I straightened to a sitting position and turned to the brother on my right and whispered, ‘Peace be upon you and the mercy of Allah,’ and then recited the same words to the brother on my left, and the prayer was over. Easing the stiffness from my legs, I sat cross-legged on the soft prayer-room carpet, leaning back with a palm stretched flat behind me.
I looked around. A few of the brothers leant into each other, conversing in hushed tones. As though showing off his wealth, one thumbed a mobile phone, and several got out their prayer beads. A yawning child received a light slap across the head from his father. Readying for a reading, the imam sat down on the only chair in the room, a copy of the Holy Koran in his lap. Like a blind man he felt underneath the chair for his spectacles and, finding them, put them on. He leant back and then did a double take. Peering over our heads, he stammered loudly, ‘H-hello!’ The word hello was for the gora and the world outside and was never used inside Best Street mosque.
We all turned at once. In the corner by the door, a figure was curled asleep, and in the brief, tense silence that suddenly prevailed, I could hear him snore. I stared in disbelief. The boy had fine blond hair and a pink nose, and a layer of steam gathered on the surface of his wet T-shirt. I recognized him as Adrian Hartley and felt a strange shiver in my chest, as though that knowledge made me an accomplice.
We rose carefully to our feet and gathered to form a semicircle about three feet from him. He was lying on his side, his head buried in a bent arm. He had his back to the wall and his T-shirt was rucked up, his jeans sagging, exposing his underpants. My father stood directly in front of Adrian and I pressed up behind my dad.
‘The door was left unlocked?’ my father asked.
‘Fire regulations,’ offered the imam with a shrug of his shoulders.
My father leant a little way over the figure and sniffed, then waved one hand in front of his own face in disgust. ‘He’s been drinking.’
Voices spoke at once, some puzzled and others panicked:
‘If he was my son I would kill him.’
‘Allah, Allah.’
‘Drunk? Here?’
‘Call the police.’
‘Come on, brothers, there’s a dozen of us, let’s have him.’ That was Mustafa.
The imam cleared his throat loudly, silencing the assembly. ‘Does anyone know who this gora is?’
‘What does that matter?’ my father said.
‘Akram knows him,’ cried Mustafa.
I glanced angrily at Mustafa. He had grown fat and studious and wore thick glasses. He was rarely seen outdoors, and rumour was that he would go to university. I blurted out without thinking, ‘You should keep your mouth shut, white boy!’
My father rapped me, not lightly, across the back of my head.
Taking off my skullcap and pressing it to my nose, I stepped forward and crouched over Adrian. Close up he stank of beer, sweat and the cold rain. Each time he exhaled, red-stained mucus spluttered out of his nostrils, and I felt the iron in his blood coat my tongue.
I stood up, relieved to be away from the smell, and offered the crowd a wry smile. ‘Mustafa’s right, it’s Adrian Hartley who was expelled from school.’
Everybody looked at me and then at Adrian asleep on the carpet.
‘There’s a bruise on his chin and blood coming from his nose,’ I continued.
‘Shall we call an ambulance?’ someone asked.
‘Allah, Allah,’ cried the imam, shaking his head.
‘It’s who?’ My father shot me a stern glance.
Adrian coughed and we fell silent, watching as he began to stir. He opened his eyes then slowly eased himself into a sitting position against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest. His eyes swept the room; if there was any fear in him it didn’t show. When he saw me he raised his eyebrows, gave a nonchalant half-smile and then winced in pain. He wedged a fist up against his chin, his knuckles raw.
‘It’s cold outside.’ His speech was slurred.
‘You can’t just come in here!’ cried Mustafa.
‘Have a heart!’ Adrian said with sad eyes. A streaked mixture of blood and saliva dripped from his nose, adding to that already on his T-shirt.
‘You been drinking, boy?’ asked my father.
‘Shouldn’t leave your door open,’ mumbled Adrian.
‘He’s probably got nowhere to go,’ I offered, hoping Adrian would add to my plea. He studied us with a wry expression but said nothing.
‘But. here?’ said my father.
‘He lives on the Old Hill estate,’ I said.
‘I don’t care if he lives in Buckingham Palace, he ought to know better.’
‘His dad’s an alc, probably hit him,’ I added.
‘Looks like he needs teaching a stronger lesson,’ said my father.
‘I’m just saying, it’s freezing out.’
‘Boy,’ my father pushed me to one side and addressed Adrian, ‘I’m going to teach—’ He stopped, his eyes narrowing. ‘Hartley? Son of Chav Hartley?’
‘Charlie,’ snapped Adrian. ‘He doesn’t go by Chav no more and he isn’t no fire starter, right, and yeah, he’d knock your block off.’ He gazed at each of us in turn. He wore a bemused expression, one of helplessness but also resignation.
‘He didn’t know it was a mosque,’ I said.
Gripping the wall behind him, Adrian slowly got to his feet and stammered, ‘I’ll f-fight anyone.’ He left clawed bloodstains on the wall. My father stepped forward.
‘No, Dad, he’s just not worth it,’ I said.
An older Bangladeshi who on Mondays drove the 247 put a hand on my father’s shoulder. He shook his head gravely. ‘It’s his word against ours. If you beat him up you will go to prison.’
‘Then my son will do it,’ said my father without hesitation.
‘Me?’ I looked up at my old man.
His teeth were tightly clenched, exposing a thin jawline. He shook off the Bangladeshi’s grip. His hand trembled as he pointed at Adrian, and in a staccato exaggerated-Pakistani accent he said, ‘That family, Paki-bashers.’ The old phrase, one I had not heard for years, and the way it came out of his mouth, made me laugh. I thought others might laugh too, but no one did. His face red, he turned to me. ‘You!’
I bit my cheeks to stop the laughter. ‘Why me?’
‘Why you? You want me to explain? You want me to tell everyone?’
I gritted my teeth and concentrated on not crying or laughing.
‘Father of Akram, that’s enough,’ interjected the Bangladeshi on my behalf.
‘This Hartley has been a thorn in your side for how long?’ my father said, announcing it to the assembly. I looked at the carpet, tracing its green, roadmap-like grid against a red background.
My father continued. ‘After school your mother and I wiped away your blood how many times? Did you not get pneumonia when he pushed you into the canal? Have the police not been called? This Chav Hartley, did I not witness him break Mustafa’s windowpane?’
‘Yeah, and if he saw you he’d smash you,’ Adrian interjected.
‘Then Mustafa should fight him,’ I suggested, observing that Mustafa had retreated behind my father.
‘You,’ my father pointed squarely at me, ‘you sort him out.’ He paused to reassuringly squeeze Mustafa’s shoulder before returning his attention to me. ‘You’re not old enough for prison. Take him outside.’
I wondered what Maley would do in my place, but I couldn’t supply the answer. Somehow I found myself pushed up next to Adrian against the wall. Unsteady on his feet, Adrian leant against me. From that view the encircling worshippers, primed like an unconvinced lynch mob, made me want to laugh. My father, as head of the posse, looked me up and down slowly.