CHAPTER 11
Having been given the day off, Walid was bored, so knowing Gordon often worked late, he walked down to the garage and found him bending over a Ford Fiesta with a torch fixed to his head like a miner. He tapped him on the shoulder. “Gord?”
Gordon jumped, hitting his head on the bonnet. “Bloody hell, Wally. Don’t do that. Frightened the living daylights. Thought I’d just shorted the battery.”
“Sorry, Gord.”
Gordon straightened up, arching his back. “Well? What is it? Don’t just stand there.”
“Can we talk?”
“Give me five minutes. Hand me that wrench.”
It took Gordon ten minutes. Walid helped by holding spanners and wrenches. “Right. See if she starts, Wally.”
The old car started. Gordon slammed the bonnet down and wiped his hands on his overalls. “Right then. What is it? Found the passport? Did Khan call around, give it back, and go down on his hands and knees to apologise?”
“I just needed a chat, Gord.”
“Fire away.”
“What’s Khan up to, Gord?”
“Mr. Jaffar Khan?” Gordon asked, squeezing green Swarfega gel onto his hands. “Self-styled mayor of Park Road and owner of everything within walking distance of a travel agency that’s never done enough business to survive by any normal practice? Just about the only place he doesn’t own is this old blacksmith’s shop. Why do you want to know?”
“How did he get me a passport, Gord?”
“Khan’s got connections and influence, Wally. We can’t talk about it, of course, and we can’t suggest things go on around here that shouldn’t happen in civilised society. It’s not politically correct, you see. We just got to turn a blind eye and carry on. It’s our wonderful democracy, Wally. We are granted every right to behave like the three monkeys: hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Welcome to the free west, Wally.”
“I reckon it was a forgery.”
Gordon didn’t seem surprised. He merely raised a tufted eyebrow. “Ooh! Go careful. What makes you say that, Wally?”
“Just too quick, Gord. He said he had connections in immigration, but I don’t believe it.”
Gordon wiped his neck with an oily rag. “Tell me, Wally. Why did you trust Khan with five hundred pounds? Why didn’t you come to me and say, ‘Please, Gordon, but I’ve got a little problem, and I’m only a poor boy from Syria alone in this big world. I don’t know what to do.’”
“I dunno.”
Gordon tossed the rag onto the roof of the Ford Fiesta. “First lesson in life, Wally. Always trust a man who’s already shown his trust in you.”
Walid nodded, as if that sounded like a good advice. “Who’s that then, Gord?”
Gordon’s voice echoed through the workshop. “Me for Christ’s sake, Wally. Me. Who the hell do you think I mean?”
“Yeh, I see. Sorry, Gord.”
“Sorry? Sorry? Open your eyes, Wally. If I didn’t trust you, you’d have been kicked out of that bloody door with the imprint of my boot across your backside weeks ago. Now, because of your stupidity, look what a mess we’ve got. I’m employing what appears to be an illegal immigrant. You know what that means?”
Walid shook his head as Gordon prodded his chest with a greasy fingernail. “It means you get carried off at the back of a white van with bars across the windows,” he said. “And I get a 20,000 pounds fine and a five-year prison sentence. Got it, young man?”
“Yeh, I see.”
“Yeh. Yeh. So what are you going to do about it?”
Walid sniffed and stared at the oily black floor.
“You don’t know, huh? Mind’s as blank as an unused sheet of shit-house paper is it? Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to call one of the officers who was here this morning and tell him a true story without mentioning any names. I’m going to be as upfront and honest as I can and ask for his advice. What do you think about that?”
“It’s a good idea, Gord.”
The roof of the workshop rattled once more.
“GOOD IDEA, Wally? It’s the only one there is. And you know why I’m going to do that instead of kicking your ass so hard you’ll disappear over the rooftops and land in the river? Do you know why?”
Walid shook his head.
“It’s because I like you, Wally. Got it? Now shove off home and have a shave or those three hairs on your chin will be so long they’ll get tangled up in a fan belt, and we’ll then have the health and safety inspectors here as well.”
Walid smiled, thanked Gordon, and wandered outside. But he was still bored. Wondering what to do, he called in, as he often did, on Winston because Winston’s bed sitter, three houses down on Shipley Street, was bigger and less claustrophobic than his. The only problem with Winston’s place was the odd smell. It was always at its strongest on the first-floor landing. It was very strong that night.
“It’s the Egyptians upstairs,” Winston said casually as he opened the door. “They deep-fry pigeons and seagulls they catch in a trap on the roof.”
“What does seagull taste like?” Walid asked.
“No idea, man. But two days ago, they were eating something that smelled even worse, and there was a bag of black fur and a long tail in the trash bin this morning. It’s bushmeat, Walid. Pigeons, seagulls, and stray cats are vermin. They’re doing the council’s job for them.”