Selma Dabbagh - Out of It

‘The suspect under surveillance is in our custody,’ one of the uniformed policemen told the radio held to his chest. It had to be some kind of joke. Rashid’s wrists were too large for the cuffs and they had pulled on them as though he was a reluctant cow, a prize cow.

What had he done, for fuck’s sake?

‘You’ve got it wrong,’ he said. ‘I haven’t fucking done anything. Get off me . ’

The van wailed as it spun around corners and more corners as though it was roped on to a central pivot around which it rushed and spun, bumping up and down over kerbs and cutting through lights, barging through stationary traffic. Without the use of his hands he was thrown across the back of the van, off his bench and on to his side. He pulled himself up and tried to find a bar for his fingers to catch on to.

Fucking calm it down…

And when they could be bothered to turn to check on him, they laughed at him through the thick soundproofed glass, their mouths going on about something inaudible but definitely hostile and personal.

When the van stopped and his feet had stationary ground under them again, they took him inside the station and removed all the contents from his pockets and placed them in see-through plastic bags. A man behind a high desk recorded it all and read out the list to Rashid, who did not hear anything.

A more senior-looking officer saw Rashid’s name on the form, and looked at the custody sergeant behind the desk and said, ‘That’s who he says he is, is it?’

‘Same on his student ID, sir.’ The sergeant was a pointy-nosed little man with an air of diligence and mischief.

‘Get one of those made in five minutes,’ the senior officer replied. ‘Take him down and we’ll look at what we’ve got on him.’

He was allowed one phone call and he wasted it trying to call Lisa. Her phone was off. He left a polite but desperate message for her. Even if she wasn’t his girlfriend, as she had seemed to want to stress was the case, she would still help him out of this, wouldn’t she?

The room he was put in was about one and a half metres by two and had two plastic-covered mattresses at knee height at either side of it. There were no windows, only a small sliding opening on the door. The door was thick and covered with bolts. The cell smelt of piss, old smoke and sick men. There was something final about the smell.

‘Get me a lawyer,’ Rashid shouted through the grill. ‘I should be able to see a lawyer.’

He kicked at the door until a very large officer came up to his peephole and looked in on him. Rashid promptly shut up.

‘Better get him the duty,’ he could hear someone say down the hall and he was sure he could make out the words, ‘Bit of a fuck up.’ Bit of a fuck up? Of course it was a bit of a fuck up. He had known that all along.

Rashid wanted to remember all of this, to mentally document it. He wanted to ensure that any tale told later to Khalil, for example, would be detailed enough. Now that he thought he had confirmation of what he had already known ( a bit of a fuck up ) he was able, for a while, to contemplate the cell with detachment. There was something almost desirable about the drama of the situation. It was so familiar to him from films and TV that to find himself in it gave him the sense that his life had taken on a dramatic purpose, that he had actually (finally) reached the level of being able to not just feature but to star in a narrative of some interest. This voice was convinced, no it just knew , that it was a mistake that Rashid had been arrested. It was an aberration. The chatty story-telling voice in his head would not contemplate any other alternative as to do so would deflect from the entertainment value of its own mission.

He continued to feed this perkily amused narrator in his head. It made him feel better and he was sure after the fuck up comment that his sense of this was the right one. He provided the narrative with details of graffiti from the walls, counted the cigarette burns in the thick mattress covers and touched the shiny hardwearing surfaces of the cell. He had sat back against the wall that was far too cold for a hot day, his feet on the mattress, waiting for Lisa, waiting for his lawyer, waiting for the policeman to come down the corridor and tell him that they were very sorry sir, but they had made a bit of a mistake. They just needed to clarify that there was a bit of a fuck up, sir. Do apologise.

Rashid resolved that he would be very gracious to the officer when he came.

Iman was avoiding Charles. Although most of what had passed between them had been no worse in terms of embarrassment than border strip searches and medical examinations, the memory of the shudder that had run through him when the act had culminated, as though he had released a great sneeze into her (a liquid sneeze that had actually spread wet and warm onto the sheet under her) was hard to deal with.

‘What are you looking so pained for?’ Khalil asked Iman. ‘Squeezing your phone won’t turn it off. There’s a button for that.’ Khalil had thought he had lost Iman too as the long, low light of evening had come in and the blocks of elongated building shadow were joining together. Eva had become ensconsed with the direct action group, Rashid had never materialised and Iman was in a daze.

In the half-light the square looked as though it had been rolled upon by the demonstrators; it was strewn with miniature flags, crushed paper cups and abandoned flyers. The lines of police had broken into ambling groups, boarded on to multiple vans, and dispersed.

‘No sign?’ Iman asked.

‘None. I don’t get it. He sounded so keen to meet; I didn’t think he would just go off. Did you ask Lisa?’

‘She left with the VIPs before I had a chance to talk to her.’

‘Some of the guys who came down here from Leeds want to get together for a bit.’ Khalil indicated a group of men with banners declaring: Muslims Against the Occupation . ‘I’ll come over to your place later if that’s OK? I left my bags there.’

‘That’s fine,’ Iman said. ‘I’ll be there, or at least Eva will be. She never normally goes out. She’s got her finals coming up. I’m amazed she came to this, to be honest. She’s been studying through the night for weeks now.’

‘You’re going out?’ Khalil looked dejectedly at Iman. She had not really decided what she was going to do; she just really didn’t feel like going home. ‘We need to catch up. We haven’t even talked about the Gulf or anything. How’s your father?’

‘Baba now wears square-tipped shoes made of imitation snake skin. Yours? Is he still into lemon-yellow ties?’ Iman asked.

‘More of a lime green at the moment, but yes, he’s the same.’

‘I need to find Rashid.’

‘Bastard.’

Iman and Khalil did not hug when Khalil left because Rashid was not there, that was their unspoken rule on it. Iman watched Khalil approach the group who were waiting for him. As he came close to them these brothers (for she was sure that was that they would call him) reached out to place their palms on his back as though it was the side of a holy stone.

The drawn-out, muggy weather felt like it was working on something, storing it to burst. The demonstrators had almost all dispersed. Iman wanted to go before the tourists moved in around her with their pointlessness, which she feared might be contagious. She found herself heading towards the river, down the street where Ayyoubi had disappeared. The side street fanned out into a small square, with its embellished greenery and a handful of wooden benches.

As she walked down the side street, Ziyyad Ayyoubi stepped out from behind a bush. She nearly laughed at the shock and absurdity of his appearance. It was nuts for him to pop out like that. Had he been hiding behind a rose bush? Behind him a mass of yellow green laurel leaves pushed up against the railings. There were rosebushes too and Ayyoubi appeared surrounded by a profusion of petals and lusciousness. The air hung heavy with the rain to come and the scent of blooms. It was all so different from the last time they had met. But he was the same: the same jacket, the same stance, and the same look of intense interest in her. This time he was not carrying a gun, but she felt she could see it on him anyway.