square. Once there he began noting the house numbers until he found his target building. He walked up the street steps, found bell three, pushed it and waited.

“Hullo.”

“I ‘phoned. You advertised.”

The front door buzzed and he pushed it open. As soon as he was within he noted the plushness and began noting the flat numbers. He concluded the flat was not on the ground floor and went up the stairs. Flat three was the first flat he discovered on the first floor. He rang the bell push on the wall on the side of the door. Presently it opened.

“Hello. Come in.” said a pleasant early middle-aged woman.

Iqbal walked into a well-lit modern flat.

“You go there Sir,” she said pointing to a door left ajar.

Iqbal walked through and found himself in a dimly lit bedroom. It had a double bed, a dressing table, a chest of drawers, a chair, a waste paper basket and two large mirrors, one behind the bed and the other above it. Iqbal sat on the chair noting that he had left the door still ajar. Presently a slim young brunette in a short skirt appeared.

“Hello. I’m “Julie”. What service do you want?”

“Oh. Straight. Intercourse.”

“That’s fifteen pounds.”

Iqbal produced his wallet and paid her the money. She took the money and walked away saying “Get changed. I’ll be back.”

He did as he was told.

Ahmed Azeez and his wife Rushida had recently been having a busy time for their eldest child Fathima had just entered the marital theatre of life. They both shuddered with remembered pain and joy at the various stages of the wedding still only a few months back. It had been held in a major hotel and five thousand people had attended over four days. In fact, it seemed almost as miraculous as the New Testament feeding of the five thousand in Ahmed’s mind as he cast farther back in time to lessons learnt at his Christian school. The expense of the wedding had been enormous and consequently no member of the family could consider going abroad again for years.

Ahmed was a public accountant and one of the leading lights of Copra Island’s business community. In addition to the best accountancy practice on the island he enjoyed a substantial private income from property and shareholdings. Additionally his wife had brought a considerable dowry in property. Fathima now lived with her husband Seyed in his parents’ house, Iqbal the middle child was studying accountancy in London and Bharat the youngest child was still at school and hoped to go on to university.

Just now Ahmed and Rushida were relaxing on a balcony on the first floor of their mansion and were gazing at the night-darkened sea. It was about eight thirty in the evening of a Monday and the heat of the day still lingered in the soil and brought a sea breeze from the slightly cooler mass of water stretched out before them. They both sat in cane armchairs, Ahmed smoking a cigar while Rushida knitted. Bharat was in his room struggling with mathematical and linguistic homework. Later he might join his parents on the balcony.

Presently a servant wearing native costume arrived bearing coffee and short eats. He silently set the tray down on a low table and departed.

“I wonder what Iqbal is doing now,” mused Ahmed.

“Well, it must be about two in the afternoon in England” said Rushida.

“I hope he is making good use of his time.”

“Well, he has passed his, what is it Ahmed, book-keeping course hasn’t he? So he is a book-keeper at least.”

Ahmed did not reply.

“Now he is going to be an Auditor he has decided. Ahmed, will you explain what that system is?”

“Iqbal is, as you already know, a registered student at the British Institute of Accountancy. All students at the Institute have to pass a bookkeeping course at the beginning which Iqbal has done. Those who want to go no further can leave at that stage and after a year’s work which has to be confirmed by the employers and recognised by the Institute become Certified Accounting Technicians. Those who want to study further have two choices which are to specialise in Management Accounting or Auditing. After passing these examinations and after a year’s approved work experience they become either Registered Management Accountants or Registered Auditors. Iqbal has decided to become an Auditor like me and has also decided to carry on studying without breaking off for a year’s working experience to become an Accounting Technician.”

“Is that good?”

“You know Rushida, that boy has plenty of confidence in himself.”

“I sometimes think too much self-confidence.”

“You think he is cocksure. You may be right but time is a great teacher.”

Rushida sighed.

“Fathima is content with Seyed up to now,” she said at length.

“Hum.”

“Do you think we were wise to agree to the marriage?”

“Only time will tell Rushida.”

“That family is good at business but they say they don’t value education.”

“Well, practical knowledge and a track record of achievement in making money is a good enough qualification. Good as any damn university degree.”

“But to marry Fathima?”

“Look Rushida what does a Muslim girl in today’s society need? Either through education or business endeavour a man must make enough money and Seyed has shown he can do that. You know his family has exclusive import licences for Swiss watches and Swedish machinery.”

“And the timber business” she mused.

“Yes and that too.”

“So her marriage is good Ahmed?”

“Look Rushida. I am going to lose my temper. A man must be able to make money, be able to have sexual intercourse and command respect in the community. Sayed has all three. So what the hell does any damn girl want in addition? The moon?”

“Yes Ahmed. You are always right about the children.”

Ahmed leaned over and kissed his wife, then leaning back in his chair he gazed out at the sea again and Rushida did the same.

“Should Iqbal get settled?” he asked.

Rushida continued to gaze at the sea in silence.

“Will you think about it?” he said.

“Yes” she replied softly.

Fithumi Duad was a widow living in a self-contained flat in Fulham. She was Ahmed Azeez’s sister and older than him by a few years. Her husband Kaleel had been a lecturer in statistics at a retail management school for many years and had died recently. Now in her early sixties and in progressively declining health she lived alone in her London flat often thinking and speaking nostalgically of her previous home in the West Midlands where she and Kaleel used to live.

Iqbal’s arrival in London to do an accountancy course was welcome to her since she anticipated regular visits from him and in this she was not disappointed. She liked Rushida but thought her younger sister in law had reservations about her and some slight disapproval of her residual influence over Ahmed. Iqbal, however, she was glad to note appeared to have no reservations about her.

On this Sunday afternoon in December Iqbal and his roommate Hassan had come over for lunch and, the meal over, the three of them were sitting in the living room drinking coffee.

“So Iqbal there have been changes in the family. How do you feel about it?” Fithumi asked.

“Well I only met Seyed at the wedding Auntie but he seemed all right. Father and mother would not have let the thing go through if there was anything wrong. You know my father is highly influential and he is very well informed.” Iqbal replied.

“Yes. Well I had a letter from Ahmed only a week ago and he wrote that Fathima is – how did he put it – content with her lot.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it” he said.

“How is June?”

“She is very well Auntie. She is at the moment temping in London and also she might be going on holiday to Corfu.”

“With you?”

“No. With her family.”

“Where is her family living?”

“Also in London.”

“I see.”

Fithumi’s eyes narrowed as she considered her nephew. There were no girlfriends in Copra Island and this was an area of experience in which she was unfamiliar. Her own marriage to Kaleel had been completely arranged and she had stayed faithful to her husband throughout. She had never had any affairs. Iqbal’s relationship with a non-Muslim girl gave her mixed emotions.

“Ahmed mentioned that you had passed some accountancy exam,” she said.

“Yes. It was the first bookkeeping stage. Now I am going on to becoming an Auditor.”

“Like Ahmed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you intend to work in your father’s practice eventually?”

“That’s one possibility.”

Fithumi paused again. Hers was a family of sound achievers she knew and the signs were that Iqbal was following the general trend. The part of him, which came from Rushida, was an unknown factor which gave her a need to discover more. She knew too that, like her brother, Iqbal was likely to clam up if questioned too closely.

“What do you think of Ayatollah Khomeini?” she asked both of them.

“He is a fanatic,” said Iqbal.

“What do you think Hassan?”

“I agree with Iqbal,” he said.

“The taking of hostages is wrong,” said Iqbal.

“That’s what most people think,” said Fithumi.

“In Iran the masses of ordinary people listen to the Ayatollah,” said Hassan.

“That’s right,” added Iqbal.

“What should President Carter do?” asked Fithumi.

“He can’t drop a nuclear bomb because that is not on and getting the hostages out is a problem because he is dealing with those fanatics,” said Iqbal.

“Yes,” said Hassan.

“As fellow Muslims how should we look on the matter?” asked Fithumi.

“Well, the Iranians say America has done this and that and they won’t release the hostages till America pays damages. The trouble with that is that in the world community America has real authority which Iran doesn’t have” said Iqbal.

“Quite right. I agree with you there,” said Fithumi.

“Khomeini is playing a dangerous game,” said Hassan.

“Why do you say that?” asked Iqbal.

“You know, western powers, especially the United States, have powers other people don’t have. They can do things we can’t do. The Ayatollah doesn’t want to acknowledge that,” answered Hassan.

“Quite right. In life everybody has to know their place” said Fithumi.

“We are all under the Americans, everyone who is not in the communist block. The Ayatollah does not want to admit that,” said Iqbal.

Fithumi sighed.

“What about the religious aspect? The Ayatollah says God is with him,” said Fithumi.

“Islam is social and nothing else unless you’re pretending. The world Muslim community won’t move against America because they are not mad,” said Iqbal.

“You’re right,” said Hassan.

“What is probably going to happen?” asked Fithumi.

“Probably America will win,” said Iqbal.

“Nobody wants to back a loser so other countries won’t support Iran,” said Hassan.

After a while the visit drew to a close and while Iqbal and Hassan went home through the weekend traffic Fithumi pondered gravely over her young relative and the matters raised at their discussion.

Ifthikar Husseini and his father Zareen Husseini sat on cane chairs on the veranda of the latter’s home. Zareen had been a grocer in Suba the capital of Copra Island and now lived in retirement on the outskirts of that city. Ifthikar, the owner of several small shops in Suba, was his oldest and favourite child and since his wife died Zareen had learnt to rely on Ifthikar more especially as his health was failing. In various matters requiring acute judgement however it was Zareen who advised and guided Ifthikar.

It was a glorious Saturday afternoon and the air was full of birdsong mixed in with traffic sounds and vendors’ cries. There was a pungent reek of earth smell from the ground possibly the result of some unknown chemical process. Zareen had just asked his servant to pass the order for tea to be brought out to the veranda and the father and son waited, chatting in low tones.

“As you have said Hassan is showing results for his studies in England. If God wills he will return a qualified engineer and I think you are quite right not to send out Hussein until Hassan’s education has been completed.”

“The expense I hope will be worth it father.”

“If God wills. These matters are in his hands.”

“Do you think England is the right choice?”

“You know son, the recognition for the British qualification is world-wide. That New Delhi degree is recognised only in India and a few select places which know about it.”

“Yes, you were saying before.”

“Now you know the salaries here in Copra Island don’t justify the expense of sending him all the way to England and the answer is the Middle East.”

“Quite right yes.”

“Those Arabs respect only western training. For them New Delhi qualifications hardly exist. You know there are many stories coming back here of acute discrimination in their treatment of Europeans and non-Europeans. Among the non-Europeans the best treatment is given to those who have European or American credentials. I am saying that that is what you are paying for when you send your son to London.”

“I agree with you hundred per cent.”

“Also I have faith in Hassan.”

The male servant brought tea, left it on a small table and left. The two of them helped themselves, talking while holding cups and saucers.

“This Iqbal he is staying with. I have some doubts, some reservations,” said Zareen.

“Ha. You said before you didn’t like it.”

“Yes. The Azeez family are wealthy, have expensive tastes and being in the same place as Iqbal may give Hassan wrongful ideas about life and how a good Muslim in our family’s position should live.”

“I hear Iqbal Azeez has an English girlfriend.”

“That too. You see running around with white women is not for our family’s position. Hassan may get expensive tastes. He may want to find a non-Muslim woman too especially with that example.”

“He has always been a level headed boy.”

“He was level headed when he left Copra Island. He may have changed by now.”

“From his letters I can see that his English language has improved since arrival in London but his outlook and character I can’t judge from letters.”

“Just be thankful if he passes all his exams and comes home safely.”

Father and son chatted on softly into the afternoon. They re-confirmed that Hassan’s younger brother Hussein should not be sent abroad to study until Hassan returned home. Hussein was interested in becoming an architect and this was a new departure for the family. Zareen calmed Ifthicar’s fears and approved of Hussein’s ambitions. The shadows lengthened and more tea was ordered, brought and drunk. Eventually Ifthikar rose to his feet feeling released like a Catholic after confession.

As Ifthikar drove home the sky darkened bringing out the tropical stars, those magical sparks which sparkle more than in higher latitudes but fail to live up to expectation under magnification in the telescope. Ifthikar could not name or recognise a constellation to save his life. All his interest in matters beyond the confines of his personal life was restricted to his understanding of religion. The Qu’ran provided all answers so why seek further? He could not understand Arabic but could utter the sounds of the written Arabic Qu’ran. He reckoned that if the form was produced God would provide the substance. To doubt that was to undermine his belief in Islam.

The train sped through the English midlands carrying Patricia Upton in a second-class carriage. Her head teemed with anguished thoughts which whirled around and around reaching no conclusions but refusing to go away. Her plan was simple and vague: somehow to contact the Pregnancy Advisory Bureau and terminate her pregnancy. She had had a short conversation with the Bureau on the telephone refusing to give her name or address but imparting the core of her problem. She subsequently decided to run away from home, arrive in London and terminate her pregnancy.

Patricia was seventeen and half way through A Level courses in English Literature and History at school. She was a normal girl and had recently started having sex with local boys in her North Yorkshire town. She had been on the pill but had forgotten to take one on the day of one particular party when in the night afterwards she had intercourse with several boys in the back seat of a car in a car park. She knew she had been incautious the next day and this was subsequently confirmed in her own eyes when, after several missed periods, her doctor informed her that she was pregnant. He had refused to have anything to do with helping her to get an abortion with stentorian “Noes” which reverberated in the surgery and in her memory. She dared not tell her parents or younger sister.

Now she was on the train with seven pounds saved up pocket money in her purse and two large carrier bags. She decided not to go to the refreshment bar on the train because that would cost money but she was hungry and thirsty. She could not beg from the other passengers who all seemed cocooned in their private worlds. Euston was still three hours away by which time she would have been forced to buy something to drink, such was her thirst. What she would do for accommodation after reaching London was part of a great cognitive void which future circumstances would fill.

For the time being she was content to gaze out of the train window at the moving countryside and comb through her thoughts. She was strangely unperturbed about her family’s reaction to her running away and attributed this to steel within herself and not to insensitivity or ingratitude. The train was a time capsule which was taking her to a new land of as yet uncharted turnings.

“OK Has” said Iqbal over the sound of a game show on television, “if we’re going to do anything tonight we’ll have to get our act together.”

“Yup. "I’m thinking.”

“Halves on the whisky?”

“Sure that’s necessary?”

“It covers us morally, legally and compromises the girl. Not even an English court will think a respectable girl will drink with completely strange men.”

“Yup. "I’ll fork out.”

“OK. Let’s get it ourselves now.”

They put on outdoor clothing and sauntered out of the building. They exchanged no words en route to the nearby off-licence and in the shop Iqbal selected a cheap bottle of whisky of a well-known brand and paid for it. Hassan paid Iqbal his half of the price on the pavement on the way back. As soon as they arrived home Iqbal stored the bottle in a cupboard and then they both took off their coats. Hassan made coffee while Iqbal, the professor of the as yet to be accomplished checkmate of a girl, expounded his game plan. They jointly decided to take the car but not to kerb-crawl in it. At both Victoria and Kings Cross they would park the car nearby and search the station forecourts for newly arrived girls. They both agreed that they must have missed a great deal at Kings Cross on the last occasion by looking from a car. It was Hassan who said that the girl at Kings Cross who had walked away from Iqbal might have noticed them driving by a few minutes before. Iqbal washed up saying as he did so that he would never forgive whoever was responsible if he returned to Copra Island without having had sex with a woman who was not a prostitute.

The drive to Victoria was devoid of light conversation and the atmosphere in the Cortina was similar to that of a tank crew driving to battle. Iqbal found a parking space in a side street near the station and they walked there in silence. They were acutely aware of never having trapped a girl yet and this filled them with a steely determination to succeed. Hassan suggested that if they failed to “score” as he put it they spend a little time in the cartoon cinema on the station concourse before going on to Kings Cross. To this Iqbal grunted his consent. Iqbal feared that the failure to date under his leadership might undermine his implied supremacy over Hassan based primarily on family status and wealth back home on Copra Island.

The two of them sauntered along the concourse near the trains and often glanced up at the electronic signboard announcing arrivals. They both noticed there were large numbers of people standing around clearly waiting to meet disembarked passengers. Iqbal suggested it would be wise to attempt to pass off as one of them. As time went on and passengers disembarked they did not notice anyone who seemed lost or disorientated on arrival. The moving on from platform end to platform end under Iqbal’s captaincy at length annoyed Hassan. They went up and down the station concourse several times, sometimes hurrying to a platform where a train was shortly to be expected, but all to no avail.

Hassan suggested that they take a coffee break instead of going to the cartoon cinema and Iqbal agreed again. In the cafeteria both of them said they were fed up but agreed to move on to Kings Cross instead of re-commencing the search at Victoria. It was a dispirited pair who left Victoria mainline terminus and took the route to Kings Cross where Iqbal parked the Cortina off the Pentonville Road.

As previously arranged there would be no kerb crawling at Kings Cross either. They walked slowly in the concourse similarly to their performance at Victoria and, as before, found no unattached women appearing to be disorientated. This time it was Iqbal who suggested a refreshment break saying he would pay. They settled down to yoghurt and tea at a station cafeteria and pondered their next moves. Iqbal said that at the rate events were moving both of them would return to Copra Island without having had sex with a non-prostitute. Hassan was nearly in tears. Iqbal suggested taking a look at Euston before returning home. Hassan assented from a sheer inability to argue back.

They walked over to Euston Station and took in once more the modern architecture, spacious and unfussy, which differentiated it from Kings Cross and St. Pancras. The concourse was fairly empty of people and there was no air of promise in the environment. Iqbal walked over to a low wall partitioning off the entrance to the Underground from the mainline station. Hassan followed.

“Bloody terrible this place” Iqbal sighed partly to himself and Hassan, partly to a girl standing just beside him with two carrier bags.

“Yes. I think you’re right” she said.

Hassan paid her no attention.

“Are you waiting for someone?” enquired Iqbal.

“No. I’ve just arrived.”

Hassan now pricked up his ears but pretended not to be interested.

“We’re students from Copra Island,” said Iqbal.

“Oh, that’s a long way away. What are you studying?”

“I am doing accountancy and he is going to be an engineer.”

“I’m still at school.”

“Can we give you a lift?”

“I have nowhere to go. I’m destitute.”

Iqbal and Hassan took it in dumbfounded. El Dorado had come to them at last in the form of this girl.

“What’s your name?” asked Iqbal almost sharply.

“What’s yours?”

“I’m Iqbal. This my friend here is Hassan. We’re room mates.”

“I’m Patricia.”

“Where are you going to stay tonight?” asked Iqbal.

“In the station.”

“It’s going to be cold here and you might suffer from exposure.”

“Yes.”

“Have you had anything to eat?”

“No. Not recently.”

“I don’t want to just walk by and leave you. There must be something we can do.”

“That’s kind of you. I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

Iqbal and Hassan were beginning to like this petite girl who had fallen into their hands like a wounded sparrow. The predatory instinct was for the time being extinguished. They persuaded her to go home with them and have refreshment and shelter for the night. The three of them walked back to the car feeding each other personal tit-bits of information in the course of which Patricia blurted out that she was pregnant and seeking an abortion in London. Iqbal and Hassan exchanged glances.

The drive to Earls Court was full of reassuring talk by Iqbal about the good character of Hassan and himself. Nevertheless Patricia was not sure whether or not they were really good Samaritans and felt taken over by these earnest young men from far away.

Once in the bed-sitter it was agreed that Patricia should warm herself by the gas fire while Hassan went out for a take-away from the nearby fast food outlet on the Earls Court Road. Patricia offered to pay or at least contribute but this was waved aside. While Hassan was out Iqbal put the kettle on for coffee. He suggested some whisky to warm her while the kettle boiled. She accepted nervously and asked for it to be diluted. Iqbal made two glasses of watered down whisky which they sipped, she sitting on the armchair, he on his bed. Soon after the kettle had boiled and three mugs of coffee had been made Hassan returned bearing a cardboard box which proved to contain a pie and chips. Patricia expressed her gratitude and offered to pay but this was refused again.

Hassan carefully put the pie and chips onto a plate and provided cutlery. While she ate at the small desk that Hassan used for his studies the small talk continued. All three drank coffee. It was agreed that Patricia would spend the night in Iqbal’s bed while he slept on the armchair. Iqbal washed up.

What happened during the course of that night ended the life of one of the people in that room and utterly changed the lives of the two survivors. What happened that night was a triumph of the Id over the Super-Ego, of the flesh over the spirit, of the bestial over the thin veneer of civilisation. What happened that night was a celebration of the triumph of opportunism over trust and while the survivors cursed the Muslim girls who left them in a state to commit such an act against a person whom fate and circumstance had entrusted to their care they feted their personal victory and the achievement of their goal.

Briefly, during the early hours Iqbal climbed into his bed with the intention of having sex and was refused. Enraged, he jumped out, grabbed the whisky bottle, hit Patricia repeatedly on the head with it knocking her unconscious and then had intercourse with the comatose body. Afterwards Hassan had sex with her. The overhead light showed a huge swelling on the side of her head. Finally, after they had both had second turns, they asphyxiated her with a pillow. Patricia died at three in the morning.

In the middle of the night Iqbal and Hassan sat on Hassan’s bed naked contemplating the unclothed body partially covered by the counterpane. It all seemed unreal and dreamlike but she was there to be seen and touched. Presently Hassan rose up, felt the corpse and said it was beginning to cool. Iqbal pointed out that something would have to be done before dawn if the matter was to be kept a secret. The following conversation was all about witnesses. People might have seen her in their company but not remember enough to have them traced. Passers by in the street should have short memories unless the hue and cry started early.

It was Iqbal who thought of the solution. They would go to their landlady’s small back garden, move the compost heap, dig a hole under the original site, put in the body, replace the compost heap and earth over it and then return to bed. Hassan agreed that it was the best thing to do.

Iqbal put the radio on softly to muffle the sounds of moving and digging from the other tenants and they entered the garden through the back door. They found a spade in the unlocked shed and set to work. Everything was heavy and difficult even though they took turns with the spade but the earth was loose to a surprising depth. Eventually, an hour and a half before dawn a large enough hole was made with two heaps, one of compost and the other of earth lying ready. The night was almost pitch black with just a little indirect light from nearby street lamps. The radio music made the whole scene like something from a horror film. Iqbal entered the house and emerged with a bundle wrapped up in the bedspread. After examining all the darkened windows – no movement no sound – he dumped the body into the hole which was two and a half feet deep at its greatest depth, pulled off the bedspread and helped Hassan pile on the earth with spade, hands and feet. Forty-five minutes before dawn the hole was filled in and the compost heap was back in its usual place in the corner of the garden. Now the compost heap seemed slightly larger, recently disturbed and smellier as a result of being stirred but otherwise all was normal. Iqbal put the spade away and they both crept back to their room and beds.

The new murderers slept soundly until ten thirty when Iqbal woke up, roused Hassan and began preparing a breakfast of toast and coffee. While preparing the repast Iqbal expounded his plans for the day: they would collect all Patricia’s belongings and put them into carrier bags. Then they would drive out of London and drop them bit by bit into street litterbins. When they returned home they would wash all the clothes they had worn the night before including the sheets. The dressing gowns would be sent to the dry cleaners. Afterwards all things connected with Patricia would be a forbidden subject even between the two of them in private. He also suggested taking showers before leaving.

Iqbal consumed his toast and coffee and then had his shower. When he emerged Hassan had had his breakfast, had also washed up and was waiting to have his own shower. They exchanged places in the shower room and while Hassan washed Iqbal rummaged through the room for all evidence of Patricia’s existence. All her belongings including her carrier bags were put into three carrier bags of theirs and these were stacked against a wall. Then he changed into outdoor clothing. When Hassan came out of the shower room Iqbal was in street clothing with everything ready. Hassan got changed and after checking the whole room for anything Iqbal may have missed agreed that there was probably nothing left behind.

They made tea and drank looking morosely at the bags stacked against the wall. There was no conversation. After Hassan had washed up they left for the car with the three bags. These were the early manoeuvres in the war against the system, which would soon be searching for the causes of Patricia’s disappearance, and mistakes made at this stage would be difficult to rectify later. It might be the case that if the authorities ever got to the point of asking either of them questions relating to Patricia they would be doomed to conviction for her murder.

Iqbal drove west over Putney Bridge and on to Richmond. Past there he drove slowly and parked the car in a side street. They emerged with the three carrier bags which they dumped one by one in pavement litterbins. Nobody paid them the slightest bit of attention. After wards they had lunch in a workmen’s café for which Iqbal paid. Apart from a little desultory conversation they ate and drank in silence.

The drive back to Earls Court was fast and furious, something having egged Iqbal on to pressing the accelerator. By the time they arrived home they had new self-perceptions and views of the world. They sat down on their unmade beds and discussed their next moves. The kettle was put to the boil and coffee was made while Iqbal expounded his plans. It was a glorious set of opening moves against the system but the outcome was far from certain. Hassan marvelled at Iqbal’s coolness under stress and wondered whether or not in other circumstances Iqbal could have been something like an internationally renowned chess player or in time of war a military strategist on the winning side. He resolved to follow Iqbal’s lead.

After the coffee all the clothes they wore the night before along with the sheets were put into a suitcase and taken to a coin operated launderette on the Earls Court Road. At the launderette Iqbal put more than the recommended amount of soap powder into the washing machine. While the clothes were in the wash they walked around the local shops. Iqbal bought a book about oil sheikhs at a newsagent. Afterwards, back at home they took turns ironing while their radio gave out pop music. By four thirty of the day on which Patricia died there was no trace of her either in the room or in their car. Just in case, Iqbal rubbed surfaces in the room and car interior with a piece of cloth.

Ahmed and Rushida sat in their back garden watching their gardener cutting the grass with a manual lawn mower. They sat in cane chairs with a small low table between them loaded with iced soft drinks. They conversed in soft tones and in English lest the gardener should overhear. It was three thirty on a Sunday afternoon. Ahmed had telephoned his sister Fithumi that morning to enquire how she thought Iqbal was getting on with especial regard to his studies and his girlfriend. Fithumi said that to the best of her knowledge Iqbal was studying well but she had as yet not been able to meet June his girlfriend who did not seem to want to socialise with Iqbal’s family. However, both Iqbal and Hassan had spoken warmly of her and attributed her reluctance to meet to shyness. Rushida then get on the ‘phone and conducted a woman to woman talk on whether or not Iqbal was likely to marry the unknown girl. Race and current religion were not of fundamental importance, she said, as long as June said the kalima and became a Muslim. The real problem was that June was not likely to produce a dowry.

At this point Ahmed took the ‘phone and explained the nitty gritty to his sister who was capable of understanding his position at least as well as Rushida. The marriage of her niece Fathima a short while back had cost him a considerable capital sum in terms of the dowry he had to pay her husband to induce him to marry. In addition the wedding had cost a fortune. Fithumi in London tittered apprehensively knowing how much it would have cost her brother financially, emotionally and even socially to lose so much money. Ahmed went on to say that he would not have objected to Iqbal, his middle child, marrying out if all his children had been male but having parted with so much to have his daughter settled he could not bear the thought of either of his sons marrying without bringing in substantial dowries. Fithumi tittered again and said she understood why parents dreaded the birth of female children. Rushida listened intently to Ahmed’s side of the conversation.

Ahmed reached the point at last, in fact the only reason he had initiated the lengthy and expensive call to London. With yelps of suppressed fury he implored Fithumi to make contact with Iqbal or even June herself and use any method within the law and do her uttermost to break off the liaison. Fithumi agreed to do whatever she could. With a flurry of religious benedictions from both sides the call ended.

Now sitting in his garden Ahmed pondered his sister’s ability to deal with Iqbal and June. He had faith in her but his wife did not know what to think. She had said the names of several girls from educated and wealthy families to her husband but he had replied that all that was mere speculation until June was “disposed of”. She agreed.

Presently a servant appeared, took away the glasses and table and, leaving their chairs, they walked into the house.

The day after the trip to Richmond Iqbal and Hassan attended classes as usual after assuring each other that they would act normally throughout. At breakfast they had listened to a serious radio station specialising in news instead of their habitual pop music. There was no mention of any missing person. On the way to their colleges they bought broadsheet newspapers instead of the tabloids they read before. Again, there was no mention of a missing girl. When they returned home from their colleges they watched the early evening news on television and there was still no mention of Patricia.

“Wait until her parents get worried about her not coming back. Then the hunt will start.” said Iqbal.

“It’s too early Ikki.”

They agreed that after doing their homework and having eaten supper they would go down to Brighton to get some sea air into their lungs. Both the studying and eating was done in near silence and the drive to Brighton was uneventful. Once there Iqbal parked the Cortina in a minor road and they walked into a pub. Iqbal ordered a pint of Guinness and Hassan had a glass of orange juice because he was a teetotaller. They conferred together in a secluded corner.

“One thing Ikki is that without that girl I would not have had a fuck with a non-prostitute in England. Shame we had to kill her.” said Hassan sighing.

“What the hell, what the fuck could we do otherwise? If she got out she would have been squealing like a stuck pig that I attacked her and then raped her. The court might think it was a minor rape because she had agreed to spend the night in our room and we spent money on her but it’s still sex with assault without her fucking consent. Know what I mean?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think we should move out of there?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“I have been thinking too. Know what I think? We should bloody stay there for the duration.”

“What the hell! We’re so near the body.”

“That’s the reason. If we move out the next person to move in might start tidying up the garden and find the body.”

“You mean as long as we are there there’s only us and Mrs Simpson with access to the garden and she probably won’t do anything to find out by herself?” Mrs Simpson was their landlady.

“You’re cottoning on Hassan. When we go in several years the body will have deteriorated and scientists will find less evidence to get us on if they ever find it.”

“With luck nobody will find it until building work goes on much later and they might think it was animal bones.”

“Let’s hope so Has.”

“Ikki, I believe in God. Will you come with me to the mosque to pray we won’t get caught?”

“Let me think. Friday jumma prayers are out. I can’t get to Regents Park from work in the lunch break. The evening’s OK.”

“After eating on Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“Ikki, God sent us that girl and he won’t let us get caught.”

“You’re right. The Holy Qu’ran says believing men are rewarded with women in paradise but sometimes God gives the reward here too. At least that’s what I hope.”

“Let’s hope the next occupant of our room doesn’t take too much interest in the garden.”

“Hassan, normal garden digging doesn’t normally go as deep as we put her. Only making foundations for building work goes that far.”

“I hope you’re right.”

The conversation drifted onto other subjects including Iqbal’s sister’s marriage and other Copra Island topics. Presently they left the pub to walk along the sea front after which they entered another pub in the Lanes. Nobody paid them much attention while they drank. Finally they left and in an hour were back in London for a peaceful night’s rest.

Fithumi switched off her television after watching the nine o’clock news on the BBC and made herself a cup of coffee. She was wearing casual clothes and her hair was still wet from a shower she had earlier on that Wednesday evening. Her brother Ahmed’s phone call some days previously had put her on the spot she thought. She could either refuse to have anything to do with what he suggested or else she could try to contact Iqbal or June or both of them with a view to terminating the liaison.

She sipped slowly and thoughtfully as the various possibilities revolved around in her mind like the glass pieces in a kaleidoscope. What was she to do? She had observed the students at her late spouse’s college and had noted their vivacity and intelligence. In fact, she wondered how Kaleel had managed to teach in such an environment. In the relatively static oriental world from which she came there was little or no real progress apart from changes imposed from outside and she was perceptive enough to know that the surface turbulence apparent in any Eastern society was not a symptom of long term change. From Iqbal’s description of June she concluded she was likely to be a vivacious liberal and a free thinking person who would discuss and argue and that she could not contemplate. Then there was the problem of getting Iqbal to introduce her. She did not think there was anything in her background or personal make up to equip her for such a task.

Fithumi drained the last of the coffee and put the cup down on the coffee table in front of the settee. The two alternatives were to refuse to have anything to do with it or to tackle Iqbal about it. The first option was the easiest but it kept open the possibility of Iqbal marrying without a dowry.

She made up her mind and after stiffening her resolve picked up the ‘phone to invite Iqbal to visit her on his own for a serious talk.

Rushida had spent the whole morning deep in thought and it showed in worry lines on her forehead. Ahmed had gone out to work and she was left in the house with the servants and her reflections. Various options seemed to her to be jumbled up like the pieces of an unsolved jigsaw puzzle.

She walked around the house supervising the cleaning of the rooms and corridors and paused to chat to some of the women servants about their problems. Although not naturally hardhearted Rushida suffered from chronic superficiality and was not really interested but she knew that a caring attitude was effective in winning the support and loyalty of her domestic staff. She decided the composition of her lunch and ordered the cook to have it brought to the small pantry where she would eat alone.

She went to the telephone and rang up her friend and confidant Saleema who lived about a hundred yards away. Rushida was invited to lunch and declined but asked whether she could come over sometime to discuss a personal matter. Saleema suggested that very afternoon and Rushida agreed. Three o’clock was the appointed time. Mutual pleasantries and the ‘phones went down.

Rushida and Saleema shared a secret which neither would ever divulge. Rushida had a long-standing libidinous craving for Saleema’s older brother Hamza who was an architect. Occasionally meetings were arranged and Rushida would have her way with Hamza in a spare bedroom in Saleema’s house. This conspiracy drew the two women tightly together and there was very little of substantial importance about either of them which the other did not know. Rushida had a fond attachment to her husband but in her experience only Hamza’s pounding body with his good stamina had satisfied her. She hated Hamza’s wife Sithy and wished her a short and unhappy life.

Her various tours of the house done she inspected the front and back gardens, pausing to gather information on matters horticultural with her gardener. The garden was Ahmed’s concern and she was careful not to interfere but she made sure nothing went on that she did not know about. The gardener knew she had an unused power of veto over Ahmed’s choices of flowers in the flowerbeds.

Presently she went to the pantry and had her fish curry and rice lunch, attended by an elderly woman servant who had been in her service for many years and who stayed close by to relay any messages Rushida might want to send to the kitchen.

Relaxed and refreshed by her lunch Rushida read through a copy of the Daily News, the major Copra Island newspaper, to be up to date with the news should matters of general interest be brought up at Saleema’s house. After finishing with the newspaper she heard a little radio music to while away the time and finally felt she was ready for her task. She decided to walk to her friend’s house so as not to bring out the driver of the family’s Mercedes.

On arrival at Saleema’s house she was greeted with the usual warmth and effusion which she took care to return. On hearing that she had something private to discuss Saleema led the way to the spare bedroom where on previous occasions Rushida found fulfilment with Hamza. Rushida winced slightly at the associated recollections of Hamza in action while his sister gazed studiedly out of the window urging quietness not leaving the lovers alone lest the servants discovered that Rushida was alone with a man.

“I have been thinking about my son Iqbal” began Rushida.

“Let’s sit down.”

They sat down side by side on the bed.

“Thank you. Yes, it’s Iqbal I’ve been worried about.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“You know now he is twenty one it’s not long before responsible parents think of marriage. That’s what I have come to talk about.”

“Aha.”

“I was wondering if you were thinking about the same thing for your daughter Ayesha.”

“Naturally, now she is sixteen the parents start considering.”

“I was thinking about Iqbal and Ayesha.”

“My, now you’re giving me a shock or should I say a surprise. Is this, are you being serious?”

“I am serious.”

“This is a surprise to me and I must think it over.”

It was in fact something that Saleema had been thinking over and hoping for a considerable time.

“You already know so much about Iqbal there isn’t much I can tell you about him now you’re so well informed.”

“Yes. That’s true and the families are close.” Saleema tried to suppress a smile at the recollection of Rushida clutching Hamza and gasping while she, Saleema, implored them not to make a noise lest the servants heard.

“Have you discussed this with Ahmed?” she asked after a pause.

“No.”

“I see.”

“Do you want me to say anything to Ahmed now?”

“What I suggest is that I talk to Jabir and you talk to Ahmed and then we can discuss the whole thing together. All four of us.”

“That’s sensible.”

“There’s one thing. I hear Iqbal has an English girl in London. Isn’t that a problem?”

“To be frank it is and I wish I had brought it up with him when he was here for Fathima’s wedding.” In fact Rushida was proud that it was generally known that Iqbal was involved with a European girl.

“What is this girl’s name?”

“June.”

“Isn’t that an obstacle?”

“I am hoping and praying that he won’t marry her. I will tell him that we won’t have anything to do with him if he marries out of the community.”

“That’s hard but it’s the right attitude.”

“Ahmed’s sister Fithumi is going to talk to him about it.”

“I see. That’s good. I mean our values must be kept.”

“Now I really must be going.”

“Wait. Have something to drink before you go home.”

They went downstairs to take refreshments and forty minutes later Rushida was back in her own house.

Iqbal sat bolt upright in the armchair listening to the sounds of his Auntie Fithumi loading her dishwasher with plates and cutlery next door in the kitchen. He was curious as to why she had insisted that he should come over for lunch without Hassan and during the meal she had seemed withdrawn and preoccupied unlike her usual self. He felt a tension in his chest which was without doubt due to anxiety arising from his aunt’s unusual conduct. Something within him warned that there was something evil afoot and that in the near future his aunt would inform him of it. She called him from the kitchen to help her perform some minor chores while she made tea for two. They worked in silence without the usual chatter, which took place when he was in her company. Eventually he was done and she had made two mugs of steaming tea which they carried out to the drawing room.

“Ikki, you know I have to tell you your father ‘phoned me a little time ago. He is a worried man.”

“What’s wrong auntie? Tell me now.”

“It’s about you Ikki. It’s about you.”

“What’s it about auntie? Can’t he afford to keep me here?”

“No. It’s not economic thank God. They say that next to God money is the most important thing and thank goodness he is doing well in that dimension.”

“Oh.”

“Ikki, it’s about this June girl. He has heard about it and he is worried sick.”

“There is nothing to be worried about.” Iqbal had invented June intending news about her to travel to Copra Island but he hadn’t bargained for a reaction like this.

“Now that your sister is settled your father’s thoughts are more about you and he is worried, frightened that you will marry a kaffir. That’s not right. We all know that’s not right.”

“I see.” Iqbal felt he desperately needed time to take stock.

“Ahmed has trusted me from the time he was a little boy, from the time when we were both young, and he has asked me to do what I can to stop a kaffir creeping into the family. It’s a sin to say this but it is true that by God’s gift our family has money. Does June have money?”

Iqbal’s mind raced. This was turbulent water and he felt he was like a computer in the midst of a “real time” operation.

“To tell the truth auntie I don’t know. The subject has never come up between us.”

“What does her father do for a living?”

“I heard her saying he was in an office. I don’t think it’s manual work.”

“Don’t you know more?”

“No.”

“I see.” Fithumi paused briefly. “Now in the absence of your parents I think it is my duty to tell you the facts of real life and how we are a successful family in the rough and tumble of Copra Island with so many hands wanting to pull us down if we were foolish or if God forbid we lost God’s blessings. We make good decisions and make sure that we make good alliances with the right type of people. Also, with the assistance of other people we make sure to the full extent of our power and influence that those who oppose us regret their presumption. Don’t underestimate your own family just because you were born into it and take it for granted.”

“I’m listening.”

“Another thing. Don’t that because I am a woman and getting on in life I am not as capable as any man in our family. Ahmed your father would tell you that any time you asked him. To the point. One of the most important decisions a man can make is the choice of wife. In our family it is considered to be an alliance not just between two people but also between two families. English people don’t think like that and if you married June you’ll probably just get the girl.”

“There’s nothing to worry about auntie. I won’t marry June.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“To be frank it’s only sex. That’s why she is unwilling to meet my relatives in England – because she has sex with me.”

“So the question of marriage has never come up?”

“Not with her.”

“I see. That’s really good news and your father and mother will be happy for your sake.”

“Is this why you wanted to see me on my own?”

“Yes. Your father wanted me to try to stop you seeing June but now I know I’ll tell him and I don’t think he or any reasonable father will object to you seeing her for your purpose.”

“We understand each other.”

The conversation continued in a lighter tone on other topics until the conclusion of the visit an hour later. Iqbal returned home by tube with a sense of achievement. Fithumi, as soon as he had left, picked up her ‘phone and dialled Ahmed’s house.

The wedding guests poured through the main entrance of the Coral Reef Hotel, the men almost all in dark European suits, the women in a variety of traditional costumes most of which were variations of the Indian sari. The Husseini family had parked their elderly Morris Minor some distance away from the hotel which was in the centre of the commercial area of Suba and walked the half-mile or so to the building.

Immediately they entered the guests separated into two groups according to sex and went to the two separate reception halls for men and women. Among the women’s’ crowd were children and babes in arms. Long tables were set out for the wedding feast that was to feed two thousand people and had imposed a ruinous financial burden upon the bride’s father who was a well-known agricultural exporter. Loudspeakers blared out Arabic prayers interrupted occasionally by Western dance music, jazz and Elvis Presley. Hussein followed his family through the main doors and then accompanied his father into the great men’s’ reception hall. The air was thick with the mixed odours of tobacco, food and perfume which was used by both sexes. His father teamed up with some cronies of his at one particular table and Hussein joined them.

The chanting of Arabic droned on from prayer to prayer through the highly imperfect sound system. Hussein ignored the religious noises but relished the occasional pop music which livened up the atmosphere. He became bored and asked Ifthikar’s permission to view the bride in the throne room as there was going to be plenty of time before the dinner would begin. Ifthikar assented.

The bride sat motionless on her seat under the flowery canopy which had been constructed especially for the occasion. This was the only part of the hotel reserved for the wedding apart from the kitchens which was not sexually segregated. Hussein gawped at the lovely svelte bride who gazed into vacancy as though contemplating infinity and eternity. Suddenly he noticed Ayesha Abbas, a child of senior school age whom he had seen at several previous social get-togethers. Their families were known to each other but did not mix, the Abbas family being relatively too high up the hierarchy of the community to socialise personally with the Husseinis.

Their eyes met and non-verbal communication occurred. They liked each other.

“Are you Ayesha Abbas, Jabir Abbas’ daughter?” Hussein ventured.

She smiled dazzlingly.

“Yes” she said.

“I am Hussein Husseini, Ifthikar Husseini’s son. I think our families know each other or know of each other.”

“I think I have heard of the Husseinis somewhere.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen in two months. You?”

“Nineteen in five months.”

“Look, people might notice us talking and then there might be trouble. I should go.”

Ayesha turned around preparatory to walking away but then swivelled her head back again to ask, “What school are you at?”

“St. Simons. Where are you going, school I mean?”

“Our Mother of Mercy’s. I must go.”

Ayesha walked away swiftly and disappeared into the crowd which parted to let her through. Hussein looked in that direction briefly and then returned to his father without taking another look at the bride.

Later that evening, after returning home, Hussein told his parents he had met Ayesha Abbas in the throne room. Their reaction appalled him.

“God, oh God, what sin have I done to deserve this?” wailed his mother Sareena.

“Son, some devil came over you to talk to that girl,” Ifthikar pronounced gravely without his wife’s emotion.

“What’s wrong?” asked Hussein.

“Son, you can’t marry that girl. We don’t have the money or the status to arrange that for you.”

“I wasn’t thinking of marrying her Father.”

“You’re going to kill me Hussein,” sobbed his mother.

“Hussein, I am being serious. Has someone hit you on the head or have you banged your head somewhere so the brain is affected?” Ifthikar said.

Silence.

“I asked you a question and I am your Father so I am in my rights to require an answer. Has anything happened to damage your brain?”

“No. I swear.”

“Ifti, he plays football. That’s how it could have happened sobbed Sareena.

“Did you hit your head playing football? Do you head the ball?” Ifthikar’s voice was in interrogatory mode.

“I didn’t hit my head and I haven’t headed the ball recently.”

“What the hell did you mean by talking to that girl?” suddenly thundered Ifthikar, the walls and windows of the living room reverberating with the force of his voice.

Numbed, Hussein began sobbing like his mother. A male servant put his head around the door and was motioned away by gestures from Ifthikar’s hands.

“Something has to be done and he spoke to her in the throne room where everyone could see” lamented Sareena.

“If they say anything I will pay damages to save your future. That much I will do for you as a father” said Ifthikar judicially.

“How serious is it?” asked Hussein.

“Hussein, go to bed now. That’s an order,” said Ifthikar.

Hussein shambled away to his bedroom without saying another word to either of his parents.

It was a Saturday evening at the Palm Tree Café an establishment owned and managed by a Copra Island syndicate which ran hotels and restaurants in Copra Island itself, Western Europe and North Africa. Iqbal’s father Ahmed owned a five per cent stake in the stock and thus was one of the largest individual investors in the company. It was furnished and decorated in a judicious amalgam of European and Asian traditions and a bright spotlight recessed in the ceiling lighted up each table. There were banks of fresh flowers along the walls and above them were large batik paintings. The venue was about half full and almost all the customers were European, the prices being too high for most Copra Islanders resident in London. Iqbal and Hassan had come there on the prior understanding that Iqbal would pay for the main courses and Hassan would take care of the desserts and drinks. All this had been laboriously explained to the Copra Island waiter who took their order.

Iqbal ordered some fairly expensive meat, vegetable and rice dishes for both and then invited Hassan to select more. Hassan chose an inexpensive vegetable dish which Iqbal overruled, suggesting a pricier item which Hassan accepted. The waiter, sensing Iqbal’s seniority in the Copra Island hierarchy, bowed and left.

“Now, about the forbidden topic, how do you feel about it?” queried Iqbal.

“Mixed emotions.”

“I suggest that we, neither of us, go near those railway stations. No traces, no clues no anything.”

“If you say so.”

“Say you agree definitely.”

“OK. I agree definitely.”

“That’s fine. You agree we both had a f with a non-p and she was w?”

“Yes. That much is certain.”

“My planning. You agree that without me you would have returned home to Copra Island after only getting it with P’s whether w or not?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. The next thing is that we never mention the subject again after tonight. We did nothing, know nothing, can say nothing. OK?”

“OK.”

Behind the bold front both of them were frightened and worried wondering why a manhunt had not started for Patricia with the media involved. They did not know that the family and local police thought she had run away from home to work in the black economy in one or other of the large cities. The doctor had been contacted and confirmed to the police that she had been pregnant. Everyone expected her to turn up at a hospital or clinic somewhere either asking for an abortion or pre-natal care. Further, if her source of income dried up she would have to ask for state assistance in which case she would contact the social security people. In the meantime she was on a missing persons list.

The conversation moved on to their student careers. Both knew that their progress was being monitored by the Copra Island community in London and by others in the homeland. Their future status, income and matrimonial prospects depended heavily on examination successes in London. Both knew that they were studying not only for jobs and money but also for wives and dowries as well. And to think it all turned on how skilfully they turned their pens in the examination halls!

The elaborate meal arrived and was consumed to the accompaniment of local island music which had just started up on the café’s sound system and conversation about their student hopes and fears.

The main course over, Hassan ordered exotic fruit dessert for both. Iqbal nodded his agreement. Their tongues loosened by lager for Iqbal and orange juice for Hassan, the conversation turned to lurid accounts of exploits with local Copra Island prostitutes before they left for London. Iqbal said he had first had sex at the age of thirteen, the woman being a prostitute in a rural district of Copra Island. He did not add that he had also had sex with an ex-servant girl of his family and a cousin soon after her wedding when the disgrace of not being a virgin on her wedding night had ceased to be a problem for her. Hassan said he had first had sex at the age of fifteen with a Suba prostitute. They both chuckled happily at their recollections.

Eventually, they paid their bills and tip and left for their home in Earls Court. Iqbal had the foresight not to take the car as he anticipated drinking alcohol at he café so they returned as they had come, by tube.

Hussein opened his eyes and saw a flat white surface at an indeterminate distance. It was mottled and criss-crossed by cracks. There were sounds of subdued talking and of distant wheels being moved about. He found he was lying horizontally on a soft object and his head was wrapped in some material. He looked from side to side and then back to what he now recognised was a ceiling and refocused his gaze. Suddenly the jumbled mix of sensations coalesced into a set of perceptions of his position and place. He was lying on his back on a bed looking up at a white ceiling in a room with two chairs and a side table. His head felt fuzzy and light. This must be a hospital or sanatorium.

How had he come to be here? He reached back in his memory but the most recent recall he had was of leaving the football match and walking down the street with his group of friends some of whom were his class mates at school. There appeared to be nothing between walking down Fern Road and waking up in this place. Why was his head so wrapped up? He didn’t know.

“Hey boy you up at last. We was worried with you in that coma. How you feel?”

Hussein turned around again and saw a white uniformed nurse had slipped into the room by the door which had been left ajar. She was surveying him professionally.

“I don’t know. What happened?”

“You is lucky to be alive. You got a nasty blow on the head and your skull was broken. We been doing plenty on you. You was asleep throughout.”

“But what happened?”

“Your friends said you had been attacked by gangsters on the street and when the police came you were out on the pavement.”

“Where are my parents?”

“We call them right away. They will be excited.”

The nurse left and Hussein was alone with his thoughts. He was attacked by hoodlums on the street! That must be it if the nurse said so. The process of thinking and perceiving became clearer and he marshalled his thoughts. Between the end of the football match and waking up here he had been attacked on the street and he was sufficiently injured to be knocked out and hospitalised.

The door opened and his parents entered accompanied by an elderly woman servant in their house who had cared for Hussein when he was younger. There was no greeting.

“Son, my heart is broken,” sobbed his mother.

“They took revenge and made an example of you,” said his father.

“Who?”

“The Abbas family. You talked to their daughter. Somebody from their side telephoned and said they don’t allow it,” said Ifthikar.

“You did wrong my dear. When I was a girl that age nobody was allowed to talk to me and I come from a poor family” it was Zul his old companion and veteran family retainer speaking.

“How badly hurt am I?”

“Your skull is broken and the doctor said you have extensive injury to your chest” said Ifthikar.

“Did they do it on purpose? I mean why couldn’t they tell me not to talk to her?”

“Son,” said his mother “you had already spoken to her and there were many witnesses. They thought they had to do something to protect the girl.”

“Are the police charging them?”

“They would have to kill you for the police to charge them. They have more money more influence,” said his father.

The nurse re-entered the room.

posted by Ali @ 8:09 AM 0 comments