This Is Where I Die

The worst is happening. I’m moving against the crowd, sidestepping and brushing elbows and shoulders with home fans as they march towards the stadium turnstiles. I catch a couple of dirty looks and hear a mutter of “Pillock!” as I force others into halts and swerves; then I see through a gap that Mousa his still, both hands raised with palms upwards and his head tilted to look to the sky. Aware of the bulge under his hoodie I think “Oh fuck! He’s doing it!”, feel an impending obliteration and charge through the gap. I throw myself forwards thinking if he’s on the floor, with me on top, it would smother some of the blast and fewer people would die. I dive at him, spreading my arms, my face into his, knocking him backwards and knowing this is where I die.

* * * 

He had never been like that. I remember asking him when we were kids what the name Mousa meant.

“It’s the prophet Moses.”

“Wasn’t he Jewish?”

“Only ‘cos they didn’t have Islam when he was alive.”

“Does that make you a Jewish Muslim?”

He laughed and told me to fuck off.

If he was ever into that fundamentalist stuff it never showed. At school he hung out with our gang rather than any of the other Muslim kids, and was more interested in football, Marvel movies and hip-hop than anything to do with religion. As we grew older he didn’t touch alcohol but he did join us in puffing some weed on the edges of the park; and he got into the talk about girls.

“Aren’t you having one of them arranged marriages?”

“Yeah, me mum and dad are setting me up with that Taylor Swift?”

“I thought she only went for blokes in cowboy hats?”

“I got meself one of them.” He pointed at his crotch. “But she’ll be more interested in what I got down ‘ere bruv.”

Yes, he was well integrated into a group of teenage dickheads.

He grew up going into his twenties, like the rest of us, got a decent job, stayed with his parents, and for a while was seeing a girl from another Muslim family. When it ended he told us they had got bored with each other and neither of their families had been pushing them, and we believed him. When we were out as a group he joined in the chat with girls, but we didn’t know of him dating anyone and reckoned he was biding his time, waiting for one who was about the same blend of Muslim and north London as himself.

Then he started to make a few unexpected remarks. First he referred to a right wing politician, one who was known for baiting Muslims, as a racist fuckwit. Fair enough, but it was unlike Mousa to say anything about politics. Then there was stuff about the latest round of madness in the Middle East. “I don’t believe their God’s ever told them to do that.” “Who’s looking for a holy war now?” A couple of weeks later he used the word ‘genocide’. I understood why he was wound up, thought the language was dodgy, and found it easier not to get into a conversation. Then one day we met up for a pizza, he dug into a coat pocket for his phone and pulled out an embroidered pouch.

“What’s that?”

“A travelling prayer mat.”

“How long have you been into that?”

“A while. Been going to mosque more regular as well.”

“What brought that on.”

“I’m Muslim.”

He was prickly, so I let it drop.

The next time we met he was angry. When I arrived he was looking at his phone and cursing.

“What’s pissed you off?”

“The prime minister. The leader of the other lot. Almost every politician in the country.”

I realised what that was about – another blood letting in the Middle East and another round of complaints that in some way our government was supporting it. I didn’t go along with the view but I wasn’t going to argue with him, so I sat through an awkward spell of trying to talk about work and one of our mates who had broken up with his girlfriend. We were waiting for the bill when he looked at his phone again and muttered at the screen: “Yeah, a bomb under your arse.” I felt glad to get away from him.

Over the next few days I kept thinking about all those news reports of young Muslim men being radicalised into doing all kinds of mad shit, telling myself that Mousa would never get into that, then remembering those words: “A bomb under your arse.” No. No. I told myself that I had allowed a bund of negative clichés and stereotypes to creep into my head, that I was being unfair, even prejudiced, towards a mate.  We were due to go to the football but I felt hesitant about calling him to make the meet. Then he called me.

“All good for Saturday?”

He sounded normal.

“Yeah, all good.”

“I’ve got to do something in the morning. I’ll meet you outside the ground, near the first lot of turnstiles. I reckon twenty minutes before kick-off.”

“What have you got to do?”

“A bit of private stuff.”

I wondered if I should have asked what it was, but given his recent moods that might have upset him, and he had sounded OK. So I made my way to the ground, thinking mainly about football but not quite putting those worries out of my mind. As I moved closer the crowd grew more dense, moved more slowly, and at first I couldn’t see him where we had agreed to meet. Then I caught a glimpse of his face, about thirty yards, a moment where I thought there was eye contact but he quickly looked away. I took a step to the side and almost walked into a man moving against the crowd, an old Asian guy with a long beard and a prayer cap who said sorry and slid past me. It triggered a thought about the bad stuff, some of the things Mousa had said, and I had to push back against it once more, annoying the people around me. Then the crowd parted a little and I saw him, palms raised, looking up at the sky, with a bulge under his hoodie. I charged towards him knowing this is where I would die.

* * *

Now he’s on the floor, his face beside mine as he bellows and turns to throw me off. My weight goes down on his stomach and I feel the bulge, and realise it’s all soft. I hit the ground on my right side and feel his hand slap down on my left arm. Our eyes meet and he yells:

“What the fuck!”

Feet shuffle around us, and I realise that the crowd has parted and faces are staring at the two maniacs on the ground. I manage to free my arm and claw at the bulge in his stomach.

“What are you doing?”

“Under your hoodie. It’s under your hoodie.”

He grabs the zip, pulls it down and two packages fall out. One is the prayer mat pouch; the other a larger canvass bag with an M&S logo. He holds up the first. “You know what that is!” Then he takes the second, loosens the cord and pulls out a folded thin polyester jacket.”

“It’s my waterproof you fuckwit!”

Now we both sit up, pushing ourselves a couple of feet apart. I’m aware of a lot of people staring. I stuttered an explanation.

“It was your …. hands, up in the air … and you were staring up.”

“I was feeling the rain, beginning to think I should put this on!”

He waved the jacket in my face.

“Sorry, I thought it was …”

I didn’t want to say it out loud. His stare hardened.

“A bomb?”

I nodded. He was silent for a few seconds. I pushed myself back a little further and bumped into a leg. A lot of people were watching.

“’Coz I’m Muslim.”

I didn’t say anything. I heard some laughter.

“YOU FUCKING FUCKWITTED FUCK!”

More people laughed. Mousa got to his feet and stormed off into the crowd. I didn’t try to follow. I just went home.

* * *

Six weeks later I’m at Tesco. I’ve tried to call him but he hasn’t taken my calls, and I’m guessing that it would be a bad more to turn up on his doorstep. I haven’t told anyone what happened, none of our mates, or my family, and I haven’t been out apart from work and the routine shopping. I’m still flattened by the embarrassment. Then there he is, in the fruit and veg section inspecting the aubergines. He turns and sees me. I want to run away but force myself to stand still. He approaches me, a stern but not quite angry look on his face. I say what has to be said.

“I owe you an apology.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“I think what I did was caused by …

“Don’t worry what it was caused by; I don’t want to listen to a lot of detail about religious stereotypes and extreme fundamentalism.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“And I’ll tell you I’ve been thinking about what you did.”

“What have you been thinking?”

“When you threw yourself at me you thought I was going to detonate a bomb, blow up a lot of people in the crowd. That right?”

“That’s right. It was in my mind for a few seconds, but it got out of control.”

“Never mind, ‘coz when you did it you knew you would get killed. You were ready to sacrifice yourself to save other people.”

“I suppose so. I didn’t give it much thought.”

“But you were going to do it.”

I nod.

“Alright, that was noble. Respect bruv.”

He holds out a hand. Mne’s trembling as I respond with a touch. He squeezes. I feel a moment of relief, faintly expecting that he’s going to smile. Instead, his face hardens Then he speaks.

“Now fuck off!”

 

Image by Michael Savidge, CC  BY 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons

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