Honor (9781101606148) (28 page)

The morning after committing a crime you awake from a bottomless night. Somewhere in your brain there is a signal, a red light flashing. You try to ignore it. There is a chance, however slight, that it was all a dream. You hold on to that chance, like a falling man who grabs at the first rope he sees. A minute goes by. An hour. You lose count of time. Until, suddenly, it hits you. The rope is not tied to anything, and its end is loose. You tumble into reality head first.

There I was on Lavender Grove, a knife in my hand. I heard the screams. Shrill, unending. Somebody was howling. Oddly, it sounded like my mother. But it couldn't have been her, for she was lying on the ground, bleeding. Echoes growing inside my brain. I looked at my left hand. My stronger hand. But it had gone slack, as if it had been attached to my body only temporarily and now belonged to someone else. I tossed the knife under a parked car. If I could, I would have thrown away my hand.

I began to run. My jacket was splattered with blood. I can't explain why nobody stopped me, but they didn't. I darted down alleyways, through back gardens, without the slightest idea where I was going. I must have crossed streets, bumped into people, frightened dogs. I don't remember. The next half-hour is blank. But I remember finding a phonebox.

I rang Uncle Tariq. I told him what I had done. There was an awkward silence. I thought he hadn't heard me. So I repeated myself. I told him I had punished Mum for her illicit affair. From now on she'd never do such a thing again. I said her wound wasn't too bad but it would take some time to heal. I had stabbed her once on the right side of her chest. That would show her how grave her sin was. It would give her time to think about her mistake, to repent. And the man would be scared out of his wits. He would leave us alone. Our family's honour was cleansed.

‘What have you done, son?' His voice sounded strangled. ‘This is terrible.'

I was taken aback. ‘Bb . . . but . . . wee . . . ttt . . . alk . . . ed ab . . . ab . . . ou . . . ttt . . . this.'

‘Surely we did not,' my uncle said.

The man who had told me everything and then impressed upon me, over and over again, that I had to do something and do it soon, had vanished into thin air. I was stunned.

‘Iskender, son, you have to turn yourself in. I'll tell the police this is exactly what I told you when you rang me. You cannot run from the law!'

Suddenly I had the strangest suspicion that Uncle Tariq had rehearsed this moment. Had he been waiting for this? Preparing his speeches. What he would tell me on the phone, what he would share with the Old Bill, what he would declare in court . . . He was prepared for it all.

‘Son, are you there? Tell me where you are.'

I hung up. I took off my jacket and dumped it in a rubbish bin. Then I went to Katie's house on Albion Drive. I had walked her home many times but I had never gone inside. I rang the bell. To my relief it was she who opened the door.

‘Alex, what a surprise,' she said. A smile bloomed on her face. ‘Oh, sweetie, I knew you were going to come.'

Katie ushered me in. She said her mother would be thrilled to learn I had decided to come to live with them. She hugged me, her belly hard and round between us. She didn't look four months pregnant to me. More like she had swallowed a ball.

I asked Katie to show me the bathroom. I washed my hands. The me in the mirror was no different than the one I had seen on other days. I half expected there to be something unusual in my face, in my eyes. But there wasn't. I washed my hands again, scrubbing hard. The soap smelled of roses. I opened the cupboard and found some bleach. On the bottle there was a pretty housewife, her smile whiter than clouds. I poured the bleach on my hands. There were cuts in my palms. It hurt like hell. I kept scrubbing. There was something under my fingernails. Dirt? Paint? Blood? It just wouldn't wash off.

Katie came in to ask if everything was all right. She hugged me, checking the couple in the mirror. Me, her, our baby. She took it in with pride. I noticed she had the same smile as the bleach lady's. A sense of achievement.

She turned off the water. ‘You're clean enough for me, love.'

We went into the living room. Katie's mum was sitting in an armchair by the window, waiting. She was wearing a wrap-dress. One of those silky things you see on TV. Royal blue. You could see her breasts. She had freckles all across her chest, like specks of nutmeg. Her hair was freshly combed. Her lips painted red. Her head could have dined out in a posh restaurant, but the rest of her seemed in a domestic mood. I tried to concentrate on her face. I tried not to glance below her head.

Mrs Evans offered me tea in bone-china cups. Warm fruit scones. We ate in silence. There were framed photos on the walls. Dozens of them. I saw Katie's father in some of them. He didn't strike me as the kind of man who would stray.

Mrs Evans was watching my every move. I had a feeling she was checking under my fingernails. I hid my hands.

‘Alex, my daughter tells me you want to name the baby Maggie if it's a girl and Tom if it's a boy.'

I turned to Katie. She avoided my eyes.

‘Yeah, I guess.'

Afterwards Mrs Evans asked me if I believed I would make a responsible father. I said I didn't know but that I would do my best.

‘Sometimes one's best is just not good enough,' she said.

It sounded like something she'd heard on TV. Or like something someone had told her in the past. She said she would help us
 –
a temporary scheme, of course
 –
until we got on our feet. She would do this for her grandchild. The first. She smiled. Her teeth were pearly-white and perfect.

At night Katie told me we had to sleep in separate rooms. I would have to take the sofa in the living room. She said it was just for now. Soon we would get married and then we would have the same bed. For ever.

She brought me clean sheets, a pillowcase. Slowly, she pulled up her sweater. Her breasts were swollen, her nipples dark rings. I could see the veins – blue, big, jutted. She asked me to put my ear on her belly. I didn't hear anything for a while. Then I felt a movement, like someone stretching from a deep sleep. One, two, four times. It was like magic. I wondered if Mum had made Dad listen to her belly when she was pregnant with me.

I pushed Katie away. I said, ‘Sorry, I need to sleep.'

‘Of course, darling.'

When she left me alone, I stretched out, looking around. Net curtains, cushions with flower designs, swirling wallpaper, an ornate vase on the mantelpiece, a grandfather clock. I thought I would never sleep but as soon as my head hit the pillow I was dead to the world. I woke up at dawn. Katie was standing by my side. Her face pale, her eyes wide open.

‘Alex,' she said. ‘There are two policemen at the door.'

I got up and held her head between my palms. I kissed her. Her mouth tasted salty. The taste of panic.

‘They're asking for you.'

We shuffled out into the corridor. Katie's mum was standing by the door in her nightgown. There were traces of cream on her face. Her lower lip quivered. She pulled her daughter close, as if I had a contagious disease. I saw the lights of a police car in the background. There were two officers. One of them looked like James Callaghan, only he didn't have glasses. They hadn't seen me yet. I asked Katie to tell them I was getting dressed.

The decision to escape was not a conscious one. I just did it. I went to the kitchen, opened the door, sneaked into the garden and jumped over the fence, and then over the next one. While Katie was talking to the police, I was already out of her road and into the next.

*

The last day of November 1978. I was about to change my mind when I saw her turn the corner. She had been shopping, bags in her hands. She walked unhurriedly, taking her time. It made my blood boil. I had forbidden her to leave the house.

She slowed her steps, staring at a street musician, her back turned to me. I studied her profile. She was smiling. A surge of resentment rose inside me. Had I not told her that she was forbidden to go out, that she could not wear dresses that showed her legs? And here she was defying my rules, making fun of me.

I followed her. She stared at a shop window, obviously in no rush to go home. I thought she might be waiting to meet her lover but no such thing happened. When we approached our street, she tripped, dropping her purse. An old khaki thing I had never seen before. As she was picking it up, she noticed me behind her.

‘Iskender . . .' she whispered. as if my name were a secret.

Iskender Toprak

London, October 1978

Finding the Orator was more difficult than Iskender had thought. He visited several cafés, made a couple of phone calls, but got nowhere. It dawned on him how little he knew the man. All these months it had always been the Orator who had sent a message requesting a meeting and never the other way round. He had no idea where the Orator lived or what he did in his spare time. He remembered him saying he was a student at some polytechnic, but what exactly he studied was a mystery, like everything else.

But, through a friend of a friend, he did manage to find him, in a dingy martial arts studio on Brick Lane. He was surrounded by half a dozen young men in shorts, sitting close together on floor mats, like pigeons huddled under the gables. Some of them had stains of perspiration on their chests, towels around their necks. It looked as if they had just finished a hard session of exercise and had gathered to discuss something substantial before heading to the showers. When they saw Iskender approach, they fell quiet, eyeing him with a distrust they felt no need to hide.

‘It's okay,' said the Orator with a wink at the others. ‘I know him.'

Iskender didn't like the wink or the tone, but he greeted them all the same. A tilt of his head, the slightest curl of his lip and a short, ‘Hey!'

Briskly, the Orator leaped to his feet and placed his right hand on his heart. ‘
Selamun aleykum
, brother. Would you like to join us?'

‘No, thanks. I've . . . I need to be somewhere else. I came to say hi and return the tapes you gave me last time.'

Mumbling something inaudible to his friends, the Orator came forward. Iskender noticed how small the man was when stripped of his winter coat and sweaters. Narrow shoulders, bony wrists, slightly bowed legs.

‘You didn't need to come all this way for that.'

‘It's all right,' said Iskender, still not sure why he was there.

‘You want to talk?'

‘O . . . kay. A couple of minutes.'

The two walked to a quiet corner and sat down. Across from them sat an array of weightlifting equipment. They watched a short, thickset man huff and puff under more weight than he could handle. A film of sweat on his face, red blotches on his cheeks, barely any strength left in his arms.

With a sideways glance at the Orator, Iskender murmured, ‘Didn't know you work out. What do you do?'

‘Oh, I do tae kwon do. I'm not much of a fighter, though. Not my thing, really. I'm a man of ideas.'

‘Then why do you come here?'

‘Because people like us ought to know how to defend ourselves. Did you hear what happened yesterday in North End? Skinheads, four of them. They attacked a Bengali shopkeeper. Four against one. Pretty equal, eh?'

‘Hadn't heard about that one.'

‘They pushed him down and shaved his head. They drew their idiotic symbols on his skull. The poor chap was so terrified he got sick. His wife cries all the time.' He paused for a breath. ‘Well, at least you know how to defend yourself.'

Iskender nodded, though he wasn't sure if that was why he had started to box. He didn't do it in order to fight enemies, imaginary or real. He did it because, unlike many other sports that were staged and phoney, boxing was genuine, the true thing. Boxing was a one-to-one reflection of life. You were on your own in the ring. No team work. No substitutes waiting on the sidelines. Every man for himself. The good and the bad, the sublime and the base, the greed and the grace. It was all there. If you wanted to know a man's true character, all you had to do was watch him box.

The Orator said, ‘You're a terrific boxer. A natural.'

‘How do you know? You've never seen me.'

‘I have, actually. I watched you twice on the sly. You don't dodge risky fights and your defence is pretty strong. It's almost like you know where the next punch is coming from. That's a rare talent, one you have to be born with.'

Not knowing whether to feel annoyed or proud, Iskender said nothing.

The Orator paused briefly, his eyes never leaving Iskender. ‘Alex, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Would you consider teaching us how to fight? The brothers could benefit from your know-how.'

Iskender exhaled, thinking. ‘Dunno, man. I like to fight alone.'

All at once, the Orator's face was set in a frown. ‘Look, I'm going to be honest with you. You're your own man. I can see that. No strings attached. That's the way you like it. But don't forget that great fighters are great inside and out. If you had stronger values you'd be invincible.'

‘I don't wanna be invincible.'

‘Then what do you want?' demanded the Orator, with absolute authority in his gaze, naked challenge in his tone.

Having never asked himself this question, Iskender had no answer in store.

‘Why did you come here looking for me?' the Orator pressed. ‘Because one part of you knows the truth. You need to belong somewhere. You need a purpose in life, a new direction. Join us.'

Iskender struggled to think of something to say that would let him off the hook, but nothing came. He unzipped his coat, pulling out the tapes he had borrowed.

‘Did you listen to them?'

‘Yeah.'

This elicited a grunt from the Orator. ‘You never finished the booklets I gave you. None of them. And now the tapes – is that too much to ask?'

‘Look, my brother and sister have the tape recorder all the time, okay? But I did listen to bits and pieces. There were a couple of things I enjoyed. Like the brotherhood part. One stick breaks easily but a bundle is unbreakable.'

‘
But?
'

‘But . . . I dunno, man. I guess I've too much going on right now. My girlfriend is in a jam. And . . . umm, I need to take care of some family matters.'

The Orator didn't comment. He knew Iskender was the type of boy who would tell more when asked less.

‘What you said earlier struck a chord with me,' Iskender said. ‘I mean, if your parents are in the wrong, you've got to stand up against them, right?'

‘Yes, but don't get confused. What I meant was, if your parents don't know God, you've got to choose God over them. Because God is bigger than your parents. But beware. If you don't know God yourself and if you disobey your parents, you'll be floating in the air. No principles to hold you up, man.'

‘Let's say, someone close to me . . . ' Iskender pulled his zip up to his chin. ‘I mean, hypothetically, say, someone in my family is sinning. I'm trying to find out what my duty is.'

The Orator stiffened, sensing the gravity of the question. He scrutinized Iskender with brightened interest, only now noticing a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth, and his fingernails, each chewed to the quick. He asked, ‘Who, for instance?'

‘Let's say, my mother.'

There was an uneasy pause before the Orator remarked, ‘Well, talk to your father. It's his duty, more than yours. But if he is not in . . . then it's down to you. I'd never let my mother or sister or wife shame me.'

‘But what can I do?' asked Iskender.

‘I'm not going to tell you what to do unless you trust me fully. You understand what I'm saying? Come and join us, be part of something bigger, man. That's the right way. There's the answer to all your questions.'

‘Umm, I'll think about it.'

‘Yeah, go ahead, mull it over. But don't take too long. 'Cos something might happen while you're doing your thinking.'

*

That same evening Iskender stood by the gates of a club he had never visited before. He had anticipated this scene in his mind so many times that it felt curiously familiar. No sooner had he taken a step forward than he was stopped by a bodyguard twice his size. Slate-blue suit, mirrored sunglasses even though the sun had long gone from the skies, bald as an egg, a neck so short and thick that it looked as if his head had been mounted on his shoulders.

‘How old are you, lad?'

‘Old enough,' said Iskender, determined not to be intimidated.

‘That's not an answer in my book.'

‘I dunno which book that is, but I need to go in.'

More astonished than annoyed, the bodyguard took off his sunglasses. His eyes were too small and too close for his face. Impossible to read. ‘Are you testing my patience, kid? Because I warn you, it's already spent.'

Iskender felt his cheeks heat up. The bodyguard could knock him out if he wanted to, and yet, somehow, he felt that the man was not as threatening as he seemed.
All bark and no bite.
It was only a hunch, but when it came to street fights his hunches were usually right.

‘Well, I'm looking for my father. Is that a crime?'

A shadow of curiosity crossed the bodyguard's face. ‘And does your father work here?'

‘No. But he shags a woman who does.'

Sucking in a long, deep breath, the bodyguard said, ‘Uh-hmm, and you were hoping to be introduced to this lady, I take it?'

‘No, man! Why would I want that?'

‘Just asking. How about your father, then? You've a bone to pick with him?'

‘I'm not lookin' for trouble. I just need to talk to my old man, is all.'

The bodyguard put his sunglasses back on. ‘Three minutes. Not a second more. You go inside, find your father and bring him out. If you're not back here in that time, I'll come inside and break your legs. Got it?'

‘That's the ticket, man, thanks.'

As Iskender strode into the club, he thrust his hand into his pocket, feeling the glass flask there. It was a miracle the bodyguard hadn't searched him. Liquid acid. Practical and effective. All he needed to do was to aim it at her face. His father would not want to see her any more. Never again would any man desire her.

How many times had he imagined this moment? He would march into the club, which would be noisy, smoky, crowded and suffocating, and head to the bar to get himself a drink. Whisky probably. On the rocks. That would be the right choice. He would finish it in two gulps and then, his throat still burning, sneak backstage. He would stride along the narrow corridors that reeked of sweat and perfume. It wouldn't take him long to find her room. He would knock on the door that said
Roxana
but would not wait for an answer before going in.

‘Who are you?' she would say. A trace of panic creeping into her voice. Her face would be heavily painted, her lips red as blood, her breasts showing through her robe.

I'm the son of the man you stole from his family.

That sentence changed each time Iskender envisaged the scene. Sometimes he replaced it with ‘You don't know me but I know you too well.' At other times it would be ‘I'm the one who should ask that question. Who do you think you are, to ruin our family?'

The woman's reaction would also vary. Mostly she would be embarrassed, apologetic. But sometimes she would make a scene, her nerves whittled to shreds. He imagined a stiletto hurled at the wall. A champagne glass shattered. Iskender had considered each option. If she were to get aggressive, hysterical, he would produce the bottle in his pocket. If she were remorseful, he would take it easy, giving her another chance.

At other times in the fantasy she would throw herself on the floor/chaise longue/sofa/carpet, tears of shame rolling down her cheeks. Among all the possible scenarios, this was Iskender's favourite.

‘Oh, I didn't know he was married,' she would say, sobbing. ‘I didn't know he had a family. He never told me.'

In this version Iskender would not take out the bottle. Instead he would console her. She would give her word never to see Adem again, and even when she turned old and grey, she would honour her promise.

His mind buzzing with such thoughts, Iskender scrutinized the club, and was surprised to see only a handful of people around, most of whom were staff. Too early for the punters. He walked to the bar, which was redolent with a musky-sweet aroma from hundreds of drinks over the years. A large, oval back-mirror with neon lights; a sleek, shiny, wooden countertop. Iskender allowed his finger to move along the scripts and symbols incised on the hard surface.

The bartender – an Afro-Caribbean man with tightly braided hair – was drying a glass. He inspected the customer with a wry glint in his eyes. ‘How old are you?'

‘Old enough,' said Iskender.

‘Uh-hm, can I see your
ID
, Mr Old-enough?'

‘Hey, if I'm here it means I'm old enough to be here. Otherwise that hulk at the entrance would never have let me in, right?'

‘Nice try,' said the bartender. ‘I'll give you a glass of water for that. Sparkling. No ice. And that's the most you'll be getting from me.'

Iskender sipped his water, and stood in front of the stage, observing the curtains on both sides. Was she back there? Should he go find her now? Again, he touched the bottle in his pocket. It felt both cold and warm under his fingers. He was still contemplating his next move, steeling himself for the encounter ahead, when he noticed the bodyguard looking for him. The man tapped his watch, unsmiling, unyielding. Iskender finished his water, thanked the bartender and shuffled out. Nothing was going as planned.

He waited on the pavement, his mind spinning. After what seemed like an eternity he noticed someone coming in his direction. His hair uncombed, his head lowered, his step apprehensive, as if he were afraid that his legs would give way. He didn't notice the boy as he passed by.

‘Dad –'

Adem stopped and turned around. A smile bloomed on his face, easy and genuine, but it was quickly replaced by a darker expression. ‘Iskender . . . has something happened to your brother or sister?'

‘No. They're fine, really.'

For a moment Adem seemed relieved. But after relief came suspicion, and after suspicion, irritation. ‘You shouldn't be here.'