The Blasphemer

  Copyright © 2012 by John Ling

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the author or publisher.

  Published by Kia Kaha Press

  www.kiakahapress.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART FOUR

  AFTERWORD BY THE AUTHOR

  ESSAY: A Cultural Genocide

  ESSAY: Arab Spring

  EXCERPT: Righteous Fire

  EXCERPT: The Reckoning

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  When you want to know how things really work, study them when they’re coming apart.

  —William Gibson, Zero History

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Samir had decided that tonight would be the night. As he sat in his car with the engine off, he stared at the house across the street. The rain had eased to a trickle, and he could see movement past the windows. The man of the house was helping his wife set the table for dinner. Curtains billowed, hiding the man’s face. But Samir knew it had to be him. The apostate. The blasphemer.

  Samir exhaled, feeling so many things at once. Joy and hate. Faith and doubt. Excitement and fear. Which was which? He could no longer tell. Pain started to bloom in his temples, and he could feel it reaching into his eyeballs, stabbing him in sync with his heartbeat. That damn headache was back.

  He clenched his jaw, trying to tough it out. He didn’t want to medicate himself. Didn’t want to risk dulling his senses, blunting his edge. But in the end, the migraine proved too crushing, too searing, and he relented. A bit of pain was good for the spirit, yes, but too much would be a hindrance.

  Opening his glove box, he pulled out a paracetamol blister pack. The foil packaging crackled and popped as he pressed out two pills. He had no water, so he dry-swallowed them. It took him three tries and a fair bit of retching before they went down.

  Breathing through his teeth, he was tempted to lean back against his seat. To close his eyes. To wait for the pain to fade. But he stopped himself. For a week now, he had barely slept and had eaten only a little. The fasting had purified his soul but wrecked his body. Nodding off now would be too easy. Far too easy. So he forced himself to stretch, to straighten. Yes, tonight would be the night. God had chosen him to be a mujahid. A holy warrior. He knew he had to obey.

  Unzipping the bag beside him, he pulled out a pistol. It gleamed black, looking like the ugliest thing, its icy metal chilling him through his glove. Biting his lip, flexing his fingers, he raised the gun, uncomfortable with how big and heavy it felt. It was a Norinco. A forty-four calibre. The Asian guy who had sold it to him had called it the Desert Eagle of China. Top-shelf quality. Rock-bottom price. Superb stopping power. Two hundred dollars had sealed the deal.

  But now, thinking back, he wondered if he had been too hasty. Perhaps he could have haggled for a lower price. Perhaps. But, ah, what did it matter now? He had his weapon, and it would serve its purpose. Yes, it would.

  Reaching into his bag once more, he drew out an ammunition magazine. It held seven rounds. Remembering what the seller had taught him, he checked the gun’s safety catch, making sure it was secure. Then he tilted the gun to one side, lining up the magazine with the bottom of the handgrip, slotting it in smoothly until it locked into place. Finally, holding the gun straight, he reached for the slide above the barrel. Pulling it, he chambered a round with a satisfying click-clack. Oh yes. He had to admit that the sound gave him a small thrill. Made him feel like a real soldier.

  Soldier.

  He relished the word.

  Retrieving another magazine from his bag, he slipped it into his jacket’s left pocket, while the gun went into the right. That gave him a total of fourteen rounds to play with. Inshallah, it would be enough.

  Samir bowed his head. ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim...’ In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful. He recited the eighty-seventh surah, a favourite of the Holy Prophet. ‘Success comes to him who grows, who remembers the name of his Lord, who performs his prayer. It is better to forsake the ways of the world, for heaven is everlasting. Yes, this is inscribed in the scrolls of the ancients...’

  Samir nodded, inhaling deeply. His migraine had dimmed to an insignificant throb. Alhamdulillah. He was ready. Pulling his jacket’s hood over his head, he pushed his car door open, stepping out on to the sidewalk. A puddle splashed under his shoe. Raindrops prickled his face. He shut his door and locked it.

  That’s when footsteps came up behind him. He froze, and adrenalin spiked in his stomach. Had he been discovered? Had someone called the police on him? Shaking, he fumbled for the gun in his pocket, his thumb finding the safety. All he had to do was flick it off, and the gun would be ready to fire. And he whirled, ready to unleash hell. But—damn it—it was just a woman with an umbrella walking her dog. Twisting his lips, feeling foolish, he swallowed the knot in his throat and relaxed his grip on his gun, but not by much.

  The dog sniffed at him, its tongue lolling and dripping saliva, and he backed up against the side of his car. He didn’t know what breed it was. Didn’t care. The imam at his mosque had warned him about the uncleanliness of dogs. Yes, they were useful for guarding and hunting. But as pets? Playthings? Never. It was haram— forbidden.

  The woman smiled at Samir. But he just stared. Yes, he could kill her right now if he wanted to—her and her filthy dog. Stroking the curve of his gun’s trigger, he allowed the fantasy to linger, watching as they rounded the corner. When they were gone, he shook his head and exhaled. He had been so close—too close—to losing control.

  God is challenging you. Placing obstacles in your path. Seeing if you are worthy. But… of course you are worthy. You will not deviate from the path. You will not falter. Your heart is pure. Your faith is strong. Your cause is just.

  Samir shook his head harder and crossed the street.

  The house was one of the prettiest in the neighbourhood. A large two-storey, it sat last on the block, shaded by a willowy tree, its lawn decorated by bonsai shrubs, flower beds and a bubbling fish pond. A short white fence completed its charm. Made it picture perfect. Like a postcard image. More than anything, Samir wished it would burn. All of it.

  He approached the house from the back, his eyes darting to make sure he was alone. Nervous energy pulsed through him, warm and dizzying. His body tensed. Like a spring coiled up to its tightest.

  Do it. Just do it. Do not hesitate. Never hesitate.

  He broke into a running start, jumping the fence, clearing it, the breeze tousling his hood. But his landing on the other side was clumsy. He slipped on the wet lawn, the soles of his shoes squeaking, and he dropped to his knees, skidding as he did, the freshly cut grass loose, its earthy smell tickling his nostrils. Jerking his head this way and that way, he panted, his heart thundering. Had someone heard him? Curses. He almost lost his nerve. Almost clambered back over the fence. Almost ran away. But—no—he crossed his arms over his chest and clutched himself tight. Head bowed, he whispered rapid-fire verses about courage and fortitude and self-belief and staying the course.

  Restrain your fear. God is with you. God is always with you. Do not deviate from the path. Not now. Not when you are so close. For it is not your will that matters. It is God’s will. Always God’s will.

  Slowly, surely, his panic eased, and when Samir looked up, he realised that nothing had stirred around him. No lights came on. No footsteps approached. No one shouted. Nothing. He was safe. Alhamdulillah. God had preserved him despite his clumsiness. Alhamdulillah.

  He started to move.

  Keeping himself low, he inched towards the pond.

  Colourful fish
darted as he drew close.

  Curious, he dipped his fingers into the bubbling water. It was warm. Artificially heated. He scoffed. How could it be that the apostate treated his fish better than he treated his own people?

  In his mind’s eye, Samir remembered something he had seen in the news—a kafir helicopter strafing and rocketing a Muslim home, turning it into smouldering rubble. Heinous. Yet, as bad as the kafir were, the apostate was worse. Much worse. For he had chosen to side with them.

  Traitor.

  Seething, Samir felt his way around the circumference of the pond and found wires. He followed them, and they led him straight to the power socket. He tore off its plastic cover and yanked the electrical plug loose. The water stopped bubbling. Good. The fish could freeze for all he cared.

  He turned his attention to the smooth rocks decorating the edge of the pond. Picking up one as big as his palm, he weighed it in his hand. Too small. Too light. Dropping it, he chose another rock, this one as large as his fist. He had to stretch his fingers to grip it. Yes, this one would do nicely.

  Cradling the rock against his chest, he drew his gun. He looked past the patio, past the deck chairs, past the potted plants. Finally his eyes settled on the glass door that led to the living room. He thought of his children, Abu and Fatimah. Still so young. Still so innocent. He hoped they would understand. He hoped they would be proud. And with that, he thumbed his gun’s safety catch off.

  CHAPTER 2

  Abraham Khan had just sat down for dinner when his wife gasped. He frowned and lowered his fork to his plate. Following her gaze, he looked out the windows.

  Belinda pointed shakily. ‘There’s someone in the garden.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Abraham pushed his chair back and stood. Craning his neck, he swept his eyes over the fish pond. The flower beds. The shrubs. The fence line. But all he saw were their plants swaying in the drizzling twilight.

  Eventually, he shook his head. ‘I don’t see anything.’

  ‘Abe, I’m telling you, there’s a man outside.’

  Abraham reached for a switch on the wall, flipping on the spotlights. They blazed to life, blanketing the yard in a warm glow, chasing away all the shadows. He gave everything another look. Nothing. No bogeyman anywhere.

  He turned back to his wife, agitation creeping into his voice. ‘There’s no one there.’

  ‘We should call the police anyway.’

  ‘We are not going to call the police every time you imagine a prowler.’

  Belinda scrunched up her face. ‘I didn’t imagine it!’

  Abraham wanted to snap back, but he dug his fingernails into his palms instead. They had been on edge for two months now. It had started with phone calls threatening obscenities. Then dog shit stuffed into their mailbox. Red paint splashed on their bonsai shrubs. Arsenic dumped into their fish pond.

  Eventually, the police had arrested the boy and the girl responsible—Christian nuts who had taken things too far. That should have been the end of the matter. But not for Belinda. She had remained a nervous wreck ever since. Always jumping at shadows. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that there were more crazies out there. Watching. Waiting.

  Abraham forced himself to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. ‘The rain and the wind are playing tricks on your eyes. You have to let it go.’

  Belinda gazed down at her plate. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Try, darling.’

  ‘Don’t you know how scared I am?’

  Belinda blinked back tears. She looked so small right then. So vulnerable. Abraham regretted his tone right then. It wasn’t like them to get angry with each other. It wasn’t like them at all.

  Softening, he reached out to touch her, to comfort her. ‘I’m sorry—’

  That’s when the glass door in the lounge behind them exploded. Fragments shrieked, peppering the floor.

  Abraham froze in mid-step.

  Belinda clutched her mouth.

  A hooded intruder loomed on the patio just outside, smashing away at the glass frame with a rock before plunging his arm through, reaching for the door handle, and Abraham stared with his eyes wide, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to comprehend, panic shutting down his brain, paralysing his limbs, everything happening in slow motion, but then Belinda’s scream jolted him, and he snapped out of his stupor, and he knew they had to get upstairs and, damn it, their only chance was to get upstairs, so he caught Belinda’s arm, pulling her to her feet, her chair toppling, and he spun her around, pushing her towards the staircase, urging her to run like the wind and—dear God—the intruder was already through the door, his shoes crunching on broken glass, his voice booming, calling Abraham a blasphemer, calling for him to die just as Belinda hit the stairs with her legs pumping, surging ahead, taking two steps at a time, and that’s when Abraham heard a click, an ominous click, a terrifying click, like a gun’s hammer being cocked, and fear squeezed his throat shut and—God Almighty—he choked, wishing he could move faster and wasn’t stuck in slow motion and, oh no, he could feel an icy spot building right at the back of his skull as if a bullet was going to smash into him at any second and blow his head apart.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hot tears spilled from Samir’s eyes, streaking his cheeks. ‘Blasphemer! Blasphemer! You must die!’

  He remembered the oppressed ummah, the brotherhood of believers around the world, and swearing he’d strike a blow for them all, he pulled back his pistol’s hammer, aiming it one-handed, and at last, at last, he had the apostate in his sights, and this was the moment of moments, his moment of moments, and he knew he was an instrument of the divine.

  ‘La ilaha illa Allah.’ There is no god but God.

  Samir squeezed the trigger, and the pistol roared and kicked, its power making his blood rush, causing him to stagger back two steps, gunpowder scorching his nostrils, and up on the staircase, the wall beside the apostate’s head exploded, white plaster misting the air, and the apostate lurched, and his wife screamed, and Samir recovered his footing, realising he had used the wrong grip, the wrong stance, and that he’d been hasty, much too hasty, so he lined up another shot, this time clutching his gun with both hands, locking his elbows, vowing he would not miss because the apostate was already at the top of the stairs, already darting into the hallway beyond.

  Samir squeezed the trigger.

  And it clicked, not firing.

  Confused, he squeezed it again and again.

  No. No. No.

  Not now.

  Not when he was so close.

  He smacked his palm against the gun, racking the slide back, trying to clear the jam, a round ejecting, flipping, arching, and he squeezed the trigger again, and it still wouldn’t work, and he racked the slide again, ejecting another round, squeezing again, but still nothing. What to do? What to do? Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Hurling the gun, sending it crashing against the dinner table, dishes clattering, he stormed the stairs, his heart thudding in his ears, knowing he would have to kill the apostate with his bare hands.

  In between breaths, he stuttered a prayer, ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim...’ In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.

  He had almost reached the top when he stubbed his foot on the lip of a step, clumsy, so clumsy, and he twisted his ankle and fell, cracking his head against the staircase’s railing, white-hot pain flowering in his skull, and his hair feeling wet and sticky, and curses, he was bleeding all over himself, and gasping, shaking, he picked himself up and limped into the hallway, a door slamming ahead of him, and he could hear screeching and thumping on the other side, and it sounded like the apostate and his wife were shifting furniture against the door, barricading it.

  CHAPTER 4

  Belinda Freeman-Khan sobbed and screamed herself raw, and hot, bitter vomit climbed up the back of her throat, scorching her senses, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and the room around her seemed to warp and blacken and spin, and her knees al
most buckled, and she wanted nothing better than to collapse and curl up into the smallest, tightest ball and pass out and hope against hope that this wasn’t happening and—

  Dear God.

  She doubled over and vomited, her insides churning, cramping, and her husband was behind the dressing table now, his face stricken as he grunted and heaved and pushed, he was yelling at her to get up, to help him, to stay strong and, yes, Belinda stumbled over, still puking as she went, and together, side by side, they pushed and push, but the table was heavy as hell and kept getting caught up in the carpet, creaking, jerking, her jewellery falling, her cosmetics falling, all her precious things falling, but she didn’t care, couldn’t care, because all she wanted to do was to keep the bad man away, and they had to hurry because he was coming, definitely coming, and they managed to shove the table against the door, and that’s when the bad man crashed against it with a terrible bang, and Belinda yelped, slipping, falling, and she scooted backwards, the carpet searing her butt through her skirt, her hands covering her face, and suddenly she found herself hating Abe for being so stubborn, so naive, so blind, refusing to face up to the danger all these months, all these damn months, and now it was too late, much too late.

  Peering through the gaps between her fingers, Belinda caught her husband scrambling this way and that way around the bed, straining and panting as he tried to shift it, and the sight of him made her stomach turn, and she gagged, feeling the urge to vomit, but she was all spent and thirsty as hell, and there was nothing left to vomit.

  Oh God.

  No, she didn’t hate Abe. How could she hate him? She loved him. Damn it, she loved him despite it all. Quitting her self-pity, Belinda rose and got beside him even though her limbs were numb, so terribly numb, feeling as if they weren’t hers anymore, but screw it, she shook her head, snivelling, forcing away the blackness squeezing in on her consciousness, and inch by excruciating inch, with the bed groaning as it shifted, she pushed and stumbled, pushed and stumbled, her muscles burning, her lungs screaming, her mind on autopilot, no longer thinking, just fighting to survive, just fighting to survive because, damn it, she wasn’t ready to die just yet.