A Sacred Storm (13 page)

“You're being a bit melodramatic, aren't you?” said Grady. “You're hardly likely to get recognized as soon as you set foot in the first town we come to.”

“Probably not. But it's hanging over my head, and it's not going to go away any time soon. I won't even be able to get out of the country. I've got no passport – nothing.”

“None of us have got passports,” said Stratton.

“True,” Jennings agreed. “But you two aren't wanted men. It's not so much that anyway. Where's it all going to end up? What am I going to do when this is all over? I'm never going to be able to go back to Britain, and…”

“Stop right there!” said Stratton forcefully. “Take a step back and clear your head. You're getting on a bad thought train. Just remember where you are. You're sitting in a Jeep in Kerala, and that's it. Nothing's happened yet. Don't try and visualize outcomes, it'll only bring you down.”

“Don't you think I know that,” said Jennings. “It's not easy though, is it? I can't just switch off at the drop of a hat.”

“No. But try thinking of a happy scenario – one where you get your life back as you want it. At least it'll keep you going. Just go with the flow and trust that everything will turn out alright. You'll be no use to anyone as a negative mess.”

Jennings concentrated hard on ridding his mind of the doomladen thoughts that had begun to fester. Despite his best efforts the beating he'd given Rashid still lingered. It was taking him to places he didn't want to go, places that conjured up his innermost fears. With great force of will he closed his eyes and imagined the happiest situation he could muster. After a brief shuffle through his mental slides, inevitably his first surge of joy came when he pictured Stella. It was a simple image, just him and her walking through a golden wheat-field hand in hand heading towards a distant sun. It was cheesy but he didn't care. Within seconds a wave of happiness had overtaken him, and his post-attunement content was restored. He continued to focus until his whole body glowed, then opened his eyes and breathed in the fresh whistling air.

“Better?” asked Stratton looking back.

“Much better, thanks,” Jennings beamed.

The ride continued in semi-silence with just the occasional grunt of thanks as the water was passed round. Stratton drifted in and out of a lazy sleep until something up ahead caught his sharp eyes. “Is that a car on the side of the road?” he said to Sunil.

Sunil squinted into the distance. “I cannot tell,” he said. “My eyesight is not what it used to be.”

Jennings stuck his head out to the side. “I think it is,” he confirmed.

As they drew closer Stratton realized it was another Jeep. Three men were hovering around the lifted bonnet, pointing and pushing each other out of the way. Sunil slowed and pulled up behind the distressed travellers. “I will go and see if I can help,” he said.

He got out and ambled up to the flustered group.

“I don't like this,” said Grady from the back seat. “It smells.”

“No, I don't like it either,” Jennings agreed. “What about you, Stratton?”

“I'm not sure. My instincts aren't that good at the moment. But if you two think it's dodgy then we'd better be wary.”

Sunil chatted briefly to the men and then disappeared behind the bonnet with them. Thirty seconds later the men reappeared with rifles. Sunil followed them armed with a pistol.

“For fuck's sake!” growled Grady. “I knew this was all going too easily.”

Within seconds the Jeep was surrounded with a rifle trained on each of them.

“What's this all about, Sunil?” Stratton asked calmly.

“Money, I'm afraid,” Sunil replied. “Apparently your heads are worth quite a lot of it. Especially yours, Stratton.”

“So you're just going to shoot us in cold blood?”

“I am afraid so,” said Sunil. “At least it will be quick and painless. I have instructed my men to make one shot straight to the head.” He drew out three cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “I believe it is customary for the condemned men to have one of these each.”

“We don't smoke,” said Stratton firmly.

“Speak for yourself,” said Grady. “I'll have one thanks.”

“Me too,” said Jennings.

They took the cigarettes and a light, and puffed slowly away stalling for time. Having not smoked for many years Jennings had to stifle a few coughs, but he was determined to keep himself alive as long as possible. He gave Grady a furtive glance, half expecting the American to come up with a plan, but he was met with a shrug and a look of resignation. His only remaining hope was that Stratton might pull off one more miracle. That, however, was most unlikely considering his current health.

He smoked the rest of the cigarette in a state of acceptance, unable to muster any resistance to his impending doom. As he reached the butt, and threw it out into the dust, he began to laugh. The absolute pointlessness of it all hit him like a freight train of joy. He stood up and spread his arms wide and shouted, “Shoot me! Just fucking well shoot me!”

The mystified firing squad looked to Sunil for help. He ordered them to shoot immediately.

Jennings closed his eyes and continued to roar. A shot rang out, and he wondered who had bought it first – Stratton or Grady. It didn't matter anymore, nothing did. He would soon be joining them.

It was cold, wet and windy as Tariq walked through the town on his way to the college. He pulled his hood up tight and braced himself against the elements. After dodging through the motionless traffic he set off down the pedestrianized high street, upping his pace as he checked his gold watch. He'd missed too much work already this term and he didn't need to fall behind even further by being late again. At the Banbury Cross he stopped briefly to adjust his rucksack and then began to run.

He skidded into the classroom bang on nine o'clock and took a seat at the back, where he divested himself of his bedraggled outer garments and attempted to regulate his laboured breath.

“Are you alright, mate?” asked Daniel Trent, sitting at the adjoining desk.

“Yeah…fine,” gasped Tariq. “Just a bit…knackered.”

“Up all night again?”

“Nearly.”

“You should try sleeping mate.”

Tariq nodded but said no more as their tutor had started to speak.

Out of his four ‘A' level subjects History was his least favourite. He'd only taken it at his father's request – “we learn from the past so that we don't make the same mistakes in the future,” he had said. Tariq didn't have the heart to argue with him, and for a peaceful life had agreed to add it to his curriculum. The more he did for his father the less the old man interfered in his life, and at the moment he was glad of the freedom.

As Mr Asquith rambled on about the dissolution of the monasteries, Tariq found his head nodding forward. He had to check himself straight three times before he finally shook off the weariness and regained the thread of the lecture. His attention, however, was tempered with passionate memories of the previous night.

At eleven o'clock when the lesson ended Tariq found that he had no more idea about Tudor religious politics than he had done two hours before. Thankful that he didn't have another class until one o'clock he made his way to the library for a bit of peace and quiet, and perhaps a little snooze. Finding his usual desk in the far corner unoccupied he set out his books and started to read. It wasn't long before he once again started to drift off, but this time instead of fighting it he simply let his head drop into his arms and fell asleep.

He was woken an hour later by the buzz of his mobile phone indicating an incoming text. Expecting it to be a sweet nothing from Jenna he smiled sleepily to himself and reached for the keypad. The message was not from Jenna but his friend Mo. He read it quickly: ‘Phone me – now!'. He put the phone down and went back to his nap – if it was that important then why didn't Mo ring him?

Before he had a chance to switch off again the mobile buzzed once more. This time it was a call. He picked it up lazily and said, “Hi, Mo. What do you want? I'm kind of busy.”

“You're not too busy for this,” said Mo. “I've just heard something that'll blow you away.”

Tariq sighed. Mo was forever bombarding him with calls and texts about things that were quite frankly of no interest whatsoever, but as his oldest friend he felt obliged to humour him. “Go on then mate, what is it?”

“The Mahdi! The Mahdi has come!” Mo shouted excitedly.

“The Mahdi?”

“Yes, the Mahdi! The redeemer, the bringer of justice.”

“I know what he is,” said Tariq. “But it's just a Sufi myth, isn't it?”

“Where are you?” asked Mo.

Tariq told him.

“I'm coming to see you.”

Tariq sat up in his chair, stretched his arms, and yawned. The last thing he needed was an overzealous Mo storming into the library and disturbing the peace. Having built up an understanding with the various librarians, he didn't want it all blown apart by some loudmouth lunatic spouting religious fanaticism at over a hundred decibels. With this in mind he gathered his stuff and made his way to the entrance to halt Mo's progress.

It wasn't long before his outspoken friend came storming down the corridor. “Taz!” he shouted. “It's bloody unbelievable!”

Tariq moved swiftly towards him with a finger over his mouth. “Shush, Mo. I have to study here you know.”

Mo lowered his voice. “Sorry, mate, I'm just so excited.”

“Let's get out of here,” said Tariq. “We'll go and get a coffee in the town.”

Outside the weather had taken a turn for the better and they walked side by side in the sun, Tariq becoming mesmerized by the multicoloured light reflecting off the puddles, oblivious to Mo's incessant chatter.

“So what do you think?” said Mo loudly and pointedly.

Tariq broke from his reverie. “About what?”

“About the Mahdi, of course.”

The Mahdi, thought Tariq. He'd heard the legend, but like all rational Muslims he knew it was just that. He was supposedly a spiritual and secular leader who would reveal himself before the end of the world and restore religion and justice. The idea appealed to the more unorthodox branches of Islam.

“I'm not sure what to think,” said Tariq. “Where did you find this out?”

“Haven't you been listening to me at all?”

Tariq admitted he hadn't.

Mo sighed. “Oh well, I suppose I'd better go through it again.”

They walked in to Costa Coffee, ordered two hot chocolates, and took them to an outside table.

“Right then,” said Mo. “Have I got your full attention?”

Tariq nodded.

“Well then. Like I said before when you were dreaming of whatever, my mum's uncle's cousin knows a bloke who lives in Mecca. Apparently, about four or five days ago, this bloke in Mecca claims that he witnessed a number of miracles. He says that this guy turned up in the marketplace and started healing people. There was one bloke who'd been on crutches all his life and then suddenly – SHAZAM!” he flicked his fingers, “the guy's thrown away his crutches and he's running down the street like Usain Bolt, not a care in the world.”

Tariq raised an eyebrow. “And you believe this?”

“Why not?” said Mo. “The bloke's a reliable source so my mum says.”

Tariq stirred his chocolate and spooned some of the whipped cream into his mouth. “Think about it though,” he said. “A marketplace in Mecca? I could take you to a marketplace in Mecca, hand you a pair of crutches, pretend to cure you. It'd be easy to fool people.”

“No, no,” Mo protested. “It wasn't like that at all. This bloke was a genuine cripple – a local boy who everyone knew. Unless he'd been putting it on for sixteen years then a miracle's the only explanation. I don't know why you have to be so suspicious of everything.”

“I'm not suspicious of everything, just tales of miracles from faraway places, where they probably still use abacuses to count, and camels to carry messages.”

“I'm telling you, Taz, this is the real thing. And you know as well as I do that Mecca's not a backward city. With all the money at their disposal it's probably more advanced than most places on earth.”

“Fair enough,” said Tariq. “But you're still asking me to believe a story that's come third or fourth hand. You have to admit there's a lot of scope for exaggeration.”

“Maybe there is,” Mo agreed. “But my mum's not the only one to have heard the rumour. There's been whispers round the mosque for days now. But you wouldn't know about that would you? Not having been there.”

Tariq shrugged. “I've been busy with college.”

“More like busy shagging,” laughed Mo. “Don't think you can put one past me mate. I know you too well remember.”

“Whatever,” said Tariq.

“Anyway,” Mo continued. “You'd better be free later on because there's a meeting at the mosque. The truth will be unveiled.”

A second shot rang out and then a third and fourth in quick succession, followed by loud screams. Jennings began to wonder why he was still alive. As the wailing grew he opened his eyes to see what was going on. To his amazement Sunil and his three accomplices were writhing around in the dust next to the Jeep, each clutching their legs. He looked about to try and get a handle on the situation. Stratton and Grady were both still alive and appeared equally perplexed.

A horn tooted behind. All three turned round to see yet another Jeep heading their way. Grady was the first to compose himself and leapt out of their vehicle to gather the weapons before Sunil and his cronies had a chance to retrieve them. As the oncoming Jeep drew up Jennings suddenly realized who it was. Standing on the passenger seat waving his shovel hands was the giant figure of Arman Kandinsky, a rifle slung over his shoulder and a grin on his face.