‘And the rest,’ he said, spitting out the dripping husk. It landed on the ground, quickly staining the dry, yellow earth.
‘Last contact I counted two Terry souls as they flew off to heaven.’
‘I don’t hate them. You got to respect—’ he began.
‘You have a short memory. If that thing I pulled you off had been an IED you might not be smelling love right now.’
He looked at his boot and shook his head. ‘Luck.’
I said, ‘Roses, Private Hartley, you can touch and smell, even dry in a book, but luck is another one of your fictions.’
‘We know where Terry are and they can set their watches by our movements, yet. ’ he struggled for words, ‘yet we prance about on patrol and let each other play on.’
‘You live and breathe, Hartley, and that’s all there is.’
Adrian shook his head again. ‘They’d have just chalked it up, like we do. One of ours for a hundred of theirs.’
‘That’s reasonable,’ I laughed.
‘A hundred thousand pounds worth of armoured truck blown up by an IED packed with ten pound of fertilizer,’ he said.
‘Private Hartley, you are an Englishman. Your shit floats on pork fat content, your skin is pink and burns, your breath is like that of those dogs you love, and if anyone heard you side with Terry it would be most unwelcome.’
‘They should have these in England,’ said Adrian, rolling a second pomegranate in his hand. ‘There must be better mosques than your one in Best Street? Pretty ones that aren’t full of Pakis?’
‘You forget my mother saw the Angel Gabriel at Best Street,’ I said.
‘I get it, that’s all,’ he stammered. ‘I get where Terry are coming from.’
‘Haji, Terry, raghead, Paki,’ I said. ‘Take it from me, it’s black and white, there’s nothing to get!’
‘Yesterday I saw this Terry give mouth-to-mouth to a newborn goat. Goat got up and was sick all over him. Terry laughed his head off.’
‘Random shit. Don’t get taken in. Have yourself a deep breath and count off seven sleepovers.’
In the centre of the wood was a clearing, a long strip of closely cropped bright green grass bordered on all four sides by a low wall built of stone and painted white. The larger stones were punctuated with green Arabic script — at a guess the ninety-nine names of Allah. Through the middle of it ran a broad path; over the path, at intervals of about four feet, were tall trellis arches bursting with red, pink and white roses.
A smile spread across Adrian’s face. He shook his head and his eyes sparkled. ‘Who could hate the Terry?’
I stared in wonder. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘It’s a good sign. Britney’s mum will take me back,’ he said.
‘Yeah, and if you concentrate hard enough you might even remember her name.’
‘Must have taken Terry years,’ he said. ‘How the fuck do they water it?’
We stood below the first arch. The early morning sun was already intense and the dense network of intertwining flowers provided the small comfort of a gappy shade. The roses cast a complicated pattern on the grass. Adrian put his nose to one and inhaled deeply. ‘It’s something, isn’t it? Love.’
I shivered involuntarily. ‘There are seven rose arches,’ I said. ‘Like the seven levels of Terry heaven.’ I scanned the area through the sights of my rifle. The orchard continued on all four sides from the edge of the lawn and from there, in all directions, and as the tree line grew taller and sloped upwards, the fruit trees were replaced by alpines.
He said excitedly, ‘Feel it, man.’
We went and sat on two large stones under the middle arch. He lit up a cigarette.
‘Private Hartley, you fall in love too easily.’
‘All those nights you stayed up at the mosque, Sarge,’ he pulled hard on his cigarette, ‘you should have kept your fucking eyes open.’
‘Mate, pick yourself a fucking rose, let’s go.’
He stared straight ahead. ‘It’s eerie.’
‘What is?’
Adrian dropped the pomegranate, crushing it absent-mindedly under a boot. ‘The eyes. You seen them, Sarge?’
He was right. I looked around, suddenly aware of eyes, hundreds of them, staring back at us. The eyes were about six inches long, with blue, green and brown irises, painted at eye level on the trees that surrounded us. The arrangement was obviously designed to be viewed when seated on the stones.
‘Evil eye,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘They look creepy but in fact they’re supposed to ward off evil,’ I said.
‘They’re fucking queer,’ he said.
I laughed. ‘My mother swore by them.’
‘No, man, it’s an ambush.’
‘Then it’s already too late,’ I said.
‘Evil eye isn’t Muslim, it’s fucking superstition,’ he said.
Adrian lecturing me about Islam was embarrassing. ‘It’s not right you going on like that. There’s no depth to you. You don’t think. You don’t care for anything. You’re just some random pisscan from the estate.’
‘In Old Hill, you Pakis think you’ve a monopoly on God.’
‘Look, man, I should know. I grew up in it. It just never really convinced me. ’ I shook my head, exasperated. ‘Thank God for down below, your estate and that, where there are no rules.’
Adrian got up, slung his rifle over his shoulder and strode towards the seventh arch, his arms spread out and palms facing outwards. I followed.
‘Nothing worth having on that estate, but your Pakistani mindset, it just doesn’t export. You seem to think that God is found in curry houses and corner shops, but here,’ he tested the weight of a rose in his hand, ‘here, if you Pakis put your mind to it, you can do anything.’
‘Allah tells us that in England we should apply ourselves to earning pound notes,’ I said.
‘Say I’m Terry and hungry and I find a loaf of bread. Do I hide in a dugout and gorge on it all by myself? Do I give it to some poor orphan in return for God’s blessing? Do I share it with my Terry mates? Here,’ he stared at me and nodded, ‘here every day is a test and you have to be true to yourself.’
‘Tell you what. ’ I paused, wondering if I should continue. Although it was every Muslim’s duty to convert people to the faith, I had never considered it to be within my power. ‘If you really want to be like Terry all you have to do is recite the Shahada. It’s a one-liner. But you have to do it to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle fucking Star”.’
‘Really?’ Adrian’s voice was childlike, too trusting.
‘Do what your heart tells you.’
‘But. ’ He stopped as though he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
‘But remember, the believers will always lead you astray.’
‘Good advice,’ said Adrian, nodding.
‘Recite the Shahada and I will call you Brother fucking Hartley or Abu fucking Britney and you can find a dugout and fornicate homo-style with the Terry brotherhood.’
‘You’re fucking with me?’
‘No, brother, it’s my duty.’
Adrian nodded. ‘Abu Britney, man, inshallah.’
The word inshallah sounded awkward coming from a gora, but Adrian’s pronunciation was good, as though he had been practising. My loud laughter echoed around us, and Adrian blushed a deep red, wounded. I stopped suddenly, conscious of the noise I was making. ‘Okay,’ I whispered, ‘repeat after me, La ilaha. ’
‘Not like this,’ said Adrian. ‘We probably ought to drop our weapons and kneel.’
From behind I heard the unmistakable cocking of an AK47, the clack of spring-loaded metal against metal, close enough that for a moment, frozen to the spot, I was convinced it had fired. The rose Adrian was holding dropped to the ground. Suddenly I felt sick at the sight of that rose and I waited for a moment to see if he would fall after it. Then I turned carefully and gazed up at an Afghan, the tip of his rifle catching the sun as he trained it on us. It took me a few seconds to take it in, as if my eyes were clearing from a temporary blindness. The Afghan was a mess, as though he lived rough in the garden. He wore baggy trousers and a long grimy shirt, and above that was a densely black beard. His eyes were wild and seemed to creep out from under a poorly tied turban.