Jinn Rummy: Would You Know?

Dedicated to Philip Leslie Lambert

Special thanks to: NS, AR & ZK

Stephen K.

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: 0800.197.4150

© 2012 by Stephen K. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/13/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4663-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4664-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

I seek refuge with the Lord of the Dawn

From the mischief of created things

From the mischief of darkness as it spreads

From the mischief of those who practice the secret arts &

From the mischief of the envious one as he practices envy

"H owzat!" The umpire did not have a difficult decision to make, usually Alan Pearce; the consummate cricket veteran would have taken a look, paused momentarily to offer the illusion of deliberation and then raised his finger to direct the defeated batsman back to the pavilion. However, this was the plumbest case of lbw he had ever seen with the ball hitting the trailing leg plum in front of middle stump so Alan raised his finger immediately signalling the flustered batsman to begin his undignified march back to the pavilion, it was 9 for 4.

Leslie, totally beaten for pace whilst trying to play a sweep shot, begrudgingly removed his batting gloves and commenced the long walk of shame to rejoin the remainder of his team who were now seriously perturbed, back in the pavilion. The score line was a disaster indeed and was due wholly to this new speedy bowler known only as Kippax. This diminutive figure was bowling so fast that Leslie and the batsmen before him barely had the time necessary to raise their bats before the ball came whizzing down at over eighty five miles an hour to contest their abilities. Leslie Philips was the captain and much rested as it did during most matches on his shoulders; in the batting department anyway. The bowling maestro of the team was his dear friend Sohail Mahmood with whom he had been friends with ever since nursery. He was next in to bat and as the pair crossed around square leg, Leslie whispered in Sohail’s ear,

He’s quick, quicker than you, take a middle and off guard and block everything. He figured that if Sohail, who was no mean batsman himself just played a defensive game, runs were inevitable and the team could at least have a total in double figures to defend and maybe even last out their allotted thirty overs. Sohail continued towards the square swinging his bat bearing arm in a vertical helicopter fashion and running on the spot to get himself warmed up; the innings was barely fifteen minutes old and he needed to get his muscles accustomed to the exertion that was expected of them. He looked very professional in his approach and cemented the illusion by stepping down the pitch patting his bat onto any rough areas in an attempt to smooth them out but more so to emulate his hero, Viv Richards. It was for the same reason he refrained from wearing a helmet, opting for the more fashionable but totally non-protective flat cricket cap. He took his guard and marked it on the crease; middle and off was a very defensive stance not conducive to stroke play and he was acutely aware of the fact that he lay open to being bowled round his legs, a seriously embarrassing way to go.

Right arm over… . play. Alan Pearce gave the go ahead for play to commence and in the distance, Sohail noticed a small mouse like figure scurrying daintily towards him; a bizarre but rapid arm action followed and the new ball came spearing towards him. Even before the ball had left the bowler’s hand, he raised his front leg so he could play a solid and resolute forward defensive but the pace took him completely by surprise and halfway though his stroke he realised that the ball had pitched much shorter than he had anticipated. Before he knew it, it had clipped his forearm, whizzed past his nose and sailed over his right shoulder; God this fellow was quick. By good fortune, the pace of the ball also took the wicketkeeper by surprise who missed it completely as it raced away to the boundary for four runs. In one inadvertent miss, he had managed to increase the score by twenty five percent.

Over! Phew thought Sohail, he had a reprieve as he realised that his occupation of the crease was destined to last more than one delivery. As the new bowler trundled into bowl at his partner, he noted that this guy was not even in the same league as the supremely quick Kippax who had been firing in from the other end and he fancied a bit of him, so after a sturdy forward defensive propelled the ball slowly to mid off, he decided to take a quick single. Now facing the pedestrian overweight second bowler, he took a more conventional middle stump stance and waited for him to lumber in again. The contrast was clearly discernable as the ball when released seemed to travel almost in slow motion allowing Sohail to adjust his body ready for a stroke; planting his weight on his back foot he lashed the ball square past gully for four runs. The next delivery was dispatched high over square leg for six; he had successfully doubled his team’s total. The remaining deliveries were not as easy to dispatch as they pitched almost perfectly at the optimum line and length permitting him only to parry tamely; however on the final delivery a cheeky little tiddle down to third man earned him three more runs; he had scored seventeen. It was 26 for 4.

The change of over meant the advent of Kippax again with his scurrying run, bizarre action and spearing projectiles. As he waltzed in, Sohail braced himself, he was going to be resolute, suspend ambition for a while, well, for at least five balls, block everything out and try to survive but even before he had processed this thought, the ball swung in from an impossible angle and although he followed it through its entire arc with his eye, before he could direct his body to respond, a ghostly apparition appeared arms spread above the opposing stumps distracting his attentions; before he knew it, the ball had lanced through his defences like a hot knife through butter. The next sound he heard was the clank of ball against wicket willow and the tumbling of bails; he had been clean bowled. He was transfixed by the apparition which now rose to show its burning eyes that appeared hot, red and luminous; it was just a head and torso with burning luminescent eyes, pointed ears and seemed to be staring intensely and intently at Sohail. Those red eyes reminded him of someone, they were familiar eyes indeed but they could not possibly be human; he was at a loss as to their identity. He just stood there frozen unable to move, paralyzed by the appearance of the devilish phantom that had willed his demise.

Out! The umpire, Alan felt compelled to vocally translate his finger point, confused as to why this young man had not accepted this most obvious of dismissals but Sohail was still in the grip of the phantasm that was focusing laser beams of obstruction at him. Its motives had now become apparent; to hinder him, to make him fail, but who was the owner of those eyes? He closed his own eyes and felt the malign grip loosen, so he started the walk to rejoin his battered and beaten comrades to the jubilant sounds of Kippax and his teammates celebrating his downfall. As he walked, he could see his best friend Leslie applauding him off the field of play and although he felt like he had let the side down, Leslie’s claps served to remind him that he had single handedly doubled his team's score. Well that was Leslie Philips for you; he and Sohail had been bosom buddies from the age of five and were inseparable friends. They had grown up together, adjusted to the harsh environments of new schools together, been through thick and thin together, ate together and often studied and played together. They shared everything, both their successes and their traumas without ever a hint of jealously or any other negative emotion for that matter; they always looked forward to seeing each other even after all these years.

Well played fella. Leslie patted Sohail on the back as he crossed the boundary rope and followed him into the pavilion.

Fuck he’s quick, he’s never sixteen! It was as Sohail made this comment, the rest of the team started to scrutinise this demon quick bowler even more closely, he was right, this guy really didn’t look sixteen; he looked over eighteen at least and his muscular physique and flourishing facial hair bore testament to that observation. Leslie thought he would have to bring up the matter with his games master at stumps. Although he was the captain, he abandoned spectating and elected to sit with his friend Sohail.

Fancy a game? Sohail nodded. There was nothing to do apart from counting their batsmen in and out and keeping tabs on the overs and the score. Leslie hoped that Kippax’s talents were restricted to bowling and that his team could muster fifty at least. That would give them half an unlikely chance at not being completely humiliated; what with Sohail’s quick tempo swing bowling and his own brand of eccentric off spin they could start their fielding innings with at least some hope. One by one the batsmen were skittled out by the relentless Kippax and the regular dismissals continued until he had finished his allotted overs. This coincided with the appearance at the crease of Andy Heiley, the rotund wicketkeeper who could also bat a little; he was not the irresistible stroke maker but a stubborn presence at the crease all the same and could always be relied upon to keep the score ticking over. Andy’s stubborn innings gave the batting side time to reflect on the disaster that had just unfolded. Leslie and Sohail in the meantime had started their game of gin rummy, their pastime by default; they would play at every opportunity and would discuss life and its intricacies during every game; it was welcome therapy.

There was a more than passing need for therapy for some time now; Leslie had noted a definite change in his friend’s demeanour and behaviour and although he could not put a definitive date on it, there was a discernable transformation in his deportment with his friend confessing to him accounts of night terrors, hearing voices and seeing hallucinations. Perverse and unlikely as it sounded, it seemed to be ever since he had appointed him his vice captain two years ago. He had urged him to seek professional help but his demeanour otherwise was exceptional as always and his studies had not been affected so he had not insisted too strongly. Both Leslie and Sohail shared the top and second places in the class and both were the best students in their year by a long way. When Leslie came first, it would only be by a few marks and Sohail would be second and vice versa. Their O’ Level exams were looming large now and both were studying hard. They would study together and test each other, they were the perfect study partners and both were destined for a string of A grade passes in all their subjects. Both of them had ambitions to study Law and both held aspirations of an Oxbridge education with Leslie preferring Oxford and Sohail preferring Cambridge. Based on current performance, they were destined to achieve their goals and easily fulfil their aspirations.

Leslie dealt out ten cards each and the pair started their game; as was the custom, the topic of discussion would be identified and instigated after the initial deal and today was no exception.

It happened again Les. Leslie looked up, the nature of Sohail’s dismissal was not characteristic and for him to be clean bowled without even offering a shot was positively atypical and unbelievable to say the least. Leslie looked long and hard at Sohail, he could see that he was troubled and wished he could do something to help him but his recantations of bizarre events scared him; their friendship however was so strong and adhesive, that he would readily risk personal injury just to help him; because he knew the obverse was also true.

What? When you were batting just then?

Yeh.

What did you see? Sohail looked from his hand and focused on his friend, there was almost telepathy between them and he could tell that as Sohail had been transfixed by the phantasm, Leslie had felt if not shared the experience.

As that guy started his bowling action, this thing just appeared over the wicket… Leslie’s suspicions were proved to be correct, he could just tell that as that final delivery was bowled, Sohail was not concentrating and seemed fatally distracted.

What did it look like? Leslie was probably the only person in the world that would not have ridiculed such a fantastic claim.

It was big, about twice as tall as the umpire and it had its arms stretched out like this. Sohail mimicked the apparition’s stance.

It had these claws for fingers, three I think, they were sharp, and those eyes, it had bright red eyes and pointed ears, its face was stretched out like a dogs or a bears and it had a smooth skin, no hair or fur… . I couldn’t tell if it was human or animal…

Sounds like a fucked up human by the sound of things, it must be animal. Leslie was trying to be constructive, he was not illiterate in the ways of the occult and other unexplained phenomenon in fact was an avid reader and had read of many experiences outside of human cognitive reality.

Nah, it had some human side to it, the eyes, they reminded me of someone.

Red eyes? Come on guy, who the fuck has red eyes? Leslie and Sohail would naturally and easily bounce off each other,

I know, but they just looked familiar. It was obvious; Sohail was still haunted by those eyes,

Shit man, are you going to see someone about this or what? The reply made Sohail sigh; he wondered how long his friend would listen to him and still take him seriously; however this was the first time that he had suggested sharing his experiences with an outsider.

What a psychiatrist you mean?

Come on Sohail, you know I don’t mean that, a spiritualist or something. Sohail stopped to ponder Leslie’s last remark; most would have recommended psychiatric help or counselling but his friend actually believed him and had faith in him. He had often wondered if Leslie just humoured him during his troubled recantations but this statement proved otherwise. Both of them were experts on unexplained phenomena, UFOs, the occult, voodoo, werewolves, vampires, black magic, ghosts, spontaneous human combustion, Ley lines, alien abduction, ancient alien visitations, telepathy, extra sensory perception to name a few. Both had started to research Sufism and numerology but recently when Sohail disclosed that he had found a collection of folded pieces of paper with obscure Arabic and Hebrew numerals arranged in pentagrams, circles and stars in his pockets which would disappear as quickly and mysteriously as they appeared.

I t was raining as Leslie stood outside Sohail’s house waiting for him to answer the door. Sohail had disclosed to him earlier at school that his parents or more precisely his mother had tried to stop his involvement in extracurricular cricket. The family had just bought into a children’s school trouser manufacturing franchise and Sohail was required to help out after school. The family had bought the required machinery at auction: four stitch over lockers, straight stitch sewing machines, industrial trouser press, hook and loop press to name but a few and they had sited them in their ample but damp cellar. The whole family was involved, all apart from the youngest son Nadeem who was the apple of both his father and especially his mother’s eye; so was exempt from any form of manual labour; this would be reserved exclusively for Sohail and his younger sister Noreen. Leslie felt sorry for his friend who was totally dominated by his mother, even his father didn’t stand up to her and she sent shivers down his spine every time he saw her; the way she looked at him made his blood run cold, those inhuman, staring penetrating eyes, the sharp ascorbic tongue and a fearless predilection with saying whatever she fancied unconcerned with its relevance or appropriateness.

Hello Leslie, how are you? Come in, come in. It was Sohail’s father who opened the door. He liked his son’s only friend; such a respectful, polite and studious chap could only do his own son some good.

Hi Mr Mahmood, how are you? Leslie stepped in to escape the pouring rain and into the porch which was a Mr Mahmood construction and so unfinished. Sohail’s house was a large Victorian property copiously decorated with unfinished building and DIY projects; how he and Sohail would laugh endlessly at the various stages of incompleteness. Leslie paused as he considered his response, yes the normal reason for his attendance would have been to see Sohail but today was different; he wanted to address the person or persons trying to stop Sohail playing as his vice captain in the school team. In accordance with usual Asian protocol, he should have been addressing Mr Mahmood but he knew damn well who wore the trousers in this household; however if he asked for Mrs Mahmood, this was bound to cause distress and embarrassment to Mr Mahmood. It was a quandary but his naturally diplomatic nature, perfectly suited to the legal profession emerged magnificently.

Mr Mahmood, I have a slight problem, Sohail says he can’t play cricket after school anymore, I just wondered if this was true and if I’ve offended you in any way? You see he’s my vice captain and the school team’s doing quite well, we may even win the league before our exams, now that really would be some achievement; it would leave us to study without any distraction… . Leslie decided to pause, he felt he was getting carried away and he understood and valued the power of silence. Mr Mahmood on the other hand wanted him to continue talking; he had nothing to do with preventing his son from playing cricket being quite proud of the fact that his son was a capable sportsman. He in his youth had also been a mean bowler and to see his progeny follow in his footsteps was rewarding to witness. It was his wife who controlled things nowadays; ever since his mysterious illness, he just had no energy to exert his will and the incessant itching that was a common and regular part of his life was debilitating to say the least.

Well Leslie, we’ve just bought a new business and Sohail needs to help his mother… . Leslie having gained the necessary permission to address his wife needed no second chance.

Can I speak with her please, if that’s OK with you? Sohail’s father was relieved, he was sick of sticking up for his wife through all her antics and shenanigans as she engaged in unbridled social warfare; this young man could sort things out with her directly. He shuddered as he recalled when on hearing the news that Sohail had been appointed vice captain, he had gone out and bought him some new kit; the lambasting he was subjected to on their return still made his skin crawl. He had wanted to answer back and put his domineering wife in her place but his mind would just turn to mush preventing him from recalling any meaningful language. Every time he tried to oppose his wife’s will, he would be afflicted for days with the painful itching that haunted him throughout his waking hours and stole his sleeping ones. He had been to numerous doctors and consultants but none could diagnose his ailment; such was the mystery.

Yes son go through. As soon as the words left his lips, Sohail appeared on the landing and smiled as he saw his friend but as he witnessed him walk along the hallway into the lounge, he froze, what on earth was he doing? He was upstairs. He then recalled telling him earlier at school how he wasn’t allowed to play for the school team after school and at weekends due to his commitments to the business venture, shit he was going to see his mother. He bounded down the stairs two at a time following him and his father into the small family lounge that was his mother’s lair. He failed however to intercept the procession and ended up following them in as the rearguard.

Leslie was the only non family member ever allowed into the family areas of the house, such was his position in this household; he was always welcomed; he had a feeling he wouldn't be as welcome after today. Mrs Mahmood was sat as always legs crossed, eyes closed in a lotus position on her sofa with a book opened in front of her rocking to and fro. Leslie shuddered, she seemed to have a palpably malign aura around her and even though the three of them had entered the room noisily, she did not open her eyes continuing to rock to and fro. Although he never really had much to do with the woman, he already hated her based on Sohail’s accounts of her absolute indifference to him and his sister. This contrasted with her brazen promotion and obvious favouritism of her youngest, Nadeem who to all intents and purposes seemed to be a spoilt good for nothing adolescent used to getting things too easily, who was learning the art of exploitation sterlingly from his mother. The silence continued for a perceived eternity but finally Mrs Mahmood opened her eyes, folded the corner of her book, closed it and turned to look at the trio of males displaying their abject impotence before her. She looked firstly and directly into Leslie and the cold stare made him shudder, he couldn’t help but feel that she knew exactly why he was here and that she seemed to be draining something out of him; he started feeling weak and the urge to speak ebbed away. He forcibly detached his gaze from hers and immediately the will to be heard returned. Although he wished not to offer her even a salutation, he felt obligated by the confines of social etiquette; he knew damn well that Mrs Mahmood didn’t view life quite the same as the rest of humanity.

Hello Mrs Mahmood, how are you today? Whereas a normal person would smile at being greeted or at least leak some warmth, Mrs Mahmood stared long and hard at Leslie, all she did was nod almost imperceptively in response to his salutation indicating that she was fine. Leslie was stuck. A verbal response would have given him a springboard from which to launch his next statement so after grappling with a few options, he decided on the direct approach; he wanted to spend as little time as possible in this woman’s company.

I hope you don’t think me out of turn for saying this and I mean absolutely no disrespect by it… .

Come and sit here. Mrs Mahmood spoke in a faint expressionless monotone. Leslie indulged her request and perched on the sofa beside her, apprehensive as to the outcome of today’s gambit.

Well Mrs Mahmood, it’s about Sohail… . Leslie had forgotten what he wanted to say. He struggled to recall his agenda but his mind just would not recollect the thoughts from his data banks and as he attempted to evoke his prepared statements, he shuffled away from her slightly; the effect was immediate and profound, he realised that previously he had been in contact with Mrs Mahmood’s knee and as soon as he curtailed this slightest of physical contact, his recollections had come flooding back.

I need him as my vice captain to play for the school team, if he does, then we have a really good chance of winning the interschool league before our exams in June… . Mrs Mahmood’s look in her eye resembled that of a hunter’s whose prey has just eluded his latest trap,

"I haven’t stopped him doing anything." She was right, Sohail had never said that she had expressly forbidden him from playing; only that he had so much piece work to get through every night and every weekend. He genuinely felt sorry for his dear friend as he realised just what he had subjected him to; he would play out of a sense of loyalty to Leslie and the team but would then do his required piece work on his return leaving no time to study. This was a difficult one, he certainly didn’t want him to mess his exams up; Good O’ Levels were a solid springboard to further study, the pathway to Oxbridge and the law degree he craved so much.

Let me get you a drink. Mrs Mahmood got up slowly and disappeared into the kitchen to fetch Leslie a drink. Now normal protocol would have been to ask if anyone else wanted one as well but this was not observed here and Mr Mahmood realising this looked visibly embarrassed. Leslie not wishing to cause his friend hardship; by coming to plead his cause, realised that he had, so while Mrs Mahmood was preparing his drink, he decided to adopt a different course of