Authors: Selma Dabbagh
‘He’ll turn up. How’s Leeds? How’s the course?’
‘It’s not bad. It’s nothing that I need to know, but they want to vet me for their own processes. I don’t have much choice if I want to apply for a grant. Most of the funding for our type of work has gone. They’re more interested in peace initiatives, “building rather than critiquing” in their words. Where is Rashid? I’ve missed the bastard.’
Khalil tried phoning Rashid as he looked around and up at the row of policemen and vans standing at the top of the steps, the rows of hard Perspex shields near the black-booted revolutionary workers. But Rashid was not down by the fountain or up by the museum, nor was he in any of the groups standing at the front of the stage. Pigeons fluttered around them pecking at the ground, unperturbed by the thousands of pairs of moving feet. Surveillance cameras focussed in on the faces of the crowd, twisting their hydraulic necks in order to record their images for ever.
‘At least we can see that he’s not with her.’ Khalil gestured with his head at Lisa sitting primly up on the stage.
The crowd by the stage was too compressed for Iman to make her way through it and she didn’t think it was Rashid’s style to push himself up to the front. Some flyers caught on her feet. She slipped slightly on a ring of fried onion. A voice called out ‘Yo!’ from the brigade of black-shirted revolutionaries and she recognised Rashid’s friend sucking on a rolled cigarette. He jumped forwards to meet her.
‘Have you seen Rashid?’ Iman asked.
‘Not since earlier. We haven’t met by the way. I’m Ian.’
‘Iman.’
‘Cool name. Does it mean anything?’
‘Faith.’
‘Beautiful.’ Ian indicated his approval with a half-smile and a contemplative nod.
‘So you haven’t seen him, then?’ Iman asked again.
Ian clicked the side of his mouth. ‘Nope. Sorry. Rollie?’ He proffered a squashed box of foil at her but she had already gone.
She moved towards the edge of the square where the traffic was still moving and she became pressed against people, bags and the sticks of banners until she came to a side street. There were so many dark heads, so many leather jackets, short sideburns and high foreheads; it would be impossible for Rashid to stand out in any way.
An alert-looking Eva stood by the Medical Union stall. Her right hand was full of leaflets and booklets. Despite the hazy light, she looked brighter and healthier than she did indoors, but her internal light seemed to flicker as she saw Iman approach.
‘Eva, about what I said this morning. I’m sorry I upset you.’
‘Thanks for saying that, but it’s OK. Really. It turned out for the best. It’s totally OK. I think you were right.’ Iman looked again at Eva. ‘I mean, it really got me thinking and I had this
amazing
conversation with your friend, Khalil, who is just
incredible
, and he suggested coming down here, which I really didn’t think was my kind of thing, but I did it and it’s just been so, so
interesting
and I’ve met these really
awe-inspiring
people from the Medical Union and this other direct action campaign. It’s been
amazing
. So, no, please don’t apologise.’
Iman nodded at the doctors by the stand and wondered whether they knew her. ‘They do good work,’ she said.
‘They’re outstanding.’
Eva looked around her, and Iman tried to join her enthusiasm, struggling to recreate the sensation of elation she had felt earlier. Maybe she should tell Eva who her mother was.
‘The number of people . . .’ Eva continued, ‘. . . I mean, the
belief
they must have, and so many of them are just like me, no connection at all to the place yet still they are here and, I don’t know, I’ve never been on a demonstration before, but it’s
incredible.
’
‘Eva, you’ve met my brother, haven’t you? You know what he looks like. You haven’t seen him, have you? I can’t find him. We were together and then he just disappeared.’
Someone from the direct action group had come up to speak to Eva and was anxious for Iman to leave. Eva smiled at the volunteer, before turning back to Iman. ‘Oh, no. No. Sorry. I don’t think so, but I’ll look out for him.’
‘Get him to call us if you see him.’
‘Sure. Sure.’ Eva stopped and leant close to Iman as though she had seen a spot on Iman’s face that she was tempted to squeeze. ‘You’ve known Khalil for a long time?’
‘We grew up together.’
‘I see. Over there?’
‘No. Our fathers used to work together so we were together in Scandinavia, Switzerland, different places in Europe mainly.’
‘Europe. I see. So he’s like a good friend to you then, Khalil? That is . . . you’re not together or anything, are you?’
‘Khalil? No, no.’ Iman tried to laugh but she could not help thinking of Lisa and it made her want to claim Khalil as hers. She struggled to be bigger than herself. ‘I’m glad you came. I must say, I was a bit surprised when Khalil told me that you were down here, but I’m pleased that I got you wrong.’ It was a dauntingly difficult thing for Iman to say, but Eva had already been taken over by the direct action group and had missed most of it. Standing next to Eva all wired up and enthusiastic did Iman no good at all.
Iman joined the stragglers leading into a side street. Smokers hung around in groups to chat; people made phone calls out of the noise of the speakers; some parents changed their toddlers’ nappy in a doorway; couples drifted away from the mêlée for a late lunch, a stroll by the river, afternoon tea perhaps? It was muggy and close. The sky was taut and anxious to be released from its rain.
They had just joined the demonstration when Rashid’s gut filled with pangs that rose up in him and diluted the purpose of his body. A mussed-up haze had fallen over the demonstrators and the heat of them, the street and the tarmac was now trapped solidly between the buildings. It was dull and debilitating and the ligaments of his body were weak with the cravings of his stomach for it was a laborious ploughing that he felt he was doing through the crowd, stuck in place and barely shifting. He found himself unduly attracted by advertisements for food, the counters of small restaurants, biscuits being fed to children.
Once decided upon finding food, he nearly blundered into the wrong hamburger joint before he remembered the boycott, and the demonstration that would remind him of it if he broke it. He pulled himself away around the corner into a small café with a glass cabinet piled with sandwiches, each one the length of half his arm. He stuffed buttered meats and soft bread into his mouth, closing his eyes at the relief of it, and shoving and stuffing until it was all gone, bread, butter, slips of meat and crisps. He felt his body become braced back into place enabling him to feel relaxed enough to take in where he was, which was on a wicker bar stool under black and white photos of 1950s cars and girls in red plastic frames. A stream of demonstrators slunk away from the square to his right and from the square the speeches railed and crackled. He cleared out his nose and felt a whole lot better about everything.
There were four of them that came up to him as he left the café, or it could have been five. A lot of them anyway. Only two of them were uniformed. The one who was talking had a dark red mark across the bridge of his nose where some glasses had been and one of them had eaten garlic. Rashid knew that much because they were very close and piled into him, grabbing at his arms like he was going to try to get away, and saying a long name which sounded familiar and vaguely Arab. Inferences. The one with the takeaway breath was talking about inferences. There was a brusque closeness that was foreign and repulsive to Rashid; he wanted instinctively to hit them away but they had him pinned and stunned with his hands cuffed behind his back before he could possibly respond.
They led him towards a van on the side of the road while someone screamed and swore, but then he realised it was him. No one else, and those streets were full of people. Not one of them so much as raised an eyebrow at the staggering, blundering injustice of the whole thing.
‘The suspect under surveillance is in our custody,’ one of the uniformed policemen told the radio held to his chest. It had to be some kind of joke. Rashid’s wrists were too large for the cuffs and they had pulled on them as though he was a reluctant cow, a prize cow.
What had he done, for fuck’s sake?
‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘I haven’t fucking done anything. Get off me
.
’
The van wailed as it spun around corners and more corners as though it was roped on to a central pivot around which it rushed and spun, bumping up and down over kerbs and cutting through lights, barging through stationary traffic. Without the use of his hands he was thrown across the back of the van, off his bench and on to his side. He pulled himself up and tried to find a bar for his fingers to catch on to.
Fucking calm it down .
. .
And when they could be bothered to turn to check on him, they laughed at him through the thick soundproofed glass, their mouths going on about something inaudible but definitely hostile and personal.
When the van stopped and his feet had stationary ground under them again, they took him inside the station and removed all the contents from his pockets and placed them in see-through plastic bags. A man behind a high desk recorded it all and read out the list to Rashid, who did not hear anything.
A more senior-looking officer saw Rashid’s name on the form, and looked at the custody sergeant behind the desk and said, ‘That’s who he says he is, is it?’
‘Same on his student ID, sir.’ The sergeant was a pointy-nosed little man with an air of diligence and mischief.
‘Get one of those made in five minutes,’ the senior officer replied. ‘Take him down and we’ll look at what we’ve got on him.’
He was allowed one phone call and he wasted it trying to call Lisa. Her phone was off. He left a polite but desperate message for her. Even if she wasn’t his girlfriend, as she had seemed to want to stress was the case, she would still help him out of this, wouldn’t she?
The room he was put in was about one and a half metres by two and had two plastic-covered mattresses at knee height at either side of it. There were no windows, only a small sliding opening on the door. The door was thick and covered with bolts. The cell smelt of piss, old smoke and sick men. There was something final about the smell.
‘Get me a lawyer,’ Rashid shouted through the grill. ‘I should be able to see a lawyer.’
He kicked at the door until a very large officer came up to his peephole and looked in on him. Rashid promptly shut up.
‘Better get him the duty,’ he could hear someone say down the hall and he was sure he could make out the words, ‘Bit of a fuck up.’
Bit of a fuck up?
Of course it was a bit of a fuck up. He had known that all along.
Rashid wanted to remember all of this, to mentally document it. He wanted to ensure that any tale told later to Khalil, for example, would be detailed enough. Now that he thought he had confirmation of what he had already known (
a
bit of a fuck up
) he was able, for a while, to contemplate the cell with detachment. There was something almost desirable about the drama of the situation. It was so familiar to him from films and TV that to find himself in it gave him the sense that his life had taken on a dramatic purpose, that he had actually (finally) reached the level of being able to not just feature but to
star
in a narrative of some interest. This voice was convinced, no it just
knew
, that it was a mistake that Rashid had been arrested. It was an aberration. The chatty story-telling voice in his head would not contemplate any other alternative as to do so would deflect from the entertainment value of its own mission.
He continued to feed this perkily amused narrator in his head. It made him feel better and he was sure after the fuck up comment that his sense of this was the right one. He provided the narrative with details of graffiti from the walls, counted the cigarette burns in the thick mattress covers and touched the shiny hardwearing surfaces of the cell. He had sat back against the wall that was far too cold for a hot day, his feet on the mattress, waiting for Lisa, waiting for his lawyer, waiting for the policeman to come down the corridor and tell him that they were very sorry sir, but they had made a bit of a mistake. They just needed to clarify that there was a
bit of a fuck up, sir. Do apologise.
Rashid resolved that he would be very gracious to the officer when he came.
Iman was avoiding Charles. Although most of what had passed between them had been no worse in terms of embarrassment than border strip searches and medical examinations, the memory of the shudder that had run through him when the act had culminated, as though he had released a great sneeze into her (a liquid sneeze
that
had actually spread wet and warm onto the sheet under her) was hard to deal with.
‘What are you looking so pained for?’ Khalil asked Iman. ‘Squeezing your phone won’t turn it off. There’s a button for that.’ Khalil had thought he had lost Iman too as the long, low light of evening had come in and the blocks of elongated building shadow were joining together. Eva had become ensconsed with the direct action group, Rashid had never materialised and Iman was in a daze.