Guantanamo Boy (36 page)

Leaving the stage with Mr. Tagg’s arm round his shoulder, Khalid catches sight of a pretty girl smiling at him. A picture that lights up his mind for many days to come.

Hour by hour, Khalid jumps back into ordinary sounds. The crackling TV. Humming washing machine. Aadab singing. Chit-chat in the kitchen. Back into ordinary colors: green socks, red cars, Mum’s purple cardigan on the chair.

Back into light and shade from the living-room windows and lamps that turn on and off. Mobile phones. Ordinary pleasures like a fridge full of food. And ice trays. Taps with water available at any time. Shops with chocolate and lottery tickets. And every dinnertime the kitchen smells of fresh food made with love.

Khalid walks through Rochdale not as he used to do—like someone who belongs there, head high, hoodie hanging off his shoulders—but like a dignified shy young man in black jeans and blue T-shirt who looks at the pavement more than he should. Nervous he’ll trip over or bump into someone or, even worse, get shouted at.

Today Khalid takes the time to stare at the new laundromat that occupies the space where Nasir’s greengrocer’s shop used to be. He digs his hands in his pockets, sparking the memory of standing there wet through after helping that female jogger get her phone back from the steroid heads. How Nasir had offered to give him his old fleece jacket and warned him about what was happening in Pakistan.

Where is he, Nasir?

Now, instead of cabbages and grapefruits and the sound of rain on a green canvas roof, all Khalid can hear is the swish of soapy washing machines. He watches a blue plastic basket of clothes being filled by a factory woman in white overalls who waves at him suddenly, then waddles to the door.

“Thought it were you, lad. Recognized you from telly and the
Rochdale Evening News
. They want shooting, that lot, after what they did. You don’t look owt like a terrorist, any fool can see that. Bloody ’ellfire.”

“Thanks.” Khalid shuffles from foot to foot. “Don’t suppose you know what happened to the bloke who used to have the greengrocer’s here?”

“Yeah, lad, I do.” She grins. “It were a while ago someone put a petrol bomb through his letter-box and almost burned the place down. Lucky the bloke and his family were out. They were at the hospital because the wife’s friend was ill. He moved out the area soon after. Some say they went back to Pakistan. Poor devils.”

Khalid nods and walks away, deeply saddened. Nasir’s kind face stays at the front of his mind as he heads down to the high street to see what else has changed, before pausing at the newsagent’s on the corner to buy some chocolate. Khalid takes his place in the queue behind a teenage girl with long hair and a pierced eyebrow. Dressed in short skirt and thigh-high boots, she throws three magazines on the counter. Adding chewing gum and a packet of Pontefract cakes as an afterthought.

“Just a minute, I’ve got the exact money here—somewhere.” Scrabbling noisily in her deep leather bag, she brings up a handful of coins and a bent cigarette.

Fascinated by the tattoo of a chain around her arm, Khalid doesn’t at first notice the sudden whiff of sweet perfume behind him.

“Hiya, Kal. Didn’t you see me?” Niamh taps him on the shoulder. “I was in the pet shop next door looking at the parakeets when you went past.”

Stunned, Khalid freezes. All the color drains from his face. Wearing white cut-offs and a yellow sparkly jumper, Niamh looks nothing like she used to. Her hair’s cut short in a bob and she’s overdone the gold eyeshadow a bit. He remembers her face quite differently. She’s pretty but not in the amazing way he thought she was. Now she’s too skinny and he’d never noticed how fake her smile was before.

“You were great in assembly,” Niamh says. “Wasn’t it cool when everyone started shouting? I was like, hey, Kal deserves this. Gilly was like, ‘But he must have done something bad, otherwise why did he end up there?’”

Khalid gazes at her face. At her pale green eyes. At her fluttering eyelashes and smudged mascara. At the pink lips he’s dreamed of kissing over and over again.

“You OK, Kal?” she asks.

Khalid trembles. “I, um. I was . . .”

Stuffing the magazines into her expanding leather bag, the tattooed girl gawps at him, then Niamh, before hurrying past.

“What do you want, lad?” the newsagent asks, staring at Khalid’s tranced-out face as if there’s a strong possibility he’s going to remain frozen like that, blocking up the counter forever. In the end, Niamh takes his arm.

“Come on, Kal, let’s get out of here.”

Together they cross the road, with the foul smell of exhaust fumes in his face.

“Anyway, as I was saying, we all tore into Gilly because she said that about you.” Niamh smiles. “And I went off her soon after, because she tried to snog my boyfriend. Can you believe it? Some friend she turned out to be.”

Boyfriend? Did she say boyfriend? Khalid’s arm shoots forward. He grabs a black railing to steady himself. The roar of cars dies away. A deadly hush falls on him.

“I think you need to sit down.” Niamh frowns. “There’s a bench over there.”

At that moment an empty black bin bag catches a puff of wind and blows past them down the street. Cars roar past once more and Khalid remembers he’s here at home in Rochdale. Not dreaming. Niamh takes his elbow and leads him to the bench outside the pharmacy.

“Sit down. What’s on your mind, Kal? You look ill all of a sudden,” she says.

“Nothing,” Khalid says. But then something deep inside him remembers all the hours he spent wishing he’d said things to Niamh when he had the chance. And now he does. But the words won’t come.

“What is it? You can tell me,” Niamh says.

“Well, s’ppose I was thinking, yeah?” Khalid starts.

“And . . .” Niamh nods. “Go on.”

“Well, er . . . I guess I, yes, I always liked your buttercup painting and, er, I like you. Always have done.” He can feel his face blushing slightly, but he doesn’t care. He’s said it now.

“Aw, thanks. I really like you too, Kal, so that’s great, isn’t it?” Not taking the hint at all. “If I wasn’t going out with Josh Parker, I’d so def be into you. So I would.”

The hammer blow to his heart lands so hard and fast, Khalid doubles up in pain, coughing.

“You
are
in a bad way.” She grabs his arm. “Do you want me to go in the pharmacy and get something?”

“No. I just got a tickle in my throat. No problem.” Clutching his chest, Khalid points to the sports shop. “I’m going in there. Need another cap. Worn this one to death to hide my hair growing out.”

“Let’s see . . .” Niamh watches him hesitate for a moment before revealing his crazily stumpy black hair.

“It’s not so bad, Kal.”

“Too right. Thanks. Later.” He jumps up to duck quickly inside the shop’s glass doors and, holding a palm up to make sure she doesn’t follow, waves her away. Khalid walks over to a rack of red and black caps, shaking his head with disbelief.

Niamh’s going out with that total idiot Josh Parker?

The guy who lost them the league match against Burnley because he can’t even kick a ball straight? How can she like him? Didn’t his sister, Jacinda, tell the whole class he twists her arm so badly she says anything to make him stop? Anyone going out with that loser needs to get their head examined. Fast. About to try on a cool black cap because the spotty shop assistant is watching his every move, Khalid loses track of himself—of the shop, the cap in his hand and the gormless assistant.

An overpowering weakness forces Khalid to perch on the edge of the gray display board before he passes out. Lifting his right hand, he tries to click his fingers. Click them in front of his eyes. But he’s shaking all over. His hand won’t keep still and he can’t breathe. A streak of sunshine on the edge of a gold kit bag catches his eye and two plump jinn dart out from the flickering light with big smiles and sugar-white teeth. Khalid’s throat tightens and sweat pours from him. He’s in such a state of panic he doesn’t notice Nadim and Sabeeh, his old friends from primary school, on their way home from the mosque. Khalid doesn’t see Nadim running his eyes over the new half-zip shirts and black-and-white sneakers in the window, then suddenly stare in more closely and beckon his mate to take a look at Khalid, trembling and shivering. Two shop assistants standing warily close by.

Moving as one through the glass doors to get to him, “Khalid!” Nadim and Sabeeh shout.

“We’ll look after him,” Sabeeh says, nodding to the shop guys, while Nadim bends low to gently take Khalid’s shaking hands from his damp forehead. Shocked by the fear in his wild popping eyes, he pats his shoulder.

“Hey, Khalid. You’re OK, mate. We’ll take you home.”

But Khalid doesn’t answer. He can barely walk straight.

Today sunshine streams through the open kitchen window. The sound of heavy traffic can be heard zooming down Oswestry Road because the short cut to town has been closed due to roadworks. Not that Khalid minds. Resting an elbow on the kitchen table, he’s chewing a blue pen and wondering what else to tell Tariq after scrawling two pages of news that he doubts he’ll ever see.

He’s already told him about reading his letter to Mr. Tagg in front of the whole school and the amazing reaction of all the kids. Plus how he’s continually stopped by people he doesn’t know and everyone expects him to say something, anything, to account for his time in Guantanamo Bay. He’s running out of ideas.

Surely they must realize he would rather forget about the place and talk about Rochdale’s latest win. Fed up with the thought that the subject will never go away, which hits Khalid harder each time he sits down to write to his cousin. He quickly rushes through the description of the lame bunch of kids from yesterday.

“There’s that terrorist who tried to blow up London,” one of them shouted, sending a shiver of fear and rage up Khalid’s spine.

If only everything would calm down, he might be able to get on with his life. Get through another day without having a panic attack and being overcome by despair at the years he’s missed out on.

Then seeing Niamh. Learning she’s going out with Josh Parker of all people. No wonder Khalid needed help getting home that day. He’d built her up into some perfect beauty who loved him—who was going to fall into his arms the moment she saw him. Out of desperation mostly. And she’ll never know how just the thought of her kept him going. Still keeps him going, though not in the same way as before. Now when he pictures her face, he sees her as she actually is: a nice girl, not a pin-up fantasy or some kind of savior at all. Someone whose eyes and smile used to light up many lonely hours, and he’ll always be thankful to her for that.

Looking around the kitchen for inspiration at the polished knives in the correct slots of the wooden knife holder. At the blue striped dishcloth folded neatly on the metal drainer. Bar of pink soap in the new see-through plastic dish. Everything in the kitchen makes Khalid smile. Mum, in her favorite navy-blue dress, stops sprinkling nutmeg, salt and pepper on the plate of chicken breasts to smile back.

Opposite him, Gul, with glossy hair fanning over her shoulders, arms everywhere, draws a picture of someone else’s street. Khalid writes to Tariq about her racing to finish coloring the birds in the sky before the dinner plates and cutlery clatter down and how stumps of wax crayons are rolling like marbles across the table. Snap-snapping to the floor as she wildly shades the horse in the field brown, the grass green, the houses the same yellow as the summer sun.

The sound of falling crayons brings back the powerful noise of clacking food trays and the picture of Tariq staring at the air conditioner. Alone. Bent double on the bed, hoping for the sound of footsteps that might bring him someone to talk to while he waits for the call to prayer to sound across the block. Another brutal twenty-four hours of nothingness stretching out in front of him without any idea when it’ll end. Without anything to look forward to now that Khalid’s not there.

“Gul, can I have that drawing to send to Tariq?” Khalid asks. “I’ve run out of things to say and you know he once had a sister called Radhwa the same age as you.”

“I remember.” Gul smiles. “But he can’t have my picture.”

“Did he ever mention Radhwa to you?” Mum turns to face him suddenly.

“No. Never. But he always liked hearing about Aadab and Gul.”

“Such a shame.” Mum shakes her head. “I can’t help wondering what part Tariq played in this whole mess.”

“MUM! You don’t even know him or anyone he used to chat with. He just invented a silly game that someone decided was dangerous. He’s stuck there right now, as innocent as I was.”

“I understand everything, you know that, Khalid. I feel sad for Tariq. For what happened. But those things he said about your father, they can’t be forgiven.”

“Mum, don’t judge him unless you know all the facts, OK?
I made that mistake,” Khalid says. But seeing he’s made her feel guilty, he attempts to cheer her up. “Any chance you can make fluffy chips to have with the curry?’

Her face softens into a smile. “Yes. Plenty of potatoes in the cupboard, son. How happy it makes me saying “son” to you. Yes. My son is here with us once more.”