Authors: Phil Rowan
‘I hope you don’t think I intrude,’ he says. ‘But authorities thought maybe it would help if I listen to what Mr Pele say when he call ... I am Muslim you know, from Turkey.’
I can’t get away from the Marx Brothers on this one. The situation is serious, of course. It’s potentially lethal for all of us, and here’s this guy grinning like he’s just come from a party with Harpo and Zippo.
Inevitably, I’m drawn back to Pele Kalim with thoughts of what I would do if I were in his position. He has an objective; he’s on an almost sacred mission. I’m not sure if he’d want to be distracted, even by a woman he still loves. He could always see Sulima later in heaven, wherever that lalaland is.
It is eight minutes after she has spoken to him on the Army PA system when her phone rings. She’s switched on her handset speaker, and the ring tone is clear.
‘
We cannot meet
,’ a strong, determined voice says, and I’m catching just a hint of the old North West Frontier from the empire days as he speaks. ‘
We’ve fought the British and the Indians ... we’ve never been defeated ... and now we’re about to take on the world.
’
‘I want to see you,’ Sulima says. ‘We need to talk.’
‘
I have a mission here
,’ he tells her. ‘
There is no point in your becoming involved ... I don’t want to harm you.
’
We’re all at risk if he blows up the nuclear waste canisters. I’m thinking it might be a good idea to put on the radiation protection suits. No one wants to inhale contaminated particles, but we’re still hanging in there with Sulima, and she’s not finished.
‘I’m coming out, Pele,’ she says. ‘I’m going to walk over to where you are, because I want to see you.’
‘
No!
’
‘Yes ... I’m switching my phone off and I’m going to leave it here in the assembly hall. It’s underneath a drawing of a mosque by Abdul ... he’s a seven year old boy ... one of many Muslims in this little school. ‘
I think Abdul’s drawing of the mosque is delightful; although a joyless pedant might claim it was disrespectful to show a holy place decorated with pink birds, yellow banners, smiley faces and a descending shower of gold and silver stars.
‘This man is serious,’ Dr Kola informs us. ‘I do not believe he will be easily deflected ... however, if, as I believe, there is a strong emotional bond between you ... well ...’
Sulima is already straightening the jacket of her suit and flicking back her luxuriantly silky black hair. She’s ready to go when Carla Hirsch takes her arm.
‘We want you to stop your friend if you can,’ she says. ‘I know you also want to do this ... but words might not be enough.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Pele may be overcome emotionally when he sees you. That’s good ... but I still think he’s going to want to press the button on the detonator that’s strapped to his wrist.’
‘So what do you want me to do? Shoot him ... or put a knife through his heart?
‘No – ’ Carla says emphatically. ‘Nothing like that ... but this is a man who loves you passionately. I’m also pretty sure you have similar feelings for him.’
‘And your point?’
‘We won’t harm him ... you already have the Minister’s assurance on this. I do however want you to rip the detonator from his wrist. He’ll be surprised ... but the only chance you’ll have to do it will be if he reaches down to give you a hand up into the train cab.’
I’m impressed by what she’s proposing. It might work, although Sulima isn’t saying anything. There is a full moon above us and around the newly built Council tower blocks I can see Army snipers positioned amongst balconies full of washing.
I get a kiss on the cheek from my beautiful Syrian friend, as does Fiona Adler, while Carla, Earl and Dr Kola all have to make do with handshakes. A Royal Marine Lieutenant is standing by. His head is bent respectfully, and when Sulima is ready he leads her from the school assembly hall. We all go outside after her with a soldier who has decorations from the campaign in Afghanistan on his camouflage jacket. He’s also got a large plastic bag that contains our radiation protection suits.
‘She’s a brave girl,’ Carla says as Sulima follows the Marine Lieutenant across a hundred yards of parched grass to the railway embankment we’re concentrating on. She’s serene and confident. We’re all willing her on and Carla is once again waving away the soldier with our anti-contamination suits. It’s a tense time. We’re not about to be distracted by changing our clothes. It’s foolish of course, because we’re all prepared to accept sets of Army issue Zeiss binoculars, which we then have to concentrate on focusing.
I think rigor mortis is setting in for the train driver, Arthur Hodge. His limbs are hanging rigidly like Christ on the cross, only Arthur’s legs have also been splayed out across a yellow and black radiation warning symbol on the nuclear waste canister. Anwar Singh, the assistant driver, is still pressing heroically against his manacles. I see him as a Hindu or Sikh god, although there’s an element of the skydiver about to free fall from a plane.
Pele Kalim is opening the driver’s door on the train engine as I fantasise. I can see something strapped to his wrist with wires going towards his hand and others that lead to the explosive charges. I assume the detonator switch is in his hand and that we’re all in jeopardy while it stays there. The distance is closing between Sulima and the train. Her escort has stopped and saluted her. He is now walking back to join us, but we’ve got our binoculars focused on the train and our Syrian heroine.
‘
If you try any smart moves ... anything at all
,’ Pele says through the microphone he had earlier accepted but then refused to use. ‘
I will press the button on this detonator ... do you understand?
’
He’s holding up his left hand, which contains a small yellow disk.
It’s a chilling moment, and there’s complete silence as an Army Officer responds on the PA system to say we’ve got the message and will not do anything to provoke such a response. At the same time, Carla Hirsch has taken a radio receiver from her bag.
‘I put a miniature transmitting device in Sulima’s jacket pocket,’ she says. ‘It’s quite sensitive, so we should be able to hear anything that passes between the two of them.’
Fiona clearly doesn’t approve. It was a rash action that might compromise the safety of our emissary, but Carla’s put the receiver on the table in front of us. She’s turning up the volume and we can hear Pele Kalim coughing.
‘Can you climb up the incline?’ he asks and Sulima nods. It’s steep, but she manages it with dignity in her leather and silk Chinese ballet pumps. There’s still a gap between the track and the door of the train, however. ‘Grab my hand,’ Pele tells her, ‘and I’ll pull you up.’
She considers him for a while without saying anything. She then extends her right hand, which is in line with his left. He could reach across with his free hand, while still holding the detonator switch, but she seems insistent. ‘
If you truly love me, Pele, I need your help ... and that means both hands, please.
’
How can he refuse? It would be unacceptably discourteous. He’s no longer holding the detonator switch, but as he smiles lovingly at her, she rips the mechanism from his wrist. He can’t believe what is happening, but as he opens his mouth, a single shot rings out from one of the tower block balconies. A high velocity bullet homes in on Pele Kalim’s forehead and shatters his brain.
‘No ... Pele ... no! Sulima screams, pulling at her lover’s jacket. ‘
The bastards said they would not harm you!
’
She’s reaching for his hand when a second shot is fired. The live wires from the detonator switch are caught between her fingers. There is only an inch between them. If they touch, the nuclear waste canisters will explode.
‘Allah Akbar!’ she yells angrily. She’s faltering while clutching at the detonator wires. She stumbles eventually and slides down along the steep railway embankment. Her body is motionless on the Hackney Downs ... but no one dares to do or say anything.
Epilogue
An Army bomb disposal squad approached cautiously when Pele’s co-conspirator, Assam, waved a white handkerchief and then emerged from the train cab with his hands in the air. A Captain in a flak jacket lifted the detonator wires from between Sulima’s fingers. They had already snapped, but not touched, at the top of the railway embankment. I shivered when a doctor knelt beside her. He shook his head slowly and then carefully closed the lids on her eyes.
She was dead, and I felt that Carla Hirsch was responsible. ‘
Don’t worry, honey ... we won’t hurt the Kalim guy, and as the Minister said, we’ll let him go to a country of his choice.
’
Mendacious bollox. ‘You killed her, you fucking bitch!’ I yelled. I wanted to strangle her, and if I hadn’t been restrained by the hovering Army Sergeant, I might at least have tried to get my hands around her neck.
‘There was nothing I could do,’ she answered with a faltering voice. ‘That was down to the Brits, Rudi ... it’s their responsibility and they had to weigh up the odds.’
Her face was drawn and her hands were shaking. The Army Sergeant was bigger than me though and Fiona Adler was taking my arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘She’s not worth it.’
* * * * *
Back at her house in Islington, Fiona put me into an armchair with half a tumbler of whisky.
‘You’re staying here until you get yourself together,’ she told me. ‘And when you’re ready, I’ll call Ingrid.’
I shook my head when she said this. I still had strong feelings for my Nordic friend, and they could have developed. I’m sure of that.
This wasn’t the time though for us to have a relationship. My head was too involved with Sulima and the treacherous circumstances of her death. It would take months, maybe years, for me to see anything about the Hackney Downs incident in perspective again. So Fiona could call my Valkyrie artist, but only after I had returned to the States.
* * * * *
My mom had a spare room in Sausalito. ‘
You can stay for a while if you want
,’ she said. ‘
Only you will need to go back to work eventually ... you appreciate that, I’m sure.
’
Some things never change. My story was that I had been present as a journalist at the incident on the Hackney Downs. A therapist in San Francisco suggested that I should do voluntary work with disadvantaged youngsters in the downtown area. We played some table tennis and rounders. I quite liked the kids and I helped a few of them to pitch for jobs. Back at Sausalito, however, my mom was driving me mad and my apartment in New York was vacant.
‘
You back in the saddle, boy?
’ a macho editor asked, and I was. First in Kabul and then Baghdad, where I got hit with a piece of shrapnel. In hospital, I saw a picture of my President with some Muslims. There was also a woman, described as an Assistant Secretary of State. I had to blink a couple of times, but the name under the photograph was definitely that of my former Controller. Her spiky dyed blonde hair was now straight and brown all over, but she still looked a little scary.
‘We’ve got a call from Washington,’ a Medical Corps Major told me that evening. ‘You can take it in my office.’
‘Hi – Rudi?’ a woman’s voice asked when I picked up the receiver.
‘Who is this?’
‘You don’t know?’
I didn’t at first, but then the inflections got to me.
‘Carla?’
‘Yeah ... how are you doing?’
‘I’m all right ... but – ’
Why was I talking to this woman? Last time I saw her, I wanted to wring her neck, or at the very least punch her jaw or one of her cheekbones. I never felt so aggressively inclined, and certainly not with a woman. Only Carla Hirsch was – well ...
‘Listen ... I know you’ve experienced a minor injury in the line of duty, Rudi ... it was in the
Post
. But I gather from the General Officer Commanding in Iraq that you’re coming back tomorrow on one of our planes ... and I’d like to see you ... ’
It’s not romance or a get together for old times’ sake, that’s for sure. My mouth’s twitching and I’m about to open fire with a string of expletives, but she’s gone ...
About the Author
The Holy Ghost Fathers were grim, but girls from the Jacobs biscuit factory were great. I wrote short stories at Trinity College Dublin before moving to the Athens Daily Post. Here, in the port of Pireaus, worldly dark-haired women asked if one would like to have a good time, while in Syntagma Square tourists talked admiringly about the Acropolis and the Parthenon.
Back in London on my first booze fuelled tabloid it was ‘deliver or you’re out, mate.’ As an assistant leader-writer I duly attacked the Germans in sixty words and praised the virtues of British farmers in one hundred and twenty. It was much the same on tabloids two and three where my editors were keen on unsavoury sexual set-ups for celebs, politicians and unfortunate people who just happened to be newsworthy.
For blogs + details of my other stories, please see
www.writerrowan.com
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