‘Hey,’ went a fat man’s attempt at a whisper. ‘Brother Millat.’
It was Mohammed Hussein-Ishmael, the butcher. He was sweating profusely as ever, and had forced his way through a long line of people apparently to sit next to Millat. They were distantly related, and these past few months Mo had been rapidly nearing the inner circle of KEVIN (Hifan, Millat, Tyrone, Shiva, Abdul-Colin and others) by virtue of the money he had put forward and his stated interest in the more ‘active’ sides of the group. Personally, Millat was still a little suspicious of him and objected to his big slobbery face, the great quiff emerging from his toki and his chicken-breath.
‘Late. I have to close up shop. But I been standing at the back for while. Listening. Brother Ibrāhām is a very impressive man, hmm?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Very impressive,’ repeated Mo, patting Millat’s knee conspiratorially, ‘a very impressive Brother.’ Mo Hussein was partly funding Brother Ibrāhām’s tour around England, so it was in his interest (or at least it made him feel better about donating two thousand quid) to find the Brother impressive. Mo was a recent convert to KEVIN (he had been a reasonably good Muslim for twenty years), and his enthusiasm for the group was two-pronged. Firstly, he was just flattered, downright flattered, that he should be considered sufficiently successful a Muslim businessman to ponce money off. In normal circumstances he would have shown them the door and where they could stuff a freshly bled chicken, but the truth was, Mo was feeling a bit vulnerable at the time, his stringy-legged Irish wife, Sheila, having just left him for a publican; he was feeling a little emasculated, so when KEVIN asked Ardashir for five grand and got it, and Nadir from the rival halal place put up three, Mo came over all macho and put up his own stake.
The second reason for Mo’s conversion was more personal. Violence. Violence and theft. For eighteen years Mo had owned the most famous halal butchers in North London, so famous that he had been able to buy the next door property and expand into a sweetshop/butchers. And in this period in which he ran the two establishments, he had been a victim of serious physical attacks and robbery, without fail, three times a year. Now, that figure doesn’t include the numerous punches to the head, quick smacks with a crowbar, shifty kicks in the groin or anything else that failed to draw blood. Mo didn’t even phone his wife, no matter the police, to report those. No: serious violence. Mo had been knifed a total of five times (Ah), lost the tips of three fingers (Eeeesh), had both legs and arms broken (Oaooow), his feet set on fire (jiii), his teeth kicked out (ka-tooof) and an air-gun bullet (ping) embedded in his thankfully fleshy posterior. Boof. And Mo was a big man. A big man with attitude. The beatings had in no way humbled him, made him watch his mouth or walk with a stoop. He gave as good as he got. But this was one man against an army. There was nobody who could help. The very first time, when he received a hammer blow to his ribs in January 1970, he naively reported it to the local constabulary and was rewarded by a late-night visit from five policemen who gave him a thorough kicking. Since then, violence and theft had become a regular part of his existence, a sad spectator sport watched by the old Muslim men and young Muslim mothers who came in to buy their chicken, and hurried out shortly afterwards, scared they might be next. Violence and theft. The culprits ranged from secondary-school children coming in the cornershop side to buy sweets (which is why Mo only allowed one child from Glenard Oak in at a time. Of course it made no difference, they just took turns beating the shit out of him solo), decrepit drunks, teenage thugs, the parents of teenage thugs, general fascists, specific neo-Nazis, the local snooker team, the darts team, the football team and huge posses of mouthy, white-skirted secretaries in deadly heels. These various people had various objections to him: he was a Paki (try telling a huge drunk Office Superworld check-out boy that you’re Bangladeshi); he gave half his cornershop up to selling weird Paki meat; he had a quiff; he liked Elvis (‘You like Elvis, then? Do yer? Eh, Paki? Do yer?’); the price of his cigarettes; his distance from home (‘Why don’t you go back to your own country?’ ‘But then how will I serve you cigarettes?’ Boof); or just the look on his face. But they all had one thing in common, these people. They were all white. And this simple fact had done more to politicize Mo over the years than all the party broadcasts, rallies and petitions the world could offer. It had brought him more securely within the fold of his faith than even a visitation from the angel Jabrail could have achieved. The last straw, if it could be called that, came a month before joining KEVIN, when three white ‘youths’ tied him up, kicked him down the cellar steps, stole all his money and set fire to his shop. Double-jointed hands (the result of many broken wrists) got him out of that one. But he was tired of almost dying. When KEVIN gave Mo a leaflet that explained there was a war going on, he thought: no shit. At last someone was speaking his language. Mo had been in the frontline of that war for eighteen years. And KEVIN seemed to understand that it wasn’t enough – his kids doing well, going to a nice school, having tennis lessons, too pale skinned to ever have a hand laid on them in their lives. Good. But not good enough. He wanted a little payback. For himself. He wanted Brother Ibrāhīm to stand on that podium and dissect Christian culture and Western morals until it was dust in his hands. He wanted the degenerate nature of these people explained to him. He wanted to know the history of it and the politics of it and the root cause. He wanted to see their art exposed and their science exposed, and their tastes exposed and their distastes. But words would never be enough; he’d heard so many words (If you could just file a report… If you wouldn’t mind telling us precisely what the attacker looked like), and they were never as good as action. He wanted to know why these people kept on beating the shit out of him. And then he wanted to go and beat the shit out of some of these people.
‘Very impressive, Millat, hey? Everything we hope for.’
‘Yeah,’ said Millat, despondent. ‘I s’pose. Less talk, more action, though, if you ask me. The infidel are everywhere.’
Mo nodded vigorously. ‘Oh definitely, Brother. We are two birds from the same bush on that matter. I hear there are some others,’ said Mo, lowering his voice and putting his fat, sweaty lips by Millat’s ear, ‘who are very keen on action. Immediate action. Brother Hifan spoke to me. About the 31st of December. And Brother Shiva and Brother Tyrone…’
‘Yes, yes. I know who they are. They are the beating heart of KEVIN.’
‘And they say you know the man himself – this scientist. You in good position. I hear you are his friend.’
‘Was. Was.’
‘Brother Hifan says you have the tickets to get in, that you are organizing-’
‘Shhh,’ said Millat irritably. ‘Not everyone can know. If you want to get near the centre, you’ve got to keep shtoom.’
Millat looked Mo up and down. The kurta-pyjamas that he somehow managed to make look like a late seventies Elvis flared jumpsuit. The huge stomach he rested on his knee like a friend.
Sharply, he asked, ‘You’re a bit old aren’t you?’
‘You rude little bastard. I’m strong as a bloody bull.’
‘Yeah, well, we don’t need strength,’ said Millat tapping his temple, ‘we need a little of the stuff upstairs. We’ve got to get in the place discreetly first, innit? The first evening. It’ll be crawling.’
Mo blew his nose in his hand. ‘I can be discreet.’