HARM

  The rush of a small breeze, the blood in his head, the unsteadiness of his legs, the terror of something unstated…

  He was dazed by daylight, overcome by the freshness of the air, the pure feel of it in his lungs. He sat down abruptly on the step.

  On his side of the road stood imposing terraced houses. On the opposite side of the road were iron railings, painted black. Beyond them was what looked like a park, with people playing a friendly game of cricket. He could hear the familiar sound of bat against ball.

  There was a side street with a road sign, white on black, announcing that this was Canterbury Walk. He knew beyond doubt he was in London.

  The relief was considerable. “London,” he whispered to himself. It was a city he had once loved, where he imagined he felt at home…

  He looked up at the building in which he had been imprisoned. Its impressively ornate façade had been wounded by neglect. Part of a stone balcony had fallen away. Other stone had crumbled. Windows, the eyes of the building, had been boarded up.

  A modest brass plate attached to one of the pillars by the side of the prison doors caught his eye. He shuffled over to look at it. The plate read, in elegant lettering, HOSTILE ACTIVITIES RESEARCH MINISTRY.

  Again he sank down on the steps, trying to reflect on how disastrously the state of the world had declined in so few years, but coherent thought was beyond him.

  Although he could hear police sirens distantly, the road was quiet. Few cars passed. He was content to slump there on the step, unable to consider his next move, just breathing the fresh air.

  A car arrived from the left and drew up at the curb. A young man of about Paul’s age and of good appearance jumped out and ran to him.

  “Sorry I’m so delayed, Ali!” he said as he clutched Paul’s hand. “Salaam Aleikum! The street is blocked at the far end by the cops. There have been more explosions from the extremists. Some women killed, I heard. How are you, are you okay? Can you walk?”

  Ali—Paul!—was deeply confused. Had he not left the prison previously?—When, unlikely as it might seem, the janitor woman with the rimless glasses had kissed him good-bye? Had he not been previously met?

  And now, again—were his personae breaking down, and with them his whole complex personality?

  “Where’s Bellamia?” he managed to ask.

  “You’re free of that place now. Got to get you home fast. The city’s in chaos.”

  Paul allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He recognized the man as a friend but could not recall his name.

  “How long have I been away?” he asked faintly, but the friend was talking, going on about how difficult the bombings had made life for the Muslim community. He could not tell which he hated most, the British or the extremists. As he laughed unhappily, spit flew from his mouth.

  “Let’s get away from here,” he said, bundling Paul into the back of his car, which Paul recognized as an ancient Volvo wagon, although he still could not recall the name of his rescuer.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  The rescuer did not answer, too involved in executing a U-turn and then accelerating in the direction from which he had come. They drove within sight of Paddington Station, where the building had suffered a major explosion. A fire was blazing furiously, despite the attentions of firefighters. Fire engines, police cars, and ambulances crowded the roads nearby. Helicopters roared overhead.

  A mob of people, roped off, stood on the nearby pavement. Almost silent, they stared at the conflagration. Paramedics were carrying bodies away. The nearby Bishop’s Bridge Road was closed.

  The Volvo was stopped. The police were courteous enough, but grim, no-nonsense. They scrutinized ID cards and questioned both men, making them get out of the car to be searched. They were allowed to go on their way.

  “Sorry to hold you up, sir,” one said politely.

  “Bloody liar,” the driver said under his breath as he put his foot down.

  They drove through the mazes of West Kilburn to Kensal Town. Paul became dizzied by the speed of the car and the changes of direction. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. His head ached overpoweringly.

  When he opened his eyes, they had stopped on Southern Drive, outside a pleasant-looking suburban house with a glossy-leafed laurel in its tiny strip of front garden. His friend helped him from the car.

  “Where are we?”

  “You’re home, you idiot! Doris is waiting for you.”

  “Doris?”

  As is frequently the case with those who attend the sick, the friend did not bother to answer but hurried him to the front door. Resting Paul against the low porch railing, he rang the bell. A head protruded from an upper window.

  “Oh, Palab, it’s you, safe back!”—spoken with relief. “I’ll come down.”

  In a minute, the sound of bolts being withdrawn and the door opening. There stood Doris—a somewhat altered Doris, fatter and with strands of silver in her hair, but still Doris. A Doris with dark patches under her eyes.

  “Paul, my darlin’! It’s you! Heaven be praised!” Doris had converted to the Islamic faith to please her husband, but she retained some of her Irish turns of phrase.

  Paul fell into her arms, hugging and kissing her in feeble fashion.

  “Holy Mother—how you stink, love!” she exclaimed. “Come along in. What on earth have they been doing to you?”

  So the sadists in the prison had lied to him, saying she was dead, just in order to make his existence that much more miserable…

  “Allah knows what we’ve been through. It’s a terrible time to be alive and kicking. If you knew what they put me through, Paul dear…It was humiliating. I’ve not recovered. I’m as nervous as a raspberry jelly and all. I doubt I’ll ever recover. Come in and sit your poor self down, and I’ll get you a nice cup of tea. Do you want to have a lie-down?”

  He was taken into the overfurnished back room. From the window he saw the roof of a train trundling slowly by on the main line.

  The friend addressed as Palab agreed with Doris. “It was shameful. We’re all afraid of arrest. The cops are so damned racist—they long to get hold of you.” Turning to Paul, he continued: “And I’m sure you remember that nice harmless Socrani family who used to live down the road? The government has now forcibly deported them to Iraq, just because he got in with a forged passport.”

  “Socrani was a Kurd,” Doris reminded him.

  “It’s true, he was a bloody Kurd. Still, I liked him.”

  “How long have I been away, Doris?” Paul asked faintly.

  “I tell you, Ali,” said Palab, overriding the question, “things are bad for all of us. You need a doctor, I can see that. We all need psychotherapists…”

  “You need a bath, that’s what,” said Doris, hands on hips. “I’ve had a lot of treatment. Not that it’s done me much good. And I keep on putting on the weight. It’s all these comfort foods, as they call them, but I can’t knock it off. Cherry cake, Madeira cake dunked in cream—you name it. It seems I need it. Better that than the booze…I’m off the booze now, love. Still and all, thanks to Allah you’re back safe and sound! Just rest yourself for a moment and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea and a jammy dodger. You like jammy dodgers, don’t you?”

  “We buy the packets cheap from Mrs. Singh,” Palab explained. “Her husband drives a bus and it seems he can get them cheap from the back of the supermarket. We don’t do badly as far as food’s concerned, I’ll say that. Everyone round here helps each other. There’s a pair of cops patrol here regularly now. You’ll see them. They’re not bad blokes as these things go. One of them’s a black man, name of Kelvin. He’s pretty sympathetic.”

  “Could I have a drink of water, do you think?” Paul asked. “It’s the shock of everything, of being free, of finding you alive and well, Doris…”

  “Alive, but not well,” she said firmly. “Settle down there on that sofa and sleep it off. I’ll bring you another cushion.”

  He sighe
d. He could not believe he was free. He closed his eyes.

  THE WATER WAS RUNNING OVER HIS FACE. He let it run. He would willingly drown as long as that cool water kept on running. It ran from his forehead down over both of his closed eyes, alongside his nose, over his lips, and down the line of his jaw into his shirt.

  “You’re awake, sweetie. I know it. Open eyes…” Not Doris’s voice. A huskier voice, equally beloved. “Bellamia!” he exclaimed. As he opened his eyes, she ceased pouring water and kissed him on his wet lips.

  “You had a shock, sweetie! Get up and walk around.” She put a hand under his arm and helped him up.

  Fremant laughed shakily. “Certainly did have a shock. We all had a shock. You realize we humans have destroyed a whole culture. The battle of the cultures…Is that nothing?”

  Bellamia sighed deeply. “Jupers, why do I ever love you? Battle of the cultures, indeed! Cheer up, will you?”

  “Islamic and Christian.”

  “You’re talking rubbish.”

  “Oh, Bellamia, how I love your blind good sense!”

  “Blind good nothing, man!” But suddenly somehow she was not there with him. Her voice came from far away, and there were other voices.

  He held her at arm’s length, regarding her, smiling.

  “Listen,” she said, “you want to do something, Free? Go and speak to crowds in the square. Speak in the square! You can tell people about this big big guilt, eh?”

  He thought he just might do as she suggested.

  Another Dimoff was coming. The two of them huddled in their small room together, sleeping much of the time. In his waking periods, Fremant devised a placard and reflected on what he would say when he addressed the crowds.

  When daylight returned, he set off for the main square. Bellamia came with him. This time, it was her turn to express doubt and confusion.

  “I ought not have made you do this. We’ll get ourselves killed.”

  They went to what was called, under the new dispensation, Square One, a place through which many pedestrians passed, going to work at this early hour.

  On his placard was written HUMAN RASE—GILTY?

  Fremant called to all the passersby, asking them if they were aware of the crime that had been committed in their name—that is, the genocide of the Dogovers.

  A thin, haggard woman clutching a small child of indeterminate sex stopped to listen a moment.

  “Awright,” she said, “maybe we did kill ’em all off, but we had to. Anyway, it’s all over now, so what’s the use of making a fuss about it? Best to forget all about it.”

  Another woman, following, shouted, “Get outta here! We don’t wanna hear it!”

  A young burly man with bare, muscular arms, said, “You stupid bastard, it was kill or be killed.”

  Many people had similar remarks to make.

  Only one man, lame and walking with a stick, said, “You’re right, my friend. Us humans, we’re a rotten lot. But why put yourself in danger by saying so?”

  Bellamia clung to Fremant’s arm. “He’s right, sweet. There’s nothing to be gained by trying to preach here. My mistake. Let’s go!”

  But at that moment, Tolsteem, led by a small boy, came into view. He stopped and surveyed the placard.

  “That’s not the way to spell guilty, young man.”

  “No one else has complained.”

  “That does not prove your spelling to be correct. You may be the only one to think we Stygians are guilty of genocide. I myself don’t, though that’s not to say you are incorrect in making your protest.”

  “So you will support me?” asked Fremant eagerly.

  Tolsteem shook his head, making his shaggy locks tremble. “You think the grass is green? The color is just a quantum side effect. Subtle interactions between atoms of chlorophyll in the grass create light of a certain wavelength. Our clever little brains transform this wavelength into ‘greenness.’”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Everything! What you think you perceive as guilt, the rest of us see as survival.”

  “But we are guilty.”

  “Forget it, my boy! We have to. It’s only the strongest who survive. That’s the way the system of existence works.”

  The boy by his side showed signs of restlessness. “Can’t we go home, Grampa?”

  As they stood there arguing, four strong young men—among them Tunderkin, who had been a guard in Astaroth’s day, immediately recognizable by the scar on his left cheek—came marching rapidly along, armed with staves. Each of the men wore a badge on his dark tunic.

  “You’re not allowed here!” one shouted as he approached.

  “You’re causing a disturbance,” shouted his twin.

  “I bid you good day,” said Tolsteem, hastily quitting the scene, the small boy trotting at his side, looking back anxiously.

  “I am allowed to be here!” said Fremant. “It’s a serious question I’m asking.”

  “It’s a lot of bluggeration,” the man responded, wielding his stick. “And you better blugger off!”

  “Get out, you ruffian! I’ve every right—”

  The stave, swung with accuracy and strength, caught him on his neck, just below the skull, precisely where, in another world, he had been hit before.

  He seemed to hear bells ringing as he fell, and to see a stream of sparks, emanating from nowhere, pursuing him into the darkness.

  THE HOUSE ON SOUTHERN DRIVE was well-occupied. Doris Fadhill supplemented her meager income as a part-time worker at a local Youth Reclamation Center by renting out her front-upstairs room.

  When Paul roused, he sat up, not moving for a while, feeling glad to be there. He went to hang up his jacket on a hook screwed to a wooden strip, but the wood had crumbled away at one end.

  “Don’t bother,” Palab said. “It’s the bloody woodworm. Give us your jacket.” He tossed it over the back of a chair. Doris came rushing from the rear of the house and flung her bare arms round Paul’s neck, crying and kissing him. They embraced almost like wrestlers, only slowly becoming more coherent, smiling into each other’s faces.

  She took him into the kitchen and poured him a glass of Special Brew.

  “Tea?” he asked. He needed Bellamia.

  She looked at him in puzzlement. “You’re not well. I must get you to bed and look after you.”

  AS DORIS EXPLAINED, the other occupants of the house were Palab and his aged mother, old Fatima. Fatima and Palab had fled from Iraq many years ago. Fatima remained veiled from head to foot and spoke no English.

  Once a week, with the aid of her stick, she would get herself to the mosque in Kensal Town. Sometimes Doris escorted the poor old thing to the doors of the mosque. No one harmed her.

  Fatima met an old friend at the mosque. The two of them would sit most of the day in a nearby café over two small cups of coffee. The friend smoked heavily, and would occasionally give Fatima one of her cigarettes. She claimed that these cigarettes were specially imported from Iran.

  This friend talked about her daughter, who wore short skirts and had given up the veil. She was doing well in local radio. Or they would speak about life in the village they had once known, where it was hot and it rarely rained—not like this horrible country they were in—and they kept a few chickens. The friend had been very ill as a child. As a result she had had a hard labor in delivering her one daughter, and her insides had come out with the baby. And to think that that same girl had now given up the veil and wore short skirts almost showing her puccta. Things had come to a pretty pass indeed…On that, both agreed.

  Apart from this weekly excursion, Fatima scarcely stirred from her room on Southern Drive, except to come and sit downstairs in the evening and share in the evening meal. She ate sparingly, not liking the “English food,” such as spaghetti or chicken tikka, which the others enjoyed.

  “She’s a bit of a nuisance,” said Doris cheerfully, “but she helps pay the rates.”

  The evening meal was fini
shed and Paul and his wife were washing up in the little back kitchen. Palab was out, visiting friends.

  Fatima sat by the window in the front room, staring vacantly into the street. With one claw, she clutched the velour curtain, shaking it in tune to the disease that was slowly destroying her. The TV talked to itself, unheeded, behind her.

  As he dried the dishes, Paul tried to recount what had been said during his visit to the local hospital, where he had had an appointment to see a Dr. Roger Thomas. “He has no surname,” Paul explained. “He was most kind and considerate and wise. A good listener. I have often told you about how my father would beat me. One day he threw me out of the window into the courtyard.”

  “Oh, that horrible man!” Doris exclaimed.

  Paul fell silent, chewing over his bitterness.

  Then he said, “He was in authority over me. All men in authority, however they begin, become hateful with time.”

  He had liked what he said when he said it, but Doris ignored the remark.

  “Were you badly hurt when he slung you out like that?”

  “I was unconscious for two days. I hurt my head. When I awoke, I thought I was in another place. I went to live with my aunt for a week. These things, Dr. Roger explained, contributed to my dissociative identity disorder. He showed me diagrams and—what’s it called?—scans. But it does not explain how I have lived on the distant planet of Stygia, which is at least as real as—”

  He broke off, interrupting himself. And was silent, thinking. He recalled Dr. Roger saying, with a certain pleasure in his dry old voice, that there was no explanation for the riddle of human consciousness. As far as he knew, it was an accident.

  Putting down the plate he was drying, he told Doris, “Yes, Dr. Roger gave me the example of a goldfish in a bowl. The goldfish has no chance of understanding the world beyond his bowl. Since we are all contained within the bowl of our limited joint consciousness, it follows—”

  He was interrupted by a cry of terror from the old woman in the front room.

  Paul ran to see what was the matter, dishcloth in hand. The TV still blazed. He glimpsed, in passing, a shot of a broken building, surrounded by mobs of men in uniform.