Ibrahim & Reenie (26 page)

‘So, anyway, he's sat there, he's got his napkin tucked in his collar like a bib, he's got his knife and fork in his hands, like this, see? And he's waiting for them to bring him this suckling pig, when who should walk in but two people from his congregation. Mr and Mrs, I don't know… Schwartz. So Mr and Mrs Schwartz come over to him. “Oh, hello Rabbi Goldman. What brings you to Brighton?” And the Rabbi's getting a bit hot under the collar because he knows his food's coming any minute. “Oh, you know,” he says. “Just thought I'd come down, catch the sea air.” And Mrs Schwartz says, “Oh, that's nice. Our daughter Esther has moved here with her husband, the lawyer. Have you met our son-in-law?”

‘Just then, wouldn't you know it, the waiter comes out with this great big silver platter, it's on a trolley it's that big, and when he's right next to Rabbi Goldman's table he takes off the lid, “Ta-daa!”, and there it is, this suckling pig. Large as life, with an apple stuffed in its mouth.

‘‘‘Rabbi Goldman!” says Mrs Schwartz. “What is the meaning of this?”

‘‘‘Oy gevalt,” says Rabbi Goldman. “This place is terrible. You order a baked apple, and look what they bring you!'''

Ibrahim looked at Reenie, wondering if that was the punch line, if the joke was over. It took a moment for him to get the joke at all, as if a sense of humour took practice, a practice he'd been lacking for too long. He felt his mouth twitch almost involuntarily into a smile, and heard himself laugh, and the more he thought about the joke – the unlikely set-up, its punchline, Reenie's delivery of the whole thing – the funnier it became, until his chest hurt and his eyes were glassy with tears.

‘Thought you'd like that one,' said Reenie. ‘I know another one, but it's a bit rude. Mind you. Talking about pork, I could murder a bacon sarnie right now. Couldn't you?'

‘What?'

‘A bacon sarnie. Bacon burnt to a frazzle. Lots of brown sauce.'

‘I thought you were Jewish.'

‘Yes. And? Don't tell me you've never eaten bacon.'

‘Never.'

‘What? No bacon? No pork? No sausages?'

‘Okay,' he said, blushing. ‘You've got me there.'

‘Knew it. I bloody knew it.'

Staring into the fire he told her about a time when his father, who sold used cars, had taken him to the car auctions in Beckton. His mother and sister were away, he said, visiting their family in Birmingham, so his father took him to the auction, at an old warehouse out past the gasworks. There the cars lined up, the air thick with exhaust fumes, and his father met and spoke with friends, white guys, other traders, and it was the first time Ibrahim had ever heard his father swear.

To either side of the warehouse were stands, rows of seating, and the auctioneer talked so quickly, his voice rattling through the PA like rapid gunfire, that Ibrahim couldn't understand a single word he said.

‘FourninefivefourninefivedoihearfivehunnerdoihearfivehunnerdanyonefourninefivethenitsfourninefivetothegennlemanintheredjacketgoanoncegoantwiceSOLD.'

Ibrahim's father took notes, and kept a watchful eye on the procession of cars coming in through the wide open warehouse doors, but Ibrahim was transfixed by the burger van in the far corner; the painted sign above it reading
Bob's Buns
in tacky red and yellow. Even from that distance he could smell the burgers and fried onions.

‘Da-ad, Dad. I'm hungry.'

‘Not now, Prakash. Dad's busy.'

‘Da-ad…'

‘Son, please.'

‘Dad
.'

The plan had been that they would pick something up on their way home, maybe even a McDonalds, but Nazir Siddique could see he would have no peace until his son had eaten something, and so he walked him over to Bob's Buns.

‘Burger, please,' he said.

The man – perhaps Bob himself – shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry, mate,' he said. ‘Just sold my last burger. I've still got hot dogs, if you want an hot dog.'

Nazir looked down at his son. ‘Sorry, son,' he said. ‘We'll get something later.'

‘But I'm
hungry
…'

‘Prakash. The man only has sausages…'

‘Please, Dad.
Please
.' As if ‘please' really was a magic word.

‘Okay. Listen. You can have a hotdog. But don't tell your mother!'

He could still remember that hotdog; the sausage black on the outside but juicy in the middle, the ketchup cheap and tangy with too much vinegar, the cheap bread sticking to the roof of his mouth and in the gaps between his teeth in doughy clumps. Ibrahim loved every bite of it, and he loved even more that his father and he had a secret that neither his mother nor Aisha would ever know about. They left the auction late, later than planned, and Ibrahim sat in the back of his dad's car, watching the shadows slide down the driver's seat with every streetlight they drove past. By the time they reached their home in Harold Road he was fast asleep, and though seven years old and a big boy had to be carried from the car to his bed.

‘So anyway,' said Ibrahim. ‘That was only once. I've never had one since.'

Reenie smiled. ‘Yeah. I'm a bugger for those hot dogs you get at fairgrounds and that. Used to drive my husband, Jonathan, up the wall. He was always better at keeping things kosher than me. Strict upbringing as a kid, see? His mum wouldn't even mix meat and dairy. Even my foster mother wasn't
that
strict. And my dad, well. He wasn't all that bothered about that sort of thing.' She sighed, looking not at him but the fire. ‘You got any kids?'

‘Kids?' he said, wondering how they could have come this far without her knowing. ‘No. No kids.'

‘Do you want them?'

He shook his head. ‘I'm not so good with other people. I've been on my own a long time. So maybe not.'

‘Not good with other people?' said Reenie. ‘What does that make me, if I'm not “other people”?'

‘No, I just mean generally. Generally I'm not good with other people. Most of the time.'

‘So you never married? Never had a girlfriend?'

‘I had a girlfriend.'

‘And what happened?'

‘Me,' said Ibrahim. ‘I happened. But this was years ago.'

‘And you've not seen her since?'

‘No.'

‘Well,' said Reenie. ‘It wouldn't be too hard to find her. I mean, if you wanted to.'

‘It's too late for that.'

‘No it's not. Not with the internet and the, what's it called? That Face thing everyone's always going on about.'

‘Facebook?'

‘That's the one. You can find anyone on there, they reckon. I heard them talking about it on the wireless. Anyway. How about that girl? The one who brought you here. Natalie. She seemed nice.'

‘What about her?' Asked Ibrahim.

‘Well. Did the two of you…?'

‘Did we what?'

‘You know.'

‘No. I don't. What?'

‘Get up to any hanky panky?'

‘She's a lesbian.'

‘She's a what, love? You'll have to speak up. I'm a bit mutton in this ear.'

‘She's a lesbian.'

‘Lebanese? She didn't look it. I'd have said Spanish, maybe, but never…'

‘Lesbian,' said Ibrahim. ‘She's a lesbian. A lesbian.'

‘No need to shout, love,' said Reenie. ‘I heard you the first time.' And she winked at him, and took a bite from a slice of toast coated liberally with marmalade. ‘So, I was thinking,' she said. ‘This plan of yours…'

‘Yes?'

‘I think you're probably right. I think we should go to the motorway and try our luck there.'

‘Good,' said Ibrahim. ‘That's good. Thank you.'

He studied her from his side of the fire, wondering how someone her age could even begin to agree to a plan like his. He had no idea if it would work, he knew only that in the time they had spent looking for Reenie, Natalie could have driven him to London. There must have been a reason he came here instead. A part of him, still quiet of voice and hidden in shadows, knew precisely what that reason was. When Reenie looked at him again, still smiling softly, he avoided her gaze, and instead stoked the fire, watching the last fragments of wood begin to blacken and crumble.

21

The view was unremarkable – the six lanes of motorway a grey strip vanishing distantly between a low hill and a dark cluster of trees – and between them and the horizon lay nothing but greenery and pylons. Nothing exceptional about the view – no landmarks, no natural features worth noting – but all the same it overwhelmed him.

Perhaps, now that they were standing over the motorway, he had, in some small, illogical way, expected to see London in the distance, like a mirage; the faint grey silhouettes of the BT Tower, the Gherkin, or St Paul's.

‘What are you looking at?' asked Reenie.

‘Just looking at the motorway,' he said.

‘Daunting, ain't it?'

He nodded without taking his eyes off the road.

‘But we're getting there,' she added, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘So come on, slowcoach. Stop dawdling and start pushing.'

He laughed, out of relief as much as anything else. She still had a sense of humour, at least. They had already trekked four miles that morning, and crossed one busy slip road, narrowly dodging an articulated truck as they did. He thought for a moment she might pack it all in, there and then, tell him to turn her trolley around and head back to the country lanes, but she didn't.

He pushed on to the far side of the bridge, where the tarmac came to an abrupt end against another elbow of grass, and the eastbound slip road.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘Last one, and we're there.'

‘There?'

‘Well. The other side of the road.'

On the far side, a short way down the slip road, lay a stretch of hard shoulder. This meant crossing diagonally, a longer route, but one that should see them safe when they got to the other side. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Ibrahim nudged the trolley forward so its front wheels left the kerb. Traffic streamed down onto the slip road from the dizzy chaos of the junction, and Ibrahim watched each passing car, wishing the traffic would just stop. Just for a minute. Not even that. Ten seconds. If it could stop for just ten seconds.

He looked to the other side of the junction, where the traffic came up from the opposite slip road. There was a moment's pause as a truck slowed to allow through the next wave of traffic.

‘Now!' shouted Ibrahim, giving the trolley a forceful shove; pushing it off the kerb and out into the road. He cursed under his breath, the same one word over and over, increasing in time with his pace. No time to say or think anything else. Everything was action and movement without thought. Time didn't slow down; it imploded, dragging into itself anything and everything outside that moment.

The trolley veered right, causing its back end to drift, and Reenie almost lost her footing, only keeping herself upright by clinging to the side of the trolley and for a moment taking both feet off the ground and allowing herself to be carried. Without her help the front end twisted sharply another degree to the right, and Ibrahim felt himself being pulled along by its weight and its momentum, so that they were now rushing down the slip road's inside lane. He yanked the trolley's handlebar to the right, hoping this would bring it across to the hard shoulder, but it was no use. Laden with shopping bags, the trolley acted of its own accord; its clumsy caster wheels twisting in every direction, searching for the path of least resistance. Solomon's cage tipped over onto its side, and the bird started fluttering crazily in every direction, waiting for the world to stop shaking.

Ibrahim heard the sharp blare of a horn, and glancing back saw a car bearing down on them, the driver's face scrunched up in rage. He tugged at the trolley again, bringing its back end off the road, and Reenie followed his lead so that they were now on the hard shoulder, out of the path of the cars and lorries, but still moving and with no sign of slowing. The trolley clattered percussively, the birdcage tumbling from the child's seat and down into a gap between their luggage, and Ibrahim dug his heels into the gravel. The trolley slowed, the hiss of gravel faded to a crunch, and they stopped.

‘Fucking hell,' said Ibrahim.

‘You're telling me,' said Reenie, breathlessly. ‘And mind your language.'

She leaned against the front end of the trolley – half for support, half to stop it running away – and peering into it saw the upturned birdcage.

‘Solomon,' she gasped.

Ibrahim reached into the trolley and lifted out the cage. Lying at the bottom, among the droppings and the empty shells of birdseed, was Solomon, his beak wide open but his grey eyes puckered shut.