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Authors: Stephen Leather
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Britain to hard-working middle-class Pakistani parents and had been brought up to respect the sanctity of the mosque.
The man’s toenails were long and yel owing and there was dirt under them. Chaudhry shuddered. He could never understand why people who fol owed a religion where shoes were always being removed didn’t make more of an effort to take care of their feet. It didn’t take much to clip nails and to wash before heading to the mosque. He took a deep breath and looked away. There was no point in worrying about the personal grooming habits of others.
He knelt down and began to pray. As his face got close to the prayer mat the stench of sweat and tobacco hit him and his stomach lurched.
Whoever had last been on the mat had obviously been a heavy smoker and hadn’t been overzealous on the personal-hygiene front. He sat back on his heels and sighed.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Malik.
‘The mat stinks,’ said Chaudhry. ‘What’s wrong with people? Why can’t they shower before they come to pray? Or at least spray on some cologne.’
‘Do you want to move? There are spaces at the back.’
Chaudhry looked over his shoulder. The mosque was busy and moving would mean threading their way through the rows and even then he couldn’t see two places together. ‘I’l put up with it,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand why the imams don’t say something.’
‘I think they’re more worried about numbers than hygiene,’ whispered Malik. ‘Come on, let’s finish and get out.’
Chaudhry nodded and began to pray, as always forcing himself to concentrate on the words even though he had said them tens of thousands of times before. He knew that many of the men around him were simply going through the motions, their lips moving on autopilot while their minds were elsewhere, their thoughts on their work, on their families, or more likely on what they were missing on television or on what they would be eating for dinner. That wasn’t how Chaudhry had been brought up to pray. Prayer was the time when one communed with Al ah and to do it half-heartedly was worse than not doing it at al . Not that he found it a chore. In fact he relished the inner peace that came with focused prayer, the way that al extraneous thoughts were pushed away, al worries, al concerns, al fears. Al that mattered were the prayers, and once he had begun he wasn’t even aware of the stench of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
When they finished they made their way out and slipped on their shoes. They headed up the stairs and out into Dynevor Road. It was a cold day and Malik pul ed up the fur-lined hood of his parka as they turned right towards their flat, but they stopped when they heard a voice behind them.
‘Hel o, brothers.’
They turned round. It was Kamran Khalid, their friend and mentor. And the man who had sent them to Pakistan for al-Qaeda training. Khalid was tal , just over six feet, and stick-thin. He had a close-cropped beard and a hooked nose between piercing eyes that rarely seemed to blink.
‘Brother,’ said Chaudhry, and Khalid stepped forward and hugged him, kissing him softly on both cheeks. He did the same with Malik.
Khalid claimed to be from Karachi but never spoke about his family or schooling in Pakistan. He spoke good English, albeit with a thick accent, but Chaudhry had also heard him talking in Arabic on several occasions. As far as the authorities were concerned, Khalid was an Afghan, a refugee from the Taliban. He had claimed that his family had been massacred by Taliban tribesmen and that had been enough to get him refugee status and eventual y citizenship, but Chaudhry doubted that he was an Afghan. On the few occasions that he’d talked to Khalid about his background, the man had been vague rather than evasive and had smoothly changed the subject.
‘Al is wel ?’ asked Khalid, addressing them both.
Chaudhry and Malik nodded. ‘We are al in mourning for what happened,’ said Chaudhry, keeping his
The man’s toenails were long and yel owing and there was dirt under them. Chaudhry shuddered. He could never understand why people who fol owed a religion where shoes were always being removed didn’t make more of an effort to take care of their feet. It didn’t take much to clip nails and to wash before heading to the mosque. He took a deep breath and looked away. There was no point in worrying about the personal grooming habits of others.
He knelt down and began to pray. As his face got close to the prayer mat the stench of sweat and tobacco hit him and his stomach lurched.
Whoever had last been on the mat had obviously been a heavy smoker and hadn’t been overzealous on the personal-hygiene front. He sat back on his heels and sighed.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Malik.
‘The mat stinks,’ said Chaudhry. ‘What’s wrong with people? Why can’t they shower before they come to pray? Or at least spray on some cologne.’
‘Do you want to move? There are spaces at the back.’
Chaudhry looked over his shoulder. The mosque was busy and moving would mean threading their way through the rows and even then he couldn’t see two places together. ‘I’l put up with it,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand why the imams don’t say something.’
‘I think they’re more worried about numbers than hygiene,’ whispered Malik. ‘Come on, let’s finish and get out.’
Chaudhry nodded and began to pray, as always forcing himself to concentrate on the words even though he had said them tens of thousands of times before. He knew that many of the men around him were simply going through the motions, their lips moving on autopilot while their minds were elsewhere, their thoughts on their work, on their families, or more likely on what they were missing on television or on what they would be eating for dinner. That wasn’t how Chaudhry had been brought up to pray. Prayer was the time when one communed with Al ah and to do it half-heartedly was worse than not doing it at al . Not that he found it a chore. In fact he relished the inner peace that came with focused prayer, the way that al extraneous thoughts were pushed away, al worries, al concerns, al fears. Al that mattered were the prayers, and once he had begun he wasn’t even aware of the stench of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
When they finished they made their way out and slipped on their shoes. They headed up the stairs and out into Dynevor Road. It was a cold day and Malik pul ed up the fur-lined hood of his parka as they turned right towards their flat, but they stopped when they heard a voice behind them.
‘Hel o, brothers.’
They turned round. It was Kamran Khalid, their friend and mentor. And the man who had sent them to Pakistan for al-Qaeda training. Khalid was tal , just over six feet, and stick-thin. He had a close-cropped beard and a hooked nose between piercing eyes that rarely seemed to blink.
‘Brother,’ said Chaudhry, and Khalid stepped forward and hugged him, kissing him softly on both cheeks. He did the same with Malik.
Khalid claimed to be from Karachi but never spoke about his family or schooling in Pakistan. He spoke good English, albeit with a thick accent, but Chaudhry had also heard him talking in Arabic on several occasions. As far as the authorities were concerned, Khalid was an Afghan, a refugee from the Taliban. He had claimed that his family had been massacred by Taliban tribesmen and that had been enough to get him refugee status and eventual y citizenship, but Chaudhry doubted that he was an Afghan. On the few occasions that he’d talked to Khalid about his background, the man had been vague rather than evasive and had smoothly changed the subject.
‘Al is wel ?’ asked Khalid, addressing them both.
Chaudhry and Malik nodded. ‘We are al in mourning for what happened,’ said Chaudhry, keeping his
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