Victorian values … would this be one of them, then?’
‘She says he was a great and considerate lover …’
‘—did you …’
‘—boob job?’
‘Slapper?’
‘… Carla Carter …’
(Laughter.)
‘… can you …?’
‘…lover…’
‘… how are the children taking …’
‘… lover …’
Harry’s mother stared at the cameras, big-eyed like a seal about to be clubbed. She grabbed both children by the collars of their jackets and pulled them back into the house, slamming the door on the marauders. They stood for a moment together, unsure what to do, then his mother fell to the floor in the hallway and began sobbing uncontrollably on her knees. Harry went towards her and put his arms round her neck. He fell on her, in tears. Amanda did the same. None of them noticed the letter box opening. Fingers pushed inside, with exquisite slowness. Then a camera lens stuck through. The camera captured the moment for the following morning’s newspapers. The by-line for the story was for Stephen Lovelace, and above it the word ‘EXCLUSIVE’ in big black letters. The headline said: ‘BETRAYED!’ The photograph showed what looked like a protective circle of the three of them, arms round each other’s shoulders, the heap of a broken family. The lingerie model pictures were on pages 3, 4 and 5. Sometime later that year at the UK Press Awards the photographer won a prize. The picture was described as ‘one of the iconic images of the twentieth century.’ One art critic compared it to Canova’s Three Graces, under the headline: ‘Three Dis-Graces.’ Another called it ‘a twentieth century political pieta.’
A columnist in the Guardian described it in his book about Mrs Thatcher as ‘the symbolic moment when Thatcherism began to hollow out from the inside, like a meringue. Though it took several more years to collapse, this was the moment when we knew she was doomed. She probably knew it too.’
Harry stared into the mirror. He thought of himself and his mother and sister together in the hallway of their own home, in tears, and of the moment when Mrs Thatcher was doomed. Like a meringue.
Muslim College, Acton, West London
SEPTEMBER 2004
Rajiv Khan wore a rucksack. Harry later came to the conclusion that Rajiv Khan always wore a rucksack, perhaps even in bed. For Rajiv, it seemed to be an indispensable fashion accessory. The day they collided was early in September 2004, three years after the 9/11 al Qaeda attacks on New York and Washington and ten months before the attacks on the London Underground. The London bombings on 7 July 2005 and then two weeks later on 21 July 2005 were carried out by young Asian men with explosives carried in rucksacks. But in September 2004 no one paid much attention to Rajiv or to the secrets of his large, black, Kathmandu sports rucksack. Raj and Harry collided in front of the gates of Muslim College in West London because Harry saw dog shit on the street. Suddenly he hopped to his right and into the road. Raj had no chance. He tried to swerve but it was too late. He hit Harry hard on his backside with the front wheel of his bicycle.
‘Look out …!’ Raj yelled.
‘What the …?’
Harry fell over, crying in pain.
‘Aaah!’
‘Sorry,’ Raj yelled as he screeched on the brakes and pulled his bicycle to a halt, falling off sideways. He rolled on his back with the rucksack underneath him and the bike on top, wrig-gling like an upturned turtle.
‘Ow!’
‘You okay?’
‘Ow! No! You?’
‘My fault,’ Harry replied. ‘My fault, sorry. Yes, I’m okay. I should have looked where I was going. I was just desperate to avoid the dog shit.’
‘Welcome to London,’ Raj laughed and pulled himself to his feet. ‘A city which bears witness to man’s constant attempts to avoid dog shit.’ He lifted his bike up from the ground. ‘Maybe I should get myself a bell.’
‘Maybe I should look where I’m walking. You going to classes in here?’
‘Yes,’ Raj responded with a grin showing neat white teeth from under his short beard. ‘Extreme Arabic.’
‘My name’s Harry. Harry Burnett.’
‘Rajiv Khan. Most people call me Raj.’ He laughed again. ‘I guess we just experienced the famous clash of civilizations.’
‘Well, it looks like we survived,’ Harry replied. ‘And is that what they call it now? Extreme Arabic? I thought it was Intensive Arabic.’
‘Intensive. Extreme. Whatever. We’ll see.’
It was advertised as a ‘fast and demanding course’. The students required no previous qualifications, and were promised three two-hour sessions a week from a native Arabic speaker. But the college website warned of a great deal of homework, and no room for slackers. Raj locked his bicycle round a fence post, hitched the rucksack onto one shoulder and walked into the classroom with Harry at his side. There were twenty desks for students, a teacher’s desk, and a whiteboard. The room smelled pleasantly of cardamoms. Harry sat down in the middle. Raj placed his rucksack under the desk beside him and stretched his legs out under it. Half the desks were already full. Harry counted the nine students with some satisfaction. Nine registrations meant more than enough to ensure the course would continue. The teacher walked in carrying a small cup of Arab coffee, the source of the cardamom aroma.
‘I am Abdul Aziz al-Barra,’ he said, putting his coffee on his desk and bowing slightly. ‘And I am Syrian, which means you are very lucky indeed. And why are you lucky, please?’ There was no response. Perhaps he did not expect any. He quickly answered his own question. ‘You are very lucky because we Syrians speak the best and the purest classical Arabic. However, this comes with a warning. You will discover on this course that everybody – everybody from an Omani sailor to a Moroccan shepherd – will say that they speak the best and the purest Arabic. Even the Egyptians say this, though in the case of the Egyptians you will please understand that the claim is simply laughable. With Syrians it is at least close to the truth.’
There was some laughter from Harry and Raj and one of the two women in the room. She was dark haired and Mediterranean in appearance and sat at the very front of the class.
‘This course is not for the faint hearted,’ Abdul Aziz al-Barra went on, stopping to drink his coffee in one mouthful. ‘If you are not prepared to work hard then, please, may I respectfully suggest you leave now and find a less demanding class. Perhaps basket weaving. If you can keep it up for three years then I guarantee you will be excellent speakers of the Arabic language. If you can’t … well … we also have Arabic Culture and Society. Very interesting. We have Koranic Arabic. Very religious. We have slower courses. All of them very good. Some even taught by Syrians. We will now go round the class, please, and each of you will kindly give me the idea of why you wish to learn my language. This will help me teach. Please. Thank you.’
He nodded at a slim, petite blonde woman in her late twenties who sat in the corner.
‘Please?’
‘I am Polly Black,’ the blonde woman said. ‘I work in the travel business in central London. I think tourism to the Arab world is something which could be developed.’
‘She’s an optimist,’ Raj whispered to Harry. ‘Fancy a package tour to Gaza?’
Then came the strikingly pretty Mediterranean woman who had laughed at the professor’s attempts at humour.
‘My name