Page 64 of Savage Protector

“How will you get back?” Tony asks me as he pulls in close to the mosque.

The wail of the mosque speakers fills the air.

“I’ll get an Uber,” I reply. “See you later.”

The four-by-four drives off, and I join the handful of men making their way into the ornateMasjid al-salammosque on Temple Street. The building is new, built by public subscription and opened about a year ago. I chipped in the princely sum of fifteen thousand pounds towards the building fund, so I prefer to come here rather than frequent one of the more traditional places of worship around the city.

I trot up the six or so front steps to the grand entrance, decorated with green tiles, gleaming in the artificial predawn fluorescent light. Within the main entrance is the ablutions room and shoe racks. I take off my shoes and leave them with the dozens of others lined up on the metal shelving. My socks go in my pocket, then I step into the tepid foot bath. I don’t linger there too long. My final preparations are to join the men clustered around the trough-like sink in the centre of the room and wash my hands, face, and hair in the fast-running water. It’s important to present myself in a state fit to be before my Maker.

I’m the last one to enter the main prayer room. It’s an opulent space, thickly carpeted in a pattern incorporating individual prayer mats, embossed in gold on a dark-crimson background. There are no pictures or statues, Muslims don’t make images of their god, but no shortage of gold leaf.

Men stand in three rows at the far end of the hall, the Imam positioned at the front with his back to the assembled faithful and his face to theqibla, an ornately decorated nook at the front of the building. This faces Mecca, as closely measured by an accurate compass during the construction phase.

All the rows are full, so I take my position behind. A few heads turn to acknowledge my presence, and two men step back from the line in front to stand on either side of me. Muslims pray shoulder to shoulder, no one stands alone.

The Imam’s voice soars above us, filling the huge space. We’re off.

I, and every other man there, touch my forefingers to my ears, a sort of internal signal that I am in the presence of my god and all external distractions are now excluded. Silenced. It operates a sort of mental switch, and my mind-set is instantly transformed.

The Imam leads us in prayer. We join in as required, drop to our knees or even lie flat, facedown. I am in no doubt about my place in this world when I lie prostrate before God. The prayers take perhaps twenty minutes, but I generally lose track of time. Suddenly, the prayers close, and we all drift back out into the ablutions room. There’s lots of chatting, relatives greeting one another, business deals beings struck while we reclaim our footwear. We exit into thin morning sunshine, and the crowd disperses quietly.

I pull up my Uber app to learn that my driver, Eric, is just four minutes away. I summon him, then stroll to the end of the road to meet him.

“Just drop me at the gates,” I tell him when we draw close to Caernbro Ghyll.

He does exactly that. I hand him a twenty-pound note and get out without waiting for change.

The gates are locked, obviously, but I let myself in with the key code and jog to the house. There, I use my key to get in and meet Tony in the hallway. He’s balancing two mugs of tea and is on his way upstairs.

“Feel better for that?” he asks as he passes me.

“Yeah, I guess. Is anyone else up?” I’m pretty sure he waited until he saw me come in, though he says nothing about that.

Instead, “No. Kettle’s still hot, though. See you at two.”

Two in the afternoon is our usual briefing and debriefing meeting. Everyone attends, unless they have a good excuse. In general, there are no good excuses.

I raise my hand in acknowledgement and make my way to the kitchen for a cup of something warm and wet.

Leila

I stirat the sound of the door closing. I wasn’t really asleep, more dozing, half listening for him to come home. The soft click was enough to disturb me.

I roll onto my back and open my eyes. “You’re here. I was getting worried…”

He deposits his cup on the bedside table and drops a light kiss on my mouth.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous, all half-asleep and mussed up. Sorry to be so late. I was working.”

“Till now?” I don’t mean it as an accusation, more an expression of sympathy and surprise.

He seems to take it like that.

“We don’t keep regular hours,” he replies, dragging his T shirt over his head.

Momentarily distracted by the glorious display of ink, I have to gather my wits. “I know, but…”

“Neither do doctors,” he reminds me. “You have all of this to look forward to.”

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