Mohammed Maguire Read online

  MOHAMMED

  MAGUIRE

  COLIN BATEMAN

  Copyright © 2001, Colin Bateman

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Mohammed Maguire

  Colin Bateman was born in Northern Ireland in 1962. For many years he was the deputy editor of the County Down Spectator. He received a Northern Ireland Press Award for his weekly satirical column, and a Journalist's Fellowship to Oxford University. His first novel Divorcing Jack won the Betty Trask Prize.

  For Andrea and Matthew

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  THE LEDGE

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  THE LEDGE

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  PROLOGUE

  Not for the first time that morning there was a child crying in Santa's grotto.

  Santa, with his expansive girth and expansive mouth, and his chins covering a wide expanse of his expansive chest, snarled helplessly at her as she hurtled away across the cracked linoleum, screaming for Mummy. Then an elf whispered in his ear, 'There's something up, I can feel it in my water.'

  'Yo friggin' ho,' Santa growled.

  And there was. Upstairs, Mr Clarke sat with a bottle of whiskey, the receiver sitting off the hook on the desk before him, staring out of the window. He was on his fourth glass, four in fifteen minutes. Anyone's head would be spinning with this news, with the enormity of it. It was Christmas Eve.

  He had been fingering the microphone for several minutes. Christmas Eve! He could see his staff on the monitors, diligently working, or at least diligently standing in the absence of a rush of customers, their green and red elf outfits suitably festive and suitably cheap. Mr Clarke's ability to cut corners was legendary, and even if he did have to replace the crêpe paper outfits at regular intervals it was still less expensive than investing in proper uniforms. Even when they did inevitably fall to pieces he was able to plaster the arms and legs all over the shop and cut back on needlessly expensive tinsel.

  But was he congratulated? Was he hell.

  The decision to close J.M. Huff and Sons, Belfast's leading toy store, on Christmas Eve was taken lightly. Or at least it seemed that way. Some nameless accountant in some nameless city across the Irish Sea had calculated that Christmas rush or no — and in fact it was no — the shops that formed part of the group that formed part of the chain that formed part of the multinational retail conglomerate had to close, and had to close now. On Christmas Eve. That, or the receivers would be brought in and they would lose everything.

  Shut those tills.

  Sack those staff.

  Yes, we know it's Christmas. Just do your job. Not that you have one.

  Mr Clarke switched on the microphone. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he began, then coughed. Tears welled up in his eyes. Christmas Eve.

  On the ground floor Mo was approaching one of the tills. An elf was behind it, filing her nails. Hardly anyone else was in the store, and the shelves were full. Two security guards stood chatting and smoking in the doorway. Mo carried a huge bear. Huge and £48.99. It was for Tar. For Christmas.

  He put the bear on the counter and offered the elf the money. She took a moment to finish off a nail, then smiled impatiently and put out her hand.

  'Do you want it wrapped?' she felt obliged to say as she started to count.

  Mo shook his head.

  And then the PA crackled again and a moist, strained voice said, 'I regret to announce that due to difficult, nay impossible, trading circumstances, headquarters has ordered that this store be closed forthwith to prevent further losses.'

  The elf looked at the ceiling. The security guards flicked ash on the floor and shrugged.

  'All tills should be locked immediately.' Mr Clarke gripped the microphone a little harder. 'Customers, if there are any, would you kindly leave the store, and many thanks for your support over the years.' He cleared his throat. 'There will be a staff meeting . . .' his voice finally cracked, '. . . sometime.'

  The elf pulled off her hat and rammed the cash drawer closed. She reached the money back to Mo. 'I'm sorry, sir,' she said, 'this position is now closed.'

  'I've given you the money.'

  'And I'm giving it to you back. Forty-eight ninety-nine.'

  'I don't want it back. I want the bear. Ring it in. It won't make any difference to you.'

  'I'm sorry, sir, I'm only following orders.'

  'That's what they said at Auschwitz.'

  She put her hand on the bear and began to pull it towards her. Mo retained his grip. 'It's Christmas, for Christ's sake,' he said.

  'And Merry Christmas,' she said, 'but the bear stays.' She gave it a tug.

  Mo tugged back. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

  'I'm not the ridiculous one.' She gave it a good one, nearly got it, but Mo hung on and pulled even harder back and the bear came free in his hands.

  'Sir!'

  'It's my bear. Now are you gonna take my friggin' money?'

  'No, sir.'

  'Right.' He swiped the money off the counter and put it back in the pocket of his donkey jacket. 'Right,' he said again. He turned away from the counter, bear in hand. Two hands, in fact, it was a bloody big bear.

  The security men were looking at him. One was grinding his cigarette into the ground, and the other wore white socks. Mo looked back at the elf. Her eyes narrowed, daring him.

  He gave a little shrug and started to run.

  'Security!' the elf shouted, and the chase was on.

  Through the ground floor. Through Barbie and Barnie and Rugrats and Bananas in Pyjamas and Noddy and Oakey Doakey and then up the stairs to Star Wars and Star Trek and Jurassic Park and Toy Story, the security guards on his heels, Mo throwing everything back at them as he passed: footballs and rag dolls and life-sized cardboard cutouts of the Spice Girls. But they battled on; they hadn't had this much excitement in years, it didn't matter to them that they were no longer being paid for it.

  Second floor and the administration offices. Mo ran on.

  No Christmas up here. Dull blue walls, chipped and graffitied, closed doors, empty rooms. The security guards smashed through the swing doors behind him. Dead end. Him and the bear. He rattled the first door — locked. The second and third. They were nearly on him; he heaved his shoulder against a fourth and it gave way.

  He was in a boardroom. A big table, a dozen chairs, a film of dust. He was on the far side of it, windows behind him looking over the city, the guards on the other side, puffing, holding out placatory hands, palms upward. 'Just put down the bear!'

  Mo and the bear. The security guards, nicotine fingers, breathing hard. Mo stepped back. He reached up, his hand feeling blindly for and then grasping the window handle while he watched for any sudden moves. He pulled the handle. It opened, a draught of cold crisp air. He pulled himself up onto the window sill. The security guards, ashen-faced now, began to move round the table
towards him. Mo and the bear stepped out onto the ledge.

  He looked down.

  It was a long way down.

  The security guard, at the window now, said pretty much the same. 'Sir, please, it's a long way down!'

  Mo took a deep breath, nodded and began to shuffle along the ledge.

  A shadow passed behind Mr Clarke, but he did not notice. He had finished one bottle and was contemplating another. Then the door to his office shot open and there were two drop-jawed security men looking at him, and for a moment he feared that they'd been sent to remove him and his belongings, but then he saw they were not looking at him but beyond him and he swivelled in his chair and saw Mo, or Mo's back, or Mo's back and a bear, or Mo's back and a bear's back, moving past his window.

  He was up out of his seat in a flash. He was the manager. The manager still. The manager still and pissed. The security guards were at the window already, but he pulled them back. 'Let me,' he said, 'let me.'

  They stepped back. Nobody had said anything about window ledges when they were hired, so they were quite relieved.

  Mr Clarke leant out of the window. The cool air hit him and he suddenly felt quite dizzy. He shook his head, which didn't help. He gave it several moments to clear, then bent out to look at Mo and his bear. Or Mo and his bear.

  Mo, shivering already, back to wall, was staring at the ground.

  'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' Mr Clarke said.

  Startled, Mo nearly slipped. He turned his head. His eyes were wide and panicked. Mr Clarke's were small and bloodshot.

  'What's it look like, you stupid bastard?' Mo shot. 'I just wanted to buy the friggin' bear — it's Christmas!'

  'I know it's Christmas, but there's no need for this . . .'

  'That's easy for you to say! My life's falling apart! And I can't even buy a friggin' bear without someone trying to arrest me!'

  'You're not happy! I'm not happy! I've to sack forty-eight of my staff this afternoon, and it's Christmas for them too!'

  Mo slumped back against the wall. There were tears in his eyes. Mr Clarke tried to hold back the tears as well.

  Mo looked at the ground, way below. At the innocent shoppers and the fairy lights adorning the shop windows opposite. 'What's the point in it all?' he said weakly.

  Mr Clarke climbed out onto the ledge.

  'Keep back!' Mo yelled. 'Keep back! I'll jump! I swear to God I'll jump.'

  'So jump. I'll follow you down. I've had enough of all this.'

  Mo looked incredulously at Mr Clarke, then shuffled a bit further along to make room for him.

  Down below the fire brigade arrived. Shoppers stopped to gawk. A child pulled her mother's arm and said, 'Look, Mum, jumpers!'

  A newly unemployed elf turned to another and pointed to the top floor. 'Look — Mr Clarke!'

  The other nodded sagely. 'He won't be handling the redundancy counselling then.'

  On the ledge, Mr Clarke said, 'Is it just about the bear?'

  'Don't try to analyse me!'

  'I'm not! I'm not! I don't care! I'm only being polite.'

  'We're about to kill ourselves, and you're being polite!'

  Mr Clarke shook his head wearily. 'Death is no excuse for bad manners.'

  They both looked at the growing audience below. The fire brigade was busy inflating something.

  'We gotta keep moving,' Mo said, and they edged round the side of the building.

  For the moment they were alone. Mo sighed. 'No,' he said, 'it's not just about the bear. It's . . .' He shook his head. 'You wouldn't understand.'

  In Mr Clarke's office — his former office — the security guards had been joined by several uniformed police officers and some elves up to gloat. None of them knew quite what to do. They turned at the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor, hoping it might be someone with the solution, but it was Santa.

  Santa, in his cheap, ill-fitting uniform, with off-white cotton-wool beard hanging loose and red DM boots, snarled, 'Let me through, I'm a jolly mythical figure,' and they parted wordlessly before him. Santa popped his head out of the window, nodded at Mr Clarke and Mo as they reappeared around the corner, then climbed out onto the ledge. 'Do ye mind if I join ye?' he rasped.

  'Don't try to talk me down!' Mo bellowed.

  'Ach, jump for all I care, I'll see you down there.' Santa pressed his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  'Oh God, Santa, you as well?' said Mr Clarke.

  Santa took a deep breath and opened his eyes. They were red and raging. 'I'm sick to death perpetuating a capitalist ploy to wrest every last penny from the hard-working proletariat,' he said.

  'At least they have jobs,' Mr Clarke observed.

  'How can you be Santa Claus if you're a friggin' communist?' Mo asked.

  Santa fixed him with his stare. 'You have to become Santa before you can destroy him.'

  And then he lost his footing and slipped down and was about to go over with screams already coming up from below when Mr Clarke just managed to grab him and hold him while Mo reached over and helped yank him back up by his baggy red shoulders.

  There was a wave of ooooohs from below as Santa regained his feet, but there were no thanks. 'You should have let me go,' Santa growled.

  He had a point. They were all up there for a reason. They looked at each other, and nodded.

  'We should all go together,' said Mo.

  They looked at each other, nodded. 'United we fall, divided we stand,' said Santa.

  Mo took a deep breath. 'Okay. Let's do it now. Let's go. Jump, and our problems are over. On the count of three.'

  'One,' said Santa.

  'Two,' said Mo.

  'Wait!' said Mr Clarke.

  They were at the very edge, bending over into the Christmas breeze. 'What!' said Mo.

  'Why three?' said Mr Clarke. His teeth were chattering. 'Why not seven or ten or eleven?'

  'It doesn't friggin' matter! Now c'mon! This isn't easy y'know!'

  'I know!'

  'Now . . . one!'

  'Two!' said Santa.

  'Wait!' yelled Mr Clarke.'Wait!'

  'What the frig is it now?' Santa demanded.

  Breathing hard, Mr Clarke said, 'We can't just go one-two-three jump. We're going to look like hotheads.'

  'And waiting for seven will make us look cool and calm and collected?' Mo jabbed a finger at the ground. 'Let's go!'

  But now Santa was holding back. 'Wait . . . wait a moment. He has a point. You don't want people to say, Oi, did you hear three guys went mad and threw themselves off a tall building today. You want them to say, Hey, those three guys, they made a statement!'

  'Yes!' said Mr Clarke. 'A statement!'

  'Then they went mad and threw themselves off a tall building!' Mo couldn't believe it. He put his hands to his head, shook it, peered out between his fingers at the swelling crowd below, sighed deeply, then leant back against the wall. 'Okay. Okay. Have it your way. How long represents a statement?'

  Mr Clarke looked at Santa, who looked back. Mr Clarke looked at the ground and the inflatable mattress and the elves who'd worked for him just a short while before, then at Mo's tear-stained face and sallow complexion and hollowed eyes, then Santa in his crap uniform. 'About half an hour?'

  1

  Libya, 1979

  She ran, screaming, slowing with every stride as her feet sank further into the sand. He was gaining on her.

  She began to zigzag, but it was too late; he was too fast. The pad of his feet on the North African desert was barely audible, and all the more intimidating for it.

  He dived. His outstretched fingers just caught her heel as he hit the ground and she tumbled. She was well trained; she went head over heels once and was back on her feet and running, barely losing a stride. From behind she heard him laugh. Within seconds he had closed the gap on her again.

  She knew it was hopeless. Better to stand her ground now than exhaust her reserves running for it. She zigged once more, then stopped
abruptly, turning on her heel, surprising him. As he clattered into her she fell back, expertly grabbing his uniform at the shoulders and kicking him up and over. He landed with a dull thud in the sand, the wind knocked from him. She dived for him, but he rolled sideways and she tasted sand in her mouth as she landed. Then he pounced.

  He pushed her head back into the sand. As she tried to raise herself he pulled her feet from under her, slamming her flat. With one hand firmly clamped to her neck, he began to pull at her khaki trousers. She shifted left, then right, but she couldn't budge him. He got her trousers as far as her ankles but they became entangled in the tops of her black army boots. He pulled at each leg in turn, grunting in frustration as they refused to yield. Then he grabbed both trouser legs at once and yanked with all his strength, but still they stuck on the boots. Frustrated, he pounded his fist into the sand and let out a low animal howl.

  Suddenly he released his hand from her neck and sat back.

  Octavia Maguire giggled.

  'Please,' he said, 'this joke, getting beyond.'

  She giggled some more, then turned herself onto her back. She sat up and, squinting in the sun, smiled at him. 'It's not that difficult,' she said between heavy breaths, then reached forward. Using her thumb and forefinger she clasped one end of her left bootlace and pulled it delicately, as another woman might remove a silk glove at a society ball. The knot unfurled perfectly and she was able to kick the boot up into the air and catch it. She repeated the manoeuvre with the other boot; when she kicked it this time he reached up and caught it, sniffed it, then threw it contemptuously behind him.

  'Now,' Octavia said, 'off with the trousers.'

  At last he smiled. He pulled them off with one hand. Then he reached for her knickers.

  An hour later they walked home hand in hand. Half a mile from the camp one of the guards rose up out of the sand, but when he recognised them he waved them on. Then as they came over the brow of the hill they stopped for a moment to observe their summer home.

  Spread out beneath them were fifteen huts. They were basic in the extreme: a mix of scavenged wood, corrugated iron and Libyan army canvas. Octavia checked her watch. Although it was now moving into the pleasant cool of early evening there were only two or three figures to be seen about the camp.