Dear Infidel by Tamim Sadikali Read Free Book Online Page A

and he’s got to turn this around quickly. Panic arrives in the heart of the warrior. Meanwhile, Alan Lamb plumps his feathers and begins strutting around, chewing his gum with renewed gusto.
    Imtiaz stands up. Not wanting to see a creeping dread in his teammates’ faces, or for them to detect the same in his, he surveys the grandstands, now rippling with Union Jacks. It looks magnificent. This is magnificent. He is here and this is as real as the sweat on his brow. Despite the situation he is alive like never before. He throws his head back and pulls his top away from his drenched chest. He’s so hot.
    Imtiaz tossed the quilt away, giving his body the chance to cool down. He was breathing through his mouth, his nasal passages having become congested. The virus entered several hours earlier and established itself inside his nose. It did as viruses do and multiplied and multiplied and multiplied again, leaving it ready to take off. And the destination? The throat? The ears? The sinus cavities in the bones of the head? Luckily it was detected and histamine was released. Blood flow to his nose increased and his nasal tissues swelled up. His core temperature was raised to stop the virus reproducing, but he was wrapped up too tightly, preventing his system from self-regulating. A message was thus dispatched to disentangle himself, and he duly obeyed.
    All the while the radio had been on, broadcasting to dead ears. In the speed of his descent he’d forgotten to switch it off; all those jokes, snippets of punditry and sober news items had simply wafted off. News bulletins came and went. Sports roundups left Imtiaz unmoved. He didn’t know it but Pakistan were actually preparing for a big game, the Platinum Jubilee match being held in the majestic Eden Gardens, Kolkata. He’d have been excited by that, had he known – Eid 2004 was promising to be a real cracker. The present could wait, though, for he was deep in the past. Glory beckoned. He could almost taste it, they all could – but a change was needed. Wickets were needed. This partnership between Fairbrother and Lamb had to be broken.
    Drinks break. The crowd takes a breather, the players take a breather. A cart is wheeled onto the pitch and everyone grabs some refreshment. Fairbrother and Lamb meet in the middle, away from prying ears.
    ‘Nice shot there, Lamby,’ says Fairbrother, praising his partner’s efforts. They greet by knocking fists, the batsman’s high-five.
    ‘Thanks, mate,’ states Lamb, trying to sound underwhelmed, but Fairbrother doesn’t buy it. Lamb’s mid-wicket stance, all leant up against his bat, is close to a pose. He’s chewing some gum, checking it all out and tripping his nuts off. Fairbrother meanwhile sees Wasim come in from the deep.
    Wasim Akram. A legend, a natural-born leader, a prince among men. That’s all to come, though, for tonight he’s only twenty-five and a star-in-waiting. He strides with purpose over to his mentor, his gait graceful, fluid. Athletically built and tall, he looks down at Imran, whilst looking up to him. He sniffs the air, the night air – it’s nowherenear damp but the day’s heat has dissipated, even within the cauldron of the MCG. It’s now humid. Perfect. He picks up the ball and inspects.
    ‘I think I should come back for my second spell, Captain. What do you think?’
    ‘It’s a bit early. Let me bowl a couple more and keep rotating Ijaz and Sohail from the other end.’
    Wasim isn’t convinced.
    ‘There’s some moisture in the air now, Skipper. And look at this ball’s condition ... I reckon I can get it to reverse swing from the Pavilion End.’
    Imran looks his protégé in the eye. He’s right – if these two keep going, the match could be all but finished in six overs. A cornered tiger always comes out fighting. Lamb is picking him off easily because he’s not getting any movement, whereas this kid can talk to the ball, make it dance for him. Imran places the ball in Wasim’s