Saving a Child From God, page 11
“My friend,” he said, getting up. “I think... What is the saying? That you are all mouth and no trousers.” He looked at the man’s rumpled clothes as he clutched his briefcase. “But it is very odd... I have this strange feeling that one day you will accept my invitation, that one day I will see you inside our mosque.”
He smiled without the slightest trace of warmth. “Wouldn’t hold your breath, mate.”
Ibrahim nodded and got up. “Goodbye. I wish you well.”
As he got to the mosque’s entrance and slipped his shoes off, he heard the man call from across the street: “Leave the children alone.”
****
On his way home Professor Jeggert checked out the closing down sale at the video store. There was nothing of interest, just stupid Adam Sandler and Steven Seagal stuff, and he was about to leave when he stumbled across Day of the Dead. Somehow he’d never got round to watching the final part of Romero’s original zombie trilogy and he handed over two quid quietly confident of having picked up a bargain.
As he trudged home, he thought about the guy with the prayer bump displaying his piety as if it were a badge of honour.
“That’s what a lifetime of devotion gets you. A minor disfigurement. Thanks, Allah! I just... I just cannot believe that I live in a world where people happily squash their face into the carpet five times a day with the conviction that this is what some supernatural entity in the sky actually wants. I created you, now worship me.” He shook his head and glanced at the sky. “You, mate, are a fucking egomaniac.”
And why had Prayer Bump invited him into the mosque? Hadn’t he listened to a bloody word he said? He should have learned his lesson with that woman on the checkout. Even now, her sanctimonious air rankled, especially the way she’d somehow managed to communicate that it was him who hadn’t seen the light yet, as if he were some sort of barbarian or knuckle-dragging Neanderthal.
Then again, he ought to have learned by now that you could never talk to a zealot.
“Belief... you see. Belief can lead to the death of reason.”
The professor stopped outside the small pet store next to the shoe shop. A white Siamese cat with a greyish head was rubbing up against the bars of its cage. It was a beautiful creature with a sleek coat, wide-set ears and intelligent, almond-shaped eyes. Again he thought about getting a cat. He hadn’t seen the tabby with the red collar that hung around the corner shop for at least a week. He kind of missed rubbing its chin.
As he gazed through the window past the pretty tropical fish and the white mice exercising in their wheels, the manager got up behind the counter, stretched and made her way out of the empty shop. He heard a bird screech as the door opened.
“Oh,” she said, seeing him. She was a homely-looking woman with short, grey hair. “Don’t mind me. Just popping out for a ciggy.”
“How much is the cat?”
“Beautiful, isn’t he?” she said, rummaging in her handbag. “A very fine animal. You can have him for four hundred.”
He had his credit card. He could start taking the animal home in a few minutes. He stepped closer, almost pressing his face up against the glass.
“Those eyes...” he said. “What a lovely colour... They’re so...”
The unseen word jumped around in his mind. He glimpsed it in the shadows but as hard as he concentrated it wouldn’t pop into sight. The sky was the same colour. Goddamn it. Mars was the red planet, Earth was the ____ planet. It wouldn’t materialise. “Yes, they’re such a lovely shade of...” He looked at her, feeling oddly lost and childlike.
She pushed herself off the wall and poked her head round the window. “Blue...?”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Blue.”
She lit a cigarette. “Well?” she said, puffing out smoke. “Interested?”
“Nah,” he said, starting to walk off. “Punks don’t own cats.”
****
Abdullah darted away from his marker and stuck a hand in the air with his back to goal.
“Steve!”
Steve Jameson looked up and passed. Abdullah tried to control it but the ball bobbled and struck his shin. It bounced off at a funny angle and went straight through Paul Robbins’ legs, enabling him to hare past and be in on goal.
There was only Darren Brentford to beat.
He came roaring out with both arms flapping and a mad look on his face, but Abdullah easily got to the ball first. He slotted it past Darren’s dramatic and far too late dive, wheeling away in celebration as it nicked the inside-edge of the jumper-goalpost.
“We win!” he cried, dancing around. “Ten-seven! We win!”
Abdullah’s teammates mobbed him as Darren pointed at the jumper. “It hit the post! You all saw it. That was never a goal. It hit the post, I’m telling you.”
No one listened to his protests, not even his teammates. He looked at the sky and then kicked the jumper-goalpost, skulking off after the ball with his hands in his pockets. Everyone else collapsed on the grass.
“Great goal, Abdullah.”
“Thanks, Steve,” he said, picking up his own ball and trying to spin it on his index finger. “It was a really good pass. Are we playing another game?”
“Ah, man,” Paul said. “I’m tired. I want my tea.”
“Come on,” Abdullah said. “Stay a bit. This is much more fun.”
“All right, but let’s pick new teams.”
“Bagsy not having Darren,” Steve said. “He’s useless. Might as well have a girl in goal.”
They all laughed, glancing over at Darren as he dejectedly gathered the ball from by the swings. He trudged back and sat on it.
“That was a really lucky goal,” he said, flicking a bit of mud at Abdullah.
“You’re a bad loser.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” Abdullah held up his ball. “I showed everyone I could do more keepy-ups than you and – ”
“Yeah, but we used your cheapo ball and I’ve got the wrong trainers on and – ”
“And you only saved one of my shots.”
“Like I said, you were lucky.” He jabbed a finger at him. “Let’s play again and see if you’re still so lucky.”
“Yeah,” Paul said. “But let’s have a break first and then have new teams.”
Darren nodded and idly picked at a nostril. “Hey, wanna see something gross?” He pulled out his smart phone. “My brother showed me last night.”
They gathered round to watch a clip of a scared-looking man holding a torch with a shaky hand as he explored a pitch-black room. Off-screen a woman called his name and he was just about to answer when a bald rotting demon with a mashed-up face leapt on him and sank its big fangs into his neck making blood spurt everywhere.
Paul jumped and everyone laughed.
“You scaredy-cat!” Darren jeered.
Paul looked away. “I was only pretending. Wasn’t really scared.”
Darren grunted, already busy searching for something else. “Hey, Abdullah. Ever seen a naked girl?”
They all turned to look at him. “No.”
“Wanna see one?”
Abdullah swallowed, trying to hold eye contact with Darren. “No.”
“Why? Cos you’re gay?”
“No!”
“Yeah, you are.”
“I am not. You take that back.”
“That’s why you wouldn’t shake Miss Davies’ hand. Cos you’re gay and you don’t like touching girls. It makes you sick.”
Abdullah jumped to his feet. “I’m not gay! It’s my faith. I’m not allowed to – ”
“Gaybo!” Darren got up, pointing at him. “You’re a gaybo.”
“I am not!”
Darren waggled the phone at him. “Then come ‘n’ look at this super hot picture. Prove you’re not gay.”
Abdullah looked around at his silent friends, who were all picking at the grass or retying their laces.
“I can’t look at things like... like that. My father says there’s loads of bad things on the internet, haram things, and I must only use a computer or a phone when there’s a grown-up around.”
Darren folded his arms. “We all think you’re gay.”
Abdullah ran at him and pushed him, but he was too heavy and it didn’t seem to work. He was pushed back and suddenly he was on the grass at Darren’s feet, thinking he was going to be kicked.
“Leave him alone, Darren,” Steve said. “He’s done nothing to you. Let’s play soccer.”
“I am not playing with this gaybo. He might wanna bum me.”
Abdullah scrambled away, picked up his ball and started walking toward the park’s exit.
“Abdullah, come back!”
He turned. “No!”
Darren waved. “See ya, gaybo!”
****
Professor Jeggert put the key in his front door and stepped into the hallway. He paused, catching a hint of vanilla in the air that instantly conjured up a fantasy of Lucy waiting in the living room, a gin and tonic already poured as she fussed and asked him about his day.
Was it possible for a fragrance linger for so long? He darted around the hallway with his nose in the air rapidly sniffing.
But if the scent had even existed, it was gone now.
He chucked his jacket on the mahogany hat stand and stood facing the wall. He bumped his head against it, lightly at first. Then he punched it, causing pain to judder along his arm. Muttering, he rubbed his fist.
The rest of the day fell away before him like he was peering over a cliff.
He shrugged. “Time for a drinky, I guess... All work and no play makes Jamesykins a dull boy.”
And what would go down sweeter than that bottle of red the Muslim checkout girl had so obligingly delivered into his hands free of charge? He poured a full glass and felt a bit more cheerful as he slipped the Blu-ray disc into the DVD player.
“Bottoms up, my dear,” he said, easing himself into an armchair. “May you have been in heaven a full half-hour before the devil finds out you’re dead.”
He wondered what the supermarket had done with her. Shifted her to other duties? Insisted she serve alcohol in future? Frantically checked her employment contract to see what the hell it said about medieval dogma? Given her the old heave-ho?
Maybe he ought to swing by to find out. And if she were still on the till, he could always try his luck again by plonking down a decent bottle of Bells in front of her. Christ, it would be good to witness her having to pick up some forty percent proof nectar with her dainty little hands.
He settled back to watch Day of the Dead, dispatching most of the bottle of wine along the way. It turned out to be a half-decent flick. Sure, it wasn’t in the same class as the first two Romero movies but there were things to appreciate, such as the mad professor trying to ‘de-zombify’ one of the walking dead in his underground bunker by good-naturedly training it to behave like a human again. The fact that the zombies outnumbered the remaining people by 400,000 to one – and therefore his labour-intensive efforts couldn’t have been more pointless – never seemed to occur to the poor old sod.
After the credits rolled, Professor Jeggert finished off the wine and switched to vodka. He flicked over to the tail end of a massive news story in which an Islamic gunman had wiped out fifty people in a Florida gay club.
“What is this? They’re houndin’ me. Ev’where I bloody turn...”
He took another gulp of vodka as the TV showed a group of chanting Muslims holding up banners that said Not in my name.
“But it is in yer name, sweeties,” he said, raising his glass. “Islam is yer name and, less be ’onest...” He loudly belched. “The Koran ain’t exactly a pro-gay text, izzit? Yer might also wanna check out those naughty little hadiths. Total disgust and active hatred for gays. Chuck ’em off high buildings! Kill ’em! Homophobia runs through Islam liker stick o’ rock. And so now one o’ yer has gone mad with an automatic weapon in a gay club. Yer surprised? Really...?” He shook his head. “Well, yer shouldn’t be. This is what yer God comman’s yer to do.”
The professor jumped out of the chair to give a Nazi salute while goose-stepping around the living room.
“I was only follo’ing orders! Sieg heil!”
He laughed and pulled up, a little dizzy and out of breath. He grabbed the vodka again and began gulping straight from the bottle.
“Yeah, let’s get ridder religion. Then there’ll be one less excuse...” He wagged a finger. “One less excuse in the world... to pers’cute and kill other people. Cos let’s face it, there really isn’t any doubt it’s pois’nous, divisive nonsense respons’ble for hun’reds o’ million deaths.” He blinked slowly, feeling lovely and warm. “All I wan’... All I wan’, yer see, is for people to get that. To fuckin’ un’erstan’ how religion’s a net loss for the worl’. Just wanna reboot our species, put us onner more rashnul footing. Why won’t anyone lis’en me? Eh? It’s so bleedin’ obvious that – ”
He stopped, astonished by the revelatory intensity of his train of thought. Try to bring about the end of religion. That’s what he should devote his life to. Not a Mickey Mouse organisation like The Tiverby Sceptics but something with ambition and teeth. Forget about linguistics as well. He’d wasted enough time on that. Focus instead on putting into action something that could make a real difference.
He staggered over to the table, grabbed a pad of foolscap and started writing. Fifteen minutes later, he flexed his cramping hand while reading back his notes.
“Yes... Thas brill’ant. Yes!” He rubbed his eyes and got up again. He tried to walk out of the living room but the floor tilted and he ended up with his face against the far wall.
“’ello, ’ouse.” He giggled, running his hands across the flock wallpaper and liking the sensation. “Yer... Yer love me, doncha? You’re... You’re me fren.”
He aimed for the door again, bumped heavily into its frame and sort of cannoned through. He stood in the hallway, breathing hard. Why had he left the living room? He wandered out into the kitchen to find a pile of washing up in the sink. For some reason the sight of the dirty dishes depressed him. He rolled up his sleeves to get on with it but a trailing arm brushed against a plate in the plastic drainer, causing it to topple and smash on the floor. He stooped and managed to pick up two pieces before the floor came up to meet him and he was on his face.
He lay there laughing hysterically as he tried to piece the plate back together.
“All the King’s men and...”
After a while he sat up, grabbed the knobs on a set of drawers and clawed his way back to his feet in a renewed bid to tackle the washing up. He filled the bowl with warm soapy water and splashed his hands around.
He stopped and frowned. There was something wrong with the house. It was full of dead air and cold, empty spaces. The increasingly disconcerting sensation caused him to shiver.
Now the house seemed to be looking at him. He could feel its eyes boring into his back.
Music.
That would blow away a few cobwebs and liven the place up. He pulled a hand out of the soapy water and tried to snap his fingers, defeated by their wetness.
He put on The Stranglers, doubled back to the sink and started bopping away to the infectious guitar riff of Something Better Change.
Then he let out a long sigh. The house was still too quiet. He felt like that fake butterfly on Ferninckle’s desk, bumping against the glass sides of an enormous jam jar. The cold, empty spaces kept piling up on his shoulders like a dead man’s dandruff. He shivered again and returned to the living room to turn the high-energy tune up.
“Now we’re rockin’...”
He got back to the sink only to find the music still wasn’t loud enough. Despite its pumping organ and snarling bass line, neither his knees nor feet wanted to move. The song felt muffled and unconvincing. He spun.
“Stop lookin’ at me!”
He took a breath and slowly turned back to the sink. He stared out the window at the long shadows on the lawn, one hand writhing beneath the warm soapy water as the other gripped the handle of a knife.
“Can’t stop bein’ me... Can’t stop... Howcher stop...”
And then a football came flying over the wall. He watched it with some astonishment as it bounced twice on the grass and came to rest by the hedge.
He blinked, no longer able to hear the music at all. It was like he’d been plunged into a vacuum. He took his knife-holding hand out of the water.
“Warn yer people...” he hissed, staring at the stationary ball. “Think I’m jokin’?” He waved the knife. “Think yer can take the piss outta...”
He yanked open the kitchen door, staggered diagonally into the garden and fell over as he bent to pick up the cheap plastic ball.
“Come ’ere, yer motherfuckin’...”
He seized the ball and got back up with some difficulty, eventually balancing it on his left palm as he plunged the knife downward. The blade skidded off the round surface and punctured the edge of his hand just below his little finger.
He spun in pain, staring incomprehensibly at the stinging gash as blood dripped onto the lawn.
“Ow! Fuck! Fuck! Jesus fucking Christ!”
He dropped to his knees, gathered the ball between them and began furiously stabbing it. When it was nothing more than a hole-ridden piece of flattened plastic, he stood and jumped up and down on it. Tiring, he dropped the knife and bent over while trying to catch his breath with both hands clutching his knees.
His trousers, the knife and the ball were all splashed with blood.
He straightened, gingerly holding his wrist up to the fading light to examine the deep cut on his trembling left hand. He really ought to go to Casualty. He picked up the ruined ball and trudged back to the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
“Oh, wonyer ball back, do yer? Well, I’ll give yer yer fuckin’ ball!”
He strode through the house, accompanied by an intense burst of demented organ playing. He wrenched open the front door to see a small black boy in a white skull cap. The boy stared at what remained of the ball and began backing away with widened eyes.
“Oh no yer don’t!” the professor hissed, dropping the ball and lunging at him. He seized a skinny arm, spun and hurled him down the hallway. Unable to keep his balance, the boy tripped and smashed face-first into the base of the hat stand.
