Standing on opposite sides of the trolley, Mustafa and I draped a black sheet over the body bag. During the preparation of the body, Mustafa explained, the sheet would remain over Faisal, as a mark of respect: it was important that Faisal’s naked body remain concealed from the gaze. Mustafa added that he had done the ghusl many times for martyred brothers — brothers white, black and brown.
By wedging a hip against the side of the trolley I was able to free up both of my hands. Glancing frequently at each other and communicating only with our eyes, Mustafa and I worked carefully to release Faisal from the rubber bag that had carried him from Afghanistan. His skin might tear if he was dragged. When Mustafa grew tired and out of breath from chanting, I picked up where he had left off. We chanted and otherwise communed silently with Allah. We each seemed to know what was required, whether to lift or to pull, and at what moment.
As the body slid out of its bag, a foul-smelling gas escaped. Faisal’s head was heavy, cold and rubbery. His waxy eyelids were closed and his mouth fixed into place by a circular bandage. He had a short beard and a full head of densely black hair. As he cradled Faisal’s head in both hands, I examined Mustafa for emotion but did not see any. Using wet cotton wool, he slowly cleansed the body, beginning with the face. Like the ritual ablution before prayer, Mustafa’s hands swept across every inch of his brother three times, his missing fingers seemingly no impediment to the task.
In the middle of Faisal’s forehead was a yellow plaster. I carefully removed it to reveal an entry hole. At the back of his head would have been a dirty jagged exit hole, but I did not look. Mustafa put his gloved hand on mine. Catching my eye, he shook his head as though we both knew that this death was a crime that would require vengeance. There was something special in Mustafa’s eyes, a softness, a glazed-over vacancy; magnified by the lenses of his spectacles, they looked pleadingly into mine.
Putting his hands underneath the black sheet, Mustafa soaped, dried and then rubbed scent into his brother’s skin, and as required we lifted Faisal onto one side and then the other so that Mustafa could reach. The body felt waterlogged and heavy but it did not feel like a human being. No one seemed to exist inside of what lay before us. His soul, that thing that had given life to his body, had long since flown. His soul, the very essence and the only thing that mattered, had left his body for Paradise. I caressed him tenderly as though expecting to feel something, but the overwhelming sense I had was that no one was there — not in that body. It wasn’t a great revelation — it was simply that what lay before us, the sheer mass of putrefying muscle and tendon and organs, barely contained by a sac of waxy, semipermeable skin, could no longer be termed human. Faisal wasn’t with us, and at that moment I was convinced that there was a heaven, and that the earthly body we were cleansing was a mere husk of the man who had once occupied it. For his twenty-two years on earth Faisal had merely lived in it, like a coat, and I was certain that he had no more need of it. I was sure that the body before us was a vessel in which Faisal had been carried and that he wasn’t sorry to leave it. I wasn’t sorry he had left it. I wasn’t afraid for him. Faisal was in a better place.
Bobby, his face sombre, wheeled in a plain wooden coffin on a trolley. He stood and watched, humming a naath.
Mustafa and I lined the casket with three sheets of white linen that draped generously over each edge. After bringing the trolley up parallel to Faisal, with a great heave we carefully lifted his body into the coffin. We wrapped the sheets over his body, tucking them into the sides and tightly over his forehead to conceal the entry hole, leaving an opening so that his face could be viewed. Finally, we placed the cover on the casket and from the green bottle scattered incense over the lid.
As Bobby wheeled the casket away I felt suddenly tired. We had worked in a period of suspended grace and under a veil of hypnotic chant, but now I realized that I was drenched in sweat and that a sort of coffee-grind treacle had rubbed off Faisal onto my hands and arms. I had worked hunched awkwardly over the trolley, my weight borne on one leg, my stick discarded on the floor by my feet.
As though reading my mind, Mustafa reached down for my stick. A single tear tracked down his cheek as he said, ‘I hope you are cleansed of the British, of England’s green and pleasant land. Here lay no savage beast.’ His tears flowed more heavily, and he added, ‘I chose you because I knew you would have respect for a fighting man, and I now know that you see what I see, the sacrifice, the nobility of our kid’s martyrdom.’
In the anteroom, Bobby helped me out of my gloves and apron. Taking a wet soapy sponge, he slowly wiped my arms and then dried them with a towel. I said nothing, shivering at his touch.
16
Grace pours tea as we sit facing each other across a small kitchen table. She pushes a mug towards me and raises another to her lips. She blows on the hot surface, takes the tiniest of sips and puts it down.
‘After the child protection conference, I got a surprise letter from the council offering me an old brick house in a proper street. This house! I jumped at the chance to get off the estate. No place to bring up a kid. Nothing happened for ages, no one visited, and although I dreaded the postman, no more children’s department demands arrived. Britney was doing well, and after all the fuss I avoided the doctor’s. My mind was good and we got out once a day to the park and to the shops.
‘One day we were walking along Cradley high street, window shopping — I was skint — and a policeman literally bumped into me. He helped me up and then stared at me. “Grace Booth?”
‘“Yes, sir.” I saluted him, all jokey.
‘“We’ve got a picture of you on our wall. We’ve been looking for you.”
‘“How strange to be famous,” I joked. “I’ve been home.”
‘Turns out I was in contempt of court. They had been writing to me at the old address. I went to see a solicitor, Mr Ingram, who told me not to worry and that I was entitled to legal aid. The worst part was the waiting. Mr Ingram was waiting for the other side to photocopy the paperwork, which he’d then photocopy and send to me. It took a month. A van turned up. A man got out, loaded three heavy boxes of papers onto a trolley and wheeled them into the house. Surely some mistake. I telephoned Mr Ingram in alarm.
‘“There’ll be much more paperwork yet,” he said. “You’ll also receive several letters advising you of appointments, with Cafcass and a psychiatrist. You must keep all of them.” He was about to put the phone down when he added, almost as an afterthought, “I’m afraid there is bad news. Although I’ve fixed it so that you’re no longer in contempt, there have been court appearances in your absence.” I asked him what that meant. There was a long silence over the phone. Then: “All is not lost, Miss Booth.”
‘Over several appointments, the psychiatrist asked me about my childhood. It wasn’t a good one and I cried once or twice. Cafcass were more interested in what went on around me: Who were my mates? Boyfriends? Did I know so-and-so from the estate? Was my house tidy? How much did I spend on cleaning products, milk, fags? Britney had her own appointments, and sometimes I’d take her and be told to wait outside. She told me that one time she was asked to draw a picture of Mummy and at another they played dollies. At the back of my mind were Mr Ingram’s words: All is not lost. I tried to push them to one side but sometimes they got the better of me.