Now, he knew, he knew that if you wanted an example of the moribund, decadent, degenerate, over-sexed, violent state of Western capitalist culture and the logical endpoint of its obsession with personal freedoms (Leaflet: Way Out West), you couldn’t do much better than Hollywood cinema. And he knew (how many times had he been through it with Hifan?) that the ‘gangster’ movie, the Mafia genre, was the worst example of that. And yet… it was the hardest thing to let go. He would give every spliff he’d ever smoked and every woman he’d ever fucked to retrieve the films his mother had burnt, or even the few he had purchased more recently which Hifan had confiscated. He had torn up his Rocky Video membership and thrown away the Iqbal video recorder to distance himself from direct temptation, but was it his fault if Channel 4 ran a De Niro season? Could he help it if Tony Bennett’s ‘Rags to Riches’ floated out of a clothes shop and entered his soul? It was his most shameful secret that whenever he opened a door – a car door, a car boot, the door of KEVIN’s meeting hall or the door of his own house just now – the opening of GoodFellas ran through his head and he found this sentence rolling around in what he presumed was his subconscious:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.
He even saw it like that, in that font, like on the movie poster. And when he found himself doing it, he tried desperately not to, he tried to fix it, but Millat’s mind was a mess and more often than not he’d end up pushing upon the door, head back, shoulders forward, Liotta style, thinking:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a Muslim.
He knew, in a way, this was worse, but he just couldn’t help it. He kept a white handkerchief in his top pocket, he always carried dice, even though he had no idea what a crap game actually was, he loved long camel jackets and he could cook a killer seafood linguine, though a lamb curry was completely beyond him. It was all haraam, he knew that.
Worst of all was the anger inside him. Not the righteous anger of a man of God, but the seething, violent anger of a gangster, a juvenile delinquent, determined to prove himself, determined to run the clan, determined to beat the rest. And if the game was God, if the game was a fight against the West, against the presumptions of Western science, against his brother or Marcus Chalfen, he was determined to win it. Millat stubbed his fag out against the bannister. It pissed him off that these were not pious thoughts. But they were in the right ball park, weren’t they? He had the fundamentals, didn’t he? Clean living, praying (five times a day without fail), fasting, working for the cause, spreading the message? And that was enough, wasn’t it? Maybe. Whatever. Either way, there was no going back now. Yeah, he’d meet Magid, he’d meet him… they’d have a good face-off, he’d come out of it the stronger; he’d call his brother a little cock-a-roach, and walk out of that tête-à-tête even more determined to fulfil his destiny. Millat straightened his green bow-tie and slunk forward like Liotta (all menace and charm) and pushed open the kitchen door (Ever since I can remember…), waiting for two pairs of eyes, like two of Scorsese’s cameras, to pan on to his face and focus.
‘Millat!’
‘Amma.’
‘Millat!’
‘Joyce.’
(Great, supwoib, so we all know each other, went Millat’s inner monologue in Paul Sorvino’s voice, Now let’s get down to business.)
‘All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey. Mickey, Magid.’
O’Connell’s once more. Because Alsana had eventually conceded Joyce’s point, but did not care to dirty her hands. Instead, she demanded Samad take Magid ‘out somewhere’ and spend an evening persuading him into meeting with Millat. But the only ‘out’ Samad understood was O’Connell’s and the prospect of taking his son there was repellent. He and his wife had a thorough wrestle in the garden to settle the point, and he was confident of success until Alsana fooled him with a dummy trip, then an armlock-knee-groin combination. So here he was: O’Connell’s, and it was as bad a choice as he’d suspected. When he, Archie and Magid walked in, trying to make a low-key entrance, there had been widespread consternation amongst both staff and clientele. The last stranger anybody remembered arriving with Arch and Sam was Samad’s accountant, a small rat-faced man who tried to talk to people about their savings (as if people in O’Connell’s had savings!) and asked not once but twice for blood pudding, though it had been explained to him that pig was unavailable. That had been around 1987 and nobody had enjoyed it. And now what was this? A mere five years later and here comes another one, this time all dressed in white – insultingly clean for a Friday evening in O’Connell’s – and way below the unspoken minimum age requirement (thirty-six). What was Samad trying to do?
‘Whattareya tryin’ to do to us, Sammy?’ asked Johnny, a mournful-looking stick of an ex-Orangeman, who was leaning over the hot plate to collect some bubble and squeak. ‘Overrun us, are ya or sumthin?’
‘Oo ’im?’ demanded Denzel, who had not yet died.
‘Your batty bwoy?’ inquired Clarence, who was also, by God’s grace, hanging on in there.
‘All right, gentlemen. There is no reason to be alarmed. It is simply my son. Magid, Mickey. Mickey, Magid.’
Mickey looked a little dumbfounded by this introduction, and just stood there for a minute, a soggy fried egg hanging off his spatula.
‘Magid Mahfooz Murshed Mubtasim Iqbal,’ said Magid serenely. ‘It is a great honour to meet you, Michael. I have heard such a great deal about you.’
Which was odd, because Samad had never told him a thing.
Mickey continued to look over Magid’s shoulder to Samad for confirmation. ‘You what? You mean the one you, er, sent back ’ome? This is Magid?’
‘Yes, yes, this is Magid,’ replied Samad rapidly, pissed off by all the attention the boy was getting. ‘Now, Archibald and I will have our usuals and-’
‘Magid Iqbal,’ repeated Mickey slowly. ‘Well, I bloody never. You know you’d never guess you was an Iqbal. You’ve got a very trusting, well, kind of sympathetic face, if you get me.’
‘And yet I am an Iqbal, Michael,’ said Magid, laying that look of total empathy on Mickey and the other dregs of humanity huddled around the hot counter, ‘though I have been gone a long time.’
‘Say that again. Well, this is a turn-up for the books. I’ve got your… wait a minute, let me get this right… your great-great-grandfather up there, see?’
‘I noticed it the moment I came in, and I can assure you, Michael, my soul is very grateful for it,’ said Magid, beaming like an angel. ‘It makes me feel at home, and, as this place is dear to my father and his friend Archibald Jones I feel certain it shall also be dear to me. They have brought me here, I think, to discuss important matters, and I for one can think of no better place for them, despite your clearly debilitating skin condition.’
Mickey was simply bowled over by that, and could not conceal his pleasure, addressing his reply both to Magid and the rest of O’Connell’s.
‘Speaks fuckin’ nice, don’t he? Sounds like a right fuckin’ Olivier. Queen’s fucking English and no mistake. What a nice fella. You’re the kind of clientele I could do wiv in here, Magid, let me tell you. Civilized and that. And don’t you worry about my skin, it don’t get anywhere near the food and it don’t give me much trouble. Cor, what a gentleman. You do feel like you should watch your mouth around him, dontcha?’