East of Wimbledon Read Free Page A

Southfields’. ‘They work all hours,’ he was saying, to no one in particular. ‘They come here and they work all hours. What chance do we have?’
    The headmaster turned his back on the company, applied his lips to the edge of the glass, and sucked up his mineral water.
    Robert rose and started to tiptoe towards the door. ‘Hey,’ said a voice behind him, ‘you forgot your book!’
    Mr Malik turned round just as Robert got to his table. Robert, wondering whether it was a punishable offence to bring the Koran on to licensed premises – let alone leave it there – scooped up the volume and walked towards his new headmaster. He ducked his head as he did this, widened his eyes, and flung open his arms. This was intended to convey surprise, delight and a dash of Muslim fellow-feeling. As it was, he felt, he gave the impression of having designs on Mr Malik.
    ‘We meet again,’ he said.
    Mr Malik did not smile. He nodded briefly. ‘Indeed.’
    Robert held the Koran up to his face when he got within breathing distance. The sweet, heavy smell of the whisky climbed back up his nostrils.
    ‘I’m always leaving this in pubs,’ he said, waving the sacred book, rather feebly.
    This was not what he had meant to say at all.
    ‘I mean,’ he went on desperately, ‘quite often, in the past . . . I . . . er . . . have left it in pubs. In the hope that people will . . . er . . . pick it up and . . . read it. Rather like the Bible.’
    ‘Do people leave the Bible in pubs?’ said Mr Malik, in tones of some surprise.
    ‘They leave it in hotels,’ said Robert – ‘the Gideons leave it in hotel bedrooms. And I shouldn’t be surprised if they left it in pubs. Or even carried it round and sold it. Like the Salvation Army magazine.’
    The headmaster was looking at him oddly. Why, having made a mistake, was he busy elaborating on it? Then Mr Malik said, ‘Have a drink, Wilson, for God’s sake. We are friends, for God’s sake. Have a pint, my dear man! Have a pint of beer!’
    This offer surprised Robert considerably. As far as he was aware, this was not the kind of thing devout Muslims were supposed to say to each other. Perhaps it was a trap.
    ‘Just a Perrier for me,’ he said, rather primly.
    Malik winked broadly at him. ‘Righteousness,’ he said, ‘does not consist in whether you face towards the East or the West. I myself am having a bottle of Special Brew.’
    Robert coughed. If this was a trap, it was a carefully prepared one. Once you had said you were a Muslim, could they do what they liked with you? Was it a case of one sip of Young’s Special and there you were – being stoned to death in the High Street?
    ‘Just the water please, Headmaster,’ he said. Mr Malik gave a broad and unexpected smile. It gave him the appearance, briefly, of a baby who has just completed a successful belch. ‘
Headmaster!
’ he said. ‘That is what I am!’
    He snapped his fingers. The barman gave him a contemptuous look and ambled off in the other direction. A small, leathery-faced man was waving a five-pound note at him from the other end of the bar.
    ‘They serve the regulars first . . .’ said Robert.
    ‘They serve the white chaps first,’ said Mr Malik – ‘and who can blame them?’
    The barman finished serving the leathery-faced man. He gave Mr Malik a measured stare. He looked at the headmaster as if he was an item he was trying to price for a jumble sale. After a while he walked back towards them.
    ‘A Special Brew, a Perrier water and a large Scotch for my friend,’ said Mr Malik.
    Robert gulped.
    ‘Isn’t that what you were drinking, old boy?’ said Malik.
    ‘I was . . .’
    How did he know this? Had he made a special study of infidels’ drinking habits?
    The headmaster was looking up at the mirror above the bar. Robert followed the direction of his gaze. He found himself looking at the reflection of a man in a shabby blue suit, who was peering into the pub from the street. Apart from the fact that