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Restored to its full glory.
When Bin Jabbar had been killed, my Beemer had taken the full force of my anger. I’d taken a baseball bat and smashed the shit out of the one constant in my life. The regret was instant and overwhelming, and I didn’t think twice about parting with the best part of five G to have it restored. That money was pretty much the last of the MI5 pay-off, and I was living off the kindness of strangers until somebody hooked me up with a job.
I placed the trolley and holdall in the boot, and then I did a couple of slow laps around my car, inspecting it for even the slightest sign of damage, a scratch, a nick, a fingerprint. I knelt down by each wheel and rubbed the built-up dirt away from the alloy with my sleeve. I nodded to myself, satisfied that my baby was as I’d left it. I pressed the button on the fob, and the interior lights lit up softly. I opened the door and sat behind the wheel, shutting the door gently on the world behind me.
And it just felt like home.
The car came to life on the button, as though it’d been waiting for my touch. Automatically it connected to my phone via Bluetooth. I opened up my playlist on Spotify and swiped my finger down, and watched all those killer tracks tumble down. I jabbed at one at random. ‘Appetite for Destruction’ – NWA.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
I wheeled my Beemer out of the car park and pointed it towards Hounslow.
First stop, find car wash. Second stop, find Imy.
I rolled my car into American Jetshine behind the Treaty Centre and requested the full complement. I walked out with my face in my phone and almost bumped into a car queuing to get into the car wash. I mouthed an apology as I checked out the car. Trust me, this car was built to be checked out. Latest model Mercedes AMG GT Coupe, dropped low on matt black 22s. The colour was a customised job, like a slimy green. The bodywork looked immaculate, and not at all like it needed a wash.
I couldn’t make out the driver’s face as the sun was bouncing off his windscreen, but I could feel his eyes on me. Typical cuts, I assumed. It’s something you get used to living in Hounslow, a fucking pastime, looking to make something out of nothing. He slid down his window and I moved away before he could start something. The last thing I needed was more friction.
As my Beemer was getting scrubbed behind the ears, I took a stroll through Hounslow High Street. It had been a long, stiff flight and I needed to stretch my legs and allow the cold air to slap me out of tiredness. I couldn’t be a shattered mess when I faced Imy. I had to be on point.
I grabbed a takeaway cappuccino heavily sprinkled with chocolate for a boost, and strolled aimlessly, hoping for some of that Christmas magic to rub off on me. It didn’t work, not like it used to.
It just doesn’t feel like Christmas around Hounslow anymore, not like it does in neighbouring Kingston or Richmond or the like. I don’t know what it is. Maybe the rise of the powerful pound shops, or the lack of a decent shopping centre. Sure, we have Treaty Centre, and it gets seasonally decked out, but it all seems a little half-arsed. It wasn’t always like that. I remember Mum taking me to a giant Santa’s grotto in the main lobby of the Treaty. She’d plonk me on the lap of a pretty decent Santa, surrounded by proper sized elves, year in, year out. It took until my early teens for me to clock that most of the kids queuing were younger than me. I didn’t care. Christmas was everything. I’m not sure what changed, or when the mood shifted. Looking around now, it could be that there’s just way too much culture and colour and other occasions that take precedence, and are celebrated with a little more gusto, to give too much of a crap about Christmas. Either way it was sad to see.
On a whim I nipped into Argos and picked out a six-foot plastic tree, and then hit the 99p store and left with a bag of decorations for under a fiver. I decided that I was going to make the most of Christmas, like it used to be. Like it should be. I refused to be on my lonesome like a sad Christmas commercial. I’d invite Idris over for some pre-Christmas-dinner drinks, and then I’d invite myself over to his place for his mum’s halal chicken with all the trimmings, and watch whatever Harry Potter was showing on a satisfied stomach. I owed it to myself to end the year on a high, after the shit-circus of a year I’d had.
With two weeks to go before Santa was due to shoot down the chimney, I started to get that feeling, but I had to put it to one side. For now, I had more pressing issues to suss out.
I picked up my freshly cleaned motor, then steeled myself and headed towards Imy’s place, a short drive down London Road. I only knew that Imy lived there because he and a stoner called Shaz used to session there, and I’d made the occasional visit to deliver some green. Seemed like a lifetime ago.
Across the road I could see workmen pulling temporary traffic lights from the bed of a truck, and I knew I was going to get stuck in traffic on the flipside. I pulled up on the opposite side of the road to The Chicken Spot. The strong smell wafting from there and through my open window made my stomach moan in anticipation, and I tried to recall the last meal I’d had. I’d never had the privilege to eat there before. According to the locals, the chicken was fried to crispy perfection, but I’d always been loyal to Aladdin’s and their Inferno Burger. Either way, I wasn’t there to eat.
Above the chicken shop was Imy’s flat. The curtains were drawn. I watched intently for a moment, but couldn’t make out anything other than that the curtains were drawn. I imagined Imy behind there somewhere, mourning. Or maybe he was past mourning and was intently plotting. Could be that plotting was his way of mourning. I could picture him sitting in an armchair staring at a wall covered with photos of all those who had wronged him, with maps and locations and bits of different coloured string connecting them. I wondered if I was on that wall. I wondered if he was waiting for me, watching me from a great height through the telescopic sight of a high-powered rifle.
I shuddered, killed the engine and stepped out of my car, not knowing what to expect. It could be anything from a slap in the face to adios, Jay. Whatever! I had to make my presence felt. I owed him that much. I looked both ways before jogging across the road and then slowing to a walk. I glanced inside The Chicken Spot and wasn’t surprised to see customers queuing for a speciality heart-attack breakfast. I approached the door just to the side of it and pressed the buzzer. It sounded muted, like the batteries needed replacing, but probably Imy wasn’t ready for household chores. I knocked on the door, respectfully at first, and then a little louder. I took a couple of steps back and looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun, which had made a surprise appearance considering the time of year. The curtains were still drawn. It got me thinking.
Imy had just got married. Would he have planned to live here with his wife and son, above a chicken shop? Doubt it. But in the absence of any other options this was as good a starting point as any.
I doubled back and stepped into The Chicken Spot, the smell of grease and onions and the hunk of doner meat smelt divine, and my stomach grumbled at me: Fill me the fuck up! I ignored it and leaned my arms on the counter.
‘Mate,’ I said to the guy with the greatest moustache in the world and a food-stained apron that I could easily have licked.
‘Help you?’ he said. Heavy accent, could have been from anywhere. I’m not hot on accents.
‘Yeah,’ I said, trying not to talk to his ’tache. ‘Have you seen Imy? He lives upstairs.’ I pointed up at the cracked, yellowing ceiling.
He took me in, paying special attention to my sandy mac, his eyebrows banging into each other in bemusement, maybe because I’d accidentally mistaken a chicken shop for the missing persons bureau. He leaned over the counter and his moustache was almost as close to my face as it was to his. ‘You look like journalist,’ he growled.
I gasped; I’d never felt so offended in my life.
I ventured out a smile. ‘I’m a friend,’ I said, playing fast and loose with the truth.
He snorted through his nose and something flew out. ‘Where you from, boy?’ he said from somewhere under his moustache.
‘Here, Hounslow.’
‘From newspaper!’ he said, not letting it go. He picked up a meat cleaver in one hand and a blade sharpener in the other. ‘I tell you what I say to all newspaper people. Get out of my restaurant!’
Restaurant! Probably best not to correct him. But I did need to convince him that I wasn’t a journalist. I think it was my new sandy mac, it made me look exactly like a fucking hack. I assumed I was being judged by association. This shop had probably seen its fair share of reporters attempting to dig up dirt on Imy so they could write an inaccurate article.
‘He’s my friend, I just want to know where I can find him.’
He stared me down before turning his sizeable back on me and going about his business. I was losing him, and it made me do something I’m not proud of. Something which contradicted my friend status, and cemented that I actually was a fucking journalist.
I cleared my throat loudly. He turned back around to see near ten pounds, in coins, neatly stacked on the counter. I looked at the bribe and then at him. He looked at the bribe and then at me. His jaw tightened and his eyebrows collided. I swallowed and lowered my gaze, realising quickly what a shit idea it was. I had no choice but to abort mission and improvise.
‘Can I have three pieces of chicken, fries, and a can of Coke, please?’
Chapter 12
Jay
I blasted the heat to max, dropped the gear and pulled away from The Chicken Spot towards London Road, only to drive into a standstill. Ahead of me were unnecessary road works galore. I was temporarily defeated by temporary traffic lights. I shifted the gear into neutral and checked my mirrors for the cops before firing up the web browser on my phone, hoping for some inspiration. I typed Imran in the search bar and Google ominously auto-filled Siddiqui. I ran my eyes down the first few hits.
Racially motivated bomb attack at wedding party.
Five dead. Many injured. Husband survives.
Ten-year-old Jihadi targets interfaith marriage.
Hostile reception for Prime Minister as she visits Osterley Park
Hotel amidst protests.
Calls for tighter immigration laws.
Nah, I ain’t reading any of that shit.
I shut down the browser and exhaled dramatically as traffic crawled slowly in front of me. It was killing me to be so stationary. Frustrated, I slipped the car into gear and pulled a daring U-turn and I was on my way. I glanced in the rear-view mirror, wishing away the suckers stuck in traffic, when I noticed a slimy green Merc pull the same manoeuvre.
There was no way that there were two of them in Hounslow. Not in that fucking colour. I’d seen that car twice in the space of a couple of hours.
Okay, so rationalise. It’s not exactly unheard of to pull out of traffic and head in the opposite direction. The earlier appearance at the car wash was a little strange, though, considering the car already looked squeaky clean. But then again, if I was rolling around in a motor like that, I’d be getting it washed daily. I shrugged it off. I didn’t have the time or the energy for paranoia. I put my foot down and put some distance between my Beemer and the Merc and took a turn and slipped down a quiet residential road.
Finding Imy was turning out to be a proper mission. There was one person who could help me in my search, but I really, really did not want to go there. The last thing I needed was for a next man to get involved, but with fuck all in the way of options, I had to consider it.
Using the dial on the centre console I scrolled through my phone book and stopped at S.
I caught myself smiling as his name appeared on the screen.
I wouldn’t say we were friends; he was once my customer and I was once his dealer, that was the extent of our relationship. But I liked him, he was funny as fuck, mostly unintentional as he muddled through life like I once did. He and Imy were close, like only stoner-buddies can be. If anyone could point me in the right direction, it’d be Shaz.
My finger hovered over the screen. I swallowed the guilt at getting him involved and jabbed at his name. The phone rang through my car speakers, and eventually a small voice that I didn’t recognise came through.
‘Hello.’
I turned the volume up a touch. It didn’t sound like Shaz at all. His token greeting had always been a jovial ‘What’s cracking, Jay?’ followed by an inexplicable laugh and a smoker’s cough.
‘Shaz?’ I asked, unsure.
‘Yeah. Alright, Jay?’ he said through a sigh.
‘It’s been time, man.’
‘It has. Look, I’m not looking to score at the moment.’
‘That’s cool,’ I replied. ‘I’m not looking to deal.’ I laughed unnecessarily. He didn’t, unnecessarily or otherwise. I cleared my throat. ‘I wanted to chat to you about some next thing.’
I heard him sniff, as though he’d been crying or maybe he just had a seasonal cold.
‘I haven’t got long, Jay,’ he said softly.
‘What’d you mean?’ I said carefully, wondering if he was ill, as I tried to recall the last time I’d checked my testicles.
‘I’ve got a coach to catch in an hour.’
‘Oh,’ I said, relieved. ‘I just need, like, five minutes, ten, tops.’
He didn’t answer, and whatever he had said up to that point didn’t seem like the Shaz that I knew. Considering the sensitivity of the situation, and the sensitivity coming off him in droves, I figured it would be better to meet him rather than chat about it over the phone. That way he wouldn’t be able to cut me off.
‘I can link you now, tell me where you are?’ I said.
‘Seriously, this is not a good time.’
‘Please, Shaz. It’s important,’ I said, approaching the junction to the Great West Road, my hand hovering over the indicator, the direction dependent on his reply. It came in the form of a low moan. I was frustrating him, I know, but I couldn’t let it go.
‘Is this about Imy?’ he asked, so fucking gently, that I had to think twice before answering.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s about Imy.’
‘Sorry, Jay,’ Shaz said. ‘I… I can’t meet you.’
He disconnected the call.
Deflated, I slowed down, and without a destination I parked my car to the side. I let the engine idle as I slid down in my seat. I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. The fuck was I thinking, calling Shaz? He’d probably been at Imy’s wedding reception – scratch that, he was probably best man! He would have seen the tragic events of that night unfold in front of his very eyes. I should have let him be.
I exhaled deeply, trying to loosen a little of that frustration. I opened my eyes and in front of me that fucking slimy green Merc was creeping towards me. Any thoughts about coincidences curled up and died when it slowed down and stopped beside me.
His window slid smoothly down. He was a young Asian man, with a tight buzz cut and a small stud on the side of his nose. He was wearing a bright red tracksuit over his skinny frame, and he was watching me with an air of amusement on his face, as though Tom had finally caught up with Jerry. He twirled his finger, gesturing to me to drop my window.
I acknowledged him with a slight nod, and in no mood for bullshit, I said, ‘I saw you at the car wash. What? You tailing me?’
‘Nah, bro. Just trying to get your attention,’ he said. ‘You walked away just as I was about to say hello.’
‘Do I know you from somewhere?’
‘I think me and you should catch up,’ he said, completely pissing over my question.
‘Catch up?’ I said, not a clue what he was chatting about.
He slipped his hand in the centre console and reached for something. My heart did a backflip. This is exactly how drive-by shootings happen. To my relief his hand emerged holding up a business card between two fingers. He passed it across through my window. I took it. It was a black and glossy, embossed gold trim bordering around an embossed gold phone number and nothing else. Not even a name.
‘Call me,’ he said.
I nodded and slipped away the card. ‘I better go,’ I said, making a show of putting my car in gear.
‘Busy man, huh?’
‘Just got a lot on, that’s all.’
‘Yeah,’ he smiled. ‘Just another day for Jay.’
Wait. What?
Before I could ask him how he knew my name, he’d roared away. My eyes flew to the rear-view mirror trying to pick out his number plate before he disappeared out of sight. The plates were private – OMA 22R – I repeated it out loud a few times before it escaped, and opened up the notes app and typed it in. It wasn’t exemplary detective work, but at least I now knew his fucking name, too.
Omar.
The name didn’t mean jack to me. He definitely wasn’t someone I knew from dealing, that circle was small and I knew every one of my customers pretty well. I didn’t recall him knocking about town either, flash little rich boy like that, I would have remembered. It’s possible that we may have crossed paths at a house party or at a session, or his older brother was in my class at school and why the fuck was I wasting so much time thinking about this shit? I had more urgent matters to get my head around and getting hold of Imy should have been my only focus. And my only link to him had told me in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t help me.
Doing the right thing, I swear, is a bitch. Most of my life I’ve done the wrong thing and it’s served me well. Responsibility is over-hyped. The last year or two, my attitude changed pretty quickly and pretty fucking dramatically, and doing the right thing has done nothing but cause hurt.
I dropped the indicator and turned right onto the Great West Road, when I should have turned left towards home. There was something I thought I needed to do but I wouldn’t know for sure until I got there. If I couldn’t face this, how the fuck could I ever look Imy in the eye?
Five long minutes later I wheeled my car into the grounds of Osterley Park Hotel.
Ground fucking zero.
The car park was empty and I parked in the first spot I saw. I exhaled loudly and stepped out. A toxic smell hit me like a force field and I found myself breathing through my mouth. The entrance to the hotel was at the far end, to get to it I had to walk past the hotel pub and the hotel Indian restaurant. Both haunts that I’d often kicked in, lifting my glass in one and stuffing my face in the other. Both now closed for business. I hoped the community spirit Hounslow is known for would soon see both of these businesses thriving again. Then again, people have long memories.
I gritted my teeth and moved quickly past, the presence of rioters, looters and protesters apparent as my feet crunched through a sea of discarded leaflets, patronising placards, broken glass bottles and improvised missiles. All that crap that comes when people lose their fucking minds.
There are six wide steps leading up to the entrance. I stood at the bottom, and despite wanting to puke out my heart, I lifted my eyes to Osterley Park Hotel.
The double doors leading into reception were hanging by a thread. Somebody had attempted to board it up, but somebody else had ripped it off again. The board lay by my feet, and scrawled over it in thick black marker was Closed for Refurbishments. It sounded a fuck of a lot more respectable than Closed due to Terrorist Attack. A few windows were smashed, and there were patches of a rough paint job, no doubt covering probably offensive or righteous graffiti. If I made the effort and looked closely enough, I could make out the message under the paint, but what the fuck for? To be honest the damage was minimal; it could be fixed. It was the screams that would be trapped inside forever.
I turned my back to the hotel and sat on the bottom step. I slipped out a cigarette, sparked it and pulled hard.
The fuck had my life become?
I’d lived my life in a lullaby, without a care in the world. Juggling a little weed to the bods in Hounslow and cruising through life in my shiny black Beemer, so blissfully ignorant. I never even used to watch the news or read the papers, and suddenly there I was, making the fucking news. I’d seen first-hand the destruction that most people only read, and cast their judgement about.
Fuck, man, this wasn’t even the first bombsite that I’d had the misfortune to set eyes on. A hospital, located beside beautiful snow-topped limestone mountains in Afghanistan, was the first. It was built and funded by Ghurfat-al-Mudarris for the poor people of a poor village called Hisarak, and devastated by two US military drone strikes.
The result of a war – as was this, thousands of miles away in Hounslow.
The difference, and there was a fucking difference, was that the military action that destroyed the hospital was able to dodge the bad press. Sorry about all the innocent lives but target has been met. A round of applause and pats on the fucking back. Either way, the impact was felt, at the time and forever after. Points are scored as lives are lost. Shit escalates and then calms down for a beat, just before the next devastation. It’s just where we are.
I sighed and it sent a shiver through me as I tried to figure out who was the egg in this fucked-up equation, and who was the chicken.
I took a last pull of my cigarette and added it to the littered ground, and looked out at the Great West Road. Cars were slowing down with purpose, necks craned, phones out, pointing, snap-snap-snapping away like it was a fucking tourist attraction, taking pictures that would burn through their phonebook, tagged with the same insincere message; Look what I drove past today! It was harrowing. Followed by a string of suitable sad-face emojis.
I threw a firm middle finger up at the rubberneckers. Take a picture of that, you fuckers.
Tyres crunched on glass. I turned to see a black cab pull into the grounds. The back door opened and a blue Adidas Gazelle hit the ground. A head popped out. His woolly Raiders hat was pulled down and it took me a moment to recognise him.
He recognised me, though. With his hand gripped to the car door, he remained rooted to the spot. I expected him to fall back in and leave. I looked away. The car door closed. I nodded knowingly to myself and sparked up another cigarette.
A moment later I felt Shaz stand beside me.
I looked up at him, trying to figure the right way to acknowledge him, but he was transfixed on the hotel. I let him be, didn’t say a word. He’d had already made it clear that he didn’t want to talk to me.
Shaz had changed. Obviously he’d changed! Shit like this chews you up, spits you out and then tramples on you. He looked like he’d put on weight and lost weight at the same time. I was used to seeing him carrying a quizzical look on his round face, as though he was trying to work something out, and then beam stupidly as if he had just worked it out. Now he just looked gaunt and sad. Yeah, Shaz looked sad.
‘You alright, Jay?’ he said, after a time.
I nodded. ‘Yeah, you know.’
Shaz looked at the waiting cab before sitting down next to me on the bottom step.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I know.’
I pushed my cigarette deck towards him and he slipped one out. I sparked him up. He nodded his thanks and we smoked in silence for a bit as we both ran silent conversations in our head.