Born in Karachi, Pakistan in 1975, KHURRUM RAHMAN moved to England when he was one. He is a west London boy and now lives in Berkshire with his wife and two sons.

Khurrum is currently working as a Senior IT Officer but his real love is writing. He has a screenplay which has been optioned by a Danish TV producer but is now concentrating on novels.

Khurrum’s first novel, and the first book in the Jay Qasim series, East of Hounslow, was shortlisted for both the CrimeFest Last Laugh award and the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger award.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Khurrum Rahman 2018

Khurrum Rahman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008229610

Version: 2019-02-19

PRAISE FOR KHURRUM RAHMAN

‘Told with striking panache. Announces the arrival of a fine, fresh new thriller writer.’ Daily Mail

‘Combining humour and tragedy is one of the hardest literary challenges, but Khurrum Rahman succeeds.’ TLS

‘A very funny but tense thriller ... think Four Lions meets Phone Shop.’ Red

‘As much a coming-of-age story as a full-on action thriller, East of Hounslow is thought-provoking and entirely gripping.’ Guardian

‘Sweary, funny and, above all, an absolutely cracking thriller that you’ll tear through, this is the anti-James Bond that the 21st century needs.’ Emerald Street

‘East of Hounslow, in which a young Muslim finds himself forced to become an MI5 plant in a group of jihadists, is as British as Nelson’s Column. A superb and exciting debut novel.’ Telegraph

ISBN: 978-0-00-822960-3

‘Clipped dialogues, staccato sentences and the hilariously brilliant prose set the pace of this excellent unputdownable crime thriller. The climax will leave you breathless.’ New Indian Express

‘A brilliant thriller. You’d be mad not to buy this.’ Ben Aaronovitch, Sunday Times bestselling author of the Rivers of London series

‘Excellent book. Phenomenal writing.’ B A Paris, Sunday Times bestselling author of Bring Me Back

‘I loved it. More please.’ Mel McGrath, author of Give Me the Child

‘Builds to a heart-constricting climax.’ Times Crime Club

‘The best thriller I’ve read in ages.’ Stephen Leather, author of the Spider Shepherd series

SHORTLISTED for the CrimeFest Last Laugh Award 2018

SHORTLISTED for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger 2018

To my very own Mischief & Mayhem,

and the one I call Jaan

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

PRAISE

Dedication

Prologue

PART 1: TWO DAYS EARLIER

1. Imran Siddiqui (Imy)

2. Javid Qasim (Jay)

3. Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

4. Thames House

5. Hounslow High Street

6. Imy

7. Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

8. Imy

9. Jay

10. Imy

11. Jay

12. Jay

13. Heathrow Airport: Arrivals

14. Imy

15. Derelict Building Site, South London

16. Jay

17. Isleworth and Syon School

18. Imy

19. Imy

20. Jay

21. Imy

22. Jay

23. Imy

24. Jay

25. Imy

PART 2

26. Jay

27. Imy

28. Jay

29. Imy

30. Jay

31. South London

32. Imy

33. Jay

34. Kingston, Southwest London

35. Jay

36. Imy

37. Jay

38. Imy

39. Jay

40. Maimana‚ Afghanistan

41. Jay

42. Imy

43. Jay

44. Hounslow Police Station

45. Imy

46. Jay

47. Imy

48. Jay

49. Imy

50. Jay

51. Heston, West London

52. Jay

53. Imy

54. Jay

55. Lampton Park, Hounslow

56. Jay

57. Imy

58. Jay

59. Imy

60. Afghanistan-Pakistan Border

PART 3

61. Heston, West London

62. Jay

63. Port Gwadar, Pakistan

64. Hounslow Police Station

65. Jay

66. Hounslow Police Station

67. Jay

68. Imy

69. Hounslow Police Station

70. Imy

71. Jay

72. Imy

73. Derelict Building Site, South London

74. Jay

75. Derelict Building Site, South London

76. Jay

77. Derelict Building Site, South London

78. Derelict Building Site, South London

79. Jay

80. Derelict Building Site, South London

81. Derelict Building Site, South London

82. Jay

83. Derelict Building Site, South London

84. Jay

85. Imy

86. Jay

87. Hounslow, West London

88. Jay

89. Imy

90. Jay

91. Imy

92. Jay

93. Abu Dhabi

94. Jay

95. Eight months later…

Extract from East of Hounslow

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Prologue

Parking my Beemer in my driveway‚ I killed the engine and took a deep breath. Leaning back‚ I sank into the driver’s seat and closed my eyes‚ enjoying the cool evening breeze coming in through the car window.

In the distance‚ I heard the low growl of a diesel engine. At first barely perceptible‚ the sound moved closer‚ louder‚ the vehicle picking up speed then humming idly as it came to a standstill close by.

A car door opened‚ and closed.

I opened my eyes and turned.

He was standing beside me‚ smiling down through my open car window. Like seeing a ghost.

‘Hello‚ old chum‚’ he said‚ ‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’

I barely had time to catch a glint of something before his arm snaked through my window and‚ in perfect silence‚ sliced my throat from ear to ear.

PART 1

TWO DAYS EARLIER

Fatwa: A pronouncement of death by a higher authority.

1

Imran Siddiqui (Imy)

I’d never before come across a person like Jack. I had him tightly strapped in the backseat as I drove him to the location. He knew just as well as I did‚ maybe better‚ that I only had a small window to extract the information out of him. Because once we’d reached our destination he’d be protected to the hilt and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. He just needed to hold tight. But he’d made a mistake. He didn’t know about me‚ about my past. I’d get the information I needed from the devil if it was the last damn thing I did. I was confident of it. I had to be careful‚ though. I couldn’t get physical. If he turned up with so much as a mark on him‚ it would be me that suffered.

‘Jack... C’mon‚ mate‚’ I started with the soft approach.’Where is it?’

‘I’ve told you‚’ Jack glanced outside the window at the buses lit up within Hounslow Bus Garage. ‘I’m not telling you.’

I inhaled through my nose and gripped the steering wheel tightly. Even if I drove slowly I had maybe five minutes left of the journey. I loosened the grip and dropped my shoulders. He was observant‚ and I did not want him to see me tense. I turned the volume up on the CD player. In an effort to break him I had been playing Yellow Submarine on repeat‚ a song that he hated and one that I loved. It hadn’t worked though; I was beginning to despise it; I took a quick glance in the rear-view mirror and he was singing along.

‘Put it higher. This is my jam!’ Jack squealed‚ and I immediately killed the sound.

‘Jack. Listen... J-just listen.’ I stammered and realised that I was about to plead. I’ve never before bent over for anybody and I wasn’t going to start now. I pulled up at a red light and slipped the gear into neutral. I closed my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts and focus on my training. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. A blare from the car behind broke me out of my thoughts.

‘It’s green‚’ Jack said.

His tinny voice echoed in my ears and I found myself grinding my teeth so hard that my temples started to rhythmically pulse. I slipped into first and set off with a stutter. I slid the window down and allowed the cold evening air to hit me‚ to jolt me into action‚ but I was fast running out of time and ideas. Jack sneezed. Gotcha! I moved my hand over the control panel and slid down every window. I eyed him through the rear-view and I could see Jack physically curl up into a ball‚ his shoulders hunched and his chin down to his chest. His bottom lip quivered. I almost‚ almost felt for him but instead I turned the air conditioning onto cold.

‘You okay in the back‚ Jack?’ I said‚ and with his chin still dug into his chest he lifted his big blue eyes at me and sniffed.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Bet you wish you wore a jacket now.’

‘I’m fine.’ He said‚ his face getting paler‚ angry goose pimples appearing on his arm.

‘You ready to tell me or do I go higher?’ I said‚ my hand hovering over the AC control.

‘Do what you like. Go higher.’

I could not believe it. Why was it so hard to break him? When had I become so terrible at this? All my training‚ all my discipline had left me. As always‚ at times of stress‚ my scalp started to itch‚ as though a thousand little spiders were dancing through my hair and it took all my will not to scratch the hell out of it.

‘You’re sweating‚’ Jack said. His chin was now raised and pointing at me in defiance. My hand was at my forehead wiping away the sheen of sweat. He smiled‚ goofy and mocking and I dropped my hand immediately to the gear stick and gripped it.

No more Mr Nice Guy. This ends now. I closed the windows and killed the air con.

‘I’m going to count to ten and if you haven’t told me where the remote is then I am pulling over and going to work on your fingers until you do tell me. Is that what you want‚ Jack? Do you want me to chop off your fingers?’

‘Why would I want you to chop off my fingers?’ He blinked lazily at me.

‘Because‚ you’re asking for it.’

‘I don’t remember asking to have my fingers chopped off.’

It was an empty threat‚ an ill-judged bluff‚ one that we both knew that I would never go through with. I could never harm a single hair on his dumb side parting. I had lost‚ convincingly. The night that I had waited so long for‚ ruined. All the planning‚ wasted.

I pulled my Prius up to the location a broken man. There she was‚ stepping out of her Golf‚ a stack of files balanced in her hands. She was wearing a fitted grey trouser suit with Adidas sneakers‚ her heels knocking around somewhere in the confines of her car. She kicked the door shut and turned to us just as I was getting out of my car. She smiled at me and as frustrated as I was I could not help but smile back at her. It held for a long second as our smiles had a silent conversation.

Her name is Stephanie Mills‚ and every part of me is in love with every part of her.

I opened the back door‚ my smile replaced with a snarl‚ and unstrapped Jack out of the car. I gripped the back of his neck and frogmarched him down the path. He shrugged his shoulders away from my grip and ran to her. His protector. His Mother.

‘Mummy‚ Imy opened all the windows and then he put the cold air on and I wasn’t even wearing a jacket and... And... And...’ He spurted in one breath‚ as I took the stack of files from her. She kneeled down and embraced Jack whilst giving me that look from over his shoulder. ‘And he said he’s going to chop my fingers off‚ Mummy.’

The look I delivered to Stephanie insinuated that it was all true. She stood up and smoothed down her suit as Jack scuttled behind her legs in mock fear.

‘I swear it’s like having two kids. Why do you two always have to fight so much?’

‘Ask him!’

‘I’m asking you‚ you’re the grown up.’

‘He’s hidden the remote control. El Classico is on tonight.’

‘El what? Forget it‚ I don’t want to know.’

‘It’s a silly football match‚ Mummy‚’ Jack said‚ poking his head around her legs. Stephanie shot a look at him and he retreated back.

‘So you’re not staying tonight?’ Stephanie asked. ‘You can watch it here.’

‘You can give me a bath‚ too and a bedtime story‚’ Jack chipped in.

‘I’ve made plans with Shaz tonight‚ kid.’

She placed the palm of her hands on my chest and patted it once‚ twice. Her hands lingered as she planted an overdue kiss on my lips and whispered. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll cook.’

‘Definitely‚’ I whispered back‚ my voice catching. Nearly three years together and her touch still made me want to forget the world and follow her voice‚ her smell. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Say hi to Shaz from me. And Imy...’ Stephanie inclined her head towards Jack who was now sitting cross legged on the front lawn picking clumps out of the grass. I nodded at her and with a too quick peck she turned and walked into her house.

‘Alright‚ kid.’ I sat down opposite him‚ legs crossed‚ mirroring him.

‘Can’t you stay?’ His eyes everywhere but on me.

‘I would love to. But I’ve got things to do. I’ll come early tomorrow‚ we’ll have lunch together.’

‘I’m at school tomorrow‚’ Jack said‚ whine creeping into his voice.

‘How about I swing by after? Take you to the park or we can go on a bike ride. Your choice.’

‘Both… Can we do both?’

‘How about you ride your bike to the park. How’s that sound‚ kid?’

His eyes finally met mine and he nodded excitedly. ‘Are you doing sleepover tomorrow‚ too?’

‘I’ll bring my PJ’s. Let’s make a camp and sleep in there‚’ I said. ‘Now come on‚ bring it in‚ give me the good stuff.’ He stood as I got to my knees and gave me a hug that only a five-year-old could possibly give‚ nice and tightly fitting into my body. I kissed him on the head and hissed in his ear.

‘Where’s the damn remote?’

‘I’m not telling you‚’ he replied‚ whilst his hand snaked into my shirt collar and released damp grass down my back before running off inside laughing manically.

I sat in my car and watched them for a moment. Stephanie in the kitchen‚ steaming mug in one hand – coffee‚ one sugar‚ no milk. In the other hand she held a Spiderman beaker – hot chocolate‚ microwaved‚ one minute medium. Jack stormed in and clumsily climbed up onto the stool in front of the breakfast bar.

I said a silent prayer. Warmth‚ health and happiness.

But I knew that as much as I loved them‚ inevitably it would be me that took all those things away.

2

Javid Qasim (Jay)

The phone rang again‚ chirpy and incessant‚ desperate to be held. I looked across at the two other operators sitting either side of me. To my left Dave‚ or Davey as he liked to be called‚ a middle aged man who dressed way too young and smelt like tangerines. To my right‚ Kelly‚ a cute‚ geeky girl‚ the type who turned up transformed to the school prom and surprised the hell out of everyone‚ and ended up sleeping with Jason‚ the captain of the swimming team. Probably‚ I don’t know. I just wanted to go home.

Kelly and Dave were busy on calls and the phone was still screaming in my face. I sighed loudly‚ my irritation clear to Carol‚ the team leader from hell. She glanced over at me just as I glanced over at the clock. Two minutes to five. Two minutes before I could get the hell out of this place for a few hours before it all starts again. I knew if I answered the phone I’d be stuck here past five. I can just about make it to five‚ but keeping me here any longer is tantamount to taking the fucking piss‚ especially on a Monday. I locked eyes with Carol and ventured out a hopeful smile whilst inclining my head towards the clock‚ the smile wasn’t reciprocated‚ instead she nodded down her long beak at the phone. I huffed and puffed a little‚ just enough to have made my point‚ and then I answered the phone.

‘IT Helpdesk‚ how can I help you?’

*

On the short drive home‚ I mentally pictured the inside of my fridge‚ it didn’t take long. I couldn’t be arsed with a big shop‚ I could do that later on my iPad‚ from the comfort of my armchair‚ but I did need a quick fix for the night.

I ducked into the newsagents at the end of my road and browsed the ready meals‚ picking myself out a prawn curry and a litre of milk. At the till‚ my eyes fell on the Daily Mail. On the front page a painfully familiar image was staring back at me. One I had seen many times‚ an image fast on its way to becoming as iconic as the plane flying into the twin towers on 9/11 or the devastated London Bus with its top blown on 7/7. My neighbour‚ my friend‚ Parvez Ahmed‚ laid out on his back atop a police van. His eyes open and lifeless‚ a sawn-off AK47 hanging around his neck and a Glock 19 handgun gripped in his dead hands. I picked up the newspaper‚ knowing full well that it was going to spoil the rest of my evening.

I placed the prawn curry in the microwave and read the article at the worktop. I was expecting inaccuracies‚ and it didn’t disappoint. It had been around three months since the failed attack and the media just would not let it fucking go. It’s exactly this kind of journalism that prods and provokes and burns an imprint into the public’s consciousness. Not letting them move on‚ not letting us move on. Not a spare thought for those who suffered‚ whose families suffered. Parvez‚ who had died for a belief that many would never even contemplate understanding. Now they celebrate his death‚ parade the images like a badge of fucking honour. A constant reminder of the victory for the West. British intelligence working for the people.

But I knew better. I knew the truth.

Nine jihadis‚ four holding points‚ Oxford Street. All armed with automatic rifles and handguns‚ the objective to block in thousands of shoppers on Boxing Day‚ one of the busiest days of the year‚ and shoot at will. Parvez was one of the nine jihadis.

I was another.

I had been drafted into the Secret Service to spy on those that looked like me. My job was to uncover a terror plot and to establish what I could about the terrorist cell‚ Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris. My career had been short-lived. I was no longer part of MI5‚ I no longer wanted to be. They had taken my life and hung it upside down‚ and people that I cared about had tumbled out. I’d given them the intelligence to prevent an unthinkable level of carnage‚ and they fucking rinsed me‚ man. Bent me over and fucked me and left me in a collapsed heap on the floor‚ sucking my thumb and crying out for my Mum. I gave them my all‚ flew half way around the fucking globe to a hell hole training camp where they knew that a certain somebody would want to see me. That somebody being Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ better known to MI5 as The Teacher. A man shrouded in such mystery and myth that MI5 had to resort to using me – a small-time nickel and dime dope dealer from the streets of Hounslow – to ascertain information pertinent to national security. I gave them a name‚ I gave them locations‚ I gave them a description and in the process I found out that this fucking Bin Jabbar character‚ with the stupid fucking moniker‚ was my fucking father‚ who‚ until then‚ I had never before met.

And what did they do with that information? Jack-shit. The Teacher was still bouncing around between caves and mountains and safe houses somewhere in Afghanistan or Pakistan or who gives a fuck. I’d done my part.

Fucking MI5 and their fucking half-arsed operation. They didn’t achieve shit‚ though they happily took credit for narrowly avoiding an attack on Oxford Street – never once mentioning that it was a stroke of freak luck that one of the jihadis had a last-minute change of heart and put a spanner in what would have made the 7/7 attacks seem like a teddy bears’ picnic.

I sound angry. I know. I am. Fucking fuming.

MI5 referred me to a shrink to help me understand my feelings and recognise that my actions helped with a big result.

So‚ how did you feel when your friend Parvez was shot in front of your eyes?

It felt like shit.

He was about to start shooting innocent members of the public? He was going to be responsible for hundreds of lives? Women? Children?

Still felt like shit.

Why?

Parvez was my friend.

He was a terrorist.

They didn’t have to kill him.

Don’t you feel it was necessary? We’re fighting a war on terror.

At that point I laughed in her ignorant face. War on fucking terror! The hypocrisy was mind-bending. Instead of helping me understand my feelings‚ it just vexed me further.

It was around then‚ a couple of months after the attacks‚ that MI5 sent me packing. They made me sign a lot of confidentiality documents‚ swearing me to secrecy‚ as if I would want anybody to know that I was a part of that organisation. They patted me on the back as though I was a child and gave me a briefcase full of gold coins‚ you know‚ services rendered.

Then what? I tell you then what. I did what I never thought I would do‚ I got myself a nine to fiver. Yeah‚ man; a white shirt‚ itchy black trousers and a fucking tie that was out to kill me. Hounslow Council‚ Helpdesk Operator! I zombied in there five days a week and spent my time sitting on a chair that stopped twirling around the same time as Fred and Ginger‚ surfing the web and talking on the phone to people dumber than I am‚ and then I zombied my way out of there. I didn’t have to do it‚ I had money thanks to my shut the fuck up pay off from MI5‚ but I had decided that my life finally needed structure.

I scoured the rest of the newspaper‚ my eyes darting from headline to headline. There wasn’t any news on my father. I knew there wouldn’t be as I’d already checked on-line earlier that morning. And then later that afternoon. I hated myself for doing so and resolved not to do it again‚ knowing full well that I have no fucking resolve. I folded the newspaper tightly and whacked it hard against my thigh to snap me out of an approaching slump. The microwave pinged but my appetite had skated and replaced with thirst. I opened the fridge and sipped straight from the carton of OJ as my eyes landed on a Qatar fridge magnet that my Mum had sent me. Underneath the magnet was an old flyer.

All Muslims Welcome.

Heston Hall Community Centre.

Every Tuesday and Thursday – 7pm onward – Workshop and Group Discussion.

Bring with you a smile.

I’d been attending the Tuesday sessions for the last couple of months. Maybe after the attack I wanted to be around normal‚ moderate‚ modern Muslims and not those who had ideas of devastating the West. They held talks for young Muslims‚ ranging from those facing ‘issues’ in the current climate‚ to those struggling to gain employment‚ or those who just wanted an environment where they were able to vent without judgement.

I could gauge the opinion of Muslims up and down the country just by spending an hour or two in that room‚ bouncing from person to person‚ all of whom had justifiable reason to be full of anger‚ but had the good sense to just get on with it. Unlike that popular minority‚ these Muslims wanted a place to express‚ and not to take extreme action.

This wasn’t about that.

We shared stories‚ drank masala tea and munched on Jaffa Cakes. Once in a while‚ normally after an atrocity‚ we would be riled up at the media coverage or the lack of it‚ at our Brothers‚ or at the two patrol cars taking turns in cruising up and down outside the hall‚ just in case we all balled out wearing suicide vests and waving rifles‚ shouting Allah hu Akbar!

My life‚ truth be told‚ wasn’t great. But a crappy office job and the Community Centre gave me some purpose. I didn’t have to report to MI5 anymore‚ I didn’t have to play spy‚ a role that I was fucking blackmailed into‚ coerced‚ as those bastards would call it. The only good thing that came out of it was that a nasty motherfucker named Silas who I owed a lot of money to was tucked away safely in jail thanks to a statement that I had given. Ten G I owed him; instead he got ten years. I was aware that when he was eventually released he would come looking for me.

Until then‚ I couldn’t be touched.

3

Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

Sheikh Ali Ghulam had lived his whole life in the United Arab Emirates in the city of Abu Dhabi. He despised being away from home‚ refused to join any of his wives or eleven children when they vacationed in the most extreme exotic locations around the world. He had a constant nagging thought that it was only a matter of time‚ and not coincidence‚ before a lunatic gunman or a suicide bomber decided that today was the day to spoil his vacation. The Sheikh seldom set foot outside of his home. He lived with his wives and his children and his servants on a sprawling estate‚ with two guest lodges and a small shopping village within the compound.

It was only business that held the might to force him from his home. Sheikh Ghulam never had and never would conduct business from his home‚ not a meeting‚ a phone call or an email. Any communication would have to be hand-written on a note and delivered personally to him by only a select few. But business was now calling‚ and it was that very reason why he travelled the short journey to Dubai.

Ghulam‚ dressed‚ as ever‚ in a long white thobe‚ and white headdress‚ stood with his back to the luxurious hotel room and looked out of the huge curved window of the Royal Suite on the top floor of the Burj Al Arab Hotel. The sun dipped and the skyscrapers obscenely illuminated the skyline. Ghulam could not make out the scene below him‚ but he imagined with certain distaste the crowd and activity that was taking place. Shameless and barely dressed women displaying all that should be precious to them‚ and burnt‚ ruddy-faced drunken men looking for a wife for the night. Westerners with their Western ways and a blatant disregard for the laws of a Muslim country.

The door to the suite opened. Ghulam noticed in the reflection of the glass that Pathaan had entered.

‘I trust our guests are satisfied with their accommodation‚’ Ghulam said.

Pathaan was aware that he was being watched in the reflection‚ so replied silently with a slight nod and sat down on the armchair closest to the gold-plated phone. He slipped off his sandals and placed his bare feet on the coffee table. Out of the top pocket of his crisp‚ half-sleeved white shirt he took out a well-worn‚ small tin container and pried open the lid and removed a ready-wrapped paan. He folded it in half and then half again and placed it on his tongue before vigorously chewing it as the taste exploded inside his mouth‚ coating his teeth in red salivation.

Ghulam eyed him momentarily in part fascination‚ part frustration. Aba Abassi‚ known only as Pathaan‚ was head of security and the only person on his payroll who did not afford him the respect that was demanded of a Sheikh. However‚ although belligerent at times‚ Pathaan was a necessity; a confidante and protector‚ one who was highly trained in many forms of combat‚ which he carried out with pleasure and if the mood took him.

Ghulam had requested Pathaan to organise this meeting. It had taken Pathaan six flights and three cities in three different countries to arrange. Out of the three esteemed guests invited only two had turned up with the obedience that was expected of them. The third had needed to be convinced onto the Lear Jet.

‘Alright‚’ Ghulam said. ‘Let us commence.’

Pathaan picked up the gold-plated phone and dialled. It rang three times before he got a response. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth‚ relishing the taste of the paan. ‘Three rings‚’ he said on answer‚ ‘is not acceptable.’ He waited for the apology before instructing‚ ‘Send them up.’

*

Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal entered the hotel room. Sheikh Ali Ghulam stood at the head of the table. Something in his face made the two Mullahs hesitate about greeting the Sheikh as etiquette would usually dictate.

‘Sit.’ Pathaan made the decision for them.

At the far end of the table was placed a large wide-screen monitor‚ with a USB pen drive attached.

‘This has come to my attention‚’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. He nodded towards Pathaan who‚ with the press of a button on the remote‚ executed a file.

The footage was clear but without sound and motion‚ as though shot by a security camera. The time stamp read 15.22 and the date 26/12/2017. It showed a young man sitting on the back step of an ambulance‚ a blanket wrapped tightly around him and tucked under his chin. Even from the distance that the footage was captured‚ it was plain to see from the way his shoulders rhythmically shuddered that he was crying‚ as he looked around‚ lost‚ at his surroundings.

‘Who is this Brother?’ Talal asked.

‘He is no Brother of ours‚’ Ghulam glared‚ his eyes ablaze with fire. ‘This man is a traitor.’ Pathaan placed a thin manila folder on the table. Ihsan opened it and stared at the 7×5 photo. Bright eyes and a nervous smile looked back at them as though he had just been caught. Which he had. ‘I received intelligence from one of our men on the ground in London. This is the man behind the betrayal of our leader. His name is Javid Qasim.’

Ihsan cleared his throat and although it was just one word‚ he spoke it with careful measure. ‘How?’

‘Qasim attended our training camp‚ by invite‚ in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa where he was able to ascertain important details of our operation.’

‘How much did he find out?’ Talal said‚ finding his voice again after being under Ghulam’s glare.

‘Enough!’ Ghulam slapped his palm on the table. A small bowl of hummus upturned. He then began softly drumming his fingers.

Enough as in Javid Qasim found out enough? Or Enough as in I don’t want to hear another word from you? Talal decided it was best to wait for Ghulam to continue in his own time.

‘This man‚ this Muslim‚ cowardly hid under the guise of a soldier of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris,’ Ghulam said‚ quietly. ‘Crossing the border into Afghanistan to meet with Abdullah Bin Jabbar and reporting every detail to the British Secret Service.’

The silence that followed screamed a thousand questions.

‘The one thing I despise more than a Kafir‚ is a Munafiq.’ Ghulam spat the last word as if it burnt a hole on his tongue. The others in attendance were aware of the treatment reserved for such a Muslim. ‘And it is for that reason that I hereby put forward a fatwa on Javid Qasim.’

4

Thames House

At 12 Millbank – Thames House‚ MI5’s headquarters – Teddy Lawrence‚ a young MI5 officer‚ knocked and entered the minimalist office of John Robinson‚ Assistant Director of Counter Terrorism Operations. It was the first time they had met since the foiled terrorist attack on Oxford Street on Boxing Day.

Lawrence had climbed the ranks rapidly‚ due largely to their close working relationship. Robinson had seen in him a kindred spirit‚ whilst Lawrence saw opportunity.

Robinson had lost weight everywhere but on his stomach. His sweat-stained white shirt hung loose over his shoulders. Uneven growth on a face that managed to be both pale and ruddy red. Alcohol probably‚ stress definitely‚ reasoned Lawrence. Whatever it was‚ Robinson looked like shit and no longer like a leader of men.

Lawrence‚ despite what they were facing‚ had kept up appearances. Seven fitted suits for seven days. Monday was a charcoal grey three piece. He’d been in the office for nearly three minutes without Robinson having uttered a word. Lawrence watched him standing at the floor to ceiling window‚ staring out onto the stunning views of the Thames as though the answer would float to him in a message in a bottle. They had both received the same brief that morning.

The Teacher was no closer to being located.

After the London attack‚ The Teacher was quick to go under‚ hidden away in the vast wild lands‚ somewhere in Pakistan or Afghanistan‚ unable to lead the might of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. Still‚ the attacks occurred across Europe; smaller in scale but with a frightening frequency. Despite The Teacher’s absence‚ his work continued.

Robinson mumbled something‚ but Lawrence couldn’t quite hear as Robinson still had his back to him. Lawrence hesitated before asking‚ ‘Sir. Can you repeat that?’

‘Javid Qasim‚’ Robinson said‚ ‘is the key.’

Lawrence now understood why Robinson had his back to him. It would have been an embarrassment for him having to backtrack‚ and he probably didn’t want it seen in his face. It had been Robinson who’d terminated Qasim’s contract – a rash decision‚ considering what he’d achieved for them in such a short period of time. From Qasim’s intelligence alone‚ they’d narrowly avoided a multiple gun attack in the heart of London. Just as vital‚ Qasim had revealed The Teacher’s locations and hideouts‚ along with a detailed description of the man that the world’s authorities had‚ previously‚ had no knowledge of. After that it had been out of Qasim’s hands. It should have been enough. Yet they had still failed to locate and capture The Teacher.

Robinson concluded there were doubts about the legitimacy of the intelligence‚ and he’d been quick to voice his judgement. It didn’t sit comfortably with him that Qasim clearly had mixed emotions in what was asked of him. Robinson refused to let anyone who was sympathetic to the beliefs of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris continue working for the Secret Service. It had muddied the waters further when Qasim’s relationship with The Teacher came to light.

At the time‚ and despite advice‚ Robinson could only see one way‚ when he should have been seeing it the other way.

‘Javid Qasim?’ Lawrence questioned‚ though he had already formed the conversation in his head.

Robinson finally turned and locked eyes with Lawrence. ‘We can still use him.’

Lawrence nodded. ‘I’ll talk to him. Get him back on board.’

From the drinks cabinet‚ Robinson poured himself a large whiskey and a smaller one for Lawrence. He strode across and handed the drink over and sat down opposite him. Robinson leant back‚ an arm draped across the Italian leather two-seater that he’d insisted on having in his office‚ and crossed his legs. The arrogance that had been missing‚ as they repeatedly failed to capture The Teacher‚ was returning.

‘No‚’ Robinson said. ‘That’s not what I had in mind.’

5

Hounslow High Street

Dean Kramer leaned his bulk against the back of his rusty old Range Rover. Like him‚ it carried battle scars‚ and like him it was still strong. He slipped out a Greggs sausage roll from a paper bag and proceeded to cut it in half with the first bite. In front of him‚ Kramer looked out at the scene on Hounslow High Street. A group of forty or so Asian youths‚ shuffling feet‚ a bundle of nerves and anticipation‚ being held back by metal barriers and Police. Nothing had kicked off‚ it hardly ever does at these things‚ but they had to make their presence felt. Opposite them‚ outside what used to be Dixons‚ now a discount store‚ St George and Union Jack flags flew high above a fifty-strong gathering of white faces‚ mainly men‚ holding signs and placards that read Taking back our country or words to that effect. They were led by a red-headed woman who Kramer knew well. With her she had her weapons of choice: a microphone‚ and a voice she wasn’t afraid to use.

This was the third time this week that Kramer had watched Eve Carver and the rest of the faces. First in Leytonstone and then in Slough‚ before moving onto Hounslow. All areas heavily populated with Muslims.

He watched Carver bring the microphone to her mouth and clear her throat. It came out loud and crisp through the large box speaker. One of the Asians shouted something unoriginally offensive at her. A copper shook his head at him and he quietened down. Kramer took the second and final bite out of his sausage roll as she started.

‘I went to the supermarket today. I thought I’d do a little experiment. I counted thirty tills. Twenty-eight of them were manned by brown faces.’ She paused. She smiled. She continued. ‘Isn’t that strange? It’s strange to me. And it’s not just our supermarkets. Step into any hospital and chances are you’ll be treated by a brown doctor. Step into any school and chances are your child is being taught by a brown teacher. Have you asked yourself‚ what are they teaching our children?’

‘What are you teaching our children?’ an elderly Asian man‚ who had stopped to watch‚ countered. His small voice was lost in the commotion as his wife hurriedly ushered him away.

‘Take a look at our council‚ our government. The Mayor of Hounslow is a Muslim. The Mayor of London is a Muslim. Every day‚ five times a day‚ I hear the Islamic cries for Prayers. They are not adhering to our laws. We are adhering to theirs. Believe me‚ Sharia Law is spreading like the sickest of diseases. Here. In our country. In our England.’

Kramer yawned‚ loud and wide. He’d heard this or a variation of this three times already this week‚ and a hundred times before. This little show would be filmed and plastered over Social Media. Their profile would increase. Their numbers would increase. If they were lucky‚ a fight may break out and they would find themselves in one of the local papers. National even. But ultimately not a thing will change. Kramer wasn’t here for that.

He tuned out as Carver moved onto All Muslims are complicit in Terrorism‚ and scanned the crowd. The two young lads weren’t difficult to find. Black bomber jackets‚ skinny black jeans and red Doctor Marten Boots. They were the reason that Kramer was there.

He placed a call to Terry Rose.

‘Rose.’ Kramer sat in his car to block out the noise. ‘They’re both here.’

‘Course they are‚’ Rose replied. ‘You talked to them‚ yet?’

‘About to.’ Kramer glanced in his rear-view mirror. The two lads were mouthing off at the Pakis‚ intent and anger burning brightly in their faces‚ hands balled into tight fists‚ ready to fly. There was a third with them‚ younger‚ dressed the same‚ but looking painfully out of place. He stood close by and tried to imitate them but Kramer could see that he did not hold the same passion. ‘There’s another with them.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. He’s been hanging around them all week. Could be a friend.’

‘Alright. Suss him out‚ and call it‚’ Rose said.

Kramer ended the call. Brushed the crumbs from the sausage roll off his face and stepped out of the car just as the demonstration was dying down. He approached one of the lads that he knew by name and reputation only.

Kramer stood beside him. ‘Simon Carpenter.’

Simon‚ his thick arms crossed‚ his face set like flint‚ stared at what was left of the dwindling Asian group as they started to disperse‚ to his satisfaction.

‘Look at them go‚’ Simon said‚ eyes forward. ‘Off to plot. To plan. We’re not careful‚ they’ll bring this country down to its knees.’ Simon turned to look at Kramer. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Kramer‚ a few inches over six foot‚ was taller and wider than Simon. But not by much. Simon was built like no other eighteen-year-old. The other lad joined them. Kramer knew him as Anthony Hanson. He was taller than his friend‚ but he didn’t carry the bulk. Taut‚ wiry‚ and handy with his fists. Had a history of substance abuse. Kramer had done his homework.

‘Anthony Hanson.’ Kramer smiled‚ producing crooked teeth.

Anthony gave him the once-over and then looked across at Simon. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’

‘I’d like a word‚’ Kramer said.

*

In the absence of a coffee shop close by‚ Kramer took them to a dessert lounge a few doors down from where the demonstration had taken place. He ordered three coffees and waited for them to arrive before starting.

‘I’ve seen you both at the last few rallies‚’ Kramer said.

‘Yeah‚ so?’ Anthony said.

‘I’ve seen you‚ too‚’ Simon said. ‘From a distance. Never seen you join in‚ though.’

‘Don’t agree with it.’ Kramer shook his head. ‘It’s not right.’

‘We got a Paki-lover on our hands‚’ Anthony said‚ his attitude clearly bolstered by having his friend by his side ‘Prime example of all that’s wrong with our country. If we can’t stick up for our own then –’

Kramer shot him a look‚ one that had shut down many in the past. He made a show of interlinking his meaty fingers and Anthony’s eyes travelled down to the red St George’s Cross tattoo on his middle finger‚ just above his knuckle.

‘What do you want?’ Simon slipped off his beanie hat to reveal a freshly-shaved head.

‘You’re wasting your time‚’ Kramer said. ‘These rallies won’t get you anywhere. Their beliefs sit side by side with my beliefs‚ but the objective is a political one.’

‘It’s something‚’ Simon said.

‘It’s not enough. And I think you know it’s not enough.’

‘That supposed to mean?’ Anthony said.

‘Last year. The attack on Sutton Mosque.’ Kramer left it at that. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

Anthony glanced at Simon. Simon quietly kept his eyes firmly on Kramer.

‘How’d you know about that?’ Anthony asked.

‘The attack on the Mosque was celebrated across the country‚’ Kramer replied. ‘I made it my business to find out who was responsible.’

Anthony looked around nervously. Kramer smiled behind his coffee as he took a sip‚ amused at how Simon held his gaze like an equal.

‘Who are you?’ Simon asked.

‘I am one of many. And we’re making a stand.’

‘So are we?’ Anthony shrugged.

‘Don’t be daft‚ son. You think a few fucking marches and rallies is making a stand. Talk is cheap‚ and ineffective.’ Kramer leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘After desecrating the Mosque‚ you hid when you should have built on its momentum. Instead you wear a hole in your Doc Martens‚ marching relentlessly‚ trying to spread the word.’ Kramer straightened up‚ took his time looking them both in the eyes. ‘I work with a small organisation whose members believe that...’ he paused. ‘Action speaks louder than words. A belief that you once shared.’

‘We still do‚’ Anthony said‚ then looked across at Simon who slowly nodded his agreement.

‘That sounds like words to me‚’ Kramer said. ‘If I see that you are serious‚ if you are capable in making a difference‚ a real difference‚ then...’

‘Then what?’ Anthony asked.

‘My partner‚ who runs operations‚ would like the two of you to join us.’

The door to the dessert lounge opened with a cheery chime. The third lad‚ who’d been hanging around with Simon and Anthony‚ walked in and tentatively approached the table‚ trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with Kramer.

‘Where were you guys?’ he said‚ softly. ‘I was looking for you everywhere.’

Simon leaned over the table and locked eyes with Kramer. ‘Tell your partner we’ll show you both just how serious we can be. And...’

‘And what?’

Simon glanced across at the boy who smiled unsurely at him. He turned back to Kramer.

‘Tell him there’s three of us.’

6

Imy

I never did find the remote control so‚ back at my flat‚ I had to go back in time and operate the television up close and personal. Channel set to Sky Sports‚ I settled in‚ a bowl of crisps‚ two glass tumblers next to a jug of water‚ a bowl of ice and an unopened bottle of Jameson on the coffee table in front of me.

Compact was the word I would have used to describe my flat to any potential clients; pokey would have been more apt. The rent was set quite low‚ but I paid even less‚ one of the few perks of being an estate agent. A touch of damp on the walls‚ questionable décor courtesy of the previous owner‚ and a carpet which electrocutes. It sat nicely above The Chicken Spot which some may find distasteful – especially as the smell of greasy food was a constant guest – but‚ geographically‚ I found it convenient.

It was far from perfect‚ but for now it was all I needed. I could have easily moved in with Stephanie and Jack into their comfortable home in Osterley‚ and that remained the eventual plan. I know that she would like that‚ and Jack would be absolutely thrilled to have me always there playing Dad. However‚ for the time being I was enjoying living on my own after having lived with my Khala for the last twenty years. She was my mother’s elder sister. They were both originally from Pakistan‚ but while mother had moved to Afghanistan‚ my Khala had built a life in England. Both following their husbands in the name of marriage.

Khala brought me up with more love than I could ever have wished for. I owed her everything‚ but eventually I’d had to get out and do my own thing. Even though I’m thirty-six‚ she was horrified at the thought of me moving out.

‘People will talk‚’ she had proclaimed when I finally found the courage to tell her. ‘They will say that I kicked you out.’

I didn’t patronise her‚ she was right. In our community‚ people did talk. The textbook thought process was: Thirty-six. Not married. Not living at home with his parents. Something terrible must have happened!

I had to go though. I had to find a way of making things work with Stephanie and Jack – and I couldn’t do that living at home with my Khala. She wasn’t happy when I left home‚ so God only knew what her reaction would be when she found out that I have a white girlfriend who has a son from a previous relationship. For now‚ that had to be my secret.

*

I glanced at the time on my phone‚ considered pouring myself a small shot but decided to wait for Shaz who had just texted his arrival. He was downstairs ordering a bucket of hot wings. I shifted along the the two-seater as I heard his footsteps approach my door‚ which was left on latch so I wouldn’t have to get up.

‘You know what I don’t understand?’ Shaz opened with‚ as we touched fists. I could tell from his eyes that he was already high. ‘If you’re gonna hit a deer‚ would you get out of your car to check if it’s alright?’

‘You got skins?’ I asked‚ before he unloaded whatever was on his mind.

‘It’s a fucking deer‚’ he said‚ flinging a packet of king size silver Rizla and a small ziplock bag of skunk onto the coffee table. He placed the bucket of chicken on top of it and I knew that he would very soon be searching for the gear. ‘And then‚ and then‚ he goes to the boot of his car and finds something to put the deer out of its misery‚ as his bird who‚ by the way‚ is wearing a posh frock‚ ’cos they’re on the way to a dinner party in the middle of a fucking forest‚ looks on from the passenger seat. I mean what the fuck does he know about whether the deer is suffering? For all he knows‚ it could just have a sore fucking head‚ it could be right as rain in a bit. That shit is just wrong‚ taking a metal cross spanner to the deer’s head and going to town on it‚ whilst he gets soaked in deer blood just to impress his girl!’

‘The match is about to start in a minute‚ Shaz. Is there a point to all this?’

‘Just this film I was watching. It won two Oscars! Shit‚ what was it called again? Whatever! The point is... what’s my point?’ He shuffled out of his puffa jacket and sat himself next to me.

‘Why didn’t he just run the deer over?’ I know Shaz‚ I know how he thinks.

‘Yes! Why didn’t he just run the deer over? If he really wanted to put it out of its misery‚ drive back and forth over the fucker until it’s finally dead. There was no need to bludgeon it to death! I swear they give out Oscars like penny sweets these days.’

I liked Shaz. He liked to talk and I liked to listen to him muse about the unimportant things in life. It was one of the reasons that I was desperate to find the remote control. Frequently I needed to pause live television so he could spill whatever random nonsense that popped into his head.

I first met Shaz – Shahzad Naqvi‚ when I started working at Kumar’s Property Services. The first few months I was kept in the office carrying out basic admin as Kumar inducted me. Shaz had been there for almost a year and had graduated to viewings. He would check back to the office twice a day‚ and I’d smell the alcohol on him. I’d see the red in his eyes. It’d make me furious that a Muslim would behave in such a manner.

After my induction‚ Kumar sent me out to shadow and learn from Shaz. Every lunch time‚ Shaz would take me to The Rising Sun pub.

A pint for him... a lemonade for me.

I couldn’t help myself‚ I couldn’t let it be. I had to ask. ‘Are you not a Muslim?’

‘Course I’m a Muslim. Fuck‚ man! Kind of question is that?’

He took a sip of beer‚ wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve‚ and before I could question the contradictory action‚ he beat me to it.

‘I take it you don’t drink‚ Imy. Sup to you‚ yeah. That’s your business. I ain’t hurting no-one. My parents bought me up right and correct‚ mate. I know the difference between good and bad. Everything else... Well‚ it’s just noise.’

Shaz took another sip‚ waved his empty glass and winked at the barman.

‘Why you lookin’ at me like that?’ He grinned. ‘I pray too‚ yeah‚ before you ask. Every night‚ in bed‚ a direct line to the man upstairs. I say whatever’s on my mind. A thanks‚ a wish‚ world fucking peace‚ whatever! That’s how I pray. I ain’t saying other Muslims are wrong‚ but personally I don’t think that I was put on this Earth to bow down five times a day‚ reciting Arabic prayers that I don’t quite understand and – with all due respect – most other Muslims don’t understand either. Going through the same motion day in day out. You know what they’re thinking as their heads are bowed? What’s on TV tonight? Where’d I leave my sunglasses? What time’s the gym closing? Tell me that ain’t true. Look... It’s like this‚ I know I ain’t Muslim of the year and when I do go and God judges me‚ I probably won’t get to sit at the top table with the Mashallah crew. I’ll most likely be in the nosebleed seats‚ with a pillar blocking my view! But trust me‚ yeah‚ I ain’t going to hell. Way I see it‚ we’ve been given the gift of life. Live it‚ man‚ you’ll be alright. You hear me?’

I heard him. It was all I could think about. I managed to convince myself that if I picked up a glass‚ smoked a little weed‚ there was no way I’d ever be suspected. It was the perfect cover. But really‚ I wasn’t convincing anybody.

I easily fell in love with the lifestyle. I easily fell in love with having a choice. I easily fell in love with a girl.

Soon after‚ when Shaz and I went to the pub it was;

A pint for him… and a pint for me.

Now Shaz was a regular feature‚ and he was also the funniest person that I knew – mostly unintentionally. He helped me find laughter that had been absent for years.

Like me‚ he was a Muslim‚ and like me he wasn’t much of one.

He rested one foot up on the edge of the coffee table. ‘Let’s take a moment or two to admire my new desert boots.’ He said. And in that instant… I was back there again.

*

Most of what I remembered from growing up in Afghanistan was my impatience to grow up. In fact‚ just before all it kicked off‚ my biggest concern was that I was done with being nine. I had been counting down the days until I hit the all-important double figures. In my village in Afghanistan‚ ten was a big deal; ten brought you a certain amount of respect‚ responsibility and power. Ten was being a man. Though‚ whichever way I chose to look at it‚ the truth was‚ at ten‚ I was still a child. And at that moment‚ when everything changed‚ I had never before felt more like a child.

I remember my father telling me to run. I remember my mother screaming at me to hide. I remember that being the last thing they ever said to me.

The sound of gunshots was not rare in our small village in Sharana. For us children who were in a hurry to grow up‚ the sound signalled one of adventure. The presence of the Taliban was not uncommon; they would ride in on their dusty jeeps or their dusty horses and once in a while shoot a hole into the sky just to make us aware of their presence. We would surround them with respectful smiles and sometimes they would let us hold their rifles. My parents hated it but acquiesced‚ because really‚ what choice did they have?

The sound of these particular gunshots were different. Cleaner. Relentless. Getting closer. Moving from home to home until they were pounding down our door. From my hiding spot‚ under my bed‚ I hear a muffled question‚ a nervous reply. My mother’s scream‚ my father’s anguish. Heavy feet making their way through our home. My parents separated. My father taken to our small kitchen and asked the same question over and over again. My mother taken into the bedroom‚ screaming‚ and forced to perform what should only take place between a husband and a wife. I couldn’t move‚ my shalwar wet and stained‚ my eyes closed painfully tight and my hands clamped over my ears but still unable to block out the sounds of the final two shots.

Then silence. No more gunshots‚ no more screams. I opened my eyes and from my position under my bed‚ I noticed two things; the smoking barrel of a Heckler and Koch machine gun and a pair of sandy coloured‚ British military-issue desert boots.

‘Well‚’ Shaz said‚ rescuing me from my thoughts and placing me back to the present. ‘Pretty sick‚ right?

‘Yes‚’ I snatched my eyes away from his boots. ‘They’re nice.’

7

Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

Sheikh Ali Ghulam invited his guests‚ Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal‚ to join him for an evening feast. A small team of three waiters piled the table with platters of assorted meats‚ rice and naan breads. They ate in silence at the dining table‚ digesting the food quickly‚ hoping to get back to their hotel room and further digest what had been told to them. The only sound that filled the room was Pathaan noisily sucking away at the bones of a half chicken from the comfort of his armchair.

Ihsan and Talal were grateful that a spread had been laid on for them in the highest of company; they were especially grateful that the Sheikh had chosen them to share the information with. But they could not understand why it was them that he had chosen. The attacks on Oxford Street had been not of their planning‚ therefore they were not accountable for the failure of it. Ihsan‚ based in Germany‚ had his own students‚ three of whom were currently being prepped to visit a training camp. As for Belgium-based Talal‚ after careful watch‚ he had recruited twelve students from the deprived Molenbeek neighbourhood of Brussels‚ who had seen their local Mosque closed down as its teachings were seen as radical. Talal had been given an eighteen-month window in which to train these angry young men‚ and plot an attack in the very heart of Brussels.

Sheikh Ghulam placed his cutlery down on the table and loudly expelled gas‚ muted slightly by his fist. Ihsan and Talal followed suit but did not allow themselves the luxury of belching. They waited patiently but the impatience within them was clear. They wanted desperately to leave‚ to be away from Ghulam’s glare and Pathaan’s menace and to carry on this discussion in private quarters‚ to try to establish the possible reason why they might have been flown out to this meeting.

Ghulam had not seemed to address it. But they could not possibly question him.

Talal cleared his throat to speak. Ihsan shot him a look and discreetly shook his head. Talal went ahead anyway. ‘Who was responsible for Qasim? With all due respect we carry out intensive checks with every one of our students.’

Ghulam nodded at Pathaan‚ one that could possibly have meant anything. Pathaan stood up and Talal braced himself‚ as though he was about to receive a blow to the back of his head. Pathaan smiled at the reaction and disappeared into the master bedroom.

‘Imam Adeel-al-Bhukara‚’ Ghulam said‚ and Talal physically relaxed. ‘He was also invited to join us. However‚ the Brother did not demonstrate the same sense of duty as you both.’

‘So‚ he did not make it?’ Ihsan asked.

‘Pathaan can be quite persuasive‚’ Ghulam replied‚ as the bedroom door opened and Pathaan walked out dragging behind him a large metal suitcase on wheels. He laid it down flat‚ unzipped and flipped open the case. Inside Adeel-al-Bhukara was curled up in the foetal position‚ his walking stick laid across his body. Pathaan picked it up and poked him in the ribs with it. Al-Bhukara wheezed weakly and his eyes opened to slits.

‘Please‚ join us‚’ Ghulam requested‚ and al-Bukhara’s eyes widened in recognition.

Placing first one hand and then the other on the thick black Persian rug‚ he slowly crawled out of the suitcase before collapsing with exhaustion face down on the floor. His humiliation‚ far from complete‚ was furthered in the knowledge that his peers‚ his Brothers‚ could smell that he had urinated and see that‚ through the light cotton of his shalwar‚ he had defecated.

Al-Bhukara managed to lift his head towards Ghulam and mouthed water. His wish was granted as Pathaan‚ from a metal jug‚ poured water and ice cubes over his head. They watched as he managed to sum up enough energy to rise to his knees with his mouth wide open‚ and drink what he could from the waterfall. Whatever missed his mouth he collected in his hands.

Ihsan and Talal were up on their feet at the treatment of the much-respected Imam. The very same Imam who had a close friendship and unbridled trust with Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ the honourable leader of their group‚ Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris.

‘Would you like us to leave?’ Ihsan asked.

‘Sit!’ Pathaan asserted‚ his arm outstretched and his finger pointing at them as if it could spit bullets.

‘Look at me‚’ Ghulam said.

Al-Bhukara met his eyes‚ but kept his head bowed. ‘Please‚’ he pleaded. ‘I did what I was told. I did what I believed was right.’

‘Javid Qasim was one of your students.’

‘I did what I was told‚’ Al-Bhukara repeated.

‘He was a traitor‚’ Ghulam raised his hand sharply. Al-Bhukara flinched. ‘He was Secret Service.’

Al-Bhukara lifted his chin‚ the sudden fire in his eyes matching that of Ghulam.

‘He was the son of Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚’ he hissed at the Sheikh and then the fire went out as quickly as it had arrived.

Ghulam took an involuntary step back. Ihsan and Talal glanced at one another‚ hoping that the other would tell them that they had misheard.

‘We waited patiently for the boy to become a man‚’ Al-Bhukara continued. ‘He started to move in the right circles‚ he started to take his Deen seriously. When word reached Bin Jabbar‚ he insisted that we should take him on. Fast track his education. I was but the facilitator. He was his father.’ He took a breath‚ it came out as a low whistle. ‘It was what he wanted.’

Ghulam regained his composure. ‘Abdullah Bin Jabbar... who has evaded capture for so many years‚ is now on the run. Is that what he had wanted?’

Al-Bhukara said nothing.

‘They are now aware of his description‚ his hideouts and his training facilities. I ask you again: is that what he wanted?’

A single tear slowly escaped Al-Bhukara’s eye.

‘Our cell has been compromised. Decades of hard work and planning‚ wasted. Is that what he wanted?’

Ghulam sat down on the chair‚ his outburst had tired him. He leant forward and with his finger lifted Al-Bhukara’s chin and said softly. ‘I do not care if Qasim is his bastard son. It is your role to thoroughly look at his background regardless of who he is. Good men died‚ men better than Qasim‚ and the Kafir now laugh at us‚ in their newspapers‚ on their televisions. I will not allow you to lay the blame at the feet of the great Bin Jabbar. As far as I am concerned‚ Javid Qasim was your responsibility.’

Al-Bhukara closed his eyes tightly. Sweat ran down his forehead and tears raced freely down his face. His body racked and shuddered as he clenched as hard as he could to stop himself adding to his already soiled shalwar.

Ghulam sat back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. In his heart he understood that Al-Bhukara had no choice. When an order comes from the very top‚ no question‚ it has to be obeyed. Bin Jabbar had always run Ghurfat-al-Mudarris with heart and emotion‚ loved and adored by his vast army as he walked‚ lived and broke bread amongst them. Now he was impoverished‚ moving from barely-furnished safe houses to barren caves hidden in high mountains.

It was not how a leader should lead.

Bin Jabbar was no longer in the position to give further orders; the remainder of his days were to be lived out‚ running and hiding as the net around him tightened. Ghulam saw himself as the natural successor. Change had been forced upon them‚ but it was a change that was required. The teachings of Al-Mudarris were dated‚ his attacks planned meticulously so his men lived to fight again when thousands of men would be willing to give their lives for The Cause. His love for his people had clouded his judgement‚ blinded him to the truth that there is no higher sacrifice to Allah than the sacrifice of life.

‘Pathaan‚’ Ghulam said‚ turning to him. ‘Do we have any sleepers in the vicinity?’

‘We have one. Based in West London‚ a few kilometres from Heathrow Airport‚’ Pathaan replied. ‘In close proximity to Qasim.’

‘Is he capable?’

Pathaans blinked. A vision of a scared child‚ held tight in his arms‚ flashed behind his eyelids.

‘Qasim is the son of Abdullah bin Jabbar‚’ Ghulam continued. ‘Regardless of his treachery he deserves the respect of a clean death… By our hands.’

‘He is capable‚’ Pathaan said.

‘It is time our sleeper went active. Make contact and inform him of the fatwa.’

Al-Bhukara was still shuddering‚ his sobs coming in quick staccato beats. Ghulam’s intention was not one of forgiveness‚ there would be no second chances‚ but the knowledge that al-Bhukara had been acting directly under the orders of their leader troubled him. Could he punish a man for that?

Ghulam’s eyes landed on Ihsan and Talal who had inched closer to the door‚ wearing expressions as though they had been caught peeping through a keyhole. He remembered why he had invited them. It was to illustrate to them that a mistake like this could never happen again.

‘Pathaan‚’ he said‚ finally coming to a decision. ‘Please‚ show al-Bhukara the respect that he deserves.’

Al-Bhukara lifted his head and exhaled a sharp breath of relief. Still crying hysterically‚ he opened his mouth and searched for words suitable for the huge gratitude he’d felt towards the Sheikh. From the corner of his eye he could see Pathaan rise from his armchair. Al-Bhukara turned his head towards him‚ just in time to see him cut the distance between them in two long strides and then raise his gun‚ shooting him point blank in the side of the head.

8

Imy

‘Two of the greatest teams the world has ever seen‚’ Shaz said‚ knocking back the last of his drink. ‘With an abundance of attack and creativity at their disposal‚ and it ends up being a soulless‚ goalless draw.’

Shaz and I had spent the best part of the night cursing the so-called spectacle that it was billed to be. Between us we’d cleaned a litre bottle of Jameson‚ coupled with a few joints‚ and then went one-on-one in my living room with a plastic football.

A little past midnight and one broken lamp later‚ we bumped fists as Shaz‚ who still lived with his parents‚ went home. I did not envy him one bit‚ knowing what he was about to go through. The journey home after a heavy night was never straightforward. I knew this as I’d been in the very same situation on many occasions when I lived with Khala.

First‚ it used to involve a detour to Heston Services to use their facilities and scrub my face clean. Then I’d spend five pounds on strong mints‚ bottled water and eye drops. Two in each eye‚ ten minutes to take effect. Knocking back the bottled water to help sober up‚ and popping mint after mint until I arrived at my front door.

Then the hard part.

Trying to re-enter my own home‚ hoping I didn’t wake Khala. Slowly taking one tiptoed step at a time upstairs‚ then creeping past her bedroom‚ a quick glance to make sure she’s asleep. Edging closer to my own room‚ avoiding the squeaky hot spots on the plastic carpet protector‚ before finally pushing my bedroom door open‚ tantalisingly close to my single bed. Fifty percent of the time I would succeed‚ the other fifty…

‘Imran.’

Silence. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Hope that it passes.

‘Imran‚ is that you?’

The jig is up. Double back‚ lean against her bedroom door frame to stop from wobbling. On would come the lamp‚ then would come the questions. Her words‚ as always‚ running into each other at pace‚ her English better than ever before but still broken in places.

‘Where were you?’

‘Khala‚ sorry I’m late. Go back to sleep.’

‘Sleep? You think I sleep? I wait for you. Why your eyes red?’

‘I was on my phone most of the night.’

‘Astaghfirulah.’ She would always say Astaghfirulah when she was annoyed. Similar to how Christians use Jesus‚ but with more drama. ‘You and your phone. You’re going to ruin your eyes‚ how many times I tell you? You want to go blind‚ Imran? Do you? Well‚ do you? Because you know what is going to happen? You’re going to go blind!’

‘Yes‚ Khala.’

‘It is two in the morning‚ you not have work tomorrow? You know how difficult it was to ask Kumar to give you job? You humiliate family name.’

‘It’s fine. My first viewing is at ten.’

‘Why do I smell smoke? You smoke‚ Imran?’

‘No‚ it was Shaz‚ he was smoking around me.’

‘He is a stupid boy. I do not like him.’

‘Goodnight‚ Khala.’

‘Shall I make something to eat?’

‘Goodnight‚ Khala.’

She sounds like a ball breaker. She isn’t. She is the sweetest person I have ever known. She took me in at sixteen‚ and a damaged sixteen at that‚ and knocked the damage right out of me with her overbearing brand of love. It didn’t matter that I was now in my mid-thirties‚ I was fine with her treating me like I was still that sixteen-year-old. Now that I was away from her‚ in my own place‚ she was very much still part of my daily life. One phone-call a day‚ numerous texts and three visits per week‚ minimum.

It was fine.

After the death of my parents I’d spent the remainder of my childhood in Afghanistan as a man. One with order‚ discipline and responsibilities. A way of life drilled into me from the age of ten until the age of sixteen when I was sent to London‚ to Hounslow‚ to live with my Khala. Now I’m of age‚ the hardness has softened‚ but it’s still within me and I pray that it doesn’t see the light of day. My life‚ if I’m honest‚ is easy. I feel love for and loved by those close to me. All I want is to live carefree for a little longer before I settle down with Stephanie and Jack.

I realise‚ though‚ that my destiny is not in my hands. One day‚ somebody may come calling and try to turn me back into that violent‚ angry boy. Dangling revenge as my motivation‚ reminding me who I really am and what I owe.

9

Jay

It was a little strange having a day off from work‚ as opposed to always being able to do as I pleased. In keeping with my new‚ straight-edged life I had to structure my day to ensure that things got taken care of. It felt good knowing that I could function like a responsible adult‚ but at the same time it was boring the life out of me.

My first task today was to pick up plane tickets from Shaan Travels in Southall. You can keep all your online deals; nobody touches Shaan when it comes to budget flights. He went down from £470 to £390 before I even had a chance to finish the complimentary crusty samosa and microwaved masala chai that he had laid out in front of me. I paid in cash and pocketed the ticket before moving onto Hounslow and its legendary Treaty Centre for a spot of holiday shopping.

In keeping with the rest of the Treaty dossers‚ I adjusted my walk as soon as I entered. A little more bounce‚ a little more swagger. It had been a while since I had been to Treaty and the memories embraced me warmly and I couldn’t help but smile at the much-changed but same-old shithole. I think I was around twelve when it first opened its doors‚ and at the time it felt like a shift in direction. Hounslow High Street was ready to join the likes of its glossy neighbours Richmond and Chiswick. Problem was‚ there were just too many fucking Asians‚ loitering or on the pull or just getting up to mischief. Idris and I used to chill there most days after school‚ sat at a table right by the escalators‚ books laid out in front of us as a guise so the mall cops wouldn’t ask questions‚ passing judgement on the girls from Green School as they sauntered by. Yeah‚ Treaty was the only place to be. A couple of quid in your pocket saved from skipping lunch‚ to be spent on penny sweets‚ fizzy drinks and the Daily Sport.

A few years later‚ to add to the Asian invasion‚ the Somalis arrived‚ and a few years after that‚ the Poles invaded the Treaty. Small cliques were formed‚ the odd fight broke out. It lost some of its charm. Now every second person in the high street is from a different background‚ chats a different language‚ wears a different colour. But they are all after the same fucking thing.

A bargain!

That’s why I was there too. A holiday on the horizon‚ I was ready to spend some money – but not too much! I ducked into some fashion boutiques where even the mannequins looked embarrassed‚ and bought myself some travel essentials. Lairy Hawaiian shirts‚ luminous shorts‚ flip flops‚ and a panama hat which I was never going to wear apart from in the odd novelty photo.

Qatar‚ here I come.

Mum had recently moved to Qatar with her boyfriend Andrew – her white boyfriend Andrew. She didn’t give a fuck about the gossip‚ and I certainly didn’t either. Good on you‚ Mum‚ do whatever makes you happy. She had tried being a good Muslim wife. Didn’t work out‚ Dad was more interested in playing terrorist.

Holiday haul complete‚ it was time to get some chores done around the house. So I popped into the cornerstone of the Treaty Centre‚ a delightful little place called Wilko – quality products at ridiculously low prices – for some cleaning products. I was stood in the queue‚ my basket filled with all sorts of hocus-pocus sprays and detergents which guaranteed sparkling results in seconds. I couldn’t see how long the queue was as the person in front of me was well over six foot‚ wide as a motherfucker and black as the night. There is only one person I know with such a frame and he really doesn’t like me… So‚ rather than stay and confirm my suspicions‚ I decided it was time I bounced.

I took a tentative step back‚ right onto the foot of a pensioner. He let out a raspy yelp. I threw my hand up in apology but it was too late‚ the mini commotion had got the attention of the man mountain in front.

Staples‚ right hand man to Silas‚ the man that I’d helped put behind bars.

‘Alright‚’ I smiled brightly‚ as if I’d just bumped into a Facebook friend.

‘Jay‚’ he said. ‘Still knocking about‚ I see.’

The fuck’s that supposed to mean?

‘Yeah‚ you know.’ I shrugged. ‘Where’d you think I’d be?’

‘We were just talking about you the other night. Wondering what you’re up to. If you’re in good health.’ Staples smiled long enough for me to admire his latest gold tooth.

‘I thought I could feel my ears burning.’ I was trying to play it cool. I think it was working‚ even though every instinct in me wanted to spin on my heels and get the hell outta there. ‘You know what they say when you talk about someone and then they unexpectedly show up?’

‘Why don’t you go ahead and enlighten me‚ Jay?’

‘It gives the recipient long life‚’ I said‚ wondering if I had used recipient in the right context.

‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘You may well be the exception to that rule‚ Jay.’

Yeah‚ it was a threat and yeah I was shitting myself‚ but I knew he couldn’t do anything. With Silas tucked away in jail‚ Staples knew that the eyes of the law were on the rest of the crew. Besides‚ what the fuck could he possibly do in the middle of Wilko‚ in the middle of the fucking Treaty Centre?

I looked down at Staples’ basket. He had Radox bubble bath‚ candles and shampoo‚ which was odd as his head was as shiny as a snooker ball. He didn’t seem so tough after all‚ with his pampering products. I smiled up at him knowingly‚ refusing to take the bait.

‘Say hi to Silas from me next time you go visit him in jail.’ I couldn’t help myself‚ I had to get a dig in. I placed my basket on the floor and left my place in the queue and walked away‚ pleased with myself for delivering the parting shot.

‘Jay‚’ Staples said‚ and I ignored him‚ kept walking. ‘Jay‚’ a little louder. ‘You haven’t heard?’

That slowed me in my tracks. I wanted to turn around and ask him what he meant but I just knew whatever knowledge he wanted to impart would only play on my mind‚ and that was the very last thing I needed before my trip. I shook my head clear and walked out of the shop.

On my drive home his words kept creeping back‚ I tried to figure out what Staples could possibly have meant. It wasn’t in my nature to sweat the small stuff‚ but where that psychopath Silas is concerned‚ I couldn’t take it lightly.

You haven’t heard?

The day had started off so well. I’d been getting shit done‚ but the run-in with Staples had knocked me sideways. So instead of donning my marigolds and going on a cleaning expedition around the house‚ as planned‚ I spent the afternoon watching crappy daytime TV whilst throwing a few choice expletives at Staples from a safe distance.

Frustrated‚ I decided that I needed to be amongst people. I killed the television and got cleaned up. It was Tuesday. Paki night at Heston Hall.

10

Imy

Like always‚ Khala announced her latest plans in a particular way. Not a request‚ not a question. She was simply telling me that it had to be so. Knowing that nothing could ever come of what she was setting me up for‚ I should have battled it‚ made my excuses. She was wasting her time and mine‚ and she was definitely wasting the time of the family who were looking to make a Relationship‚ a Rishta.

But‚ again like always‚ I couldn’t bring myself to fight it. Reluctantly‚ I agreed and ended the call. A minute later‚ Khala messaged me a photo of the girl that I had to meet tonight. I could see Shaz curiously peering at me from behind his computer.

We were in the office. It had been a quiet morning. Two of my clients had cancelled viewings and Shaz’s next client was due late afternoon. So we had set about carrying out some rare admin. Kumar’s Property Services was a small set up. Two branches‚ one located in Cranford and the other‚ our one‚ in the parade of cheap shops in Hounslow West. The office had two rooms. A separate office for Kumar to lock himself in‚ and the main room which Shaz and I operated from‚ our desks situated opposite each other‚ separated by a seated waiting area against the back wall which the clients never used.

‘What’re you looking at?’ Shaz enquired.

‘Khala just sent me a photo.’ I sighed. ‘I’ve got a Rishta tonight.’

‘Another one?’ He smirked. ‘Just go with it. Shit man‚ you never know. She might be the one.’

‘Come on‚ Shaz.’ I said‚ rubbing my face. ‘I have Steph and Jack.’

‘Ooh‚ Steph and Jack‚’ he imitated. ‘You’re not going to marry Steph‚ mate. You know that‚ right? It’s not even possible. Khala will throw a fucking fit!’

‘I’ll find a way.’

‘Course you will! I can see it now. Khala‚ I’m seeing a white chick called Stephanie. Slap! She’s a divorcee. Slap! Oh‚ and she’s got a kid from a previous marriage.’ Shaz mimicked loading a shotgun. ‘You get the picture: Khala stood over you with a sawn-off; you‚ lying on the floor with a hole in your chest‚ wishing why-oh-why did I not do the simple thing and marry a Muslim girl.’

‘Alright‚ Shaz. You’ve made your point.’ I busied myself with work‚ looking for a way out of the conversation. But Shaz had other ideas.

‘Show me the picture of this girl‚ then‚’ Shaz said.

‘No‚’ I said.

‘C’mon‚ man‚’ Shaz pleaded. ‘Just show it.’

‘There’s no point.’

‘Of course there’s a point.’

‘What? What is the point?’

‘I want to see it!’

‘That’s not a valid point.’

‘It’s what mates do‚’ Shaz said.

‘I swear‚’ I said‚ as I unlocked my phone and located the picture. ‘You’re such a child.’

‘Am not!’

I faced the phone in his direction.

‘Here‚’ I said. ‘Happy?’

‘Hang on‚ let me call NASA‚ see if they can lend me their telescope!’ Shaz said‚ from behind his desk. ‘Fucking hell‚ Imy. Bring it over here.’

‘You want to see it‚ you can come to my desk.’

‘I’m your senior.’

‘Why don’t you start acting like it?’

I had hoped his lazy nature would win out‚ but his perverted nature prevailed. He approached my desk with his hand out. I reluctantly handed my phone over.

‘Oh my‚’ he said‚ softly as he took his time making eyes at the photo. ‘And you’re going to say no?’

‘I’m going to say no.’

Shaz bit down on his fist.

‘Imy… Imy… Imy!’

‘I’m not in the mood‚ Shaz. Here‚ give it back.’ He stepped back before I had a chance to swipe it from him.

‘I don’t mean any disrespect‚ Imy. I want to make that clear.’

I scratched my head‚ it was either that or pin him to the ground‚ wrench my phone away and smack him over the head with it.

‘Steph is fit‚ yeah. But this girl is next level. I’d give both my kidneys just to deliver her mail.’

‘I don’t even know what that means‚ Shaz. Give me my phone back.’

Shaz watched it all the way as he handed it back to me‚ as though he was trying to commit her to memory. I hit the home button and the image disappeared.

‘You definitely going to say no?’ Shaz asked carefully.

‘Don’t say it‚’ I said.

‘Say what?’

‘Just don’t.’

Shaz blinked and stayed stood at my desk‚ and I just knew that he was going to ask anyway.

‘Maybe you could give me her number?’

‘No‚ Shaz. The hell is wrong with you!? Just go back to your desk.’

Shaz liked to paint himself as quite the ladies’ man‚ but his tales of sexual escapades were like those created in the mind of a teenage boy. I’d never met any of his so-called conquests. He would constantly tell me that once he found somebody he was serious about‚ he’d introduce her. I knew him and I indulged him‚ but Shaz was well and truly cemented in the lonely hearts club. His heavy consumption of weed had turned him into a wreck when it came to the opposite sex.

‘At least send me her photo.’

I couldn’t help but laugh as he sheepishly trudged back to his desk.

‘What’re you going to tell your Khala? What fault are you going to find with this one? That she’s just too beautiful?’ He shook his head in disappointment. ‘You need to man up‚ Imy. Tell Khala the score and then deal with whatever she throws at you.’

For once‚ Shaz was right. Khala deserved to know the truth and I had to be a man about it and deal with the consequences. But I wasn’t ready. As always‚ the time wasn’t right.

*

I signed off from work early with a list of viewings for the next day‚ and went back to the flat to get ready. I didn’t overdo it with the outfit. If it was up to Khala she would have had me turn up in a suit. As it was‚ I opted for smart casual dark denim jeans‚ a navy blue shirt and Chelsea boots. I drove the short distance to Khala’s and pulled up outside her modest home. I was about to hit the horn when I noticed her waiting impatiently at the kitchen window‚ even though I was ten minutes early.

I got out and opened the passenger side door for her as she walked down the path‚ wearing a parrot-green Indian suit that I hadn’t seen before. Khala eyed me up and down before deciding it’ll do‚ then planted a kiss on my cheek. She handed me the address. It was an East London post code. I cursed under my breath as I entered it into Google Maps. I was going to be so late for Stephanie and Jack.

I indicated and pulled out‚ as she filled me in at customary breakneck speed.

‘Both parents retired but still involved in running an Indian fashion boutique on Green Street. I can’t remember the name. You would have seen the advert on Star Plus.’

‘I don’t watch Star Plus‚ Khala.’

‘You don’t watch Bollywood films anymore?’ She seemed shocked. We had spent many nights together eating our way through a three hour song-and-dance fest.

‘Anyway‚ you were saying?’

‘They have lot of money‚ I saw picture on Facebook‚ they have gold fence around their big house.’

‘Okay‚’ I rolled my eyes discreetly.

‘They have two sons‚ Nadeem and Kareem‚ one is accountant and one is lecturer. They both live at home with their parents.’ I could sense her eyes lasering into me. I kept mine straight ahead on the road‚ praying for the traffic to open up.

‘Are you going to tell me about the girl or...?’

‘Her name is Rukhsana. She is graduate!’

‘What subject?’

‘Don’t know. Just know she is graduate.’

‘Okay‚ graduate‚ got it.’ I thought I could just ask Rukhsana directly in the name of small talk. ‘Anything else?’

‘I told them that you still live at home with me.’ She said it straight faced.

‘Why couldn’t you just tell them the truth?’ I asked‚ redundantly.

‘Astaghfirulah. That you live in a chicken shop.’

‘Above a chicken shop.’

‘Sometimes it is better to tell small lie than to lose face‚’ Khala said‚ in fortune cookie wisdom.

‘I’m thirty-six‚ Khala. I can’t live with you forever.’ She didn’t reply. Stony-faced silence. I understood. You don’t leave home until you are married. ‘Anything else?’

‘I told them that your parents died of natural causes.’

I could see her looking at me‚ checking like a mother would that I was okay. She placed her hand on mine. I just nodded to no one and nothing in particular. She couldn’t exactly tell them that my father was beaten and my mother raped‚ before both being shot dead in their home by British soldiers.

Khala was right. Sometimes it was better to tell a small lie.

*

The gold fence around the house was as tacky as a gold fence around a house‚ but behind it‚ the house was spectacular. They had set the security light to constant‚ probably for our benefit so we could fully appreciate just how rich that they were. The grounds were beautifully manicured with a double garage‚ no doubt home to a couple of luxury motors. We approached the door coolly‚ without acting like this was the first nice house that we had ever been invited to. Either side of the door sat a lion statue.

‘Plant pots would be better‚’ Khala whispered loudly‚ as I pressed the doorbell.

The door was opened by four beaming faces who had gathered around the large hallway. The men heartily shook hands and the women embraced. Aslamalykum’s bounced from one to another as quick introductions were made. The sheer excitement as to what could potentially be was apparent. The two sons‚ Nadeem and Kareem‚ sized me up from behind their wide judging smiles and cardigans. Mr Bashir‚ Rukhsana’s father‚ carried an air of contentment‚ a man of pride‚ happy with the cards that life had dealt him. He snaked his arm around my shoulders and escorted me to the living room. Mrs Bashir seemed like one of those modern Aunty-Ji’s; she was wearing a sari‚ with a good portion of her stomach showing through the sheer drape of the fabric. She slipped her arm into Khala’s as if they were old friends and they followed behind us.

In the dining area within the stylishly-decorated living room‚ I wasn’t surprised to see the food on display. The Bashir’s didn’t seem like the kind of people who would dream of getting away with shop-bought samosas and watered-down chutney. They indulged us with fish pakoray‚ sizzling seekh kebabs on skewers‚ papdi chaat‚ and a carrot salad that both Khala and I avoided.

As we sat around the dining table they casually bombarded me with questions‚ a hair’s breadth away from an all-out interrogation. They tried to make it sound casual‚ a friendly getting-to-know-each-other conversation‚ but everything was covered. Childhood‚ education‚ hobbies‚ occupation‚ all of which Khala answered on my behalf – Imran is in the property market‚ sounded a damn sight better than estate agent. I wasn’t taken aback by the sheer intensity of the social dynamic; I’d been to plenty of Rishta’s before‚ so I expected the examination. Fair play‚ they had to think about their daughter. It was‚ after all‚ her future in question. But they did expel a touch of arrogance‚ as though they were above us. Little gestures‚ I noticed. An amused glance amongst themselves as Khala used her hands to eat the crumbly fish pakora‚ rather than the fine cutlery laid out. The way Mrs Bashir addressed her‚ speaking in crisp English – the exact opposite of Khala’s diction – and using unnecessary words to highlight their superior grasp of the language.

After the questions and the food‚ the men moved into the living area with our cups of masala chai‚ whilst Khala was led away by Mrs Bashir for a tour around the house. As soon as she was out of sight‚ the men of the family seemed to visibly relax. Nadeem switched on the television and Kareem turned his attention to his phone. Mr Bashir started to comment on whatever cricket match was being shown. It was clear that Mrs Bashir pulled the strings of the household. I wondered what that would have meant for me if I was here with genuine intention. Would she be the kind to interfere in her daughter’s marriage? Yes‚ almost certainly. I didn’t give it too much thought as my phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was a picture message from Stephanie. Jack had built a small camp in his bedroom. A single mattress on the floor and a few plastic chairs acting as walls with a large bed sheet thrown over as a makeshift ceiling. Jack’s favourite book‚ Dear Zoo‚ sat by the lamp‚ waiting to be read to him. By me.

They were both sat on the mattress looking rather pleased with themselves. He looked as cute as a lost button waiting to be found‚ and Stephanie looked as though she had spent time at the hairdressers. She had gone all out to make an effort‚ and here I was‚ the other side of London‚ with potentially my future in-laws‚ waiting for potentially my future wife.

As I thought about what lie to reply with‚ Khala walked back into the living room. Her eyes were bigger than I had ever seen before‚ as she tried her hardest to suppress her smile. She took a seat adjacent to mine and reached across and squeezed my hand. She was trying to communicate something with her eyes‚ but before I could work it out Mrs Bashir walked in. Her smile was tighter‚ as though she was about to unveil something that she wasn’t yet sure we deserved to see. She moved to one side to reveal her daughter‚ Rukhsana.

She was quite possibly the most beautiful girl that I had ever laid eyes on.

11

Jay

My attitude towards Somalis was probably similar to the attitude towards Asians back in the day. We kind of got in the way. Took your spot on the bus‚ took away your jobs‚ we even took away your benefits. That’s how I felt about Somalis for a while. In the early nineties they seemingly turned up out of nowhere and planted themselves in our schools‚ libraries‚ and parks – all the regular haunts. The only good thing was that Asians up and down the country breathed a collective sigh of relief as a new target had been firmly established for the bigots and skinheads to direct their hatred towards.

At Heston Hall Community Centre‚ a third of the number was made up by Somalis. When I started to attend these evenings‚ I naturally gravitated towards the Paki Muslims. No offense intended‚ I just felt more comfortable amongst those who looked like me. Fuck! That sounds racist. But once I got to know the Somalis‚ they were alright‚ you know‚ they were just like me. Fuck! That sounds racist‚ too. They were just trying to get by‚ but it was harder for them.

That was the topic of the conversation we were having as a group‚ sat in a small circle‚ towards the last half hour of the meet. Most had gone home after the guest speaker. Just four of us remained‚ with one notable exception. I didn’t mind that the fifth member of the group hadn’t showed. He did my head in.

The guest speaker – Trevor Carter‚ middle aged‚ white‚ with shiny pointy shoes and a gelled quiff which had a bigger personality than he did – had spent the best part of an hour trying to convince us that we have the same opportunities as every other walk of life. He was trying to recruit for his expanding double glazing firm‚ and he was very generously offering jobs. Telephone sales jobs‚ minimum wage.

‘Have to give the man credit for trying though.’ Zafar tucked a business card into his top pocket. ‘I might give him a bell.’

‘Brother‚ you have a Masters degree‚ Mashallah‚’ said Tahir‚ a family man‚ a little older than the rest of us and the man responsible for organising these meets. ‘Do you not think you’re a little over-qualified for this role?’

‘Temporary role though‚ innit‚’ Zafar replied.

‘Look at their website‚’ Tahir faced his phone towards us. ‘Job section. They have senior roles‚ Brother. Accountant positions‚ senior salesman! Don’t you find it strange that he didn’t mention that?’

Ira snorted. She was a tiny little thing with one of the biggest voices. A proper little firecracker‚ approaching twenty but looking a decade older. Life’s cards had not been kind to her‚ and as a result she saw things through undiluted eyes. Ira was a second generation Somali who wore her hijab like a hoody; her laser-like eyes powered through from beneath it. She’d changed her name recently. It used to be Isis. It wasn’t that long ago that Isis had been nothing more than a sweet-sounding Muslim girls’ name. Though with shit being the way it was‚ she felt she had no choice but to change her name. It would have been nice though if somebody had advised her not to change it from an Islamic Terrorist group to an Irish Terrorist group.

‘Did you notice how he didn’t once look at any of the Somalis?’ Ira asked with a smile.

I was slouched down in my chair‚ engrossed in my phone‚ tuning in and out of the discussion as I popped from one social media site to another. But when Ira opened her mouth‚ it made you want to sit up and listen.

‘Sister‚ do not take it personally‚’ Tahir replied.

‘Save it‚’ Ira said‚ holding up a weathered hand. ‘You jokers think that you’re too good for a job like that‚ I’d kill for that opportunity.’

‘So go for it‚ what’s stopping you‚’ Zafar said.

‘Please‚’ Ira purred. ‘Are you thick? Why do you think Somalis have the highest unemployment figures in the country?’

‘Cos it’s easier to claim benefit‚ that’s why.’ Zafar threw up both hands to indicate that he was playing.

‘That’s a bit harsh‚ man‚’ I said‚ coming to the rescue of somebody who did not require rescuing.

‘Leave it‚ yeah‚ Jay‚’ Ira said‚ finger firmly in my face. ‘D’you think you’re funny‚ Zafar? You wanna know what’s really funny? That the only job we’re considered for is waitressing or security guard or here’s a mop and a bucket and there’s the floor. As soon we manage to get an interview for a half-decent job‚ the interviewer sees the not-quite-black interviewee sitting opposite them. Trust me‚ yeah‚ they’ve made up their mind before a word has even been spoken. You wanna think about that for a minute before you start making jokes‚ boy.’

Zafar attempted an apology. ‘I was only –’

‘Shut up‚ I haven’t finished yet‚’ Ira spat. ‘Jay‚ let me ask you a question.’ Fuck’s sake‚ don’t get me involved. ‘You’ve got a half decent job at the Council‚ tell me how many Somalis you work with.’

‘Uh‚ in my section... Or in the building... Including outstations?’

‘Quit stalling‚ Jay. We all know the answer. So what’s our alternative? We start our own business – plumbing‚ handyman‚ some shit like that? Wrong‚ nobody is going to hire us. Twenty or so years we’ve been rubbing shoulders with society and still we’re treated like outcasts. Look at the Poles‚ five minutes they’ve been here and they walk into jobs‚ start their own successful business. Why the hell are they not looked down on?’ Ira looked from face to face. ‘Anyone want to venture a guess? No? Okay‚ I’ll tell you. It’s because they have nice light milky skin.’

Nobody dared add that the Poles‚ part of the EU‚ came here specifically to make a living. The Somalis came here to escape from a civil war.

‘Would you like a drink of water‚ Sister?’ Tahir offered.

‘You trying to shut me up‚ Tahir?’ Ira said‚ her smile less alive than usual.

Zafar stood up from his chair and approached Ira. He didn’t attempt another apology. He just nodded knowingly and awkwardly rubbed her arm. The two of them always bickered on any number of subjects‚ but I could see that Zafar genuinely cared for her.

This was exactly why I came to these sessions. It was the perfect place to throw a tantrum‚ have a good old rant at the world. Most of these guys had given up. Zafar‚ a Masters degree in his pocket from a top London university‚ had hopes of strolling into a job to suit his vast skill-set‚ now he’s considering taking on a sales role for a fucking double glazing firm. Or Ira‚ pushing a mop night after night in a basement kitchen of a hotel‚ when it was clear that‚ given the chance‚ she had the intelligence and confidence to achieve whatever she set her mind to.

Everyone had their own issues. God knows I had mine‚ but I was happy to listen rather than divulge. It helped. They were a good group of guys‚ genuine. They seemed to like me‚ which wasn’t much of a surprise; I’m pretty likeable! But‚ I wouldn’t let them get too close to me. They were forever inviting me out‚ outside of this environment‚ but I always had an excuse ready. As harsh as it sounds‚ they just weren’t my type of people.

Tahir came back with a cup of water for Ira and a fresh pack of Jaffa Cakes for the massive. Like scavengers‚ all hands reached out and cleared the packet of its contents. We enjoyed the silence as we munched on the biscuits‚ and shared optimistic glances at each other – a look that said everything probably won’t be alright‚ but as long as we have Jaffa Cakes then it can’t be all that bad.

I caught Ira looking at the entrance‚ not for the first time that evening.

‘Have you messaged Naaim?’ I asked. Naaim was the missing fifth member and also the youngest. Ira was pretty protective towards him‚ in that way girls are when they sense damage. Naaim was pretty fucking damaged. His mother was wheelchair-bound. His father an abusive alcoholic. Yeah‚ pretty fucked up‚ full of that teenage angst that I keep hearing about. Me against the world kind of character. Probably why he and Ira connected.

‘Yeah‚ Jay‚’ she said‚ ‘messaged him‚ called him. He ain’t come back to me.’ Her voice drifted. ‘Not heard from him in a couple of days.’

‘Is he still seeing that bird?’ Zafar asked.

‘You wanna try asking me that again?’ Ira threw him a look.

‘Layla‚’ Zafar smiled nervously. ‘Is he still seeing Layla?’

‘Yeah. Getting serious‚ too.’

‘Has young Naaim been introduced to Layla’s father‚ yet?’ Tahir asked.

‘They’re just kids!’ I said. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘It’s better that he knows that Naaim has no untoward intentions towards his daughter‚’ Tahir said. ‘If he was to find out another way...’ Tahir shook his head. ‘He should know‚ that’s all.’

I was getting bored with this conversation. I shrugged‚ glancing at the time on my phone. There’s worse things happening around the world than boy meets girl‚ parents don’t understand drama‚ and we’d heard all about this particular saga in recent weeks. I’d never met Layla‚ but the way that Naaim harped on about her‚ I felt like I could write a dissertation on her.

Layla Shah‚ I now knew‚ was a homely Pakistani girl‚ as halal as a cucumber. I’ve known plenty of girls like that – strictly Muslim at home‚ but as soon as they step out of that environment‚ they transform into Beyoncé. And I’m talking about Crazy in Love Beyoncé!

But I don’t think Layla was like that.

Her Mum had been out of the picture since a while back‚ so it fell to Layla‚ from a very early age‚ to take on the household responsibilities – pandering to the needs of her strict father and over protective brother‚ whilst balancing her studies and her dedication to Islam. The last thing she needed in her life was complication. But complication came‚ in the form of Naaim.

They’d met at school‚ both studying for the same papers – Naaim’s a year older but he had spectacularly failed his exams the year before. She started to help him study‚ every day in the romantic setting of the school library – knees touching under the desk‚ you get the picture. Anyway‚ shit happens‚ and they got close‚ like proper close. Their relationship moved fast‚ they talked marriage‚ even went as far as to discuss what they would name their kids. Fuck‚ man‚ they’re only teenagers!

On top of which‚ Naaim is Bangladeshi‚ and Layla‚ Pakistani.

Paki relationships which haven’t been sanctioned by parents are‚ at best‚ a fucking minefield. Throw another colour‚ creed or religion into the mix and it’s just asking for a slap.

Yeah‚ there wasn’t going to be a happy ending to this story.

I yawned. I didn’t even attempt to hold back‚ it came out like the roar of a lion who desperately wanted to Netflix and Chill.

‘I’m beat. I’m gonna call it a night‚’ I said.

But before I could bounce‚ the door behind me creaked open and Naaim stepped through and stood at the door looking suitably intense and lovesick – and I sighed under my breath and decided to stick around long enough to say wha’s up and then be on my way before he unloaded with another episode of the ongoing saga.

Naaim crossed the short distance‚ as Tahir greeted him with a Salaam and a smile‚ and pulled a chair into the circle. Naaim sat down heavily and looked passively into the distance.

I swear to God‚ the fucking drama!

‘Naaim‚’ Ira said‚ ‘been calling you for time. Everything alright?’

‘Yeah‚ you all good‚ Bruv?’ Zafar asked.

‘Brother‚ can I get you a cup of tea? We’re all out of biscuits‚ I’m afraid‚’ Tahir added.

Unlike me‚ whose relationship with this lot began and ended within the four walls of the centre‚ the four of them were tight. They’d met here but looked out for each other outside of Heston Hall Community Centre. I’d go as far as to say they were friends‚ with Tahir‚ older‚ been and seen thirty‚ playing the mentor figure.

‘I’m going to shoot‚’ I said‚ getting to my feet. ‘Catch you all next week.’

‘Naaim?’ Ira said‚ ignoring me. ‘What’s happened?’

Tahir‚ sensing all was not well‚ said‚ ‘Take your time‚ Brother. There’s no rush.’ Not what I would have said considering the hour.

Naaim closed his eyes tightly and we all watched as a tear escaped and slowly rolled down his face. His shoulders shook and shuddered and then it was open season as Naaim exploded into tears.

I knew then that I wasn’t getting home any time soon. Just to feel useful‚ I fetched a glass of water and a box of Kleenex and placed it by his chair. Ira had knelt down in front of him‚ holding his hand. Zafar was standing close by‚ at a loss‚ not quite knowing what to do. I sat back down and waited patiently in my seat for Naaim to tell us about the next brick wall that he and Layla had no doubt walked into. The seriousness of what he was about to reveal started to dawn on me when I noticed his quivering hand reach for the glass of water.

‘Let’s give the man some space‚’ Tahir said. Zafar sat back down‚ his eyes caught mine and we shrugged in tandem. Ira‚ who was still kneeling down in front of him‚ straightened up‚ pulled a chair close to Naaim‚ and sat down. She reached across and took his hand in hers.

Naaim nodded at the floor‚ took a deep breath‚ and shared a story of happiness that had been doomed from the start.

12

Jay

‘It was our first time meeting outside of school‚’ Naaim said‚ tear-soaked, balled-up tissues on the floor around his feet. ‘We’d just sat our final exams and I... I suggested that we should celebrate. It was my fault.’

His voice was soft. The others leaned in‚ apart from me. I kept my distance. My finger tap‚ tap‚ tapping away like a jackhammer on the seat of my chair‚ hoping that I could write off whatever was to come as kids play.

Ira squeezed his hand and smiled at him to continue.

‘Her father and her brother had made plans for her to celebrate the end of exams. When she told them that she wanted to go out and celebrate with her classmates‚ they said no. The first chance she had‚ she simply walked out knowing exactly what the consequences would be.

‘She’d told me that if she was able to make it‚ she’d be upstairs on the one-eleven bus. I waited at the stop‚ outside Chilli Chips like I said I would‚ and scanned the top deck as bus after bus came and went. And then there she was. Looking down at me. I was so happy… and so nervous. She smiled‚ and from her small smile... I knew‚ I just knew that she had gone against her father and brother’s wishes. Layla never broke the rules‚ but she did that... She did that for me.’

Ira jumped in‚ quick to give him meaningless advice‚ clichés. You’ll see‚ Layla’s father will come around... Just have to take it slow... It’ll all be all right... Zafar being Zafar said something very Zafar-like‚ she’s going to be dumped on the first flight to Pakistan and forced to marry her cousin. Tahir stayed quiet‚ a look on his face that wasn’t far from I told you so.

I kept my opinions to myself – only because I hadn’t formed any – and watched Naaim‚ head down‚ facing the floor‚ knowing that he wasn’t yet finished.

‘You don’t understand‚’ Naaim lifted his eyes‚ bringing the room to silence. ‘I got on the bus and sat down beside Layla‚ not knowing what to say to her‚ not knowing what was waiting for her when she got home. She leaned her head against my shoulder and took my hand and I thought... I thought that together we could take on anything and anyone.

‘We were alone on the top deck‚ our plan was to... well we didn’t have a plan. We couldn’t risk being seen out on the streets. We were just going to ride the bus to the end and back again... But when the bus stopped at Lampton Corner‚ I noticed three pairs of cherry red Dr Martens moving down the aisle. They sat directly behind us‚ on the back row. They were loud‚ brash‚ drunk. I could feel Layla squeezing my hand.

‘One of them tapped Layla on the shoulder. She turned‚ and he blew her a kiss. She turned back quickly to me‚ and they started to laugh behind us. I didn’t know what to do. The way she looked at me‚ did she want me to say something? Do something?

‘They had a newspaper – they were rustling it loudly on purpose and I could feel it skimming the back of my head. I know that they were trying to provoke me but I didn’t let them. They started to talk about the headline‚ and I knew at that moment I should have taken Layla’s hand and walked away the minute they got on the bus.

‘“Did you read the paper today? Front page news‚ check it out. One in every five Muzlims sympathise with Jihadi’s.”

‘“That’s so fucked up. One in every five Paki’s? Wankers!”

‘“It says here in black and fucking white. They did a survey. Look‚ the whole report is here on pages one‚ two‚ three‚ four‚ five‚ six and seven.”

‘Layla called my name... I smiled at her‚ as if it was all fine. I wanted her to feel safe with me‚ I wanted her to know that I would never let anything happen to her.

‘They split up. One of them stayed behind‚ another sat on the other side of the aisle across from us‚ and the third sat directly in front‚ turning so that he was facing us. He held up the newspaper with the headlines emblazoned on the front‚ big and bold‚ as though the words could not possibly be anything but the truth.

‘“So are you one of those five?” He said‚ I smiled at him as if I was in on the joke‚ “Nah‚ he ain’t no fuckin’ Jihadi‚ look at the fear in the Paki’s eyes.” Across the aisle one of them was pointing a camera at us. “What about your girlfriend? Is she one of those jihadi brides I keep hearing about?”

‘I tried to take control‚ I told him that we were both born here‚ raised here‚ that we don’t sympathise with what is going on. I said it coolly‚ as though I wasn’t fucking petrified. From behind‚ one of their arms slipped between us and rested on my shoulder – he was holding a beer can.

‘“Go on‚ mate‚ have some. Call yourself English? Prove it.”

‘He pulled the ring of the can. I flinched as speckles splashed on my face‚ the smell of beer was everywhere. Layla pinched her nose‚ she’d never before been that close to alcohol.

‘And that’s all it took; that instinctive gesture‚ the disgust on her face.

‘That’s all it fucking took.

‘It happened so fast. Someone screamed “This Paki bitch thinks she’s better than us.” From behind‚ Layla’s head was wrenched back and her hijab was ripped off and thrown on the floor. Before I could do anything‚ beer was poured over her head. She let go off my hand and tried to stand but she was forced down by her shoulders and then he... he... he forced his tongue in her mouth and then... they just left. And I just sat there.’

Naaim stopped talking. He craned his neck back and stared up at the flickering tube light on the ceiling. The tears had started again‚ running freely down the sides of his face.

‘Motherfuckers‚’ Ira spat‚ shooting to her feet. She was always going to be the first to react. Her face set tight as though she was ready to explode. I gently shook my head at Ira and she sat back down biting back her response. She took Naaim’s hand.

Zafar was leant forward‚ head in hands. Tahir had his hands out in front of him as he silently whispered a prayer.

‘Layla. Is she all right?’ I asked.

Naaim continued‚ still staring up at the tube light. ‘She was on the floor‚ crumpled in the footwell. She had her back to me as if she was ashamed. As if it were her fault. I picked up her hijab and handed it to her. It was drenched in beer. Her hands were shaking as she tied it back on and then... and then she turned to me and she gave me this look‚ as though... I hadn’t been there for her... I wanted to hold her in my arms but I knew I had lost the right to ever touch her again.

‘She slowly got to her feet and walked away from me using the back of each seat for support. At the next stop she got off the bus and walked back in the direction of her home.’

‘Have you seen her since?’ I asked before silence consumed the room.

‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea‚’ Tahir said. ‘Her family will help her get through it.’

‘You could drop her a text?’ Zafar suggested.

‘I went to see her this morning.’ Naaim closed his eyes tightly‚ stopping the tears from escaping. ‘I knocked on her door. Her brother opened it. He must have worked out that it was because of me that Ira had walked out the night before and come back late. He was fuming. Their dad appeared behind him‚ demanding to know what I had done‚ said that she hadn’t come out of her room all morning‚ had locked herself in and wouldn’t answer her door. He was waving a key in his hand‚ said he’s going to let himself in and find out for himself.’

Naaim dropped his head‚ his eyes still squeezed shut. He placed his hands on the sides of his head and applied pressure‚ causing his features to scrunch up in the middle of his face.

‘He went upstairs and... I heard him scream... loud... so fucking loud‚ deep‚ guttural. I’ll never forget it. Her brother slammed the door in my face and I could hear his footsteps rushing up the stairs. I walked across the road and stared up at Layla’s window.

‘Through the curtain I could see her hanging from the ceiling. Her body swaying from side to side. Her father and her brother had been too late to save her.’

13

Heathrow Airport: Arrivals

‘Remove your sunglasses.’ The short‚ rotund‚ smug bastard Kafir at Passport Control rudely instructed.

‘Excuse me?’ Pathaan said peering down at him‚ as he slowly ran a hand through his oil-slicked hair. He was fully aware that he would be asked to remove his sunglasses. He was also aware that he should be keeping a low profile‚ especially travelling with a fake passport. But it was the instigator in him that liked to push just that little bit. Especially with Westerners and their lack of manners.

The Immigration Officer cleared his throat‚ forced a smile. ‘Would you mind removing your sunglasses‚ please?’

Pathaan slowly ran his tongue over his teeth‚ enjoying the remnants of the last paan that he had devoured on the plane‚ smiled and then removed his sunglasses. After a long look at the passport and the Hindu name‚ the Immigration Officer handed it back to him.

‘Enjoy your stay‚ Mr Arav.’

Pathaan bristled at being called that‚ but it was necessity. He had already seen a family hauled in for questioning‚ most likely because at least one of them was called Mohammed. He took back his passport and smiled warmly at the Immigration Officer‚ fantasizing about how he would look with a plastic bag wrapped tightly around his fat head‚ gasping‚ praying for mercy as he died painfully at Pathaan’s feet.

Pathaan placed his sunglasses back on‚ picked up his black leather holdall‚ and walked through Terminal 3 arrivals at London’s Heathrow Airport. Final destination: Hounslow.

14

Imy

I had some making up to do. Damn‚ I had some making up to do. Jack was a sensitive soul; it happens when you grow up without your old man. It was the kind of thing that could make you feel like the whole world was against you; the kind of thing that could make you hard as steel. I knew a little something about that.

I was already beyond late when I pulled up outside Khala’s house. So I left the engine running and hoped for a swift extraction.

‘Crazy boy racer‚ what is wrong with you?’ Khala exclaimed. ‘Did you leave gas on? Is your house burning down?’

‘Sorry‚ Khala. I have to be somewhere.’ I kept my foot firmly on the brake and slipped the gear into first.

‘Switch the car off‚ you are wasting petrol.’

‘Khala... Really‚ I have to go.’

‘What is more important than your future? I am sure Shahzad can wait five minutes more. We need to talk.’

‘I’m not seeing Shaz‚ Khala.’

‘Then?’

Rather than explain‚ I stuck the car into neutral and switched off the engine. ‘Okay‚ Khala‚’ I sighed‚ scratching the hell out of the back of my head.

‘Are you using the coconut oil that I gave you for your hair? It will stop all this itching. You look like a homeless person when you scratch your head like that. Have you seen Doctor? You could have nits.’

I couldn’t help but smile. Yes‚ she was frustrating the hell out of me and yes‚ she was overprotective‚ even for an Asian parent‚ but all her annoying qualities were full of love. I dropped my hands and forced them to stay on my lap.

‘So‚’ she said‚ her eyes sparkling. ‘What did you think?’

‘She was alright‚’ I said.

‘Just alright?’

Rukhsana may possibly have been the most perfect girl that I had ever met. Her baby pink embroidered kameez hid her modesty‚ but it also revealed a little untouched paradise. Her lips were full and red and when she broke out of playing the shy Muslim girl and met my eyes‚ they were full of mischief and promise. With a silvery tone‚ she spoke well‚ able to hold her own in a variety of subjects. She moved us with her considered view on the recent Paris attack and made us howl with laughter with a joke about a Pakistani politician that I’d never heard before. The way she moved across the room made me want –

Damn! I was so late.

‘Yes‚ she was... She was cool‚’ I said‚ as precious seconds ticked away.

‘I know what cool means‚ Beta. Your Khala knows!’ She wobbled her head from side to side. ‘She is cool. Okay I will tell them. You like her‚ yes.’

‘She seems nice‚ but it’s early days‚’ I sighed‚ loudly. ‘Just don’t go buying any gold sets yet‚ okay.’

Khala smiled at me as though she had heard something altogether different to what I had told her. I didn’t have the time or the heart to tell her it could never happen. That was a different conversation for a different day. She put her hand on mine‚ wobbled her head again and finally left.

*

Jack probably didn’t know that his mum was at her bedroom window waiting for me. Stephanie probably didn’t know that her son was at his bedroom window‚ waiting for me.

I killed the engine as I parked in the driveway. Jack beamed down at me and left his station at the window. I got out of the car and waved up at Stephanie‚ but her smile wasn’t as bright. I could hear the scrape of a chair being dragged and I knew Jack was pulling it to the front door to give him height so he could remove the safety chain. The door flung open and he flew at me‚ head down‚ arms pumping‚ bare feet against the cold paving‚ I swept him up in my arms and peppered him with kisses.

Over his shoulder‚ Stephanie was leaning against the door frame. In the photo that she had sent me of them both in the makeshift camp‚ her dark hair was curled‚ and she was wearing a turquoise dress. Her hair was now tied back‚ the dress replaced with jeans and a faded Stone Roses T-shirt.

‘How much trouble am I in?’ I whispered to Jack‚ my eyes trained on Stephanie.

‘Mummy went to the hairdressers today and her hair was curly-wurly.’

‘Wow‚ that much‚ huh?’

I carried him inside and kissed Stephanie‚ she turned her head away and my lips grazed her cheek.

‘It’s past his bedtime‚’ she said.

‘Do you mind if I...?’ I asked‚ and she nodded.

*

I had just finished reading Dear Zoo under the lamp light in Jack’s camp. He was too in and out of sleep throughout to enjoy it‚ and I cursed myself for making him wait so long for me. I lifted the duvet up to his chest and held him from behind‚ waiting for his breathing to settle.

‘Imy?’ he whispered.

‘Jack‚’ I replied‚ pleased in a way that he was still awake.

‘You know Sammy Murphy from Year two‚ he’s in Mrs Stevens’ class?’

‘Sure‚ what about Sammy Murphy?’ I waited for a response. It seemed as though he was weighing up how to say what was on his mind.

‘His dad never plays with him.’

‘Oh‚ I see.’ My heart fell‚ I could already feel what was coming next. Jack never ever talked about his own father‚ but on occasion he would use a proxy to discuss how he was feeling.

‘He’s always late home and then one day he didn’t come home at all.’

I held him a little tighter‚ my face touched the back of his head‚ and smelt the wave of innocence coming off him. I struggled for a response. He fidgeted a bit and then shifted his body around so he was facing me‚ our noses nearly touching.

‘Do you think that Sammy Murphy’s dad doesn’t love him?’

‘I don’t know‚ Jack‚’ I answered truthfully. ‘But you know I love you‚ right? To infinity and beyond‚ and I’ll always be here for you.’

That was the whole truth. I’d fallen in love hard with Stephanie‚ but I loved Jack with a ferocity that frightened me.

‘I love you too‚’ he said and then scrunched his nose. ‘You smell of Indian food.’

‘Yeah‚ I‚ um... I may have had a kebab or two.’

‘Is that why you were late?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be late again.’

I watched him sleep for a moment and left him with a kiss on his cheek before crawling out of the camp. The kid had tried not to show it‚ but he was disappointed in me for messing up his plans and it damn near broke my heart. I didn’t want to be that person. He’d been through enough heartache with his father.

It was time to buck up my ideas. I’d been happy enough to be smothered by Khala‚ picking up freshly cooked meals that would last me the week‚ having my clothes washed and pressed‚ whilst living it up in that crummy flat that a student would have been ashamed of‚ blowing my not-that-great income on getting wasted with Shaz. And now I had to play the arranged marriage game‚ keep Rukhsana sweet‚ keep Khala sweet‚ keep dodging the consequences of telling them the truth. Making my life more complicated than necessary.

When really‚ all I needed was right here.

*

Stephanie was watching a reality TV show‚ sat on one end of the sofa‚ perched forward with both feet planted on the floor as if she had just sat down and not yet got comfortable. I knew that she would’ve been at the bottom of the stairs listening in on my conversation with Jack. Checking to see how I handled him. I positioned the foot stool in front of her and lifted her legs on to it. I stretched out on the sofa and placed my head on her lap. I looked up at her. She was beautiful at any angle.

‘Let me guess‚’ she said. ‘Your Khala?’

I smiled tightly. She ran her hand through my hair and waited for me to explain. I did‚ the lie coming easy to me. ‘Her arthritis was bad today. Actually it’s been like that for a while now. So I offered to do the weekly shop for her. I did text you.’

‘No‚’ she said‚ confidently‚ as though she’d checked her phone a thousand times. ‘You didn’t.’

I slipped out my phone and scrolled to the text message that I had prepared earlier whilst I was at the Rishta. I frowned at it.

‘What is it?’ she asked of my troubled expression. I showed her the message. ‘You didn’t press send.’

I exhaled as I pressed my forehead and I laid it on‚ lie after lie. ‘I’m so sorry‚ Steph‚ I was off my feet. After the grocery shop‚ she had me disassemble and take some old furniture up to the loft. Then she made me dinner afterwards and I couldn’t not stay. Seriously Steph‚ I thought I texted you.’

We sat in silence for a moment‚ her eyes fixed on the television.

‘Imy‚’ she said.

‘Hmm‚’ I said‚ searching for holes in my lie.

‘You have to tell her.’

‘I know‚’ I said. ‘I will.’

She stood up abruptly and my head slipped off her lap and bounced harmlessly on the seat. I sat up as Stephanie stood over me and I waited for her to let loose.

‘Imy‚ believe me‚ I don’t want to be the kind of girlfriend that questions your every action. I refuse to be one of those women. I fully understand that you have to think about your Khala‚ I know she’s like a mother to you. And‚ trust me‚ I know about your culture. But you can’t hide this‚ us‚ from her any longer. She doesn’t deserve that‚ Imy. We don’t deserve it. We’re not your dirty little secret!’

I opened my mouth‚ she lifted a finger before I could counter.

‘I need to know where this is going. You can’t just pick and choose to play the big family man whenever it suits you. It’s not fair on Jack.’

‘That’s not fair‚ Steph. You know how much I love –’

‘I know‚’ she said‚ her voice loud and abrupt. Her eyes travelled up to the ceiling‚ beyond which Jack slept. She waited for the inevitable.

‘Mummy.’ Jack’s muffled voice came back at her through the baby monitor that she still insisted on using.

‘When are you going to understand?’ she said‚ softly. ‘Love is not enough.’

I heard her tired footsteps padding up the stairs. I looked up at the ceiling and I could just picture her‚ holding Jack in her arms‚ running her fingers down either side of his spine‚ rocking him gently back to sleep.

I inhaled deeply and held it‚ then exhaled. I didn’t know how I could prove to Stephanie just how much she and Jack meant to me. They needed more; I needed to give them more. I needed to commit and show Stephanie what she and Jack truly meant to me.

My eyes moved around the room until they landed on a small ball of play-dough.

I went upstairs and entered Jack’s room. Through the sheets that made up the walls of the camp‚ I could see their joint silhouette. I crouched down and crawled through the makeshift cushioned entrance. Jack smiled at me over Stephanie’s shoulder.

‘Room for one more?’ I said‚ knocking my shoulder on a chair leg and almost bringing down the whole structure. Jack separated himself from his Mum and we all sat‚ legs crossed‚ in a tight triangle within the camp.

I nodded at them both‚ grinning stupidly. They both looked at me with curiosity‚ and then at each other. It wasn’t exactly Paris‚ but I could not care less. The romantic setting of the Eifel Tower had nothing on this beautifully crafted kid’s camp‚ splattered with toys and comic books‚ put together by a five-year-old.

It was the perfect setting.

I winked at Jack and then I took hold of Stephanie’s hand. I dug into the top pocket of my shirt and pulled out a play-dough ring.

‘Stephanie‚’ I said. ‘Will you marry me?’

That night we all moved out of camp and into Stephanie’s bedroom and‚ with Jack in the middle‚ we spent the night there. It was‚ quite possibly‚ the happiest I had ever been.

From downstairs‚ as I was drifting off to sleep‚ I heard my phone alerting me to a notification.

15

Derelict Building Site, South London

Kramer stopped at the entrance of the Portakabin on the old construction site‚ the fluorescent light from the room in front of him blazing into the night. He leaned his bulk against the doorframe and watched silently as two coppers spoke with his partner.

Dean Kramer and Terry ‘The Cherry’ Rose‚ as he was affectionately known‚ had run together since their days with the Millwall Bushwackers‚ a football hooligan firm who’d been particularly nasty at the height of their powers in the eighties. Dishing out some of the worst ultra-violence during and after matches. Kramer was especially fond of the Millwall Brick‚ a weapon fashioned from newspaper sheets tightly wrapped around coins and soaked in liquid to add weight. A string was attached at the bottom to enable the swing of the Brick‚ and a large nail attached to the top to enable sickening damage.

Kramer was the force‚ whereas Rose had the intelligence – enough to realise that the road they were on would only see them in jail or in a box. So he convinced Kramer to move away and join a movement which shared their beliefs. They were the English Defence League and their primary focus was opposition to what it considered the spread of Islamism in the United Kingdom. They finally had a place in a society that breathed and believed like they did.

It was only when a young off-duty British soldier was murdered in 2013‚ by two Muslims in the streets of South London – in fucking broad daylight – that their association with the EDL had come to an abrupt end. Kramer wanted revenge‚ quick and painful; he wanted to start a riot in the heart of the Muslim Community in Luton and take them down‚ every last one of them.

EDL had planned sixty demonstrations across the country. A lot of noise and not enough action. They had become too big‚ too political‚ too fucking correct. And the result of their demonstrations? Nothing more than a few scuffles against anti-fascist groups. They got their names in the newspapers‚ their numbers soared‚ but not one Muslim paid in blood.

Again‚ Kramer and Rose walked away and started their own group‚ recruiting particularly nasty players from their Bushwacker days‚ as well as like-minded members of rival firms. Rose ran the organisation‚ Kramer recruited. It wasn’t the size of the English Defence League‚ but then with size came exposure.

A young girl wearing a hijab was pushed onto a train track as a tube pulled in at Piccadilly Circus Station. The push was mistimed and her face connected with the side of the moving train‚ leaving her needing facial reconstruction.

At an outdoor five-a-side football pitch in Islington‚ two Muslim community football teams were set upon by two Pit Bull Terriers and a Rottweiler. Four men were savagely mauled.

A grandfather was attacked walking his seven-year-old grandson home from the Mosque after evening Prayers. He was struck on the head with a blunt object as the assailant sped by on a bicycle. That didn’t kill him. But the fall to the ground‚ the impact of his head against pavement‚ did.

They called themselves The Second Defence.

Kramer decided the time had come to make himself seen.

‘Everything alright?’ Kramer asked Rose‚ stepping into the Portakabin. The two coppers turned briefly to look at him.

‘Dean Kramer‚’ nodded PC Mohammed or Mahmoud or who gives a fuck. The same Paki copper they sent every time there was a hint of a skirmish involving his people.

Kramer frowned at him‚ taking in the pristine fucking uniform that he should have never been allowed to wear. Kramer didn’t mind though‚ because ever-present with him was the delectable WPC Jenkins. She could wear the uniform for him any time she wanted to.

‘I tell you what‚’ Rose said. ‘Why don’t you leave the video behind and I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘I can’t do that‚’ PC Mahmoud said. ‘Do you or don’t you know the identity of the three assailants? It’s a simple question.’

‘When did this take place?’ Rose asked.

‘Yesterday evening‚’ WPC Jenkins replied. ‘Between six and eight.’

‘CCTV?’

‘Vandalised‚’ PC Mahmoud said‚ growing frustrated. ‘Do you recognise them‚ Rose?’

‘Hard to tell‚’ Rose pointed at the laptop screen. The faces had cartoon characters superimposed on them. ‘How’d they do that? It’s pretty clever‚ eh?’ Rose smiled.

‘You think that you’re pretty clever‚ don’t you Rose?’ PC Mahmoud took a step closer. ‘An innocent girl took her own life after an unprovoked attack.’

Kramer felt his blood spike when WPC Jenkins put a placatory hand on the Paki’s arm.

He couldn’t bear it if they were fucking.

‘Rose‚ this belongs to us‚’ WPC Jenkins said‚ slipping the flash drive out of the laptop. ‘But if you want to view it again‚ see if it jogs your memory‚ you can easily find it. It’s plastered all over the internet.’

‘Where’d you say this happened?’

‘Hounslow.’

Kramer and Rose glanced at each other and quickly away again. Rose scrunched his nose.

‘I don’t know anyone in that part of town. But‚ you know‚ I’ll put the word out.’

‘The girl was only sixteen‚’ Jenkins reasoned. ‘Call us if you find anything‚ Rose.’

‘Sure‚’ Rose replied. ‘Your number still 999?’

*

Kramer guided the officers out of the Portakabin which served as an office‚ and watched them drive out of the old construction site and into the night.

‘Did you speak with those lads?’ Rose asked from behind his desk.

‘Yeah‚ at the rally yesterday‚ in Hounslow.’

Rose rubbed his chin. ‘Come round.’ Kramer walked around the desk and watched Rose over his shoulder as he fired open a search engine.

‘What happened?’

‘Some girl topped herself‚’ he said‚ as he typed into the search bar Bus - Attack - Muslim.

‘Paki?’ Kramer asked.

‘Yeah‚ Paki.’

He got a hit immediately. The video had been removed from the first three links‚ but the fourth had it available in full high definition glory. They both watched the short footage in silence.

‘Is it them?’ Rose said‚ as it came to an end.

‘Can’t be certain with their faces covered liked that. But‚ yeah‚ judging by the size and the way they’re dressed‚ that could well be Simon Carpenter and Anthony Hanson. This happen last night?’

Rose nodded.

‘Fuck! They don’t hang about. That must have been a few hours after I saw them at the rally‚’ Kramer said. ‘I broke their balls about fucking about at these marches. I think maybe they went too far trying to prove a point.’

‘They certainly did that. There was a third person with them – whoever filmed it.’

‘Yeah‚’ Kramer nodded. ‘I think I know who that could be.’

Rose closed the lid of the laptop and drummed his fingers lightly.

‘Go find them‚ Kramer. I want the three of them in my office.’

16

Jay

After Heston Hall‚ after hearing Naaim’s story‚ I couldn’t go home‚ not with it ringing around my head. I’d wrongly assumed it was going to be a soppy‚ mixed-relationship-parents-don’t-approve tale. I’d heard many of those before and crap like that did not impress me‚ especially with all the real crap taking place around the world. I was cynical. I had become cynical. The last twelve months had hardened me‚ my experience jolted me awake to the serious threat that Muslims faced every minute of every day.

‘Before you ask‚ the answer’s no‚’ Idris said‚ trawling around in my mind. It was alright‚ though‚ I had known Idris long enough to grant him a little room in my head. We were shooting pool in an empty bar in Chiswick and I’d just finished telling him about Layla.

‘No what?’ I said‚ bent over the pool table‚ lining up a spectacular double on the black ball when other easier options were available. It was the showman in me.

‘C’mon‚ Jay. You want me to find out about the investigation.’

I shrugged and swung my cue‚ clumsily slicing the white ball and sending it straight into the pocket.

‘Shit‚ Jay‚’ Idris spluttered into his Sprite‚ then pulled off the shot that I had just royally screwed up. I dug into my pocket and paid him his dues‚ a two-pound coin.

‘Just ask around‚ is all I’m saying.’

‘It’s not my department‚ Jay. But‚ yeah‚ there’ll be an inquest into the suicide‚ and if I hear anything‚ I’ll let you know. Seriously though‚ don’t make it your business.’

‘I’m not‚’ I said‚ and I wasn’t. And I don’t know why I asked him in the first place.

‘C’mon‚ that’s enough pool for the night‚ grab a seat‚ I’ll get ’em in.’ He grinned‚ showing me in the palm of his hand the ten quid in coins that he had liberated from me.

I slumped down on a stool at the bar and rested my elbows on a drenched bar runner. I swore under my breath as a day’s worth of spilt beer seeped through my sleeves and touched my skin. It was the first fucking time in a long fucking time that I had been that close to alcohol‚ and it was tempting to upgrade my soft drink to something a little harder.

‘Here‚’ Idris absent-mindedly plonked down a Fanta in front of me‚ his eyes taking in the barmaid. She smiled easily at him. If he wasn’t my best mate‚ I swear I would hate him.

‘Oi‚ Pakistani Ryan Gosling‚’ I said‚ ‘Drink up‚ I wanna get out of here and hit the pillow. I’m shattered.’

‘Didn’t you have a day off from work today? Don’t give me that exhausted crap‚ Jay. I’ve been up since before dawn‚’ he said. I sighed and waited for one of his never ending supply of cop tales. ‘We raided a family home today in Feltham‚ three young children under the age of four‚ including a baby girl only six months old. The nursery upstairs‚ where she slept‚ was a fucking treasure trove of Class A drugs. Check this out‚ the sick fuck had… You know what Aptamil is? It’s powdered formula that’s used to make milk for babies‚ right. He had about a dozen of these Aptamil containers all laid out neatly on a shelf. Inside half of them were exactly that‚ powdered milk‚ but the other half…’

‘Coke.’

‘Yes‚ Jay‚ fucking cocaine.’

I may have had a day off from work‚ but I did have a scary little run-in in the queue at Wilko’s‚ and then I’d heard Naaim recount a pretty traumatic story. I had a right to be exhausted too. God bless Idris‚ but he could be patronising‚ his cop stories always seemingly aimed at me because of my own drug-dealing past. I love him like a brother‚ but he didn’t half love to straddle that high horse as though he was the only one making a difference.

I once made a difference‚ too‚ but he could never know that. I could never tell him. It would change our friendship into something else‚ and at that moment I just needed a friend.

‘The fucked up thing was‚’ he continued‚ ‘what separated the coke from the formula powder was a tiny black dot on the bottom left hand corner of the container. His wife‚ the baby’s mother – who‚ may I add‚ was high at the time of the raid – can you imagine if she’d scooped out a couple spoonsful of coke instead of Aptamil? And fed it to –’

‘Yeah‚ alright Idris. I get it.’ I knocked back my Fanta. ‘I don’t do that shit anymore.’

‘I know‚ I know‚ I know‚’ he said. ‘I know you don’t.’

‘I’m just trying to get by‚ that’s all.’

‘I know.’

‘Just seems like these stories are always aimed at me. I was never like that‚ I was small time‚ yeah‚ just a little skunk.’

‘I know.’ He sighed.

‘And I do have the right to be exhausted too‚ you haven’t got a monopoly on being tired.’ I shrugged my jacket on aggressively‚ just to make a point‚ and walked out of the pool hall and into the car park‚ where I waited for him in my Beemer. I let the purr of the engine cradle me to sleep‚ only to wake up a few minutes later when the door opened and Idris slid into the passenger seat grinning; he was holding up a piece of paper with a phone number.

‘Good for you! Shut the fucking door‚ you’re letting the cold in.’

‘No high five?’ Idris said‚ his hand held high. I slipped the car into first gear and manoeuvred out. ‘You used to be a lot more fun‚ Jay‚’ he said‚ and for some reason‚ I wanted to cry. ‘This has really affected you… what’s her name again? Lyla?’

‘Layla! Fuck‚ Idris. Did you not listen to a word I was saying?’

‘Alright mate‚ keep your topi on! And what’s his name?’

‘Naaim‚’ I sighed.

‘Listen‚ Jay.’ Idris took his time‚ choosing his words carefully. ‘This is going to sound harsh‚ but it’s not your problem.’

‘Did I say it was my fucking problem?’ I spat‚ choosing my words without the same care.

Idris gave me a look and shook his know-it-all head at me. He was right‚ annoyingly he was always right. But I couldn’t get Naaim’s weepy face out of my head. What he told us was disturbing enough‚ but it was that look in his eyes. I had seen it before‚ a look of anger and determination. A man hell-bent on retribution. Once upon time‚ not long ago‚ my friend Parvez carried a similar look. It didn’t end well for him. Nor‚ I had to remember‚ did it end well for me.

I would not allow myself to get involved.

17

Isleworth and Syon School

‘Lewis? Lewis...? Daniel Lewis!’

‘Here… sir‚’ Daniel gazed through the window. He’d been watching the groundsman on his ride-on lawn mower who was spending his morning lazily cutting the grass‚ not methodically as he should‚ instead making random turns. He should have been going in a straight line to the end of the field‚ a neat turn and a straight line in the opposite direction. It bothered Daniel. At home‚ when he mowed the grass in the back garden‚ that’s how he did it. Straight lines‚ up and down. He even made the same effort for Mr Wilmott‚ his elderly neighbour.

‘It looks very much like you want to be anywhere but here‚ Daniel‚’ said Mr Brick‚ the science teacher‚ as he glanced out of the window to see what was taking Daniel’s attention. ‘Continue as you are‚ and you’ll soon be cutting grass for a living too.’

The rest of the class sniggered‚ a mocking sound that filled the room. They had been waiting‚ wanting to see him taken down a peg or two. Daniel wasn’t liked‚ but the dislike wasn’t harsh. There was no bullying or cruel remarks. It was worse than that. They just simply ignored him. They didn’t like that he didn’t have to make an effort to make them all look intellectually inferior. They didn’t like that he dressed as though he was from another time. Steel cap boots‚ bomber jacket‚ shaved head.

Daniel drifted easily through double science‚ and then ate on his own in the canteen. He was a few months in at Isleworth & Syon School. His father had moved him away from St Marks. He saw potential‚ the teachers at St Marks saw potential‚ but the company that he kept outside of school saw an altogether different potential. His grades slipped from A’s to B’s to C’s‚ around the same time that he started to skip class‚ instead spending time getting drunk on the cheap down Lampton Park with Simon Carpenter and Anthony Hanson‚ who were both a few years older.

Daniel’s father had suffered greatly the last year‚ losing his wife in a senseless car accident. Daniel had suffered more. He had been close to his mother‚ a friend-like quality they shared‚ the result of being an only child. His father tried desperately to replace that closeness‚ but it was inevitable that Daniel‚ at sixteen‚ would react. And react he did. The regular phone calls from school‚ the truancy. The odd visit to the police station for the odd shoplifting spree‚ all whilst preparing for – as had been drilled into him – the most important exams to date.

People fear intelligence‚ his mother had repeatedly told him. It hadn’t made him feel any better. He was desperate to be liked‚ to be a member of a group‚ or a crew.

These days‚ he was a member of a gang.

They even had a uniform. Bomber jackets‚ black jeans and cherry Dr. Marten boots.

Just because his father had moved him to a different school‚ it didn’t stop him from seeing his only friends.

Simon and Anthony liked him‚ genuinely liked him. They said he was funny‚ and around them he was funny. It was no secret that Daniel’s new friends did not like the colour brown. Especially if that colour brown happened to be a Muslim. The word Paki was spoken frequently. It had made him uncomfortable at first‚ but he soon realised that Pakis were doing a lot fucking worse than name calling. His friends made him realise that this was their country‚ that this was their England‚ and if others wanted to live here‚ then they’d better fucking abide by their rules.

They made valid points‚ Simon and Anthony‚ and were able to argue them with a deep passion and intensity. What they lacked in academic intelligence‚ they made up in street smarts. He was learning from them.

Daniel fitted in easily‚ no longer scared to skip the odd class and stroll on down to Lampton Park‚ where Simon and Anthony spent most of their days. He would join them‚ drink and share a joint‚ as they dissected and discussed the latest stories in the red-top newspapers – whether it was on the importance of a sharp exit from the EU‚ or coverage of the terror attacks that seemed to be a permanent tabloid fixture.

Sometimes they would rile each other up.

Sometimes they went too far.

Like when they’d ripped the head scarf off that girl’s head and poured beer all over her.

Daniel needed to be involved‚ needed to be part of the brotherhood. So he shot the whole thing on his camera phone. But even as he was filming‚ even as he was laughing‚ even when he edited it‚ obscured the faces of his friends‚ and uploaded it to YouTube‚ Daniel knew that he’d made a huge mistake.

18

Imy

I was the first up. Still basking in the high of the woman I loved agreeing to be my wife‚ and careful not to wake up Stephanie and Jack‚ I quietly slipped out of bed. Breakfast in bed was the order of the day. I picked up my phone from the living room‚ before heading to the kitchen. The battery had died so I put it on charge and placed it on the worktop as I went about cooking a breakfast fit for my family. As I chopped tomatoes‚ I thought about how this decision was going to force my hand. I would have no choice but to tell Khala the truth and hope that she would accept it. There would be no more Rukhsana‚ nor any other girls for Khala to line up for marriage.

I glanced at my phone‚ it had charged enough for me to check the message that I dimly remembered receiving last night.

*

Fifteen minutes later‚ hash browns‚ fish fingers and tomatoes sat burning in the grill as I sat slumped on the floor with my back against the kitchen cabinet‚ phone in one hand‚ head in the other‚ trying to steady my breathing.

Above my head‚ the smoke alarm began to beep. Jolted from my trance‚ thinking of Stephanie and Jack sleeping upstairs‚ I leapt up and waved a tea towel under the alarm‚ switching off the grill with my other hand. The beeping stopped and‚ slowly‚ I retrieved the three slices of toast from the toaster‚ buttered two and dropped the third into the bin.

I placed the breakfast neatly onto two plates and then onto a tray. The third plate went back into the cupboard. I trudged up the stairs‚ the steps seeming steeper‚ and walls narrower than before. I placed the tray on the side table and watched them. I wondered if that night we had all shared the same dream‚ that of laughter and unity and bedtime stories and of three becoming one. A fantasy that I was selfish enough to present to them‚ knowing with certainty that I would never be allowed to become that person.

Jack was gently shivering‚ I lifted the duvet‚ tucking it under his chin‚ and kissed him softly on the cheek. I walked around to the other side of the bed and kneeled down in front of Stephanie. Her eyes flickered momentarily and she smiled lazily at me. I whispered that I had to go work. She nodded‚ before sleep found her again. I had to breathe hard to stop the tears; I inhaled deeply in staccato bursts before kissing her gently on the forehead and walking away from them knowing that not only my life‚ but the lives of those that I loved‚ had changed.

Peel back several layers of me‚ past the carefree life that I lived‚ past a loving son to a loving Khala‚ past a friendship with Shaz‚ and past the love and devotion that I held deeply for Stephanie and Jack‚ and the truth of me is revealed.

I am a jihadist‚ and I had just been activated.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.