name’s Mohammed Mahmood.”
As he spoke, George turned to look at Banks again and his eyes shone with defiant pride. Now Banks saw what Charles Mahmood meant. Now it made sense: Dollar Brand/Abdullah Ibrahim, theKoran lying on the bedside table. George was exploring his Islamic roots.
Well, Banks told himself, be tolerant. Not all Muslims support death threats against writers. He didn’t know much about the religion, but he supposed there must be as many forms of Islam as there are of Christianity, which runs a pretty broad spectrum if you include the Sandemanians, the Methodists, the Quakers and the Spanish Inquisition.
Why, then, did he feel so uncomfortable, as if he had lost someone he had known? Not a close friend, certainly, but a person he had liked and had shared things with. Now he was excluded—he could see it in George’s eyes—he was the enemy. There would be no more music, laughter or understanding. Ideology had come between them, and it would rewrite history and deny that the music, laughter and understanding had ever happened in the first place. Banks had been through it once before with an old school friend who had become a born-again Christian. They no longer spoke to one another. Or, more accurately, Banks no longer spoke to him .
“Okay, Mohammed,” he said, “did you go to The Jubilee with a couple of mates on Saturday night?”
“What if I did?”
“I thought Muslims weren’t supposed to drink?”
Banks could swear he saw George blush. “I don’t,” he answered. “Well, not much. I’m stopping.”
“Who were you with?”
“Why?”
“Is there any reason you don’t want to tell me?”
George shrugged. “No. It doesn’t matter. I was with Asim and Kobir.”
“Are they from around here?”
“Asim is. Asim Nazur. His dad owns the Himalaya. They live in the flat above it.”
“I know the place,” said Banks, who had eaten there on more than one occasion. He also knew that Asim Nazur’s father was some sort of bigwig in the Yorkshire Muslim community. “And the other lad?”
“Kobir. He’s Asim’s cousin from Bradford. He was just visiting, so we took him out to listen to some music, that’s all. Look, why are—”
“What time did you leave the pub?”
“I wasn’t looking at my watch.”
“Before closing time?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
“We bought some fish and chips at Sweaty Betty’s, just down Market Street, then we ate them in a shop doorway because it were pissing down. After that we went home. Why?”
“You went your separate ways?”
“Course we went separate ways. You’d have to do, wouldn’t you, if you lived in opposite directions?”
“Which way did you walk home?”
“Same way I always do from up there. Cut through the Carlaw Place ginnel over the rec.”
“What time would this be?”
“I’m not sure. Probably elevenish by then.”
“Not later?”
“No. A bit before, if anything. The pubs hadn’t come out.”
“Mum and dad still up?”
“No, they were asleep when I got back. They close the shop atten on a Saturday. They’d been up since before dawn.”
“Did you see anyone on your way?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Doesn’t it worry you, walking alone across the rec at night?”
“Not particularly. I can handle myself.”
“Against how many?”
“I’ve been taking lessons. Martial arts.”
“Since when?”
“Since some bastard chucked a brick through our window and cut me mum. They might accept what’s going on, but I won’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’?”
There was scorn in his voice. “Racism. Pure and simple. We live in a racist society. It doesn’t matter that I was born here, and my mum and dad before me, it’s the colour of your skin people judge you on.”
“Not everyone.”
“Shows how much you know. The police are part of it, anyway.”
“Geor—Sorry, Mohammed, I didn’t come here to argue the politics of racism with you. I came to find out
As he spoke, George turned to look at Banks again and his eyes shone with defiant pride. Now Banks saw what Charles Mahmood meant. Now it made sense: Dollar Brand/Abdullah Ibrahim, theKoran lying on the bedside table. George was exploring his Islamic roots.
Well, Banks told himself, be tolerant. Not all Muslims support death threats against writers. He didn’t know much about the religion, but he supposed there must be as many forms of Islam as there are of Christianity, which runs a pretty broad spectrum if you include the Sandemanians, the Methodists, the Quakers and the Spanish Inquisition.
Why, then, did he feel so uncomfortable, as if he had lost someone he had known? Not a close friend, certainly, but a person he had liked and had shared things with. Now he was excluded—he could see it in George’s eyes—he was the enemy. There would be no more music, laughter or understanding. Ideology had come between them, and it would rewrite history and deny that the music, laughter and understanding had ever happened in the first place. Banks had been through it once before with an old school friend who had become a born-again Christian. They no longer spoke to one another. Or, more accurately, Banks no longer spoke to him .
“Okay, Mohammed,” he said, “did you go to The Jubilee with a couple of mates on Saturday night?”
“What if I did?”
“I thought Muslims weren’t supposed to drink?”
Banks could swear he saw George blush. “I don’t,” he answered. “Well, not much. I’m stopping.”
“Who were you with?”
“Why?”
“Is there any reason you don’t want to tell me?”
George shrugged. “No. It doesn’t matter. I was with Asim and Kobir.”
“Are they from around here?”
“Asim is. Asim Nazur. His dad owns the Himalaya. They live in the flat above it.”
“I know the place,” said Banks, who had eaten there on more than one occasion. He also knew that Asim Nazur’s father was some sort of bigwig in the Yorkshire Muslim community. “And the other lad?”
“Kobir. He’s Asim’s cousin from Bradford. He was just visiting, so we took him out to listen to some music, that’s all. Look, why are—”
“What time did you leave the pub?”
“I wasn’t looking at my watch.”
“Before closing time?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
“We bought some fish and chips at Sweaty Betty’s, just down Market Street, then we ate them in a shop doorway because it were pissing down. After that we went home. Why?”
“You went your separate ways?”
“Course we went separate ways. You’d have to do, wouldn’t you, if you lived in opposite directions?”
“Which way did you walk home?”
“Same way I always do from up there. Cut through the Carlaw Place ginnel over the rec.”
“What time would this be?”
“I’m not sure. Probably elevenish by then.”
“Not later?”
“No. A bit before, if anything. The pubs hadn’t come out.”
“Mum and dad still up?”
“No, they were asleep when I got back. They close the shop atten on a Saturday. They’d been up since before dawn.”
“Did you see anyone on your way?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Doesn’t it worry you, walking alone across the rec at night?”
“Not particularly. I can handle myself.”
“Against how many?”
“I’ve been taking lessons. Martial arts.”
“Since when?”
“Since some bastard chucked a brick through our window and cut me mum. They might accept what’s going on, but I won’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’?”
There was scorn in his voice. “Racism. Pure and simple. We live in a racist society. It doesn’t matter that I was born here, and my mum and dad before me, it’s the colour of your skin people judge you on.”
“Not everyone.”
“Shows how much you know. The police are part of it, anyway.”
“Geor—Sorry, Mohammed, I didn’t come here to argue the politics of racism with you. I came to find out
Similar Books
