“What about noise? What if I have to move, what if I get a cramp?”
“That is a problem, mate, because if you move too fast the wagon can rock. The slightest movement can be detected. Even when these things are custom-built inside a van. If you have to, just do it really slowly. You must keep the noise down in there.
“Normally these vans would be lined with foam, stuff like that, to absorb the noise. But for you there is going to be jack shit. You’ll just have to take your boots off and lay out the spare blanket.”
“Jack shit…Jack shit. Yes, I like this saying.”
“And talking of shit, don’t. Sorry. No food, just water, you can’t afford to need a dump.” I explained the logistics. “Make sure you take some empty bottles to piss into. Shitting is going to make too much noise, too much movement, and you won’t be able to keep the trigger. And you can’t just shit in your jeans, because you need to get out and join in the take.”
Hubba-Hubba couldn’t resist. “Have you ever had to shit during one of these triggers?”
“Twice. Once on purpose, because there was nothing I could do about it. I was just about to trigger someone and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. It didn’t matter, because I wasn’t in the take, just the trigger, so I was going to be driven away.”
Another length of duct tape was ripped off the roll. “And the other?”
“Let’s just say it was lucky I had a long coat on.”
The blanket was now hanging from the roof and we were starting to tape down the sides. Even with half of it hanging down and the rest gathered on the floor, I could make out the picture I was faced with in the dull light. “Where the fuck did you get this?” I pulled out the blanket from the bottom to expose the remainder of the furry dogs playing pool.
“They were all I could get in time…” He giggled as he realized how stupid it looked, and I couldn’t help but join in.
I forced myself to get serious. “Where’s your spray paint?”
“In the passenger door compartment.”
“Okay. You need to seal off just a little more down your side.”
I climbed out of the van and walked around to the right-hand door, to the sound of ripping duct tape as he got to work. By the time I had gotten around to the back again, Hubba-Hubba was sitting on the side door sill.
“What we need to do now, mate, is scrape a small hole at the bottom of the right-hand window, in the left-hand corner. That way the aperture is roughly in the center of the rear, and you’ll get a better perspective.”
I shook the paint can and the ball bearing mixer inside rattled about. “Keep it in the back in case you need to make it smaller once you’re in position.”
Less than five minutes later, and with the use of Hubba-Hubba’s thumb nail, it was done: a nice little scrape, an inch long, ran along the bottom of the right-hand window.
“Once you’ve triggered the Romeos, just crawl under the blanket, check first it’s clear, and climb out. You’ve got the Renault to think about, and we might as well keep the blanket in position seeing as it’s so interesting.”
Hubba-Hubba stayed in the back as I got out and slid the side door shut, and the interior light died. I moved to the driver’s seat and could hear him moving about inside.
I opened the glove compartment for some light. “Okay, mate, have a go at getting out.”
He started to worm his way under the blanket, trying to keep low. When he was halfway, he stopped and fished down the front of his shirt, pulling out his charm. “It keeps doing this.” He lay where he was, checking the clasp.
“H, can I ask you a question?”
He looked up, surprised, and nodded.
“I think I understand Lotfi, but,” I indicated his little beaded palm, “where does this fit in? Are you religious — you know, a paid-up Muslim?”
He concentrated once more on his repairs. “Of course, there is only one God. To be a true Muslim doesn’t mean we all have to be like Lotfi. Salvation is attained not by faith but by works.” He took the charm to his teeth, biting down on the metal before fiddling with it some more.
“You see, when I die I will be able to say the Shahada with the same conviction as he will. Do you know what I am talking about?” He raised his head again. “You heard the old guard say it in Algeria. ‘La ilaha ill-Allah, Muhammad-ur rasul-ullah.’ For you, that means: ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is the apostle of Allah.’ That is the Shahada, the first and greatest teaching of Islam. I just said that to you with true sincerity, and that is what makes me just as good a Muslim as him.” He fastened the chain, and gave it an experimental tug.
“When my book of destiny is weighed, it will show God that I was also a good man, and my reward will be the same as his, crossing the bridge to Paradise. Our Paradise is not like yours — a cloud to sit on, a harp to play — it is a perfumed garden of material and sensual delights, surrounded by rivers and fountains playing. Sounds good, yes?” He put the charm back around his neck. “Lotfi would be able to tell you what Suras that is in. But before I get there, I have to live this life.” The charm was now securely back on and he lifted it up for me to see. “And this gives me all the help I need.”
He replaced the chain around his neck before finishing his crawl up into the passenger seat.
“What does Lotfi think of all that?” I was puzzled. “How come you two are so different? I mean, you with the charm and him with the Qur’an?”
He smiled as he fought with the seat, jerking himself forward, trying to get the thing to move as he pressed down on the seat adjuster, so there was more room to crawl into the cab. As the seat finally gave in, I could see where he had hidden the cash from Gumaa. “We were both at a Muslim school together — you know, sitting there cross-legged on the floor, learning to recite the Qur’an from memory. I would have been like him, if it wasn’t for the fact that the words just fell out of my head as quickly as they tried to put them in. So I was thrown out of school and our mother taught me with my sister. Our father had died of TB, years before.” He looked directly into my eyes. “You see, going to a religious school is not just about faith. For a family cursed by poverty, it is a way out — boys are fed and cared for. Our mother saw it as the only way for us to survive.”
“But how did you learn English? I mean, most people in your shoes are still—”
He laughed gently to himself. “You know, the first pair of shoes I ever had were from Lotfi. They were given to him at school.” His smile turned to an expression of infinite sadness. “Our mother died a few months after Khalisah was beaten. She never was the same after that — none of us were.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “But we stayed together, Nick. That is because the inheritance our mother left us was love for each other. We are a family first, no matter what disagreements we may have, no matter what pain we may suffer. Because we have love.”
I thought a bit about my inheritance, but decided to shut the fuck up.
He tapped his chest. “He hates this. He says I will not go to Paradise, but to Gahenna, hell, instead. But he is wrong, I think.” His eyes sparkled. “I hope…”
He paused for a moment, but I kept silent. These boys were making a habit of saying stuff that came a bit too close for comfort.
“Lotfi is not right about everything, but neither am I. And it was Lotfi who gave up what he had to take us both to Cairo, to our aunt, and to school. That’s why I speak English. We are a family, Nick. We learned long ago to meet in the middle, because otherwise the family is lost. And we had a promise to keep, that we made as children.”