Honor (9781101606148) (25 page)

Iskender grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her against a wall. ‘People are being beaten up on the streets. An old man was knocked unconscious by stones just last week. What fun are you talking about?'

‘Oh, so you're the big hero. Save us, please.'

The slap. It came suddenly, as if from out of nowhere. Esma held her cheek, too shocked to move.

‘You stay away from this,' he said, without looking at her. ‘I warn you.'

She watched him strut back to the café, hurrying. Once she thought she knew her elder brother like the back of her hand, but no longer. He had always protected her from others. Yet now, for the first time, Esma felt as if she had to protect herself from him.

London, July 1978

When Yunus ran into Tobiko after weeks of desperate searching, he was overcome with a mixture of relief and dread. Relief at having found her, when he had almost given up hope, but also a harrowing fear of losing her again. He clung to her like a clam to its shell.

She had changed somewhat, gained a bit of weight. Her hair, dark and shiny like a black pebble in rain, was still long, but the ends were now dyed an incandescent green. She had replaced the silver piercing on her bottom lip with a sparkling stud. On each earlobe she wore half-a-dozen crimson hearts, as tiny and bright as droplets of blood. Yunus counted them, noticing, once again, how small her ears were and how very pretty.

Tight-lipped, Tobiko refused to explain where she had been all this time or why she had failed to leave a note.
Here and there
.
Needed a change of air, pet.
Yunus was annoyed to learn where she was staying: in a three-bedroom maisonette with the Captain and his mother. A few others from the squat were also there.

The Captain's mother, Mrs Powell, was a retired teacher, a widow. In reality, she had little tolerance for the group under her roof, but she had agreed to host them for a while in the hope of spending more time with her only son. She had moved into the bedroom upstairs with her
TV
and hot-water bottle, leaving the rest of the flat to the punks. She seldom ventured out of her room, having all her meals there, pretending not to notice the incessant commotion or the smell of weed coming from downstairs.

The first time Yunus visited the punks in that flat, he sat on the sofa next to Tobiko, small and smiling.

‘It's a temporary solution,' said the Captain by way of explanation. ‘Until we go back to our old place. We're gonna bring everyone together again.'

‘We're getting our house back and this time nobody's gonna kick us out. We've learned our lesson,' said Bogart, a cigarette between his lips, and a guitar with only two strings in his hand. ‘We'll kick their arses.'

There was someone new with them who had no hair except for a mop on top, which he had dyed different shades of orange. He was nicknamed Mr Filch because he didn't believe in the need to pay for anything – books,
LP
s, food, underwear. Once he lifted a pair of Doc Martens, carrying a boot inside each sleeve of his gabardine coat. Now, sitting back with a grin, Mr Filch interjected, ‘Yeah, you're like cats. Licking your wounds.'

Yunus listened to their blather, glad to have them in his life again, oddly soothed by their unconventional ways. Noticing his happiness, Bogart remarked, ‘The kid is like a cat too.'

‘And you're his cosy little basket,' the Captain said to Tobiko with a wink.

Tobiko laughed but only a little, so as not to offend Yunus. To change the subject, she turned to Bogart and asked, ‘What was that you were playing?'

‘Oh, it's a song I composed. You know I was thinking the squat raid was our Bloody Sunday. Sort of. So I made this song. It's called Bloody Tuesday.'

Needing no further incentive, Bogart began to sing. The melody was terrible, the lyrics even worse.

I'm on the edge, I'm on the dole,

Like a stone I tumbled into this hole,

This hole, this hole, this hole, this hole.

The Old Bill don't ring before they haul,

Bloody Tuesday, worst day of all.

Rise against the system! It has no soul!

No soul, no soul, no soul, no soul.

Iggy Pop – wearing an Afghan waistcoat and a buff-coloured T-shirt so short that it barely covered his nipples – plugged his ears with his fingers. ‘Ow, can't you shut your bleedin' gob!'

‘What?' Bogart exclaimed, stopping halfway.

‘It's shite, man,' said Iggy Pop.

‘It wasn't even a Tuesday,' said Tobiko. ‘It was Wednesday when they raided.'

Bogart frowned. ‘Says who?'

Yunus listened, half amused, half worried, knowing how easily they could move from childish merriment to outright war when they were stoned, slamming the doors, shouting and swearing, at one another or at themselves.

‘What do you lot know? You knob-heads,' scoffed Bogart. He paused for a moment, scowling at Tobiko. ‘You don't flipping remember what you had for breakfast.'

‘Let's ask Yunus,' suggested Tobiko. ‘He's neutral.'

‘Neutral my arse,' the Captain objected. ‘He's so soft on you, say snow is black, and he'd totally agree.'

Blushing profusely but feigning ignorance, Yunus knew he had to say something
–
a remark interesting enough to distract them. So he announced, ‘I want to have a tattoo.'

Bogart chuckled. ‘Whoa! This lad is cool!'

‘We'll do it,' said Iggy Pop. ‘No problem. I'm the best tattoo artist in town.'

‘Darlin', won't your mam get upset?' Tobiko asked tenderly.

Yunus had already thought about this. ‘Well, she will if she sees it. But if you put it somewhere on my back, she won't know.'

‘Clever boy,' said Mr Filch.

‘I'll go and fetch the set,' said Iggy Pop, rubbing his hands together.

‘And I need to have a pee,' said Yunus quietly.

Upstairs, there were two doors, one on each side of the corridor. After a brief hesitation, Yunus opened the one on the left. He was surprised to see a woman sitting in bed in a mauve nightgown, munching from a box of Ritz crackers, watching the new episode of
The South Bank Show.
Her hair was a bird's nest and she must have been crying, as there were streaks of mascara on her cheeks. She looked slightly bonkers.

‘Sorry, ma'am.'

Yunus was about to close the door when the woman murmured without taking her eyes off the screen, ‘Are they recruiting you?'

The boy stopped in his tracks, not sure if the words had been addressed to him. ‘Pardon?'

‘Are they recruiting you?' the woman repeated. ‘Will you be the youngest delinquent in England?'

‘No,' Yunus replied, alarmed.

‘That's good,' she said, still talking to the
TV
. ‘All my life I've worked with children, but I can't help my own son.'

Now Yunus looked at the woman more carefully, recognizing Mrs Powell, the teacher who had come to see his parents about his sister's education. He also saw how much she resembled the Captain – wide forehead, long nose with round tip, slightly protruding flint-grey eyes.

‘When my son was your age he was so adorable,' she went on. ‘Children are delightful when they're babies, but then they start to walk and break everything, and when they grow up they hate you!'

Mrs Powell turned towards Yunus, her gaze a searchlight. There were dark bags under her eyes. She looked tired, in need of a good sleep. ‘What do you call your mother, darling?'

‘I . . . I call her “Mum”,' said Yunus.

‘Well, tell her she's a lucky woman. My son calls me “The System”. He thinks I'm a bourgeois buffoon!' She sighed. ‘Do you think he's right?'

‘Oh, no,' Yunus said, perturbed. He remembered having promised Tobiko a while ago that he would never let the system get anywhere near him. Yet he didn't take to his heels. ‘I think you're a beautiful lady, Mrs Powell. You just have to see yourself in sunshine.'

The woman stood stunned for a moment before she broke into a chuckle. A husky croak, but when she looked again there was a new sparkle in her eyes. ‘That's the sweetest thing I've heard lately.'

‘Cheers, ma'am.'

When Yunus returned to the living room, he found Tobiko sitting by the window, looking at a bird in the garden, its feathers iridescent in the afternoon sun. She had two mugs of hot chocolate ready. As they sipped their drinks, Yunus ventured, ‘May I ask you something?'

‘Sure, pet.'

‘About secrets,' he said nervously. ‘My sister says you should never share them with anyone. Not even a reed.'

Tobiko studied him curiously. ‘I'm not sure what you're talking about.'

‘I suppose I'm trying to ask . . . If there is a person you love and that person has a secret that nobody knows and it's a bit embarrassing . . . but you find it out. Do you think you should tell her that or not?'

‘Wow, that's a tough one. I think you'd better keep shtoom, then.'

And with those words Tobiko placed her head on the boy's shoulder, carefully, not with her full weight. Yunus's heart pulsed in the hollow of his throat. He wished the moment could go on for ever. But soon the Captain and the others returned, carrying a box of needles and tattoo designs.

‘All rightie. Let's get to work,' said Iggy Pop. ‘Look, this could hurt a bit. Is that okay?'

Yunus nodded, biting his lip.

‘And what kind of tattoo would you like? A word? A symbol?'

‘Can you make me a whale, please?' asked Yunus. ‘Like the one that swallowed the prophet.'

When the tattoo was finished, it looked more like a big, brown trout – the fish that Grandma Naze had, in another life, in a bygone world, wished to become.

London, September 1978

Iskender's fourth encounter with the Orator was different from all their previous ones. The man had wanted to see him alone and somewhere other than Aladdin's Cave. They had agreed to meet in Victoria Park.

Entering the park through Royal Gate, Iskender strode resolutely towards the Victoria Fountain. He slowed down when he spotted the Orator standing with his back to a horse-chestnut tree, a satchel by his side, his hands in his pockets, his face pensive but otherwise inscrutable. From the way he looked it was hard to tell whether he had been waiting a long time or had just arrived. Today he wore thin-rimmed glasses that accentuated the square shape of his face. He had brown pointed shoes, a loose faded jacket and the kind of jeans only a mother would buy for her son, Iskender thought to himself.

‘Heyya,' Iskender said, raising his hand to salute.

The Orator smiled faintly. ‘Come, let's take a walk.'

Though he wasn't exactly in the mood, Iskender agreed. ‘Sure.'

The sun was shining in a clear sky. Near by, the lake was serene, a carpet of jade-green with a pale mist hanging above the opposite shore. There were parents and children tossing bread pellets to the ducks. There were a few people out jogging. One couple on the grass seemed deep in the throes of passion. Iskender noticed the Orator avert his gaze, the thinnest wrinkle forming on his forehead. Finally, tired of walking, they found an empty bench where they could sit and talk in private.

‘You strike me as someone with solid friendships,' said the Orator.

‘Yeah, my friends are cool,' Iskender said brightly.

‘Are you their leader?'

Iskender hesitated. He never referred to himself in that way.

‘That's all right,' said the Orator, reading his mind. ‘It's good that you're in charge but that you don't act like it. That's noble.'

‘Thanks,' Iskender said. No one had called him noble before, and he could not help but feel a glow of pride.

‘Your mates are decent enough but they're still boys, really. Long way to go. You're different. Far more mature. How has that come about?'

‘My father isn't around,' Iskender heard himself saying. ‘I had to grow up at top-speed, if you know what I mean.'

The Orator nodded. ‘Well, that explains it.'

Iskender felt a warm sense of worth, almost liquid, a new thrill in his veins. He had not realized this before, even though it had been in front of his eyes the entire time. He had grown up fast. ‘I'm the eldest, you see. I've a younger brother and sister.'

‘I remember your sister,' said the Orator. There was an edge to his voice.

‘Yeah, sorry she was a bit rude that time you met.'

‘That's all right. Don't blame her. She's young. Her mind's in a jumble. The things she picks up from other girls, the magazines she reads, and there is
TV
, of course. A bombardment of propaganda.'

Iskender chewed his lip, listening.

‘It's harder for women, that's the thing. There are too many distractions to divert them from the right path. All the glitter of the fashion world, then there's the search for rich husbands, smart furniture. It never ends.'

‘Right,' Iskender said.

‘If you don't mind my asking, why is your father not around?'

Iskender's jaw moved silently for a second, as though he were swallowing the first answer that came to mind. He felt uneasy, under scrutiny. Was this a test? Did the man know about his father? Was he checking to see whether Iskender trusted him? If it was a test, he didn't like it. ‘He's got another life, is all,' he said curtly.

‘I see.'

‘How is it you don't reveal the slightest thing about yourself but expect everyone else to unveil themselves to you?'

The Orator smiled, a quick glimmer of sarcasm. ‘That's what I like about you. You've got a lot of balls. If you don't like someone's attitude, you don't put up with it. You're a risk-taker by nature. No one messes around with you.'

‘That's correct,' Iskender said. ‘No bollocks.'

‘Well, I respect that. I suppose, just like you, I don't like to open up. But, now that you've asked, I will.'

Iskender's face softened a touch. He felt a bit embarrassed about his momentary outburst.

‘My father, Khalid, was born in Egypt and came to Birmingham in 1951. He taught himself English while working night shifts.
If you don't work hard, you'll end up as nothing
. That was his biggest fear, you know. Becoming a nothing! He changed his clothes, his food, his habits, but the accent remained. He married an English woman and I was born. They're nice people. Don't get me wrong. The trouble is they're so caught up in this world, they forgot the next. They have no faith. I feel sorry for them.'

A young woman whizzed by on roller skates, wearing shorts and a baseball jacket, both purple. Iskender stared at her legs before going back to what he was planning to say. ‘Yeah, but at the end of the day, they are your parents.'

‘And I love them but that doesn't mean I respect them. They are quite different things, love and respect. If your parents slip up, you've got to stand up against them.'

‘My father –' said Iskender, not quite knowing where he was going with this. ‘As we grew up he was never around. Then he left the house. Just like that. It's been almost a year.' He was trying to make light of the subject, but he couldn't hide the tremor in his voice.

Pushing back his glasses, the Orator studied Iskender. ‘So you are the head of the family now. It must be tough. You've got to be strong. It's good that you're into boxing. But you also need moral fortitude.'

‘I see what you mean,' Iskender said, slightly unsure whether he did.

The Orator opened his satchel and took out two booklets. ‘Take these. When you've read them, let's talk again. Tell me what you like in each. And feel free to say what you
don't
like.'

‘Esma loves books. I'm not much of a reader myself.'

‘Well, that has to change, then.' He did not look bossy when he uttered this, merely purposeful. ‘The mind needs ideas the way a car needs fuel to run. And ideas come from books, largely.'

‘Yeah, I guess you're right.'

‘By the way, keep them to yourself, will you?'

‘You can trust me,' said Iskender, and was about to say more when his eyes slid to his watch. ‘Oh, no. Gotta go!'

The Orator clicked his tongue against his teeth, a hint of betrayal creeping into his gaze. ‘A girl?'

‘Yup.'

‘English?'

‘Yup.'

‘Why not one of ours?'

The question had taken Iskender by surprise. He had always thought of the differences between Katie and him as a matter of clashing personalities, never anything beyond that. Besides, the Orator himself was English through and through, wasn't he? When Iskender spoke again, his tone dripped with irritation, ‘I dunno. It just happened.'

‘Uh-hum. Is she a good girl?'

‘She's all right,' Iskender said, even though he didn't really know what he meant by that.

‘Well, go, then. Don't make her wait. I'll pray that He may guide you in the right direction.'

‘Thanks, see you around,' Iskender muttered, pretending not to be annoyed by the man's intrusiveness.