street.
At the United Biscuits Factory he was treated like a king. They had all heard. During the lunch-break his brother Tariq popped in to congratulate him – and to ask for a favour.
‘You know how my wife is,’ Tariq said, his voice dwindling to a confidential whisper. ‘She’s been nagging me for ever about the kitchen.’
Tariq had a theory about British kitchens: that they were deliberately made tiny and gloomy so that everyone would have to make do with takeaways. The architects were accomplices in the conspiracy, and so were the politicians, the councils and the unions, all duly bribed by the restaurant owners, and on and on went his diatribe.
Adem nodded amiably, even though he sensed his elder brother would borrow from him as much as he could, and, after spending a limited amount on his kitchen, would keep the rest in his savings account. Tariq was always hoarding and scrimping. It was hard to believe this was the same man who in his youth had generously supported his two brothers. When their father passed away, Tariq had worked hard, taking care of Adem and Khalil. Over the past years, however, he had become increasingly frugal, snipping toothpaste tubes to squeeze the last drop, clipping coupons from circulars, switching off the water heater, reusing the tea leaves, getting everything second-hand and forbidding his family to buy anything without asking him first, though when they did he always answered, ‘There’s no need.’
Drawing in his breath, Adem said, ‘Do you ever think of our mother?’
On an ordinary day Adem could never have brought himself to speak like this. But now that his brother had asked him for a favour, he felt he had the upper hand. He deserved to hear a few memories in return for a handout. Yet the question was so unexpected that for a moment Tariq seemed at a loss as to how to answer it. A deep wrinkle formed between his brows, extending towards his forehead, where there were several white patches, a skin disease from childhood. When he spoke his voice sounded hard, gruff. ‘Why would I do that? She was a good-for-nothing.’
Don’t you want to know if she’s alive, whether she had other children, how she’s doing, whether she ever missed us?
Adem wanted to ask and almost did. Instead, into the ensuing hollow of silence, he said thickly, ‘I’ll stop by your house tonight and bring you the money. Tell my sister-in-law she’ll have her dream kitchen.’
After sunset, it occurred to him that if he gambled and won again, he would have twice the money he had now. Then he could lend money to Tariq, and to others, and wouldn’t even have to ask for a penny back. Motivated by a noble cause, he went to the basement in Bethnal Green and saw the woman with blue eyes. Again he watched her watch the ball spin around the wheel. Again he played big. And he lost. Everything.
***
Shrewsbury Prison, 1990
I had never stammered before in my life until that Tuesday. The 14th of November 1978. The day I decided to get myself a knife.
We were in the school canteen. Me and my mates. Blue plastic trays, shepherd’s pie, jam roly-poly, metal jugs of water, the usual patter. One minute I was making jokes, the next I was tripping over words like a prat. It happened just that suddenly – so fast that everyone thought I was having them on.
We were talking about the next day’s game. Chelsea were playing Moscow Dynamo. Arshad – a short, stocky Paki who dreamed of playing defence for Nottingham Forest – said he would bet his new Doc Martens that our boys in blue were going to win – a walk in the park, he said – but we all knew it was just bollocks.
Upset at not being taken seriously, Arshad turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and grinned, like he always did when he wanted something.
‘Hey, you gonna give me that puddin’?’
I shook my head. ‘Nn . . . not on yo . . . uuur . . . nn . . . neee . . . nelly! Fo . . . forr . . . gett . . .
At the United Biscuits Factory he was treated like a king. They had all heard. During the lunch-break his brother Tariq popped in to congratulate him – and to ask for a favour.
‘You know how my wife is,’ Tariq said, his voice dwindling to a confidential whisper. ‘She’s been nagging me for ever about the kitchen.’
Tariq had a theory about British kitchens: that they were deliberately made tiny and gloomy so that everyone would have to make do with takeaways. The architects were accomplices in the conspiracy, and so were the politicians, the councils and the unions, all duly bribed by the restaurant owners, and on and on went his diatribe.
Adem nodded amiably, even though he sensed his elder brother would borrow from him as much as he could, and, after spending a limited amount on his kitchen, would keep the rest in his savings account. Tariq was always hoarding and scrimping. It was hard to believe this was the same man who in his youth had generously supported his two brothers. When their father passed away, Tariq had worked hard, taking care of Adem and Khalil. Over the past years, however, he had become increasingly frugal, snipping toothpaste tubes to squeeze the last drop, clipping coupons from circulars, switching off the water heater, reusing the tea leaves, getting everything second-hand and forbidding his family to buy anything without asking him first, though when they did he always answered, ‘There’s no need.’
Drawing in his breath, Adem said, ‘Do you ever think of our mother?’
On an ordinary day Adem could never have brought himself to speak like this. But now that his brother had asked him for a favour, he felt he had the upper hand. He deserved to hear a few memories in return for a handout. Yet the question was so unexpected that for a moment Tariq seemed at a loss as to how to answer it. A deep wrinkle formed between his brows, extending towards his forehead, where there were several white patches, a skin disease from childhood. When he spoke his voice sounded hard, gruff. ‘Why would I do that? She was a good-for-nothing.’
Don’t you want to know if she’s alive, whether she had other children, how she’s doing, whether she ever missed us?
Adem wanted to ask and almost did. Instead, into the ensuing hollow of silence, he said thickly, ‘I’ll stop by your house tonight and bring you the money. Tell my sister-in-law she’ll have her dream kitchen.’
After sunset, it occurred to him that if he gambled and won again, he would have twice the money he had now. Then he could lend money to Tariq, and to others, and wouldn’t even have to ask for a penny back. Motivated by a noble cause, he went to the basement in Bethnal Green and saw the woman with blue eyes. Again he watched her watch the ball spin around the wheel. Again he played big. And he lost. Everything.
***
Shrewsbury Prison, 1990
I had never stammered before in my life until that Tuesday. The 14th of November 1978. The day I decided to get myself a knife.
We were in the school canteen. Me and my mates. Blue plastic trays, shepherd’s pie, jam roly-poly, metal jugs of water, the usual patter. One minute I was making jokes, the next I was tripping over words like a prat. It happened just that suddenly – so fast that everyone thought I was having them on.
We were talking about the next day’s game. Chelsea were playing Moscow Dynamo. Arshad – a short, stocky Paki who dreamed of playing defence for Nottingham Forest – said he would bet his new Doc Martens that our boys in blue were going to win – a walk in the park, he said – but we all knew it was just bollocks.
Upset at not being taken seriously, Arshad turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and grinned, like he always did when he wanted something.
‘Hey, you gonna give me that puddin’?’
I shook my head. ‘Nn . . . not on yo . . . uuur . . . nn . . . neee . . . nelly! Fo . . . forr . . . gett . . .
Similar Books
