You wake as a crack of sunlight finds its way through your torn and tattered curtains. An infestation of flies engulfs you. You check your gun is still on the bedside table, your friend the bullet in its chamber. You lie there in a familiar state of semi-consciousness. You look around. Something is amiss, but you can’t think what. Come on Abas old man – think! Why won’t your brain function like it used to.
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Abas-Curtis-Abas-sleeping1.jpg" width="600" height="800" alt="abasonbed">
You struggle on to your side, the sickness takes hold as you search for your flask. You find it, your hands shake as you take a gulp. That’s better. You try to remember a time when you wouldn’t wake with the shakes. It was a long time ago. Before you were brought to Oldham. When you were out there alone. A small part of you misses those days. Roaming free, afraid and alert. Everyday you’d wake and wonder what excitements the day would bring, and even though you were in constant fear of the Bloods, it was a good life, and you felt like a good Muslim. Being brought to Oldham has allowed you to become soft in the knowledge that the patrols of armed men will keep you safe. Boredom is your new friend. And a vodka of sorts. Fermented by Abdulla. Abdulla the fool he is known as, but that’s a cruel name. Abdulla is no more a fool than you, less so in fact – you wouldn’t have a clue how to turn potato skins into such a beautiful drink. True he is not a good Muslim, but in this world good Muslims are hard to find. You realise that if they knew you better, they’d call you Abas the fool.
You pull yourself out of bed. You take the bullet out of its chamber… “Good morning my friend. I pray to Allah you are not needed this day”. Gone are the days when it replied. You’ve begun to wonder if that was a madness of sorts. What the mind does to you when you’re such a long-time alone. You put the bullet back in its clip, and load the chamber. A Russian gun, able to hold many more bullets if the Imams would allow, but each of us is only allowed one bullet. The Imams could never admit to why, but we all know. Should the Bloods come, they mustn’t be allowed access to the knowledge we have. We are the last of the Muslims. The thought makes you drink hard, as you struggle to think why this feeling won’t leave you. There’s something you’ve not done, something not right with the start of this day, but it won’t come to you. So you take another long hard drink and realise you’re running low. A trip to Abdulla will be needed today. You look again at the curtain and realise the sun is up. You missed the call to prayer.
You rush out of your shack. The streets are empty, but for the rats. The talks recently have been that there’s to be a refuse convoy to be sent further north. The constant battles have meant the rubbish in the streets piles higher than the buildings in some places. Some of the Imams wanted it burnt, but they’re fools. Only a fool would give up their location so willingly. You arrive at the mosque, but it’s empty. An old man being pushed in his wheelchair by a frail old woman (who looks like she should have a chair of her own) catch your eye. “Excuse me, but where is everybody?” The old woman looks at you with that familiar look. She knows you’re drunk. “There’s a meeting on the edge of town, called by the Imams… There was no call to prayer. It must be important. Everyone’s to be there”. You realise that you can help,. You gently urge the woman step aside so that you can help her with the wheelchair, but her hand strikes your face with a ferocity you’d expect of a woman half her age. “Don’t you touch him! I don’t need no help from a drunkard! She walks off struggling with the wheelchair, leaving you with a swollen face, and damaged pride. You can never be a good Muslim.
You arrive at the edge of town. On the border of Oldham and Manchester. It is now a hard border. Sandbags and barbed wire are there. As you’ve made your way here, you’ve heard the chatter amongst the commoners. There’s blue smoke in the distance. A signal that there’s a Muslim, or Muslims in distress, but they’re close, and if they’re in distress, that means there could be Bloods close too. You wait patiently with the rest of the commoners. Your flask desperately pleading to be drawn from your pockets. What you wouldn’t give right now for a long, thirst quenching gulp but the smell would give you away. You try to remember when you last drank water. You must be sure to drink some today. The Imams arrive, they stand on a podium high above the front row. The crowd hush.
“There is blue smoke on the horizon. We must send help to our brothers or sisters out there. But before we do, we must be sure it is not a trap. We ask that one among you volunteer to be a scout, see if this is friend or foe, and report back to us. You are not to engage, only look. One man alone. Who among you will be a good Muslim, and help those in need? If there is no volunteer, then we will draw straws and one of you will be forced to go.”
[[Volunteer]]
[[Don't volunteer]]
This is your chance. Your chance to become a good Muslim once again. The air is thick with the stench of weeks of waste, but it makes no difference. It’s the best air you’ve breathed in a long time. “I will go! I will take this task!”
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Abas-crowd-akin-2.jpg" width="600" height="800" alt="abashandup">
The shock from those around you reminds you that when you speak, they know you’re drunk. The shock changes to appreciation. You’ve never seen that before. That’s new. You walk slowly towards the podium. Breathing the best air you’ve ever breathed. The imams look down on you. They’re looking into your eyes. They’re looking at you. “Are you sure you are fit to take this task brother?” Brother. He called you brother. The thought suddenly occurs, that you may not be fit to take this task.
[[abandon volunteering]]
[[keep on]]This is your chance. Your chance to become a good Muslim once again . You reach in your pocket, pull out your flask and drink hard. The crowd suddenly erupts into cheers around you. The cheers turn to laughter, but you can’t see why. You push your way through the crowd to see who’s volunteered. He’s passed over the crowd to cheers and laughter. He’s raised on to the platform. Abdullah. Abdullah the fool.
You arrive back at your shack. Abdullah the fool is braver than you. Abdullah the fool is the hero of Oldham. and is almost certainly walking to his death. Who then will ferment the potatoes into the medicine that makes life bearable? You must see him before he leaves.
You enter Abdullah’s shack. He is now Abdullah the brave. The thought makes you smile. You smile as you look upon him, but there is fear in his eyes. “Abdullah, are you Ok?” He stumbles a little and falls into his chair. A nervous wreck. Beyond Oldham there’s wild dogs that have become so hungry that they attack men. Bears have begun to breed too if the rumours are true, Of course, there’s a chance that there really are Bloods in the area, but surely not this far north. All you can find to say is… “It’ll be ok”. He looks at me suddenly and asks, like the question’s been there waiting this whole time “Come with me. Please. I beg you come with me. You know outside of Oldham better than anyone.”
[[Go with Abdullah]]
[[Don't go with Abdullah]]
You walk beyond the walls for the first time in… Allah forbid! Has it been that long? The familiarity comes back to you quickly though. Like riding a bike, or driving a car. It doesn’t matter how long you haven’t done it, once you’re back in the driver’s seat, it all becomes familiar once again. Abdullah trundles alongside. Like an old dog and I, his master. It’s funny how inside Oldham, I need him, but out here, he needs me. You arrive at what was once Piccadilly Gardens. What was once a bustling high street, with fountains that used to use water just for aesthetics, is now wasteland. Refuse piled higher than the eyes can see. Buildings all empty, broken and disused. The old water fountain has a tram that has been made into a make-shift shelter at one time or another. Clearly a long time ago. Water. You need to drink some water. You take out your water bottle and take a long hard gulp, Abdullah dutifully does the same. A noise from inside the shelter startles you. A man appears from the shelter. He’s coming toward you.
“Brother, I beg you, help me. Take me back to with you to Oldham. My name is Ameen. I’m a good Muslim, out here on my own. It was me who sent the flare, brother. Please. I’m very sick. I need a doctor, brother. I fear I will not survive another night. Please take me with you.”
I wasn’t to engage. I was to find the truth of the matter and return. Abas the fool. You stupid old fool.
[[Take Ameen back]]
[[Leave Ameen to die]]
“Forgive me brother… I cannot come, but all will be well. You will return safely, I’m sure of it. Allow me to take care of your brew while you’re gone. You will need someone to peel potatoes while you’re away, no?”
You cannot bear to look him in the eyes. You coward. Abas the coward. He suddenly has no interest in looking into your eyes either. He pulls a barrel from under his floorboards and hands it to you. A barrel. An entire barrel.
“I’ll give you the barrel, if you swap me your pistol. Mine’s as good as yours, and it might be my old pistol lives to fight on” It’s a great deal. One pistol’s as good as another. The trade is made without a second thought, and he waves his hand dismissively. Does he want you to leave? He does. He wants you to leave. There’s little more to be said anyway, and so you leave Abdullah the Brave to his great adventure. After all you have an entire barrel of fermented potato skins to take care of you. A sudden bang from Abdullah’s shack halts you in your tracks. No. Please Allah, no. You drop the barrel and run back into the shack and there lies Abdullah the brave.
You have been called up by the Imams. Why? I already explained what happened. I would not kill Abdullah, surely, they know that. He was my friend; I was happy for him. I couldn’t go with him. I’m a drunken old fool. I’d have been no use to him.
“You stand accused of the murder of Abdullah Ahmed. Nothing else explains why it was your pistol that fired the shot. This council has found you guilty, and commands that you atone by going on this mission in your victim’s stead. Will you go? Are you ready to do this deed?
DECISION:
[[keep on]]
[[abandon volunteering]]
TAKE HIM BACK – WITH ABDULLAH
Your mind races in a thousand directions at once. What if he’s been infiltrated by The Bloods? Your old instincts kick in and you want to search him, interrogate him, but you don’t. Maybe the years have made you soft.
“Ok brother, follow me.”
“Wait!”
Abdullah steps between us, and pulls you aside with an uncharacteristic sense of urgency and sobriety that demands your attention.
“We mustn’t do this. We cannot take him back. If he dies, then so be it. We must do as we’ve been told and report back our findings, then they’ll send help with a scanner.”
[[Listen to Abdullah]]
[[Not listen to Abdullah]]“I’m sorry brother. Our orders were to find who sent the flare, and then to report back. I cannot take you with me, but I will come back for you. Allah forbid you should pass tonight”
The old man smiles at you, but it is not a pleasant smile. The Old man moves quite suddenly into the shelter, and returns with a large device that looks like… No, an infiltrator. He’s a Blood. You draw for your weapon but the blast comes before you can even get close. They’ve infiltrated the location. The last of the Muslims will be found because of Abas the fool. You stupid old fool.
END POINT
You have to sober up, but as you have the thought, your mouth replies, “I am”. There and then they give you a bag. A meagre food ration, a flare, a bottle of water and an extra bullet. Do they know I already have one?
“We will expect you back by sunrise, should they be Bloods, do not engage. Fire the blue flare, and we will send help. Should they be Muslims, do not engage. Return here and we will send a convoy, with scanners. Should we not see the blue flare, or should you not have returned by sunrise. We will assume the worst. Allah go with you, my brother.
Again. He called you brother again. I nod that I understand.
You walk beyond the walls for the first time in… Allah forbid! Has it been that long? The familiarity comes back to you quickly though. Like riding a bike, or driving a car. It doesn’t matter how long you haven’t done it, once you’re back in the driver’s seat, it all becomes familiar once again. You arrive at what was once Piccadilly Gardens. What was once a bustling high street, with fountains that used to use water just for aesthetics. Is now a wasteland. Refuse piled higher than the eyes can see. Buildings all empty, broken and disused. The old water fountain has a tram that has been made into a make-shift shelter at one time or another. Clearly a long time ago. Water. You need to drink some water. You take out your water bottle and take a long hard gulp, a noise from inside the shelter startles you. A man appears from the shelter. He’s coming toward you.
“Brother, I beg you, help me. My name is Ameen. Take me back to with you to Oldham. I’m a good Muslim, out here on my own. It was me who sent the flare, brother. Please. I’m very sick. I need a doctor brother. I fear I will not survive another night. Please take me with you.”
I wasn’t to engage. I was to find the truth of the matter and return. Abas the fool. You stupid old fool.
DECISION
[[Take him back with you]]
[[Leave him to die]]
Your mind races in a thousand directions at once. What if he’s been infiltrated by The Bloods? Your old instincts kick in and you want to search him, interrogate him, but you don’t. Maybe the years have made you soft.
“Ok brother, follow me.”
You lead him back the way you came. The pace is slower now. The old man walks with a limp that almost has his back foot dragging along the floor. He’d be too heavy to carry, we’d never make it back before sunset, so you don’t bother offering.
“Is it much farther, my son?”
“No, it’s just beyond that tall building, we’ll get you help soon.”
A feeling kicks in. A feeling you don’t like and that desperately makes you want to reach for your flask, but you daren’t. Wait… My son! No Muslim would call me ‘my son’ That is a Catholic phrase. Suddenly you hear them, flying overhead. Allah forgive me. There’re thousands of them. I draw my pistol and shoot the old man dead but it’s too late. The drones have found us. The last of the Muslims will be taken by The Bloods and I am to blame. Abas the fool. You stupid old fool.
LISTEN TO ABDULLAH
“I’m sorry brother. Our orders were to find who sent the flare, and then to report back. We cannot take you with us, but one of us will stay here with you. So, someone will be with you, Allah forbid you should pass tonight.”
The old man smiles at you, but it is not a pleasant smile. The old man moves quite suddenly into the shelter, and returns with a large device. He’s a Blood. You draw for your weapon but the gunshot comes before you can even get close, and the old man hits the floor, and there stands Abdullah the fool, with the smoking gun that may have saved Oldham.
The walk back is the best walk you’ve walked in years. Abdullah by your side, you march up to the gates of Oldham. Abdullah looks better now, healthier too. Perhaps this was Allah’s will. Two drunken fools given their chance to atone for their sins. Head held high, you burst through the gates, and proudly tell the Imams of your escapades. How you came across a Blood, and how Abdullah the Brave killed it before it could discover our location. How you served your community, like all good Muslims should.
END POINT
NOT LISTEN TO ABDULLAH
“We cannot leave him here. That would not be right. Come back with me, and return the injured man, and we’ll be welcomed back as heroes.”
You see exactly what he thinks of that with the scowl he gives you. No matter, the drunken old fool.
“Come brother, I will show you the way.”
You lead him back the way you came. The pace is slower now. The old man walks with a limp that almost has his back foot dragging along the floor. He’d be too heavy to carry, we’d never make it back before sunset, so you don’t bother offering. Abdullah does nothing but drink and mutter incoherent complaints the entire way back.
“Is it much farther, my son?”
“No, it’s just beyond that tall building, we’ll get you help soon.”
A feeling kicks in. A feeling you don’t like. A feeling that desperately makes you want to reach for your flask, but you dare not. The look on Abdullah’s face makes you realise. My son! No Muslim would call me my son. Suddenly you hear them, flying over-head. Allah forgive me. There’re thousands of them. I draw for my pistol and shoot the old man dead, but it’s too late. The drones have found us. The last of the Muslims will be taken by The Bloods, and I am to blame. Abas the fool. You stupid old fool.
“I cannot go Imam, Allah forgive me. I am old and frail, and a drunkard beside. I am not fit for this task sir. I cannot go. I didn’t murder him, I swear”
They’re not surprised. It’s what they expected.
“Then it’s this council’s decision that you are to be taken to the dogs, may Allah forgive you.”
No. They cannot be serious. You did nothing wrong, surely. The dogs are a myth. An old folk’s tale to scare children. Surely, they don’t truly feed people to the dogs!
“I did nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong!”
You are dragged into the street by two huge men. The crowds have lined up along the street. A man asks me what you’ve done. At a door on the edge of town, a man reads some words. The charges against you. You just want a drink. The doors open. You’re thrown inside. May Allah forgive you. So dies Abas the coward.
LEAVE HIM TO DIE – WITH ABDULLAH
“I’m sorry brother. Our orders were to find who sent the flare, and then to report back. We cannot take you with us, but one of us will stay here with you. So, someone will be with you, Allah forbid you should pass tonight.”
The old man smiles at you, but it is not a pleasant smile. The old man moves quite suddenly into the shelter, and returns with a large device. He’s a Blood. You drawer for your weapon but the gunshot comes before you can even get close, and the old man hits the floor, and there stands Abdullah the fool, with the smoking gun that may have saved Oldham.
The walk back is the best walk you’ve walked in years. Abdullah by your side, you march up to the gates of Oldham.
<img src="https://www.cultureword.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Abas-checkpoint-w-abas3.jpg" width="600" height="800" alt="checkpoint">
Head held high, as you burst through the gates, and proudly tell the Imams of your escapades. How you came across a Blood, and how Abdullah the Brave killed it before it could discover our location. How you served your community, like all good Muslims should.
END POINT