Murder Story

I open my eyes.
A street lamp glows an orange pool of light across some parked cars ahead of me. The cars blur, appearing like mythical beasts, as my eyes adjust to my position and it takes me a while to work out that I am lying on my side. I stare at the orange glare, at how it bounces from the wet ground into the sky and I suddenly realise that I can’t see any stars. The night is orange. What was it the shepherds used to say?
I notice my head is cold from resting on the hard ground. There is no noise, no traffic or chatter of people. How late is it? I’m not sure. Where am I? How did I get here?
I try to move my arm; one of them lies awkwardly under my body and feels numb, as if I had slept on it for eight hours. It’s funny the over the top movements you have to make when not all of your body parts are working correctly. I will myself to get up by lifting my head and a sharp pain runs suddenly through my whole body. It is so hard, so quick, and so much that I scream.
Another go and I slowly move my head so that I can see the rest of me that feels so detached. Surrounding my legs and arms is another pool of orange, with a smaller, darker pool within it. This puddle seems to be coming from me.
I close my eyes again and think.

I was walking home. My mates and I had been to see the latest blockbuster at the mulitplex. It was crap. I had to walk on my own as the rest of the crew were going on somewhere and I had to finish my essay on religions of the world. They had all piled into the back of Samjeet’s beaten old Fiesta with the huge exhaust, which makes him look like a prick, but he thinks it’s cool.
I knew someone was behind me, felt it, as Yoda might say. But I didn’t live far so walked quick enough to get home, but not so quick that I might appear scared.
I remember now, he jumped me, my knife was in my other jacket but I had my keys ready to gouge him, but he came too quickly. His eyes were wide and fierce as if he’d drunk ten ‘Red Bulls’ and then I fell.
Before I passed out I heard him run. It was so soft, like hearing one of those sprinters on a cold mornings training ground.
His eyes. I had seen them at the pictures watching me as I queued for popcorn. I recognised him but thought nothing of it. He could have been anyone. In this country you get used to people staring at you for having a colour to your skin or a different way of speaking. I know an English boy who was beaten up at college for wearing something different. It seems in this country we all have to be the same, I wonder what bringing up a nation of civil servants is going to get you.
Earlier in the day I had seem him too, in the mall. I was out with Shappie and her girls and we were just mucking about. He had an LA cap on, the type that five years ago would have looked cool but now…
I think he must have thought we were laughing at him and his mates. Is that why he did this?
Did he follow me all this time?

No, couldn’t have done, someone would have noticed and dealt with it. The good thing about being in a group of people is the protection, the sense of unity in this disunited country of mine.

No. He didn’t follow all day. But his group tailed us around the shops for an hour or two. They sat and watched us, played on their mobiles, pointed. Shappie saw it too, but we were determined to ignore it.
In the food court they took a table near us. Shappie had a salad and the girls all shared some chips, I had a jacket potato with butter. LA boy stuck to his American theme as did the rest of his hangers-on as I saw them playing with their burgers and fries, throwing around their gherkins which no-one eats. I hate that, the way these people cannot think for themselves. Why is that? The English hate individuality. It is like the Big Brother show, life for many young Englishmen seems to be played out to an imaginary audience, as if they had to look cool all the time and impress and keep themselves from being noticed too much in case they are voted out. Strange for a country which has a worldwide reputation for being eccentric, turn on any Hollywood film with an Englishman in it and he will be the one who stands out.

Voted out of life, is that what he has done to me? I chose to stand out, to enjoy myself, to live by my own rules and my fate is that the audience has had enough, my little posse of murderers has seen enough and decided tonight would be my eviction.

The ground is so cold. I open my eyes. It is hard to concentrate when it is this cold. My head is wet and I’m not sure if it is blood or the rain. Perhaps both, perhaps neither, maybe I have been crying. I don’t know. My face is too numb with the cold. I want to lick my lips but cannot find the energy to do so, it is like lying in bed and your brain telling you to get up but nothing else working. I can picture my head lifting, I can feel it lifting and my mouth opening and my tongue moving, but they aren’t. Messages from my brain are sending the sensations without actually doing anything.

That film was rubbish. What is it with America and this country? We are fed so much rubbish from them all of the time. I’ve noticed, since being here, that all people talk about is the past. About 1966, or the second world war, or Gary Lineker. There doesn’t seem to be any optimism. In my Father's country we have no future or dreams, this is our dream, to come here and work and enjoy a good life in safety and surrounded by family and comfort. There is so much to love about Britain, there is the wealth, the beauty; the bright and colourful razzmatazz of the West End; the atmosphere and sense of fun at sports stadiums. The winter mornings together with the warm and cosy feeling that comes from entering a centrally heated house. This is what I leave behind, a country that beneath the gloss is as ruined as my Father's.

I can hear footsteps, oh please let it not be him. I try to lift my head in the direction of the scuffle but all I can see are blackened wheels and bolts casting a long shadow from the orange above.
There is a shout, ‘Oh no, no, no!’
It’s Shappie, my dear Shappie.  She leans over me and runs a hand through my hair.
‘Oh no, Aziz. Please no.’
I try to calm her, I try to tell her that I’m in no pain. But to be honest I’m not even sure if my eyes are open. My whole body has taken on a surreal numbness, as if I wasn’t there or anywhere, just floating around nothing.
‘Aziz, please are you awake. Please talk to me.’
Now my eyes open, I see her, my beautiful Sister staring down at me. My head is in her arm, cradled like a babies, funny, I didn’t notice her doing that.
‘Aziz, where does it hurt? Please say something.’
It’s strange, in my head I am talking to her. I’m telling her that I’m ok, there is no pain, that I’m ready to go. But all that I here coming out from my mouth is a gurgle. As if I needed to clear my throat. I try to cough and then talk but it’s no good.
‘Oh my beautiful Brother. What have they done to you.’

I hear more voices and Shappie’s body arches over as she screams.
‘Here! Shonit! Mehmet! Here!’
A dark shadow falls over me as two heads block the orange lamp from my eyes. It is my two closest friends who live down my street. I must be in my street, probably close to home. For the first time I notice Shappie in her pyjamas, the pattern of woven red roses stained with the blood from my body.
‘Bloody hell!’ comes a voice, I think it is Shonit. ‘Who did this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Shappie sighs.
‘Is he going to be ok?’
‘Does he look like he’ll be ok?’ she screams and her head falls into me. I can feel her hair in my mouth and w ant to smell it, to taste the conditioner on my tongue, but all I can taste is some strange metallic flavour, it could be my blood.
Shonit leans in and drags my Sister away, he then grabs me and I see angry eyes staring into mine, for an instant I thought it was LA boy.
‘Who was it? That English boy? I bet it was that English boy.’
I can’t answer him, my eyes close and I can hear his hand punch the tarmac.
‘Calm down, Shonit.’ Came another voice, which I didn’t recognise.
I must be gathering quite a crowd, a local celebrity. Imagine, I’ll be on the news as another brutal murder victim. People I’ve never heard of will be interviewed and say what a wonderful person I was, so quiet and well-mannered. How well they know.
Then after a day of intense coverage with tv trucks littering the street and the local café doing a roaring trade, I’ll be over, nothing more than a statistic on a police record.
‘Right who’s coming?’
I hear the shout and a murmur of approval.
I want to scream at them, that this is not the answer. Can’t they see that all this is just one viscous cycle, one of theirs for one of ours?
Perhaps from down here it all comes clear and simple.
I cough and then everyone is quiet, as if they are all waiting for the final sermon from their lord and master.
I cough and my Sister cradles my head, then the soft orange glow slowly fades into nothing.