The A39 pulled the ladder up and, inside of a minute, the Mohawk took off. Puppy felt a chill and it wasn’t from the wind.
They hurried towards the trees as a battered truck with a crescent moon and star on its panels roared toward the mailbags. Crouching behind a sad tree, they watched a thin Allah cheerfully toss the bags into the back of the truck, singing loudly before jumping back behind the wheel. He playfully drove around in a figure eight as if this were his first time behind a wheel. After a few more wild spins, the Allah drove off.
Walking on the makeshift path, they easily found the main road a quarter of a mile away and followed the sign, Landan, 5.3 km. A tiny yellow car which looked like it belonged in a child’s playroom puttered past. Honking arrogantly, a long black vehicle nearly drove it off the road. This was repeated several times, small cars driven by Westerners honked at and, if need be, bumped out of the way by ones driven by Allahs.
They squeezed each other’s hands that much tighter and joined the queue winding back out of the train station. Puppy steered Annette toward the passenger line marked by a cross with a red X, guarded by sneering Allahs in black robes.
As the train chugged into the station, Allahs rushed forward, taking all the cars except the last. None of their compartments were remotely crowded. A guard barked a guttural sound supported by waving rifles to hurry the non-Allahs into the rear car.
They could barely turn in the packed car drenched with sweat and stale breath. A conductor, mouth curling at such close contact with Crusaders, snapped his fingers in the doorway and tickets or money were passed down. He didn’t worry that anyone would cheat since that was, along with approximately four hundred and fifty-two other infidel infractions, punishable by death.
Annette gave Puppy a weary brave smile and leaned against his arm. He stroked her hair. Several people stirred uneasily.
A ruddy-faced man in a worn suit leaned over, whispering, “Best not, mate. Public affection.”
Puppy nudged Annette off. She could barely stand. Puppy gave the man a grateful smile and glanced out the window. Just outside the London city limits, they passed a billboard of a Union Jack smothered by the crescent moon and star. The message was translated.
Allahu Akbar.
More signs flanked the tracks as they rolled into Charing Cross Station, mainly commercials of happy Allahs enjoying wondrous cigarettes or comfy furniture. Loudspeakers in the massive terminal shouted mainly in Arabic with occasional brief, almost taunting breaks in English.
Puppy and Annette walked up and down a pathway of food stores, trying to understand signs.
The ruddy-faced man came up to Puppy’s left shoulder. “You look bloody suspicious, mate.” He nodded toward the Allah armed patrols. “They’d love an excuse to shoot you. That’s good for their morale. Just keep walking.”
“We’re looking for the subway,” Annette said quietly.
“Tube,” the man corrected her, smiling faintly. “Where are you going?”
Puppy closed his eyes a moment to remember. “Great Jones Street.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the business there?”
“Shopping,” Annette said brightly.
He smiled again. “Excellent choice. Take the gray line four stops and get off at Martyrs Lane. Great Jones Street’s two blocks south.”
“Thank you.” Annette stopped the man. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Ladies’ toilet is down the corridor,” the man said in a loud voice as a three-man patrol passed.
The tube was like the train like the road and, as they realized, like the very streets, Crusaders shouldering aside to allow Allahs to pass. They waited five minutes for giggling teens talking loudly into those strange handheld phones to haughtily allow them onto the subway platform.
Annette squeezed Puppy’s shoulder so tightly his arm ached. She nodded, stunned, at a poster of him behind the cross-marked benches. He was exultant in his baseball uniform, eyes skyward; at his feet lay Grandma. No need to translate the Arabic words.
“At least not everyone hates you, honey.”
He could only shake his head.
They walked up the tube steps onto Martyrs Lane as the sun started its descent. Carefully keeping as far from the main Allah sidewalk as possible, they strolled casually along the high street boasting colorfully decorated windows touting expensive goods, before turning as instructed along Great Jones Street, where the English stores seemed blighted by comparison.
A sprightly bell tinkled over The Dead Past. Two burqas huddled over a counter, dark eyes narrowing in the slits. The owner, a squat man with wispy gray hair, frowned and flicked his hand, indicating Puppy and Annette should wait outside, returning with an obsequious smile to his customers.
They waited nervously at the edge of the alley in the fading light before walking up and down the street, window shopping.
“Who’d eat that?’ Annette whispered at shriveled vegetables tossed in a basket outside a grocery mart, as if the proprietor was angry about selling such crap. A fat man with a funny hat growled in Arabic and they stepped aside. Even the Westerner path was subject to Allah ownership. Everything was subject to Allah ownership, Puppy thought, catching a glimpse of skyscrapers festooned in that squiggly lettering peering out of the darkening clouds.
The burqas passed as if Puppy and Annette were invisible; they casually re-entered the store. The owner wasn’t happy to see them.
“Don’t you know better?” he snapped. “They could’ve burnt down my store just for you coming in when an Arab customer’s here.”
He turned his back. Puppy leaned against the counter while Annette nearly pressed her face against the glass covered jewelry display.
“What do you want?” the man scowled.
“We’re friends of Grandma.”
The man barely reacted save for a slight twitch of his lower lip. “That’s no friend of mine. I’ve got to close.”
“Not yet.”
“I said go.” The owner polished a silver teapot, wishing he could get rid of Puppy and Annette as easily as the smudge.
“Do you know who he is? Puppy Nedick.”
