An extract from UnHoly Communion

In this extract Fareeza is in hiding, presumed dead, Iftikhar meets his uncle and we learn why Cedric is as he is!  Enjoy!!

With corrections!

Absolution

She sat as still as she could, as far into the corner of the dreary, unloved room, as possible.  Although she knew she could not be seen, she was aware that even the slightest shadow could reveal her presence to a hostile world.  In her imagination the street-light, shining unhindered through the curtain-less window, became a search-light with the sole purpose of picking her out, giving her position away.  It was ridiculous she knew, the result of watching too many Prisoner Of War films with her older brother, but the image was a strong one and the fear was much more real than she could have thought possible.  The air of neglect, the torn, mismatched wallpaper and the badly-marked furniture, added to the feeling that this was a place of refuge and that she was no more than an unwanted asylum seeker in a strange land.

Yet she had her own hero, one she could never have imagined behaving so selflessly, from the little she knew about him.  It was he who’d brought her to this ‘safe-house’, he who’d given her her meagre rations, he who’d told her that on no account must anyone know she was there and, “most important of all, never try to open the door unless you hear my key in the lock and recognise this knock.”  Until then she’d thought that he was only a half-man, an aberration.

She’d never be able to express her gratitude.  Not only had he forgiven her for what she’d thought and said and done about him – all of which had hurt him deeply, he’d given her, in return, the greatest gift of all, a new life.  Thanks to him she had literally been set-free from death.  The room in which she cowered was not, in reality, a prison-cell.  Instead she was sheltering, temporarily, from an enemy who wanted nothing more than her dehumanized demise, preparing for that moment when she could be re-born.  This was not her tomb, but a womb, a place of re-formation, from which she would emerge when the moment was right.

To ensure her freedom her saviour had had to take great risks, but now the risks would be hers, he could not save her a second time.  She must be invisible, inaudible and remain so for several days.

But her time could not be wasted, she would use her freedom wisely, choose her actions carefully; though at least now she knew who her enemy was and her fear for her own safety had been replaced by a far stronger emotion, her all-conquering love for what and who she cared for most.

She could no longer remain ‘lukewarm’; no longer continue in her cosy, unconsidered conformity.  In this new life opening before her passion would rule her head and become the flame that burnt-up all that was dross – in her life, in her community, in her world.  Her freedom had come at a price and in return she would exact her own justice, at her leisure.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *  *

As he sat on the familiar, well-worn settee with his can of diet-coke, straight from his uncle’s fridge, Iftikhar realised that his uncle was a remarkable man.  The moment he’d been dreading for two years had come and his uncle had not disowned him nor sent him away.  He had not even lectured him on the opportunities he had lost, never mind condemned him out of hand.  It was love he did not deserve, forgiveness he could not earn.  He could only be grateful that he had been given an opportunity to forgive another in return.

He’d waited until after dark, for no other reason than his reluctance to face him, though somehow he felt that the darkness offered him a kind of protection, as if some things were better said at night.  He’d even walked slowly, taking his time to remember the shops and the pubs, the old disused church, now a community centre, the well-shuttered ‘adult’ shop which they’d objected to, unsuccessfully.  He crossed the road to avoid the prostitutes gathered at the street corner and their pimps sitting out of sight in their flash cars, yet never more than fifty yards away.  The area really had gone down.  He never did understand why his uncle chose to remain there when so many of his friends had ‘gone upmarket’ moving to the new estates on the edge of the city.  The terraces which had once housed his wider family and their friends were now being ‘done-up’ by private landlords, anxious to provide accommodation for the latest wave of immigrants from Eastern Europe, with the in-comers no-hassle rent paid directly into their landlord's bank-accounts by a grateful local authority, struggling to meet government targets to absorb their quota of economic migrants.

He couldn’t explain what had made him choose that day to call, though he knew it was all part of getting his head round what he’d been asked to do and the reasons behind his rebellion.  Even then he’d spent many minutes standing indecisively at the end of the street and it was only when he heard his uncle’s familiar footsteps that he’d committed himself to speak the traditional words of greeting.  He still couldn’t believe the gracious response he’d received to his garbled utterance, a mixture of embarrassment and weariness.

They had wished each other peace and had shaken hands, not simply as a matter of routine, but with a warmth that gave the words and the accompanying gesture real meaning.  It had been his uncle who had eased them into conversation, inviting him in with a gesture which expressed familial hospitality and a degree of compulsion, with an unspoken, “why have you waited so long?”

His uncle had waited until they were settled in the lounge before he spoke.  “How are you, my nephew?  I have not seen you at prayer for some time now.  You have changed mosques perhaps, though I wouldn’t be surprised if you had, we are becoming such old men.”

Iftikhar leant-forward on the settee as he spoke, his shoulders tense.  In contrast his uncle sat at ease in his favourite armchair, well-back, watching carefully, with his clasped hands resting casually on his lap.  “Thank-you uncle, I am well and you are right, a group of us have been meeting for prayer in the youth centre recently.  It means that we do not have to leave the young people for too long and it has become our way of remaining united . . . .”  Iftikhar’s new-found confidence threatened to leave him and he found himself unable to complete his sentence, though his uncle heard the gap also, responding with the kind of gentle vigour which had won him much respect in many meetings.

“United?  Do you need me to remind you that you are always part of a united community, held together by the teachings and example of the prophet?  What is it that troubles you so much that you must separate yourselves from your own people, you and these friends at the youth centre?”

Iftikhar gave his uncle his full attention. However gentle the words, the interrogation was real and Iftikhar knew that he must listen, not just out of respect, but also because this man’s position within the community still gave him considerable influence over his affairs.  Besides, his uncle was, effectively, a father to him and his money had paid, not only for his education, but had also got him started in his mobile-phone business, paying the rent on his market-stall and now on his shop in the High Street.

“My child, I was young too, I know what it is to live in a godless world, a world indifferent to neighbours and ignorant of its duties towards Allah.  Perhaps you have found another way of living your faith, a way which is . . . maybe . . . at odds with the world around you?”

His uncle was fishing, but had placed his bait remarkably accurately.  Iftikhar could only respond with honesty.  He leaned still further forward, aware of the dip in the cushion and noticing the worn patch in the carpet where other feet had made their mark.  As with so much in his uncle’s life, the floor-covering would only be replaced when his uncle chose to spend money on himself, rather than his ever-increasing family.  Besides, as a widower with grown-up children, he spent more of his time visiting grandchildren and great-grandchildren than sitting at home.

“We feel that the imam is out of touch with the world we see.  He teaches us how to find God in prayer, in the words of the Quran, but not how to find God in the actions of men, of governments.  He does not show us how to deal with the arrogance of Western Governments as they bully our brothers and sisters in the countries in which our faith was born.  He tells us to live well, to be grateful for what we have, but he does not tell us how to live with the pain we feel at their suffering, their disgrace.  He calls us to peace, but we feel such anger, such a sense of injustice – is ours not a God of Justice as well as peace, will Allah not judge the nations, is not our struggle to be not only with our own demons, but with the ungodly powers in this world?”

He knew as soon as he said it that he had gone too far, but he could not pull-back the words nor disown them.  He could see that his uncle was visibly shocked, that his sighs were an indication, not of disappointment or displeasure, but of grief.  The silence almost reached breaking-point before the older man responded, choosing his words even more carefully than usual.

“There are many paths through life that a man may choose and choice is a freedom given to men by Allah himself.  But not every path leads to heaven, not every journey is a way to salvation.  Jihad is the name we are given for the struggle that each man must face within himself as that path is chosen, not once, but each day, each moment.  Be careful my son, for we must, every one of, answer on the Day of Judgement for the paths we have taken and we cannot blame those who journey with us for the actions we ourselves have taken.” 

Iftikhar found himself drawn-in, not least by the tone of his uncle’s voice, almost as if he was hearing him for the first time.  He wondered why it was that he had not paid this man more attention, sought his advice before on the many occasions when he had needed it.  The answer was, of course, that he had been young and arrogant, despising a generation that had been born so far away, in a culture alien to his own.

“You will always be welcome here, for you are not only my brother in faith, but also flesh of my brother’s flesh.  Yet remember that I know you, better than you can imagine and that I have seen more of life than you may believe.  I know that you are a good man, though not a perfect one – do not allow that goodness to be driven out of you by the words and deeds of those who would abuse it.  Do not become the tool in the hands of another, be the man I know you to be!”

He was not prepared for the agony that overwhelmed him, for he could not tell his uncle everything, he could not give him the reassurance he needed.  In the world in which he now lived secrets were the ‘gold-standard’ and trust a luxury that very few could afford.  He could only hope that his uncle could be as wise in his listening as in his speech.  His eyes were drawn to the clock on the mantle-piece and to the hand-written texts alongside it, but he knew that he must not be distracted, nor lose the momentum, but plunge in once again.

“My uncle, you speak well and wisely and I have considered these things for many months.  The path I have chosen is, I sincerely believe, the right one.  Yet I must take great risks if I am to follow it to its end and there are many who will judge me harshly, whatever the outcome of my risk-taking.  I have done many things which have hurt you and yet you still receive me into your home.  I have chosen friends for the wrong reasons and sometimes the wrong friends have chosen me and still you remain my truest friend.  I come here today to ask forgiveness for the past, but also to seek . . . “

Once again words failed him. What did he want, what did he need? He couldn’t tell himself, never mind this old, yet surprisingly wise man.  Once again his uncle paused, turning his attention to a piece of fluff on the arm of his chair, which he picked up, using his fingernails like tweezers, before depositing it in the over-full waste-bin to his right.  The old man sat back once more in his chair before he faced Iftikhar again, his face serious yet relaxed.

“I cannot forgive you for what you will do, but I do so freely for what you have done.  Nor can I give you my blessing or approval for actions still to be taken.  Yet I will tell you that I trust you, for that is, I know, what you wish to hear at this moment from my lips.  Now I have some dates and some cordial, will you not eat with me before you leave?  Come, all is ready in the other room.”

They both had tears in their eyes as they ate in silence at the kitchen table.  But for them the silence was one of companionship, not distress.  Like an old married couple they had achieved that level of understanding in which words limited the depth of meaning and proved inadequate to convey what was richer left unsaid.

Iftikhar shook his uncle’s hand once again as he left and stepped out of the house with a lightness of heart he had not felt for a long time.  His smile was not simply on his face and the world was very different to how it had been only an hour or so before.  His uncle had healed him, though he was the one who had caused his uncle great harm.  His uncle had absolved him, despite the fact that what he had done had gone against everything his uncle had taught him from the day his father died until now.

The glow in his heart lasted nearly all the way home.  And yet he knew that he must hurt his uncle again.  He could not hope that his uncle would forgive him another time or be able to understand why he must betray, why he must kill, why he must die.  In truth his actions would put him beyond human forgiveness; he could only cast himself before the Judge and beg for mercy from the Merciful One.

But Iftikhar knew what he must do and he understood why he must do it –it only remained to plan exactly how.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *  *

It was years since she’d known him as her son, yet, each day, without fail, he’d rung the nursing home to check on her progress, being certain that he spoke to one of the nurses who actually looked after her.  He had made it a rule that he would not go to bed himself until he was sure that she was safely tucked-in, having eaten properly and spent at least some time out of her room with the other residents.

Although he’d been told that her home was the best of the best, Cedric still employed a retired psychiatric nurse to visit her once a week to make her own assessment and give him her report by Friday night at the latest.  Finally, whenever he was back in the UK, he would make time for a visit, taking the flowers that she loved or playing the song she’d taught him on the car sound-system as they travelled back to the house where she’d lived most of her life.  Not that it wasn’t often a struggle even to get her into the car and many a time they’d had to return early.  But, with the help of the same nurse, they’d had the good days too, days when she recognised some small item or told them a story from the history of her family, about the son who would always be 7 years old in her mind, never the grown man standing less than a yard away from her.

The one person neither of them mentioned was her husband, his father.  His death was, said the inquest, an accident.  Which was true, though they both knew that he could have been alive today if Cedric had acted sooner.  However, at the age of seven, it had been assumed that he had simply panicked and run away, whereas in fact he had seen the blood and stood and gloated.  Cedric had watched his father’s suffering, seen his eyes mirroring the pain as he struggled to remain conscious and felt nothing but joy, his father’s weakness a source of hope that one day soon he would return home from school and not have to face the beatings and the crying that came afterwards, which was far worse.

As an adult he’d studied long enough to know that his father was a sadist of the worst kind, picking on him because he could never resist, would not be believed, would always accept that somehow he had deserved each blow.  A sadist who expressed remorse each time he hit him, all enshrined in a sickening ritual of pain and then the devilish tears which outlasted his own.  The tearful promise that he would never do it again was to be matched with a promise from his victim that he would never betray his father, who would always love him.

The loose slate which fell from the roof had hit his father as he slammed the door to keep the cold wind out of the house.  But, as far as Cedric was concerned, it was the action of a God of justice who had, at last, heard his cries of pain.  The day of his father’s death had been his day of re-birth and he was glad to be alive.