Dear Infidel (16 page)

Life is bland. Mostly. Days come and go and we buy comfort and sell ourselves. And then come the spikes. Extreme highs and lows puncture the cocoon, heightening senses, precipitating thought. Remember meeting that dear old friend after such a long time? Wasn’t it just like the taste of Christmas Past, mellowed in oak? More often, though, you end up being force-fed some home-brewed hooch that leaves you half-blind and bleeding from every orifice.

Imtiaz had arrived. Out of everyone he lived the closest, yet he was nearly two hours late. He was just inside by the front door and was trying to take his shoes off. Their black-dyed leather was well worn and the laces utterly frayed; he fumbled in undoing the knot.

‘Good to see you again, Imtiaz. How are you,
Bhai
?’ asked Salman. Instinct, though, made him look away even as he greeted him. Imtiaz smiled weakly and muttered in response. A motionless Pasha was there too as Imtiaz continued wrestling with his shoes. The sleeves of his overcoat rode up as he picked at the knot, exposing thin wrists with skin wrapped tightly over bone.

‘You’re looking well,’ commented Salman moronically. Pasha looked at him aghast before glancing back at his brother, hoping he hadn’t provoked a reaction. He hadn’t. Quitting whilst he was only just slightly behind, Salman about-turned and scuttled off; the two brothers were left on their own. Finally, Imtiaz stood up.

‘Hi, Pasha.’

His face carried no expression at all, yet Pasha knew he was mortified.

‘Are you well?’ he asked, falling into the same trap as Salman. He bit his lower lip as the brothers embraced loosely.

Leading him into the kitchen, Pasha recomposed himself.

‘Guess who is here, Mum?’ He attempted a fanfare before briskly walking through and planting himself at the breakfast table, next to Salman. The two exchanged looks. Imtiaz stood alone, stranded by the kitchen door. His head was lowered in an attempt to hide under his baseball cap, yet a thin film of sweat was still evident – his skin glistened with dis-ease.

Aaliyah and Taimur stopped and stared. Nazneen and Bilqis turned away. Arwa looked full of shame.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said blandly. His mother embraced him tightly but he barely reciprocated. Watching on, Bilqis remembered him as a little boy. He was always such a frightened child, always holding onto his mother, tagging behind on her apron strings. She was filled with sadness.
This boy just never stopped being frightened
.

‘Hello, Aunty,’ he peeped, a tremor in his voice.

‘Why are you wearing this thing indoors?’ She admonished him and swiftly removed his cap without seeming interested in a response. His head of hair resembled a sea storm: overgrown clumps lashed into random, frenzied shapes. Bilqis smarted at the display before running a hand through.

‘And what is this, eh?’ Her serious eyes bore no hint of remorse. ‘No time for a haircut? No time to wash or comb?’ She darted from one eye to the other, looking for some sign of life. Pity soon pulled her back. She kissed him on the third eye. His body was bent awkwardly and he tried smiling but it came out all distorted. She kissed him again and abruptly let go, moving swiftly to inspect the bubbling dishes. Imtiaz moved on.

‘Good to see you again,’ said Aadam with a handshake. ‘This is my wife,’ he jollied, those words accompanied as always by an unfailing pride.

‘Hello, Imtiaz,’ Nazneen smiled and held out a cup of tea. ‘You look like you could do with this.’ He responded to her brightness and accepted the drink gratefully. Taimur now held his toy car up to the strange man and Imtiaz reacted with delight. He was re-introduced to Kahina by Salman, them having met before, and then he tried to pick up Aaliyah but she screamed and writhed away in protest. Everyone
laughed. His father and Husnain re-entered the kitchen and the coldest of greetings between Imtiaz and Zakir followed.

Pasha felt shaken. He couldn’t take his eyes off him when he had first entered. His body had lost all structure, its definition distorted. His arms and legs had wasted away but bizarrely he’d also acquired a belly. And his face, too, was puffy but it was the total lack of expression that was the starkest feature: dead eyes peering out from a live but rotting carcass. The extra fat on his face (certainly more so than he could remember) had taken the edge off him as “him”, blurring his features. He looked somewhat androgynous, amorphous. He had searched for the right adjective or phrase, and after dismissing “dishevelled” and “unattractive”, had settled on “cartoon ugly”.

But now he felt ashamed. This was his brother. He recalled that incident when Kahina had given him Aaliyah to hold. The little girl had shrilled and squirmed in protest until her mother simply had to take her back. Everyone had laughed; even Imtiaz himself had laughed, but he wasn’t stupid. His brother was absorbing insult after insult with an animal’s tolerance, and he was fully aware. Pasha hung his head.

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

JALALUDDIN RUMI

Mother...

I’ll never risk reading a magazine in this house again. I flick back to the front cover, curious to see what bizarre periodical has made its way into the Walayat household.
Sufi Psychology
, it says. Jeez. It’s not what
I
pick up from the “special interest” section at
my
local newsagents ... haha ... But it’s not really funny, is it. God. If I were a dog they’d put me down. I remember someone from work once blustering about a stag-do to Amsterdam that they’d been on, and how their top-shelf magazines put us Brits to shame. Now, I’ll admit to having enjoyed more than the odd copy of
Mayfair
or
Men’s World,
but over there they cut right to the chase:
Fist Cunt
and
Choco & Piss
are two titles that I pretended not to hear, but which were seared instantly into my mind. I mean, just how messed up can a person get? I ain’t claiming to be no saint, but if I found myself next to someone browsing the latest issue of
Choco & Piss
, even I’d be running for the hills. I’m scared. I really am. I don’t want to descend any further down this pit. I desperately need help.

I toss the magazine onto the coffee table and collapse back. I inhale greedily, trying to work out what the hell to do next: dinner’s close to being served but it ain’t ready yet. Five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes to go.
Please, God, just get me through this day
. I’m on my own in the living room but then my Old Man enters.
Oh God, please
.

‘Oh, I’m starving!’ my father jollies, taking his favourite seat. He’s on good form today, I tell you. ‘What’s to come first?’ he bellows with good humour, clearly expecting to be served on hand-and-foot. I’m
guessing the question’s aimed at my mum, but she’s in the kitchen and no reply comes forth. He smiles at us nonetheless from across the coffee table, kind of flashy, and I wink back.
That’s right, ya cunt. Start as ya mean to go on, I say
. He rubs his hands with glee, clearly picking up none of the poison in my eyes.

The breakfast table was too small to fit everyone so we decided to eat in the living room. Well, when I say
we
decided, I mean Pasha decided. He’s rolled his sleeves up today, and no mistake. He’s really getting stuck in, helping Mum and that. I should too, but ... it’s the looks, those looks I get – seeing that same expression in everyone’s face. It just freezes me over. I need to just sit here, recover a bit. I’m relieved all the introductions are over.

It’s still only me and me Old Man who have taken up positions. Everyone else is doing something useful, I guess. Still, Daddy Dear is now providing me with some entertainment, and I watch him plump up some cushions. He turns back round, a satisfied grin on his mug. Someone, I can’t remember who, but someone once said that Hell was being locked up in a room full of your friends, forever. That’s startlingly close to the mark, you know. I think it was Socrates. Daddy Dear now switches on the telly and stretches out a tartan-patterned blanket over his legs before cleaning his teeth with a toothpick. Or was it Dustin Hoffman? Look at him, just look. Right now he wants for nothing. I envy the cunt, truly I do. I wish a tartan blanket and some good telly was enough to warm
my
cockles. I shake my head, marvelling at the insanity of it all. I mean, just what the hell are we all doing here, on this
miserable
planet?

This is far from ideal. Dad’s sorted with his telly, but what about me? I consider my options: all that comes to mind is going into the kitchen but I’m not convinced. It’s gonna take some serious effort to get out of this seat. Thankfully Pasha provides a welcome distraction as he enters briskly, carrying a stack of plates. But just then Salman’s little boy runs in and tears past him, shrieking all excitedly. He knocks Pasha’s hip and elbow as he screams through, his little arms all over the place. Pasha has to quickly readjust to secure his cargo and in doing so he pretty much saves Eid. I shit you not – I swear by everything that I know about my father that if that crockery had slipped from his hands and fallen, or hit the edge of the coffee table and chipped it, he’d have gone nuts. The fucker would have freaked.
Imtiaz, why are there crumbs on my carpet? Pasha, what are these stains?
We were
pure petrified of him. My abiding memory of growing up in this house is of mum, me and Pasha forever tip-toeing around his moods. We tidied up like possessed people. Now Aadam appears and young Taimur starts running round the coffee table. Aadam’s growling and trying to make like some ogre-type character, and the boy is going pure mental. He takes a step towards Taimur who shrieks again, but whilst the act’s working on the boy, I can’t help but chuckle to myself: he’s just too skinny to make it work. Aadam takes another Frankenstein step and the boy simply cannot contain himself; he jumps up onto the sofa next to my father, grabbing his jumper by the shoulder. I tell you though, it’s good to see the little lad all lively again. I heard what went on just before I got here. Boy, am I glad I missed that. My father sees none of the wider context, though, and flinches, and I know exactly why – ’cause he doesn’t like this sort of play. Play where nice sofas get jumped up and down on, and during which plates and the like could get broken. The barely ten-stone Aadam takes another stiff stride and Taimur pulls more tightly at my father’s jumper as he tries to squeeze in behind. My old man tries to shake him off but the boy is oblivious. Now
this
is interesting. Poor daddy is now stony faced and his frustrated eyes catch mine for the briefest flicker; I give him another wink. No smile from him this time, though – he just looks straight back down.
Not so full of festive cheer now, eh
?
What’s upset you, Daddy Dear? The little boy jumping up and down on your nice sofa? Him pulling the stitching on your jumper? It looks new, that does. I’ve certainly not seen it before
. I allow myself a luxurious stretch before sitting up straight, eager to see how this is going to play out.
And look! Yes!
There’s a faint smudge where the boy has been pawing at the jumper with his greasy mitts. The little bugger, eh? He must have been eating chocolate and he’s not washed his hands!
No son of yours would have been so careless, huh? A brown smudge on your nice new cream jumper.
Aadam takes another stride towards the now-delirious Taimur who, in his desperation to squeeze in behind my father, elbows him in the side of the face. Suddenly he grabs the boy firmly and for a second I’m sure he’s gonna whack him.
He’s
probably sure he’s gonna whack him, too, but he comes to his senses just in time.

‘Aadam – stop fooling around!’ my father orders sharply, and he plonks the boy down beside him. And, just like that, it’s over. The boy looks relieved – saved, even – and Aadam acknowledges that his tomfoolery was misplaced. Meanwhile, Pasha places the pile of
crockery down and begins whipping Aadam with a tea towel. He yelps and everyone laughs, including my old man. I feel short changed.

I’m thirsty. It’s my nerves, no doubt, but I feel the need to be holding a cup of something. I’d love some herbal tea right now but I doubt my mum’s got any. Pasha’s gone back to the kitchen and Aadam’s disappeared with the young’un, and so it’s back to just me and the Old Man. God, this is dire. I look around for another distraction, anything, but no one else comes in and nothing happens. I turn back to my father, quietly watching TV. He looks pretty pathetic, I have to say. Actually, most people do, watching telly alone – gormless, at best. He flicks channels for a bit before settling on some American sitcom which he doesn’t seem all that interested in. Crap telly pisses him off more than it does most people. I think he’s forgotten that I’m still in the room. I’m now watching him like some fly on the wall. Despite myself, I feel hurt. I wonder what a fly on
my
wall would have made of what
I
was watching last night. God, I hate myself. I get up to get that drink.

I enter the kitchen and all conversation stops. I mean, it’s just for a second – less than that, even – but everyone has to readjust to my presence. It’s as if I’m some walking contaminant, polluting the space around me. Everyone is in here apart from Salman and his folks, who are upstairs praying, I guess. Aadam is at one end of the kitchen table with the kids and Pasha is at the other, ladling soup into bowls. My mum, Kahina and Nazneen
were
by the stove, but no sooner had I entered than the girls moved away. I’m a fucking dispersant.

They both give us this stock weak smile and Nazneen says, mouse-like, ‘
You all right, Imtiaz?
’ but it’s more of a nervous tick than a question. I am the anti-Midas – everything I touch turns to shit.

‘Do you want something,
Beta
?’ says my mum, and she comes up to us and rubs my back. I stand still and let her dispense her affection but frankly I’m more comfortable with the girls’ revulsion.

‘Do you have any herbal teas?’ I ask, hoping she’ll now stop touching me.