Pilgrims Way Read online

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ Karta shouted, shaking with fury. ‘You’re an ugly, disgusting English pig.’

  ‘You’re going too far,’ Lloyd shouted back, his face pale with anger. He threw the mauled apple on the table and stood facing Karta, his hands on the point of bunching into fists. The paper slipped out of his grasp and fluttered to the floor. Daud could see his fear, could hear the nervousness in his breathing. Karta shrugged his shoulders at Daud, asking him to see that it was not his fault. He went back to his chair and returned to watching television. Lloyd too sat down, pulling a chair out and sitting at the table to finish eating his apple.

  Daud went out to the kitchen to make some tea. The window was open, and from outside he heard what sounded like a football being bounced on concrete, a dead, demoralising sound. Perhaps a boy strolling home from the playing fields in the quicksilver gloom of the late summer evening. It reminded him of being a child, bouncing a ball on his way home at dusk, lonely and frightened by aches whose meaning he could not understand. He leant out to hear more clearly. Birds flashed across his sight in a streak of black, so quickly that he was uncertain if he had seen anything at all. He did not want to return inside yet. It was the young boy who had unexpectedly recovered from fever that he remembered from the sound of the bouncing ball. Too weak to play with other boys yet, too ill even to return to school, ignored by everybody except Wire. The mad boy had befriended him because he was lonely too, had circled and cringed expecting to be rejected and abused. And on that morning in December he had run away from him while Bossy laughed at his mad mannerisms.

  Dear Catherine, You should’ve seen us then as we pushed off into the sea! Not this whipped creature that skulks in mouldy slums. You should’ve seen my Bossy! The sea was blue and calm under the morning light, the sun hot on our shoulders. The sail on the outrigger caught the breeze and we slipped over the sea with the hiss of an oiled keel cutting through water. Bossy started to sing, imitating the Kenyan singer Yasin. He sang very badly and only did it to provoke laughter. And we laughed with the raucous pleasure of being young and being alive, lifting our chins and bellowing at the sky. I remember he stood up and looked back towards land. Then he turned round to me and said didn’t it look beautiful from here. It was good to be out on the sea. It was like getting away from a suffocating room and running free in an open field, breathing in lungfuls of clean air. The water was cool, as you might imagine water to be, not like the lukewarm water out of a tap. It was the town that looked unreal. That famous water-front, with its white-washed houses and minarets, was like a quaint model in a builder’s office, clean and ordered, belying from that distance the chaos and the filth of the narrow alleyways. Visitors spoke of the charm of our narrow streets and steeply rising houses, and the pungent smell of spices in the air. They first saw us from the sea, from a distance that encouraged such self-delusion. From there it did not matter that the windows charmingly shuttered looked out of rooms that were congested with people, and enclosed women who were hidden from the lustful gaze of men. There were no smelly alleys to walk through, no slippery ditches to cross, no fanatical elders to humiliate you. From the sea, the town seemed the luscious heart of paradise. Come nearer and you have to turn a blind eye to the slimy gutters and the house walls that have been turned into open-air urinals. Come nearer so we can see whether you are dark or fair, friend or foe.

  But Rashid did not leave me to enjoy paradise for long. He was leaning against the side of the boat, one arm on the tiller and the other trailing in the water. I thought at first that he was just getting bored, so I changed the subject. I stopped talking about the town and asked him about the sea. That irritated him too, and he punched the water with frustration and anger. Poor Bossy, he had become obsessed with his family since his father’s death the previous year. He wanted so much to leave but he could not stop thinking about his ma and his sister Amina. Oh Yallah, he would say, what will they do on their own?

  The kettle whistled behind him and he turned to make the tea. Karta suddenly appeared at the kitchen door. ‘You didn’t take any notice, did you?’ he said to Daud, dropping his voice so Lloyd would not hear. ‘What I said about the girl . . . I didn’t mean anything. You understand, don’t you? Take no notice, I was only joking.’

  Karta stood in the kitchen for a minute longer, awkward now after the brief intimacy. Daud followed him inside with the tea. When Lloyd saw him come in, he made a space on the table and then began to bustle with the tea, pouring it and passing it round. He passed the apples too, holding the bag open for Karta to take one. Then they all three settled down to watching TV. When the dancing and singing girls came on, Daud made to move.

  ‘There’s a thriller after this,’ Karta said, putting an arm out to detain him.

  Daud evaded the arm with a smile. He sat in the toilet for what seemed a long time, hiding from the boredom of the television. He would have preferred to leave them to it and go upstairs, but the thought of the explanations deterred him. Dear Catherine, What can this feeble farmer have to offer you? Would you rather have a sports car than my powerful devotion?

  ‘Just in time!’ Karta greeted him on his return. ‘I was beginning to think you’d flushed yourself away. That must be some crap you did in there. Englishman, let’s switch over to the other side.’

  Lloyd looked at him, surprised at how far Karta was prepared to push him. He glared angrily but Karta only laughed and rose to switch stations himself. The sound of gunshot and screeching brakes abruptly filled the air as the commercials finished.

  ‘A thriller!’ Lloyd yelled, mocking Karta’s enthusiasm.

  ‘Have you got anything against that?’ he asked, going back to his chair.

  ‘It’s just escapism,’ Lloyd said, picking up his book.

  Karta burst into raucous and mocking laughter. ‘Somebody as idiotic as you should keep his mouth shut. When are you going to learn to do that?’

  Make me, Daud predicted.

  ‘That, at least, is something which the laws of this country are sworn to protect,’ Lloyd said, bristling with righteousness. ‘And it’s not a freedom that we’ll allow ourselves to be deprived of, even at the risk of displeasing people like you. Yes, you can laugh!’

  ‘You pompous bastard,’ Karta said, staring at the television with a grin on his face.

  ‘I may be pompous, but nobody’s going to stop me speaking my mind,’ Lloyd shouted, his face red with anger.

  ‘All right,’ Karta said, waving Lloyd down, his eyes still fixed on the television. ‘Not another lecture on the Magna Carta. Your countrymen told me all about that while I was gathering wisdom at their knees.’

  ‘You may’ve been told about it, but you haven’t understood it,’ said Lloyd, his voice rising still further with annoyance and dislike. ‘Just look at your Africa . . .’

  ‘Shut up, will you?’ shouted Karta, shifting his eyes at last to glare at Lloyd.

  ‘You see, if you don’t like what somebody’s saying, your answer is to shut them up,’ Lloyd shouted back. ‘That’s how tinpot dictators start. Just like your African ancestors! Just like the Pharaohs!’

  ‘You go on like this and I’ll smash your dirty mouth in . . .’

  Lloyd rose from his chair and faced Karta, his eyes darting with fear and excitement. He looked like a large clumsy animal preparing to defend itself to the death. Karta was silent with surprise. He glanced at Daud, but Daud made no sign. ‘You want to fight me,’ Karta said. It was half-question, half-incredulity, but none the less he rose to his feet, not wanting to be caught by a sudden lunge. ‘All right, come on. This has been coming for a long time. Come on, nasty English bug, I’m going to destroy you. I’m going to beat the fuck out of you and put you in a hospital. For sure!’

  Lloyd’s mouth fell open a little more. He shifted his weight nervously and clenched his hands into tighter fists. He lowered his head and looked to Karta to be on the point of charging him. A single, loud shot came from the television, followed by hysteric
al screaming. Karta could not restrain a grin at the sudden melodrama on the screen. He sat down again, leaned back and crossed his legs. Lloyd made no move but a heavy sigh of relief escaped him before he had time to stop it.

  ‘Yes, you were lucky then, English bed bug,’ Karta said, wagging a warning finger. ‘Next time you feel like having a fight, go find somebody your own size, eh? Somebody as wet and doughy as you. Because if you try me again, I’ll break your fucking neck.’

  Lloyd stood unresolved for a moment and then turned and switched the set off. The sudden silence was eerie. Karta raised his eyebrows to the ceiling and then glanced at Daud, waiting for him to say something. Still Daud made no sign, wanting them to get on with it and get it finished. Karta rose to his feet and pointed at the television.

  ‘Put it back on,’ he said, calm and grim. ‘If you don’t put it back on, I’ll beat the hell out of you.’

  Lloyd ground his teeth with nervousness but managed not to climb down. ‘You always have to have your own way, don’t you?’ he said, his voice trembling. He coughed to hide the weakness in his voice, but his whole body was shaking now and sweat was spreading in damp flushes over his face and arms. He seemed to Daud to be on the verge of climbing down, if Karta would let him. His fists slowly unclenched while he waited for Karta to make the next move. Karta suddenly stepped forward and landed sharp, stinging slaps on either side of Lloyd’s face. He had stepped back out of reach before Lloyd realised what had happened. Karta pointed again at the television. Lloyd glanced at Daud, then looked around him with quick nervous movements. His eyes fell on a piece of copper gas pipe, leaning against the wall behind the table. Daud had put it there in case of a repetition of an incident, months back, when three thugs posing as carol singers had tried to force their way into the house. With a sharp gasp, Lloyd moved forward and picked up the pipe. He held it out in front of him, smiling triumphantly at his new strength. His arms were still shaking and his grip on the pipe was wobbly and weak. He saw Karta grinning with amusement and took a step forward, grunting and swiping the air with the pipe. Lloyd leant forward, poised to swing the metal bar again. Standing with his feet wide apart, he swaggered a little, as if all his life he had been a vicious and canny street-fighter. He made another feinting swipe at Karta and grinned to see him jump back a step.

  ‘Not laughing any more now?’ Lloyd chuckled. ‘I thought you people were supposed to laugh all the time.’

  ‘I should’ve beaten the shit out of you, you English swine, a long time ago,’ Karta said.

  ‘All right, better late than never. I’m only a dough boy, so just step in and murder me! Come on, you fucking baboon!’ Lloyd shouted, relishing every word. ‘Whose arse was it you were going to beat the fuck out of? Come on, you black bastard! You fucking nig-nog! Here I am! Come and kill me!’ Lloyd spread his arms wide open, keeping the pipe in his right hand. As it swung through the air, it missed the naked light bulb by inches, making Lloyd glance at the bulb before grasping the pipe with both hands again. Karta bared his gums with irritation, knowing he should have rushed him then. ‘You’re an arrogant black shit,’ Lloyd shouted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying to work himself into a frenzy. His face was in constant motion, grimacing and clenching into knots, his lips blubbering between words. Small spots of white froth were beginning to form at the corners of his mouth. ‘I’d love to crack your beautiful skull open, you fucking monkey. Just try me, Sambo! See if I don’t stuff this thing up your black arse.’

  ‘You’ll die for this,’ Karta said softly.

  Daud knew that Karta was waiting for Lloyd to finish the abuse and become frightened again.

  ‘You’ll die for this,’ Lloyd mimicked, laughing at Karta’s threat. ‘You don’t even know how to talk. You see, you’re nothing but a . . . but a savage. You just threaten. That’s all you know, Carter Benson-Shitface! A proper slave name . . .’

  Karta moved forward with a growl.

  ‘Christ! Come on! I’ll smash your head in. Right now! Just try me. Slavery was a favour to an animal like you, you bastard. You ugly nigger, you baboon!’

  Karta looked at Daud. ‘Did you hear that? What did I tell you? You scratch an Englishman and you find that kind of animal underneath. You know what he wants now? Strike a blow against Black Sambo and die. You let him in your house and he sits here every night, and now it’s black baboon this and nig-nog that.’

  ‘No!’ Lloyd shouted at Daud. ‘Not you! I didn’t mean you!’ He tried to say something else but his voice caught in his throat and only vague incoherent sounds came out. When he tried again an arc of spittle flew through the air in front of him. He dropped his eyes in shame. Karta stepped forward and snatched the pipe from his hands. Lloyd’s face crumpled into a sob and his eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘One minute playing Tarzan, next minute playing Jane,’ said Karta. He threw the pipe behind him and glanced quickly at Daud to see if he would intervene. He walked forward and hit Lloyd in the stomach, doubling him over with pain. He yanked him straight and smiled at him, gloating over the bloated tear-stained face. He hit Lloyd again and again, as hard as he could, following him round the room as he barged into furniture and crashed into Daud. In the end Lloyd toppled to the floor, slobbering with fear and pain, his face covered with blood. ‘Get up!’ Karta said through gritted teeth, standing over Lloyd with bunched fists. ‘That was for my slave grandpapa,’ he said, watching the weals rise on Lloyd’s face. ‘Now this is for me.’ He turned and picked up the metal pipe. Lloyd looked at him and screamed for Daud. Karta swung the bar and landed a crushing blow on Lloyd’s shoulder. Lloyd screamed, and called again for Daud. Karta glanced round to see if Daud would stop them. When he did not, he swung the bar again, aiming for Lloyd’s buttocks. Lloyd was sobbing frenziedly now, abandoned and in agony.

  ‘You’ll kill him,’ Daud said.

  Karta picked Lloyd up and pushed him against the wall. ‘The days of the black baboon are over,’ he told him. ‘Now get out of here!’

  ‘Leave him!’ Daud said. ‘If you’ve finished your business just leave him.’

  Karta waited a moment for Daud to explain himself. Daud stood up in silence, waiting for him to go. In that small room they were standing close together, and Daud saw Karta’s triumph turning to surprise.

  ‘You’ve had your fight, now leave him!’ Daud said angrily.

  Karta stared at Daud with disbelief. He spun round and buried a last blow into Lloyd’s midriff. Lloyd groaned through his sobbing and slid down the wall again. Karta gave Daud a bitter look and gathered his things to go. Daud waited until he heard Karta’s footsteps on the pavement fade into the gathering summer darkness. Then he helped Lloyd to the kitchen and cleaned him up a little under the tap. When he had washed the worst of the blood off, he persuaded him into a chair and made him a drink.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lloyd said when he had recovered a little.

  ‘When you feel better . . . when you can walk properly, you’d better go home and get some rest.’

  As Lloyd lay recovering in a chair, Daud rearranged the furniture. He found his list of repairs and folded it carefully into his shirt pocket. It seemed an age ago now, but it was still only nine o’clock. He saw that Lloyd had dozed off. He thought he would leave him for a while although he desperately wanted him to go. He would give him half an hour and then wake him up. The fight had surprised him with its bitterness. He felt some disgust now at his silence but he was determined to let them indulge their loathing of each other. So often he had intervened to prevent a fight and beatings. He had not really expected them to fight, he realised, had not understood how near the surface their bitter dislike was. Not for a moment had he expected Lloyd to triumph, but Karta’s ferocity had been unexpected. Because of a few monkey taunts from a frightened man? To beat a man senseless with a metal bar for such stuff?

  He woke Lloyd up after half an hour. He wanted him to go and had restrained himself several times already. He wanted to be by himself, to write
crazy letters in his head and drive himself mad with loneliness.

  Lloyd came reluctantly to his senses, groaning and panting as the pain returned. ‘I’m sorry,’ Lloyd said, clinging to Daud’s arm.

  ‘You’d better go.’ Daud shook his arm free, gently, but none the less rejecting Lloyd’s appeal. Lloyd’s brow felt hot to Daud’s hand, as if a fever was coming on him. Daud helped him into his jacket and walked ahead of him to the door. ‘Will you be able to walk home or shall I come with you?’

  Lloyd shook his head and then wobbled against the wall. Daud steadied him and wondered if he should really take him to the hospital. Some of Karta’s blows looked as if they had done real damage. After all the shouting and groaning earlier, he did not want his neighbours telling the police about a battered man they had seen staggering out of his house.

  ‘I’m sorry about the things I said,’ Lloyd said, clutching Daud’s arm again.

  Daud nodded. ‘Yes, I know but you’d better go home now,’ he said, holding the door open for him. ‘Do you think you can walk all right? Shall I take you to the hospital?’

  Lloyd shook his head and walked away.

  15

  He switched the lights off as he passed into the tunnel that led up to his bedroom. The stairs smelled of rancid and dusty carpets, the smell of cheap rented rooms. He felt his way up, anticipating in his nostrils the odour of sweat that always lingered in his room however much he aired it. He lay down on the bed, and as he rolled over he felt a sinew snap inside his nostrils and his nose beginning to run. He put a finger across his nostrils while he felt for a handkerchief. He could feel his whole hand getting warm and wet, and even as he took it away from his face he knew that it would be covered with blood.