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BIJAN
The police chief had insisted on meeting in the park. It crossed Bijan’s mind that this might be a sting; it was, to say the least, an odd choice. The Chief knew well enough that without back-up he would not be safe. Bijan had told him that even he might not be able to protect him. And Bijan had a busy day ahead, no time for extra drama; but the Chief had been adamant.
The park near where Bijan lived in the south of the city was where all the local small-time gangsters, pretenders, dealers, hooligans and thieves hung out. Even now that the air had begun to crackle with winter’s crisp, cold breeze, they still gathered here, to hustle for work, to rob, to get stoned and to socialize. Only when the first spidery crusts of ice covered the shrivelled grass would they retreat to the tea houses and hidden opium dens nearby. The park was the kind of place Bijan avoided. Not because he was scared; far from it. He knew all the reprobates in this neighbourhood, it was his patch after all. But he had moved on from them, from these careless, lazy, in-and-out-of-jail drunks and addicts who had about as much nous as a three-year-old child. The one thing they did all have was an indefatigable fondness for violence and a fierce glint in their eyes, the basic qualities needed to keep them in business. They were an uncomfortable reminder of where Bijan had come from and of who he used to be.
The Chief was waiting for him on the corner of the road, under the white sky that had been streaked pale yellow by December’s low, watery sun. His smile was so broad his lips looked like they might crack. It was the smug smile of the powerful and on seeing it Bijan had an instinctive urge to smack it off his face. The Chief began to strut through the park, chest puffed out, legs swinging high, as though he was on parade. Bijan had to stifle a laugh. They’re going to eat him alive, he thought. But instead they started jumping to attention. The local heroin dealer clamped his hand to his forehead in a salute: ‘Hello sir!’ Even the addicts on the bench stood up and bowed their heads towards the Chief, deferentially touching their hearts. They shuffled out of the shadows of the trees, peeled themselves off the grass where they liked to gather in circles on their haunches, and they each came and paid their respects. The Chief looked at Bijan, his grin even bigger than before.
‘You looked surprised!’ The Chief was good at faux naif.
‘What the fuck have you done to these poor bastards?’
The Chief giggled like a schoolboy. ‘I took care of them. Since they’ve stopped listening to you, I thought I’d teach them a lesson.’
Muggings in the area had become uncontrollable. There were only so many official figures the Chief could successfully fudge without raising suspicions. Everyone knew the boys in the park were responsible, and that once upon a time those boys had been under Bijan’s control. But Bijan had insisted this was no longer his beat. He was involved in more sophisticated operations these days, which the Chief respected him for.
‘I suppose I’m going to have to pay you for this service.’ Bijan was almost laughing – he had never seen anything like it.
‘Work doesn’t come for free! Now, how about a quick toke in the tea house where we can sort out business, eh?’
Bijan heard the story later; he got it out of a sixteen-year-old kid who had started selling sheesheh, crystal meth, in the park. The Chief had decided to teach these boys a lesson. He had gathered ten officers and local basijis, volunteer militiamen. Good boys he trusted. They had stormed the park, swooping on over a dozen of them. The guys had not been scared at first; when their lookouts had seen the cops coming they had simply hidden their drugs and weapons as they always did. They had even smirked at the approaching unit. ‘Hello ladies, what can we do for you today?’ one of the layabouts had said, imitating a camp rent boy. That is when the smirking stopped. The Chief’s men rounded them up and marched them to the edge of the park, lined them up under the shade of the willow trees and pointed guns to their heads. The Chief watched as one of his men produced a glass bottle; the gang were held down as the cold, dirty vessel was thrust up each of their anuses. Every single one of them was raped. Some were silent; some screamed in pain. All were left humiliated and bleeding.
The tea house was a long, narrow, dingy room with bare light-bulbs hanging from the ceiling. A row of small tables was pushed up against the grey tiled walls and beside a silver samovar, blue and green glass hookah pipes were lined up on the floor. A patchwork of old banknotes from the Pahlavi reign was displayed under the glass top of a wooden desk by the entrance; here sat the owner, a big man with a comically large moustache and a tattooed hand that swung jade tasbih rosary beads between gigantic fingers. On the wall was a poster of Imam Ali with a lion at his feet; hanging inside the door, a sign: No
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