Dark Clouds (11 page)

‘So – Newcastle?’

‘Yes – but I want you to fuck me, Rudi. Very hard, please. Then I want you to tell me all about Mary Rose and what she did with Piers and her Fenian rebel lover … OK?

Chapter 9

Ingrid Cesaro had a Sardinian grandfather who was responsible for her dark eyes and occasional eruptions of South Mediterranean passion. I loved the mixture. I even started to think about the sort of children we might have: Blond, dark-eyed beauties with fiery tempers. Pirates from the Mediterranean crossed with Vikings and Irish Celts. They might swap swords for pens and paint brushes. The idea was appealing and it stayed with me until Ingrid and I parted in a late night cab outside King’s Cross station. She caught a train to Newcastle while I returned to Islington.

My answering machine is full of messages, mainly from New York editors. ‘
Could you please check out what’s happening with the Pope, Rudi. Is he now a legitimate al-Qaeda target? What’s the feeling in Rome and London? Do all Muslims want to burn effigies of Pontiff Benedict? Are we likely to have more explosions at Catholic churches in the EEC?
’  

I haven’t a clue, but I can’t fly off and check out what’s happening in Europe or anywhere else unless I get permission from Carla Hirsch, who’s allegedly in Paris. Whisky and old movies is what I need to help me cope just now. I love Meryl Streep in jodhpurs saying: ‘
I haf a farm in Africa
.’  But I’m watching Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn in the bedroom when my head collapses into a pillow. They’re struggling to get somewhere in a broken down old boat, and Humphrey’s covered in grease. 

I’m trying, even in my dreams, to steer away from what I saw in the East London morgue, but I can’t escape. Rashid’s dead and I keep homing in on the crudely stitched slit around his neck.

‘I asked you for help, Rudi,
’ he says, ‘
and you abandoned me. I would have given you information on a nuclear jihad in return for anonymity and a chance to watch cricket. But look at me now: I have no refuge with Allah and your God thinks I’m a spineless turncoat.
’

There is blood flowing out through his eyes, nose, mouth and ears. He fades finally with the dawn and I go back to sleep as the sun edges up over East London. I dream of making love to Ingrid. Children surround us, laughing and playing until the phone rings beside my bed. It’s almost midday and there’s silence at first when I pick up the receiver.

‘Rudi?’

‘Yes – ’

‘This is Khalad.’

‘Ah – ’ Oh Christ! ‘How are you doing?’

‘I have been trying to call you.’

‘Look – I’m really sorry. I need to clear my answering machine and I haven’t checked the messages on my mobile.’

‘But you know about, Rashid?’

I do, and it’s awful. I try to commiserate. ‘It’s terrible,’ I say, but it’s inadequate.

‘Could we meet, Rudi? Somewhere near your home … I’m in Highgate now.’

Of course. There’s a pub with a garden just around the corner. It’s very discreet. We could sit behind a clump of trees and no one would know we were there.

‘I will come straight away,’ Khalad says. ‘Within an hour … is that all right?’

‘Sure – ’

He sounds agitated. If I could pass on the meeting, I would. But I don’t want to fuck gratuitously with his head, so I give directions for the pub and when he’s gone I get up.

‘This is not good with the Pope,’ Mr Patel says when I get to the newsagents. We usually spend a few minutes discussing what’s going on in the world. We take our lead from the tabloid headlines, and this morning they’ve all got pictures, either of his German holiness, or angry Islamists who are burning pictures of him all over the world. I’m not sure what he’s done to offend them, but Mr Patel assures me that it’s a storm in a teacup.

‘He say cutting off hands and stoning women is not good idea in Western countries.’

Absolutely – I’ve been here before. Sharia law is I’m sure, fine for banking and mortgage matters amongst Muslims.  It may also be helpful in working out who gets what in divorce settlements, provided both sides agree to arbitration. We’re not ready yet though for the sort of punishments that might be meted out in Saudi Arabia, the Yemen and in Pakistan.

‘Hey – what you doing?’ Mr Patel shouts at a bunch of overweight school kids who are stealing lollipops and bags of crisps. He’s picked up a baseball bat, and is insisting that the kids empty their pockets or pay for the goods. Otherwise, he’s locking them in his shop and calling the police. It’s getting confrontational, so I smile weakly and slip away.

*  *  *  *  *

There is no one in the Queen’s Arms apart from Joseph Carmody, who is sitting at the bar counter with a large glass of red wine.

‘I see you’re keeping up with what’s happening,’ he says, pointing to the newspapers under my arm.

‘I’m going through the motions, Joseph … will you have another drink? 

‘Oh, yes, please … I need to keep my mind off what’s going on out there.’

Carmody, who’s over sixty, works as a stringer for a news agency, which means he picks up or invents stories and passes them on for a fee.

‘What do you think about these attacks on the Holy Father?’ he asks when I’ve ordered two large Merlots and a packet of nuts.

‘Oh, it’ll pass,’ I say, grinning. ‘The Muslims are just testing the water and letting off steam. By next month we’ll be back to fretting about the Chinese or the Indians and how they’ll soon be getting together for global domination.’

I’m trying to keep it light. But Carmody wants to talk about the Crusades and how the bearded guy in Iran – his number one target for international trouble-stirring – is trying to start World War Three.

‘We need to take a firm hand,’ he says.

‘Right – ’

‘Otherwise, we’ll be undermined and obliterated. These Islamists are very determined, Flynn …I can tell you that unless we stand up to them, they’ll trample all over us.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘It’s true …you see, we’re weak. All the stuffing’s been knocked out of us over the years …we’re soft and flabby now.’

Carmody is a mischievous pessimist. I don’t go along with what he’s saying. OK – maybe sometimes, I wake up sweating. I’ll have been up against Mohammed Atta; trying to reason with him. ‘
Hey, Mohammed – listen to me. Flying into the North Tower is not what it’s all about. We need to talk, man. Sure, there are differences between us. I don’t think it’s very nice to have our young girls falling about drunk in a semi-naked state. It’s not what I’d want for my daughters. Only there’s got to be somewhere in between our stoning them to death and letting them carry on as before. State sponsored re-hab could be the answer … but you’ll have to give us something in return. Perhaps you might ask the guys in Afghanistan to stop growing all those opium poppies, or whatever
.’

*  *  *  *  *

I don’t have anything to match Carmody’s certainties. But my phone’s ringing, so I opt out.

‘Rudi?’

‘Hi!’ It’s Sulima. ‘Good to hear from you … how’s Paris?’

She’s going on about problems in the Sharif shipping office as I walk out into the deserted garden.’

‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have stayed in Geneva,’ she says.

‘I know … I would like to have taken a sail on the lake in your Laser, but neither of you seemed up for it.’

There’s a silence at the Paris end, and I’m concerned. Has Carla Hirsch cornered my lovely Syrian friend? ‘
You don’t know me, honey
’ I can hear her saying. ‘
But I’m going to ask you to take your clothes off. You have, I’m sure, got a beautiful body. At any other time, I’d love to play with you – and I’m sure we’d have fun … just now though, we need to talk, and I’m going to start by putting your lovely head into a bucket of water. I won’t drown you – not yet anyway. See it as a sort of warm up exercise. A taste of things to come if you don’t tell me exactly what the fuck you and your brother are up to, babe.
’

‘Rudi?’ It’s like a cry for help.

‘Sorry, my love … I just drifted off there for a minute.’

‘I’m definitely coming to London.’

‘Great – ’

‘Probably on Friday … and we must talk properly.’

I’d invite her to stay, but the Sharifs have a large house in Eaton Square. They don’t use it much, but it’s always there; ready and waiting with a trusted, live-in Lebanese lady who takes care of everything they might need whenever either of them is in town.

‘I look forward to seeing you,’ I tell her. She says something similar, and that’s it. The line’s dead and Khalad Hassan is peering nervously around the garden.

*  *  *  *  *

We hug on the lawn. He’s definitely fragile, so I sit him down at a garden table.

‘Orange juice or Coca Cola?’ I ask.

‘Anything, Rudi … water would be fine.’

‘And a sandwich?’

‘You don’t have to – ’

It’s my pleasure, Khalad. But you just stay there, OK. In the bar, Carmody wants to know who the ‘
Arab fellah
’ is.

‘Fuck off,’ I mutter. I’m getting another large glass of Merlot, a couple of tuna salad sandwiches, a bottle of fizzy water and some orange juice. The sun’s out and Khalad’s standing beside a table in the pub garden.

‘He’s dead …’ He says it quietly and I nod. I’m not going to tell him that I’ve already seen Rashid’s body, and that his throat has been mercilessly slit from one ear to the other.

‘Come on – sit down.’ I take his arm and pull out a chair. I then give him the orange juice and take a decent swig of the wine.

‘I’m worried,’ he tells me after a while.

‘Sure – I can understand.’

‘It’s difficult for our people everywhere. We are expected to show unity together. If we don’t, someone will notice, and they’ll talk.’

I’m thinking of Russia or maybe East Germany during the Cold War. You remove a picture of Stalin or Lenin from your living room or kitchen and you could be in trouble. ‘
This person is thinking independently, Herr Commissar. I’d say he’s a dangerous influence, who needs to be dealt with …perhaps a few years in Siberia would do the trick.
’

For many young Muslims, the expectations could be even more onerous. They’ve got religious dictats mixed in with everything else they’re meant to be doing, and there’s always someone watching.

‘If we side too overtly with the West, Rudi, we’re betraying not just our country and our politics, but also our God, and that is serious, believe me.’

I can see this. Khalad has dilemmas. I’m his confidant. My job is to listen, refill his glass with orange juice or fizzy water and make encouraging noises.

‘I only want to lead a normal life with my family in Tunisia,’ he says. ‘I don’t personally have any quarrel with you here in Britain.’

Of course you don’t. You’re a decent guy and when you’ve finished your course in Management Accountancy, or whatever it is, at London University, you’ll go home and oversee all sorts of worthwhile schemes for your Government. You might even return to Europe for occasional holidays. The problem though is that you seem to know guys who may be activists: Soldiers in Allah’s army, who don’t feel too happy about our Western ways.

‘Why do you think Rashid died, Khalad?’

He’s staring down at the table and shaking his head. He doesn’t want to go into it, but I’m focusing on a magpie and hoping that another’s going to come along soon for good luck.

‘He had his own agenda, Rudi. Some of this was selfish. He liked to be the centre of attention. He saw himself as an intellectual, valued by Muslims and Westerners … and
Our Abyss
was a worthwhile book.’

Oh yes – a cheerful little tome about everything that divides us.

‘Listen to me,’ I say, and I wait until he looks up from the table. ‘Rashid was about to cross over. He wanted me to find him someone he could talk to. I believe that’s one of the reasons why he was killed.’

‘Possibly.’ Khalad nods and looks down again, this time at the grass.

‘He also knew people who want to escalate Islamic violence in Western countries … and I think the UK is a target – right?’

I’ve now got two magpies on the same branch but my Tunisian is shaking his head.

‘This is just speculation, Rudi.’

‘OK – so why have you come here today? Is it just so we can commiserate together about Rashid … or is it because you know some activists?’

‘
Potentially violent people who, if they knew we were meeting here today, would have no qualms about slitting your throat, Khalad …so maybe you’d like me to help you climb over the wall? Or perhaps you could just walk through Checkpoint Charlie into the professionally loving embrace of US Homeland Security Agent Carla Hirsch or Her Majesty’s Mr Connors
.’

*  *  *  *  *

There’s a silence as I stroke the stem of my wine glass while Khalad concentrates on his clasped hands.

‘You mentioned a Muslim girl, Rudi, that you were close to.’

I did – soon after we first met. We were at an international affairs forum at the London School of Economics. He was sympathetic when I added that she had been buried alive in the rubble of the North Tower at the World Trade Centre in New York on 9/11.

‘You loved this girl?’

‘Yes – very much.’ I still do, although I’m hoping that she will continue to smile when she next sees me with Ingrid Cesaro.

‘So you would concede that we are for the most part a peaceful and caring community … you are also familiar with some of our countries?’

Yes – I like Muslims. I also have happy memories of holidays in Egypt and Morocco. I particularly liked the way crowds of Moroccan families promenaded by the beach in the evening at Asilah, which is half-an-hour west of Tangier. The women all wore jilbabs or hijabs, and the children were polite and orderly, even when they played and scampered around in the sea. The men were, for the most part, also agreeable. They seemed keen to win over visitors with welcoming smiles and friendly chat.

‘I don’t have any problems with your people, Khalad. They’re as good or bad as most of us. But I can’t go along with your extremists. They’re evil, and I want us to be rid of them.’