Paul Alkazraji's Blog

Luani ngjeshi marshin e Mercedesit nga i dyti në të katërtin dhe filloi të voziste vrullshëm në krahun e kundërt të rrugës, drejt aeroportit. Parakaloi një varg makinash duke u ndezur të gjatat. Xhuda ndjeu të zhytej më thellë në sediljen e lëkurës për shkak të përshpejtimit. Para tyre, në qiellin e ndezur në të verdhë dhe lila poshtë hapësirës së zezë, panë dritat e bardha që pulsonin nën krahët e një aeroplani i cili po anohej për të bërë uljen e tij.

“Në çfarë ore zbret?” - pyeti Luani duke u zgjatur pak për të parë orën në krah të spedometrit. Shpejtësia në diskun e ndriçuar të spedometrit po shkonte te 130 km/h ndërkohë që ora tregonte ‘19:45’.

"Për dhjetë minuta," - iu përgjigj Xhuda. Ai kaloi gishtat mes flokëve të tij për t’i hequr lart ballit dhe shfryu në shenjë padurimi.

“Shiko... po bëj sa mundem!” - ia pat Luani me një zë egërshan ndërsa u kthye drejt tij. “Kështu është kur ulesh dhe ha me nge pilafin. Edhe bluzës i paske dhënë të hajë!”

"Kamerieri u zhduk pa nam e nishan derisa më në fund u kujtua të ma sillte," - iu përgjigj Xhuda. Ai shtypi çelësin e dritares elektrike dhe xhami u ul menjëherë përgjysmë. Ajri i ngrohtë i natës së gushtit vërshoi vrulltas dhe kabina e makinës u mbush me erën e barit të thatë dhe tymit të fushës. Ai shkundi jashtë kokrrat e orizit. “Faleminderit që erdhe me mua, Luan. Në të vërtetë, po vij këtu për hir të Gëzimit, gjyshit të Benit. Mban dhi në fshat dhe vjen në kishë. Erdhi të na takonte në pyllin kufitar…”

“Po, Xhudë. Më kujtohet Gëzimi,” - i tha Luani, teksa fërkoi me gisht anën e hundës që e kishte si ajo e Liam Nisonit. "Po... tregomë edhe pak më shumë".

“Epo, Beni u nis për në Angli rreth një vit më parë, por sa më kujtohet, nuk e kam parë që kur ishte…” - Xhuda u mendua pak. “Ndoshta katërmbëdhjetë vjeç? Ka qenë me flokë të shprishur ngjyrë gështenjë. Djalosh i ndrojtur, por finok. Fshihte gjithmonë letrat "Shans" nën fushën e Monopolit kur luanim në klubin e të rinjve”.

“Pra, nuk i ka shkuar mbarë, atëherë,” - tha Luani.

Xhuda ngriti me gisht dhe i vendosi mirë syzet në kreshtën e hundës, ndërsa mendoi me vete: “Një fluturim deportimi, ë, Beni? Nuk arrite as të kaloje katrorin “Nisu” dhe as 'merr 200 £' para se…”

"Pyes veten se me çfarë është marrë andej?" - pyeti Luani me fytyrë të ngrysur. "Dhe kush mund të jetë duke e pritur këtu? Shpresoj që të mos jetë aq i marrë sa të ketë sjellë ndonjë gjë… budallai.” Në rrugë, përpara tyre, u shfaq një grup dritash të bardha neoni si të një qyteti të vogël dhe aty për aty Luani frenoi fort pranë një rrethrrotullimi. I dha timonit djathtas dhe voziti përgjatë një vargu palmash të ndriçuara me prozhektorë. Kaloi përmes një barriere pas të cilës ndërtesa e terminalit të Aeroportit Ndërkombëtar të Tiranës vezullonte nga brenda me dritë jeshile, si një kub qelqi, i madh dhe i anuar.

--o0o--

Dritat përgjatë vijës së horizontit të Tiranës filluan ngjitjen te dritarja e avionit në të djathtë të Benit dhe u ndalën e zunë vend në mes të saj. Në gjithë gjatësinë e kabinës kishte një heshtje të parehatshme ndërkohë që pasagjerët rrinin ulur të ndarë nëpër rreshtat e sediljeve. Uturimën e mbytur të turbinave dhe fërshëllimën e ajrit përgjatë trupit të avionit e ndërpriste aty-këtu vetëm kolla e ndonjë prej pasagjerëve. Ai u gëlltit dhe uturima u ndie më e fortë.

Kur ndriçimi i kabinës u ul në përgatitje për zbritjen, ai hodhi një vështrim rreth e rrotull. Sa shumë zyrtarë britanikë që kishte në bord. Kontrolloi me dorë xhepin e çantës së shpinës për të parë nëse paketa në formë të sheshtë e të stërgjatë ishte ende aty. “Askush nuk e pikasi,” - mendoi ai. Fshiu te pantallonat pëllëmbët e tij të djersitura, pastaj i ktheu lart dhe ua nguli sytë. Ato po i dridheshin dhe ndjeu t’i shkonin mornica. Kujtoi se sa ftohtë kishin pasur atë mbrëmje të acartë, diçka aq e habitshme për gushtin e kaluar. Spërkalat e detit i kishin shpuar faqet. Një mur i madh e gri uji të shkumëzuar ishte ngritur përmbi ta dhe gomonja e tyre dukej e vogël sa një kamardare. Vorbulla i kishte thithur poshtë në luginën e dallgës. I kishte klithur Zotit: “O, Perëndi! O, Zot i mirë, na shpëto!” Kur ishin ngritur sërish lart deri në kreshtë, ai kishte parë vezullimin e diellit në tehet e helikave të turbinave me erë dhe në faqen shkëmbore e të thiktë të bregut. Pastaj të gjithë ishin rrokullisur në det me gomonen që u qëndronte mbi kokat e tyre si një kapak pusete që nuk i lejonte të shinin dritën sërish…

Tash po shihte dritën ngjyrë vjollcë-portokalli mbi kodrat shqiptare. Fërkoi me fundin e pëllëmbës cepin e syrit, drejtoi shpinën dhe mori frymë me hundë. Ai ishte mbajtur te një burrë iranian për sa i ishin dukur si njëzet minuta, por ndoshta ishin vetëm pesë. Burri i kishte rrëshqitur duke u zhytur nën ujë me një llok-llok që i kishte dalë nga goja. Veshët e tij, në fakt, e kishindëgjuar që nën ujë zhurmën e motobarkës së Forcave Kufitare, para se të arrinte ta shihte me sy atë.

Më pas, kishte qëndruar ulur në breg duke u dridhur nga të ftohtit, teksa pulëbardhat u fluturonin përmbi krye me piskama armiqësore. Rrobat e tij binin erë gjiriz.

E kishin futur në një çadër të madhe te një aeroport i vjetër ushtarak, i kishin dhënë një filxhan me çokollatë të nxehtë dhe një batanije të trashë. Ai kishte qarë me dënesë për shkak të mirësisë që kishin treguar ndaj tij.

Gjysh Gëzimi i kishte thënë në telefon se do të dilte ta priste Xhuda. Psherëtiu lehtas dhe buzëqeshi me vete. Iu kujtua Xhuda dhe salsiçet në letër alumini që ai gatuante mbi prush për djemtë e fshatit, atje në kopshtin e tij. “Është njeri i mirë,” - mendoi. Çfarë do t'i thoshte? Ndoshta disa gjëra ishin tepër të rënda për veshët e tij. Po mirë, po sikur të kishte dalë ta priste edhe ndonjë nga “ata”?

Një varg dritash tokësore me ndriçim blu kaluan vetëtimthi përgjatë dritares së tij dhe avioni, me një goditje shkundëse, ceku pistën. Tashmë ishin ulur. Nga pas shpine dëgjoi një shpërthim duartrokitjesh. Çfarë arsyeje mund të kishin për të festuar gjithë ata burra si puna e tij vallë?!

Ndërsa po zbriste shkallët e avionit të mbuluara me një tendë pleksiglasi, ndjeu ajrin e ngrohtë sikur ta rigjallëronte. Teksa nuhaste erën e pluhurit të pistës dhe avujve të karburantit të avionëve në këtë natë të Tiranës, ai ngriti duart si për të ndjerë edhe një herë familjaritetin e tij. Hodhi një shikim ngultas rreth e rrotull dhe vuri re një pellg drite nën një avion të parkuar të Lufthansës. Një teknik po kontollonte me elektrik dore nën barkun e tij. Pak më tej vuri re një si vemje karrocash golfi me një dritë neoni që pulsonte në mënyrë marramendëse, si edhe disa automjete të tjera që ngjanin si koka insektesh të shkëputura nga trupi që ende arrinin të lëviznin përmbi tokë. “Sa e çuditshme qenka të kthehesh në këtë mënyrë,” - mendoi ai. Vënë në rresht, disa burra me uniformë e ndiqnin me sy si indiferentë ndërsa po e çonin drejt furgonit të policisë që po priste pak më tej.

















--o0o--

Xhuda rrëmbeu një karrige te një nga tavolinat e kafenesë dhe e rrotulloi që të mund të shihte mikun e tij. Luani ishte duke vrapuar në pjesën e brendshme të ndërtesës së terminalit. Dukej paksa qesharak me mënyrën se si e kishte fryrë gjoksin dhe si i kishte dhënë përpara, për të fshehur disi majmërinë e barkut. “Po krekoset me gradën që ka,” - mendoi Xhuda si duke qeshur me vete. Teksa Luani po shkëpuste kordonin e zi ndarës prej një bazamenti të kromuar, një burrë veshur me një jelek sigurie ngjyrë të verdhë i doli përpara si për ta penguar. Luani nxori dhe i tregoi një kartë nga xhepi i brendshëm i xhaketës së kostumit, pa dyshim kartën e Shërbimit Informativ Shqiptar. Pas kësaj të dy ata i humbën nga sytë ndërsa kaluan përmes një dere rrëshqitëse prej xhami.

Xhuda shkundi një bustinë me sheqer dhe e hodhi në filxhanin e vogël e të bardhë me ekspres Segafredo. I dha një të kafshuar të shpejtë gjevrekut me salcë fistiku dhe hodhi shikimin andej nga dyert e daljes për të parë nëse do të diktonte ndonjë person që sillej në mënyrë të dyshimtë. Nuk mundi të dallonte gjë, fundja kjo ishte punë për Luanin. Por gjithsesi, ai ndonjëherë mund t'i ndjente gjërat në shpirtin e vet dhe, këtë mbrëmje, nga brenda ndjente një alarm që sa vinte i ngjante me uturimën gjithnjë e në rritje të një turbine reaktive. Dritat e neonit që reflektonin në dritaret e xhamit dukeshin si pikat dhe vijat e një mesazhi me kod Mors, të cilin as që mund ta deshifronte. Ai hapi kopjen e gazetës “The Times” që kishte blerë dhe vuri re një titull: "Zbulohen kufomat e 18 azilkërkuesve në pyllin grek të shkatërruar nga zjarri". “Eh, mor, Beni,” - mendoi ai, “çfarëdo qoftë ajo që të ka ndodhur, mund të ishte edhe shumë më e keqe”.

Luani u kthye me vrap tek ai dhe iu drejtua duke rrotulluar me lëvizje të shpejta e të prera çelësat e makinës rreth gishtit tregues.

“Shiko... do të dalë për pak minuta, por jo këtu,” - tha ai. “Të deportuarit me fluturime çarter përpunohen në një postë policie. Hajde, shkojmë… është nja pesë minuta më këmbë”.

Xhuda i hodhi një shikim të dëshpëruar gjevrekut të tij ndërsa u ngrit më këmbë me nxitim. Ishte turp ta shpërdoroje… sidomos me atë farë çmimi që e kishte blerë. Luani e rrëmbeu nga tavolina dhe e ngjeshi në gojë me një ngërdheshje. Ata u çapitën me hapa të mëdhenj nëpër shtegun që kalonte pranë një biplani të kuq e të vjetër derisa arritën te një ndërtesë gri me një parking të vogël makinash. Ngjitur me parkingun ishte një gardh me rrjetë teli dhe një portë e madhe rrëshqitëse. Xhuda pa edhe disa persona të tjerë që dukej se po hallaviteshin aty nëpër terr.

“Le të qëndrojmë pak larg... dhe të shohim nga këtu,” - i pëshpëriti Luani. Përgjatë gjithë perimterit të pistës shtrihej një varg shtyllash me drita të bardha që ngjanin si fanarë që të çonin drejt gjurmëve të fundit të muzgut me aureolë ngjyrë mandarine. U dëgjua një gërvishtje metalike. Ishte zhurma e portës që po hapej. Xhuda ndjeu qimet e parakrahëve t’i ngriheshin përpjetë.

Pa pasagjerët e parë të çapiteshin me hapa të rënduar. Ai studioi secilin prej tyre - të gjithë të rinj. Kishin kaluar shumë vite që nuk e kishte parë Arben Drilonin: Benin.

Njëri prej tyre, me kacurrela të shprishura dhe me një mjekër si xhufkë dhie, që kish veshur një xhakavento të zhubrosur ndali për një çast dhe hodhi një vështrim rreth e rrotull. Ai pa nga Xhuda dhe këtij i ngjau si një Mister Tumnus i lerosur, si personazhi i Kronikave të Narnias. Në dorë mbante si i përhumbur një çantë ku shkruhej “P&O Ferries” (Tragetet P&O).

“Hej... a gjetët kabinë të klasit të parë?” - bërtiti një polic te porta. U dëgjua një e qeshur si një kakaritje foshnjore. Xhuda i preku krahun Luanit. Ndjeu që Luani t’i tërhiqte nga prapa mëngën e bluzës. Një burrë tjetër, i veshur me një xhaketë të zezë najloni me të therura dhe që kishte vënë edhe kapuçin mbi kokë, i futi krahun Mister Tumnusit dhe filloi ta shtynte për ta larguar prej atje. Luani ishte vetëm disa hapa pas tyre.

“Beni... ti je?” - i thirri Xhuda. Burri me kapuç u rrotullua dhe ngriti tehun e gjatë e të hollë të një thike. Luani nxori pistoletën nga këllëfi poshtë xhaketës. Burri u kthye me vërtik dhe u mundua t’ia mbathte vrapit, por Beni i vuri befas stërkëmbësh. Burri u rrëzua, Luani u hodh mbi të si një mace e madhe dhe e gozhdoi përtokë.
















--o0o--

Beni u plandos në sediljen e pasme të Mercedesit, ngjeshi fundet e pëllëmbëve të tij në të dy sytë, pastaj u mbështet dhe mori frymë thellë. Hodhi vështrimin jashtë, buzëqeshi paksa me Luanin, por e largoi shikimin ndërsa ky hyri brenda duke përplasur derën e shoferit. “Një farë polici jashtë shërbimit,” - i kishte thënë Xhuda. “Nuk do të merrja kurrë guximin t’i dilja kundër, sidomos nëse do të ishte në shërbim,” - mendoi ai. E lëshoi çantën poshtë dhe e shtyu midis këmbëve që të mos dukej.

Pastor Xhuda, i ulur në sediljen e parë të pasagjerit, u rrotullua drejt tij dhe i buzëqeshi me një ngrohtësi që papritur iu duk mëse e njohur. Ende e kishte atë dhëmbin e përparmë me cep të thyer, por basetat i kishin filluar t’i thinjeshin dhe fytyra e tij dukej më e mbushur. E pa në sy teksa po shtynte cullufen e tij të shprishur mënjanë ballit.

"Pa hë," - tha Xhuda. "Si ia kalove në Angli?"

“Epo… mirë, pastor. Mirë,” - iu përgjigj ai.

“Sigurisht që mirë!” - shpërtheu Luani. “Aq mirë sa u desh një avion plot me zyrtarë britanikë që të të shoqëronin personalisht për në shtëpi”.

Beni i hodhi një shikim të shpejtë Luanit dhe pastaj i ktheu sytë nga Xhuda. Ndjeu se filloi t’i dridhej kapaku i syrit të djathtë.

"Pa merak," - i tha Xhuda. "Ai po merret me raste të tjera, jo me tëndin. E kemi shok. Nëse dëshiron, mund të na tregosh pa frikë, apo jo?”

“Ata zyrtarë po shoqëronin të tjerët… por edhe mua, e pranoj”, - i tha Beni Luanit. “Dëgjuam që disa britanikë do të punojnë në aeroport tani…” Mbi gjoks po fillonin t’i shfaqeshin bula djerse dhe ai i fshiu me bluzën e vet. “Është shumë vapë në krahasim me Anglinë,” - mendoi ai. Shtypi çelësin dhe uli xhamin e dritares së pasme të pasagjerit. Një qen roje te kolibja në hyrje të parkingut të makinave tundi zinxhirin e tij ndërsa u ngrit dhe lehu vetëm një herë dhe më pas u qetësua sërish. Beni u tremb paksa dhe fërkoi llapën e veshit. Ai u përkul pak përpara. “Vjet në pranverë pashë ca reklama në TikTok… kështu që i kontaktova dhe shfrytëzova rastin për të kaluar Kanalin me ndihmën e tyre. Ishte një makth i vërtetë. Më vonë, mësova se policia britanike i quante Banda e Dragoit. Përfundova në një hotel në Ramsgeit me disa azilkërkues të tjerë. I telefonova shokut tim, Bledit. Ai erdhi me makinën e vet një natë vonë... dhe kështu më ndihmoi të arratisesha vjedhurazi prej hotelit. Qëndrova me të në shtëpinë e tij në një rrugë të Londrës veriore, ku gjithë ditën e natën dëgjoje vetëm uturimën e kamionëve që kalonin atje.” Iu kujtuan netët e lagështa të dimrit, rrjedhat e ujit që përplaseshin nëpër xhamat e dritares së tij nga spërkatja e gomave, era e lagështirës dhe e mykut, si edhe muret e dhomës që dridheshin sa herë që rrotat kalonin mbi kapakun e pusetës aty pranë. “Kam punuar disa muaj nëpër kuzhina restorantesh, ca të pista dhe ca plot me shkëlqim alumini…, por më jepnin më pak se paga minimale. Pas ca kohe një tjetër shqiptar, Mjekërziu e thërrisnin, më ftoi të punoja me të në “West Country”. Një nga bizneset e tij ishte një shtëpi bari diku në periferi të këtij qyteti të vogël. Ai kishte njëqind bimë kanabisi që i kultivonte nën dritën e llambave UV në një papafingo të errët. Kështu, u transferova në sektorin e bujqësisë… si të thuash”.

Ndërsa dëgjonte, Luani merrej me celularin e tij dhe tundte me aq padurim këmbën e vet mbi majën e gishtave, sa edhe makina po dridhej.

"A kishe pagë më të mirë atje?" - pyeti ai me ironi të rëndë.

“Po, po… Mjekërziu më linte të dilja herë pas here për pak ajër të pastër kur shkoja për të punuar në një lavazh që e kishte në A37-ën në Somerset,” - vazhdoi Beni. “Atje më kapën muajin e kaluar pas një operacioni të fshehtë të policisë. Sapo ua kisha larë shumë mirë xhamin e përparmë!” Luani nënqeshi si me përqeshje duke shfryrë lehtazi nga flegrat e hundës. “Shkova atje për të punuar, pastor Xhuda, jo për t’u futur në botën e krimit… sinqerisht. Ti më beson, apo jo? Unë nuk jam njeri i keq”. Ai pa Xhudën të ngrinte syzet mbi ballë dhe të kryqëzonte llërët para se të mbështeste mjekrën mbi to.

"Jam i sigurt që je nisur me qëllime të mira, Beni," - i tha Xhuda ndërsa u kthye sërish përpara. Pak çaste më vonë i zgjati një qese me fara luledielli. "A të pëlqejnë akoma këto?"

“Oh… nuk kam ngrënë qysh kur…”. Beni e hapi qesen, futi një farë në gojë dhe e ndau me dhëmbët e përparmë. I zhytur në mendime, mbajti farën me gjuhë dhe pështyu lëvozhgën e kripur në dorë. Sakaq mori vendim: “Po, do ta bëj”.

--o0o--

Ndërsa Luani futi makinën lehtas në rrethrrotullimin te hyrja e aeroportit, Xhuda u var paksa nga dritarja e pasagjerit duke nxjerrë jashtë bërrylin që t’ia përkëdhelte ajri i natës. Kudo dëgjoheshin zukamat e mprehta të gjinkallave që jehonin si sinjale të dobëta radioje. Bluja dhe e kuqja e largët e dritave të aeroportit u bënin shoqëri yjeve të ulëta në qiell. Ai u kthye për të parë Benin.

"Do ta provosh prapë... Anglinë?" - e pyeti Xhuda.

“Për atë farë soj jete?! Jo, as që më shkon ndër mend,” - iu përgjigj. “Sido që të jetë, më vunë vulë në pasaportë që tregon se më ndalohet për tre vjet hyrja në zonën Shengen”.

"Mund të të kishin dërguar në Ruandë," - tha Luani, me sytë e fiksuar tek vija e bardhë dhe e pandërprerë në mes të rrugës. “Gjithsesi, ke fatin që të shijosh të ardhmen e ndritur që të pret në tavolinat e kafehaneve të Tiranës”.

Xhuda pa Benin të tërhiqte lehtazi hundët dhe të mblidhte supet ndërkohë që uli shikimin poshtë. Më pas ai u zgjat poshtë dhe nga fëshfërima u kuptua se po kërkonte diçka në çantën mes këmbëve të tij. Xhuda ndjeu peshën e diçkaje që ai ia lëshoi në dorë. Ishte një Bibël e Gideonit me kapak të trashë ngjyrë burgundi.

“Mere këtë nga unë, është për ty, Xhuda,” - i tha Beni. Xhuda ndjeu t’i ngrihej vetulla e djathtë edhe pse rrudhi ballin e vet. “Hape në fund, aty nga libri i Zbulesës”. Xhuda shtypi butonin e dritës së kabinës mbi kokat e tyre. Nën ndriçimin e verdhë, shfletoi faqet me dorën e tij. Centimetri i fundit i fletëve ishte ngjitur në një trup të vetëm. “Grise faqen e sipërme…” Nën atë faqe kishte një pjesë kufje ku Xhuda pa një kartëmonedhë të kuqe prej 50 £, kishte edhe kartëmonedha të tjera poshtë saj. E anoi që ta shihte edhe Luani. “Për të varfrit dhe jetimët... Xhuda... merre!” - i tha Beni me sytë që iu zmadhuan në shenjë lutjeje. Xhuda vuri re se vetulla e tij ishte ngritur përpjetë si grada e një tetari.

“Beni... këto janë paratë e shtëpisë së barit, apo jo? Nuk mund t’i pranoj,” - i tha Xhuda. “Vërtet bëre një vrimë në Dhiatën e Re për këtë? E di që ke prerë pjesën ku flitet për thesaret në qiell?!”

Luani fërkoi me gisht anën e hundës së tij të spikatur dhe më pas e kaloi rreth pjesës së pasme të veshit. Ndërsa me dorën e djathë mbante timonin, u zgjat, mori tufën dhe kaloi gishtin e madh të dorës së tij të majtë për të shkartisur cepat e kartëmonedhave. Më pas e hodhi tufën në prehërin e Xhudës.

“Spërkate me ujë të shenjtë… Vetëm dy a tre mijë janë,” - u tall Luani me një buzëqeshje të hidhur. "Kjo ishte ajo që kishte ardhur për të marrë miku ynë te porta e aeroportit, apo jo, Beni? Ose... shiko, mund edhe ta lësh të përfundojë në ndonjë raft provash të policisë derisa të zhduket një ditë, ose edhe mund t’ia kthesh Mjekërziut, nëse dëshiron”.

Xhuda mbeti me sytë e ngulura drejt tufës së kartëmonedhave. Jo... nuk mund ta bënte.


--o0o--


Më 23 gusht 2022, 1295 emigrantë kaluan
Kanalin Anglez me njëzet e shtatë varka.
‘Beni’ ishte njëri prej tyre.

Redaktoi në anglisht Sheila Jacobs.
Përkthyes: Holger Dashi.
Redaktor ndihmës: Petrika Dhimo.
© Paul Alkazraji 2024.
Të gjitha të drejtat e rezervuara.












'Loja e Benit' bazohet në personazhet e dy romaneve të Paul Alkazrajit 'The Silencer' dhe 'The Migrant'.






Shkarkoni një version falas pdf me printim më të madh këtu:
https://mega.nz/file/N28VGAzC#MwaUb8H...

Lexoni kapitullin 1 të 'The Migrant' në anglisht këtu:
https://instantapostle.com/2019/02/22...

Gjeni kopje të romaneve këtu: https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/autho...

Three Albanian words:
shiko – well, look
budalla – stupid
mirë – good

Luan rammed the gears of the Mercedes from second to fourth, and surged down the wrong side of the airport road past a line of cars, flashing his headlights. Jude was thrust back deep into the leather seat with the acceleration. The sky ahead of them had streaks of lilac and molten iron below the black heights as a lone aircraft banked down with white lights pulsing on its wing tips.

‘What time does he land?’ said Luan, tilting his head towards the clock by the speedometer. The illuminated red dial was touching 130kmph as it hovered close to the time – ‘19:45’.

‘In ten minutes,’ said Jude. He slid his fingers through his fringe as he shoved it off his forehead and blew out his breath.

‘Shiko... I’m doing my best!’ Luan’s voice was dour as he glanced at his friend. ‘You took your time with your pilaf rice. There’s some on your T-shirt.’

‘The waiter went AWOL... bringing it,’ replied Jude. He pressed the switch for the electric window and it dropped half way in an instant. The warm August night air rushed in, smelling of dry grass and field smoke. He flicked the rice grains out. ‘Thanks for coming with me, Luan. It’s Beni’s grandfather I’m here for, really – Gëzim. He keeps goats in the village and comes to the church. He came to meet us in the border forest…’

‘Yes, Jude. I remember Gëzim,’ said Luan, as he rubbed a finger up the side of his Liam Neeson-like nose. ‘So… fill me in a little more.’

‘Well, Beni left for England about a year ago, but I don’t remember seeing him since he was...’ Jude considered. ‘Maybe fourteen? Tousled, brown hair then. Shy, but a cunning little fella. He used to hide “Chance” cards under the Monopoly board at the youth club.’

‘So, it’s not worked out for him, then,’ said Luan.

Jude slid his glasses back into position up the ridge of his nose as he thought to himself, A deportation flight, eh, Beni? Do not even pass ‘Go’ or ‘collect £200’ before…

‘I wonder what he’s been doing there?’ Luan scowled. ‘And who might be waiting for him here? I hope he’s not foolish enough to be carrying something… budalla.’ Ahead of them on the road, a cluster of white and neon lights like a small town grew closer, and soon Luan was braking hard into a roundabout. He flung the steering wheel to the right, past a row of floodlit palm trees, and through a barrier to where the terminal building of Tirana International Airport glowed green from the interior like a great, tilting cube of glass.

--o0o--

The lights across the Tirana horizon line rolled up the aircraft window on Beni’s right and settled level at the midpoint. There was an uneasy hush along the cabin’s interior as the passengers sat apart on different rows. Only an occasional cough interrupted the muted roar of the jet-turbines and the air rushing over the plane’s fuselage outside. He swallowed and the roar increased.

As the lights were dimmed for the descent, he glanced around him; there were so many British officials on board. He felt the pocket of his rucksack and the flat, oblong form inside to check it was still there. No one’s found it, he thought. He wiped the moisture on his palms along his thighs. He turned his hands upwards and stared at them. They were shaking, and he shivered. He remembered how cold they had been that evening – freezing – so surprising for last August. The sea spray had stung his cheeks. A great, grey wall of foaming water had risen above them, and their dinghy had seemed no bigger than an inner tube. Down they’d swirled, into a valley. He’d cried out, ‘Oh, God! Oh, good God, save us!’ When they’d risen out of it to the crest, he’d seen the glint of the sun on the spinning blades of a distant windfarm and a chalky wall of cliffs. Then they’d all tumbled overboard, and the dinghy was like the manhole cover of a drain above his head, and there was no way back up to the light…

He now watched the mauve and orange light above the Albanian hills. He ran the heel of his palm over the corner of one eye. He straightened his back and sniffed. He had held on to an Iranian man. It had seemed like twenty minutes, but maybe it was only five. The man had slipped away from him, sinking under, with a glug from his mouth. He’d heard the motor of the Border Force boat droning through the water in his eardrums before he’d actually seen it.

Later, he’d sat on the shore, shivering, the gulls shrieking hostilities at them as they’d swooped around their heads. His clothes had smelt of sewage.

In a big tent at some old military airfield, he’d been given a mug of hot chocolate and a warm blanket, and he’d sobbed; it was the kindness of it.

Grandad Gëzim had said on the phone that Jude would be there to meet him. He breathed out a little and smiled to himself. He remembered Jude and the sausages he’d cooked in tinfoil on a wood fire in his garden for the village boys. He is a good man, he thought. What would he tell him? Maybe some things were too dark for his ears. Yet, what if one of them was waiting there too?

A line of blue ground lights flashed past his window and, with a jolting bounce, they were down. There was an eruption of clapping behind him. What could those other men like him have to celebrate?

As he shuffled down the aircraft steps inside a Perspex tunnel, the warm air seemed to revive him. He raised his hands to feel its familiarity once more as he smelt the runway dust and aviation fuel in this Tirana night. He stared around him and noticed the pool of light under a parked Lufthansa plane as a man shone a torch under its belly. There was something like a golf cart caterpillar with a frantic neon light on top, and other vehicles like severed insects still moving along the ground with the rear of their torsos missing. It’s strange to return this way, he thought. The line of uniformed men eyed him indifferently as they led them towards the waiting Policia van.

















--o0o--

Jude snatched a chair at a café table and turned it so he could watch his friend. Luan was jogging across the inside of the terminal building; his chest seemed raised and thrust forward, a little ridiculously, as a corrective for his bulging midriff. He is displaying his rank, Jude thought, smiling to himself. Luan unhooked a black partition cord on a chrome stand, and a man in a lime security vest jumped forward to challenge him. Luan produced a card from inside his suit jacket, his Albanian Secret Service card, no doubt, and they disappeared together through a sliding glass door.

Jude shook a sachet of sugar and tipped it into the tiny white cup of Segafredo espresso. He took a hasty bite out of his pistachio doughnut, and cast his eyes around the exit doors to see if anyone waiting caught his attention by acting suspiciously. He could not tell: this was Luan’s kind of work. He could sense things in his spirit sometimes, though, and this evening, like the rising whine of a jet-turbine, there was an alarm there. The tube lights reflecting on the glass windows looked like the dots and dashes of a Morse code message, but he couldn’t decipher it. He flicked open the copy of The Times newspaper he’d bought, and eyed a headline: ‘Bodies of 18 Asylum Seekers Uncovered in Greek Forest Ravaged by Wildfire’. Well, Beni, he reflected, whatever happened to you, it could have been much worse.

Luan jogged back towards him, spinning his car keys around his index finger with a sharp, flicking sound.

‘Shiko... he’ll be through in a few minutes, but not here,’ he said. ‘The charter flight deportees are processed at a police station. Come on… it’s about a five-minute walk.’

Jude looked wistfully at his doughnut as he rose in the rush. It seemed a shame to waste it at these prices. Luan grabbed it and stuffed it in his mouth with a grin.

They strode along the footpath past an old, red biplane until they came to a grey building with a small car park. Next to it was a wire mesh fence with a huge sliding gate. Jude saw several others loitering there around the dark edges.

‘Let’s keep a little distance... and watch,’ whispered Luan. A line of white lights high on their poles stretched down the runway perimeter like beacons towards the last traces of dusk’s tangerine aura. There was a metallic screech as the gate was slid open. Jude felt the hairs rise on his forearms. The first passengers shambled through. He studied each one – young men, all of them. It had been many years since he’d seen Arben Driloni: Beni.

One man stopped and glanced around him. He was wearing a crumpled shell suit, and with his untidy curls and goatee tuft, he looked to Jude like a seedy Mr Tumnus from the Narnia books. A P&O Ferries carrier bag dangled forlornly from his fist.

‘Hey... did you get a first-class cabin?’ shouted a policeman by the gate. There was a cackle of infantile laughter. Jude touched Luan’s arm. He felt Luan give a sharp tug backwards on his T-shirt sleeve. A man in a black, quilted nylon jacket with the hood up slid an arm through Mr Tumnus’ and began to lead him away. Luan was just a few paces behind them.

‘Beni... is that you?’ Jude called out to him. The hooded man spun around and raised the long, thin blade of a knife. From the holster under his jacket, Luan drew out his pistol. The man turned to flee, but suddenly, Beni stuck his foot out. The man tumbled and Luan leapt on him like a big cat, and pinned him down.















--o0o--

Beni slumped into the rear seat of the Mercedes, pressed the heels of his palms into both eyes, then sat back and drew a deep breath. He gazed out, smiling at Luan, but averted his eyes as the man got in and slammed the driver’s door. Some kind of off-duty policeman, Jude had said. I wouldn’t like to cross him when he’s on duty, he thought. He pushed his rucksack down, out of sight, between his legs.

Pastor Jude turned around in the front passenger seat and smiled at him with a warmth he suddenly remembered. He still had that chipped front tooth, but his sideburns had greyed and his face was fuller. He watched him push his uneven fringe to one side.

‘So,’ said Jude. ‘How was your time in England?’

‘Well… good, pastor. Mirë,’ he said.

‘Sure it was!’ snapped Luan. ‘So great you had a plane-full of British officials to escort you home personally.’

Beni glanced at Luan and back at Jude. He felt the lid of his right eye begin to twitch.

‘It’s OK,’ said Jude. ‘He’s on other cases – not yours. He’s a friend. You can tell us about it, if you want to?’

‘Those officials accompanied the others… and me,’ Beni conceded to Luan. ‘Some Brits will now work at the airport, we heard...’ Sweat was beading on his chest and he wiped his T-shirt over it. It’s so hot after England, he thought. He lowered a rear passenger window with the switch. A guard dog by the car park entry hut rattled its chain as it rose and barked once before it settled again. Beni flinched and rubbed his ear lobe. He sat forward. ‘I saw these adverts on TikTok last year in the spring… so I took the chance and crossed the Channel with their help. It was a nightmare. Later, I found out the British police were calling them the Dragon gang. I ended up in a hotel in Ramsgate with some other asylum seekers. I called my friend, Bledi. He came in his car late one night... and I slipped out. I stayed with him on this north London road with lorries passing at every hour.’ He remembered their spray dribbling down his window on wet winter nights, the odour of mould, and the walls of his room vibrating as the lorries hit the low drain cover outside. ‘I worked in restaurant kitchens, dirty ones and shiny aluminium ones, for some months… but it was for less than the minimum wage, and another Albanian – Blackbeard, they called him – invited me to work with him in the West Country. One of his businesses was a grass house in this small-town suburb. He had a hundred cannabis plants growing under UV lamps in a blacked-out attic. I moved into the agricultural sector… so to speak.’

Luan had been scrolling on his mobile phone and jiggling his leg on his toes as he listened. The car was rocking from it now.

‘Was the pay a bit better there, then?’ he asked, with heavy irony.

‘Yeah, but… well, Blackbeard let me out occasionally for some fresh air, to work at a car wash he owned on the A37 in Somerset,’ continued Beni. ‘I was picked up there last month in an undercover police raid. I’d just sponged their windscreen really well, too!’ Luan huffed from his nostrils. ‘I went there to work, Pastor Jude, not to get into crime… honestly. You do believe me, don’t you? I’m not a bad person.’ He watched Jude lift off his glasses and fold the arms together before resting them on his lips.

‘I’m sure you set out with good intentions, Beni,’ said Jude, as he turned away. He reached back a moment later, handing him a packet of sunflower seeds. ‘Do you still chew these?’

‘Oh… I haven’t since…’ Beni tore open the packet, put one in his mouth, and split it with his front teeth. As he drew out the kernel and spat the salty shell into his hand, he was thinking. Yes, he would do it.

--o0o--

As Luan eased the car towards the airport entrance roundabout, Jude leaned out of the passenger window a little, with his elbow surfing the night air. A high whistle of cicadas wafted in and out like a weak radio signal. The distant blues and reds of the airport lights were mingling with the low stars. He shuffled around to look at Beni.

‘Will you try again… for England?’ said Jude.

‘For that life? I don’t think so,’ said Beni. ‘Anyway, they stamped my passport with an entry stop to the Schengen Area for three years.’

‘You could have been sent to Rwanda,’ said Luan, with his face fixed towards the road’s unbroken white line ahead. ‘Anyway, you’ve a bright future waiting on café tables in Tirana to look forward to.’

Jude saw Beni sniff and shrug as he lowered his eyes. He then reached down further and rustled by his feet. He handed something over, and Jude felt the weight of it settle on his hand. It was a burgundy hardback Gideon’s Bible.

‘It’s for you, Jude. I want you to have it,’ said Beni. Jude felt his right eyebrow rise even as his forehead furrowed. ‘Open it at the end – near the book of Revelation.’ Jude pressed the nightlight switch above their heads and, under the yellowish glow, the pages fell open in his palm. The last centimetre was stuck together as one. ‘Tear off that top page…’ In a hollowed-out section, Jude saw a red £50 note on top of others. He tilted it for Luan to see. ‘For the poor and orphans... Jude... take it.’ Beni’s eyes widened with a look of appeal. Jude noticed his eyebrow had just a single chevron like a corporal’s razored through it.

‘Beni... this is grass house money, isn’t it? I can’t,’ said Jude. ‘You made a hole in the New Testament for this? Treasure in heaven was one part you cut out.’

Luan ran a finger up the side of his prominent nose, and then around the back of his ear. With one hand gripping the wheel, he reached over and let the note corners flutter over his thumb. He then flipped the wad out onto Jude’s lap.

‘Sprinkle it with holy water… It’s just two or three thousand,’ Luan scoffed, with a wry grin. ‘That’s what our friend by the airport gate had come to collect – wasn’t it, Beni? Or… shiko, you can have it put in a police filing cabinet until it disappears, or post it back to Blackbeard, if you like?’

Jude stared at it. No... he couldn’t.


On 23 August 2022, 1,295 migrants made the crossing over the English Channel in twenty-seven boats. ‘Beni’ was one of them.


Editor. Sheila Jacobs.
© Paul Alkazraji 2024. All rights reserved.













'Beni's Game' is based on characters in two novels by Paul Alkazraji 'The Silencer' and 'The Migrant'.







Download a free larger-print pdf version here:
https://mega.nz/file/cjVAHJQQ#e6A5Kvj...

Read Chapter 1 of ‘The Migrant’ here:
https://instantapostle.com/2019/02/22...

Find copies of the novels here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/stores/autho...

A short story set at Tirana International Airport entitled ‘Beni’s Game’ will be published next week. Details to follow here.

‘Well, Beni left for England about a year ago, but I don’t remember seeing him since he was...’ Jude considered. ‘Maybe fourteen? Tousled, brown hair then. Shy, but a cunning little fella. He used to hide “Chance” cards under the Monopoly board at the youth club.’

'Beni's Game' is based on characters in two novels by Paul Alkazraji 'The Silencer' and 'The Migrant'.







Read Chapter 1 of ‘The Migrant’ here:
https://instantapostle.com/2019/02/22...

Readers’ comments for ‘The Migrant’ from the Love Books tour.

‘It’s a tense, gripping read and one that I found myself really invested in from the beginning.’ Daisy.

‘A fast-paced thriller with unexpected twists and turns. It’s a story in which I found myself completely. The characters and the situation are so amazing that it keeps you on the edge.’ Dan.

‘For a short book (under 200 pages) it packs a punch, and it is not short on action and drama. I actually could imagine it as a Sunday evening TV drama, to be honest, the kind of 'water cooler series' that everyone would be discussing the next day.’ Em J.

‘packed with emotion and imagination’ Prerana.

‘The way the author wrote this story made it feel real, especially the car journey from Albania to Greece. I felt like I was sitting in the car with them talking to Mehmed, along with the sounds, smells…’ Paula.

‘It's so detailed and the world building is incredible and helps put images into your head as you read. Incredible! Would definitely recommend.’ Jess.

‘It really made me look into myself at the things it was discussing, things that are so prominent in this day and age… I loved it.’ Kirsty.

‘This was a very thought provoking story… A very, very good thriller that I would definitely recommend!’ Autumnal Reading.

‘It’s definitely a book that even when you’re done reading, it sticks with you.’ Afelton6212.

























On Goodreads:

Readers’ comments for ‘The Silencer’ from the Love Books tour.

‘I love the cover for this book. It definitely drew me in.’ Lozzieloves.

‘A gripping read from the first page. Paul has a way of describing things so vividly, you can almost see it as if it was on TV.’ Redhead_reviews1.

‘A really enjoyable thriller that was well-written with a compelling storyline and well-developed characters that all brought something to the plot. I loved the formatting of the book and how we get the perspective of multiple characters, as that always makes me feel like I really know them.‘ Fiction Vixon18.

‘The author manages to place you amongst the pages… I love being transported between the pages of a book.’ Donna.

‘I loved this book. As it's so detailed, you can really imagine it all. Jude and his wife Alex are lovely characters, not too good to be true... ‘ Maressa.

‘The story is a journey of Jude and Alex, their struggles, challenges in order to publish a book (about) how a man turned Christian. That was the main reason I wanted to read the book, as religions and spirituality is kind of an interesting topic for me…’ Edyta.





















On Goodreads:

Catch the bedtime tweets here just for this week. https://twitter.com/paul_alkazraji

Likes and RTs entered for a chance to win a copy.

'The Migrant': Three incompatible characters set off on a dangerous journey to find a missing relative in Athens at the time of Greece’s economic crisis, encountering police brutality, racism and restored relationships along the way.

From ‘The Migrant’ © Paul Alkazraji, Instant Apostle.

Read Chapter 1 of ‘The Migrant’ here:
https://instantapostle.com/2019/02/22...


Find copies of ‘The Migrant’ here at £1.99 on Kindle: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...

A pastor sets off on a dangerous journey to find a missing Albanian member of his church in Athens at the time of Greece’s economic crisis, encountering police brutality, racism and restored relationships along the way.

In an Albanian village. (Chapter 2.)

As the route became tarmac, an old man in a blue cloth
cap sat on an upturned milk crate at the gate of his yard.
He scrutinised Jude and raised his hand in a clenched fist
salute to greet and halt him.
‘Death to fascism!’ he shouted.
‘Freedom for the people,’ Jude called back to humour
him. He knew old Fatos had at one time been the village
headman, and still kept up his self-appointed monitoring
duties.
‘Where is your permit to be here?’ said Fatos.
‘Where is your permit to ask people if they have a
permit?’ asked Jude. The man slapped his knee and
laughed. ‘How are you, Fatos? And everyone in your
house?’
‘Mirë, mirë,’ he said. Jude walked over and smiled at him
as he shook his hand, and kept on moving. He then spun
around and saluted him again with his fist. The man
grinned broadly.

On the roads south through Greece. (Chapters 7 and 9).

Soon they were through Kozani and driving out in open
country, and Jude watched the scenery slide by. There
were solar panels the size of billboards in fields flashing in
the midday sun. A lorry was parked with the entire cabin
tilted forwards as if it had expired in the heat. As they
climbed into the hills, they passed clusters of Orthodox
shrines along the roadside like rusty mailboxes. One was a
perfect miniature church with red roof tiles and a bell
tower.

South of Larissa the landscape began to change. Jude
watched an irrigation machine like a giant stick insect
creeping over a field, and a tractor racing across another,
raking up a dust cloud behind in a brown jet stream. They
passed a meadow of green grass that rolled up to its crest
in a wave where a single cypress tree flew there like a
standard. It reminded Jude a little of Salisbury Plain in
England, and he half-expected a tank to rise up at the
roadside on war manoeuvres.

They drove on in an atmosphere that had warmed, Jude
thought, a few degrees. They came over a pass and to a
long, winding descent past walls with huge red slogans for
the Greek Communist Party. They drove by Eleonas, a
village of white houses above an escarpment of orange-tinged
rocks, and down through olive orchards with long
avenues of gnarled trunks. As they climbed towards
Delphi, the cypress trees lined the road like javelin heads,
and when they passed its sanctuary of Apollo, a place
pagans once thought of as the navel of the world, the light
was beginning to fade with the sun.
















In Athens (Chapters 12 and 16).

Omonia.

They walked under a graffiti-soiled colonnade
where women in hijabs crouched around babies in
pushchairs, and there Jude noticed a sign above a door that
read ‘St Kolbe’s Refugee Programme’.
‘Let’s see if our spiritual cousins might help us,’ Jude
said to Mehmed. On the third floor in a dimly lit, spartan
office they were eventually given entry to the room of a
Father O’Toole, as the name read on the door.
‘Are you relatives?’ he said in the soft, arching lilt of
southern Ireland as he squinted a little at the photo.
‘I’m his pastor,’ said Jude. ‘We’re from Albania – and
you, Cork?’
‘Galway … You don’t look like a pastor,’ he said
smiling. ‘You look like a Romantic poet. Shelley or one of
them … or something.’
‘We have no union card. I could recite the Beatitudes to
you?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said, laughing, and
pushed his lank, grey hair behind his ear. ‘And your friend
– is he Mafia?’ He glanced at Mehmed.
‘He’s a church elder.’
‘Oh, God save us from you Protestants. And you’d be
looking for your lost sheep here like a good fella, would
you?’
‘In a nutshell.’

---

Acropolis.

Now is not the time,’ said Mehmed. ‘Look there.’ Jude
followed the line of Mehmed’s sight until he saw four men
walking through the trees on the approach path to the
Propylaea steps and ramp. The second man wore a red
baseball cap and the first had an unmistakably thick neck
and a black bandana. ‘We did not lose them yesterday,’
Mehmed said, glancing up the steps behind him. ‘They’ve
picked their time and place, Jude, and caught us well, with
no exit. Come on … quickly.’ Mehmed pulled him
forwards and they set off striding up the steps onto a
wooden boardwalk. As they broke into a run, Jude heard
the heavy clump of his footfall passing by the weatherworn
stone columns, and it seemed to call unwanted
attention to them. Mehmed was propelling himself
forwards by the metal handrail. Soon, they were on a
gravel path running on to the citadel hilltop past the long
line of honey-hued Doric columns that formed the
towering Parthenon temple.












From ‘The Migrant’ © Paul Alkazraji 2019, Instant Apostle.

Read Chapter 1 of ‘The Migrant’ here:
https://instantapostle.com/2019/02/22...

Find copies of ‘The Migrant’ here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...

An in depth chat with Ruth O Reilly Smith in the UCB2 studio covered cross-channel migration by Albanians, ‘The Migrant’ novel, why the future once seemed like choosing a cereal brand from a supermarket shelf, and why Robin Mark’s ‘Days of Elijah’ speaks to me. Click on the link for 27/03/2023
https://www.ucb.co.uk/ruth

By this author.

Watch out for bed-time tweets from this story beginning Sunday for a week. Travel from Albania to Istanbul and back across northern Greece as a deadly danger approaches on the ‘Friendship Express’…
https://twitter.com/paul_alkazraji

Chapter 10














Photos. Peter Wilson.

Outside the Blue Café under the shade of a silver
birch tree Jude sat with Shpetim Gurbardhi watching
the passers by on the high street. A horse cantered
past pulling a cart piled high with rattling plastic
kitchenware, buckets and brushes, and two gypsy
girls sitting with their legs dangling off the back. A
white car with four young men slunk low drove by,
the windows wound down to protect them surely,
he thought, from the Greek bouzouki music they’d
amplified to a glass-shattering level. At a nearby
table was a man with a grey bandit’s moustache and
a dark beret. He looks like he’s walked out of the
pages of history to join his comrades for a coffee,
before hitching on his bullet belt and heading back
to some Partisan mountain base, he thought.
















Shpetim balanced his slim, chromed mobile
phone on the marble table and slid his fingers down
the edges before flipping it over. He held it like it was
a thing of wondrous value, which he kept checking
he still actually possessed.
“How much did your sunglasses cost you?” said
Shpetim as they waited for their coffees.
“I don’t remember… maybe £10,” said Jude.
“I can get you a pair the next time I go back to
England.” Shpetim grinned. “Did you try the Earl
Grey tea I gave you?”
“To be truthful, I liked the box,” he said with an
apologetic look. “But the tea tasted of… cologne.”
He reached behind him to his suit jacket hung on the
chair back and took out a sprig of dried, green plants
wrapped in a blue plastic bag. “My mother sent you
this. It’s çaj mali, mountain tea.”
“It looks like something you’ve confiscated,”
said Jude.
“Jude!” he said smiling through a look of reproof.
He then leant closer. “There is a village near here
which produces cannabis… it’s like a plantation.
Most of the residents are involved. So, we had to
put a stop to it. Last year, the police approached it.
The problem was the villagers had posted a sentry…
a ninety-year-old woman with a semi-automatic
weapon. What could we do? Send in the Special
Forces? There would have been an outcry!”
“You should have sent in your grandad, Petrit.
She might have been an old Partisan flame of his.
That would have disarmed her,” said Jude. Shpetim
laughed. His phone rang. It was still set on Lionel
Richie. He stood up and walked a couple of paces
away from the table, then spun around on the ball
of his right foot. Jude watched him as Shpetim fixed
his eyes on a detail of mottling in the table’s white
marble surface. His eyes were clear and set as it
seemed information and calculations sped through
his mind as he listened. He then quietly issued a
series of terse instructions. At one point, when it
appeared he was being countermanded, he drew
his hand towards his chest with fingers and thumb
pinched tightly together, and then splayed them out
in emphasis. He sat down with a dour face.
“Ah, Shqipëria!” he said dropping his head.
“Albania will never become Albania with Albanians
in it!” He glanced at Jude. “Don’t ask.” Fredi the
waiter brought two macchiatos in their blue cups
and set them down on the table.
“Pizza,” Shpetim said to him. Jude nodded
quickly to Fredi so as not to draw him in. “I couldn’t
have borne this work without God Jude… the things
we deal with. I thank Him that people like you came
here.”
“Was it through the children’s group… that you
came in to the church?”
“My parents sent me for the free gifts, what can
I say?” he grinned. “As I stayed, though, the Bible
studies just kind of sank in, until they took root and
meant something.” The lines on his forehead became
less angular. His thick eyebrows straightened. It
seemed to Jude that the light of the world flickered
through his eyes. “And you, was it because of what
happened with your mother?” Jude put a spoon of
sugar in his coffee and stirred.
“Well, things seemed very bleak and broken
after mum died, for sure,” he said. “Then when I got
to university… some of the literature I was reading
didn’t help. I went to the student parties… I liked
them for a while. There was someone special too
that I liked. I thought I could believe in her… but
one night I stumbled upon her at a party with a
university lecturer. There was a whole group of them
sprawled on the floor drunk. It just intensified my
sense of the sham, the corruption of life… in contrast
to the high academic ideals. Do you know what I
mean?”
“Jude. I’m an Albanian and you ask me if I
understand corruption!” said Shpetim with a look
of amusement. Jude smiled.
“I was thinking… What is there to admire or
look up to? What is there that is good or true in this
world? I felt whatever it was they were all suffering
from, I was infected with it too… I was no saint.”
Jude spooned up the remaining sugar grains from
the bottom of his cup and stirred again. “I was
traipsing around the streets of York after a party in the
early hours of the morning one time… and I came to
the Low Ousegate Bridge.”
“The one on the playing card?” said Shpetim.
“Yes… the one we will make the match with,”
said Jude staring into his macchiato. “I looked down
at the River Ouse… black and sweeping under the
bridge. I felt dead inside… so I might as well be
dead in body. Thankfully, I’d read one good book at
that time, A Tale of Two Cities. There’s a character in
there, Sydney Carton, who stands by the River Seine
in Paris at dawn and hears the words of Christ. Well,
I remembered them, and they just seemed to penetrate
me in that moment… ‘He who believes in me, though he
were dead, yet shall he live!’
“So you left the bridge?”
“I walked towards the Minster… it’s a big church
there that dominates the skyline… and waited hours
until it opened. Inside, I got down in the aisle and
prayed. I had a wonderful experience there… a touch
of something that welled up warm and enfolding on
all sides… and through me… like a rain shower. I
lay there until a verger told me to get up because I
was disturbing the tourists.” Shpetim was looking at
him curiously, smiling. “Well, that was the moment
my rudder moved, and I began to inch away from
the busy shipping lane where most of the traffic is.
And here I am… twelve years later, at a café table in
your country.” Fredi arrived and put down Shpetim’s
pizza on the table with cutlery and a ketchup
bottle. Shpetim began to cover it with criss-crossing
lines of the red sauce. He looked up and caught Jude
staring.
“Ç’ ke? What?” said Shpetim. Jude tried to feign
an expression of nonchalance. “It is good you are
here, doing what you are,” he said.
“Not everyone sees it that way,” said Jude.
“So, are you worried about the phone call?” said
Shpetim. “Don’t be. People make a lot of threats
here.”

Chapter 18














Jude was alone, lying on the living room sofa with
his sandals off, easing his way into a late Sunday
afternoon nap, when a knock came on the apartment
door. It had a character he did not recognise, but not
only for this reason, some sense beyond hearing
caused the hairs on his forearms to ruffle like a wheat
field in a mild breeze. He looked towards the door.
He rose and trod barefoot, through the room into
the entrance hall. He listened. It seemed unnaturally
quiet. He hesitated. Then he turned the latch and
drew in the door. The lights in the stairwell were
off and it took his eyes some seconds to penetrate
the darkness split by the bar of light he’d let out.
He then made out the form of a tall man’s arm and
shoulder standing in close against the wall to the
side. Jude’s senses came alive. Danger was edging
out of the shadow. He knew it. It’s come, he thought
in the splitting of a second.

The man took two quick steps towards him.
Jude stumbled backwards away from his approach
into his entrance hall. The man strode in after him.
Jude backed into the living room stubbing his bare
heel on a raised edge of floor mat. He thought to
turn and run, but he was trapped. He felt his pocket
for his mobile phone. He’d left it on the coffee table.
The man swiftly closed the door behind him. He
advanced over Jude with his eyes kept closely on
him. They then swept around, to the kitchen, and
through doors left ajar.
“You are alone in the house?” he said tersely,
with, Jude noted instantly, a Kosovar accent.
“My wife will be here any moment… I have
friends who will call me,” said Jude staring back
levelly, but breathing heavily.
“Sit down,” he ordered. Jude complied observing
the man cautiously as he too was being observed.
He had a sallow, clean-shaven face. He was physically
lean and coiled with alertness. He was wearing
a pressed, grey shirt, black trousers and polished,
black slip-on shoes. His eyes were firm, but not
cruel, Jude thought.
“I would like your assistance,” he said briskly.
“There are two ways we can do this. You can give
your co-operation willingly… or there are other
ways.” He placed a hand purposefully by his trouser
waist. Jude could see clearly the L-shaped bulge of
a pistol below the cloth. “I think that we understand
each other.” Jude nodded. The man now stood at
ease like a soldier used to standing to attention.
“The manuscript… I would like to see it,” he said.
“You want… to read it here, or to take a copy?”
“You have a computer, I presume, so open it.”
Jude indicated with his eyes towards the side desk,
stood up slowly, and walked to his laptop. He keyed
in the password, slotted in the USB stick Spiro had
given him after church, and clicked open the file.
“You can relax now,” said the man. “Make some
coffee for yourself if it eases you. If your wife comes,
you will tell her I am a friend of Mehmed’s. Act
wisely now…” He positioned the chair and laptop
so that he could see over the rim of the screen to
observe Jude with ease.

Jude walked cautiously to the kitchen and took
down his Mr Rochester’s Mug from a shelf. He went
through the motions of making a pint of tea to give
himself something to focus on. Where was Alex, he
thought? She’d been out for hours! Maybe it was
better she didn’t return now to disturb this man. He
prayed in the quiet anxiety of his mind that it would
be so, and thought. His heartbeat felt quicker, but
not racing. This man is controlled, not wild, professional,
he reasoned: first the pressure, then the
courtesy. He looked to be scrolling quickly though
the pages, stopping periodically. He seems to know
what he is looking for, thought Jude. If I do as he
says, he will do nothing unreasonable. I’ll be okay
now.

Jude’s mobile phone suddenly made a loud rattle
as it vibrated on the coffee table surface. He looked
at the man. He was watching him. Jude walked over
and glanced at the phone’s screen for the caller’s
ID. It was Spiro. Oh Lord, thought Jude. He lifted it
slowly and pressed the green button to accept.
“Jude. Je mirë? Is everything okay with you?” he
heard Spiro say.
“Yes. Of course it is! I’m relaxing with a cup of
tea, like a true Englishman… Mos ki merak,” he said
trying to add a light-hearted touch.
“Okay then…” said Spiro pausing. “I’ll see you
in the morning then.” Spiro hung up and Jude put
the phone back down on the coffee table.
He now waited silently holding his mug of tea,
though he did not drink any, whilst the man looked
at the computer screen for another thirty minutes.
The man then folded the laptop closed.
“This is the version you propose to publish?” he said.
“Yes. It is finished now.”
“You will take out this name on page 45… and
insert a pseudonym. You will then have no difficulties
with us.” He produced a scrap of paper from his
shirt pocket, wrote down something and placed it on
the desk. He stood up briskly and walked towards
the entrance hall.
“Who are you?” asked Jude gently. The man
sauntered a step, turned and looked at him.
“Tell Mehmed… friends in Prishtina send their
regards.” Jude felt a little emboldened by the man’s
change of body language. He’d got what he’d come for.
“Were you at Edona’s apartment… near the
Bajram Curri Boulevard in Tirana?” He did not say
anything. You were, thought Jude. “Were you…
your people… on the Qafë Krrabë ridge road? Did
you telephone me?”
“I know nothing of these things,” he said. He
then hesitated as if considering something. “The
book… it is… interesting. Others may not take that
view however.”
“What others?” asked Jude. He looked at Jude
with an expression of worldly knowing.
“Mehmed is a man with a long past.”
“He also has a new future,” said Jude.
“In this world?” he said with a cynical glazing
passing over his eyes. “If others permit it…” Jude
then heard men’s voices rising up the stairwell. An
officious knock was hammered on the door.
“Jude? Ke ndonjë hall? Is everything alright?”
shouted Spiro. Jude stared into the entrance hall.
His heart groaned, and his mind flashed through
outcomes of this man’s hand being forced. The man
gave him a look of gunmetal coldness. It said: ‘Don’t
move. Don’t even swallow…’











Paul Alkazraji.
Copyright Paul Alkazraji. Highland Books Ltd. 2012. All Rights Reserved.






Find ‘The Silencer’ on Amazon.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B...

Also by this author.