*
Khalil wanted the same thing six months later but the police wouldn’t let him close enough. Instead, sitting on his usual stool, he was struggling to guess what sort of numbers the EDL had managed to recruit. He couldn’t count heads because of the spikes on the mosque’s fencing, because of the line of fluorescent police officers, and because of the gigantic flags hoisted above the crowd.
At least three of them were St George’s Crosses, annotated with words he couldn’t quite make out, billowing in the gentle breeze and glorious sunshine. Even amid the folly of the past three days, the noise outside and Tariq Nawaz droning away on his mobile next to him, Khalil found himself pausing, admiring the glory, the beauty in something as simple as a flying flag.
Maybe that was what everyone wanted; a flag to hold and stand next to. Sometimes there was a need to wave yours higher in the air so it could be seen by others. Remember your identity, his father had said, when Khalil was eight, during their first Eid in England. His mind flicked back to that day, walking on Wilmslow Road in his Salwar Kameez, surrounded by brothers, a buzz and beeping horns. The lasting image of that moment was the green flag of Pakistan, the proud crescent moon and star flying above and behind his father. It was a day of colour and warmth, the first time he could escape his drab, grey, freezing new environment. And now, if there was a group of men, however intimidating they appeared, wanting to do something similar, to vent after being so tightly wound up, maybe it was a right they were entitled to.
It didn’t take long for the news to emerge that the murder victim was from Middleton, just a few short miles away. The EDL announced their demonstration to the police almost immediately. Despite all he had done over the previous three days, Khalil felt empty and useless during the most significant moment.
If he wanted to protect his people, he needed to see those antagonising in the flesh; he had to see their hatred, gauge it, fathom how it breathed. But the narrow-minded Chief Inspector aided by Nawaz, who saw an opportunity to undermine Khalil, kept him in his makeshift cabin.
So whether this was the contempt of the few or the anger of the many; whether the crowd was stirred more by the agitators or by the savage event itself were unanswered questions. Even their chants and songs were muffled from where he was; only a half-open door hinting at the full extent of the clamour. Occasionally the crowd would grow more agitated, and the odd officer would move or heads would turn. Khalil could hear a gradual swathe of noise, which grew to the front, and this time more than one officer left his position. He could make out the handlebars of a mountain bike, and then he saw a bright waistcoat, just like his.
At first he thought it was another officer, but the exchange appeared heated, the police effectively surrounding the man on the bike. The Chief Inspector walked over, and Khalil caught a glimpse of a face he thought he recognised. The cyclist took off his helmet, apparently stressed, the film of sweat on his brow visible even from where Khalil was sitting. He looked like he had been caught out by something yet he was willing to argue with the Chief Inspector, whom he seemed to know, and he kept pointing in Khalil’s direction. Frustrated, Khalil left his chair and as he walked out of the door the noise of the crowd hit him; the demonstration was in full swing, and the appearance of this man had garnered interest.
As soon as Samuel saw Khalil walking out, he got off his bike and wheeled it through the gate, leaving the Chief Inspector and his helpers standing there stunned.
The men faced each other amid a faint glimmer of recognition. ‘I thought you may need some help,’ said Samuel.
#########
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Also by this author
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Set in newly refurbished Leeds, amid the backdrop of a country basking in the final months of lofty Blairite aspirations, A Missing MC is a novel about how friendships change over time and the burden growing up can place on precious ideals.
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