—Cant be a wasteman all yr life. You wanna be shotting weed for him all day?
—I aint dat any more.
—Wot, you above all that? Dont tell me you still playing yor gay choons with thoz jokers?
—I dunno. Its gonna affect things tho innit.
—Wot you on about? Hows it affect thos Afganis? Theyr looking after themselvz, ennit? You gorra look after yrself in this life...Yeah, but Im puttin back. Check me, Im opening up a hospital on th border. Yu know that? Yeh-man, help da cripples wiv thir legs an s__t. Dats wot this is about. So wot you think?
And his spar is saying nuffink.
And dey silent listening to drum. And Yr slave getting vex wiv Fat Tone and Zak and grimey singers on da radio.
—Who is dis whiney batty don?
—I dunno.
—Dook that little s__t up. I dunno what da yute listning to these days.
And his buzz gone sour.
—You wanna go home?
Dat servant drops Naseeb off back to his yard.
And da Noble Followers emerge from dissipacion. Dey rap thin chill around Yor slave.
And thoh his buzz was sour, and da Followers emerge from dissipacion, Yor creture was too mash to check Aleeshas car.
And da Protectors throw a vail over his eyes: were under the jaundisd street lite Aleeshas car had an orange clamp chained to da front weel.
Truly, his hert wud freeze an the ignominy of da weak wud overwelm! And a hundred bills swirl in his belly.
But da Followers throw a vail over his eyes and he didn see were da council had clampt da front weel.
And in da stairwell he called Ali.
—Salaam, Chaccha! Whassa news, boss?... I thowt you told him that!... I thot you told him that! Get him down man. This geezers worrying me. I cuda found somone myself... How longs he need? Dats bollocks! Im takin it easy! I got peple lined up this end, Im takin it eazy. Tell him he aint getting nu’in til I see it upfront... He knos we need it upfront. Whatdaaa...
Dat slave cusses and kicks da wall. Wile his uncle jams his hype. Yea, wile his uncle has his back.
—Iss bollocks... Im calm tho, innit. Yeeah, pashiens. Dumbshit. Listen, you keep on him, Chacha. Salaam. All rite. Laters.
This grateful lump of love.
Da Protectors wrap thir Powers around.
He saw two spots of color in her cheek he knew wud be ther for days. He needs to find another hiding place.
And she spoke about thir finances. He sez hes wiped out after Pakistan.
Say, she wanna smack his head up tchaa, leve scratches on his neck, teeth in his cheek. But she need to take care, she need ta breathe. (He doznt know she need to take care, she need ta breathe. An his sins are not multiplied)
—You remember th woman at Citizens Advice? She sed you have to rite to th banks.
Becoz you told th dole we were shacked up, he thot, and dey closed all my claims; and taxing me six months. A Pataan, wiv da blood of mountain clans, reared to raid da lowlands, jack the women, fight da kuffar, begging th Housing Benefit.
—Im waitin to hear back, he sez.
Yor creture sees da razor blade in da kichen.
He wants to sleep but needed her to go to bed. To go and get his bag o dreams from her car and find another hiding place.
Say, she cud smell it off him. And she was gon to bed.
Yor creetur plugged in Doom 3. And qwikly desends to th dead.
And Hamza sez: Noble Alif, we’s gonna be mongin out tonite.
And da Followers wandering corridors of the damned with vacant bludlust.
Ech time Yor creature makes a gesture his road forks off; we follow passages branching infinitly, and we will never find our way back.
(Qiyam: 0045 GMT)
At som point Yr creture realized she is standing in the doorway.
Dat servant waits for him to die.
And her Followers fan balm in her face.
He wanted to looze himself in da sepulkers of his game. But shes standing ther.
—I hope theyre helping you to find somthing. I know what its like to be skint... And yu can stay away from... the others yu were... coz I cant afford to have it in the flat.
Her eyes water; thow his hackles ar up he is disarmed.
—We cant looz this flat, Nassa... you kno that.
—Safe.
Hav you seen a woman with mercy? Her tears coming and her voyse wobble? Her Folowers, they blow into her face.
—It makes me get crazy wen were like this. I just dont know wat yore doing. You dont tell me, Nassa. You can help me by telling me. If yore not motivated or... it must be hard to start all over and not find... I do appreshiate... Id rather you took a paper round than went bak to all that... I dont mind being the bredwinner.
Tho his hackles are up he is cawt.
—Im sorry I get crazy somtimes. I just dont want to get to th point its just wharever. I dont want us to pretend. You can tell me, Nassa.
Truly, thez cretures hear the Angels listening.
And he flinchd.
—Som day we mite have a kid. It wud be nice for... an make a home. If yuve thot of... We just need to communicate. You can tell me.
—Safe.
—Id like you to tell me. Wat yu want to say. If yu want to think about it. You can tell me wen you want to say... Did you want to say anything?
Alhamdulillah.
And he is full of wonder. Why did she do that just now? Who was she?
Yor servant stays up wondering how he got here. Today he saw a frog cringing under somwuns wall.
And he cant find wich Naseeb to remember. A yearning spot dat wants to dash th Plan. To sacrifice da Game and go strait to th sunny garden of cripples n pleazantries and fruits of doing Good.
(An he became a saint, sez my Noble Scribe.)
He needed her to sleep. To get da green baby bag from da bedroom n go to her car.
Da creature crept into da room. Wid da Protectors becalming her sleep. But da bag it hisst between da wardrobe and da wall ware he stashed it. And her voyce come slow:
—And remember she sed you can rite to th credit cards.
—I alredy did.
—Do you need th car tomorrow? I need it later.
—Yeah, he sez.
Say, he cant remember why he hadnt written da letters to th banks an cards. But dere was so much to do, so many things. Who cud do it all? Dey want him to swet all dis pointless stuff. Dey have no idea. He has to do wat his destiny sed. His vizion becom known, his risktaking vindicated. And peple retributed.
And da slave wanted to loze himself in da sepulkers of th game.
He didn know when he slept.
The soul dreamed of taking fifteen hundred arms and legs to Afghanistan.
He was in a factory plant with prosthetic shells sprayed by robots.
Down featureless corridors of a storage centre, the rows of corrugate metal rooms under striplights swaying on wire, where a sad orphan that never found its stump was caged.
The din of metal