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wide eyes, willing phantom demons to challenge him.
    Just as he began walking the wind picked up. His jacket was unzipped and the currents fleeced him, the sudden cold wrap shocking his body. He did up his jacket and took a scarf out from a bag, quickly tying it around his neck. He thought he must look so strange: loose and long cream-coloured robes, a short black leather jacket and a multi-coloured, multi-striped scarf. He resented having to look so undignified.
    The wind blew again, but now reinforced he leaned into it to make headway. He looked up to the heavens to see only dark clouds – not pregnant with rain; just a stillborn day. Roadside trees were stripped bare, their naked branches shivering with him. A ball of scrunched up newspaper rolled across the road before hitting the kerb. Stuck. Modern-day tumbleweed for the desert nation. Rain he could handle, snow he could handle – anything real he could handle. But all this just sapped his soul.
    With hands buried in pockets and chin nuzzled under scarf, he began walking stoutly. Turning a corner, he hit the main thoroughfare. Twenty-five minutes down this one straight road and he’d be home.
    An old, old lady crept out of a newsagent’s up ahead. She was bent double and more shuffled than walked, her feet barely coming off the pavement with each step. Two young women pushing prams and chatting animatedly strode towards her. The lady was inching forwards almost perpendicular to reach the crossing, and the young mums manoeuvred smoothly around her, without even interrupting their chat. Neither even threw the hunched sack in the middle a glance as they breezed past.
    There were roadworks up ahead, a section having been cordoned off for “Emergency Works”. There was no activity, though, as all workers had downed tools for a break. Salman counted five: pouring hot drinks from flasks, reading the day’s redtops and smoking fags. An attractive woman strode confidently by. With her head held high she wore her layers with style, despite the weather: all eyes locked onto her. Wolf whistles, some simian cackling and a few all right darling! s followed, which naturally she didn’t respond to. Then Salman caught the attention of one of the workmen. The man gestured to his pals, making them aware of the latest entertainment to arrive.
    ‘What’s up, Osama? You fancy a piece o’ that as well?’ He was grinning broadly and willing Salman to meet his gaze.
    ‘Yeah, don’t blame you mate,’ chipped in another. ‘All that time stuck alone up there in them mountains – you must be gagging for it.’ All five started to titter. Don’t look at them .
    ‘Oi, Ozzy!’ began a third, raising his voice despite Salman now being alongside, ‘You get cable up there?’ Don’t look ... ‘No? You’ve probably not even knocked one off in yonks. No wonder you’re so uptight, all this Jee-had and stuff.’ They were all laughing openly.
    ‘Tell ya what, Ozzy, the next one’s yours, mate. On the house!’
    ‘A gift from her Majesty!’ was the final volley rolled off. All he could hear was unabashed laughter and he pictured them bent over in hysterics. He was relieved to finally be out of their range.
    The wind picked up again, this time accompanied by rain. It wasn’t a downpour but Salman’s initial grit had now gone: torpor was setting into his mind, inertia in his body. He saw three Asian men pulling up the shutters of a shop front. It was a restaurant and he figured they were opening up early, especially for Eid. All three wore suits that, whilst not objectively pricey, were probably the best in their wardrobes. Ties were done up with the knots made neatly, and two of them had meticulously gelled and combed their hair. All in their Sunday Best, especially for Eid. Just who do they think they are?
    Seeing a bus stop up ahead he decided to wait under the shelter. He figured that getting a bus now wouldn’t save much time; in fact it might even make for a longer journey,