Novel Progress

Prologue

Baghdad, Iraq. October 9th 1988.

It had never occurred to Mahmoud Zaki that the baby would actually make noise. “Ya Allah,” he thought. “Why won’t it just shut the hell up?”

“Because he’s a baby! Babies cry, Mahmoud, you cried too when you were a baby!” his wife Sameera exclaimed.

Mahmoud was startled by the sound of his wife’s voice. He hadn’t realised that he had been thinking aloud. He remained silent for a minute. The infant’s cries echoed around their tiny bedroom. The midwife had delivered the young boy only a few hours earlier and he wasn’t ready to sleep just yet.

“Well, maybe,” he admitted, finally. “But surely not as much as this, this is ridiculous! Its two forty-five in the morning, how does it expect us to sleep?”

The wailing child’s mother didn’t bother replying to her husband’s foolish outrage. “Shush, tefal, shhh...” she said, softly pursing her lips as she embraced the tiny infant. Like a piece of my heart, she thought. How fragile he is. She wrapped the family’s only blanket around the crying child. Her firstborn. She thought about how surprised the midwife had looked when she told her they would not be going to a hospital. Rooms at Al-Noor hospital certainly weren’t cheap. With Mahmoud having lost his job recently, there was no way they could afford to pay a doctor. Besides, Mahmoud didn’t believe in doctors. “Arrogant bastards,” he called them. “Just because they have a PhD certificate stuck up on their walls, they think they know more than the rest of us!” He would say this grudgingly and with a hint of regret in his voice. It was probably because Mahmoud wanted to be a doctor too, in his youth. He had told her about these dreams soon after they were married. When he was a young child, he even forced his father to buy him a toy stethoscope and would wear it all day long, playing doctor to friends, family and whoever would pay him any attention. The numerous wars, poor choices and no money had meant that he could not pursue his dreams. Sameera swore, at that moment, that she was going to let her son fulfil his dreams, no matter what. She was aware that this would be difficult given their lack of resources. She knew though, that one resource definitely wouldn’t be insufficient and that was love. As she watched her baby drift into a reluctant sleep, she felt such a deep sense of affection toward those eight-pounds worth of human, more than any mother has ever loved her child before, she thought, adoringly. Such grey eyes he has. She kissed his forehead gently and said, “He deserves a name as beautiful as he is. We’ll call him Mahir.” Mahmoud grunted something in reply which Sameera understood as an approval. With that she fell asleep, with the child’s petite fingers reaching out for his mother’s nose, sound asleep now, blissfully unaware of the life that lay ahead.


London, England. 9th October, 1988.

The staff at the maternity wing of West London’s Royal Hospital had been eagerly anticipating this day for several weeks now and this morning, charge d’affairs Dr. Philip Montgomery confirmed that the day had finally arrived. Vivian McAlister-Jones, the pop singer, was due to give birth to her second child on this day and rumours that her footballer stroke movie-star husband Adrian McAlister had tipped each staff-member an outrageous £300 at the birth of his first child spread like wildfire around the hospital.

“He’s an eccentric man,” a dreamy-eyed nurse said, eagerly. “Who knows what he has in store for us this time?”

At exactly 5pm, a representative of the McAlister family addressed a large crowd of reporters representing numerous national newspapers and television channels, who had gathered below the grand staircase at the entrance of the Royal Hospital. He was smartly dressed in a black pinstriped suit and a radiant ultramarine tie. His face had the look of a man greatly pleased with the responsibility bestowed upon him and he seemed keen to make the most of his time in the limelight.

“It gives me immense pleasure...” he began haughtily, speaking with his face much too close to the microphone causing a static boom which automatically silenced his audience. “It gives me immense pleasure...to announce the birth...of a young boy, the son of Mrs. and Mr. Adrian McAlister, a healthy young child who was born earlier this afternoon.” He spoke slowly and carefully, pausing after every three or four words. “The doctors were pleased with the child’s condition... Earlier, I was delighted to congratulate the proud parents on behalf of the nation.” He cleared his throat and studied the faces of his audience.

They look hungry for information and I have it. Oh, yes. Pleased as punch, I must be looking. I wonder if I should wind ‘em up a little bit?

 “Now, in response to the speculation about Mr. McAlister’s England future, he would like to convey...his deep regret at the false accusations of a rift between himself and the national coach, Mr. Bernstein. The facts are: they share a professional relationship and Mr. McAlister will be re-joining the squad for training at Ashburton Grove this Friday...after he completes the compassionate leave he was granted due to the birth of his second child.”

He looked down at his notes and shuffled them about unnecessarily before continuing. “On behalf of the family, I would request the Press to respect their privacy at this joyous, yet private occasion.” He paused to adjust his tie and drink a sip of the sparkling water provided to him in a glass on his podium, looking around smugly at the gathered reporters- all the time, soaking in the atmosphere. 

It isn’t very often you get the eyes of the nation on you, might as well make the most of it.

The standing reporters were growing impatient at the man’s peculiar behaviour and started firing questions at random. “Get on with it!” someone shouted.
“Is it true that they’re getting a divorce?”
“Why didn’t Mr. Bernstein answer questions regarding Adrian McAlister at yesterday’s press conference?”
“Has Vivian had her nose-job yet?””
“What’s McAlister naming the lad?”

“Tell us the name, won’t you?”
Lenny Brighton suddenly remembered the strict instructions he had been sent to follow. The media was starting to get out of control. Get out. Create a scene, and get out! He raised his hand in the air to call for calm and spoke once the crowd fell silent again.
“Zeus” he said, finally. “Zeus McAlister is the name.” Saying this, he somewhat triumphantly turned around, climbed up the grand staircase and disappeared behind a wall of security personnel leaving behind him a thoroughly baffled group of reporters.

******

Inside VIP Room 101 of the Royal Hospital, Adrian McAlister and his wife Vivian were following proceedings on BBC News.
Vivian said, “That was quite a performance. Lenny’s rather good at this whole PR business. You might want to consider giving him a raise.”
Adrian was opening a bottle of Cuvée des Enchanteleurs, champagne specially flown in from Paris for this very occasion. He briefly took his eyes off the champagne to look at his wife before replying. “The man was just following my instructions. If anything, I should be the one commended here. The mysterious pause, the immediate exit after announcing the name ‘Zeus’. Brilliant. We ought to make the front page of The Sun, what do you think? They’ll definitely come up with an ingenious headline including the name.”
“Are you absolutely certain you want to name our son Zeus?”
“Absolutely. It’s perfect.” Adrian was swaying. He was drinking champagne is if it were Gatorade after a football game. “I want our boy to be unique, love. Someone special. He can be whatever the hell he wants to be. Hell, I’ll pay for it. Might as well get famous doing it. ‘The couple who gave birth to a God’. Where is the little fella anyways?”
“The nurse took him away to run some routine tests. I told her to keep him for a couple of hours. I have a meeting with Anna, my new trainer. We need to start working on my figure! With the European tour coming up next month, I can’t be carrying mommy weight around with me!”
“Super. Make sure Lenny arranges some gifts or some cash for the hospital staff. I’m heading out now. I’m meeting some of me old Arsenal mates down at Aura in Mayfair. See you later, love. Man, our boy is going to be a real star! I can sense it. Zeus McAlister. You lucky little bugger.”

Chapter One

Baghdad, Iraq. September 1^st, 2003.

The teacher stood up from his desk and began walking around the class. “In 1922, the first of many Kurdish rebellions took place. Kurdish tribesmen, led by Sheik Mahmud, a powerful Kurdish leader, attempted to establish an independent Kurdish nation...”

“Pssst. Mahir! Pssst. Wake up!” Ahmed poked his closest friend urgently, doing his best to escape the teacher’s attention.

Mahir loved sleeping. It gave him an opportunity to go wherever he waned, to do as he pleased and to free himself from the chains of so many rules and regulations, dos and donts, rights and wrongs. It was the only time when he felt completely at ease with himself and his surroundings, a sense of peace and tranquillity unlike any other emotion. Sometimes, he felt like he had the power to channelize what he saw in his dreams. A kind of control, an innate ability to choose what he dreamt of while he slept. When he talked about this with Ahmed he had laughed at him and called him a stupid fool. Ahmed warned him not to think of such things as it was Shaytaan who was whispering these ideas into his mind. Funnily enough, it was Ahmed who played the lead role in Mahir’s dream today. The two friends were running across a plush green field chasing after rabbits. Rabbits? How strange his dreams were! He would spend hours later, trying to figure out some deep intellectual meaning to this dream. He did that after every such strange, unexplainable dream. However, more often than not, Mahir would end up with a whole lot of muddled-up thoughts flowing through his mind and no concrete explanation to his dream. He could faintly hear Ahmed’s voice...and now another voice? His teacher’s! Ustadh Hussain? No way, what would his Iraqi History teacher be doing chasing rabbits when them in a field, what a silly idea! But it sounded just like him...that familiar monotonous voice...

“It should be noted that many similar and often related Kurdish uprisings took place in neighbouring Turkey and Iran....”

What? Why is he talking about this? We’re chasing rabbits for God’s sake!

His eyes opened slowly and painfully. More than thirty-five pairs of eyes were now staring at him and all the accompanying faces had wide grins across them. Well, except one.

“What in the world is wrong with you boy?” Ustadh Hussain hollered, his bearded face was now red with anger.

Mahir panicked. “I...I....err...I’m feeling sick, my head hurts.” It was the third time Mahir had been caught sleeping in class that week alone. He knew the teacher didn't believe him.

“GET OUT! And take your friend with you!” he said, pointing at Ahmed.

“But....but....I was trying to wake him up. I was doing a good-deed; I should be rewarded not punished!”

The class laughed.

“GET OUT! RIGHT NOW!”

Sheepishly, the two boys made their way down the row from their bench at the back and headed for the door. As they passed the teacher, he slapped Mahir hard on the face.

“That should wake you up, you dirty piece of garbage. Now GET OUT!”

*****

As soon as the classroom door was safely shut, the two boys burst into fits of laughter.

“That was a nice shot,” said Ahmed mischievously, raising his hand. “Just like this one....”

Mahir cleverly dodged Ahmed’s slap and placed his own one on his friend’s cheek before sprinting towards the school gate, laughing hysterically. After five minutes of chasing each other around the school yard, the two boys were bent over holding their knees with their palms, panting heavily.

Mahir got his breath back, checked his new five-dinar-worth ‘Rolox’ watch which he had purchased a few days ago, using up most of his savings: 1:15pm. He then looked at Ahmed and said, “So...there are three hours of school left before my mother expects me to be home. Head over to the fields and ask Yakoub and the other big boys to let us play football with them?”

“Not before we head over to the mosque for our Dhuhur prayers first.” Ahmed replied sternly.

Mahir remained silent. He knew that if it wasn’t for Ahmed, he would probably have been like most of the other neighbourhood boys their age - cutting prayers and spending time in the back streets and alleys of Baghdad, playing cards, and maybe even smoking a cigarette or two hiding behind a truck. But Ahmed came from a close-knit, religious family and his father was the imam of the nearby Al-Azhar mosque. He had a way of showing Mahir right from wrong and Mahir loved him for that. The two boys had first met at the local playground as it was just one street that separated their two homes. Also, they both attended the neighbourhood’s Umar ibn al-Khattab Elementary School and had been best friends since the age of seven although their personalities and interests were quite different - Mahir was quick-witted, athletic and seemed to be good at everything. He was tall for his age, and had broad shoulders which made him look a lot more mature than other fifteen-year-olds. But he was lazy. He worked hard only at things that interested him. On the other hand, Ahmed had neither the gift of a quick-wit nor an athletic body. He was plump and had a permanent lisp when he spoke. Yet, he managed quite well at school and this was mainly due to his outstanding work ethic. His kindness, determination and his never-say-die attitude made him an immensely lovable character. Together, Mahir and Ahmed made quite a dynamic duo.

“Okay fine. Let’s go pray now before we go and hit the football fields....”

“Good. Any news on your father, Mahir?”

“No, I think even my mother’s given up now. The police stopped searching for him ages ago. I always knew it though. He was going to leave. He couldn’t handle all the foreign troops roaming around our Baghdad. The car bombs. The curfews. It all got to him. My mother thinks he’s in Iran now. She thinks he had another wife in Tehran all along, maybe even other children. Who cares? I know I don’t.”

“I’m sure it bothers you a little at least, Mahir? He was your father, after all.”

“Not even one bit. He didn’t love me. He didn’t care much for my mother either. So he was no father to me. He walked out on us, Ahmed. I love my mother more than anyone in this world, and I hate him for making her go through so much pain.”

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of the adhaan, the call to prayer ringing through the streets of Baghdad. Ever since the US invasion, Mahir noticed that a larger number of people would attend the five daily prayers. It was one of the few positive outcomes of the War he could come up with. What positives could one draw from over 300,000 foreign troops invading your country? Mahir shuddered at the horrific images that automatically popped into his head when someone mentioned the War. The smell of blood, the sight of human flesh. Silently, he made his wudhu, the mandatory ablution before every prayer. As he washed away his sins, he tried his best to wash away those lingering images which often kept him up all night. Things he had seen with his own two eyes, horrible things. Once he was satisfied with his washing, he joined the prayer in the third row. After the congregational prayers were complete, he made a silent prayer for his father. His logic being this - Mahmoud Zaki loved Iraq. He had done his best to resist foreign invasion which had led to him being termed a ‘terrorist’ by the Americans. He may not have been a great father to Mahir neither a great husband to Mahir’s mother Sameera, but Mahir decided, at that moment, to forgive him for that. He prayed that his father had found a safe place to stay in Iran, if that is indeed where he was.

Ahmed tapped him on the shoulder. He saw his friend lost in his thoughts and knew that he was thinking about his father. He felt sorry for Mahir. Ahmed thanked Allah for gifting him a loving family and so many brothers and sisters. He tried to cheer Mahir up and said playfully, “So are you coming or not?”

*****

“Gooooooaaaaaaaaaal! Mahir scores again!”

Ahmed’s heart leapt with joy as he saw his best friend score his fourth goal of the afternoon. Although they were playing with a group of boys 3-4 years older than them, some of whom even played for local club teams, Mahir seemed completely at ease. He ran past defenders as if they weren’t there, leaving many nodding their heads in disbelief at his sublime skills.

They played on a dusty military parking lot which had grass growing in patches and a lot of stones, stones and more stones. Yet, when the ball was at his feet, Mahir expertly manoeuvred his way through the endless obstacles and found the goal not once, not twice but four times that afternoon. It was unbelievable how such a young boy could make a group of semi-pros look like such amateurs!

At the end of the game, the usual herd of boys surrounded Mahir, with their customary handshakes and pats-on-the-back while saying things like, “You’re going to be a star, you know that?”, “Name your club boy, just name it- you can play for anyone, Real Madrid, Milan or FC Barcelona?” and “Why aren’t you playing for the national team yet, they need someone like you!”

Truth was, Mahir wanted all these things - a professional contract, the opportunity to play abroad and represent his country. The only problem was, Iraq had no sporting infrastructure where he could be picked up and coached. Besides, after his father had left them, Mahir had solemnly sworn to get a job, earn money and look after his dear mother and he had no intention of doing anything but that. Yet, he often thought about what a waste of his talent it was if he did not pursue football. A special, special talent. A gift from Allah was how Ahmed described it. It was a dilemma that occupied Mahir’s thoughts every night as he lay in bed. Should he approach the local Baghdadi Football Academy ground and ask for a trial? He wanted to, very badly. It was just something, an intangible sense of guilt, probably, that kept him away. There was no money in football. With the War, how likely was it that he would even make it as a professional? A two maximum three percent chance? Was he willing to risk a steady income which would allow him to support his mother comfortably for a chance as slim as that?

Chapter Two

London, England. September 1^st, 2003.

“He has the name and the body of a Greek God, and not just any God, the King of Gods!”

“Zeus McAlister doesn’t pay attention in school. Attention pays Zeus McAlister!”

“Zeus McAlister doesn’t do push-ups in P.E. He pushes the Earth down!”

These are the sort of things that were said about 15-year-old Zeus McAlister at school. Granted, most of these jokes were cheesy rip-offs from the internet, but it just goes to show how highly the kids at F.R.I.S thought of him. F.R.I.S stands for the Frank Roger’s International School, an exclusive new private school which educated the offspring of all of London’s A-List families. Its reputation had grown to such an extent that students from other schools grudgingly changed F.R.I.S to stand for the Filthy-Rich Institute for Scum.

Even among this rare breed of teenagers, who generally spent more money in a week than an average British citizen earned in a month, Zeus McAlister was renowned as a fine specimen. A gleaming representative of everything these teenagers stood for- adolescent fame, unimaginable wealth and innumerable parties. Zeus McAlister had it all. The second child of Britain’s most celebrated footballer Adrian McAlister and a chart-topping singer Vivian McAlister-Jones, he lived, as the cliché goes, ‘a life which others could merely dream about.’ He grew up in a penthouse in posh West London. On his fifth birthday, a lavish new toy store was opened in his name. On his eleventh birthday, his father flew Zeus and his friends to Disneyland, California. Unfortunately, he wasn’t eligible for some of the ‘cooler’ rides, so he was gifted an encore Disneyland trip on his twelfth birthday. At thirteen, his bank balance crossed seven-figures and he had his own personal butler, Jerome, and a chauffeur-driven Mercedes E-Class, which he would take wherever his whim and fancy took him.

Strangely enough, Zeus did not particularly want all these ‘blessings’ that were showered upon him. Of course, he wouldn’t complain. God forbid. Adrian McAlister had set the rules straight. He had sat his son down one evening when Zeus was fourteen and chalked out some ground rules that he expected his son to adhere by as he was becoming a man. Nursing cups of hot chocolate by their electric fireplace, they had a rare father-son rendezvous. 

“Remember boy, as long as you want to live in this house you obey these rules. Once you’re eighteen you’ll be given some leeway, but until then, this is the Law. If I ever see, or hear of you breaking any of these rules, I’m warning you m’boy, I love you to bits and all, but I will not hesitate to send you away to Aunt Emily’s lodge near Glasgow for a year or two to set things straight. Are we bloody clear on this?”

“Yes sir.”

Wow, you’d think. Some good old-fashioned parenting techniques like these are always welcome. Good on you, Adrian McAlister. It’s refreshing to see a superstar like yourself make an attempt at keeping your prince under control.

Wait, it is Adrian McAlister we’re talking about here? The guy who spent £300,000 on chalet in the Swiss Alps and then burnt it down because he felt it was too cold there. There has to be a catch somewhere along the way.

Well, if you heard the rules, you’d be nodding your head in disgust and cursing the man. That rich son of a gun. Jerome, Zeus’ butler recorded the rules and later printed them out on sheets of paper which were duly framed and hung-up in each of his young master's five bedrooms. They were as follows:


1. Under no circumstances will you be seen on the East End , Croydon, Hackney or any other middle or lower-middle-class areas of London. Those places are not meant for our type.
2. Do not make friends with kids from such areas. Do not talk to anyone who doesn’t attend Frank Roger’s, or other reputed school of the sort.
3. If a newspaper or TV reporter ever gets hold of you for an interview (make sure Jerome contacts me beforehand in such a case) always always speak nothing but praises of your parents, your upbringing, your school and your life in general. Any rebellious behaviour from you in this matter and you might as well get Jerome to pack your bags for Scotland.
4. Your dream is to play for Chelsea, like your father. I don’t care how many titles Manchester United have won recently. You also dream of representing England on the world stage. If anyone asks, you have watched the all the videos of England winning the World Cup in 1956 and you dream of bringing the trophy back to Wembley once again.
5. Never trust foreigners. They just want your money.
6. You are expected to show up whenever your mother invites you for a charity dinner, a party or any other public event of the sort. A good rep means everything in the world.
7. Do not ever question any of my rules. Do not ever question me as to where we get all of our money from and why we use it the way we do. You shall know everything you need to know once you come of age.
8. Stay safe. Do not do anything that could land you in trouble with the police. It would be an utter embarrassment for us all. On account of having famous and rich parents- you are a target for criminals and terrorists alike. Stay out of harm’s way. You have the best security at your disposal. Make use of it.
9. Be nice to your sister. Serena is four years older than you and she deserves a certain degree of respect. Any reports of fights between the two of you and I shall be forced to consider a change of location.
10. Lastly and most importantly, stand up and be counted. You’re heading in the right direction. Mr. Scott and his coaching staff at the Chelsea academy are constantly updating me on your progress. They feel that in a couple of years, you should be a regular in the Reserves. You know that is complete bullshit. At seventeen, I made my first-team debut. I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Make me proud, son.


With rules like these, it’s no wonder Zeus McAlister resented all his family’s wealth and their luxurious lifestyle. He knew that wealth alone didn’t require one to lead a life segregated from the rest of society. Many of his friends at Frank Roger’s, who were also very rich, lived quite normal lives. In fact, some of them were even blissfully unaware of their parent’s statuses in the corporate world. Zeus would never admit it to anyone, but he was secretly jealous of their lives. He hated being treated like a prince. Dammit, even princes these days were given more freedom than he was, he had followed Prince William's stint in the Royal Army with great interest.

What Zeus hated most about his life was the loneliness. It wasn’t your textbook lack-of-friends type of loneliness. Zeus had scores of friends. A single phone call to Jerome and he could have his entire school at a party within a couple of hours. No, it wasn’t friendship that Zeus lacked. It was companionship. A close bond between two peers in which they could simply share their joys and their sorrows without any strings attached. Zeus had nobody with whom he could just sit around doing nothing with and yet feel comfortable and happy. Someone who could make endless jokes about him and make him feel like a complete idiot, but still love them for it. Zeus lacked true friends. The people who he interacted most with were his staff. His butler, Jerome- tall, dark and inhumanly efficient, Jerome played a major role in Zeus’ life. Zeus admired Jerome and even enjoyed spending time with him at a football stadium or a movie theatre. But he couldn’t really call him a ‘friend’ because deep down in his heart, he knew that Jerome only behaved the way he did because he had been instructed to do so by Zeus’ father. He was merely an overpaid employee. He was just doing his job. Zeus knew that Jerome would gladly walk out and get another job if there wasn’t so much money involved. Money. That’s what it all boiled down to at the end of the day in this fifteen-year-old boy’s life. While most people wished they had more of it, Zeus McAlister went to bed every night wishing he had less of it. Much less of it.

*****

Now aged 38, Adrian McAlister was considered to be in the twilight of his football career. A career that had lasted twenty-one years, in which he had played for six different clubs. It had all started when he was 17 and signed his first £13-a-week professional contract with a then second division side West Ham United. He played as a striker and was the West Ham Academy’s all-time leading goal-scorer. After breaking into the England under-21 squad, aged 18, Adrian started to attract the attention of some of the country’s biggest clubs. After a long and drawn-out tug-of-war between Newcastle United and Arsenal, young Adrian signed for the North London club for a transfer fee of £5 million and went on to become one of Arsenal’s most talked-about players. He scored 22 goals in his breakthrough season with the Gunners and was voted the PFA Young Player of the Year.

Success soon got into Adrian’s head and when Spanish giants Real Madrid came knocking on his door with a £45,000-a-week contract, he didn’t even bother calling his agent before signing on the dotted line.

‘Traitor’ was what the Daily Times labelled him following his sudden move to Spain. He was welcomed in Madrid as a hero. The Spanish sports newspaper Marca described him as ‘El Principe’ -The Prince. He was a young, talented footballer all set to make his mark on European football. And boy did he make his mark! Oh, yes.  He won the Pichichi trophy in his first season in Spain, the award given to the player who scores the most goals. His performances on the pitch were excellent. Off the pitch, he was enjoying life and living every 19-year-old bloke’s dream. The nightclubs in Madrid were vibrant, Spanish beauties enjoyed a cocky British boy who was drove a white Lamborghini and wore a silver watch that probably cost more than their house. He was tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered and charming in a uniquely British-sort-of-way. He had everybody in Madrid dancing to his tunes. He had eleven different girlfriends during his time in Spain although it was also during this time that he married his childhood sweetheart Vivian, a budding singer herself. He felt like nothing could go wrong in his life.

But it did. A horrible knee injury ruled him out for six months. He developed a drinking problem during those months out of football. Everything in his life seemed to take a turn for the worse. His wife Vivian left him after seeing pictures of Adrian enjoying himself with several other women at a Madrid nightclub. He was forced to return to London for a few months after both his parents were killed in a sailing accident in St. Tropez. He returned to London also to try and save his marriage. His wife may have taken him back, but Real Madrid did not. In London, Adrian was caught in possession of cocaine late one night while driving home from a party. He was stoned at the time.

“The club has always followed a strict policy when it comes to drugs,” Real Madrid’s head coach Vicente Garcia explained to a tearful Adrian McAlister. “You will have to find yourself another club. It is a great shame though, you’re quite a player.”

Finding another club wasn’t a problem for Adrian McAlister. AC Milan subsequently paid Real Madrid in excess of £25 million for his services. As always, his God-given talent on the football pitch ensured that he was an instant hit amongst the Milan fans. He scored a number of goals including the winner in the European Cup final where Milan beat FC Barcelona 1-0. He was a superstar. He won two of the world’s most prestigious awards- the European Footballer of the Year and the World Footballer of the Year in the same season earning the title of the planet’s best player, a title his performances undoubtedly merited. Adrian McAlister was just 24 at the time.

McAlister found it difficult to adjust to life in Italy, though. He missed the freedom he had in Spain. He missed his family and friends back home in England. In Milan, he felt like an outsider. Italian men were too noisy, in his opinion, and they used hand gestures far too often for McAlister's liking. The girls in Italy weren’t as easy as they were in Spain. Besides, he missed his wife Vivian who was unable to join him in Milan as she was working on her second album and also looking after their two children, Serena and Zeus. Adrian often found himself spending entire nights at bars and all his close friends were concerned about his ever-increasing drinking problem.

His problems off-the-pitch soon began affecting his performances on it. His second year at Milan wasn’t as successful as his first and at the end of his second season with the Italian champions; Adrian McAlister was ready for another move.

“It has to be England,” he announced. “The Premier League is the best league in the world, it’s where all the best players are heading, and it’s my home.”

Unfortunately, AC Milan failed to reach an agreement with either Chelsea or Manchester United, the two clubs from England who were chasing his signature. Eventually, McAlister joined German champions Bayern Munich on a season-long loan deal. His year in Munich was similar to his first year in Milan. He performed exceptionally and enhanced his reputation as the most technically-gifted and talented footballer on the planet. Yet at the end of the year when a permanent move to Bayern Munich was brought to the table during negotiations with AC Milan, McAlister blatantly refused. “England,” he said, simply.

On 11th May, 1998- after five long years, Adrian McAlister had returned. Returned home to England. To a new and improved English Premier League to play for Manchester United, the current title-holders. Adrian McAlister, England’s poster-boy was now playing for England’s most famous club. However, after two successful years at Old Trafford (If four trophies in two years is your idea of success), Adrian McAlister’s relationship with club coach Alex Ferguson came under fire. The reason that was cited by the British media was- ‘A clash of egos.’ After months of speculation, Alex Ferguson, seated next to Adrian McAlister at a news conference, made the following announcement:

“I am here to announce the imminent departure of Adrian McAlister from Manchester United. I would like to thank him for two years of exceptional service he provided to the football club... It is quite unfortunate that such a great player came with an even greater ego. He will leave this summer.”

And finally, to the last step in McAlister’s roller-coaster-ride of a football career - Chelsea FC. After joining for a bargain £15 million, the club proved to be everything Adrian McAlister wanted- ambitious, with an array of talented footballers, a good coach and of course - excellent nightlife! He fell in love with everything about Chelsea and finally settled down with his family in a duplex flat in West London.

After seven successful years with the Blues, including two Premier League titles, an FA Cup and two European Cup finals, Adrian McAlister was ready to pass the baton on to his only son, Zeus. He saw the signs from an early age- the height, the athleticism, but most of all- the sportsman’s attitude. Zeus had all the ingredients of a top-quality footballer. Just like his father.

Chapter Three

As he climbed up the half-broken stairs, Mahir heard a television set blaring from one of the eleven tiny apartments that made up the three-storey building where he and his mother lived. It was a sleepy afternoon in Baghdad and Mahir’s neighbourhood was especially sleepy. The men of the neighbourhood were either militia, out patrolling some American-infested quarter of the city, or labourers, working at some slow-moving construction site. The woman mostly stayed at home, except for the widows who risked everything in an attempt to eke out a living and support their children.

Mahir knew that his mother was one these heroines, who braved the War in order to sell their goods in the city’s markets and overcrowded streets which were so often the scene of car bombs and suicide attacks. He had tried endlessly to convince his mother to let him drop out of school and take up a job as a shop boy in the souk, but she insisted that she wasn’t going to allow him to compromise on his education.

“That is the only way you can get a decent job and do something worthwhile with your life once the War is over,” she would always say to him. “Education is the key to success nowadays.”

Once the War is over, Mahir thought bitterly. Images from an old shed he had walked into one day filled his head. American soldiers, in uniform, urinating on chained Iraqi captives laughing abashedly saying “Cheers, drink up habibis!” The thought of it made him sick. He had managed to escape before the soldiers could zip up their pants. Mahir shuddered at the thought of what would have happened had he been caught. Once the War is over? Who is she kidding?   

Mahir understood where his mother was coming from with her opinions, but he had different ideas for his life. Deep down, he wanted to be a professional footballer. If that didn’t work out, he wanted to earn enough money to flee Iraq. It was the only way. Starting a new life in a new country was what Mahir thought would be best for himself and his mother after what they had been through. His mother Sameera was convinced that Iraq would see peaceful times soon and she firmly put aside any thoughts of fleeing the country.

On opening the front door with his key, he saw his mother standing by the stove, dripping in perspiration as she prepared stew and rice for their evening meal. He walked over to her and greeted her with a salaam and a respectful kiss on her hand.

“How was school today, Mahir?”

“Painful,” Mahir replied, honestly, with a grimace. 

He instinctively picked up a knife and began chopping some carrots that were lying on their kitchen counter, waiting to be cut and added to the stew.

His mother smiled and then laughed. “Been studying really hard, have you?”

“As much as I always do, I guess.”

“Ustadh Hussain didn’t seem to think so, when he stopped by my stall today, in the souk,” his mother said, eyebrows raised.

Mahir swallowed. He continued to chop carrots determinedly, and tried hard to maintain a casual air about himself.

“Really Mahir, it’s about time you started taking your lessons seriously. In a few years you’ll be appearing for many major exams and this laidback attitude of yours just isn’t going to do you any good.”

Great, Mahir thought, just when I was going to bring up the Al-Hilal FC trials, my mother decides to give me a speech on lessons and exams. This is just great. I have to go for those trials tomorrow morning, it’s the first and probably also the last chance I’m going to get at professional football. Now how am I going to cut school?

“Are you even listening to me, Mahir?” His mother seemed slightly angry now.

Mahir tried to disguise his thoughts of cutting school with an ashamed and sorry expression. He looked down at his feet, and his worn-out sandals, an Eid gift from Ahmed from two years ago.

His deception seemed to have worked for his mother’s tone was now softer and more loving.

“I know things have been difficult for you recently, tefal. I don’t blame you. Seeing all this fighting and hatred hurts you, I understand. But the word around the city is that these Americans are trying to make some positive changes to our corrupt Iraqi government. Things will get better soon. There is a saying of ­­­our dear Prophet, ‘After every difficulty, Allah will grant us ease’ so most importantly, Mahir - don’t lose faith.”

Like most Iraqis born and raised before the 1980s, Sameera Zaki had enjoyed the fruits of the so-called Golden Era of learning in Iraq before the wars with Iran ruined everything. She spoke with a scholarly air about her and had even worked as a librarian in one of Baghdad’s well-known universities. Mahir loved to listen to his mother as she narrated incidents from the lives of Prophets and even her recitation of the Holy Qur’an was refined and well-toned. Perhaps it was a deep feeling of sadness that Mahir experienced at the thought of his mother’s daily routine, spending hours in the scorching afternoon heat selling silk scarves in the noisy market and bearing the risks and dangers that came along with that line of work in Baghdad. He felt like she deserved better, a woman of her education and upbringing. But what could he do – a mere seventeen year-old in a world crueller than he could ever imagine?

“All right, ummi. I’ll try and work harder on my lessons. But if Ustadh Hussein comes snooping around your ladies silk scarf stall again, tell him he might get a hard one across his face like he did to me in class today!”

His mother laughed and pinched Mahir’s cheeks fondly. Her baby was growing up quickly. She looked into those deep grey eyes. Will I be able to support his dreams? He is too beautiful to go into the army. Look at those soft features.

At the same time, Mahir’s line of thought was slightly less...compassionate. He held his mother’s gaze and wondered, ‘Will she figure out my plan? I can’t possibly just tell her about it, can I? No way, not after today’s happenings. I’ll just have to dress up for school and ride on the bus to Al-Saad stadium instead. Maybe Ahmed will accompany me?’

Both mother and son’s contrasting thoughts were rudely interrupted by their apartment’s door, thudding loudly under the force of a man’s forearms.

“Open the door, woman!” the voice bellowed.

The thuds grew more violent

Mahir looked at his mother, concerned. She tried to put on the best reassuring look she could muster and whispered to her son, “Go on, go hide behind the curtains. I’ll deal with him.”

Mahir didn’t move. Instead, he put on the bravest face he could manage and nodded towards the door as if to say, “Let’s deal with this together, ummi.”

 Sameera opened the door, slowly. The foul stench of tobacco and whisky crept into their apartment.

“Bloody respect has abandoned you just like your husband, woman! Are you not going to invite me inside and offer me kahwe?”

“What do you want, Malik?”

“A month’s rent would be nice! I am your goddamned landlord, you know.”

“But there’s still a good two weeks to go until the first of the month,” Sameera protested, knowing it would be in vain. 

When Malik Gabir Ali wanted something, he most certainly would take it. Especially on the days he barged in smelling like the liquor shop.

“I want the goddamned rent now!” he hissed. “Open the door! Is that the boy I see behind you? Let me in, Mahir jaan.”

Sameera reluctantly unfastened the chains and allowed him inside. “Sit down while I go get you your money.”

Malik pushed the door wide open and sort of half-walked half-swayed inside, scanning the apartment for something. He had long thick hair, which he sometimes tied up neatly behind his head in a ponytail. Every inch of his six-foot-four frame, from his shoulder down, would be dressed in an immaculate white robe, made of the finest quality. He never kept a full beard, but liked to maintain a slight shadow on his olive, masculine face. Woman who saw him found him irresistibly good-looking, but Malik Gabir Ali did not care for women. He was a flamboyant homosexual. His eyes lit up when he saw Mahir, leaning against the door that opened up to a small balcony at the back.

“Come here, won’t you?” he called to Mahir. “You seem to grow taller every time I lay eyes upon you.”

Mahir walked uneasily toward their uninvited guest.

 The landlord held on to Mahir’s shoulder, firmly pulling him closer so that the boy’s ear was just inches away from his face. The smell of whisky from the man’s mouth made Mahir want to vomit.

Slurring his words, he whispered to Mahir, “What are you still doing here? I have told you so many times - a boy like you can earn so much good money in my line of work. Stop being stupid and let me offer you a job.”  The moistness on Mahir’s ear caused the vomit to suddenly rise up into his mouth. Painfully, he swallowed it back inside.

Mahir wished his mother would return quickly from her bedroom.

“You listen to me, boy. Anything you need, anything at all, you come find me at this address.” He slipped a card into Mahir’s back pocket with an address scribbled at the back. His hand slyly squeezed Mahir’s left buttock upon depositing the card. Mahir winced.

Homosexuality was illegal in Iraq, but Malik Gabir Ali knew his way around pretty much any organised system in the Universe and he felt it to be matter of immense pride. Scratching the right backs and filling the right fists could get you anything in modern-day Iraq. Malik ran a chain of seedy massage parlours and pubs that were frequented by foreign troops and locals alike, which had earned him the title of being the ‘Gay Tycoon’ in Baghdad’s social circles.

Sameera returned from her little bedroom with a plastic bag containing the month’s rent and some homemade milk sweets, (a meagre attempt at a bribe to keep Malik off their backs) swiftly pulling Mahir away from his predator while firmly placing the plastic bag in Malik’s extraordinarily large hands.

“A small gift for you and your friends,” she said, trying to sound as if she didn’t loathe the man. “It's your favourite – halawa halib.”

“Very good, very nice,” Malik nodded, eyeing the package closely. He then looked from Mahir to his mother, reluctantly realising that he had gotten what he had come for and it was time for him to leave.

He shuffled slowly toward the door, and started singing Ali Al Essawi’s famous pop song Makhtooba in a slightly drunken fit as mother and son could only watch on, helplessly. Just before he closed the door behind him, he looked back and winked at Mahir before walking outside, suddenly laughing hysterically.

Once the door was safely shut, Mahir ran into his mother’s arms and burst into tears.

NOTE: THE ABOVE TEXT IS MERELY AN INITIAL DRAFT. MORE TO FOLLOW SOON. FEEDBACK AND SUGGESTIONS ARE WELCOME.