‘Can you just give me something? Who bought your tickets or who got you across the border? Someone I can ask.’
‘We drove.’
‘To Syria? From here?’
‘Taking medical supplies for a charity.’
‘Which one?’
He shrugged.
‘Which group were you with?’
‘Jaish Muhajireen wa Ansar. That’s the Army of Emigrants and Helpers — since you don’t speak the language.’
God, he was a pain. Sam bet he didn’t speak more than two words of Arabic either, but he was fluent in self-righteousness.
‘We were in an assault on a Scud base near Aleppo, then an army barracks at the airport.’ He shook his head. ‘Karza got lucky — he always does. They let him use the RPG and he scored a direct hit on a bus full of government conscripts. Went right to his head.’
Sam struggled to get his head round the idea of his little brother as a killer. Even after they’d received the photograph and he had seen Karza’s expression, he had dismissed it as showing off.
Bala sucked on the spliff until it glowed back to life. He reached forward and scratched his ankle, where something was bulging inside his sock.
‘What’s that?’
‘You should know. Aren’t criminals your special subject?’
Bala pushed his sock down. An electronic tag. ‘Cos I’m such a danger to society. I’m on a TPIM. You’ll know what that is.’
Sam did: Terrorism and Prevention Investigation Measures had replaced Control Orders but did much the same, a blunt instrument to keep tabs on would-be terrorists.
‘Just cos of going to Syria, never mind I didn’t fire a single shot.’
The smoke was starting to get to him, irritating his eyes. Bala coughed heavily into the hand that held the spliff, then waved it at Sam. ‘You don’t get it, do you? They’ve declared war on us. How’re we gonna fight back?’
Sam said nothing. He let him rant on.
‘Even you, with your degree, you’re still a target. We’re all targets. Better make up your mind which side you’re on.’
Sam decided not to engage with this. He’d come about Karza. ‘The Army of Helpers — do they have anyone based in the UK?’
Bala gave him a withering look.
‘Okay then, whoever organized the van you drove there. Just somewhere I can start. Come on, man. Mum’s bloody desperate.’
Bala reached for a Biro and tore off a corner of the local paper, scribbled something and passed it to him. On it was the name ‘Leanne’ and an address on the other side of Doncaster. ‘They worked out of there.’
‘Leanne?’
‘It was her house. She was the co-ordinator. Your brother had a bit of a thing for her. Maybe she’ll know something.’
‘Any phone number or surname?’
But Bala was done. He turned back to Jeremy Kyle. The large, beanbag of a woman had dissolved into sobs and was being comforted by her similarly shaped supporters.
Sam exited the room and turned towards the front door, but Jana was there, the child still clutching her long skirt. Like him, she had gravitated away from the other Muslims at school. Once, Sam and she had even talked about taking off for London together, escaping the stranglehold of family life. He tried to think of something to say. ‘Last time I saw you, you were in hot pants.’
It sounded clumsy and out of place.
She looked at him blankly. ‘Then you’ve not seen me in a long time.’
He gestured at her clothes. ‘How come?’
She ignored the question. ‘You going to help him or what?’
‘Bala?’
‘You saw that thing on his leg.’
‘It’s up to the authorities. The TPIM expires after two years.
He needs to stay out of trouble, though.’
‘Yeah, like he’s going to blow up a bus or something.’
He tensed, prepared himself for another speech. You don’t like this? Try Egypt, or Libya, he felt like saying. If only they understood how lucky they were to be here. In a hundred other countries Bala would have been locked up and forgotten — or tortured.
‘And that lot who’ve attacked us all along, before this kicked off. They gonna be tagged? How long do we have to go on getting battered, shit through our letterbox, bricks in our windows before you do something about it?’
‘Look, Jana…’
She pursed her lips.
‘… I’m just trying to find my brother.’
‘Fuck your brother. He got Bala into this.’
Victimhood: he could have written a whole dissertation on it. It was like a plague that had crippled the community, breeding a toxic combination of self-pity and thwarted entitlement. Thank God he hadn’t got involved with her. Instead he had got away. But something about the way the light had gone from her eyes touched him. ‘You’ve changed.’
She glared at him, then gestured at the boarded-up windows round the front door. ‘It’s not me that’s changed. It’s out there that’s changed.’
17
The house was Victorian, one of a terrace that seemed to go on for ever, winding up the hill. There was no sign of rioting in this part of town and, for that matter, no sign of any Muslim presence. A removal van was parked outside, its engine idling, the driver reading a paper propped on the steering-wheel. ‘War Zone Britain’ was the headline.
Sam pressed the entryphone. Above it there was a small security camera. He looked into it, trying to appear pleasant and unthreatening.
‘Yes?’ asked a metallic voice, through the speaker.
‘I’m here to see Leanne.’
Silence. He was about to press again when the door inched open. An elderly Asian man in a suit jacket that was too large for him peered out.
‘Is she here — Leanne?’
The old man continued to stare at him. ‘Wait.’
He shut the door.
It was raining hard. Sam started to feel foolish, his already battered morale ebbing away. Then the door opened again and a woman in her mid-twenties, pale but with large dark brown eyes, stood in front of him. Her face was attractive but unanimated, like an empty canvas waiting for someone to add the character.
‘Leanne?’
She didn’t answer, just waited for him to say something else.
‘I’m here about my brother — in Syria.’
She frowned. He guessed what she was thinking: that he didn’t look the part.
‘We’re from Bosnia originally.’
He couldn’t remember the last time he had owned up to this. He’d never raised it with Helen and she hadn’t asked. It sounded weird and out of context.
She opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter. For a second she reminded him of Helen. He felt a sharp pain as his conversation with her came back to him.
‘Are you Leanne?’
She had a maroon scarf draped over her head, and wore a long dark green smock with loose trousers. He followed her down a hall stacked with boxes into the kitchen where there were more boxes and black sacks. She stood in their midst.
‘Leanne’s not with us any more.’
Her speech was oddly formal. He also detected the trace of an American accent.
‘I’m Sahim.’ He felt the occasion merited his real name.
‘Nasima.’
‘Are you with the same organization?’
‘Just the medical supplies.’
Her tone was cool. Even though she had invited him in he felt he had already outstayed his welcome.
‘Look, I’m not — I’m just trying to trace my brother. He went to Syria — with this organization’s — seemingly with the help of this Leanne. A friend went with him — Bala Pazic — but he came back. He was injured. He was the one who told me to come here.’
She peered at him, frowning. ‘I’ve seen you on TV.’