Good as Dead by Mark Billingham Page B

he found it amusing. ‘Muslims are less than three per cent of the population outside,’ he said, holding up fingers to make his point. ‘ Four times that number in here, and at other institutions such as this one. Many finding their faith, you see?’
    Thorne tried to look impressed, but in truth he was not surprised.
    He had read about the increase in the Muslim population in UK prisons, which to a large extent was due to the numbers of those converting to Islam while behind bars. There were those who were every bit as concerned at these figures as Shakir was delighted; pointing to what they saw as a troubling degree of radicalisation going on at the same time. They held up the example of Richard Reid – the so-called ‘shoe bomber’ – who had become radicalised at Feltham YOI, and of Muktar Said Ibrahim – one of the leaders of the failed 21/7 attacks in London – who had spent two and a half years in Huntercombe YOI. Numerous reports now openly declared that those the imam believed to be searching for something were finding it in the more extreme elements of the Islamic faith.
    Fuel to the fire, sadly, for those with an ultra-right-wing agenda, and to the simply ignorant who imagined plots being hatched beneath every minaret.
    Worrying reading, nonetheless.
    Shakir clearly saw the way Thorne’s mind was working and nodded. ‘Of course, I know how this … blossoming is being interpreted in certain quarters. I am familiar with all the predictable scaremongering. “Breeding grounds for Jihad.” “Universities of terror.”’ He shook his head. ‘It is a shame that boys who have been called gangsters and jail-birds are now called terrorists, when all they are doing is sitting peacefully and reading, and I don’t need to remind you that none of those studying the Bible seem to be labelled in the same way.’
    ‘Was Amin one of those boys?’
    ‘Amin was … lost,’ Shakir said. ‘That was very obvious.’
    Thorne thought about how the governor had described Amin. Studious and quiet, with a small group of friends. ‘That’s not the impression I’ve been given,’ he said.
    ‘Whatever your impression, he had that same emptiness inside him that so many others in this place have. I reached out to him, but sadly I could do nothing to help.’
    Thorne remembered a boy who, though raised as a Muslim, had shown no inclination whatsoever towards profound religious belief.
    He said as much to Shakir.
    ‘I am aware of that, but what better opportunity could he have had to rediscover the faith he had lost? A guiding force which would offer hope and comfort. And believe me, such things are in short supply around here.’
    ‘So, when you say you “reached out” … ’
    ‘Approaches were made to him by several boys whose lives have already been changed.’
    Thorne pictured the posse of Shakir’s acolytes waiting just outside the door. He could not help but ask himself how gentle these ‘approaches’ had been and if one or two of the boys in grey skullcaps would be altogether welcome when they came knocking on a cell door. He wondered if one of them might even have been responsible for the attack that had put Amin Akhtar in hospital.
    Had his rejection of the faith been taken too personally?
    Once again, Shakir appeared to have seen something in Thorne’s face. ‘I also spoke to him myself,’ he said. ‘Several times, in fact. But as I have already said, I could not get through to him. I could see that he was lost and, if I am honest, I was not surprised at what eventually happened.’ He raised a hand and laid it against his narrow chest. ‘I must accept that my failure was at least partially to blame for … what he did.’
    The distaste had been plain enough in the imam’s reedy voice. ‘You don’t like the fact that he killed himself?’
    ‘Of all the bounties bestowed on human beings by Allah, the most precious gift is life.’ Shakir leaned towards Thorne. ‘It has been granted to us, but it