Read Online Underground by Andrew McGahan - Free Book Online Page B

they were pretty much the same as anyone else. God wasn’t the issue. The only trick, from my point of view, was to work out whether a particular Muslim was worried about the drinking thing or not. And plenty of them weren’t. Especially if quality scotch was on offer.
    I’d never actually seen one pray, however. Nor, come to think of it, had I ever dealt closely with a Muslim woman.
    ‘Women do pray too, don’t they? I mean, I’ve seen pictures of mosques and people on their knees and all that, but it only seems to be men.’
    The boredom must have been getting to her as well, because she spoke finally. ‘You’re the same as everyone else in this country. You don’t know a thing about Islam.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Women are perfectly welcome in mosques.’
    ‘Really? I must have seen the wrong photos.’
    Her lips tightened. ‘In some countries the women prefer to pray at home. It’s a personal choice. Men and women. You can pray wherever you like.’
    ‘And you? Obviously you don’t go to mosques, they’re all shut down. But what about right now? You’re just doing it there on the beanbag, are you?’
    Her chin went up. ‘You wouldn’t ask another Christian questions like that.’
    ‘Another Christian? You think
I’m
a Christian?’
    ‘Aren’t you?’
    ‘Red-blooded atheist, babe.’
    She made a spitting sound. Then she pointedly shuffled the beanbag around and turned her back to me.
    Well, what did I expect? Muslims, I knew, had at least some respect for Christians and Jews, even if everyone was at war right now. Maybe they even saw some worth in the Buddhists and Hindus and Sikhs, too. But the utterly godless? Especially fat, semi-alcoholic, dirty-old-man, several-times-divorced, washed-up, cowardly types like me? Not bloody likely.
    In any case, we were saved further pleasantries, because at the top of the stairs the door opened, and one of our captors descended. He was wearing a balaclava, but had no weapons that I could see. Instead, rather strangely, he carried a small television set with a rabbit-ears aerial.
    ‘About fucking time,’ I declared.
    He glanced my way, then held up a finger—wait. Wordlessly, he set up the TV on the bar, plugged it in and switched it on. I watched with growing outrage and impatience. He played with the reception for a time, and when the picture cleared it revealed a game show. The volume was turned down, but it was ‘The New Price is Right’. Not far from the end. So now I knew that out there in the normal world—away from all these basements and masked faces and clockless walls—it was about five minutes to six on a weekday evening.
    Satisfied, the man took a seat. He leant back, hands behind his head, and considered us both at leisure. ‘The Prime Minister’s brother,’ he said at last. ‘And a cell leader from the Great Southern Jihad. I gotta say it—you two are a real mystery.’
    I looked at Aisha. She was glaring across the room at him, but didn’t seem inclined to speak. ‘Um,’ I said, ‘I’m not
with
her, you know.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘She was holding me hostage. Just this morning. She was probably going to kill me.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes! Look, for fuck’s sake—’
    He laughed. ‘Okay mate, relax. I get the general idea.’
    I sat back, staring. It was hard to guess his age. Maybe late forties, going by his hands, and by a solid frame that suggested the beginnings of a middle-age spread. Grey eyes, through the holes in the mask. A patient, confident voice.
    I said, ‘So who the hell are you people?’
    ‘We’re the ones who rescued you.’
    ‘I’d already
been
rescued, before you came along.’
    He barked another dry laugh. ‘Believe me, you needed rescuing. Both of you. Whether you knew it or not.’
    ‘Fine. You’ve done it then. Now let us go. Or at least let me go. I don’t give a shit about her.’
    ‘That wouldn’t be in your best interest, trust me.’
    ‘
You
know what’s in my best interest?’
    He nodded. ‘Right