Men Like Khalil

Men Like Khalil

  A short story by Asmar Gondal

  Copyright 2015 Asmar Gondal

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  Cover image by Tim Slater

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  He was serving God, or just allowing those more able to. Khalil would consider this sitting alone on his customary stool in a dark porch filled with shoes. It had two windows; on one side there was frosted glass into the main prayer room, where through the shifting of light he could make out the pattern of the salaat, on the other he looked out through a security grille into the still, empty night where there may or may not be trouble for them all.

  The Imam told Khalil men like him were needed, that he would get sawab for sacrificing himself from the brotherhood’s unified worship. Maybe it had always been like this, from the beginning, maybe Muhammad had asked someone to carry out a similar role, protecting the new Muslim clan going about their prayer from the idol-worshippers baying for their blood. As far as his own congregation was concerned, Khalil could not remember a time when they could do without such vigilance.

  So when the screen on his central console flashed ‘Imam Sahib’ one bright afternoon in May, he knew it would be serious. The Imam wouldn’t call him in the middle of his working day for a case of petty vandalism. He had a customer in the back so rejected the call.

  Negotiating through rush hour traffic, past the Arena and onto the drop-off zone of the new Park Inn hotel, Khalil took his passenger’s money, moved his Mercedes E220 to a loading bay, and called the Imam back.

  ‘Yes, Khalil Sahib, sorry to disturb you.’ The man’s powerful voice filled the cabin of the car, but Khalil could sense tension in place of his normal, serene piety.

  ‘Praise be to Allah, Imam Sahib. I’m sorry, there was a customer when you rang.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon to various brothers, including councillors, following this incident in Woolwich today.’ Khalil’s mind flashed back to a job barely an hour earlier, when two young men were in the back of his taxi, scrolling through their mobiles, reading out reports a man had been beheaded and two others shot. ‘The Association is particularly worried about what might happen now. It would be good if you could get here as soon as possible. Brothers will start arriving for namaz and I need to make sure we’re in control of this. Can you come?’

  ‘Luckily Imam Sahib,’ said Khalil, ‘I’ve just dropped somebody off at the Park Inn. I’ll see you in a couple of minutes.’

  *

  Men like Khalil always had to be on hand, ready to protect a house of worship from the clutches of hateful mobs, and as he cruised up Cheetham Hill Road, despite his unanswered questions, he felt an odd rush of excitement. Khalil was now doing his other job, the one that felt more meaningful than his successful taxi driving business which saw him running his own fleet out of Withington.

  Passing through the unlocked door, Khalil could hear the loud voice of a news reporter and the faint murmur of what sounded like a helicopter, coming from the television screen in the Imam’s office. He turned into the room to find the Imam wasn’t watching the TV alone.

  Javed, who looked tense, walked forward shaking Khalil’s right hand with both of his. The fashionable young man, in his red chinos and bright button-down shirt, must have come straight from lectures. Tariq Nawaz remained where he was with arms folded. Nawaz was a representative of the Association and was today sharply dressed in a grey suit and red tie. He took one glance, unimpressed, and then turned back to the news. He and Khalil had much in common; both were in their early 40s and old enough to remember their early childhood in Pakistan. But he was a real bastard of a man.

  The Imam, sitting at his desk, gently nodded at Khalil. This was no time for a grand entrance, so Khalil too turned back to the TV. He caught three faces in three different backdrops; Studio, Woolwich, Downing Street.

  ‘Well, over to you Joe outside Number 10,’ said the woman in the studio’,’ where I understand plans are already in place to have a Cobra meeting.’

  ‘Yes that’s right Kay you’ve just seen there from Tom that the Metropolitan Police have said their Counter Terrorism Command are assisting with the investigation, which all but confirms that this is being considered an act of terrorism. Bearing that in mind, it’s inevitable that Cobra will be convened, and that is indeed what’s happening behind me here now....’

  ‘Typical,’ said Tariq Nawaz, ‘they haven’t even got the full facts and they’re declaring this an act of terrorism. When that Indian boy got shot in Salford the authorities refused to accept that was a racist murder, but when Muslims are involved they jump to conclusions straight away.’

  ‘They’re all getting emotional,’ said Javed, ‘because he happened to be a solder.’

  ‘Trust me, brother,’ said Nawaz, pointing at the student, sharp lines forming in his brow, the tightest film of sweat on his razor-shaved head, ‘when you’ve been dealing with things like this as long as I have, you’ll realise that would make no difference.’

  ‘Ok Tariq Sahib,’ the Imam interrupted, perhaps conscious Nawaz’s arrogance was taking over. ‘What’s the word from the Association?’

  ‘Well, obviously, this murder is to be deplored, we’re going to press with that nationally, and we need to make sure it will be echoed to your congregation tonight.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Imam, nodding.

  ‘But there’s bound to be a backlash up and down the country, especially from the EDL, which will only inspire local people to try and take the law into their own hands’, said Nawaz. He then turned to Khalil, ‘I’ve spoken to the Chief Inspector, but you need to protect your brothers tonight, and let me know if you have any issues.’

  ‘And are you offering me anyone else to help?’ asked Khalil.

  ‘That’s your responsibility.’

  ‘Get out then,’ said Khalil, ‘and let me get on with it.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the Imam.

  ‘It’s ok, Imam Sahib, I’ve got another four mosques to visit. On a day like today we can’t lose sight of what the Almighty wants.’

  As Nawaz headed for the door, Khalil stood upright, holding his stare at the man who equally held his, smiling his usual condescending smile.

  Khalil refused to get out of his way.

  ‘God will be with us,’ said Nawaz, as he walked out the door.

  Khalil turned to Javed and allowed himself a smile. ‘Go on then Mr Twitter, tell me.’

  ‘At the moment there’s nothing in particular for us to worry about,’ said Javed, hastily opening up his iPad. He dragged columns up and down with his finger, analysing through thick-rimmed glasses. ‘It’s all just people speculating about what has happened, what the motivation is...’

  ‘But all this’, said Khalil, pointing at the TV screen, ‘may change things, once they see those pictures. There will probably be Islamophobic comments, won’t there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Javed, looking up at Khalil hesitantly, his confidence bruised by Nawaz’s belligerence. ‘But Twitter can be a pretty nasty place.’

  ‘Ok, keep me posted’, said Khalil, as he headed to take a seat at the Imam’s desk.