. bring justice to all peoples and establish harmony.
I let the padre finish. I even join in at the end. ‘Amen.’
The band starts up a familiar theme from army days. The people open hymn sheets ready to sing. All eyes are downcast.
I am ready now, and I fumble for the keypad of the Nokia. Then someone tugs on the tail of my tunic. I turn to see Grace; next to her is a small child of about six. Vaguely I recall the girl waving a poppy from the window of the car climbing the hill.
The Nokia begins to vibrate. Fuck. Why is it vibrating? Surely only I can detonate the ordnance? Is it because I am late? Are the brothers set to detonate it without me doing anything? If so, they must be watching. Do I answer it?
As I look around, the end of a scarf billows into view, wrapped tightly like a noose, disguising a wound now clotted and healing. Grace smiles broadly. ‘Surprise!’ She nudges the child, Britney, towards me. In a dimpled fist Britney clasps a poppy. I recall a scene bordered by the elevated Hindu Kush where a man called Adrian set out to fetch roses for a daughter called Britney. A daughter he had never met.
I feel an intense pain in the depths of my gut.
Grace looks beautiful. Her face nicely made up, smart clothes, not a trace of her lack of sleep visible in her bright eyes. They make a fitting pair, mother and daughter. They look alike. Who would guess their hardships? Who would believe they are about to be separated?
I stare at the Nokia. Still vibrating. On the screen the time reads seven minutes past eleven. I need to do something. Seven is a good number. Seven levels of heaven.
Grace is smiling at me. She is saying something to Britney.
I have to think quickly.
Something about me. About Britney’s dad.
My feet are frozen to the spot. Soon the call will time out. What then? Will that create the first charge? The charge that creates the spark that fires up the batteries that.
For Adrian I finish the Shahada — ‘La ilaha il Allahu Muhammad Rasul Allah’ — and instinctively I reach for Britney’s poppy. Twisting it between my fingers. I glance at the child, see the silver light in her eyes. And then at her mother, smiling at me out of a silver tooth. Their pale faces buffeted by the wind seem to demand something akin to salvation. And they offer love. Simplistic and naive but love just the same. An image of Adrian flits across the view — the face of a man stepping on a false trigger plate that he thought would ignite a charge that. I smile out of fear. Adrian diminishes from view to be replaced by Grace and Britney, both of their faces cold but hopeful, within their eyes something less than a plea.
I want love. I only ever wanted love. I grip the poppy tighter, and my eyes widen as the Nokia, still vibrating, slips out of my clammy grip.
I am Akram Khan, formerly Sergeant Khan of the Yeomanry, and I was once admired. Once a man called Adrian told me: If you Pakis put your mind to it, you can do anything. I now know what he meant. There is love. Love enough for us all.
About the Author
NADIM SAFDAR was born to Pakistani parents and grew up in the Black Country. He is married with three children and lives in London.