lump drooping from its straps. He hadn’t bargained on a walk from the station. At the taxi stand he had given the address and the cabbie’s face had contorted with dismay.
‘You ’avin’ a laugh?’
The second had just taken off.
‘Forget it,’ said the third.
He’d tried waiting for a 42, the bus he used to take to school, but a passer-by told him he was wasting his time. ‘All suspended cos of the riots. Four buses were torched. Where have you been – Mars?’
He didn’t have to walk far to see it: the bright orange glow to the east, and emanating from it, the almost continuous shriek of sirens, though the streets near the station were eerily empty.
Twenty-five rain-soaked minutes later, he reached the foot of Trap Hill. A cordon stretched along the east side of Farley Street. The side door of a police van slid open and a PC in riot gear poked his head out. ‘Oi, you. Get over here.’ After four days of semi-continuous battle pleasantries were unlikely to be forthcoming. Inside the van were several more cops – all in various stages of sleep.
Sam set his face to reasonable, accompanied by a small enquiring smile. ‘How can I help, Officer?’
The cop glanced at one of his mates, who leaned out to look at him, then exchanged glances with his colleagues in the time-honoured fashion, as if to say, We’ve got a right one here .
‘You lost or summat?’
‘No, I’m not, actually.’
‘You’re not from round here.’
Sam pointed to Jimmy’s Kebabs, halfway up Trap Hill, still intact, albeit with a plywood front window. ‘See the kebab shop? That’s where I grew up.’
They stared at him. He knew what they were thinking. His hair was black, but his skin was pale and he’d always made a point of staying out of the sun. The linen suit – albeit drenched – along with the designer backpack, was what he considered to be the uniform of an ambitious young academic. No one round here looked like this.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kovacevic, Dr Kovacevic.’
Sam was a convenient Anglicization. His mother had protested but eventually given way and, apart from her, no one called him Sahim.
The cop raised his eyebrows. ‘Hospital’s that way.’ He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the orange glow. He snorted. ‘They’re a bit short right now.’
‘Not a medical doctor, I’m afraid.’
‘What, then?’
‘Criminology.’
They burst out laughing.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’
They continued to laugh, sharing the news with the others in the van.
‘Here, your mam won’t be at home, son. The street’s been evacuated.’
All he’d had from her was a text from an unknown number. Help – they’ve taken me refuge. Help. Mamina . By the time he’d tried to call back a recording said the number was disconnected.
A cop got out and lifted the police tape for him to go through. ‘Try the Krypt. They’ve put some of them up in there.’
Sam frowned.
‘The church hall, as was.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks for your help.’
Again, the cops looked at each other. Probably the first thanks they’d had in quite a few days, he thought, as he plodded up the empty street towards his old home.
It was six weeks since he had spoken to his mother, a year since he’d seen her, and that was only when she’d got herself admitted to hospital after his brother had taken off. I think it’s her heart – it’s broken , explained a weary houseman, a fellow Muslim, who said he had tried his best to find a medical explanation for her condition. ‘Best treatment? Get your brother back. He’s all she talks about.’
All his life, it seemed, he had been at the mercy of her pleas: help Karza with his homework, fetch him back from friends, help him find a job, get him from the police station. And all the while Sam had got top marks, never got drunk or mixed with the wrong people, and had got into a good university, with no acknowledgement from her. Always it was Karza. What does she still
‘You ’avin’ a laugh?’
The second had just taken off.
‘Forget it,’ said the third.
He’d tried waiting for a 42, the bus he used to take to school, but a passer-by told him he was wasting his time. ‘All suspended cos of the riots. Four buses were torched. Where have you been – Mars?’
He didn’t have to walk far to see it: the bright orange glow to the east, and emanating from it, the almost continuous shriek of sirens, though the streets near the station were eerily empty.
Twenty-five rain-soaked minutes later, he reached the foot of Trap Hill. A cordon stretched along the east side of Farley Street. The side door of a police van slid open and a PC in riot gear poked his head out. ‘Oi, you. Get over here.’ After four days of semi-continuous battle pleasantries were unlikely to be forthcoming. Inside the van were several more cops – all in various stages of sleep.
Sam set his face to reasonable, accompanied by a small enquiring smile. ‘How can I help, Officer?’
The cop glanced at one of his mates, who leaned out to look at him, then exchanged glances with his colleagues in the time-honoured fashion, as if to say, We’ve got a right one here .
‘You lost or summat?’
‘No, I’m not, actually.’
‘You’re not from round here.’
Sam pointed to Jimmy’s Kebabs, halfway up Trap Hill, still intact, albeit with a plywood front window. ‘See the kebab shop? That’s where I grew up.’
They stared at him. He knew what they were thinking. His hair was black, but his skin was pale and he’d always made a point of staying out of the sun. The linen suit – albeit drenched – along with the designer backpack, was what he considered to be the uniform of an ambitious young academic. No one round here looked like this.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kovacevic, Dr Kovacevic.’
Sam was a convenient Anglicization. His mother had protested but eventually given way and, apart from her, no one called him Sahim.
The cop raised his eyebrows. ‘Hospital’s that way.’ He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the orange glow. He snorted. ‘They’re a bit short right now.’
‘Not a medical doctor, I’m afraid.’
‘What, then?’
‘Criminology.’
They burst out laughing.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’
They continued to laugh, sharing the news with the others in the van.
‘Here, your mam won’t be at home, son. The street’s been evacuated.’
All he’d had from her was a text from an unknown number. Help – they’ve taken me refuge. Help. Mamina . By the time he’d tried to call back a recording said the number was disconnected.
A cop got out and lifted the police tape for him to go through. ‘Try the Krypt. They’ve put some of them up in there.’
Sam frowned.
‘The church hall, as was.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks for your help.’
Again, the cops looked at each other. Probably the first thanks they’d had in quite a few days, he thought, as he plodded up the empty street towards his old home.
It was six weeks since he had spoken to his mother, a year since he’d seen her, and that was only when she’d got herself admitted to hospital after his brother had taken off. I think it’s her heart – it’s broken , explained a weary houseman, a fellow Muslim, who said he had tried his best to find a medical explanation for her condition. ‘Best treatment? Get your brother back. He’s all she talks about.’
All his life, it seemed, he had been at the mercy of her pleas: help Karza with his homework, fetch him back from friends, help him find a job, get him from the police station. And all the while Sam had got top marks, never got drunk or mixed with the wrong people, and had got into a good university, with no acknowledgement from her. Always it was Karza. What does she still
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