Endgame

Chapter 1

Hanif Saeed gazed down from his bedroom window. In the dimly lit street he saw one of the prostitutes approaching his father’s shop below. He looked over at the clock on his nightstand. She’d just made it. His father would be closing up soon. As she passed beneath the streetlight, Hanif saw it was Mary, who was always on the last minute. A quick dash for 20 cigarettes before she got on with business. Nearly always sporting dark roots above her strawberry blonde locks, Mary had a thick Merseyside accent and a slight turn in her eye, which was surprisingly endearing. Even so, Hanif still despised her, albeit a little less so than all the other hookers who frequented his father’s shop. Close proximity to the train station had been his father’s reason for buying the place. He’d figured there’d be lots of passing foot traffic. People wanting newspapers, drinks, snacks and cigarettes. He’d been right and the Saeed’s enjoyed a comfortable steady income. His father hadn’t been the only one to spot a good business opportunity though and the local hustlers showed up nightly, also capitalising on the passing trade.

Hanif heard the tinkle of the shop doorbell as Mary entered. She’ll be the last customer, he thought. Then he could go down and gather up all the week’s unsold magazines and newspapers. He quickly checked over his room, which was sparse, dark and very clean. The shelves were neatly stacked with his favourite books, together with all his computer magazines and his spare copy of the Koran. The main copy was at his bedside, next to a long single bed covered with the black bed linen he’d picked out himself. The carpet was thick and heavily patterned, a legacy from his long dead mother. A left-over cut from the carpet in the lounge at the back of the shop, where his father spent any free time he had, watching recorded episodes of X-factor, The Bill and more recently, Grand Designs.

Hanif moved the chair to the narrow strip beside his bed, creating space for him and Burhan to work on the floor. There was a faint trace of body spray in the air, which he’d used after his recent shower. Pleased with his tidy room, Hanif was about to hurry downstairs when he noticed the unruly assortment of dressing gowns and jackets hanging on the back of the bedroom door. He lifted the garments and bundled them into the bottom of the small wardrobe, on top of his meagre collection of shoes. He checked the clock again. Burhan was late; he should be here by now.

Hanif heard the shop bell ring again as Mary left. He made his way down the dark creaky stairs into the shop and headed for the news racks.

Ah, Hanif, said his father, you’ve come down for the papers?

Yeah Dad, I thought I’d have a look at everything that’s been going down the pan again this week, replied Hanif, smiling sarcastically.

His father’s face fell slightly. Once or twice, he’d taken tea up to Hanif and Burhan when they got together on these Sunday nights, curious as to what these two young men found interesting in the newspapers and magazines. He’d been surprised and disappointed. He had thought he’d catch them nervously shuffling the broadsheets, trying to hide the fact that they’d been reading Nuts or Zoo magazine. Asaad Saeed was realistic if nothing else and these were two healthy young men, in the flush of youth. He could hardly blame them for wanting to look. But, no. Instead, what he’d found were clippings from newspapers and magazines, spread out across the bedroom floor. The boys had admonished him for dribbling tea on one pile of cuttings. He had noticed a stack of covers which had been clipped form various issues of Nuts. These were partially hidden beneath another pile of press cuttings; the headline on the first clipping was about the rape of a local schoolgirl. When he’d asked his son what they were doing, he’d been curtly told they were harvesting stuff for their blog site. Asaad had looked at the computer on the small desk in the corner of his son’s room. He had hoped that the computer and the broadband service he’d paid for would change both their lives for the better. It had to an extent, allowing Asaad to email his brother over in Quetta. He’d got the hang of it more quickly than he’d thought and emails were certainly a lot cheaper than phone calls. But he’d also hoped it would make Hanif more outgoing, help him make more friends. Perhaps get him to take himself less seriously. That hadn’t happened. Instead, Hanif spent night after night, locked in this room. He went out less now than before and Asaad never saw any emails arriving for him, or at least if they did, Hanif was hiding them from him. This last revelation about the blog site saddened him, but did not surprise him. Once, after Friday prayers, he’d spied Hanif with some other young men outside the Mosque. Hanif had stood with his back to him, talking animatedly to others as they leaned against the fence next to the busy road. He’d sneaked up on him, hoping to surprise him. As he’d approached he quickly saw that these young men were not friends of his son at all. They were eyeing Hanif suspiciously. One or two of them were shooting each other long-suffering glances. As he drew near he grasped a little of what Hanif was saying and realised his son was lecturing them. He’d been startled, as he’d believed Hanif saved his sermons just for the family. It was then he’d realised why Hanif had so few friends lately. The blog site obviously meant Hanif was thinking of delivering his sermons online.

Asaad looked over at his son, who stood at the back of the shop, busy contemplating all the titles on the newsstand, and shook his head.

Well, I’m going through to heat up some Peshawari chicken, make sure you turn the light off when you’ve finished and don’t forget to shutter-up, Hanif. Do you want some by the way?

No thanks Dad. I saw it earlier and helped myself to some already. Did Jacinta bring it round?

Yes. It’s good that you have such a kind and caring auntie, no?

Yes we’re lucky, said Hanif.

Although he loved his aunty Shirin, he secretly wished she would wear a Niqab when she was out in the street and not just the Hajib. Her daughter, Jacinta, was another story. He greatly disapproved of Jacinta. She wouldn’t even consent to wearing a Hajib. Not only that, she was actually thinking of continuing her education and going off to get a degree. He thought this was a terrible idea. The others agreed with him. He’d talked about his cousin many times in his favourite chat room. All of his online friends thought he was right to be worried. Fahd in Bradford had hit the nail on the head when he said; Educating women makes them restless, ungrateful. It puts fanciful ideas in their heads and makes them far less inclined to listen to their men folk.

After he’d closed the shutters and locked the door, Hanif scanned the news rack, picking out the celebrity gossip magazines; all of the weeklies and a couple of the monthlies. Next, he gathered the men’s magazines, Zoo, Nuts, QC and XXXX, and stacked them on the ice cream fridge. Then he turned his attention to the leftover Sunday papers. Selecting the Sunday Times, the Telegraph, the Mail on Sunday, the Sunday Express and the Sunday Sport, he moved these to join the pile on the fridge. Then he picked out PC Weekly and My PC, for a little bedtime reading. Hanif gathered up the large pile of papers with both arms and turned towards the door.

A thick gossip magazine slipped from the pile and landed heavily on the floor. He tutted and put the newspapers back on the fridge. Turning, he bent to retrieve the magazine and noticed the front cover. On it was a picture of Ellie Jones, the wife of Salford Rangers’ best player, dressed in a bright red coat, crossing a busy road. The headline read, Exclusive insight on our favourite WAG, only in this issue. So, Hanif smirked to himself, she’s finally giving it up. Laying the thick glossy back on the fridge, he thumbed through the pages to find the story. He quickly scanned the text, looking for direct quotes. He would enjoy taking this one apart in the chat room tonight. He’d thought all along that this woman’s supposed media shyness was a ruse. He believed that someone just had to name a high enough price to get her to spill all her personal life in one of the glossies.

By the third paragraph, he realised the article was classic sleight-of-hand journalism. There were no derisory quotes from Ms Jones. No new personal information. Nothing he could use to effectively assassinate her character with his buddies. The exclusive insight was nothing but the poring over of old news items; analysis of things she’d said years ago, or of the rare appearances she’d made on television. He, just like anyone who’d bought the magazine, had been conned. Angrily, he slapped the pages of the magazine together and threw it on the top of the pile of papers, which he gathered into his chest.

Hanif turned and headed upstairs. Once back in his room, he switched on his bedroom light, illuminating the cold, pale blue wallpaper. Placing the two computer magazines beneath his bed, he then turned his attention towards sorting out the other papers.

He arranged all the Sundays in a spread in the middle of the available floor space. To the top of this, he laid out the gossip magazines. On the right of the Sundays, he arranged the men’s magazines, placing the more offensive covers towards the back of the pile so that other publications would obscure them. To the left of the central stack of Sundays, he placed a few magazines he’d picked up at the last minute. These were titles written specifically for children, although people could be forgiven for thinking otherwise, given the adult nature of the themes promised on the cover.

He looked back at his arrangement and straightened the edge of one magazine. He pulled one newspaper out from behind another to neaten the arrangement. He then placed two bottles of water on the window and cast his eye out over the street again. Looking and waiting for his friend Burhan.

Chapter 2

Ellie sat in the in the air-conditioned waiting room, listening to the gentle mandolin strings of piped music drifting from the speakers overhead. The sounds, though soothing, barely masked the hum of the late rush-hour traffic on the dual carriageway below. It had been a fairly easy commute here. She’d driven against all the traffic exiting the city, heading for the south Manchester suburbs. Hopefully it would all be clear by the time she left. She lifted the sleeve of her leather jacket. The Cartier wristwatch Chris had given her last birthday read 6.15pm. She knew the consultant would not keep her waiting long. Alone in the waiting room, she began to recite the Memorare in her head. Many years ago, in a Catholic school not far from where she sat, a teacher had written out the prayer on the blackboard for Ellie and her classmates. They were told that the Memorare was a very special prayer and should be used sparingly. The teacher said it was a prayer that the Virgin Mary always listened to, always granting the wishes and hopes that were conveyed with it.

‘This time,’ Ellie thought, ‘this time, Our Lady, please.’

The receptionist who’d booked her in a few moments ago entered the room, asking Ellie if she’d like a glass of water. Ellie nodded. She returned moments later and handed Ellie a tall glass, tinkling with ice. Ellie recognised her perfume as she left; DKNY Delicious. The green one. It was her sister’s favourite. Ellie looked at her watch again. Only three minutes had passed.

Before she left Chris had asked her if she wanted him to come with her, but she hadn’t wanted him to. She remembered him saying, Three’s a charm, when he’d come here with her last time. It had not been. Besides, it was difficult enough to get here herself, without an entourage of photographers. She’d made a big mistake last month in wearing the new red coat. She’d loved it the minute she’d seen it. Its delicate tailoring perfectly complemented her small frame. She’d completely overlooked the fact that it would draw attention and worn it to her friend’s engagement party. She’d had plenty of opportunity to realise the naivety of her decision when she ran the gauntlet of photographers who’d spotted her in the foyer of the Hilton. Seven of them had tried to gatecrash the party and in the end she’d been forced to leave. She’d felt mortified apologising to Sheena for the fracas, realising how stupid she’d been. No. If she and Chris were out together, someone was bound to spot them and she needed privacy. She did not want the world to know they were struggling to conceive.

Ellie knew Chris’s sperm count was low, that much had been established at the outset. But after still more tests, it had turned out that Ellie didn’t ovulate in the normal way either. So, they were now on their fourth round of IVF. Ellie had found it ironic that Chris’s sperm had poor motility. He was the fastest player in the game. He could outdistance every single one of his team mates at Rangers.

Mr Derbyshire entered the waiting room, Ah Mrs Jones, there you are. Would you like to come through, he said, holding the door ajar. I caught the match on Sunday you know. I have to say, your husband is an outstanding athlete. Two goals in the first fifteen minutes!

Thank you, said Ellie, I’ll pass on the compliment.

So, on your own this time? said the consultant, looking slightly disappointed.

Yes, she replied. To be honest it’s really difficult for us to go anywhere together these days. The papps always seem to be waiting on our doorstep. And I don’t want them taking pictures of us both coming here.

I see, said Mr Derbyshire, and also the reason you wanted to come to clinic so late. Say no more, he nodded kindly, leading her through.

The theatre was somewhat warmer than the waiting room and it did not have the faint aroma of fabric freshener she’d smelt earlier. This room carried a hint of disinfectant mixed with formaldehyde. A nurse briefly looked up and smiled at her as she moved an ultrasound monitor into position beside the examination bed. Steel stirrups protruded from the end of the bed. A gowned technician was busy checking a medical tray on top of a surgical trolley. The tray held a kidney dish, a clear plastic speculum, the long catheter the consultant would use to transfer the eggs and two hypodermics. Her eyes scanned the tray for the precious embryos.

As if sensing her question, The Blastocysts are already in the syringes, said the consultant. So if you just want to quickly change in here, he led her to a small changing room, and come through when you’re ready.

Ellie closed the door. A blue medical smock had been left for her to change into. Ellie hitched up her skirt and quickly removed the plain cotton M&S knickers she always reserved for these occasions. She normally wore La Perla or Marni lingerie, which Chris loved, but which seemed somehow inappropriate here. She removed the rest of her clothes and folded them neatly on the chair, hanging her jacket on the back of the door. She quickly put on the smock and hurried through into the theatre. The technician headed for the door, dimming the lights as he left. She climbed onto the bed, locked her feet firmly in the stirrups and pulled up the gown.

Once upon a time she’d have been embarrassed. Now she just understood that lying there with her legs akimbo was a ritual embarrassment most women had to endure. Part of the rite of passage to becoming a mother. It was not embarrassment that was making her nervous.

The nurse laid a small folded blanket over her pubic region to offer her some privacy. Next, she pushed up the gown and applied cold ultrasound gel to her lower abdomen. Then she moved the probe across her lower stomach just above her pubic bone. Got a good picture here, she said, after a couple of moments. Good definition.

All set then? the consultant asked both of them. The nurse nodded, as did Ellie. He sat down next to her feet on a small castored stool. Right then, he said, wheeling round and quickly reaching for the catheter, his surgical headlight bouncing around in the dimness of the room.

Once the catheter was inserted, he turned to retrieve the syringe and asked Ellie, OK there? She nodded quickly and turned her eyes sharply upwards to look at the ceiling, a familiar trick used to stifle tears. This didn’t not go unnoticed.

Hey, hey now. Don’t be getting too worked up. We want you nice and calm if these embryos are going to take, said Mr Derbyshire.

Sorry, said Ellie, closing her eyes. The action drove hot tears down each cheek. Her nose began to run. The nurse rubbed her hand. The consultant quickly finished the procedure and swiftly withdrew the catheter. Seconds later he was on his feet, pulling the gown down over her bare legs and handing her a tissue. Ellie blew heavily into it.

I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be like this, it’s just that this means so, so much to us.

I know it does, my dear. I know it does, said the consultant, patting her hand.

You should have seen Chris’s face when we didn’t catch last time. He tried to hide it, said Ellie, her voice croaky with tears. But I could tell. He was absolutely gutted. And I keep thinking to myself, what if we never catch? What if we never have a baby of our own? It would be such a shame ‘cause I love him so much. And he’d be an absolutely brilliant Dad. And he loves me too. I couldn’t imagine ever being without him. He is mine for life. When we got married we really meant it. And part of that was that we really wanted children together. I had no idea we were going to have to go through all this. I was at school with girls who got pregnant at the drop of a hat. One girl had only slept with the baby’s father once, and she caught. It just seems… she stammered, it just seems so unfair.

The consultant held her hand gently and said, I have to tell you, all my years of experience have taught me that life is seldom fair. But I think you’re worrying too much at this stage. Try not to think the worst will happen. I checked them myself and these two Blastocysts look strong and healthy and there is, on paper, no reason why one of them should not develop into a healthy pregnancy, he said reassuringly.

No abnormalities on scan, I think they’re in OK, interrupted the nurse.

See, said Mr Derbyshire. First stretch home and dry. Now you rest here for an hour, then get yourself home and have a quiet night. Try and get plenty of rest.

OK. Will do, replied Ellie.

The consultant rubbed her hand and said, By the dates you gave earlier, you should be due a period in 15 days. Am I right?

Yes, that’s right. It’ll be on the 21st if it comes – at all, she added.

Well let’s hope it’s a no show then, eh? he said kindly.

It would be heaven, beamed Ellie.

Now try not to do a test on the day or the day after. I think I’ve discussed it with you before. When you’re struggling to conceive the pregnancy tests can become quite stress-inducing in themselves and we don’t want that.

I know, said Ellie, you did take me through it the last time. I’m going to wait and see this time. If it goes to seven days, I’m going to test then. That will make it the 28th. It’s my birthday too you see, on the 28th.

Best do the test on the 27th then and see how you go, said Mr Derbyshire reassuringly. Don’t forget to pick up a few kits on your way out, because you’ll need more than one. I’ll call you myself on the 27th, Jan can you ask Sue to make a note in the diary for me? he said, looking to the nurse.

The consultant removed his scrub cap and took her hand once more. You take good care of yourself Ellie, we want you focussing all your strength on making another world class striker for Rangers.

Might be a girl, she winked up at him.

Ellie was already deep in thought when the staff left the room and turned up the lights. The nurse had been kind enough to leave a magazine for her to read. She’d opened it and was staring at the page but seeing nothing; her mind elsewhere. She was in Dunham Massey park with Chris. It was winter and they were kitted out in fleece jackets and hiking boots. Chris was laughing and behind him, firmly strapped to his back, was a baby carrier. In her daydream she couldn’t quite see the infant. She could only visualise a little hat and mittened hands poking out of the top of the carrier. She smiled to herself, gazing far beyond the model’s face in the picture beneath her fingertips.

Chapter 3

Burhan walked along the dark street, dodging the dog turds that littered the pavements. Every other lamppost carried anti-dog fouling notices threatening fines of up to £50, which went unheeded. The network of streets interconnecting the Victorian terraced houses were all much the same. Half the residents genuinely cared about their little patch of England. They polished the brass on their front doors. They cleaned their windows. Washed their cars parked just three feet from their front doors. The other half did not. Unfortunately, most people passing through the area tended to notice the bad bits. The mucky places, rather than the good parts.

Burhan checked his watch. He was late again and this would put Hanif in a bad mood. Burhan knew only too well, it didn’t take a lot to put Hanif in a bad mood. He crossed Cherryble Street and headed for the corner, passing the old florist shop, now closed down. He picked up his lolloping gait a little as he turned into Toxteth Street, startling a hooded cyclist, who quickly stashed the notes he had been counting into his jacket pocket. Burhan held his hands up, signalling he had no quarry with the drug dealer. He crossed over to the other side and noticed two hookers scurrying along the pavement, headed for the dealer.

‘Where were these women’s parents?’ he thought. ‘Mustn’t have any – who, after all, would let their daughter earn a living this way? Even the girls don’t like what they’re doing,’ he concluded. ‘Why else would they be looking for drugs, if not to help them forget they are Sharmootas?’

There was a chill in the air and he drew his coat tighter in around his large chest, glad of his hat and his beard. He turned the corner at the Grouse & Feathers, grimacing at the smell of stale beer that wafted from the door. He could hear the Sunday night revellers beyond the windows, drinking in the last hours of the weekend, before the yolk of fulltime employment beckoned the following morning. Burhan wondered why they drank so much. If Monday mornings were that bad, didn’t a hangover make things worse? He didn’t have to worry about Mondays himself. Mondays were the highlight of the week. Monday was his day off. The rest of the week he worked on despatch at his uncle’s cab firm. Every night of the week and all day Saturday, including Saturday night. But tonight he was off. He wouldn’t have to work again until Tuesday afternoon. He smiled to himself as he rounded the last corner onto Gransmoor Road. In the distance he saw the electronic shutters descending on the windows of the shop. He began to run. He’d have to hurry to catch Hanif’s Dad before he put the final shutter down on the front door. If he missed him, he’d have to go all the way round the back and there was no light in the back alley. It was always covered in dog faeces and last time he’d ended up stepping in some and walking it all the way across the Saeed’s lounge carpet. They’d been furious.

Racing up to the entrance to the shop, Burhan rapped heavily on the door.

We’re shut now love, it’s gone quarter past ten, you’ll have me losing my licence, shouted Hanif’s father from within.

No, no, Mr Saeed, Burhan continued to knock on the door. It’s me, Burhan. I’ve come to see Hanif. The shutter above his head ceased its electronic whine, as Burhan heard his friend’s father’s footsteps approaching.

Oh hello Burhan, nice to see you again, said Mr Saeed, welcoming him in to the bright, warm interior. Burhan breathed in the smells of the shop. He liked this place. He detected a faint smell of chicken curry coming from the back room. Hanif’s gone upstairs, bloody useless boy. I asked him to turn the lights out and I come back out and he’s not done anything. Not even put the shutters down. Do you want something to eat? I’m just warming up some Balti chicken, he smiled invitingly.

Did Auntie Shirin make it? Burhan asked eagerly.

Oh, yes.

Burhan thought for a minute. OK, but can I take it upstairs? I’m late you see and Hanif’s got stuff for us to do.

Mr Saeed sighed. Yes, that’s not a problem Burhan, come with me into the kitchen and I’ll give you a bowl with a tray.

He finished lowering the shutters. He would have liked to share his meal with Burhan, it wasn’t so good to eat alone all the time. But he knew Burhan was a little scared of Hanif and didn’t like to displease him.

Hanif, can you open the door for me, I haven’t got a hand free, said Burhan, from behind the door.

Why, what have you got? said Hanif, quickly opening it.

Er, your Dad…your Dad offered me some chicken, said Burhan.

Bloody hell Burhan, you’re so bloody greedy, Hanif said, admonishingly. And now you’re going to stink up my room with the food smell.

Erm, but your Dad wanted me to have some, said Burhan, he insisted.

Right. Well. Eat it then. He waved at Burhan, motioning him towards the desk. But move my keyboard out of the way first.

Burhan tiptoed over the magazines spread out around the floor and sat down heavily in the chair by the desk.

Have you seen this, said Hanif, holding up a copy of Celebrity Sea, which promised another Ellie Jones exclusive.

Burhan grinned back at him. What? She’s sold out at last? he asked, hastily scooping up chicken and rice, keen to finish his meal and read the story.

Burhan, like most people in Britain, was curious about Ellie, but he couldn’t quite make his mind up about her. Was she genuinely eluding the press, but not quite managing to dodge the photographers? Or was she, like Hanif maintained, manipulating the situation? Holding out on giving interviews to drive up the price?

No. It’s pretty much like that one from the other week. Nothing new. Just a load of regurgitated waffle, said Hanif, tossing the magazine on the bed.

But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. We’ll get round to this lot in a bit, said Hanif, gesturing to the journals, first I want to talk to you about a field trip.

Field trip. What, like at school? Burhan eyed him curiously.

No, stupid! A field trip for our work for Islam.

Burhan set the fork down on his empty plate. He hadn’t noticed anything posted at the Mosque about this. What, are we going to East London Mosque again? he asked. He’d really enjoyed the seminar he’d attended there last summer.

No. This is just for us. Nothing to do with Mosque. It’s to do with the new stuff we’re doing.

Burhan remained clueless. So far their new work had been about cutting out stories and pictures so that Hanif could make links for new stories for the blog site, which still wasn’t up and running yet. Whilst he could see what Hanif was ultimately trying to achieve, it still didn’t make the actual task any less boring. He’d spent many hours scanning the pictures while Hanif wrote the stories. He’d thought the feature they’d come up with last week was particularly good. Hanif had used Photoshop to create a magazine front cover. On the left was Siobhan Hardy, the black, skeletal wife of the England football captain. On the right was a picture of an emaciated woman from Darfur dressed in rags. Hanif had headlined it, Women starving for press coverage.

Explain? asked Burhan, leaning forward.

I think we should go to Pakistan, said Hanif excitedly.

Burhan’s eye’s widened. But…what for?

Well, I was talking to the group last night, and Habash was telling me about when he and Parvez went out there at Easter. He said they travelled up to Quetta and up near there you can get pretty close to where the action is. I didn’t realise you could and you know Dad’s from Quetta and his brother actually still lives there, my uncle Zahid. He’s the one Dad comes up here to email.

Burhan nodded, reaching for the water bottle and taking a long drink.

When I told Habash this he thought I was mad not to go. He said I had a perfect excuse to travel out there. Then he gave me the name of a brother he knows in Quetta and told me he runs a blog site. Well I checked it out and the blog’s brilliant, said Hanif, getting to his feet and crossing the room towards the desk.

Just get out of the way a minute will you and I’ll show you, he said, slipping into the seat Burhan had just vacated. Hanif moved the mouse and the asteroid screensaver disappeared and was replaced by the BBC home page. Hanif clicked a link on his bookmarks bar and the page changed to Fireinthewestblog.com. A crudely drawn cartoon showed two masked, robed figures hiding behind a rock with their hands on a trigger switch. Behind them was a gun-toting US Marine walking up a dusty road, unaware the large stone in front of him concealed a stick of dynamite. The marine resembled Arnold Schwarzenegger and was clad in army fatigues. His trouser legs were rolled up, drawing attention to the enormous Nike sneakers he was wearing. The fighters were giggling and the caption read Yeah… Just do it.

Burhan giggled nervously, highly amused by the play on the Nike strap line.

Thought you’d like it, said Hanif, this guy is great. Habash gave me a separate email address because there’s no contact details here, for obvious reasons. He got back to me early this morning. He was a bit offhand at first, demanding to know my address and date of birth and whatnot. I gave him these but I was a bit unsure myself. I mean, I didn’t know him at all. But then I thought well, if Habash knows him and I trust Habash, it should be alright.

Burhan nodded but said nothing.

But anyways, continued Hanif, this guy was still a bit wary, so I sent him a couple of our stories and told him about the site. He asked to see it and I ended up telling him all about Nav messing us about and how he hasn’t even finished programming it yet and you’ll never guess what?

What? asked Burhan.

He only went and offered to get it sorted for us, and he’ll even put a link on his own site for us as well.

How much? said Burhan, his eyes narrowing. He had a feeling Hanif was going to tap him for some money again.

That’s the thing, Hanif said excitedly. He only wants a one–off payment of £100. For that he’ll make us a site that we can update ourselves. He says it’s really easy.

But we’ve given £50 to Nav already, said Burhan.

I know, but I’ll try and get that back off him. It was a deposit, after all, and he’s done absolutely nothing so far.

How do you know you can trust this guy? said Burhan. What if he takes the money and does nothing as well? At least we know Nav.

Well you will know him, because we’re going to meet him in Quetta.

What, you’ve arranged all of this since last night? said Burhan, incredulously, his dark eyes flashing suspiciously. Hanif had gone and done all this without even consulting him. Stinging from the insult, Burhan wondered, and not for the first time, if his brother Jal was right, and that he was nothing more than Hanif’s sidekick.

Don’t be getting all wound up now. It’s your own fault for not having your own bloody computer. You could have been in on the conversation this morning when we met in the Balochistan chat room.

We have a computer, he shot back. I just can’t get my bloody sisters off the damn thing.

You could try a bit harder. You are their older brother. They should obey you, Hanif rebuked.

It’s alright for you, you with no sisters at all. It’s not as easy as you think. The bloody Internet connection is in their room and they kick up a right fuss when I want to get on. They call Mum in, who wants to know what I want with it and I can’t tell her what I’m doing, can I?

Well anyway, Hanif dismissed him. This guy’s name is Maleek. When I mentioned that I was thinking about going out to Quetta his attitude changed completely. He was much more friendly.

Don’t tell me. He also said he could arrange flights for you at special rates as well? said Burhan sarcastically.

No, as a matter of fact he didn’t. He gave us some really good advice. He said not to get flights all the way to Quetta. He said they cost a fortune and we’d have to change planes two or three times. Not only that, most of them have stop-overs in Dubai and it costs an arm and a leg to stop there overnight. He reckoned we’d be far better getting a direct flight to Karachi and getting the train up to Quetta from there. He reckons we’ll be able to pick up a return flight for about £370, and the 400 mile train journey between the two cities will cost us just £3 or £4.

So, not including spending money, I’m going to need £400? said Burhan, scratching his chin, I dunno.

Come on Burhan, this will be a unique opportunity. We can use the trip to write other stories for the blog. Not just what we’re currently doing. We could write first-hand about what it feels like to be sitting just a few miles from the war. Our blog could mean so much more. Could be so much more. The Circle of Brothers would have far more respect for us. We wouldn’t have to take any more of their snotty remarks every Friday. And it won’t cost us much when we get there. We’ll stay with my uncle. My Dad might even give me something towards the plane fare and I’d split that with you, said Hanif, knowing no such donation would be forthcoming from Burhan’s parents. He had so many brothers and sisters; there wasn’t much cash to spare.

Burhan smiled, How much do you think he’d give us? He envied Hanif his kind father.

I think he’d give me at least half, which is £200, and I’ll give you £100, so if you can find £300 and some spends, continued Hanif, watching a frown appear on Burhan’s face.

Look, don’t be giving me the withering looks, I know you’ve got three times as much as that saved up.

What are you going to tell your Dad? Burhan suddenly asked. Won’t he be curious about why you’re deciding to visit your uncle now, out of the blue?

Yes, I’ve already thought of that. I’m going to tell him it’s gap time. My Dad knows about gap years, Mrs Thomson from Cherryble Street told him all about her son going around the world. So I think he’ll understand us wanting a gap month, so to speak.

A gap month! I like that, said Burhan; silently wondering about how he was going to broach his uncle about holiday pay.

Yeah, maybe it’s an institution we promote on the blog site. Start our own Circle of Brothers… Only we’d be the Gap-monthers," he laughed.

Now let’s look at some flights, he said, clicking the Google link on his browser.

Chapter 4

Snap, shouted Sam, slapping a huge veined hand down on top of the cards.

That’s the fourth bloody round you’ve won, said Saleem, we’ve no more cards left now. You’re far too quick. Saleem pretended to be annoyed, but both the other players knew this was just a ruse. Saleem, Sal to his friends, was seldom annoyed. They’d never seen him lose his temper, not once. Not even with the most aggressive patients, and there were quite a few. Mostly those on lock-down, held under section 17 of the Mental Health Act.

Sam gathered up the cards and stole a quick glance at Jenny. He still couldn’t get over how beautiful her eyes were. She was part Indian, he’d found out, with classic almond shaped eyes, framed in long, lustrous black lashes. Are you getting the kettle on then Mrs or do I have to do it again? he teased her.

Jenny got to her feet, putting her hands in the air in surrender, OK, I admit it. It is my turn. She glanced around the common room and noticed the last of the Late-nighters had finally turned in.

I think they’ve all gone now, she whispered to Sal. What have you brought us tonight? And, by the way, I swear when I get out I’m going round to your Mum’s with the biggest bunch of flowers I can lay my hands on. I’d have starved in here if it weren’t for her.

Sal smiled warmly at her, It’s all part of her ploy you know. Since I told her your Mum was Indian, she’s really pulled all the stops out. I believe she thinks you’ll make a suitable wife for me, so she’s been making every snack and curry she can think of.

Jenny looked puzzled. But, Sal, I thought you said… Well you did say you were gay, didn’t you?

Yes I did. I know it. You know it. Everyone here at the hospital knows it, he gestured towards Sam. It’s just a shame my mother doesn’t know it. Somebody bloody set her straight for me for God’s sake, he giggled.

What? Haven’t you managed to tell her yourself? asked Jenny.

Well, not quite. I mean, I don’t know, replied Sal. It’s never seemed like the right time. I think it might break her heart and to be honest, I was half hoping she’d pick it up herself, most other people do. I’m way more Falsetto than Baritone and I know for a fact that I mince when I walk. I always have. I mean, wasn’t it obvious to you?

Yeah, Jen replied immediately. Sorry Sal, I’m not trying to be rude or anything, just that I knew right from the off.

What about you? he looked over at Sam. Bet you were thinking, ‘better keep my back to the wall,’ that first night when you came to work here? Remember it? We had that student fashion designer in on voluntary, the one with long blonde hair.

Sam nodded quietly.

I was trying to get her to design a new T-shirt for me. I remember joking with her and having to convince her I was definitely not the Savile Row type. I was much more Sackville Row, or better still, I told her, ‘Think Canal Street Bitch,’ he laughed. The daft mare actually did one T-shirt with Canal Street Bitch on the back, in diamante letters. I should have trade-marked it. Everyone knew Canal Street, the vibrant heart of Manchester’s gay village.

Sam laughed too. "Yeah, I remember that. Got to tell you though Sal, I never thought the bit you said about backs to the wall. I’m not like that."

Meaning? asked Sal.

You know what I mean, said Sam one of those guys who assumes anyone who’s gay must fancy them.

Yeah, why is that? asked Jenny. I know loads of heterosexual blokes like that.

Nobs! she added, as she turned and headed for the kitchen with the dirty cups she’d collected from the table.

I want to do a quick round of the beds Sam, will you nip outside and check that no-one’s set fire to the cigarette bin? Julia only came back in ten minutes ago and she is a bit careless, Sal said. I’ve half an inkling it was her that set it on fire last week.

Sure, no problem, said Sam, getting to his feet and heading for the door.

Sal took stock of the room. In the dimmed light you couldn’t really see the hideous colour of the walls. He was sure someone had originally specified Magnolia or one of the soft whites that were widely available. But he’d put money on it that the spec had passed through the hands of one of the hospital trust’s administrators, who’d altered it to obtain a much cheaper paint. Now they all had to suffer horrible nicotine white. The ward’s newly acquired easy chairs and sofas looked strangely at odds with the dilapidated old bookcase, coffee table and TV stand. As he turned to leave he noticed the magazines in disarray on the table. He made a mental note to straighten them when Jenny went to bed. He disappeared through the door to check on the sleeping patients.

Jenny was busy arranging coasters for the mugs of hot tea she’d brought from the kitchen when Sam returned. Here you go, she said, sliding a bright blue Leeds United mug towards him. Tea with extra helpings of tooth rot, she chuckled. Jen didn’t take sugar with her own drinks and had been taken aback when she’d first made tea for him and he’d asked for four spoonfuls.

Sam took the mug from her. Just how I like it, very…

Don’t say it, she shot back, don’t ever say it again. Trust me, it’s just about the cheesiest line I ever heard in my whole life.

Sam shook his head sheepishly. He’d tried to be smooth the first time they’d drunk tea together. He had said he liked his tea very much like he liked his women, Very very sweet and ever so hot. He hadn’t pulled it off then either. He made a mental note to ditch the line permanently and stop trying to be cool and just act normal. She seemed to prefer it that way.

No fire then? asked Sal as he came through the doors. He was carrying two brown paper grocery bags with handles. The mouth-watering aroma of Indian food filled the room. Right, said Saleem. I’ve checked the ward and there’s only us loonies left awake so we shouldn’t have to share again like last night." On his way back to the common room, Sal had stopped by the office to collect the food his Mum had prepared and quickly check emails. It was a quiet Wednesday night as usual.

He took out plastic food containers and laid them out on the table. He fished in the bottom of the bag for a list. His Mum’s curries were always exceptionally good, but Sal himself wasn’t particularly adept at identifying them. And, as Sam and Jenny were always asking about the dishes, his Mum had been good enough to provide him with a handwritten menu of the food she’d packed.

Right my lords and ladies, announced Sal, tonight we will be feasting on Vegetable and Lamb Samosas, Onion Bhajis, Dahl and Pakora. This will be followed by Chicken Khari and Vegetable Pathia. Jenny, did you bring some water as well? You’re going to need it, ‘cause the Pathia can be a bit fiery.

Wow, said Jenny, brandishing a spoon and dipping it into the Dahl. My Mum used to make the odd curry, she said thoughtfully, but nothing ever like this.

Sal shot her a glance, as did Sam. She looked calm enough. There was no hint of tears. This was the first time that Jenny had mentioned her mother conversationally. Sal wondered if she was healing. Finally.

Sam had helped himself to both starters and some of the Chicken Khari. Oh man! he exclaimed. This is the dog’s bollocks.

No, Sal shot back. I assure you my friend, my mother only uses the finest chicken. No canine testicles, he said with a grin.

Sal looked over at Jenny again. He thought how much stronger she’d looked over the last few days. The psychologist was obviously doing an excellent job. She’d been having half-hour counselling sessions each day with him. Yes, he thought. Better. There was even a little light behind those fine eyes now.

As they slowly savoured the food, Sal considered how far Jenny had come since that terrible night three weeks ago when they’d admitted her. He’d taken a call from A&E informing him of the admission. Apparently she’d collapsed in the corridor outside A&E on her way out of the hospital. Sal had sent Sam over to collect her in a wheelchair. He flinched as he remembered it. It had started to rain heavily and Sam had had to wheel her across the wide car park littered with puddles, to reach the ward. Sal had gone to unlock the doors to let them in. The rain had been torrential and Sam had started to run with her. In the darkness he missed one of the many speed ramps and the chair had tipped forward, hurling Jenny to the ground, where she hit her head. Sal had had to wedge the doors to the mental health unit open and run to help. When he lifted her back into the chair he was shocked at how light she was. And, despite the terrible fall, she hadn’t made a sound. There in the darkness, soaking wet, muddy water dripping down her face, hair plastered to her head, she looked tragically pathetic and Sal had been overcome with pity. Kate Grey, one of A&E’s finest, had briefed him on the background. Apparently the girl’s mother had died up on ward 10, earlier that evening. The ward staff had assumed she’d gone home. Two hours later she’s in the A&E and cannot stop shaking and crying. How could they? How could they? was apparently all they could get out of her. It was only days later, after a few of their long conversations which stretched into the night, that he’d found out what she’d been asking. After she’d talked it through with the psychologist.

Jenny had sat with her mother every night for weeks, watching her slowly die. Jenny’s mother, he’d learnt, had been a single parent and there was only the two of them. Jenny had known her Mum didn’t have much more time left and had been ready mentally, for the end, when it came. The night she died, she’d been unable to leave the body and had sat in the small room until darkness fell. Jen had told him she’d actually tried to physically move back. Pushing her chair back a few inches every five minutes or so, hoping the forced action would help goad her into finally leaving. She’d ended up by the wall. She’d stood and pushed the chair away. Standing with her back to the wall behind the door. The sun had set and it was dark in the room. In the quietness of her own head, she’d said right that’s it, I’m going now Mum, but she had been startled when the door swung back. A hand appeared from behind the door and grabbed the chair, using it to wedge the door open, and Jenny was stuck behind it. She was about to try and negotiate her way out when the loud banter of two hospital porters stopped her in her tracks.

"Man, she was minging, yeah, said one of the porters, continuing with his conversation. I know but at least she goes down on you and you don’t even ‘ave to buy her a drink," his colleague laughed. Jenny looked out at them from the darkness. She was only just tall enough to see them through the small pane of glass set high in the door. They were both of them barely 18 years old.

They pushed the gurney into place beside the bed where her mother’s body lay and roughly removed the pillows from behind her mother’s head. Next they unhooked the headrest. It slammed into the base of the bed with a loud clunk, followed by Jenny’s mother’s head.

Don’t worry love, that won’t hurt in the morning, laughed the porter, ruffling the small shock of hair now visible at the top of the sheet covering her mother’s body. Yeah, and that’s the last bang you’ll be gettin’ darlin’, his colleague added