He looked at the computer screen in satisfaction as he proceeded with his work, the light playing a bit of a trick on him so that he could make out his reflection in the screen. Before him was the ghostly image of a bearded man in his early thirties, a man with a shameful past and a very proud future. Only in his quiet brown eyes could he see the youth he once was, a drunken, ganja-using lout who had roamed the streets of Brixton at night, breaking into shops or parked trucks, stealing and drinking and whoring and drugging, showing no respect for himself, his family, or his neighbors.
A shameful past, for sure, but one that really didn’t bring him to shame. That moment had come after his first arrest as an adult, when instead of going to the usual juvenile facility, he ended up at H.M. Prison at Maidstone, where—
Henry paused in his typing, swallowed hard. Even now, it was difficult to recall what had happened there. Slight in build, he had still thought he knew how to handle himself, how to defend himself… but after just a few weeks he had been a broken boy (not a man — would a man have allowed that to happen?) who would cower in a corner, shivering, his asshole plugged with toilet paper to stop the bleeding.
Until…until deliverance came, in the form of a dark-skinned man, originally from the Sudan, who had offered him protection. His name was some indecipherable series of African syllables that Henry could not understand, so he called him Jack. At first he had turned Jack away, thinking that he was exchanging one tormentor for another, but no, the Sudanese had no interest in his body. Just his soul, and after one hairy tattooed thug had his testicles razored open in the shower Henry had been left alone. The Sudanese had begun teaching him, teaching him the prayers and history of the Prophet, and by the time he had been released from prison he had converted and changed his name — and, of course, his life.
He had owed the Sudanese everything, and in exchange for saving his life and his soul Jack had asked for only a few favors: for Henry to return to Brixton upon his release from prison, to begin a holy life, and, of course, to be available to perform a service or two. And Henry, still waking up at night shivering from the memories of his first few weeks in prison, had readily agreed to help.
The requests had always been minor. Gather up some of his new brethren from the local mosque and join a demonstration in front of the Israeli embassy. Help distribute copies of an Islamist newspaper in the district. And, once, report to two hard-faced men the names of those young men in the area, unbelievers, who were troublemakers. That particular task had worried him just a bit, especially when two of the troublemakers were found in trash cans, their arms broken. But a night of reflection and prayer, and memories of how the Sudanese had protected him in prison, had washed away any remnants of guilt.
Now this latest task was easier still. Set up an e-mail account with a particular password and address. Check the e-mail account three times a day for a specific message. And when that message arrived — as it had, just an hour ago — carefully copy the attached photo files to a diskette, and deliver the diskette to an officer at the local mosque.
Simple, quite simple, and Henry cared not for what was in the message, only that he was helping repay that terrible debt from his time in prison. He had met with Jack — out on his own now for over a year — at a local coffee shop where the talk had ranged loosely from their shared time in prison to gossip about neighbors attending the mosque to the current struggle. And at the mention of the struggle, the Sudanese had looked around himself for a moment, and then had leaned over to Henry.
‘May I give you advice, brother — confidential advice?’
But of course, Henry had said.
‘It must be kept completely confidential. I cannot impress on you how important this is.’
Henry had nodded in quiet excitement, thinking that he was being told something important, something no doubt to repay him for the small favors he had done over the years.
Yes, I understand the importance, Henry had said. You can always rely on me.
The Sudanese had smiled, his big teeth white and even. ‘We have relied on you for many things, my brother. So listen, and listen well. It’s true, is it not, that you have family in the United States?’
My wife does, Henry had said cautiously, not sure where the Sudanese was going with his questioning.
‘We thought so.’
And Henry had thought that he did not recall ever, in prison, telling the Sudanese any details about his wife’s family. The thought made him swallow hard. What was the Sudanese driving at?
Henry had told the Sudanese, Yes, my wife has a sister who lives in Detroit. Near Dearborn.
Jack nodded in understanding. ‘Very good. So I tell you this, brother. Do not travel to the United States anytime in the next few months. Do you hear me?’
A little shiver of something had made its way to his chest at the words the Sudanese had said. Truly? he had asked.
‘Truly.’ The Sudanese had nodded emphatically. ‘And that is all I will say about that.’
So that had been it. And now Henry was here, in the basement, fulfilling the latest request from the tall African. He remembered that chill, that—
Footsteps.
Coming down the stairs.
Working quickly, he worked a series of keys until the screen he had been working on was replaced with another. The sacred words of the Prophet.
He looked up. His wife Mariah was now there, plump and smiling hesitantly, black headscarf over her hair.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Sorry to disturb you, husband. It’s just that… well, I have wonderful news.’
‘You do?’
Her hands were clasping an envelope with American stamps on it. She said, ‘It’s from Azannah. Her husband’s car dealership has had a wonderful spring. She wants to fly me and the girls to see her next month, and I—’
‘No.’
Mariah stopped, looked at him, and lowered her voice. ‘Henry, please, it’s been so long since I’ve seen my sister and my nephews and—’
He shook his head. ‘No. I will not allow it.’
‘But Henry, it’s—’
Another shake of his head. ‘The discussion is finished. You and the girls are not to travel to the United States. Ever. Understood?’
Her face colored and she nodded. ‘Understood.’
Mariah turned and went back up the stairs, her footsteps heavier this time, and Henry sighed as he resumed his work. No doubt there would be a week of cold meals and even colder words, but it had to be done. Others would have laughed off what Jack had told him, but not Henry. Not since that day in the prison shower when that tattooed tor-mentor of his had started bellowing like a bull, his hands clasped at his bleeding crotch. If Jack said something was going to happen, then Henry was going to believe it.
There. Finished. He shut down the computer and ejected the diskette, slipped it into a padded envelope. His work for now was done and he recalled that feeling he had experienced, that little shiver when Jack told him not to travel to the United States, that hated place, that cesspool of infidels…
The first time he noticed it, he had wondered: what was causing that shiver? And, of course, he had remembered that wonderful day, that September when he had watched with smiles and outright laughter those twin towers of Babylon burning and crumpling to the ground. The shiver was one of happiness, excitement, at seeing hammer blows struck against the unholy, and at the knowledge that somehow, with his work with Jack, he was helping to strike another hammer blow.
How wonderful.
Yet… Mariah’s sister and family. Could there not be a way of warning them?
Henry stood up, thinking. A puzzle, a quandary, that he would have to think and pray over for the rest of the day.
