the numbers of those converting to Islam while behind bars. There were those who were every bit as concerned at these figures as Shakir was delighted; pointing to what they saw as a troubling degree of radicalisation going on at the same time. They held up the example of Richard Reid – the so-called ‘shoe bomber’ – who had become radicalised at Feltham YOI, and of Muktar Said Ibrahim – one of the leaders of the failed 21/7 attacks in London – who had spent two and a half years in Huntercombe YOI. Numerous reports now openly declared that those the imam believed to be searching for something were finding it in the more extreme elements of the Islamic faith.
Fuel to the fire, sadly, for those with an ultra-right-wing agenda, and to the simply ignorant who imagined plots being hatched beneath every minaret.
Worrying reading, nonetheless.
Shakir clearly saw the way Thorne’s mind was working and nodded. ‘Of course, I know how this… blossoming is being interpreted in certain quarters. I am familiar with all the predictable scaremongering. “Breeding grounds for Jihad.” “Universities of terror.”’ He shook his head. ‘It is a shame that boys who have been called gangsters and jail-birds are now called terrorists, when all they are doing is sitting peacefully and reading, and I don’t need to remind you that none of those studying the Bible seem to be labelled in the same way.’
‘Was Amin one of those boys?’
‘Amin was… lost,’ Shakir said. ‘That was very obvious.’
Thorne thought about how the governor had described Amin. Studious and quiet, with a small group of friends. ‘That’s not the impression I’ve been given,’ he said.
‘Whatever your impression, he had that same emptiness inside him that so many others in this place have. I reached out to him, but sadly I could do nothing to help.’
Thorne remembered a boy who, though raised as a Muslim, had shown no inclination whatsoever towards profound religious belief.
He said as much to Shakir.
‘I am aware of that, but what better opportunity could he have had to rediscover the faith he had lost? A guiding force which would offer hope and comfort. And believe me, such things are in short supply around here.’
‘So, when you say you “reached out”… ’
‘Approaches were made to him by several boys whose lives have already been changed.’
Thorne pictured the posse of Shakir’s acolytes waiting just outside the door. He could not help but ask himself how gentle these ‘approaches’ had been and if one or two of the boys in grey skullcaps would be altogether welcome when they came knocking on a cell door. He wondered if one of them might even have been responsible for the attack that had put Amin Akhtar in hospital.
Had his rejection of the faith been taken too personally?
Once again, Shakir appeared to have seen something in Thorne’s face. ‘I also spoke to him myself,’ he said. ‘Several times, in fact. But as I have already said, I could not get through to him. I could see that he was lost and, if I am honest, I was not surprised at what eventually happened.’ He raised a hand and laid it against his narrow chest. ‘I must accept that my failure was at least partially to blame for… what he did.’
The distaste had been plain enough in the imam’s reedy voice. ‘You don’t like the fact that he killed himself?’
‘Of all the bounties bestowed on human beings by Allah, the most precious gift is life.’ Shakir leaned towards Thorne. ‘It has been granted to us, but it is not our possession and is not ours to throw away. The Qu’ran makes it perfectly plain, I’m afraid. To take one’s life is as sinful as taking any other.’
Thorne asked himself what Mohammad Sidique Khan or any of the other 7/7 suicide bombers would have thought about that, but he said nothing.
‘Most other faiths believe this too, I think you’ll find. Suicide was illegal in this country, once upon a time.’
‘Right,’ Thorne said. ‘And in theory you can still be banged up for not practising archery twice a week.’
Shakir smiled, a few less teeth on display. ‘You used to bury their bodies at a crossroads,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Those who had taken their own lives. At night, with a stake through the heart.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Thorne smiled back. ‘You think we should have done that with Amin’s body?’ He gathered up the files that he had set down next to the chair. ‘Maybe asked his mother and father to do it?’
The imam chuckled and stood up slowly. Said, ‘You are being rather facetious now, I think, but that is fine, and I can tell that you are keen to get on.’
Thorne thanked Shakir for his time, though even as they shook hands he remained unsure as to exactly why the imam had thought their conversation would be of any use. He felt rather as though he had just seen muscle being flexed. He opened the door and, with no more than the odd brush of shoulders, eased his way through the devoted gathering outside, which had now grown to more than a dozen.
As he walked away, he was aware of Shakir beckoning them into the chapel. Without a word, they trooped inside. Thorne guessed that afternoon prayers were imminent and there was unwelcome paraphernalia to be cleared away.
FOURTEEN
She hadn’t stopped thinking about Alfie of course, not for one second, but there had been practicalities to consider. A relationship to establish with Javed Akhtar and the worrying condition of the man sitting next to her.
A situation to try and get on top of.
Now, as Helen looked at her watch, the image of her son’s face knocked the breath from her, and she pictured the childminder trying to get him to sleep for half an hour after his lunch. Janine, holding him and shushing while she rubbed his back. The way Helen had shown her – small circles, low down on his back – even though Janine had three kids of her own and knew perfectly well what to do.
The way he liked.
Panic-stricken suddenly, she tried to reassure herself that she had packed the soft toy he liked to clutch when he was sleeping. The raggedy, greenish-brown thing that might have been a frog and might have been a bear.
Yes, she had packed it. She had packed everything.
The same chaotic routine every morning, struggling to get herself and Alfie ready and out of the flat. Snatching bites of toast while she got dressed and made up and Alfie crawled unerringly towards every sharp corner he could find or reached up for any heavy object he might just be able to pull down on top of himself. Stuffing things into her own bag, and into his. Court reports and photographs of bruised and bleeding children. Nappies, toys and teething gel.
Then the struggle with the pushchair on those sodding stairs. Ten minutes’ walk to Janine’s and that last cuddle, then on towards the station. Chewing gum and chocolate.
That last cuddle…
She thought about the catch in his voice that killed her when he cried and the way he gummed at her chin, fastening on like a limpet as he tangled his fingers in her hair.
The smell when she nuzzled at the back of his neck.
Akhtar was next door in the shop. Helen could hear him moving things around and the noise of glass being swept. She guessed that he was trying to clear away the mess he had made earlier.
That was a good sign, she thought. A desire for order.
Stephen Mitchell sat bolt upright at her side, running with sweat and scratching at himself. His eyes were closed and he was mouthing words she could not make out clearly.
Alfie would need picking up in a couple of hours’ time. Janine was always strict about that, with a school run to take care of and a husband coming home from work. Helen would always call, even if she was going to be just a few minutes past pick-up time…
Sweating, as she ran from the station.
They would have organised something, she was sure about that. Maybe Janine had already heard about it,
