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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Cross Words
A. McIntyre
One of the nastier Consulate duties. Yesterday I arrived in Fackalik, a remote island in the archipelago, to collect the body of a British citizen recently killed by a mob. Attacked for no apparent reason. One minute he was walking through the square, perhaps looking for a hotel, then he was crushed under a rain of sticks and stones. Most odd. Although strictly Muslim, the region had been quiet, relations with the foreign community were very good.
The corpse was unrecognizable, the only human reminders being the empty rucksack, torn Levis, a shredded bloodstained shirt. The logo still visible PRESIDENT BUSH IS A PRICK. Then I understood. Most unfortunate, I whispered to Ali Pornfateer, the chief of police, an old friend. A strange death. He nodded, Terrible, terrible. How could the young man have known, I added, Unless he knew the dialect? Indeed, agreed Ali, passing me a glass of mint tea, The will of God. I lit a clove cigarette, inhaling deeply, contemplating the parents. The address in Surrey. A quiet couple, believe in God no doubt, the father near retirement. I’m sorry to inform you.
In the sauna heat, I wait as they load the body into the jeep. Smoking a cigarette, I stare at the Grand Mosque, the beautiful calligraphy giving praise to God Almighty. The porters wave farewell with the ritual chant, Prick yet mung. God is everywhere. Prick yet mung, I reply, Prick yet fazeer, God is Great.
