CHAPTER 39
“Can I have a word, Gord?”
Walid was standing outside Gordon’s office.
“Problem, Wally?”
“I need some advice, Gord.”
“First things first, Wally. What was the problem with that Ford Kia of Mr. Akram’s? He’s been wasting our time for weeks with that clockwork toy. Never a problem whenever I try it.
“Nor me, Gord. It was a wire. Every time he uses the clutch, his shoes catch on it. I told him it’s dangerous to drive with shoelaces undone.”
“Quite right, Wally. How he ever got a driving licence, I don’t know.”
“Probably another forgery.”
Gordon nodded. “Seems like an epidemic around here, Wally.”
“Which is why I need some advice, Gord. How can I open a lock without a key?”
“Lost the key to your luxury Shipley Street condominium, Wally?”
Walid hesitated. “I need to unlock another door.”
“Where? Don’t be shy, Wally. What door?”
“Mr. Khan’s office. Kevin calls it tit for tat, Gord.”
Gordon tapped his teeth, sensing something furtive. “I see. Come on in and shut the door. What’s going on?”
It took Walid several minutes to tell Gordon about Kevin and Cass and Kurt in Thailand. He was still tapping his teeth when Wald finished with, “That’s about all I know, Gord.”
Gordon then took a deep breath and blew the lungful back out. “How’s Kevin’s mum?” he asked.
Walid shrugged. “Kev doesn’t talk about her much. He kinda fidgets and goes quiet.”
“I’ve been living around here too long, Wally. She’s a nice lady. Her name’s Silvia. She used to work in Pakistan. Did you know that? I fixed her red Volkswagen Golf car once, years ago—the one Kevin took over when Khan evicted them from Shipley Street.” He frowned and scratched his head with oily black hands. “Did you know I lost my wife from cancer ten years ago?”
“Sorry to hear that, Gord.”
“When I last saw Silvia, Kevin’s mum, she was so thin and pale I thought she also had cancer. But I think it had more to do with things around here. She said something once to a news reporter around the time of the police raid on the mosque and the street demo that Mohamed Basra led. Khan was involved. Everyone had suspicions about the mosque and the possibility of a few extremists hanging out around here. You just got to look at some of the magazines and newspapers in the local shops to realise they’re not exactly full of news that most people associate with friendly relations and kindly thoughts. I once took home a bunch of carrots wrapped in an Arabic-language newspaper full of photos of guys on a mountaintop waving flags and Kalashnikovs. It spoiled my dinner.
“But with Mr. Basra getting re-elected every time nothing ever happens, of course. Too sensitive, you see. I think Kevin’s mum gets threatened to keep her mouth shut. If so, she’s probably not alone. I haven’t seen Silvia for a while, but she used to have this nervous look about her. But when you talk to her quietly, she’s very knowledgeable. She even speaks Punjabi.”
Gordon leaned back in his squeaky chair, put his hands behind his head, and looked at Walid, whose knees, as usual, were jigging up and down.
Gordon didn’t talk to many people. He sometimes talked to Mel in the Wheatsheaf if the pub was quiet, but it was only ever about football or rugby or the weather or the lack of parking space around Midland Road. He talked to customers, of course, but only about shock absorbers and drive belts, and he spoke on the phone to his parts supplier about gaskets and filters. At home, he talked to his fifteen-year-old parrot, Pinky, because Pinky’s mate, Perky, had died just after Imelda, Gordon’s wife, had succumbed to cancer. He talked to Walid because, despite his unshaven chin and upper lip, Walid was interesting. Gordon had only ever lived around Park Road, but young Walid had lost his mum, lived through war and street battles, and travelled halfway around the world to get to Park Road. Could he have done that? Gordon wasn’t sure. He leaned forward to continue his story.
“Yes,” he said. “It got very sensitive around the time of those street riots. It didn’t last long, but the media took an interest for a few days. They only like trouble. Who watches peaceful gatherings? And if they started asking questions, they’d get no answers. No one wanted to dig deep because you can’t upset the community by mentioning things that cause offence. If you were too outspoken and mentioned rumours and suspicions, most of which should, by rights, have been taken seriously, you’d be accused of racism and get a flurry of abuse from the likes of Councillor Mohamed Basra or the group of ageing students and welfare beneficiaries with blue hair who live in that crack commune on Baker Street.
“It’s useless complaining, Wally. You’d be silenced by talk of hate crimes, intolerance, racism, and discrimination. Welcome to our diverse and tolerant society, Wally. I always decided it was best just to get on with earning an honest living with an honest day’s work, paying your tax, and trying to live within the law of the land.”
Walid sat, listening and looking at Gordon’s big face, cheeks, lips, and how he gesticulated by waving his big oily hands around. Sensing that he still hadn’t finished, he waited for more and focussed on the tufts of hair that sprouted from his ears.
“After a few days, things calmed down,” Gordon went on, referring once more to the short-lived street demonstrations. “Yes, they subsided quickly—suspiciously quickly. Like everyone else, the press found that asking questions was pointless because everyone just turned their backs or walked on by. They were scared, you see, just like Silvia. Funnily they never came in here. Didn’t know we existed, I expect, but I don’t know what I’ve had told them even if they had. What good are feelings or suspicions? I’m as guilty as the rest of them, I suppose. I just kept working. So nothing changed.
“In fact, I think confidence grew when they realised they got away with it. Mohamed Basra got re-elected. No surprise there. And people, like Kevin’s mum, stayed quiet. Intimidation is a bloodless but very effective weapon, Wally. Community’s clam up if they’re scared. Silvia’s still living around here. I think she’s got one of those single person’s flats over on Woodlands Road. Nice woman. She probably knows more than anyone.”
Gordon’s longest speech ever dwindled away as Walid listened. Even his knees had stopped jigging. But it all fitted perfectly with his own brief experience and with what Kevin had told him. It also matched my own carefully chosen words about watching out for all the dog shit lying in and around Park Road.
Walid decided it was time to give Gordon some fresh news.
“Kevin’s car broke down in Scotland a few days ago,” he said. “I warned him never to go far, but he still went because Khan told him to go to collect a parcel. He collected it from another Khan—Wazir Khan. And guess what, Gord? The parcel contained forged passports and some metal tubes with wires that Kevin says . . .”
He didn’t finish because Gordon, still sitting on his chair, rolled it back across the greasy black floor. Then he stood up and, as Walid watched, went for a walk around his tiny office. He leaned for a moment on a pile of dusty old box files, wiped a finger across one of them, inspected it, and rubbed the grime on his sleeve. Then he turned back to Walid. “Which door?”
“The one just inside Khan’s back door.”
“Why that one?”
“Kevin says it’s where Khan stores things and spends a lot of time.”
“Where’s Kevin now?”
“With his friend Roger.”
“Who’s Roger?”
Another long explanation followed.
“Roger sounds as old as me. Is he?” Gordon asked.
“Probably older, Gord.”
Gordon grinned. “When are you intending to do the deed, Wally?”
“Tonight.”
“Call, Kevin, will you? I’d like to speak to him—and his grandad.”