t midday in London, Colin Asher had emerged from his Aoffic
e. Else and Ritchie watched him go to the window overlooking Edgeware Road and look down. A phone then rang behind him. “That might be Mark,” he said, as if he’d been expecting it.
“In Taiwan?” Ritchie asked.
“I hope not. He flew out of Taipei at 6:00 a.m. Four-hour flight to Bangkok, change to a flight down to Nakhon Si Thammarat, and a hire car north. Twelve hours should be enough.”
Else answered it, “Hi, Mark. You want the boss?”
“Put him on,” Mark Dobson said.
Colin took the phone. “Do I really want to see your face on video?”
“It’s not my face you need to see,” Mark replied as the unsteady image moved to that of a dark-skinned young man with an untidy mop of dirty-looking hair. “We’ve got Cass,”
he said.
The image then moved to another face - mine. “And this is Kurt,” Mark said.
I gave a quick wave to the phone, before turning towards Cass, who, I have to admit, l barely recognised. His arms and face were a dark, reddish brown, not the light brown I remembered. He had a week’s worth of untidy stubble, his hair was a tangled mess, his feet were bare and he kept bending to scratch at a bleeding sore on his shin. His tee shirt
and shorts were dirty and stained with sweat, but the worse thing was the smell. Jimmy was bad enough, but Cass was worse.
“Jimmy’s somewhere around” Mark said into the phone. “I got here just in time. Right now, we’re standing at the back of a police van but Cass is handcuffed.”
Mark moved the phone to a Thai man in a blue uniform. “And this guy, I’m told, works for the Thai anti-terrorism police. So far, they’ve listened and filmed us but said very little. As for Cass, he’s in such a state he can barely speak or walk. Before all this, there was gunfire and at least two guys and a policeman were shot. How Cass survived it all I’ll never know.”
Cass, meanwhile, was slumped inside the rear doorway of the police van with his hands tied behind his back but he looked up when I got closer. I think he was probably pleased to see me, but it was difficult to be sure.
“Listen, man,” I said to him, “Take it easy. We’ll sort it.
Lucky I was here, huh? I’ve not seen a toucan yet, but you’re the next best thing. If they throw you in jail, I’ll join you. We could sit and play Guess Who? or Eye Spy with my Little Eye. He tried to kick me with his bare foot so I knew he recognised me.
Mark wandered over, still holding the phone and talking to Colin Asher. “Is Ritchie there?” I heard him say.
I then saw Ritchie - a black guy who, for a moment, I thought was Winston.
“Cass?” Ritchie asked. “Can you see me? We’re on the case, man. We’ll sort it. We’ve even got you a new British passport.
We’ll get it to you somehow. Tell them everything, Cass.
We’re in London, but I’m on my way to see Kevin and Roger
and Gordon and a few more of your old friends. Just keep going, OK? We’ll sort it.”
Cass nodded and blinked like his eyes were sore and I watched, unable to take my eyes off him. My first sight of him had been just twenty minutes earlier when he climbed the wall and tumbled into a pile of builder’s sand next to a concrete mixer.
I ran to pick him up but two policemen told me to move away.
They then half-carried, half-dragged him to the van. I followed. But seeing him again after so long had stung me.
What on earth can happen to humans in such a short time?
Cass was the same age as me: nineteen. And all I could do was remember school and playing basketball with him and Winston on that patch of land behind Brick Street.
As he was being dragged along, a sandal fell off his foot. I left it there but followed him and the two police to the van. As one of them opened the rear door he slumped to his knees, fell backwards onto the ground and looked up at me. And for one shocking moment I wondered if this really was Cass or some other poor guy. Cass had always been so clean and tidy. He would even arrive at school with his tie tied tight to his neck, whereas I kept my top shirt buttons open with my tie hung loose, like some dumb character in a gangster movie.
Now he was thin and dirty and staring like some poor guy waiting to have his throat slit, which, I suppose, was perfectly understandable knowing the company he’d been keeping. He didn’t speak, but looked up at me from the dusty ground as they clipped handcuffs on him like a criminal. Then his other sandal fell off, and I picked it up. What good one shoe was without the other, I don’t know, but it seemed the right thing to do. I tried to hand it to him but what could he do with his arms behind his back? And what did I then say to him?
“Get up, man. Don’t be such a mugoo. Jesus, man, you ain’t nothing like you used to be. Got some sprawl beard and fancy haircut. And where’d you get them shoes. Sandals ain’t cool man.”
Why I spoke like that, I don’t know, but somehow, I felt it necessary to revert to the way I used to speak when I was fifteen or sixteen.
Jimmy strolled up then as the two police did something inside the van.
“This ugly guy is Jimmy,” I aid to Cass. “Don’t shake his hand. He’s dirtier than you are. He rolls a good spliff, but he’s piss poor with Chiclets and blimps.”
Jimmy stared down at Cass, and I think he’d have helped him to his feet if the police weren’t now back on the scene. He backed off, but he did speak. “Cass,” he said in his American accent, “good to see you, man. We’ll sort this, but the police need to talk to you. Be patient, man, OK?”
Two other police then wandered over - one in a brown uniform, a cap, and ribbons like he was about to declare a military coup, the other in black jeans and tee shirt with something bulky inside a zipped nylon jacket. I much preferred the latter guy, and it was he who spoke to Cass. Cass raised his head.
“You are Mister Cemil Demir?”
At last Cass found his voice. It was weak and a bit rough, but it was definitely Cass’s Park Road accent. “No, sir,” he said.
“I am Qasim Saddiqi I’m British.”