It was 9.30 a.m., give or take four to six minutes. He didn’t have a watch on but had spent that last thirty-five years sitting in shops, his uncle’s and then his own, waiting for people to come in, and had developed an acute sense of the rhythm of time. The shop would be getting quiet. Johnny usually made them a cup of tea about now, getting ready for the rush of school children in for chocolate and crisps. He couldn’t remember Johnny’s face, just his presence. Calm, shoulder to shoulder, a set of eyes seeing what he did, hearing what he did, sharing his day.
Aamir stiffened as the door at the foot of the bed opened softly and a grey shape leaned into the room.
‘Hungry?’ Not the strangled voice, the other one. ‘Are you hung-ary?’ repeated the guy, as if he thought Aamir couldn’t speak English.
‘Yes,’ said Aamir clearly. ‘Thank you. Something to eat would be most welcome.’ He meant to sound articulate but instead, he realised, sounded as if English was his second language. Actually it was his third.
‘OK, faither.’ The man held something out towards him. ‘Here’s um, not toast but bread, anyway. And a can of ginger.’
He came down the right side of the bed and bent down, putting something on the floor, giving a little ‘there ye go!’ as he stood up again. Aamir had reached for the edge of the pillowcase, lifting it a little.
‘Not being funny.’ Gently, the guy stopped his hand. ‘Sorry, but can ye not take that off until I get out of the room?’
‘Sure.’
‘Not being funny.’ He stood straight up and dropped his voice. ‘D’ye sleep OK?’
Aamir matched his tone, whispering, ‘Aye, son, no bad.’
‘Sorry it’s smelly in here, eh? Sorry. Bit stinky. Soon as your family stump up ye’ll be home, eh? D’ ye need the loo?’
‘Not yet. Is my wee girl OK? Her hand…’
The man hesitated. ‘Don’t know,’ he said when he finally did speak. ‘But I’ll find out and let you know.’
Aamir nodded.
‘Drink your juice now, OK?’
The guy turned and left, shuffling his feet on the carpet.
He listened until he heard the door close firmly and footsteps trailing down the stairs. Tentative, he lifted the edge of the pillowcase, looking down over the edge of the bed. An open can of Irn Bru and two slices of plain white loaf stacked on top of each other, not cut in half, sitting on top of a page of newspaper. Prepared by a man. He reached out and touched the can with his fingertips. Warm. He shouldn’t break his Ramadan fast but didn’t know if they would bring him anything later. He could make up the days, he might be saving his life and Aamir was seventy, old enough not to fast. Anyway there was no one here to set an example for.
He picked up the can and pulled the pillowcase down again, enclosing himself in his little white tent. The drink was sugary and tangy. Nice. He finished it and reached down for the bread, lifting the edge of the pillowcase higher than he meant to, seeing the wall next to the bed. Wallpaper had been pulled off from the skirting board, the effort given up halfway up the wall, the edges tattered, showing the lining paper.
Kneeling behind him his mother lifted the pillowcase gently with two hands, resting it on his forehead. A filthy room. There were crumpled magazines on the floor, Loaded, FHM, and pornos too, Escort, Fiesta. Very old editions, Aamir knew, from the covers. He stocked them, fewer now because they hardly sold any more, since the Internet. The window had curtains on it but they looked greasy and weren’t shut properly, just yanked together and separated at the top so that the white day streamed in, a spotlight for the dust.
His mother’s hand touched his back, fingertips making one of her irresistible suggestions: Go, Ammy, she said, go look for me, see where we are.
Aamir looked at the door to the room, back to the window, back to the door. He pulled the pillowcase off and stopped still, waiting for them to run in and beat him. If they had CCTV in the room they would know. He waited for a moment but no one came.
Go on, Ammy.
He looked at her, skin slack on her jaw, the impossibly silken skin on her underarms, her long lashes. Aleesha had her lashes.
Keeping his eyes on the door, he swung his legs to the left side of the bed, stood up swiftly and found his nose an inch from the grey curtain. He could see out into the street. His heart was thumping in his chest, his neck stiff with fright.
‘ A street,’ he told her.
Badly overgrown, the garden had huge hedges, once cared for, now bursting up and out, over a broken-up concrete driveway and wind-flattened grass. It was a short garden, council probably, and steep. The dark green grass was littered with rubbish: bits of plastic, sun-faded Tennant’s cans, cardboard boxes melting in the rain. Straight across the street were houses that he supposed matched this one, double storey council houses with black slate roofs and picture windows on the ground floor. One of those dying council estates like they had in Glasgow.
Looking beyond the roofs of the neighbourhood houses he was surprised to see hills. Neither Manchester nor London had great big proud hills like that. Those were Scottish hills and he recognised them. He blinked and looked again. Castlemilk. The high flats, the water tower, Cathkin Brae. He shut his eyes and tried to remember, then opened them again and saw that he was right. He was on the south side of Glasgow, half a mile from home. His uncle lived near here when they first arrived, in a prefab in Prospecthill. He used to stand in his kitchen and look at this view. Heart racing, Aamir realised that he could walk home from here, or catch a ninety bus. At a push he could walk to his own shop from here.
‘Near!’ he said triumphantly.
On the bed his mother covered her mouth and laughed softly, happy because he was happy.
Aamir smiled. If they came in now and shot him, if they both came in and beat him all over he would care less, fear less, hurt less, because the shop, the shelves full of things he had chosen, priced and catalogued, the little prayer area in the back room, the stickers on the door, the sweet rack he had stacked, the world of order he had created, refined, savoured over the decades, it was all close by.
‘My shop,’ he told his mother, ‘is here.’
The street was quiet, but they must be near the main road because he could hear traffic. Buses, possibly even number nineties, were passing by, taking people to the town, to Langside, to Rutherglen and the Asda.
Movement in the street: a thin figure in a white tracksuit and cap scurried around the hedge, hurrying up the steep drive. He was carrying a heavy blue plastic bag, clutching it tight to his chest. From the outline Aamir guessed it contained lager cans. The skip of the cap made it impossible for the man to see up but Aamir stepped back from the window anyway, watching as the figure approached the front of the house. He listened for the door opening, but heard nothing. The man must be going around the side.
He stood back from the window, listening for movement in the house. If they drank a bag load of cans between them they might get sleepy; Aamir could leave without a fuss, he could walk home to the shop.
Thinking these things he only gradually became aware of the purr of the engine. The road was empty and for a moment he thought that the wind was changing, carrying sounds, but then he saw the car stop in the road at the bottom of the driveway.
‘Maman!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Maman!’
She looked over his shoulder, standing close but not touching him, she looked out and she saw the police car too.
‘Marvellous, Ammy,’ she said, and was suddenly back on the bed.
Aamir watched the car brace itself as the handbrake was pulled on. The driver’s door opened and a leg stepped out onto the street.
Aamir turned around and scrambled back onto the bed next to his mother. He pulled the pillowcase down over both their heads, pulled his knees up to his chest, and held his breath: the police were coming to save them.