t was raining heavily, and the worn wipers of the tiny Fiat Iscre
eched across the windscreen as Kevin and Roger sat discussing their next steps. Kevin, though, was distracted by the wet strands of hair that clung to Roger’s scalp like a threadbare carpet. “Where’s your hat?”
“You really want to discuss my hat, Kevin? Right now? As it happens, I left it at your mum’s, but it’s totally irrelevant right
now. We’re here to discuss strategy. And I’m still waiting to know what you discovered during your internet research on the history of Park Road.”
“Yeh. Sorry. I forgot. I didn’t get to bed till three o’clock,”
Kevin said. “I met Walid. He bought a passport from Khan.
Khan then stole it back. Gordon’s trying to sort it.”
Roger looked at him. “What is it about passports and Mr.
Khan, Kevin? And you’ve not yet introduced me to either Walid, Gordon or Winson.”
“No time, Roger. Neither have I told you anything about Kurt.
Kurt’s in Thailand. Walid suggested I call Winston to borrow his laptop. Winston’s got good Wi-Fi because they’ve got a smart TV downstairs. I called at Winston’s and didn’t get away till 3:00 a.m. because I was doing the research like you told me.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Just old news stories. The street demonstration was three years ago. There was a story about two guys from Park Road called Imran Hussein and Akram Khan who were arrested on suspicion of terrorism. I vaguely remember it.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Except they then sued the police for compensation.”
“What else?”
“Lots of comments and speeches by Councillor Mohamed Basra attacking the police for intimidation, supporting the appeal for compensation, and saying that letters in the local press objecting to wearing hijab and niqab were racist and discriminatory.”
“Anything else?”
“An article from a woman day tripper saying how wonderful it was to see ethnic diversity in an inner-city area working so well and admiring the choice of small shops.”
“Pity she didn’t call at Faisal World Travel and book a ticket to Turkey. Anything else?”
“Not much. It’s all on a memory stick, but it’s why I didn’t do any ablutes.”
“Ablutions, Kevin. On a morning you perform ritual ablutions. Never mind. You’re excused for once, but tell me about Kurt and Winston and so on?”
“Mates, Roger. Kurt, Cass, Winston, and I were at school.
Walid joined later after he got back from Syria, where his mum was killed. Kurt lives in London.”
“Tell me again sometime. My brain can’t handle it right now because we’re off to see Mr. Greg. Tell me everything you know about Greg.”
“An old white man with glasses.”
“I’ve already logged that. Do you ever talk to him?”
“I collect or give him packages then go.”
“Why do I picture you running away, Kevin?”
“I walk. I catch the number 27 bus on the corner. One comes along every thirty minutes.”
“That figures. It fits perfectly. You’re one of those who wait patiently for public transport while your life ticks away, aren’t you, Kevin? If one bus fails to turn up, you wait patiently for the next, even though it’s quicker and healthier to walk.
Today, though, you will travel in a private car, an Italian one at that. It’s one with a clockwork engine, wipers that spread water around rather than clearing it, and seats with metal frames in place of padding. When we arrive in Lansdowne
Road, could you perhaps try engaging Greg in conversation for the first time? Some old man’s gossip starting with epic chat-up lines, such as ‘It’s a nice day for ducks, Mr. Greg.’”
“I could try.”
“What about asking about his health? ‘How are you today, Mr. Greg?’ Try some general conversation by describing how it feels to be a long-distance driver who can’t read a map. If that doesn’t work, try making him feel sorry for you. Appear sad and lonely. Tell him you’ve not eaten for days because you’ve been in Scotland collecting his parcel. Try bringing so many tears to his eyes that he invites you in for tea and crumpets. Smile and look at him through your long eyelashes.
Convince him that you’re a nice young man and know nothing of the contents of the many packages you deliver.”
“I haven’t got a package today.”
“Then improvise, Kevin. Tell him you thought he had one for collection and apologise for your error.”
“What if he’s gay?”
“Are there many around here?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Kevin, having spent an entire night with you recently.” Roger punched him on the shoulder.
“Let’s go, Starsky.”
“Starsky?”
“I’ll be Hutch. This tin box can be our striped tomato. I know it’s powder blue, not cherry red, so use your imagination.”
“What are you talking about, Roger?”
***
They parked out of sight under a dripping tree on the junction with Lansdowne Road. “Well, off you go, Kevin. If you return in less than five minutes, I might just head down to Yeovil and forget I ever met you.”“You wouldn’t, would you?”
“Just go, Kevin. Come back with an opinion of some sort. Is he, for instance, the godfather - the top boss that Khan reports to? What does he do with those darned passports you deliver?
Guilty until proven innocent. Go.”
Kevin opened the gate of number 18, Lansdowne Road, closed it behind him, and walked up the sloping concrete path to the front door. In order not to look too menacing, he pulled back the hood of his anorak and rang the bell as rain dripped from the overhead guttering. He looked around. The front garden was a square of grass and four borders containing what might once have been roses. The grass itself was long and lay flattened by the rain. The path from the gate followed the house around to the side where it joined the concrete driveway, the garage, and Greg’s big old Peugeot. As Kevin stood back, waiting and looking around as Roger had instructed, he saw, for the first time, a side door with a ramp leading up to it, like shops had for disabled access. Thinking perhaps Mr. Greg had not heard, Kevin rang the bell again, but then the door opened suddenly.
Greg was holding a pure white folded handkerchief in his hands and was wearing a white shirt and dark tie beneath a grey V-necked jumper. His grey flannel trousers, Kevin noticed, had a dark blue stain across the knee. “Good morning, Mr. Greg,” Kevin said. “I have come to pick up a parcel.”
Greg said nothing but removed his glasses, unfolded the handkerchief, and used it to blow his nose. “I have no parcel today.”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Greg. Maybe it’s a mistake. I’ve been in Scotland. Edinburgh. You know it? It was very bad weather. I got stuck in snow.”
Kevin looked at Mr. Greg, realising this was the first time he’d ever actually looked at his face with any real interest.
Mr. Greg had a ring of soft grey hair, similar in colour and texture to Roger’s. His forehead had a worried look, and his thick-lensed glasses made his grey eyes look big and anxious.
He stuffed the folded handkerchief back in his trouser pocket and wiped his face with a veiny hand that bore a plain wedding ring on one finger and traces of faint blue stain.
“Nice weather for ducks,” Kevin said, looking up at the dripping sky.
Roger’s suggested dialogue, though, seemed to have little effect on Mr. Greg. “Edinburgh?” he said.
“Seven hundred miles there and back, Mr. Greg. Very bad weather.”
“Edinburgh, you say?”
“Mr. Wazir, you know him?”
“Wazir?”
“Mr. Wazir Khan.”
Greg shook his head, and Kevin, thinking he’d completely blown it, started to retreat. “Well, thanks, Mr. Greg. Very sorry for…”
“Who do you work for?”
“Myself, Mr. Greg. I’m a courier.”
“I use my car, or the bus. I work for Mr. Khan from Faisal World Travel. You know him?”
Greg looked puzzled. His head moved, but Kevin wasn’t sure if it was a nod or a shake. He looked at Kevin through his thick lenses, retrieved his handkerchief, wiped his nose again, and stuffed it back in his pocket. Kevin lingered, thinking that he might say something else, but he didn’t. He merely nodded, stepped backwards, closed the door, and slid a lock.
Kevin walked back down the path, shut the gate, and returned to the car.
“Well?” Roger asked.
“He didn’t know about Edinburgh, and he didn’t know about Wazir.”
“That’s it?”
“I needed a better chat-up line. He wasn’t interested in ducks.”
“You’re blaming me?”
“But I smelled something.”
“A rat?”
“It smells like Abdul’s printing shop on Midland Road. And he had blue stains on his trousers and hands.”
“What are you saying, Kevin?”
“I think he’s a printer.”
Roger studied Kevin’s serious face. “What was in that bacon sandwich I bought you this morning, Kevin? It’s as if your brain’s been turbocharged.”
Kevin chuckled.
They sat in the car for a while as Roger tried to imagine the picture Kevin was drawing of Greg - a quiet, nervous, and strangely old-fashioned man who said very little. Today had been the first time Kevin had heard him speak.
“That’s his car,” Kevin said, suddenly ducking down out of sight as the old box-like Peugeot emerged from Lansdowne Road, turned right, and crept past them. It was one of the earlier people carriers, like a small grey bus with sliding side doors. The driver sat low on his seat, with glasses on, hands at ten to two and far too close to the wheel for comfort. At the back was another person sitting higher up.
“Get up, Kevin. Don’t be ridiculous. You sure that’s Greg?”
“It’s Greg’s car.”
“That’s not a car. It’s a prototype military tank dating from when the French were learning how to make aesthetically pleasing forms of transport. And there was someone at the back. Is Greg married?”
“He had a wedding ring.”
Roger paused. “Are you working today, Kevin? Will there be any ritual slaughter in the halal section of Bashir’s?”
“I told Bash I was doing jobs for Mr. Khan today. And the meat arrives already dead.”
“That’s so good to hear, Kevin. To think I slept next to a gay butcher is too much. Let’s follow him.”
The Peugeot was driven slowly and purposefully through the city, through the main gate of the city’s General Hospital and around the grounds to a separate building marked simply Dalgleish House. It stopped in a disabled area. Roger and Kevin watched as Greg climbed out, opened the car’s sliding door, and fixed a ramp onto the ground. He disappeared inside
and a wheelchair came slowly down the ramp. In it was a grey-haired old lady wrapped in a tartan blanket.
“His wife?” Roger asked, not expecting a reply. “Listen, Kevin, we can’t park here. Go and park this thing somewhere lawful and come back.”
Roger got out. It was still raining.
Greg, meanwhile, was bent over the wheelchair, tidying the blanket, holding an umbrella, and talking to the woman. Her head rolled and then fell forward, and Greg tucked something beneath her chin. He stroked her hair then pushed the chair towards the entrance. The wide door opened automatically, and he disappeared inside. Roger followed, wiping his boots on an already sodden mat.
Inside, it was crowded with mostly old people sitting in rows of chairs and staring into space. Greg pushed the wheelchair to the reception desk and spoke to a nurse. Then he pushed it to the end of a row of chairs and knelt to talk to what Roger was now certain was his wife.
She was clearly sick. She had thin grey hair, a pale complexion, eyes that did not focus, and a head that wobbled on a frail neck. Her bony and veiny hands shook slightly as they lay over the blanket. Greg certainly didn’t have the look of a man engaged in forgery or an Islamic terrorist group.
Roger, missing his beanie that was, at the best of times, useless in the rain, wiped his dripping skull, tried flattening the threads of grey hair, and watched from the entrance. A name was called, and two seats next to where Greg was kneeling became vacant, so Roger moved inside and sat down. Greg squinted at him through thick-lensed glasses.
Kevin’s description of him was accurate right down to the grey trousers with the blue stain at the knee.
“I’m sorry. Would you like to sit here?” Roger said, moving to the next chair.
Greg nodded and sat down, keeping a hand on the arm of the wheelchair. There was a mumbling sound, and Greg stood again. He bent over the woman, adjusted the towel that was supporting her chin, and quietly said, “It won’t be long, my flower.” Then he perched once more on the edge of the seat next to Roger.
Roger decided to say something. “What time is your appointment?”
Greg turned. The big grey eyes behind the glasses were flickering. “At eleven thirty.”
It was 11:10 a.m. Even if the appointment was on time, he had a good twenty minutes to engage in conversation. “How is your wife?”
“Much the same,” Greg said quietly. “Nothing changes.” He looked away, and Roger did the same except that he was thinking about Kevin mentioning a smell of printing chemicals at Greg’s house. Suddenly, a flicker of memory lit Roger’s mind. He touched Greg’s elbow. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m sure we’ve met somewhere before.”
Greg turned. “I don’t think so.”
“Mill Lane. The old industrial site. I used to make deliveries to a printing company. I remember backing my truck up the very narrow lane.”
Greg produced a white handkerchief from his pocket. “Yes,”
he said, blinking behind the glasses. He wiped his nose.
“Bywater Design & Printing.”
“That’s it,” Roger said. “That was a few years ago.”
“It’s closed.”
“Has it, indeed? Is that where I met you?”
“I was made redundant.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They wouldn’t invest.”
Roger shook his head in commiseration. “Have you retired now?”
Greg paused, as if unsure. “I look after my wife.”
“What’s wrong?” Roger asked. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but—”
“Parkinson’s disease. Dementia.”
“I’m sorry. How long?”
“Ten years. It started with the Parkinson’s.”
For a moment, Greg’s sad, empty eyes behind his glasses looked directly at Roger, and Roger detected a desperate need to talk, to offload. For a man who, according to Kevin, never spoke, it seemed a breakthrough.” It must be very hard on you?” Roger asked.
“Yes.”
“How often do you bring your wife here?” Roger asked, speaking quietly, as if in church.
“Every two weeks,” Greg replied in a similar whisper.
“My name’s Roger by the way. Roger Smith.” He held out his hand, and Greg, however reluctantly, took it. It was a cold, soft, rather unwilling hand but a hand nevertheless.
“I’m Grzegorz Samoszewski,” Greg said.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Samoszewski.”
Greg nodded and looked at Roger. “You pronounce it well.”
“Is it Polish?”
“I have been to Poland many times over the years,” Roger said. “What is your wife’s name?”
“My wife—she is Dalia. We have been married for forty-five years. “
And Roger then detected something else. It was Greg’s accent that reminded him of a Polish customer, Jack Hassenfeld, whose company had also ceased trading. Jack had been Jewish. ‘My wife—she is Dalia.’ That was exactly how Jack would have said it.
“Forty-five years is a long time, Mr. Samoszewski.”
“Yes,” Greg said, caressing the wheelchair handle. He stood and adjusted the damp towel beneath his wife’s chin. When he sat down again, he looked at Roger. “I call her Herach.”
And that was another giveaway. Herach pronounced with the guttural “ch” at the end was Hebrew for flower. Dalia was Greg’s flower. And how did Roger just happen to know that?
Because Jack had once given him a bunch of dried flowers tied in pink ribbon to take home to Madge, Roger’s wife.
But why was a Polish Jew involved with Khan’s Islamic games? Roger pondered for a moment as Greg glanced at an ancient-looking wind-up watch, its face yellowed with time, as if it might be an heirloom.
The time, according to the clock above reception, showed 11:36 a.m. when a nurse appeared, reading from a card. “Mrs.
Samma . . . Samma . . . Dalia?” Greg stood up but turned to Roger. “That’s us.” And then he disappeared, pushing Dalia in the wheelchair.
’ve never smoked or taken drugs.
IWe ll, that’s not entirely true. I once tried an oddly shaped cylinder of paper with dried grass protruding from it.
However, it has never taken hold, even when things were being passed around and the prevailing noise was loud stupidity.
If I’ve got any vice at all, it’s chewing gum. I used to like the bubble sort. If you want to blow blimps competitively, then you really need to start young, like around eleven. Trouble was, around twelve, Winston whispered to me that it was a girl’s sport and if I didn’t quit, I’d become a focus for mockery. So, I stopped at the peak of my powers and reverted to ordinary gum. Then I began perfecting the next level in a gum chewer’s portfolio that starts after the flavour’s gone.
Long distance, accurate spitting should, I reckon, be an Olympic sport.
Still standing in the shade outside of what James had called the Wat Pra Mahathat something, I watched him roll his next joint, light it, and take the first puff. In the hot, still air, the smoke wafted through his long hair and disappeared, as if it became stuck on the greasy strands. He seemed deep in thought, and I wondered if he’d forgotten I was there. He hadn’t. “You want another coffee, Kurt?”
“No, thanks.”
“Mind if I do?”
I shrugged. I could, of course, have just said, “Thanks for the ride. I’ll make my own way back,” but I didn’t. The messages from Kevin and Walid disturbed me, and James, despite his appearance and manner, already seemed like a possible
solution. So, I followed him yet again to a different side street lined with vendors of chilled fruit, barbequed meat and fish, and soup. The smells did something to my stomach. It rumbled, as if to remind me I’d not eaten much for three days.
James suddenly pulled out a plastic chair next to a rickety metal table where a menu was propped against a box of chopsticks. He beckoned me to sit opposite, and a woman with a damp grey cloth arrived and wiped away stray noodles from earlier customers. James ordered. “Nung café. Nung nam. Song quettio moo with egg noodles.” Then he leaned back.
“What do you know about this guy Cass?”
I did my best, but I hadn’t seen Cass for a while. Quiet. Polite.
Serious. Good at basketball but not as good as me. Could speak Punjabi.
Meanwhile, water, coffee, and bowls of soup with noodles arrived, and James’s phone rang. It seemed private because he turned sideways, so I started on the soup and listened.
It was the first time I’d seen James look unsettled. There were long silent periods when he fidgeted, and it seemed to me, he was being told things he didn’t already know.
“He’s running with a Turkish passport.” I heard him say, but then there was a string of meaningless words, “Yeh . . . no . . .
could do . . . sure.”
While I waited, I tried to work out the tattoos on his arms.
Between the swirls and patterns was a human skull wearing a military cap and with a combat knife clutched in its teeth.
After my first sight of him sitting cross-legged with his arms raised to the sky, as if in some sort of celestial embrace, these inks didn’t fit with my impression of a man of peace and
tranquillity. Perhaps, I thought, it had all been a show to catch my attention—a gut feeling you understand.
When the call finished, my bowl of noodles was gone, but James had not even started on his. He lay his phone on the table, flicked his joint onto the ground, and started on his soup, shovelling noodles into his mouth with fork and spoon.
“So, who was that?” I asked.
“A friend of mine from UK,” he replied with a long yellow noodle hanging from his mouth and caught up in the stubble.
He released it with his finger, sucked it in, and glanced at me.
“Instead of getting lost in trees and getting off at wrong bus stops, you want to do something useful, Kurt?”
“Such as?”
“Help find your buddy Cass.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Then you’ll need to check out of the Happy Life. Are you carrying tons of unnecessary stuff?”
I didn’t like the insinuation that I was some sort of upmarket beach poser with stacks of matching luggage. “Just a backpack,” I said.
“Good. We’re all transient visitors to this world, Kurt.”
If that was another attempt at deep philosophy, I hit back.
“You seem settled though, James. Plenty of time on your hands. Nice house. Nice bike. Though I think I’d prefer a Honda myself.”
He grinned, so I went on. “You seemed to be waiting for me when we first met. Why?”
“Young black guy from London arrives alone, avoids the playground, and heads south to where trouble often starts.
You were red-flagged.”
“What the hell is red-flagged?”
“Immigration department. They’re paranoid. Guilty until proved innocent.”
“Guilty of what?”
“Of arousing suspicions.”
“Can’t a guy go on holiday these days?”
“Sure, but he can’t just wander into another country that’s trying to keep tabs on terrorists and expect not to be red-flagged if some overzealous immigration officer decides he needs to prove his worth. If he makes a mistake, can you imagine who gets the blame?”
“I’m not a criminal or a terrorist.”
“Who knows that? They come in many different sizes, shapes, and colours.”
“Are you working for immigration?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you, or aren’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you were following me?”
“For a while. Then I got ahead of you.”
“Why?”
“Things happen. Like your friend Cass. He got in on a false Turkish passport, looking like a cute version of one of Osama Bin Laden’s disciples. Fortunately for him, he got a lenient officer at the gate and was let through, but someone’s neck sure is on the line now since a bomb went off in a gas station just after he passed by. Understand?” He paused. “I assume Kurt Learner’s your real name.”
“Of course.”
“But how can anyone be sure, Kurt? You know how many people pass through immigration here claiming they’re on holiday? I’ll tell you. It was thirty-eight million last year.
That’s more than half the entire Thai population. You think they’re all good, honest citizens intent on sunbathing or might there be a few amongst them entering on false passports with crime, terrorism, or other trouble on their mind. Quite rightly, this government, just like your own, likes to weed them out before they mingle and get lost in the crowd. You’re an unknown quantity, an alien, and a red light flashed somewhere. You’re lucky you met me.”
I didn’t feel lucky. “So we didn’t meet by accident?”
James shrugged nonchalantly. “True.”
“You’re a foreigner as well, mate,” I said. “If I’d seen you with your looks getting off a plane and lighting a spliff, I’d have red-flagged you. In fact, I’d probably have sent you home again.”
James gave a creasy smile. “It’s my job,” he said, drawing yet another Rizla paper across his tongue and rolling the finished product through his fingers.
“How can an American looking like you get any sort of job that pays money?”
“I help out.”
I shook my head, as if I didn’t believe a word, but it didn’t seem to bother James. He stuck the freshly rolled one between his lips and let it dangle, unlit. “So, you want to help, or shall I report you as suspicious and throw you to the wolves?”
That was it. I’d had enough. “Who the hell are you, James?”
James clicked his lighter and let the flame burn without doing anything with it, and I felt he might even toss it in my direction, hoping I’d burst into flames. “Sit down, Kurt. Stay
cool. Don’t get so agitated. Listen to me. The guy who phoned me just now is an international crime investigator. Private not public. As a matter of fact, he’s English. We sometimes work together. That’s enough for you?”
It was interesting but not enough. I shook my head.
“I’m private too,” he said.” Freelance.”
“A freelance bullshitter?”
“Only if it helps.”
We were silent for a minute, eyeing each other while I considered various reasons for walking away. James then crossed his legs and shifted on his chair. “You wanna help find Cass, or no?”
“What are you saying? That you want help to find Cass to turn him in for some sort of reward? Is that how freelance bullshitters operate?”
“Don’t be so paranoid, Kurt. From what I know, he sounds more like a victim to me.”
I tried to calm myself. “Cass was OK,” I said. “He must have got tricked into something. You saw the message about a piece of shit called Khan.”
“Yep. And that’s exactly what I just had confirmed,” James said, getting up. “Let’s go, and I’ll tell you some more as we ride. Call me Jimmy.”