“OK. Coffee for two.”
Iqbal took the lamb chops off the cooker and put two chops on each of two dinner plates with as much gravy as he had. Then he went over to the potatoes and prodded them again with the fork. Meanwhile Hassan had put the electric kettle on.
“Just a little more on the potatoes. Should be ready when you have done the coffee,” Iqbal said through a thin cloud of steam.
Presently the kettle boiled and Hassan poured the boiling water into two mugs and added milk and sugar while Iqbal put fair portions of boiled potatoes onto the plates. This was a relatively relaxed meal unlike the meals before outings to the stations when the atmosphere had been like the build up before a battle or a chess match.
“Where will you be going Has?”
“Soho. Same person I expect.”
“I’m going to my same girl too. You know what they say. If you keep going to the same girl all the time she will like you better.”
“Who says that?”
“The Copra Island fellows.”
“Over here?”
“Over here and over there.”
Silently both of them computed how much the money they paid to prostitutes in London was worth in Copra Island currency. They recoiled at the answer.
After the meal Hassan washed up and dried up while Iqbal put the television on. An anguished President Carter was stating how worried he was about his fellow Americans being taken hostage. When Hassan had completed his chores both of them put their coats on and left.
Hassan parted from Iqbal at the tube station where he took a Piccadilly line train to Piccadilly Circus. Once more in the anonymity of the train he wondered about the lives of the other passengers. There were young revellers on a night out, courting couples and solitary travellers like himself. Deep underground they all sped to their different destinations unknown to each other, each wrapped in a cocoon of personal cares and worries. Hassan considered what the other passengers would think if they knew all about him. On reflection he didn’t want to know. The train sped through the dark tunnels and at each station Hassan’s carriage took on more passengers than disembarked. Hassan had heard of clairvoyants in Copra Island. He asked himself what would happen if somebody like that came in and discovered everything he had done with one glance. Once more he did not care to internalise the answer. At Piccadilly Circus Hassan exited along with many of the other passengers.
At Iqbal’s suggestion Hassan had gone constantly to one prostitute instead of trying different ones and, as in so many other instances, he had found Iqbal’s judgement right. Both “Wendy” and her maid who answered the door knew him well by now and welcomed his visits. At Iqbal’s suggestion Hassan had given tips of £1 to the maid each time she let him in and also to “Wendy” just before leaving. It worked wonders. Once, he had not been able to see “Wendy” because of other people waiting and had gone elsewhere. The difference was startling. By now he realised that his source of sex was known to other Copra Islanders but it did not disturb him overmuch. How many other male Copra Island residents in London could honestly declare themselves to be clean and pure in this regard? So he had been spotted? So what? These were his thoughts as he stood on the escalator taking him towards the circular concourse of Piccadilly Circus Station.
The throng of people around him was reassuring. He went through the ticket-barrier and to the entrance for Soho. As he walked through the dark streets away from the brightly lit station he checked the money in his wallet. He had already separated the notes for the tips from the fee itself.
The maid brightened when she opened the door to him.
“Hello! Come in.”
“Hello.” Hassan handed over the £1 note he had held in his hand when he pressed the bell.
“Go straight in.”
Hassan hesitated at the door and knocked. Next he heard both “Wendy’s” and the maid’s exhortations to enter simultaneously.
“Wendy” was standing in the middle of the room in a bathing suit and bathrobe and was rubbing a little cream into her hands.
“How are you Rashid?” This was his nom-de-plume for her.
“Fine. How are you?”
“Bearing up.” She gave him a personal instead of a professional smile. Despite this Hassan felt that conversations in these circumstances could only be stilted.
“Same again today?”
“Yes.” He fumbled in his wallet for the money.
Afterwards, after he had paid her tip he was changing into his street clothes and she was washing herself at a bidet.
“Why are you so tense Rashid?” She turned her head fully round to him.
“Oh, I am taking exams soon.”
“What exams are you taking?”
“Science subjects.”
“What subjects Rashid?”
“Engineering.”
Once more she smiled at him and then turned away. These mini-conversations with “Wendy” were the only intimate conversations Hassan had with women in England.
Iqbal walked quickly away from Hassan after wishing him “Good hunting” and turned into Nevern Square. He had been to visit “Julie” several times since that incident with “Patricia”. Iqbal followed the advice he had given Hassan and had given tips of £1 to the maid and £2 to “Julie” herself. As a result he was a favoured client.
Tonight, as a pre-examination treat he had a special plan in mind for which he needed the woman’s co-operation. He felt he owed this to himself for all the meticulous study and preparation he had made for his final examinations.
When “Julie” and he were alone in her room he paid her the usual £15 and then offered her £10 more for intercourse without a rubber. She gave him a crooked look and asked whether he had done this before and on receiving a negative answer pocketed the money.
Both parties were satisfied that night.
“Unfortunately I don’t have time for a lengthy discussion so I – we will have to be brief” Dr. Al-Fey gave Ifthicar a glance which was intended to be inscrutably frosty.
“I understand, of course, headmaster. It’s just that having received your letter declining to take back our younger son we, his mother and myself, wondered whether you would be kind enough to advise us on the next school or institution for his further education.”
“Yes. I understand. That letter we wrote to you was written on the basis of the hospital report taken in conjunction with his record here.”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“No. I suggest you consult the medical professionals who are concerned with your son.”
“Will you be prepared to give a reference?”
“We will give a letter of reference which is relation to who asks, what he asks and your son’s achievements here and the value of what we write is diminished by what subsequently happened to him. And now I am sorry I must end this interview. The time.”
Dr. Al-Fey walked up to the door and opened it for Ifthicar to exit from his study.
Gladys led the two policemen to the area of Euston Station where a low wall partitioned off the escalators to the underground station.
“It was so long ago but I think it was about here,” she said indicating a spot just in front of the wall.
Inspector Marsden considered the spot.
“Sergeant Aitken, please arrange to take a photo.”
The sergeant motioned to a third man who had been following at a distance. He drew a camera from a holdall and photographed the wall and its environs from several distances and angles.
“The two young men she was talking to. Where were they?” Marsden fixed Gladys with an interrogatory expression.
“I am not sure. After so many months all I can remember is that they were all three of them near the Underground entrance. I would not have remembered anything especially by now if it weren’t for them two men looking so shifty. They didn’t look like they was friends with the girl and I thought they were propositioning her like. What made me concerned was she looked young enough to be at school. I don’t have a photographic memory or anything like that. All I know now is that they were standing and talking near the Underground entrance”. Gladys made motions signifying hopelessness with her arms.
“We already know she must have arrived on one of three trains if she came straight from Harrogate,” the inspector said to his sergeant and Gladys.
Silence.
“OK. Let’s get back to the station,” said Marsden.
Back at the police station Gladys found her next ordeal was with an artist who specialised in photofit pictures. He drew different facial features and asked her which most resembled first Iqbal and then Hassan. All this was time consuming and Gladys’ head was swimming with the effort of recall. As she made her mammoth efforts to remember the memories slowly came back partially. Gladys was not given to strenuous intellectual action and she felt drained. However, her dislike for the men she thought she remembered seeing spurred her on. At the termination, about three hours later, two final drawings with a reasonable resemblance, not flattering, of Iqbal and Hassan were drawn up and cautiously approved by Gladys. Additionally, the artist produced two full-length sketches of the pair in the clothes Gladys thought she remembered them wearing that night. The matter of the clothing was a mighty effort of recall because Gladys remembered faces best. She kept insisting that she might have been letting her imagination fly in regard to the clothes the Asian men were wearing.
Before she left Inspector Marsden told her that if she had had more difficulty remembering hypnosis would have used, if she were willing. He added that, if necessary, hypnosis might be suggested if what she had told them already did not yield results after the general public was appealed to for information.
Ahmed Azeez, Rushida, their daughter Fathima and son-in-law Seyed were all having a family conference at their home after an evening meal. The scene was their living room, a well-furnished place with a small grand piano near the windows.
“So, we are happy that the two of you have no regrets,” said Ahmed to his cup of coffee.
“No regrets from me” said Seyed to the room in general.
“So what’s to be done about Iqbal?” Rushida’s voice was strained.
Silence. Then after half a minute.
“He knows your plans then?” Seyed felt like an icebreaker shattering the awful silence.
“My sister-in-law Fithumi has spoken to him and he knows who the girl is, he knows roughly how much the dowry is and he has not said “no” yet,” said Rushida.
“I trust Fithumi,” said Ahmed.
“Somehow or other I think the community wisdom is that it’s best to get them married early rather than late because they get fussy when they get older and it’s best for them not to know each other too well beforehand” said Rushida.
“Otherwise they feel obliged to make objections to show how fussy….” Ahmed’s voice trailed away into a fresh silence.
“Just a minute. He’s taking his finals in June?” asked Seyed.
“Yes. That’s the important thing. The Abbas family has said to my face that with their daughter’s looks and the dowry they can give her they can easily get her someone from other suitable people. They say they are prepared to take Iqbal because the families are friends but he must have passed his finals. They say they must have written evidence that he has passed his finals before they will allow anything to go further” said Ahmed.
“One moment if you please. Even when he has passed his finals he can’t practise I’m told until he gets his practising certificate. Isn’t that so?” asked Seyed.
“Yes. That is the rule today. Times have changed. When I was a student I had to pass my examinations and then I could work on my own,” said Ahmed.
“What have they said about the practising certificate?” asked Seyed.
“Jabir Abbas stated to me that once he had unmistakable evidence of our boy having passed his finals he is prepared to allow the engagement to be announced,” said Ahmed.
“Does he have to work for his practice certificate in England or can he do it somewhere else like here?” Fathima felt a need to indicate that she was capable of following the discussion intelligently.
“My firm Azeez & Co. has been awarded the privilege of certifying practice certificates and I can sign along with any other partner in the firm but being the father it is not right and the B.I.A. may not accept it. I have not checked that.”
“So, it seems it is better that he gets the practice certificate in London and then he will have the extra credit, bonus, status of another British qualification” said Seyed.
“That’s what I have been thinking. I’m glad you agree,” said Ahmed.
“There’s one thing I know. The Abbas family is not going to throw their daughter away to a failure. That’s why they are making all these conditions,” said Fathima.
“Your brother is not going to be a failure. You should know that by now. He has ambition and talent and the only way he will fail is if the British wish him badly,” said Rushida.
“That won’t happen. I made sure of that before he went to England. Contacts.” Said Ahmed.
“So if he fails he will have to re-take and nothing happens about Ayesha Abbas. If he passes how is the engagement to be announced?” asked Seyed.
“That son, I have already discussed with Jabir. We will get him down and there will be an engagement party. At least that will stop other people from making proposals,” said Ahmed.
“That’s right,” said Seyed.
“What has Iqbal said about Fathima?” asked Fathima.
“He told my sister that he had seen her somewhere, has never spoken to her and he raised no objections especially as she is Jabir Abbas’ only daughter,” said Ahmed.
The conversation drifted on to other topics.
“You know I appreciate your inviting me here at this time,” said Iqbal.
“Oh no. I don’t do it just for the family. I enjoy having a conversation with a young mind,” said Fithumi.
“Studying all day like this my mind is stuffed full of information” said Iqbal.
“There is nothing like youth for studying. When you are older you have other cares” said Fithumi.
They were alone, sitting in armchairs in Fithumi’s drawing room after lunch.
“How confident are you about your exam chances?” asked Fithumi.
“Auditing, financial accounting and management are OK. However, management information systems, statistics, computing and operational research I find more difficult."
“But the major subjects you are coping with?”
“Yes. The major subjects carry the most marks but the minor subjects have to be covered well to get an overall pass mark.”
“Do you think you have a good chance?”
“Yes. The tutorial firm I use is highly approved by the B.I. A. and the accountancy work I have done in the office illustrates what I study.”
“How is June taking this Iqbal?”
“She realises I have to spend more time studying. She accepts it.”
“When do the results come out?”
“August Auntie.”
“In the event of a favourable outcome are you willing to return to Copra Island for the engagement in August itself or September?”
“Yes.”
“There are various matters about the dowry which have to be attested to by both yourself and Ayesha over there.”
“Yes. I understand.”
The conversation turned to other family matters and Hassan’s chances of examination success before Iqbal returned to Earls Court for an evening of more hard studying.
Mohideen Makar, Jofur Makar and Ifthicar Hussein were having a discussion. They were all standing in Ifthicar’s home in the living room and alone since all other inhabitants of the house had been summarily dispatched to the back of the building.
“I want to know clearly once and for all. Are you going to hold a grudge?” Jofur spoke softly but vehemently.
“In the name of God how can we fight people like you? When you go to the cross-roads the four roads tremble.” Ifthicar wished his father was present but the two visitors had arrived unexpectedly without warning at eight that Friday evening.
“That is not quite what my brother asked you. He said, “Are you going to hold a grudge?” Answer the question.” Mohideen was quiet but unrelenting.
“We do not hold a grudge. I know my boy did a wrong.” Ifthicar began to feel the sweat running down his back under his shirt and vest.
“Did you have any designs on our niece? Were you hoping to get your son any kind of access to her?” Mohideen knew his quarry was on the run and was not the type of man to let an advantage slip away.
“In the name of God no! How can the house cat’s son hope to marry the lion’s daughter?” Ifthicar was panicking.
“Then how come he just came up to her and addressed her? How did he even know her name?” Jofur raised his voice a little at the end.
“That I asked him. He said he had seen her at a social get-together before and he must have been told who she was by somebody. Her family is very well known."
“You asked him – when?” Jofur looked and sounded more dangerous.
“When we got home from the Coral Reef Hotel he told us he had met her and spoken to her. We, his mother and I, scolded him for his presumption.”
“I see.” Jofur relented a little.
“Do you entertain hopes of exacting revenge?” Mohideen was doing his best to impersonate an interrogating policeman.
“No. How can the ant hope to fight the elephant?”
“Who have you told about this happening?” Mohideen pursued his advantage.
“In the name of God don’t persecute me like this.”
“Who?”
“Only my father Zareen.”
“Zareen Husseini?”
“Yes.”
“And who else?”
“Nobody.”
“We are the Makar family and we are going to make enquiries. If we find out that you have done anything underhand or anything else which is against us you will pay” Mohideen said softly.
Jofur gave Ifthicar an insincere smile.
There was a silence.
Finally Jofur spoke again. “We have some good news for you. Now that St. Simons has dropped him you are probably searching for a new institution to finish off his education. The St. Giles Institute for the Disabled and Handicapped will educate him. We asked about Hussein, not on behalf of Hussein, and we found that out. Be happy!”
The two brothers let themselves out of the front door to Jofur’s waiting Mercedes-Benz.
Several months later in August both Iqbal and Hassan received notifications from their respective examining authorities that they were successful in their final examinations. Iqbal was now a qualified auditor and needed but a year to work for his practising certificate. Hassan was now the holder of the London School of Engineering’s Diploma in Mechanical Engineering. Iqbal had already made arrangements to work for his practising certificate at the same firm where he had done his student articles. Hassan was due to fly back to Copra Island in a few weeks, the purpose for his sojourn in the United Kingdom having been accomplished, and was going to work before departure as a security guard at his old firm to earn money for presents for his family.
They had received the news of their examination successes within a few days of each other and decided to celebrate their good fortune at the Five Dragon restaurant in Gerrard Street, the heart of London’s Chinatown. It was nine in the evening of a Monday night when they arrived at the Five Dragon. Iqbal said beforehand that he would pay for the cost of the banquet and stipulated that they should both dress well for the occasion. This they did and were rewarded with courteous directions to a secluded table in the corner of the restaurant. Apparently, Iqbal had booked the table in advance which explained why it was unoccupied when they arrived, the rest of the restaurant being fairly well patronised for a Monday night. Iqbal took matters into his own hands and, without consulting Hassan unduly, decided on an expensive choice of set meal for two with additional prawn crackers as a starter.
After a while the meal began arriving heralded by a large dish of salmon pink prawn crackers and a large metal pot of jasmine scented Chinese tea with accompanying cups. Chopsticks and porcelain spoons were then brought.
“I am worried. I have never eaten with chopsticks before. Shall I ask the waiter for an ordinary spoon and fork Ikki?”
“Don’t get worried. I’ll show you how to use the chopsticks. If you don’t like to use them after that we can call for western cutlery.” Iqbal reassumed his air of social superiority.
Wun-tun soup arrived and Iqbal had to teach Hassan how to eat it with his porcelain spoon while taking prawn crackers.
“When are you taking the flight to Copra Island?” Iqbal asked.
“In the middle of next month.”
“Aha. Air Copra I suppose?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Has, I am going home to visit the folks for a bit this year. Shall we take the same flight?”
“Yes. Why not?”
Both attended to their soup and prawn crackers. When the soup was over the waiter took the bowls away and the gargantuan main meal arrived. Iqbal concentrated on showing Hassan how to use the chopsticks, porcelain spoon and small bowl to good effect. With Iqbal’s verbal exhortations and practical example Hassan learned. The restaurant began filling up even more and Iqbal, catching the spirit of the occasion, ordered a bottle of white Bordeaux from a passing waiter. The bottle, labelled with the name of a particular vineyard and the year of production, was brought and was poured into two wineglasses deferentially by a white uniformed waiter. Iqbal sipped while the waiter hovered and pronounced the wine good.
“White wine goes well with prawns,” he said.
“You know, I don’t usually drink Ikki. It’s against the religion.”
“What man! This is a special occasion. If there is any trouble about this in the after life you can tell the Recording Angel to put the blame on me.”
Hassan took a cautious sip of the first wine he had ever drunk in his life. It was not what he had expected. The atmosphere in the restaurant in general and their little table in particular began to relax.
“Has, I think I can trust you. I am telling you in confidence I am going home to get engaged.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Am I allowed to ask who it is?”
“Just between the two of us”, Iqbal paused for dramatic effect, “her name is Ayesha.”
“I see.”
“You won’t let on about June will you? My people in Copra Island believe in her.”
“No, of course not.”
“That’s a good chap. Have some more wine.”
Iqbal resumed the tutoring of Hassan’s use of the chopsticks and pronounced him not to be a disgrace.
“Your fiancée. What family is she?”
“I don’t think you know them. They are the Abbases. The father is a lawyer.”
If a piece of the ceiling had fallen down in front of him Iqbal’s words could not have had a greater effect on Hassan. He gulped nervously.
Iqbal noticed Hassan’s reaction by reading his face.
“Do you know of them after all? Her father is Jabir Abbas, you know Boat Abbas.”
Hassan’s mind was floundering like a poor swimmer in strong crosscurrents.
“Boat Abbas? Oh, the man who goes out in the sea in a boat all by himself?”
“Yes. That’s him.”
“Oh yes I have heard of him. A lot of people have heard of his He! He! marine exploits.”
Iqbal was wondering why his roommate seemed so disturbed about his fiancée’s family and became intrigued. However, Hassan recovered his composure and did his best to laugh off his initial reaction. This mollified Iqbal.
The tutelage of Hassan’s Chinese style table manners continued until the desserts of lychees came with ordinary spoons.
Iqbal and Hassan took a late tube train back to Earls Court in high good spirits.
“Fasten your seat belts please! Arrival at Suba Airport at fourteen twenty-two hours. The weather is cloudless and the temperature is thirty one Celsius.” The Asian airhostess gave the toothpaste tube length of passengers a synthetic smile as she stood alone at the head of the gangway.
Iqbal and Hassan were sitting forward on the starboard side with Iqbal nearest the window. On embarkation at Heathrow Airport they had encountered several other people from Copra Island returning mostly for re-visits. On this flight there were also a smaller number of ex-students leaving the United Kingdom because their courses of study had ended. There had been some informal chatting in the departure lounge and a joint tour of the duty free shops where Iqbal, not Hassan, had purchased some brandy and cartons of cigarettes. These were for his father. Iqbal asked Hassan not to speak about the brandy because Ahmed Azeez was a nominal teetotaller.
Leaning towards the porthole as far as Iqbal’s bulk would permit Hassan could see the aircraft’s wingflaps were already lowering in preparation for landing and the sparkling points of reflection from the ocean grew steadily larger and brighter as altitude decreased. Iqbal stared senatorially out of the porthole, his head teeming with plans for his next moves. He knew his family would be waiting for him at the airport and the probable preparations made for his progress through arrivals.
A sudden gasp from the passengers on the portside announced that land had been sighted. Presently a beach with wooden fishing boats drawn up on it and a suburban landscape of red roofed houses with gardens hove into view right underneath the plane. The familiar landscape from this unusual viewpoint made it seem like a daydream. A coconut plantation appeared and the treetops rushed to meet the aircraft. Presently they felt touchdown while coconut trees whizzed past both port and starboard portholes.
“Keep your seat belts fastened! Please do not get up until the aircraft has stopped!” Two colleagues now flanked the airhostess as they stood at the forward end of the gangway. Iqbal and Hassan, straining at the porthole, could now see the airport buildings and they got a grand view of the whole airport from the runway as the plane turned. Finally it stopped.
Coming out of the plane the bright sunlight and heat of a Suba afternoon shocked Hassan but appeared not to affect Iqbal. At the foot of the gangway a middle-aged man in a Western suit accosted Iqbal.
“Are you Mr. Iqbal Azeez, Mr. Ahmed Azeez’s son?” He asked politely.
“Yes I am.”
“Will you please come with me Sir? Your family is waiting for you in arrivals.”
Iqbal gave Hassan a curt nod. “Be seeing you,” he said as he began to walk away with his escort.
Hassan joined the throng of passengers going to the arrivals checkouts. He knew that Iqbal’s influential family had probably made arrangements to spare their son the indignities of the check-in procedures he was about to face. As he walked he saw Iqbal and his companion heading for a different doorway in the same building. The rays of the midday sun heated his black hair and he felt sweat breaking out on his body.
The relative dimness and coolness of the check-in hall was a relief after the heat on the runway. Hassan joined a queue for a customs desk.
“Will Mr. Hassan Husseini please report to desk number three?” announced a short plump dark man as the bulk of the passengers piled in. Looking around Hassan saw the large sign “3” over a desk and baggage table. He joined the queue before it.
“Is Hassan Husseini here?” asked the same airport official.
“Yes. I’m Hassan Husseini.”
“Please be good enough to come with me. Bring your hand luggage with you.” The man eyed his two bags predatorily.
The airport official led Hassan into a room with a reception committee of three men. His escort left him and closed the door softly.
“So. You are Hassan Husseini?”
“Yes.”
“Please be good enough to put your bags on the floor next to that table. What other luggage have you got?”
“One large trunk.”
“Trunk?”
“Big suitcase.”
“What colour?”
“Silver coloured.”
“Labelled?”
“Yes.”
“With your name?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll wait for it.”
There were some metal chairs around the walls but the three of them did not invite Hassan to be seated. One of the men went over and sat behind a desk while Hassan and the other two stood. There was silence for one-minute….two minutes. Hassan consulted his watch which read two fifty nine. Next it’s digital chirp sounded loudly in the silent room.
“No point looking at your watch. We have time for you.” The man seated at the desk looked at a wall not at Hassan as he spoke.
“It’s just that my family are probably waiting for me. They are expecting me on this flight.”
“Oh Ho! They can wait. You’re worth waiting for. He! He!” He exuded an evil grin as the other two officials smirked at Hassan.
“Can I sit down?”
“You will stand until I tell you otherwise. You are not a white man just because you are from England. We have eyes to see,” said the seated official. For some reason this seemed to amuse the other two men.
There was a shuffling sound outside the door and a knocking. It was opened to reveal the first airport official supervising two porters with a large silvery trunk on a trolley.
“This yours by any chance Mr Husseini?” he asked with undue and sarcastic emphasis on the word “Mr””.
“Yes.” By now Hassan had realised that all this was probably not unconnected with the Abbas family but he knew better than to ask anything about that in that place.
The two porters placed the trunk on a side table.
“Open it!” commanded the man behind the desk.
Hassan produced his key from his trousers pocket and, bending down, unlocked the trunk’s lock.
“Now lift the lid!”
Hassan lifted it.
“OK boys let’s go!” said the man behind the desk.
The two other men dived into the trunk and began rummaging through Hassan’s personal possessions. Shirt buttons tore off and went spinning onto the concrete floor. His camera was opened, examined and then tossed onto the pile of shirts and trousers on the floor. The portable radio was shaken thoroughly and switched on; then the battery compartment was opened and the batteries were taken out and flung down on the pile of clothes on the floor followed by the radio.
“We are thorough in Copra Island. We don’t allow people to have English style arrogance here,” said the seated man in an explanatory tone of voice.
“I don’t have anything to declare.”
“We’ll discover that for ourselves.”
The entire contents of the trunk having been emptied it was, at a signal from the seated man, slid off the table to meet the floor with a crash.
“Hand luggage please!”
The two subordinate officials gave the hand luggage the same treatment as the trunk. Hassan’s watch now read three twenty eight. Jars of food were opened and peered at and then dropped to the floor. They had the goodness to replace the tops before dropping them. Nevertheless, a little had dripped over the sides of the jars and Hassan’s clothes became sticky with food. A jar of Mexican honey lay sideways over his dressing gown.
“That’s the luggage! Now you! Take your clothes off and hand them to the officers.” The senior man gave Hassan an official look.
Hassan drew off his shirt and vest which were examined and put on the tabletop unlike his other clothes. Next his shoes and socks. The shoes were examined particularly thoroughly. Next his trousers and underpants. He stood naked before them. The seated man told him to turn around with his arms held aloft.
“Nothing hidden in any body apertures eh?”
“No.” Hassan wondered whether or not addressing him as “Sir” would mollify him.
“OK. You’re clean as far as we’re concerned. Put your clothes on and get your stuff out of here.”
Hassan re-dressed and began putting his possessions into his trunk and hand baggage.
“Get a move on. Watching you doesn’t give us any pleasure.”
“Yes. Yes.” Hassan worked as fast as he could.
When all was done the three of them pronounced him ready and fit to leave the room.
The seated man had one last thing to say. “One word of advice young man. Don’t try to mess around with any woman above your station in life. You are a Copra Islander and you know where the prostitutes are don’t you? Stick to them if you want it.”
Hassan opened the door and staggered out carrying his hand luggage in one hand and dragging his trunk on the floor behind him with the other.
Still dragging his trunk Hassan met his parents at the arrivals lounge near the airport’s main entrance.
Thursdays were pension days for Fithumi and she made a point of arriving at the post office soon after opening time to present her books and draw out her money in cash. On this particular Thursday she was not quite at the front of the queue before the counter and was standing in line when, looking around, she saw Iqbal and his room mate Hassan looking at her from the noticeboard on the wall. She stayed in the queue in a state of trepidation, did her business and then went over to inspect the poster.
Apparently it was all because of a missing girl and the two men had been seen in her company shortly before she disappeared. Just one face resembling Iqbal could be coincidence but two faces taking after both Iqbal and Hassan were not likely to be due to chance. In her mind Iqbal was not likely to misbehave in regard to a girl because of his girlfriend but Hassan who did not have a girlfriend was more suspect.
As soon as she returned home she made an international ‘phone call to her brother Ahmed.
“Ahmed! Fithumi here. How are you?”
“I am well by the grace of God. How are you?”
“Ahmed, I have seen a poster put up by the British police about a missing girl. They want to see two men in relation to that and the drawings look like our Iqbal and his room mate.”
“How similar?”
“Very.”
“Anything else on the poster?”
“Yes. A ‘phone number to ring if you have information.”
“You haven’t contacted them?”
“No. Of course not. I had to contact you first.”
“Where did you see this?”
“In the post office when I went to collect my pension.”
“When?”
“Today. I have just come back from there.”
Pause.
“Listen Fithumi. Do you have a camera?”
“Yes Ahmed.”
“Very discreetly if you can take a snapshot of it will you and send it to me.”
“All right Ahmed.”
“I hope to hear from you soon.”
“I will be in touch. Don’t worry.”
The conversation ended with Muslim valedictions.
“Didn’t you get on with Iqbal then dear?” asked Sareera Hassan’s mother.
“I got on with him in England.”
“If you were sharing a room with him in London and even came back to Suba together on the same flight why didn’t he invite you to his party?”
“He told me in a Chinese restaurant in London shortly before we left that he was going back to Copra Island to get engaged to somebody called Ayesha Abbas….”
“Oh no!”
“I don’t know for sure whether it is the same girl or not. If it is he must know about Hussein from the Abbases by now and that could explain why he was so short with me when I ‘phoned him now. He just told me there was going to be an engagement party but didn’t bother to invite me. I can’t just go. I don’t even know his address.”
“Son, I know the Abbases still have a grudge in spite of the money we paid because of what happened to you at the airport. That could only be them. That airport man told you not to do anything with women above your level. That was a hint. It was the Abbases.”
“I think Iqbal must know about the whole incident at the hotel and what happened afterwards Mother.”
“You must be right.”
“This is probably going to be the official engagement party so probably he wouldn’t want any of our family to be anywhere near there.”
“The best thing, son, is to avoid him from now on. He is going to be tied in with the Abbas family from now on.”
Mrs. Simpson and her domestic help Annie walked out into the garden and inspected the compost heap. She took a hoe from the garden shed, prodded the heap and considered its composition.
“This compost heap is old Annie. We’ll start a new compost heap this year I hope.”
“Is this one ready to use Mrs. Simpson?”
“That’s what I am thinking. I think we can start applying it to the vegetable patch. Not the lawn of course.”
“Today?”
“Will you be good enough to apply it around the vegetables this morning? I’ll bring a wheelbarrow and spade to make it easier.”
So Annie spent the morning transferring the manure from the compost heap to the soil of the vegetable patch. She did notice that there did appear to be an unusual amount of earth in the heap but thought no further about it. When she got to the bottom of the erstwhile heap she noticed that the ground underneath seemed to be disturbed and less compacted than she might have anticipated but she did not want to say anything to her employer lest it cast her in an ignorant light.
Meanwhile Mrs. Simpson tidied up and cleaned the room the two young Copra Islanders had vacated in preparation for the return of just one of them, as sole tenant, in a month’s time. She glanced out of the window and saw her Annie, dependable but dim, hard at it on the manure for the vegetable patch. Purely unconsciously she thought there was something disturbed, stirred about the pile of manure but these thoughts did not surface.
While Iqbal’s domestic arrangements were being prepared for his return he was not forgotten at work. To make his paths straight for his year of service for his practising certificate a small office was set aside for him and the firms he was going to have to go out to audit were being contacted and listed. He was to be the leader of an auditing team of articled clerks with his travelling expenses and subsistence paid for by the firm and secretarial assistance laid on for him for when he would be working in-house. He was known to be a bright and zealous worker and nobody at the firm anticipated any great obstacles to his ambitions.
Ahmed and Rushida sat together on their double bed and studied Fithumi’s photograph of the poster. How she took the shot without attracting attention to herself they did not know. Only here, in the sanctuary of their bedroom, could they converse with complete privacy in a house full of servants. The air conditioning whirred on the wall behind them giving a background of white noise to all they said.
“I don’t know what to say Ahmed.”
“There is a resemblance to Iqbal and that could be chance but Fithumi says the other face is like that Hassan fellow he was living with and that can’t be chance.”
“I still don’t know what to say.”
“Call Iqbal here.”
Rushida exited and returned two minutes later with Iqbal preceding her.
“Son, I have this picture of a poster here from England. Is this you?”
Iqbal realised that the basis of the strength of his family was unity so he wasted no time making denials. He explained that June was fictitious and that both he and his roommate had wanted to have sex with a non-prostitute before leaving England. He dealt with the circumstances of Patricia’s death objectively as was appropriate for a future business professional. His parents did not waste time scolding him.
Ahmed said at length, after Iqbal had made his confession, “All that I understand son, but the problem is what to do now.”
“I need your advice father.”
“Think Ahmed. Iqbal’s whole life…” Rushida spoke almost inaudibly.
Ahmed spoke again, “The net is closing around you. That much I can see. If my sister can go to the post office and recognise your faces on the noticeboard other people will recognise you too.”
“Somebody must have seen you with her” said Rushida.
“That much is certain,” said Iqbal.
There followed a silence, potent and powerful as the three brains worked on the problem. They all stood and communicated non-verbally by physical presence and eye contact. Eventually Ahmed spoke.
“If you just stay and do nothing you will be arrested on your return to England or even arrested over here and taken in handcuffs to face trial son.”
The first signs of emotion showed in Iqbal’s face.
“What could I do father? I wanted, we both wanted to do it with an ordinary girl and this was the only way we could do it. They’re not easy.”
“I know son. I visited the prostitutes in my time in London but I never did what you did.” This was the closest Ahmed could come to reprimanding his son.
“What’s he to do Ahmed?” Rushida’s tension showed.
“I think the best thing is for him to take the initiative but in the right way.” Ahmed paused.
“What initiative? I feel trapped!” Iqbal’s state mirrored his mother’s.
Ahmed said judiciously, “I think the best thing is you must become a witness not a defendant. Can you put the whole blame on Hassan?”
“Yes.” Hope flickered deep in Iqbal’s eyes.
“This could be your story. You were driving in London and you were accosted by this desperate person who needed food, shelter, everything. Right?”
“Right” said Iqbal.
“It’s best to keep to the truth as much as possible. Don’t give anyone rope to hang you with. You and Hassan felt sorry for her out of the goodness of your hearts and took her home. In your case you would have done the same for a destitute young man. Right?”
“Right.” Iqbal was catching his father’s drift.
“You went to sleep on the armchair. She was on your bed. Hassan was on his bed. You really went to sleep.”
“OK” said Iqbal.
“In the small hours your sleep was disturbed by noises in the dark. You switched on the light and found Hassan having intercourse with the girl and she was unconscious or dead. Presumably he hit her on the head with something heavy.”
“Right” said Iqbal.
“You were feeling revulsion and shame that one of your countrymen was behaving like this. OK?”
“Yes.”
“When Hassan hid the body in the garden you kept quiet and you now realise that that was a mistake as a result of speaking to us."
“All right father.”
“That will have to be the frame story and you will have to stick to it through thick and thin.”
“Hassan is going to deny it like hell” said Iqbal.
“Of course he is. You are the witness and you are doing your duty.”
There was a general consent.
Ahmed lifted up the ‘phone and made an appointment to speak to a contact of his at the British High Commission the next day.
Inspector Marsden handed the cup of tea to the young journalist from the Northern Light. Next, he sat down on the easy chair near him.
“Well Mr. Alfred I can give you what we have so far. It seems the Upton girl took the five forty five train from Harrogate. Several people who thought they recognised her from the poster were on the train. The train was not late and arrived at Euston at ten o’five. She stayed in the station area for some time and was seen talking to two young men who seemed Asian and may have been students. Then the trail thins out. Some people think they remember her walking out of the station with the men who took her to a white car which was parked off the Pentonville Road. That car may or may not have been a Cortina.”
“So at best you are looking for those two men and a Cortina?”
“Yes.”
The journalist scribbled rapidly into his notepad in shorthand.
“Do you mind letting me see where the car was parked?”
“I can take you there.”
They left Paddington Green police station for Kings Cross.
Meanwhile, a police computer was listing the registration numbers of all white Cortinas in the country. Later all the cars so identified would be traced and the owners questioned.
Iqbal and Hassan’s Cortina lay open to the sky on a side street in Earls Court attracting no attention as yet.
EPILOGUE
As a result of Ahmed Azeez’s communications to the British High Commission his son Iqbal was advised by diplomatic officials to write an affidavit about the murder of Patricia Upton. This was done with the assistance of a battery of legal advisors, all procured by his father, who showed him how the entire blame was to be passed onto his former roommate Hassan Husseini. Some of the proctors and advocates involved had done their initial studies in London and then had returned to Copra Island where they started their legal careers after passing conversion examinations for the local legal system.
Ahmed also contacted a Mowlana who was his family’s traditional religious adviser. The Mowlana told Iqbal that he had committed a grave sin for which the gates of the two gardens in paradise set aside for virtuous men would be locked against him. The only way he could regain his former position of relative innocence, the religious adviser said, was to co-operate fully with the authorities. It was no matter that the authorities in England were not Muslims. They were, he said, “people of the book” because they believed in the Old Testament and the message of Jesus who was a prophet of Islam.
posted by Ali @ 8:39 AM
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