Brick Lane (79 page)

'It's just a bunch of lads, mucking around, playing up. All right, getting in a bit of trouble. But they're good lads. When we march, they'll show. Support us. When the Bengal Tigers march we're all on the same side. And if there's going to be any trouble we won't be the ones starting it, but we'll
finish
it all right.'

September 2001
Allah have release her from suffering. Give thanks to Him the Most Merciful the Most Kind.

Sister I tell you how nice is this Lovely? She have prove her name. I went to her say how is plan for start Charity? She show me fingernails have paint little star on each say do they look all right? I know it meaning the Charity is not yet start. I say what this place have need is Charity for helping childrens catch by acid attack. Name is come to mind Acid Innocents. No hesitate whatsoever she asking name of Monjus boy. Within two three minute she ring newspaper give all details to newsman. Main important detail is Lovely her own self is pay for Khurshed operation.

I tell to Monju. Even face is melt still you see how it change her. She close good eye and rest for while. Almost is too much. Is like give feast to starving man.

When she open eye she say something I cannot hear. I must put ear against mouth. Before I go I must confess. She say this. Something so wrong I done and I never tell to anyone. This is what she say. I look inside the good eye and see she must speak or have no peace.

What she tell me when Khurshed two years old baby is scream and scream many hour and one time she losing all presence of mind and slap hard on legs. She say only week before was operation to leg region. Maybe is she who make leg damage need more further operating. She say this.

Have you ask doctor? I tell her. Have you ask doctor? I shout for her to hear me. No. She did not tell to anyone.

Then I go away and walk around hospital. I come back I put my face to hers and I shout. The doctor has say No. It is not for you but the acid has damage him.

The trouble go out of her eye. I see a bit like the old Monju. She whisper from very small mouth hole nearly close up now. These secret things will kill us. Do you have any secret? You want to tell to me? I keep it safe for you! I think she try for smiling.

Next day I go for telling her newspaper man come make photograph with Lovely. But that day sister my friend is gone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Bengal Tigers meeting was called for Friday, one week and one day before the march. Chanu said, 'I think we will go to that meeting.'

Nazneen dropped her scissors.

'Yes,' said Chanu, 'I think it will be interesting.'

Nazneen retrieved her scissors and continued unpicking the stitching on a botched jacket lining. 'You go. I have to work.'

'Very well. But I think you'll find it interesting,' said Chanu. He hid himself behind a newspaper.

All night, Nazneen imagined what he could mean. What did her husband intend to do at the meeting? If he knew about Karim (how many times had she willed him to know? He would not yield to her and yet he must know) had he chosen this venue to confront him? But surely he would not do anything in front of all those people? Did he intend to try to humiliate him in some way, challenge him to a public duel of intellects? Did he mean to take her along to humiliate her as well? Perhaps even to stone her, as was his right? What was Chanu going to do? She could think of no plausible answer.

The girls went off to school and Nazneen went with Chanu to the meeting. The preparations compelled her. Chanu donned his suit. It had a little white mark on the jacket collar which he rubbed with a flannel and turned into a bigger mark. The suit, dark blue serge, double-breasted, was old and the fabric had become a touch uncertain around the knees and the elbows. But Chanu had lost weight since the return of his ulcer and the fit was not bad. He could get all of the buttons on the jacket done up, which had never before been possible. He put on a salmon-coloured tie belonging to his council days and slipped a packet of Rennies into his trouser pocket. From a folder marked 'Speech', he took an A4 Premier Collection refill pad and flicked open the cover. Holding the pad in one hand he made a sweeping gesture with the other and rocked on his heels. His lips moved but no words came out. After a while, he made a slight bow and closed the notebook. He cleared his throat. 'I think we're ready.'

She followed a step behind him across the estate and into the concrete valley that cradled the meeting hall. Chanu was eager to get there. To keep up, Nazneen had to trot. By the time they entered the building her heart had overpowered all other internal organs. It beat in her chest, in her stomach, in her ears and in her head.

The Secretary hung around by the doors. A boy in a dark purple tracksuit called to him. 'Hey, get on the train of repentance, brother.'

The Secretary grinned. 'It's already passed your station, brother.'

They slapped each other on the arms.

The hall was about half full. There was none of the family atmosphere of the previous meeting. Most of those gathered were young men. A handful of girls of similar age clustered at the back of the room and several more in burkha gelled together at the front. The boys on the right-hand side of the aisle had broken the ranks of chairs to form a circle. Within the circle, some were sitting on their chairs, others were standing, and a few had perched with their feet on the seats and their bottoms on the chairbacks. At the outer perimeter the boys stood on their chairs. They were listening to someone at the centre. Above the general hubbub, Nazneen discerned a speech already in progress. She tried to interpret the voice, to hear Karim's tones within it, but the voice was unfamiliar and it slid away from her.

On the left-hand side, where Nazneen and Chanu took their places, the boys kept glancing over to the other side of the room and shaking their heads. One lad smashed a fist into his other palm and ground it round. Then he flicked his hand like a wet rag and the fingers made a snapping noise. His friends laughed and a finger-flicking tournament began. The boys wore jeans, or tracksuits with big ticks on them as if their clothing had been marked by a teacher who valued, above all else, conformity. A few were in traditional Bengali garb with a twist. Panjabi-pyjama customized with denim on the leg and sleeve cuffs, or worn with a black leather jacket, or with the trousers tucked into buckled knee-length boots. Only Chanu wore a suit. The elbows were really quite worn. He touched the knot of his tie over and over as if he were afraid it would choke him.

He took his pad out of the folder and turned to the front page. 'I'll give you a taste,' he said to Nazneen. 'This is the title: "Race and Class in UK, A Short Thesis on the White Working Class, Race Hate, and Ways to Tackle the Issue".'

So that was it. He would challenge Karim with words. And prove himself his equal. His better. During these past weeks, in which he had hardly spoken, he had been storing his words, stockpiling them for this battle, honing them for this: the fight to reclaim his wife.

The circle broke up and chairs were scraped back into position. The people on the left looked at the people on the right. Some people got to their feet to get a better look. Then the doors at the back of the hall closed and Karim bounded onto the stage. The Secretary skipped on after him carrying what seemed to be an old mango packing crate. He put the upturned crate on the stage and stood on it. 'Order, order, order. I call the meeting to order.'

Conversation was extinguished at a leisurely pace.

'Brothers and sisters,' said Karim. 'It's good to see so many of us – united in our stand against those scummy people who dare to come round here and slander our religion.'

'Kick them out,' yelled someone from the back.

'Send them back where they came from,' shouted another.

Karim folded his arms. 'Leave the cheap insults to the racists.' He paused and looked over the whole audience, taking his time, making everyone feel his power to do this, to make them wait. 'When we march, we'll show them how wrong they are about Islam. They'll see we are strong. And we will show them we are peaceful. That Islam is peace.

'What we need to discuss today is how we are going to spend every hour, minute and second between now and the twenty-seventh getting people to pledge their support.'

A hand shot up in the front row.

'Yes?' said the Secretary. From his elevated position on the crate he no longer bounced on his toes. 'State your question.'

'Can we get a flat-bed truck there? Hire one?'

'For people without legs?' said the Secretary. 'Or the very sick?'

'For a sound system, brother. Or if you like I could set up a keyboard and play live.'

'Live music is un-Islamic,' said the Secretary, raking his beard.