Born in Karachi and raised in West London‚ KHURRUM RAHMAN now lives in Berkshire with his wife and two sons. His love for films and books inspired him to start writing‚ and a hobby quickly became a passion.

Khurrum has written a movie screenplay which was acquired by a Danish film producer‚ but he is now concentrating on writing novels. He is currently working on a direct sequel to East of Hounslow.

To my two beautiful boys.

This is for you. This is because of you.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part Two

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Part Three

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Part Four

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Epilogue

Extract of Homegrown Hero

Extract of Ride or Die

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Part One

An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.

– Mahatma Gandhi

1

My name is Javid Qasim. I am a Muslim‚ a British-born Muslim.

Do you know how many times I have been pulled over by the police since 9/11? Once. And that was because I was nonchalantly jumping lanes without indicating my intentions to my fellow drivers. I got a ticking off from the fuzz who were quite happy to forego the paperwork and give me a friendly warning. They didn’t even search my car‚ even though the stench of skunk was unmistakeable. To this day I am proud to say that I have never had my fingerprints taken.

Do you know how many times I have been racially abused since 7/7? Not even once. I get called Paki every day‚ but not in the what the fuck did you call me? way. In my circle it’s a term of endearment. You see‚ we know who we are. And what some may see as an insult‚ we see as a badge of fuckin’ honour. The word Pak means pure and the word Pak means clean. And if you didn’t know that‚ then consider yourself educated.

I’m not stupid or naïve. I am aware of exactly what is happening around me but you’ve got to play the game otherwise you might as well carry a big fat kick me sign on your back. Don’t walk around wearing a sodding shalwar and kameez with a great big dopey beard and drive around in a fuckin’ Honda. That’s when you get pulled over and that’s when you get racially abused. But not me. Why? ’Cos I play the game.

I know the plight of my Brothers and I know the struggle of my Sisters and I feel for them‚ every fuckin’ one of them. But what do you want me to do about it? No‚ man. It’s not my war. Call it religion or call it politics or call it greed. It all amounts to the same thing: bloodshed‚ devastation and broken homes. Why would I want to get my head into something like that? Especially since my life has basically been one sweet ride – not too different from my latest acquisition‚ a black BMW 5 series. It’s only two years old‚ less than thirty on the clock and it’s comfortable as fuck‚ which is essential in my line of work‚ as I spend a helluva lot of time in my car. It’s my mobile office. I picked it up for a cool twenty G. I paid over the odds but fuck it‚ I could afford it as business was ticking.

I was sitting in my ride at the back of Homebase car park in Isleworth‚ West London‚ waiting on a customer. He was late which would normally piss me off but I was otherwise distracted by all the shiny buttons and gadgets on my new whip. The speakers sounded sik and my nigga ’Pac never sounded so good as he rapped about dying young. I clocked my patron approaching and I couldn’t help but frown. This was exactly what I was talking about. He’s wearing a plain white suit shirt tucked into his tracksuit bottoms‚ finished off with a pair of Bata flip flops‚ looking like he just stepped off the fucking boat. I know for a fact that he’s forever being targeted because he looks like a fucking freshy. No one likes a freshy.

He looked around the car park and I realised I hadn’t told him that I’d replaced my Nova. I flashed my lights at him and his smile widened at the sight of my Beemer. He approached and walked around it whistling appreciatively‚ taking special notice of my customised rims. I slid my window down and told him to get the fuck in. He did and he slammed the door‚ hard. I bit my tongue.

‘Salaam‚ Brother.’

‘You’re late‚’ I said.

‘Sorry‚ Brother‚ I just came straight from the Masjid. Didn’t see you there. Then I remembered it’s only Thursday. You only ever come for Friday prayers‚ Javid‚’ he said‚ laughing at the unfunny observation.

We shook hands and the deal was done. He left with a fistful of Hounslow’s premium and I with a fistful of dollars. He slammed my door and toddled off in his ridiculous outfit. I hate that fuckin’ sanctimonious prick. In the space of a minute he vexed me twice. Firstly‚ he took a swipe at me because I don’t go the Masjid day in day out. It doesn’t make me any less of a Muslim than he is. So what if he decides to grow a beard and I decide to grow marijuana? I’m still a Muslim. I couldn’t care less if you sit in Aladdin’s eating your Halal Inferno Burger whilst I sit in Burger King eating a Whopper. I am still a Muslim. I’ll drink when I want‚ I’ll curse and I’ll fuck and I’ll gamble and I’ll get high. So what!? Read my lips. I. Am. Still. A. Muslim. I believe in Allah and only He can judge me. Not you. Or anyone else who walks this land.

Secondly‚ he called me Javid. No one‚ but no one‚ calls me Javid‚ not even my Mum. No self-respecting drug dealer is called Javid. No playa is called Javid. Girls don’t wanna be giving out their phone number to a guy called Javid.

Seriously.

Call me Jay.

2

I woke up in my own sweet time. I rubbed the shit out of my eyes as I ran my tongue over my pearly whites‚ which were anything but. It was Friday. Day of worship‚ day off from my daily dealing. On Friday I should be clean and my thoughts should be pure‚ which is not easy especially as Katrina Kaif‚ Bollywood sex siren‚ was staring down at me‚ wearing a sheer sari which had obviously been soaked whilst she was out singing and dancing in the heavy downpour. Her sari clung to her every arc and her smile was greeting me with more than just a good morning. I resisted the urge‚ instead averting my eyes to Malcom X‚ looking dapper in his black suit. The quote emblazoned at the foot of the poster read: If you’re not careful‚ the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed‚ and loving the people who are doing the oppressing. – Boom. There you have it‚ what a fucking line. I don’t know much about Malcom X‚ but he was a Muslim and made shit happen and he was friends with Muhammed Ali. I mean how many cool points is that? I had a couple of books on his life knocking around somewhere‚ which I hadn’t got around to reading‚ but I have seen the movie a couple of times. Denzel Washington’s portrayal was on the button.

Prayers was at one. Sutton Mosque was only a mile away but I still had to allow myself at least half an hour travel time because Friday prayers are always packed and there’s always traffic as Hondas and Nissans jostle for parking spots. I stayed in bed for a touch longer and browsed through my phone‚ hungry customers requiring merchandise. Sorry‚ not today. Hit me up tomorrow was my token reply. There was a text message from my Mum asking me if I wanted eggs for breakfast‚ sunny side up? Oh yes please was my response. She came back with Well you better go to the shops and buy some eggs. I could just picture her downstairs in the living room chuckling to herself whilst watching Phil and Holly. My mum is pretty cool‚ she ain’t like the other Asian parents where it’s all education‚ education‚ education.

We’d lived in the same house‚ just the two of us‚ all my life. I’d be hitting thirty in a couple of years but I had no intention of moving out. Have you seen the house prices? Fucking obscene! No shame living at home with your Mum‚ especially if you’re Asian. It’s the norm. I may not be where I expected to be by this stage of my life‚ but‚ you know… Fuck it! Got my health‚ a few quid in my pocket. Life ain’t so bad. Well-doers telling me to knock dealing on the head‚ find a real job‚ get out of my comfort zone‚ the fuck I want to do that?

My old man died in a motorbike accident whilst I was still warm and developing inside Mum‚ so I never actually got to see him – so it’s not like I lost him because‚ really‚ I never had him. They had an arranged marriage and the accident occurred within the first year. Mum wasn’t too cut up about it either‚ as she once told me that she hadn’t got around to loving him yet. Anyway‚ Dad died. The world spun along and Mum and I spun along with it.

Mum doesn’t treat me like a child but on the flip side she doesn’t treat me like a man either. To her‚ I’m somewhere in-between. I realise that she dates and isn’t averse to a night out‚ and I know she knows that I’m out there getting up to all sorts‚ but as long as I’m not bringing the police to the door‚ and she’s not bringing guys home for me to call Dad‚ then it’s all good in the hood. We keep out of each other’s business‚ adhering to our unsaid rules.

*

In preparation for prayers‚ I took a thorough shower‚ the water hot enough to cleanse away all of my bodily sins. I rubbed and I scrubbed to compensate for my colourful lifestyle. I didn’t drink the night before because I did not want to be hungover at prayers‚ but I did party hard and I did toke hard and at the end of play‚ in the back of my Beemer‚ I spent some quality time with a half ’n’ half girl‚ christening my new car whilst listening to fuckin’ Beyonce‚ who‚ by the way‚ I can’t stand‚ but the chicks seem to like all that girl empowerment crap. I’m all for it. What do I care?

I brushed my whites twice in the shower and tried to get rid of the lingering taste of her in my mouth‚ concentrating in particular on my tongue‚ which felt like it was about to fall out of my mouth. My final act was to go to town down below – I have to be free from any sins. Have to be Pak.

It’s only on Fridays‚ when the Shaitan – Satan – is banished from my thoughts and replaced by Farishta – Angels – that I seem to spend all day feeling guilty. I put on my cleanest clothes‚ loose dark blue jeans with a plain black T-shirt. The tee has to be plain – no depiction of any unbelievers. That’s what Mr Prizada‚ the guy who runs the newsagents and after school Islam Studies‚ used to tell me back in the day. I selected my aftershave carefully‚ ensuring that there was no alcohol present. I chose my rattiest‚ tattiest‚ vagabond sneakers as they would be off and shelved as soon as I entered the mosque. Muslim or no Muslim‚ a thief is a thief is a thief and I’ve had a pair of Nike Air Jordan’s Limited Edition liberated from me in the past and I ain’t walking home in my socks again. Lesson learnt.

I was clean. I was dressed. But not quite ready. Even though I had showered and scrubbed to within an inch of my life‚ I had yet to perform Wudu – Ablution. Running order goes like this: wash hands and arms up to my elbow‚ three times. Rinse out my mouth‚ three times. Wash my face‚ three times. Wet my hands and run them from my forehead to the back of my head. Clean behind and in the grooves of my ears. Finally‚ wash each foot. Three times. All this had to be carried out with the right hand where possible. Now‚ between Wudu and the end of prayer‚ if I have to visit the toilet for a number one or indeed‚ a two‚ the Wudu is broken and has to be carried out again. If I happen to pass gas from behind‚ Wudu is broken. If I fall asleep‚ fall unconscious‚ bleed or vomit‚ Wudu is broken. Honestly‚ I find it tough‚ and I only do this once a week for Friday prayers. Others… Well‚ they do this five times a day‚ seven days a week.

I gave Mum a kiss and walked out of the house into the cold sunshine‚ my trusty rucksack tight against my back. I passed my old Vauxhall Nova and gave it a loving pat on the roof. It was my first car and it did me proud. It was going to kill me to sell it. With a press of a button the boot of my Beemer flipped open and I stashed the rucksack rammed full of bags of skunk and bundles of cash inside. Even though I don’t deal on Fridays I still had to have the bag nearby at all times‚ and that particular night I had to drop off the cash to Silas‚ my supplier‚ and pick up my cut and he’d decide whether to send me back with the leftover gear or replenish. I started the car and the air conditioning took mere seconds to kick in. I switched from CD to radio‚ as I couldn’t have rap music and all the profanities and sexualisation that comes with it polluting my pure mind‚ and I headed for Sutton Mosque.

*

I saw a handful of parking spaces directly outside the mosque. I double checked the time just in case I had turned up an hour early‚ and I wondered if the clocks had gone back and I was still on yesterday’s time. The mosque was normally rocking around this time‚ with wall to wall Pakis lining the streets. Instead‚ it was quiet.

With difficulty‚ I parallel parked in a tight spot directly outside the mosque. There were other‚ bigger spaces but I wanted everybody to see my ride. It took me a few attempts but I finally managed to squeeze in. As soon as I turned off the engine I realised that I couldn’t leave my car here‚ not with weed and unscrupulously collected money in the boot‚ so close to the House of God.

I whispered Bismillah to myself as I stepped into the near-empty mosque. The first person I saw was Kevin the Convert who was stood near the shoe rack‚ which‚ like the mosque itself‚ was near empty. Kevin was speaking animatedly to Mr Hamza the Cleric.

‘A crime reference number‚’ Kevin said‚ incredulously‚ waving a piece of paper in his hand. ‘And what? You think that is enough?’ Kevin scrunched up the paper and looked as though he was about to throw it to the floor in disgust‚ but thought better of it and handed it back to Mr Hamza.

‘Brother Kevin‚ we must stay strong‚’ Mr Hamza said in that same deadpan tone that we were accustomed to when he led Friday prayers. He flattened and neatly folded the piece of paper and put it into the side pocket of his kameez. ‘This is a time to keep your head and have faith. I know‚ just like you know‚ just like everybody knows‚ the Police will not help.’

‘So‚ why call them?’

Mr Hamza‚ smiled‚ revealing a gap in his teeth that‚ as kids‚ we used to rip the piss out of. ‘A crime has been committed‚ Brother. The police have to be called. Even though it is to give us a meaningless number‚ we must still adhere to the law of the land that we have chosen to reside in‚ otherwise we are just as wrong as the sinners around us.’

I removed my shoes and placed them on the shelf. I kept my head down and walked past them and into the main prayer hall.

What I saw made me sick.

Illustrated on the far wall‚ just above where the Imam led prayers‚ was spray painted a crude drawing of two pigs. From the mouth of one‚ a speech bubble read eat me or get the fuck out of my country. The second drawing was another pig adorned with explosives with the caption BOOM. I averted my eyes and looked up at the heavens and at the large‚ beautiful chandelier that had only just been purchased and installed after a whip round. Hanging from it were ladies’ undergarments. With shaky legs I walked around the prayer hall taking in the scene. Holy literature had been removed from the large bookshelf and thrown to the floor‚ replaced by printed images of naked women and homosexuals harshly tacked to the bookshelf. The prayer rug had been removed – offensive graffiti had been sprawled across it‚ I later learned – and I found myself standing on a hard cold floor.

What should have been a house full of Muslims standing side by side‚ praying in harmony and perfect synchronisation to Allah‚ was replaced by a dozen or so Brothers cleaning.

I glanced around the Prayer Hall‚ I watched one of the bearded regulars bring in a ladder and hold it under the chandelier‚ but as there was no wall nearby he had nowhere to lean it. He shook his head in frustration as he laid the ladder down. I looked on as another regular placed a table directly underneath the chandelier and then a chair on top of the table to give enough height. Between the two of them‚ one secured the chair and the other climbed onto the table and then comically and dangerously scaled up onto the chair. They removed the ladies undergarments‚ holding them with just their fingertips‚ and then swiftly disposed of them into a black bin liner.

I looked around for a familiar face and I spotted Parvez‚ who lived across the road from me. Parvez is by far the most infuriating guy I know and bizarrely also the nicest. We had history. He would hover around me like an irritating mosquito‚ always popping around my house unannounced. He would go on about Fear of Allah‚ Judgement Day‚ Taqwa and Hadith‚ amongst other teachings. He was harmless though and despite my efforts I couldn’t not like him.

Parvez was knelt down picking up broken prayer beads and books and not quite knowing what to do with them. I stooped down on the floor next to him and immediately started to help out. Parvez looked at me with glistening eyes and just like that I felt my own eyes spiking with tears. I blinked them away and placed my hands on his shoulders.

‘They’ve stained our home‚’ he said. ‘We must get the Masjid back to a state of cleanliness.’

‘Parvez. What the f— What happened?’ I said‚ watching my language. ‘I… I don’t understand. What happened?’

‘Kafirs‚’ Parvez said‚ by way of explanation. ‘Kafirs is what happened‚ Brother.’

‘But‚ how? There’s someone here at all times.’

Parvez shook his head and wiped away his tears. ‘Everything will come to light in due course‚ Inshallah‚ and we will act accordingly.’

I nodded in agreement even though I didn’t quite know what I was agreeing to.

3

I left the mosque feeling pretty good about myself. My initial anger had melted away and was replaced by something similar to… I don’t know what. Faith? Respect? Solidarity? There were initially only about a dozen of us cleaning the mosque. Word had spread fast via social media and old fashioned word of mouth that Sutton Mosque had taken a beating. I wasn’t surprised that word hadn’t reached me; I didn’t move in those circles. The regulars were redirected to attend neighbouring mosques for the all-important Friday prayers‚ but as soon as prayers were over and the clock hit two‚ Pakis turned up like they were giving away free samosas.

No word of a lie‚ about two hundred of them all bearing the necessary tools: bleach‚ rubber gloves‚ tins of white paint and paint brushes‚ mops‚ refreshments and of course some of the finest home-cooked‚ butter-infested‚ blazing hot‚ heart-attack-inducing food. I watched as they made a social event of the whole scene. There was the sound of laughter bouncing off the walls‚ there were tears and embraces. The hall was treated to a brand new paint job and a local Sikh businessman – a Sikh‚ the old enemy! – who owned Punjabi Carpets‚ graciously donated a variety of new carpets and rugs until the prayer mats were replaced.

We turned that place inside out‚ leaving it looking brand new‚ and we left feeling holier than thou.

Those stupid fucking two-bit vandalising motherfuckers didn’t know the first thing about Islam and about our strength within. Attack us again. Go on‚ I fucking dare you.

My phone rang as I approached my Beemer. Before answering‚ first things first‚ I checked the boot and made sure that the gear and the bills hadn’t been jacked. Satisfied‚ I checked my caller display. It was Parvez. What’s he want? I had just spent the best part of the day with him‚ helping to clear up the mosque. I hoped he wasn’t taking the time we’d spent together to be some sort of bonding session‚ and he now wanted to hang out with the cool kids. He was a good guy‚ but well and truly part of the God Squad‚ and I think he’d always seen me as some sort of project. Parvez the Preacher‚ we called him. I ignored the call and pocketed my phone.

I closed my boot and over the roof of my car I saw the cops walking towards me. Just one copper‚ actually. He wasn’t in uniform but I have a sixth sense when it comes to picking out the fuzz from a line up.

And besides‚ this particular copper happened to be my best friend‚ Idris Zaidi.

I would never tell him this but Idris is one cool motherfucker‚ and the reason I would never tell him this is because he knows he’s one cool motherfucker and I don’t feel the need to indulge his already inflated ego. We go back to day dot‚ born within a day of each other. Our mums became friends in the maternity ward at West Mid Hospital. Aunty actually helped Mum a lot during that period‚ as my old man was busy decomposing. They were like sisters‚ and we like brothers. We were at nursery together‚ and then we hit junior school hard‚ making the right noises and earning respect at the grand old age of nine or whatever the fuck it was. Right little tearaways. But it was secondary school when things turned somewhat. Idris showed more of an interest in his studies and I showed the same commitment towards having a good time. The amateur shrinks amongst you would probably put that down to the lack of a father figure‚ but I was too busy having a good time to give it thought. So‚ soon-to-be PC Plod plodded off to university‚ and did pretty well too‚ according to the Masters degree hanging askew over his fireplace. He became a cop and I became a robber. Or‚ to put it more accurately‚ he a detective and I a dealer.

As Idris approached I surreptitiously checked him out. A dark blue casual blazer‚ with a crisp blue shirt. Wrapped around his neck in a loose knot was a lightweight black-and-white polka-dot scarf designed for design rather than to serve purpose. A pair of tight skinny grey trousers which made me wonder how the fuck he was going to give chase if the occasion occurred. Nice shoes though‚ black suede Fila hi-tops.

We shook and I nodded for him to jump in. I waited nonchalantly for him to acknowledge my new whip.

‘Nice‚’ Idris said‚ smirking at me knowingly. Always knowingly.

‘Yeah‚ it’s alright. Gets me from A to B.’

‘Look at you trying to act cool with your new ride‚ you crack me up.’

‘So‚ what’s the latest? You don’t call‚ you don’t write. Bad guys keeping you busy?’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘Something like that. Keeps me in a job.’

My phone rang again‚ I looked at the display and frowned. ‘Shit. Parvez!’

‘The Preacher? That Parvez?’ Idris asked.

‘Yep. One and the same‚’ I said‚ weighing up whether to answer it or not. ‘I better get it. It’s the second time he’s called in the space of a minute. Hang on.’

‘He loves you‚ you know that‚ right?’ Idris said‚ poking me in the ribs. ‘He lurves you!’

‘Fuck off.’ I swiped my screen and answered. ‘Yeah‚ Parvez. ’Sup?’

‘Aslamalykum‚ Brother.’ Parvez said. ‘Thanks for helping out today.’ Helping out? I didn’t like the way he said that. He didn’t mean to say it in that way‚ but it came across as a touch patronising and it wound me the fuck up.

‘Of course.’ I said. ‘Thank you for helping out today.’ Yeah‚ that’s right! How you like me now? Two can play that game.

Parvez comes back with. ‘Please‚ Brother. It was my duty‚ my Farz.’

Oh‚ I give up. He played the Farz card. Fine. Whatever. You’re a better Muslim than me. Sanctimony is not becoming. I inserted the key into the ignition and the Bluetooth immediately kicked in and the technology gave me a small thrill as I placed my phone down on the centre console. However‚ my thrill was short lived as Parvez’s voice was now emanating through my Blaupunkt speakers‚ sounding twice as annoying.

‘Am… Am I on speaker?’ Parvez asked‚ at the change in transmission.

‘Yeah… So‚ what’s going on?’

‘Right. So some of the Brothers are assembling at Ali’s Diner at eight tonight.’

‘And?’

‘We need to talk about what happened at the Masjid. Discuss best way forward. Security and that. You know?’

‘Yeah‚ I know‚’ I sighed. I looked at Idris who was predictably shaking his head at me. I turned away from him. ‘What time?’

‘Eight‚ Brother. I’ll see you there‚ yes?’

‘Yeah‚ cool. In a bit.’ I ended the call.

‘Really‚ Jay?’ Idris exclaimed.

‘Uh… Did you not hear what happened at the mosque?’ I asked‚ sounding defensive. ‘I’ve just come from there. It was a state. I helped with the cleaning. Man‚ we turned that place inside out.’

‘So‚ you helped out‚ right?’

‘Yeah‚ course. I was there most of the day. I don’t recall seeing you there.’

‘I was at work‚ you twat. What I’m saying is‚ you’ve done your bit. What is there left to do?’

I shrugged. I was an accomplished shrugger. I had a shrug for every occasion. This one was slight‚ barely a movement‚ a little lift of the shoulders. A shrug that said‚ maybe something‚ maybe nothing.

‘Are you going to track them down with the rest of the Brothers?’ He said‚ and I could just feel the cynicism dripping in his tone. ‘And then what‚ you going to give them a good beating? Maybe someone would be kind enough to stab one of them‚ so this will never happen again.’

‘Look‚ calm down‚ Detective Inspector! Chill‚ man. Take your copper’s hat off for a minute and put on your Paki hat and see it from our point of view. Something like this happens‚ people just need to vent and be around others akin to them.’

I hadn’t realised until I’d finished that I’d raised my voice.

Idris looked at me with elevated eyebrows. ‘Akin?’

‘Yeah‚ fucking akin. I can throw down an akin when the moment takes me. Or do I need a diploma?’

‘All I’m saying‚ Jay… Find another way to help. Sitting in a room full of angry Muslims isn’t healthy. You want to help‚ do it another way.’

‘What other way?’

‘I don’t know‚ Jay. Just another way.’

‘I’m not you‚ Idris‚’ I said.

He looked out of the passenger window‚ I fiddled with the temperature controls on my dash. Silence filled the car. It wasn’t awkward. We were tight enough not to feel the need to fill the airwaves with inane chatter. Silence sat comfortably with us. After a spell I broke it.

‘Is there any heat on me?’

‘No‚ Jay. Not heard any whispers. Just keep discreet and don’t make any stupid moves‚’ Idris said‚ eyes roving all over my car.

‘It’s under Mum’s name. Asian parents are always buying cars for their kids‚ right?’

‘Yeah‚ maybe‚’ he said.

‘What?’

‘What? Nothing!’

‘I know you wanna say something. Say it.’

Idris sighed. Then he shrugged. His shrug wasn’t as good as mine. It was exaggerated‚ shoulders touching his ears. Then he sighed some more.

‘Fuck’s sake. What‚ Idris?’

‘Jay. We go back a long way‚ right? Me and you‚ we’re like brothers. Fuck that‚ we are brothers and I know you better than you know yourself.’

‘Yeah. And?’

‘So‚ I know that you can’t be happy with what you’re doing. You’re smart‚ Jay. You’re one of the most creative guys I know. You can do better than this. Yes‚ you’re making some money but is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of your life? You’re not on our radar because you’re low level but inevitably—’

‘I can’t be doing a Dolly Parton‚ Idris. Starters‚ I got no qualifications. So what are my options? Burger King‚ security guard‚ baggage handler? Nah‚ you’re alright‚ mate. Not for me.’

‘Start a business… A legit business.’

I wasn’t about to tell him about the rented one-bedroom flat in Cranford. Fluorescent lamps‚ bags of skunk seeds and soil‚ the fucking lot. It was a rash decision‚ a moment of grandeur delusions‚ one I realised that I could not have gone through with. I planned to clear it out at my first opportunity.

‘You must have some savings by now‚’ he continued. ‘You’ve been doing this forever.’

I shook my head.

‘What? Nothing?’

‘You’re sitting in it‚’ I said‚ sheepishly.

‘You spent it all on the car?’ He sounded incredulous. I felt stupid. He smiled at me.

A smile laced with sympathy.

4

Kingsley Parker sat alone in a large conference room at the head of the table. He twirled aimlessly in his chair and wondered how many decisions had been made in this very room? How many lives saved and how many lives destroyed? Which number was greater? Parker looked up at the clock and then at his phone‚ which was sitting face-up on the huge table. It rang as he knew it would. He answered on the first ring.

‘Tell me‚’ Kingsley Parker said. ‘How’s our boy?’

*

At Thames House‚ 12 Milbank‚ MI5‚ his colleagues referred to him as Chalk. Parker had earned the nickname in 2003 when he was part of – in his view – the huge joke that was the invasion of Iraq and the search for weapons of mass destruction. A joke with a devastating punchline.

He had been travelling late one night or early in the morning‚ by himself‚ against orders‚ in search of some company. It was a road often travelled by others within his regiment‚ soldiers who missed the touch of a loved one. But it was also a road that‚ at this time of the night‚ was deemed too dangerous to travel. There had been sightings of Iraqi insurgents‚ various reports of kidnappings‚ some which led to the beheadings that were broadcast by the local news stations and online across the world.

It didn’t matter to Parker. He was so strung out from battle that he welcomed the risk. Craved it. He told himself it wasn’t just the sex but the need to be held tight‚ to be embraced‚ and to alleviate the frustration and anger and guilt that consumed him at having to fight such a shitty war.

Parker had drunk deeply but hadn’t quite arrived at drunk. He was singing along to Elvis Costello when his headlights picked out the body of a young girl lying across the road. He smiled to himself as he slowed down. The girl looked to be no older than seven or eight but it was hard to establish as she was curled up into a ball with her back to him. Never had he seen such an obvious set up‚ the body placed just too perfectly. He stopped the car forty yards short and pulled the freshly cleaned Browning handgun from his shoulder holster.

He watched the shadows on either side of the road and from his combats he slipped out a flask and took a generous sip. Parker knew he could continue driving‚ there was enough room either side of the girl to manoeuvre through. But he was tired. Tired of fucking Iraq. Tired of being part of something that had such sharp teeth but no intelligence. The loss of so many homes and lives. The women and the children and the livelihoods. Tired of the trigger he himself often had to pull. Parker knew he had taken out important high-value targets‚ but at what fucking cost? His sleep was punctuated with nightmares and a recurring dream of a nameless‚ faceless boy watching his father mowed down‚ his mother obliterated and his home redecorated. It was waking from that nightmare which had propelled him into a government-issued vehicle‚ down a dangerous track‚ in search of the warm embrace of a warm body.

Parker switched the headlights off‚ and disabled the interior lights which would have illuminated him when he opened the door. Even half-cut he wasn’t going to be anyone’s target. He rolled out of the vehicle and as soon as his boots found purchase on the floor his adrenaline kicked in. He spun away from the vehicle into the dense shadows at the side of the road‚ cocooned by darkness. In his fast-beating heart he knew that this could be the time and place where it all ended for him‚ but maybe that’s the way it had to be. God’s will. Parker was not a religious man but too often recently he had woken petrified that when the time came he really would be cast down into the dark depths of a volcanic hell‚ because he hadn’t used his own God-given mind‚ and instead had just followed orders. The orders that left him looking at shattered bodies.

There was no easy way to do this so he just walked confidently towards the girl. His eyes adjusted to the starry night‚ and with the light of a quarter moon he could see the girl’s shoulders rise and fall ever so slightly. The way she was laid looked as though she had been placed comfortably in bed and had drifted off to sleep‚ after her father had told her a sweet bedtime story‚ about how he would protect her from all the evil soldiers.

Any small doubt that Parker might have had about this being a set-up vanished. Any thoughts he had about this girl being genuinely injured‚ vanished.

Parker closed his eyes and said a simple prayer. Not a rehearsed prayer‚ ripped out of a book‚ but a genuinely heartfelt prayer. He asked to be forgiven. He asked for his family to be protected. But most of all he asked for peace. Parker opened his eyes.

The body had gone.

The girl was now standing on the side of the road glaring victoriously at him. He smiled warmly at her and nodded and then he turned his attention to the three men who were standing in front of him.

The first thing he noticed was that they were all carrying Kalashnikov automatic rifles‚ but it wasn’t this that disturbed him. It was their footwear. They were all wearing US military issue heavy-duty desert boots. Trophies. Were they stolen or crudely removed from a still-warm body? Parker’s eyes travelled up away from the boots and to the bright white cotton shalwar and kameez speckled in fresh dirt which they would have picked up as they lay on their stomachs in the grass‚ hiding and waiting for him to step out of the jeep. Each face was covered tightly with red and white chequered ghutrah scarves.

Three sets of nervous eyes accosted him. Angry‚ accusing‚ reckless. One of them spoke. Parker couldn’t tell which one as the mouth was trapped behind the ghutrah and the sound came out muffled but unmistakeably audible.

‘Put your hands up… Now! Hands in the air.’ The accent heavy and guttural.

Parker slowly put his hands up in the air‚ bent at the elbows. Okay. So this is what death’s door looked like. His life didn’t flash before his eyes‚ instead he thought with regret that he wished he wasn’t wearing his military fatigues. If he’d had a choice he would have wanted to die clean‚ and not covered head to toe in the clothes in which he had shed so much blood.

‘Throw your weapon to the ground. Slowly… Do it now!’ another voice‚ younger‚ instructed.

Rather than do as instructed‚ Parker reached down with his right hand and removed the Browning from the small of his back and brought it down to his side. Gun pointing to the floor‚ his finger caressing the trigger. Three pairs of eyes widened‚ their plan to take him hostage and execute him on film no longer an option. Kalashnikovs moved into shooting position‚ the safety switch notoriously cumbersome to operate.

Kingsley Parker lifted his holding arm and shot the one to his left in the neck and blood sprayed out towards Parker’s face‚ but before the blood had reached him Parker had put a bullet between the eyes of the man in the middle. A burst of fire came from the last man standing but Parker was already moving. He dropped low‚ and as he rolled away his left hand joined his right and steadied the Browning. A quick double tap to the chest dropped the third man.

Parker swung left and trained his gun at the girl. Only her eyes were on him. No risk there. He swivelled back to the men just as they were falling‚ bodies overlapping and twitching momentarily. At first glance it was impossible to establish who the tangled limbs belonged to. Parker covered them with his gun but they were no longer a threat. Just dead men. Fighting a cause.

Somebody’s husband… Somebody’s brother… Somebody’s father.

The fight went out of Parker as quickly as it had arrived. He turned his attention back to the girl. She took a tentative step towards him‚ and another‚ moving faster with each step‚ almost running towards him. Parker holstered his piece and opened his arms knowing she needed him and he needed to hug her‚ that this was the embrace he had been craving‚ the embrace which just for a minute would make him forget where and who he was‚ and would dispel the nightmares.

He felt tears spike his eyes. The little girl ran towards him‚ and with as much force as a child could muster‚ kicked him in the shin and continued running. It was bloody agony and Parker hopped on one leg‚ trying to hold his shin‚ and then stumbled onto the ground on his back.

He laid in the dust and laughed loudly and didn’t care who heard him‚ didn’t care about the fact that there were three dead bodies alongside him with their eyes open staring up into the beautiful night.

It turned out one of the men that he had killed was a high-value target‚ according to the deck of playing cards he carried with him at all times. 9 of Clubs. Mahmud Al-Aziz. When this story did the rounds back at headquarters‚ how he took out three Kalashnikov-carrying Iraqi insurgents with only a Browning‚ his nickname was born. Quick on the draw. Chalk.

That was the last time Kingsley ‘Chalk’ Parker had fired a weapon in anger.

*

A little over a decade later‚ after heavy counselling‚ and after resigning his commission‚ Parker found himself working for MI5.

Demons compartmentalised.

It was due largely to the one man that Parker trusted without question‚ that he had allowed himself back into an ongoing war. Major General Sinclair Stewart had played a big role in convincing Parker and‚ in some part‚ convincing the Director of Counter Terrorism at MI5‚ that Parker would be key in locating and capturing The Teacher‚ their highest target and the leader of the terrorist group Ghurfat-al-Mudarris.

Not much had been known about The Teacher but he was assumed to be responsible for a number of attacks that had taken place‚ solely against the West. Many of those who worked under his command‚ who were involved directly in the attacks‚ were British Muslims‚ based in Luton‚ Blackburn‚ Coventry and London. Some died in the name of religion‚ others were detained. But none spoke. That was the respect that The Teacher commanded from his pupils.

*

‘Some activity‚ sir‚’ said the voice on the phone. His name was Teddy Lawrence. He was new to the job and already pissed off with the bullshit of the no-value‚ no-purpose surveillance he was tasked with. ‘You know about the attack on Sutton Mosque?’

‘I do‚’ said Parker. ‘Our boy was there?’

‘That’s affirmative. For almost five hours. Cleaning operation‚ started small but escalated quickly.’

‘I can imagine… Who do we like for it?’

‘I’m not sure‚ sir. It’s being looked into. Just vandals I guess‚ sir.’

‘This is more than that‚ Lawrence. This could get nasty. It will get nasty. The Muslim community will without doubt take action.’

‘I agree‚ but whatever happens will be domestic. It’s not our place… Not yet.’

‘Anything else?’ Parker asked.

‘There’s a meet tonight at twenty-hundred hours at Ali’s Diner in Cranford‚ West London. Not far from Heathrow Airport.’

‘Keep eyes on our boy. He may make an appearance.’

Hesitation. A barely heard sigh. ‘Yes‚ sir.’

‘What is it?’ Parker asked.

‘We’ve been on him for twenty-one days. He’s low key. Just another dealer. I don’t know what to tell you. Nothing to report‚ nothing sticks out.’

‘Stay on him‚’ Parker instructed. ‘He’s the one.’

5

Ali’s Diner is a place where everyone knows your name. And your business. It’s not often that you see an unfamiliar face in there. Mosque goers‚ students‚ Aunty-Jis and Uncle-Ji’s‚ the Somalis‚ the small Irish contingent that operate out of the neighbouring estate agents‚ all frequent visitors. There are other eateries close by‚ but between Ali’s famous Volcano Burger and the Tawa Chicken Wrap they have no chance of long term survival.

Shishas‚ normally lined up against every wall‚ had been removed and replaced by more chairs and tables. Ali knew it was going to be a busy one‚ and Ali wasn’t one to miss a trick.

He was right‚ the place was rocking. Packed to the rafters. Ali usually flies solo but that day he had a small team of three assisting him. The stench of grease and meat attacked my senses and put me off my fried chicken. It hadn’t even turned eight and there we all were. United. And evidently hungry. The door opened with a jaunty chime‚ all eyes moved in sync towards it and the draught blew in the self-titled badass that is Khan Abdul. He was flanked by two equally mean-looking characters known as The Twins. They weren’t actually twins. In fact they couldn’t have looked more different. It was just a moniker that sounded vaguely cool based on the fact that they did everything together. Khan stood at the door and waited for everyone to take him in. Some of the older lot got up and heartily shook his hand and the younger lot looked up at him in awe‚ not yet having earned the respect to approach him.

Personally‚ I thought he was a twat. I wanted to share that thought with Parvez‚ who was sat opposite me‚ but with the way his mouth was open and his eyes twinkled‚ it was as if a Paki Father Christmas had just walked in.

Khan approached the counter and Ali greeted him with a masala chai. He took it in his meaty hand and sipped from it‚ scoping the room over the rim‚ ready to address his audience. The three of them were dressed almost identically‚ black baggy clique jeans and market-bought black leather jackets. There was enough leather to offend the Hindus and embarrass McDonalds. They looked like they had just stepped out of the nineties. That was my problem with Khan. He had never quite left that era‚ he had never quite grown up.

Around maybe the mid-nineties‚ Khan Abdul was part of the SL1 Crew. A gang mainly comprised of Muslim youths‚ some students and others on the dole. They operated out of Langley‚ Slough. The Holy Smokes and the Tooti Nungs‚ who ran Southall at that time‚ were comprised mainly of Sikhs and Hindus. So‚ not to be outdone‚ some dumb Pakis formed the SL1 Crew and like some fucked up Robin Hood and his Muslim Men‚ they got up to all sorts. But unlike the Smokes and the Nungs‚ they had no agenda. Well‚ no‚ that’s not true. The SL1 Crew did have an agenda. Trouble and Strife.

Local Muslim business encounters non-Muslim competition.

They stepped in.

Mixed relationship between a Muslim and a non-Muslim.

They stepped in.

Racially motivated attacks‚ protection rackets‚ joyriding‚ stabbings. You name it‚ they indulged in it. With pride.

Almost twenty years later‚ in his late forties‚ married with kids‚ Khan is still at it‚ desperately trying to hold on to his reputation. The SL1 Crew had long been forgotten about but Khan still waved the flag for thug mentality. Idiot.

The only reason why Khan is still respected‚ and will be until his days end‚ is because he stabbed the leader of rival gang who had raped a Muslim girl. Instant fucking hero status. It came to light after that it was actually consensual‚ and she only cried rape because she didn’t want her parents to find out. But that’s just details.

I watched him as he stood in front of the counter at Ali’s Diner‚ larger than life and twice as ugly. Ready to hold court.

‘Brothers‚’ Khan started and the room was excited.

‘Soldiers‚’ he continued and the room just about exploded.

I scoped the room and all around me people were hyper‚ some on their feet‚ thumping their chests with their fists‚ others thumping the table. Parvez shouted ‘Allah hu Akbar’ and that just seem to rile them even further and it was continuously repeated and echoed off the walls. This was the kind of reaction you would expect at the end of a decent speech not after two words. I could tell Khan was trying his hardest not to display a shit-eating grin. With open hands he requested for the room to quieten.

‘Our way of life has been compromised. Our religion has been attacked‚’ Khan said‚ clearly pleased with his obviously rehearsed opening gambit. He scratched the side of his stubbled face. ‘So‚ what do we do?’ Khan looked around the room‚ milking it. The question was clearly rhetorical‚ so no suggestions were forthcoming but the anticipation was palpable. ‘Do we continue our peaceful existence and hope that it doesn’t happen again? Or do we send a message out‚ loud and clear? All we want is to abide by the five pillars of Islam. We don’t want any trouble‚ we don’t want to bother you. We just want peace.’

What the fuck did Khan know about the five pillars of Islam? I bet he couldn’t name them. The closest Khan had ever got to Mecca was driving past the Mecca Bingo Hall in Hounslow High Street. I wanted to stand up and challenge him. Embarrass him. But I didn’t because I had grown fond of my teeth.

Idris was right‚ I should have stayed away. I looked at Parvez who was hanging onto every word‚ every letter that was coming out of Khan’s mouth. I looked at my watch‚ aware that I had to see Silas in a few hours. With time to kill‚ I sighed to myself and sloped down in my seat as Khan continued.

‘It wasn’t us that flew into the Twin Towers. We were sitting at home watching Jeremy Kyle or whatever when that shit happened. But yet they continue to blame anyone of colour. That is our bleak future and that is now. This will never end‚ we must stand together side by side‚ hand in hand and build an unbreakable chain. The power of Allah reigning through us‚ and if any of those fucking pig lovers try to penetrate us‚ we will drop them where they stand. Without fear and without consequence‚ because we are protected by the Almighty. No one can touch us. We will no longer be governed by rules and by laws which are designed by the Kafir for the Kafir… So my message to them is simply this: You touch us… We’ll touch you back.’

I could sense that the room was about to overreact again and explode into madness. Khan was counting on it with his whole plastic prophet speech‚ wanting to add another notch to his legacy. But before anyone had a chance to react‚ Shariff‚ a local community worker‚ stood up and‚ much to Khan’s annoyance‚ turned his back to him and addressed the room.

‘Brothers‚ I would just like to say that today I am proud to be a Muslim. The support and unity was evident at the clean-up at the Masjid… And look! Look around you right now. Taking time out of your busy lives to help find a better way. But… This is not it. We must use our heads‚ Brothers‚ and find a peaceful way forward. Violence does not resolve violence.’

‘Oi‚ Gandhi‚ sit the fuck back down‚’ Khan countered‚ but for the first time the dynamic of the room altered. Partly because Khan spoke rudely to a valued member of the community‚ and partly because of what Shariff had said – find a peaceful way forward. People started to fidget in their chairs as silence descended. Shariff turned to face Khan‚ staring at him challengingly. One of The Twins stepped forward with intent but Khan held him back.

‘You make a good point‚ Brother…’ Khan said.

‘Shariff.’

‘Shariff‚ right‚’ Khan said‚ making a mental note. It was clear that Shariff wasn’t going to be on Khan’s Eid card list. ‘We have tried and failed to find a peaceful way forward.’

Shariff snorted. ‘Khan‚ don’t be a fool.’ I swear the whole room took a sharp intake of breath as that word bounced around from ear to ear until it reached Khan and verbally slapped him in the face. ‘There is not a peaceful bone in your body. You came here only because you saw an opportunity. What is it with you? Why are you trying to corrupt our minds with revenge and violence? Is there not enough of that already? Like so many of us‚ you are a husband and you are a father. Think about our families‚ think about how they would cope if something happened to us… to you. And for what? Huh‚ for what? We attack them‚ then what happens? I’ll tell you what happens‚ a white version of you will give a similar speech to attack us right back and round and round we go‚ never able to break out of this deathly circle. And I don’t say that lightly‚ because there will be death. Eventually and inevitably. Is that what you want on your conscience‚ Khan?’

Khan’s smile didn’t wane but there was no mirth in it. He just nodded‚ with calculated eyes. ‘Brother Shariff. You have your way and I have mine. There is one jungle and one lion‚’ Khan continued. Left Twin narrowed his eyes in confusion as to where Khan was going with this off-script jungle/lion metaphor. ‘And when the lion is cornered he attacks with everything he has. That’s what we are. Lions!’

‘We are not animals‚ Khan. We are—’

‘Enough‚’ Khan shouted‚ loud enough for everyone’s Wudu to be broken. ‘This meeting is over‚’ he declared. As he looked around the room‚ his eyes stopped briefly on me before flitting away. ‘If you want to go against me then go home and put on your lipstick and bangles. Whoever is with me‚ meet me outside.’ He inhaled through his nose‚ nostrils flared and then with a puff of his chest Khan declared‚ ‘Tonight… we are soldiers.’

Unlike the last time when he’d referred to us as soldiers‚ and the room went fucking mental‚ this time‚ not a murmur. I could see the look on his face‚ he wore a crazy expression. Nothing good had ever come out of that expression.

Khan tried again. This time thumping his chest with his fist. ‘Soldiers of Islam…’ Again‚ nothing. No reaction‚ or at least not the one he was hoping for. ‘Soldiers of Allah!’ Man‚ he was getting desperate. I noticed Parvez‚ battling with himself‚ squirming in his chair. Parvez had always hero-worshipped Khan ever since I could remember‚ and now I could see his eyes siding with Khan. He started to rise from his chair; I grabbed his elbow and tried to force him back down.

‘Parvez. Don’t be a sap. Sit down‚’ I pleaded. But he wrenched his arm away from my grip and stood up. He looked adoringly towards Khan and thumped his puny chest.

‘Brother Khan‚’ he said‚ his little voice carried comfortably across the room. ‘I am a soldier of Allah.’

‘Good man‚’ Khan said. ‘What’s your name‚ Brother?’

Ouch. I could see a glimpse of hurt in Parvez’s eyes. Last year when Khan had been in trouble with the police for scratching cars with private number plates and needed an alibi or something‚ I don’t know the whole story‚ but Parvez sorted him right out. So for Khan not to remember his name must have really‚ really upset him… But he didn’t let it show.

‘Parvez‚’ said Parvez.

Khan nodded‚ some distinct acknowledgement‚ but not much.

‘Parvez‚ and anybody else who wants to join me. I’ll be outside.’ And with that and a scowl‚ Khan stomped out of Ali’s Diner.

6

Let me tell you something about Muslims. And I’m talking about the majority here. Despite the contrary belief‚ we are a patient‚ tolerant and sincere bunch. We integrate with those around us. Really‚ we don’t care if you’re black‚ white‚ Jew‚ Christian‚ straight‚ gay‚ or a pre-op drag queen; we will sit with you and break bread with you. On Christmas Day we’ll eat a halal chicken with all the trimmings whilst watching the Queen’s Speech‚ and we’ll overdose on chocolate eggs at Easter. Some places in England don’t fully celebrate St George’s Day because it may offend Muslims. That is the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard. You don’t see us backing away when it comes to celebrating Eid‚ or the Hindus secretly cowering away in the corner when it’s Diwali. No‚ we give it full throttle and we go at it with gusto. The trouble is‚ it’s always the minority opinion that makes the waves. That’s what is printed and spewed out on the news with bells and whistles added for effect‚ with talking heads‚ fucking so called experts‚ adding to the propaganda. It’s sensationally sensationalised sensationalism.

Truly‚ most of us‚ we don’t care. Celebrate away. Fly that flag.

That is exactly what happened at Ali’s diner. Yes‚ we were angry. But actually going out there and carrying out the revenge‚ the act‚ it’s not going to happen‚ not by the majority anyway. But there are always one or two or three‚ and it’s these idiots that will make the news‚ fuel the gossip and form public opinion‚ putting us back to square one where we have to keep explaining ourselves – we’re not all like that‚ it’s the fucking minority!

It’s by this token‚ you shouldn’t be surprised to hear‚ that Khan and Parvez were standing outside Ali’s Diner‚ in the biting cold‚ planning and plotting revenge. The rest of them stayed in the warmth and listened as Shariff collectively and peacefully tried to find a way to put a foot forward. I had other things on my mind. I had to get back to my car and make sure all the money I’d collected was collated in rubber bands just as Silas liked. I thought maybe I would take a walk after‚ as the fried chicken was sitting heavy on my heart. I just didn’t want to be sitting in Ali’s anymore. I walked out and Khan and Parvez turned expectantly. I greeted them with raised eyebrows.

‘Anybody else coming?’ Parvez asked.

‘No‚ man. They’re all inside. Shariff is holding court‚ ain’t no one coming‚’ I said. ‘Where are The Twins?’

‘Gone. Early start tomorrow‚’ Khan said. ‘They both have job interviews in the morning.’

‘Oh. Right. So that’s that then‚’ I said‚ with an air of what I hoped was finality. Parvez looked hopefully at Khan and I could just picture the chimps in Khan’s head trying to come to a decision.

‘No‚’ Khan said. ‘That’s not that. Fuck The Twins and fuck the weak-ass Pakis in there. We don’t need them. It’s just us… The three of us.’

Khan and Parvez bumped fists.

‘Hang on a minute! No fucking way‚ man. You both do whatever the hell you want. Don’t get me involved.’

Khan zipped up his nineties leather jacket with a disappointed shake of his head. I watched it slide over his growing belly.

‘Come on‚ Brother‚’ Parvez said to me. ‘We can’t let this go unpunished. We’re relying on you.’ He had this determined look in his eyes‚ a look that was new to me. It didn’t suit him. I was concerned that Khan was going to get him beaten up‚ or worse. ‘They disrespected the Masjid‚ Jay. We can’t let them get away with that. Right‚ Khan?’

‘Leave it out‚ Parvez. He ain’t coming‚’ Khan said. ‘Bunch of pussy holes‚ that’s what your generation is.’

‘Parvez‚ a word‚ please‚’ I requested.

‘Anything you want to say‚ Brother‚ you can say—’

‘Fuck’s sake‚ Parvez. Come here for a minute.’

Parvez looked to Khan for instruction and Khan‚ after giving me an arrogant smile‚ nodded acquiescently. I moved a few steps away and waited under a dimly lit lamp post. Parvez followed suit and stood in front of me. No‚ stood is wrong. He was excitedly‚ or nervously – probably the former – hopping around from one foot to the other. He either wanted to go toilet or he was just hyped up‚ probably the latter.

‘Parvez. Are you sure about this? This is not you‚ man.’

‘No‚ this is me‚ Jay‚ and this is you. This is all of us. I am sick and tired of being targeted. Personally and as a religion. Allah knows I try to be patient‚ bite my tongue and curb my anger. But with Khan behind me‚ I know we can hit them. Hard. Send a message‚ yes?’

Parvez the Preacher. Parvez the Pacifist. Now Parvez the Psycho. Drunk on a few meaningless words from a meaningless thug who he fucking idolised. I wanted to grab him by his Primark shirt lapels and shake the dumb out of him but I knew that would not make a touch of difference.

‘You’re sure about this?’ I asked

He stopped hopping for a moment and looked me right in the eyes. ‘I’m sure‚ Brother‚’ he said. ‘C’mon‚ Jay. Let’s do this. We have to be proactive in the war against terror. They think that they can—’

‘Parvez‚ shut-up for a second‚’ I interrupted. I had never heard the phrase war against terror used in the reverse context. It made me wonder. ‘And can you stop fucking hopping around for a minute and let me think?’

‘But Jay‚ we—’

‘Let’s go‚ Parvez.’ This time the interruption came from Khan. Parvez looked at me with expectant eyes.

I expelled air and said: ‘I’m coming too.’

7

The sight of Khan approaching my car with a cross spanner‚ a metal bar‚ and a cricket bat made me want to run him over. He got in and dumped the makeshift weaponry in the back seat and I watched Parvez weigh them up. At Khan’s request‚ we stopped at Parvez’s house first for a change of clothes. He now had on a topi and a lightweight‚ beige shalwar and kameez‚ over which he had on a bloody black leather jacket. He looked like an idiot. Or a target.

I drove at low speeds because I didn’t want to be pulled over with bats and bars in the back seat and weed and cash in the boot. My palms felt sweaty and I wiped them on my jeans. I flicked the radio on and tuned it to Sunshine Radio‚ an Asian community station which operated out of the heavily Asian-populated town of Southall. I heard the unmistakeable voice of the resident DJ‚ Tony Virdi.

New reports are coming in thick and fast. It seems that further attacks have taken place around the Ashford area. Five Asian youths were seen running from St Mary’s Church which had its windows smashed and was broken into. Also some local shops have been vandalised on the Ashford High Street and a local pharmacy has been set alight. It is not confirmed yet whether this is retaliation but the signs do not look good. After the commercials we are joined by Dr Riaz Ikram‚ the author of the best seller‚ “War‚ What Isn’t it Good For?” But please‚ for your own safety‚ stay at home tonight folks. This is Tony Virdi reporting—

I killed the radio.

‘Looks like Ashford’s taken care of‚ eh lads?’ Khan said to no response. ‘Yeah‚ Staines is the place to be. Especially Elmsleigh Car Park… You got any battle tunes‚ Jay?’

The last thing I wanted to do was put on some Gangsta Rap‚ it would only serve to make Khan more volatile. I looked in the rear view and Parvez was looking out of the window blankly.

‘Parvez. You alright‚ mate?’ I asked.

‘Course he’s alright. He’s a fuckin’ soldier. Ain’t that right‚ Parvez?’

‘Yes. I’m fine‚’ Parvez said. His words a stark contrast to his tone. ‘Soldier of Islam.’

‘Why Elmsleigh‚ Khan?’ I asked.

‘Elmsleigh Car Park is Kafir city. The place is full of good-for-nothing white boys. Doggers‚ slags‚ dealers‚ chavs‚ fuckin’ name it. Place is filth. They deserve to be hit.’

‘But what’ve they got to do with the attack on the mosque? Why are we moving on them?’

‘We won’t be the one making the first move.’ Khan said‚ inclining his head towards Parvez and smirking conspiratorially at me.

8

I pulled up around a hundred metres away and looked towards Elmsleigh Car Park and it looked back at me with bad intentions. Harsh orange lighting seeped through the slits between the three storeys‚ lending to its menace. The car park just seemed to breathe and pulsate wicked energy. From what I remembered from my one and only visit‚ there were badly designed‚ narrow bays and ticket machines that never worked‚ broken CCTV and the strong smell of piss. A haven for junkies and pissheads. Sexual activity of all kinds was reserved for the middle level‚ and the floors were littered with used condoms and joint butts. I scrunched my face at the thought of wheeling my Beemer in there.

‘Lose the leather‚’ Khan said to Parvez.

‘Have a heart‚ Khan‚’ I said‚ as Parvez slipped his jacket off. ‘At least let him keep his jacket on. It’s freezing out there.’

‘It is okay‚ Brother‚’ Parvez said‚ placing his hand on my shoulder before stepping out of the car in only his shalwar‚ kameez and prayer hat. We watched him make his way to the car park on foot. God help him. Dressed like that it wasn’t just the cold that was going to get him.

Khan reached in the back seat and grabbed a cricket bat and a small metal bar.

‘Take your pick. Or there’s the cross spanner if you prefer. But not easy to conceal.’ As if a cricket bat was! I took the cold metal bar. ‘Good choice. When it kicks off strike to the head. Do not pull your arm all the way back‚ they’ll see it coming a mile off. Short‚ sharp bursts. Boom‚ boom‚ boom‚ and then on to the next one. Got it?’

I nodded‚ I had no intention of striking anybody in the head. I was only there out of some misguided notion of loyalty for Parvez. If anything happened to him‚ his Mum would destroy me.

‘Okay. Drive. Slowly.’

I pulled in and it was immediately clear that we would be outnumbered.

‘More Kafirs than I thought there’d be‚’ he said‚ helpfully.

‘Can we go now‚ Khan? Please.’ I was coming across like a coward but I couldn’t care less. ‘Let’s just grab Parvez and go. This is ridiculous‚ we’re so fucking outnumbered.’

Khan reached inside his jacket and pulled his weapon. The blade alone was twelve inches long and it looked to be at least half that across. I couldn’t tell you if it was a knife‚ a meat cleaver or a machete. But it was shiny and jagged and I could see in the reflection the fear etched on my face.

‘This should even things up‚ eh?’ Khan said‚ as he pressed his finger on the tip of the blade and drew blood‚ which he then proceeded to calmly lick off.

Parvez had clocked us drive in and positioned himself where we could see him‚ leaning against a pillar situated outside the lift about ten metres to my top right. To my left‚ eight hostiles‚ all white‚ a mixture of baseball caps‚ hoodies and skinny jeans. Not the culprits‚ but in Khan’s eyes; as close as fucking possible. They were curiously watching Parvez with a measurement of suspicion‚ wanting to react but uncertain in their approach. In fact‚ by their bemused expressions‚ they seemed more worried about him. There was muted conversation and puzzled looks. One guy‚ a grey hoody tightly over his head‚ shouted something across to him. Parvez put a finger innocently to his chest in a – sorry‚ are you talking to me? – gesture. I slid my window halfway down and wrinkled my nose as the stench of urine crept into my car. The guy shouted louder this time‚ loud enough for me to hear.

‘What’d he say?’ Khan asked.

‘He’s asking what have you got underneath your shirt?’

‘Ha! Does he think all Pakis walk around strapped with explosives?’ Khan said‚ as he typed out and sent a text message on his phone. ‘Sorted!’ he said quietly to himself.

Parvez patted his chest and stomach to prove that he didn’t have anything underneath his kameez and they all took a tentative step back as though he was about to detonate.

Grey Hoody leaned into the VW Beetle that he was standing next to and whispered something to the passengers. Two doors flew open and two guys stepped out‚ two seats were folded down and two girls stepped out from the back dressed in cheap tracksuits‚ one in blue shell and the other in sickly purple velour. They confidently strutted towards Parvez who had now pushed himself off the pillar. I watched him straighten his topi. There were about a dozen guys who had now gathered around the Beetle watching carefully‚ feet shuffling‚ a bundle of nerves and anticipation. Velour spoke first.

‘So… what?’ she said. ‘You some kind of pervert?’

‘No!’ Parvez replied‚ horrified.

‘Hoping to get your rocks off peeping into cars‚ are ya?’ Velour continued.

‘I am not a pervert‚’ Parvez said‚ eyes darting towards us and quickly away again.

‘Well what are ya‚ then? You look like a cunt terrorist‚’ screeched Shellsuit.

‘You fuckin’ do as well. You got big balls coming in here dressed like that‚’ Velour said‚ and then she moved with her hand‚ as if she was about to grab Parvez by the testicles. Parvez flinched and took a step back clumsily into the pillar. The girls laughed at his predicament.

‘Did you have anything to do with the attack on St Marys Church? Was that you and your Paki mates?’ Velour asked‚ animatedly.

Parvez opened his mouth to respond but before the words could leave his mouth Shellsuit spat in his face and Velour ripped the topi clean off his head and turned towards the baying crowd and waved the topi in the air like some sort of fucking trophy.

My fingers were wrapped around the door handle. I turned to Khan. ‘Now?’

‘No. Wait!’

There were shouts of encouragement and sounds of laughter. With the back of his arm Parvez wiped the gob off his face and unexpectedly and viciously wrenched the ponytail of Velour‚ pulling her back towards him and snatched the topi back from her hand. She let out a high-pitched‚ earth-shattering scream.

And that’s when it all kicked off.

Parvez’s eyes widened and he ran‚ hat in hand‚ towards the stairs to the upper levels. The hostiles pelted after him‚ disappearing up the stairs to a chorus of Paki and Wog and the like. I gripped the metal bar and flung my door open. Khan did the same and we ran across the car park to the door leading to the stairs. I could hear my shoes in my ears pounding on the floor and I wished I had my Nikes on instead of my crappy mosque shoes.

After quickly checking the first two floors we flew through the door of the third. I came through first‚ with Khan just a fraction behind me. They all had their backs to us in a small semi-circle. Through a small gap I saw a flash of cheap beige cotton in the foetal position‚ as Velour and Shellsuit reigned brutal kicks into Parvez’s back and ribs and the guys cheered them on. Behind me‚ a guttural‚ feral sound‚ a fucking ROAR emanated from Khan‚ which stopped the proceedings sharpish. All heads turned. Their focus was now on Khan as they first walked and then ran towards him. But they stopped short as Khan‚ bent at the knees‚ pulled out his blade with a smile.

‘C’mon then!’ Khan growled. ‘Who wants to take a ride in an ambulance?’ He waved the blade around in small circles in front of him like a sparkler. I ran to Parvez and helped him to his feet.

‘Shit‚ Parvez‚ you alright?’ I asked‚ knowing what a stupid question it was.

‘Yes. I’m fine‚’ Parvez said. I took him limping and hobbling to the far wall. He looked down over it as if jumping three storeys down was our only way out.

‘Jay‚ look‚’ he said‚ pointing down towards the ground. ‘There’s more cars coming in.’

There was nothing I could do about that. Ten against three or thirty against three‚ what’s the difference? Either way we were getting fucked. Our best hope was to leave this place with most of our organs intact.

Khan was now surrounded in a tight circle‚ holding the hostiles at arm’s length‚ fiercely arcing and poking the blade towards anybody who tried to cover ground. There was a serene look on his face‚ a look of contentment. This was Khan and this was his element. If he died‚ I believed he would die doing what he loved most. One brave soul came at him from behind‚ pulled his arm tightly around Khan’s thick neck. Khan dealt with that with a forceful backward head-butt‚ breaking his nose. He then spun on his heel to face him and brought the butt of the blade down‚ striking him again on his already busted nose. Blood and mucus fountained out as the chump fell to his knees. But this gave the others a small window to step in closer‚ and they took it. I saw a beer bottle bounce brutally off Khan’s head and it threw him off balance. His legs wobbled but he turned towards his attacker and gave a back-handed slap that lifted the guy off his feet and onto his backside. But then a flurry of strikes rained down‚ and Khan fell to one knee‚ and I could see him desperately trying to muster up some strength‚ but he didn’t have the time or the space and‚ all too easily‚ the mob swallowed him up whole.

My mind whirled and span as fight or flight kicked in‚ and I blindly went in‚ knowing full well what would happen to me. I dragged one guy off and laid into him with the bar. The bar that I never intended to use. Striking him hard and quick on the side of the head‚ and then as he fell to the floor I continued to lay blows on his back until I heard the sickening sound of something shatter within him. I stopped. Before I could contemplate my next move a knuckle duster hit the side of my head‚ sending me sprawling‚ the bar slipped out of my hand and clattered somewhere around me. I was seeing stars. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and from a distance I could just about make out Khan getting the same treatment that Parvez had got from the two girls. But these weren’t girls‚ these were big guys‚ with big boots and big fists‚ stomping and pounding into his flesh. Grey Hoody was standing over me smirking. My eyes had not yet cleared after that knuckle duster blow‚ and all I could see were two yellow eyes and the devil’s smile. In his hand he held my metal bar‚ and just as he positioned himself to strike me the screech of tyres and the high beam of headlights deafened and blinded me further. Three cars haphazardly halted‚ doors flung open and feet hit the ground. All I saw were chequered ghutrah scarves bound tightly across faces. The cavalry had arrived.

The game had just evened itself out.

9

After Khan’s back-up arrived‚ the scene became a blur. I couldn’t tell you who was winning‚ who was losing‚ whose blood was lining the tarmac or whose tooth had just flown past my head. There were punches and kicks and bars and blows and knives and fucking Khan‚ who looked as happy as a child at Disneyland. Someone was laying face down on the ground. He wasn’t moving and it frightened the hell out of me. That feeling intensified when I realised it was the same guy I had viciously and repeatedly swiped with the bar. A short while ago I’d wanted to hurt him with everything I had. Now‚ worried that I could have fucking killed him‚ I just wanted to help.

I shook him by his shoulder gently and then again‚ a little firmer. Still no movement.

How much jail time am I looking at? Am I going to get raped in prison? Am I going to rape in prison? Mum is going to be so disappointed in me. I blinked away my thoughts as I saw movement. Relief washed over me as he stirred and lifted his head and took in the surroundings. I followed his train of thought as he concluded that he was better off staying put and playing dead.

Relieved‚ I left him to it. I jogged over to Parvez‚ who was slumped along the back wall. I helped him to his feet and he winced as if his body had just recalled the kicking that the two girls had inflicted. I made a mental note to take the piss out of him about that at some point. He put his arm around my shoulders as we gingerly moved across the car park and down three flights of stairs. I pushed open the door and looked at the empty parking bay where‚ once upon a time‚ my car had been parked.

My beautiful BMW. The beautiful black leather bucket seats that I had set just so. The crystal clear six-by-nine Blaupunkt speakers. The Pioneer stereo that I’d just had fitted‚ and all my burnt MP3 CDs‚ for which I had spent hours painstakingly selecting just the right songs.

Gone.

My trusty rucksack containing the remainder of Silas’ gear.

Gone.

Seven grand of Silas’ money.

Gone.

10

I was sat at the back on the top deck of an almost empty one-eleven bus on my way to see Silas. I spent the journey nursing a cut above my right ear with a used tissue‚ trying to piece together the blur of stupidity that had just taken place. I cleared the condensation on the window with my sleeve and looked outside. I was three more stops from Silas‚ my supplier and employer and all round fucking psychopath.

There is only one way to describe Silas. And that’s in detail.

At first glance you would not know how to pigeonhole Silas. He dressed preppy‚ which suited his slight frame‚ but lived gangster. Thin-framed‚ black‚ half-moon reading glasses usually hung down from around his pigeon neck on a thin gold chain. Silas had a penchant for V-neck sweaters in vibrant colours‚ always worn over a crisp white shirt with his initials embroidered on the collar. His short dark hair was always neatly side-parted‚ and you would never notice a difference in growth. His trousers were relaxed and patterned‚ the type that wouldn’t look out of place hitting balls on the green. On his feet you would find delicate suede slip-ons with tassels. He lived in a house. A very big house. In the suburbs. Double fronted with enough space in his drive to comfortably park five cars‚ which was just as well as he owned five cars. He lived alone. Just him and his cook and his security and his hairdresser. There were always girls hanging around too. He clearly had a type. Tall‚ Amazonian‚ muscular looking girls‚ tottering around in impossibly high heels and little more. Rumour had it that Silas had his own private strip club in the basement. It was the closest thing I’d seen to the Playboy mansion. But Hugh Hefner he was not. Silas looked expensive and Silas smelt expensive and he drove and he lived expensive. He was polite and well-spoken and he controlled‚ what? Maybe sixty per cent of any narcotic sold in West London. It all went through him. Weed‚ Skunk‚ Coke‚ H‚ Uppers‚ Downers‚ Lefties‚ Righties‚ Viagra‚ Valium and any other mind-bending‚ thought-invoking‚ impotence-zapping substance that you could think of. Also‚ and this was just whispers‚ but I’d heard that he had a small arsenal tucked away somewhere. And when I say small‚ I mean huge. Enough to make Rambo blush.

I peered out of the bus window as the Odeon on the high street slipped past me. The so-called revenge attacks didn’t seem to have hit Kingston. There were clubbers and night-goers and general happiness in full effect.

I was relieved to be away from Khan and Parvez and into relative peace. Fucking jokers with their fucking half-arsed plan. And who suffered? Me‚ that’s who. And if I didn’t have my story straight then there was a whole lot more of suffering coming my way. If Silas so much as had an inkling that I was blagging‚ then I guess I would soon be able to confirm whether he did indeed have a huge arsenal‚ as it would be pointing at my fucking head. So bullshit to one side‚ I decided to come clean.

The bus stopped. It had to‚ it was the last stop. End of its journey‚ and quite possibly the end of mine.

11

Big‚ burly and black is how I would describe Staples‚ the sentry that stood guard outside Silas’ place. He’d earned his nickname for his penchant for using a stapler in a somewhat unorthodox manner – eyes‚ mouth‚ ears‚ nostrils and any other orifice that needed stapling shut. He was a tough motherfucker. Tough enough to scare away any would be chancers‚ and tough enough not to think a jacket necessary‚ even though‚ through his tight T-shirt‚ his nipples told a different story.

‘Staples‚’ I said‚ smiling brightly. ‘I’m getting cold just looking at you.’ He smirked at me and we carried out a complicated handshake.

‘You’re late‚ Jay‚’ Staples said. ‘Gaffer been waiting for you for time.’

I checked the time on my phone. Past midnight‚ just. I looked up at Staples and tried to gauge Silas’ mood through him.

‘Car trouble‚ man‚’ I said‚ and shrugged nonchalantly.

‘The fuck happened to your face?’ I touched the side of my head and felt blood seeping from it and instantly felt light-headed. ‘I hope you haven’t been dripping claret all over the fucking drive‚ Jay.’ I took out the already bloody tissue from my pocket and held it to my head. ‘That’s disgusting‚ Jay. Hang on.’ He took out a bulky walkie-talkie from his back pocket and spoke into it. ‘Serenity. Get your beautiful behind into the hallway and bring your first-aid kit.’ Staples moved his bulk away from the door and let me into the hallway. ‘Wait here. Serenity will see to you… And Jay?’

‘What?’

‘Smarten the fuck up next time. You’re bringing down the house prices.’

I was sat in the most supremely comfortable grand armchair. Somewhere in the background Sinatra was telling me that he did it his way. Two perfectly formed‚ cosmetically enhanced breasts hovered precariously‚ inches away from my face‚ with a thin silver chain and pendant that read Serenity nestled between them. The keeper of the breasts fussed around my wound as she gently and expertly applied a small bandage to it.

‘There‚’ she said‚ admiring her handiwork. ‘Try not to touch it‚ you don’t want to infect it now.’ She strutted away and my eyes tracked her until she tottered out of view.

‘Isn’t she just a peach?’

I followed the voice and realised that Silas was sitting directly opposite me in an even grander and more ostentatious armchair than mine. He was in a black robe with a gold trim‚ parted just enough that I could see his hairless bird chest. One leg was up on the chair‚ with his bare foot planted on a velvet cushion as he cleaned out his toes with the blade of a nail cutter. Once satisfied‚ he blew the top of the blade towards me and dropped his leg to the floor‚ his foot finding comfort in a blue suede loafer. He crossed his legs and his silk maroon pyjama rode up to reveal a pale white ankle.

‘Silas. Sorry‚ I didn’t notice you‚’ I said‚ and instantly regretted it.

‘I don’t blame you‚ Jay. Serenity has that effect. As beautiful as she is caring‚’ Silas said‚ fondly. If he was offended‚ he didn’t show it. My finger reached for the side of my head. ‘Don’t mess with it. Let it heal naturally. You do not want to get on Serenity’s bad side.’

I put my hand down on my lap and tried to look comfortable.

‘I met her when I was getting my appendix taken out‚’ Silas continued. ‘As I was lying on the hospital bed coming to‚ there she was‚ standing over me. Larger than life and as beautiful as the Devil could have made her.’ Silas’ gaze flitted away from me‚ lost somewhere in the distance. ‘Naturally I offered her a job and I provided her with a cute little uniform and all the kit a nurse could require. Her husband decided to demonstrate his displeasure by one night turning up here‚ unannounced. Unfortunately at the time she was going way beyond the call of duty. Staples did what Staples does best‚ and he left with his eyes and mouth stapled shut.’

Silas smiled.

I smiled back.

‘Jay‚’ he said.

‘Yes‚’ I said.

‘Where the fuck is my money?’

Here we go.

Even though I was planning to go with the truth‚ I had rehearsed it in a manner that would buy me some sympathy. A ticking off maybe but ultimately a shit happens response from him.

‘Now‚ I’m no Sherlock Holmes.’ Silas said. ‘Shit‚ Jay‚ I’m not even Watson. But I didn’t see you pull up in your car and I don’t see a bag. I’m pretty sure that you haven’t got my cash or my gear in your pockets. So I surmise… No‚ I deduce that you are empty handed. Feel free to correct me.’

I just sat there. I was speechless. I was without the power of speech. Elmsleigh Car Park‚ there was a brawl. Khan and Parvez dragged me there. No‚ no‚ start with the mosque. There was an attack at my local mosque and…

‘Speak‚ motherfucker!’ Silas said‚ shattering my reverie.

‘My car… It… It got jacked‚’ I stuttered‚ well aware of the spittle flying out of my mouth.

‘So? What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?’ He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward closer to me‚ resting his elbows on his knees. He smelt good. Expensive. ‘Unless‚ of course you left my shit in your car‚ unattended.’

Unattended? Yeah. Doors open? Yeah. Keys in the ignition? Oh yeah.

My silence said all that had to be said. Silas watched me‚ amusement in his eyes‚ waiting for me to respond.

I opened my mouth to apologise. Silas narrowed his eyes in anticipation.

I thought better and closed my mouth. Silas clenched his jaw in irritation.

He looked above and behind me. I turned my head a touch to the side and I could feel the presence of Staples‚ standing directly behind my armchair.

‘How much?’ Silas asked‚ just above a whisper‚ loaded with understated menace

‘All of it‚’ I said‚ my voice feeble.

‘Cash? Gear?’

‘Both.’ His eyebrows told me to elaborate. ‘Seven grand in cash and about two grand worth of green.’

‘Ten grand?’

‘Nine‚’ I said‚ correcting him.

‘Ten grand‚’ Silas said. ‘Would you like me to get you a calculator?’

‘Ten grand‚’ I said‚ defeated.

Sinatra had given up the ghost and the room was filled with an eerie hiss. Silas stood up and tightened the belt to his robe accentuating his non-existent waist. He paced up and down in front of me‚ four steps one way‚ then four steps the other‚ hands knotted behind his back‚ his suede loafers padding softly on the carpet.

‘The thing is‚ Jay‚ I like you. Always have. You’ve been a good servant to me.’

Servant!

‘But I just can’t let this go. Do you know why I can’t let this go?’ Silas asked.

‘Principles.’

‘Jackpot‚ Jay… Principles. The cornerstone of every successful business.’

‘I’ll pay you back‚ Silas. I just need time. If you just give me some more gear‚ I’ll have the ten back to you and then some in no time.’

Silas‚ still pacing in front of me‚ shook his head‚ barely a movement‚ but it was clear I wasn’t leaving there with fresh supplies.

‘Okay‚ fine. That’s fair‚’ I said‚ to appease. ‘I’ll find another way.’ There was no other way. I had nothing. I couldn’t even sell my car and I couldn’t wait for the insurance money to come through because I hadn’t got around to insuring it. ‘I just need time‚ Silas.’ I repeated. ‘I can get a job and pay you in instalments.’

Silas grinned. I caught a flash of his too-white teeth. ‘Instalments?’

‘Yeah. I can sort you out a G a month‚ every month‚ without fail.’

‘So… A grand a month‚’ Silas counted ten on his fingers. ‘For ten months and we’ll be square? Is that what you’re proposing?’ A twinkle in his eye. Hope in mine.

I nodded. Even if he agreed‚ it was going to be impossible to come up with that kind of loot without dealing.

‘I tell you what‚ Jay‚’ I heard nasty phlegm rattling around as he cleared his throat. ‘You have until next Friday. Midnight.’

That’s when I fucked up.

‘C’mon Silas‚ be fair.’ Silas stopped pacing sharply. He turned on his heel and faced me. My words seemed to echo around the room.

Silas took his eyes off me and glanced behind me‚ and before I had a chance to turn I was being lifted off my seat by my hair‚ pulled sideways over the arm of the chair. I scrunched my face in pain as Staples tightened his grip. I could feel cold metal around my ear as a stapler was clamped around it. Before I could react‚ Silas was on top of me‚ straddling me‚ laughing manically. He had the blade of the nail clippers in my nose‚ stretching my nostril. I stopped wriggling and froze. I didn’t want my ear pierced or my nose sliced.

‘What did you say to me‚ boy?’ Silas hissed.

‘Nothing‚’ I said‚ as the stench of toenail clippings reached my brain and his erection dug into my chest. I wanted to vomit.

‘That’s what I thought‚’ Silas said‚ as he dismounted. Staples released the grip on my hair and moved the stapler away.

I was breathing hard. Silas took his seat opposite me.

‘Why are you still here?’

12

Kingsley Parker walked out of his apartment for the third time in a matter of minutes. He had got to the end of the quiet‚ leafy road which he hated‚ when he realised that he’d forgotten his phone and had to turn back. With his phone in his possession‚ Parker had got as far as South Kensington tube station‚ when he once again had to turn back‚ having realised that the details of his destination‚ haphazardly scribbled down on a scrap piece of paper‚ were still sitting on his bedside table‚ under the year-old bottle of vodka‚ seal unbroken‚ that acted as his security blanket. More time wasted. Parker was going to be late.

The Tube journey was uneventful and he bided his time eyeing up passengers for signs of sinister nervousness. It wasn’t his intention; it was his training. His knee jackhammered and his stall-bought coffee threatened to spill as he questioned himself and his ability to carry out his job. The same thoughts as yesterday. The same thoughts as every day.

Parker arrived at Church House Conference Centre to find Dr Thomas Gladstone sitting in a booth in the canteen reading a file. He cleared his throat and the doctor looked up.

‘Hello‚ Chalky‚’ Gladstone said. They shook hands and Parker slid into the seat opposite him. Parker squirmed at the mere mention of his nickname. Gladstone picked up on this immediately‚ and gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement.

‘I am sorry that you’ve had to meet me here but I have lectures all week. Needs must‚ hey? Shall I be mother?’ he said‚ pouring the tea for them. ‘Drop or an ocean?’ he asked‚ holding up a small jug of milk.

‘Somewhere in between. Thanks.’ Parker watched him pour. He had to force his knee to stop hammering.

Gladstone brought the cup to his lips and blew the steam away as he eyed Parker. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah‚ I’m fine‚’ Parker lied‚ shrinking under Gladstone’s gaze. Gladstone let it slide.

‘So? Small talk or shall we get straight to it?’ Gladstone asked‚ trying to lighten the mood.

Parker said nothing.

‘Straight to it it is then‚’ Gladstone said‚ as he placed the file on the table and put his hands over it. ‘Why him?’

‘We’ve had watch on a few candidates but there’s something about him. He seems as comfortable on the streets as he does in the mosque‚ able to change his dynamic as required.’

‘I see you haven’t lost the old instincts.’

Parker shrugged. Unwilling to commit.

‘Do you not think that one of our own would be more suitable?’ Gladstone asked.

‘No. I don’t. He is well known in the community and he has ties to Sutton Mosque. I think the risk factor of him getting made is slim.’

‘Whereas our guys may stick out?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ Parker nodded towards the file. ‘What did you think? I realise that you’ve only had a few hours to look at the file‚ but what are your impressions?’

‘It doesn’t matter. A few hours or a few days‚ my reading would be the same.’

Parker waited for Gladstone to elaborate. He didn’t.

‘And?’ Parker was getting tired of prompting him.

‘He’s perfect‚’ Gladstone exclaimed. ‘Or he’s all wrong.’

What the bloody hell does that mean? Parker thought‚ and he gave Gladstone a look that said exactly that.

‘You want to use him as an asset‚ but will he play ball? Lord knows you have enough on him to persuade him. Trousers well and truly around his ankles and with his fingers in the cookie jar‚’ Gladstone said. ‘He is impressionable and if handled correctly he can be willing. But therein lies the problem.’

‘How so?’ Parker asked‚ rubbing his temples. This was not what he wanted to hear.

‘Willing and impressionable. Two very significant words. Given the right environment he can be willed and impressed upon in the other direction. Take him or any young man for that matter and put him in a hostile situation. Training camps‚ lectures‚ Imams‚ weapons‚ jihadists. Bonds are formed‚ lessons are learnt and seeds are planted. How do we know that he won’t deviate?’

‘With all due respect‚ Dr Gladstone‚ that’s what I’m asking you. It’s your area of expertise. Do you think that he could double cross?’ Parker said‚ the hint of desperation in his voice evident and he hated himself for it. Gladstone smiled passively.

‘Look‚ Parker. I have successfully profiled rapists‚ serial killers and paedophiles and had a direct hand in their capture. But this… This is different. It’s grey. What we know about extremists is that we don’t know very much. Not really. Especially not enough to profile them. They can come from any background. A diverse bunch. Only a few months ago we have had a high-flying‚ suit-wearing‚ secretary-shagging lawyer blow himself and everything around him up outside the American Embassy in Turkey. In the last twelve months we’ve seen scholars‚ junkies‚ alcoholics‚ bin men‚ the unemployed‚ all turn. It doesn’t matter. Status does not matter. The popular‚ the loner‚ even the non-religious.’

‘Yes. Okay. I get the picture‚’ Parker said. Not rudely‚ though that’s how it sounded.

‘They do not fit a single demographic profile and they all have different views and assumed paths. Drawn in for reasons political‚ personal‚ religious or otherwise. They don’t wear a uniform and they don’t play by any particular rules. So you tell me. How do we know? How can they be profiled?’

Parker nodded thoughtfully. Gladstone was right. How do we know?

Parker took a sip of tea. Gladstone did the same.

‘It’s a judgement call‚ Parker.’

13

I had killed thirteen prostitutes‚ sent a missile into a cop car and accidentally shot my best friend in the head. In the process I’d made almost a half a mill and that figure was rapidly rising. But it wasn’t the kind of money that would impress Silas‚ and hiding in bed for two days straight‚ playing Grand Theft Auto‚ was not going to solve my problem.

I was fully aware of the deep shit I was in‚ but I needed time to think. And the result of all my thinking? Not a goddamn thing. I would have to resort to asking Mum. There was nothing to be ashamed of in asking a parent for help. It’s my right to ask and it’s her right to provide.

I pushed myself out of bed and I padded my way downstairs. Halfway down I heard an unfamiliar voice.

A male voice.

I pushed open the kitchen door just as said voice uttered something so fucking hilarious that it made Mum throw herself onto his lap. My presence soon put a stop to their laughter and they both smiled nervously at me as they took in my evident bedhead and my Batman onesie. Mum had the good grace to detach herself from him. She walked over to me and planted one on my cheek. I sat down opposite whoever the fuck he was and Mum slid into the seat closest to him – even though the seat next to me was available!

‘This is‚ um‚ Andrew. Andrew Bishop‚’ Mum said‚ by way of introduction. ‘Andrew‚ this is my son‚ Jay.’

He put his right hand out‚ I put my right hand out too but it didn’t make contact. Instead I reached past his hand and in a pathetic act of rebellion I grabbed his coffee and took a sip of it whilst eyeballing him from over the rim.

One-nil to me.

He took his left hand into his right and shook his own hand at some attempt at humour and it made my Mum unsuccessfully stifle a laugh.

One-one.

We sat in awkward silence for a few seconds as I finished off Andrew’s coffee‚ daring him to say something to me in my domain. I checked him out. Dark‚ wavy‚ presidential hair dropping effortlessly over his big forehead. A nose that can only be described as prominent and dark eyes which held mine without hesitation. Stripy shirt with a loose brown blazer‚ with patches on the elbow and a jaunty novelty tie that sat askew. Looking for all the world like a geography teacher.

Andrew glanced at his watch. ‘Oh‚ look at that. Must dash.’

Yeah‚ on your bike‚ mate. Dash away!

‘Andrew’‚ Mum said‚ ‘teaches at Heston Primary.’

I knew it.

I shrugged. Big and exaggerated. The kind of shrug that did not require decrypting. Andrew and Mum stood up in tandem. Mum stepped to him‚ straightened his tie and then tiptoed and kissed him on the face. On the fucking face! They smiled stupidly at each other for a second‚ and then they walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway. I heard the front door open but not close. I walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway and made myself into a sixth toe. I watched them carefully talking in hushed tones. I sniffed loudly. I cleared my throat. I forced a cough until finally he got the message and walked out.

Mum gave him a cheery wave and said ‘Good luck!’ She hesitantly shut the door after Andrew was out of sight‚ and I made my way back into the kitchen for some Coco Pops.

Mum walked in as I was slamming the kitchen cabinet shut. She slapped me on the back of the head.

‘What the fu—’

‘Excuse me?’

‘What was that for?’ I asked‚ rubbing the back of my head.

‘Calm down‚ Jay. You’ve made your point‚’ Mum said.

I finished preparing my cereal and sat at the table whilst she loaded the dishwasher. This clearly was not the right time to ask for ten large.

So instead I asked‚ ‘Good luck for what?’

Mum didn’t answer me straight away. She took off her marigolds and pulled up a chair opposite me. Her features softened‚ her earlier annoyance with me no longer visible.

‘It’s Andrew’s last day at school.’

‘How sweet. Are all the kids going to sign his shirt and flour bomb him?’ I said‚ through a mouthful.

Ignoring my sarcasm‚ Mum placed both her hands out invitingly onto the middle of the table. I looked at her curiously as I crunched loudly on my cereal. I slowly put the spoon back in the bowl and my hands reached out to hers.

‘Jay… We need to talk.’

I swallowed. Never had she said that to me before. Yeah‚ we talk but we don’t talk.

‘What is it‚ Mum?’

I could see her trying to piece together the words in her head which just added to my already increasing anxiety. Different scenarios ran through my mind‚ none of them pleasant.

‘Mum! What?’ I said‚ and it came out like a high pitched squawk. My hands had tensed and tightened around Mum’s.

‘Andrew and I. We‚ um… Well‚ we… I don’t know quite how to say this.’

Okay‚ so they had been seeing each other. No big deal. I wasn’t that naïve to think that Mum was still pottering around the house‚ pining for a good Muslim man to make an honest woman of her. I released my hands from hers. It’s wasn’t like she was dying‚ or anything that would warrant holding hands. For a second there‚ just for a minute‚ she had frightened me.

‘Yeah‚ yeah‚ Mum. You don’t have to spell it out.’ I aimed for and hit nonchalance. ‘So you’re seeing this Andrew character. I get it. So what we looking at? Marriage? Is he moving in? Gonna live in sin‚ are we?’ I said‚ with a wink. I leaned back in my chair and continued to devour my Coco Pops.

Silence for a moment. Then‚ ‘We are going to live together… In Qatar.’

I stopped eating. ‘Where?’

‘Qatar‚ it’s in the—’

‘Yeah‚ I know where Qatar is.’ I said‚ unnecessarily raising my voice. ‘When?’ I asked‚ a little softer.

‘Soon… Wednesday.’

‘Wednesday. This Wednesday? As in the day after tomorrow? That Wednesday?’ I said incredulously. Even as I was saying this my mind was in overdrive. This could be my way out. Yeah‚ Wednesday. I can be out of here before my Friday midnight deadline and not have to worry about Silas. This could work!

‘I know what you’re thinking‚ Jay.’

You have no idea what I’m thinking.

‘But Andrew has been offered a teaching job in Doha and he asked me to go with him.’

I didn’t say anything. Thinking‚ thinking‚ thinking.

‘I kept declining‚’ she continued. ‘I must have said no a hundred times. I kept wondering how it would affect you. But then I thought… I’m not such a bad Mum. I’ve done a pretty good job raising you on my own. A beautiful boy to a handsome young man.’

She kept on going. I tuned out.

My mind was made up. In the last few seconds I had planned out my next few days. I had to see Idris… and I guess I should probably see that annoying twerp Parvez. Say my farewells. Goodbye lads‚ I am off to pastures new. Hot and exotic. I’ll send you a postcard. Goodbye‚ Silas‚ I’ll definitely send you a postcard. Maybe a picture of me on a sunbed browning myself with a Margarita in hand. Oh yeah‚ the ultimate fuck you.

I tuned back into the conversation feeling elated.

‘You’ll never know how proud I am when I’m with you… But it’s time to think about myself. I know you’ll be alright‚ Jay…’ She wiped her tears. I hadn’t even realised that she had been crying. She cleared her throat. ‘I’ll leave everything documented for you‚ service providers and any important phone numbers.’

What? Where is she going with this?

‘I’m confident‚ in fact I’m certain‚ that you can run things around here.’

That’s when it hit me. Late to the party as always.

‘Am I not coming with you‚ Mum?’ I said‚ my voice only just above a whisper.

‘Oh‚ Jay‚’ Mum said‚

She stood up and walked around the table and held my head tightly to her chest. I sat frozen‚ listening to her heartbeat and it took all my effort not to cry. I closed my eyes tightly and inhaled deeply her scent‚ the realisation hitting me that from here on‚ my problems were mine alone. I got myself into this mess. I had to get myself out.

If Mum believed that I was ready to be a man then‚ fuck it‚ I was ready to be a man. I detached myself from her and emerged with a smile that told her exactly that.

14

Hounslow High Street hustled and bristled with every type of religion‚ culture and colour. Ten different languages could be heard in a two-minute walk. All walks of life from the prim to the pauper. Students‚ couples‚ doddery old dears‚ shoppers looking for their Pound Shop fix mingling with the shoplifters‚ chancers‚ dealers and thugs that kept Hounslow police station one of the busiest nicks in West London. In keeping with the rest of Hounslow‚ the police station was a nondescript‚ brown‚ square building‚ dull and dated. Scaffolding had covered the side of it for as long as anyone could remember‚ and the enquiries desk had been moved to a shoddy Portakabin plonked directly outside‚ with an ever present queue.

As per usual‚ Idris Zaidi walked past the Portakabin at the start of his shift with a disappointed shake of the head‚ and as per usual Idris Zaidi promised himself he would work on his transfer out of Hounslow. A transfer to neighbouring and upmarket Chiswick would be nice. A better class of criminal. It was that fantasy that was ringing around his head as he carelessly brushed into the oncoming Chief Superintendent Penelope Wakefield.

‘Ma’am‚’ Idris said. ‘My apologies.’

Wakefield mumbled something incoherent until she realised who it was and her eyes widened.

‘Zaidi. My office in ten.’

‘Yes‚ ma’am‚’ Idris replied‚ and stood straight to attention‚ noticing the man who was accompanying the Chief. He was dressed in a shoddy old ill-fitting pea coat‚ with a woolly hat pulled down low. Idris acknowledged him with a tight smile. The man stared back at Idris with such intensity it felt as if he was trying to see into his soul.

*

Idris stood in front of the large‚ pine desk. Files and documents were stacked neatly in the corner. The half-eaten remnants of a breakfast bar and a sealed fruit yoghurt sat in a small Tupperware box. A computer whirred breathlessly‚ as if exhausted by the punishment it had to endure. The Chief’s eyes were on him. Idris glanced down at the empty chair next to him‚ waiting to be asked to occupy it. Her phone had the audacity to ring and‚ without taking her eyes off him‚ she answered it before the first ring had faded. She greeted the caller with a stern ‘Not now!’ and the phone was back safely in its cradle. It would be a very long time before that caller tried to ring again.

Idris was not about to play a game of who blinks first.

‘Ma’am?’

Wakefield inhaled through her nose and then expelled air through her mouth. ‘We have shown a great deal of faith in you‚ Zaidi.’

‘Yes‚ ma’am.’

‘You got a first in Law from Queen Mary University.’ It wasn’t a question‚ so he didn’t answer. ‘We saw the potential in you from very early on and we admitted you in the Fast Track Promotion and Development Programme‚ a decision which was not roundly popular amongst your peers‚ especially those senior to you. The Fast Track Programme duration is three years‚’ she squinted at him ‘You completed it in two.’

‘Yes‚ ma’am.’ What else was there to say? Idris wondered why his CV was being regurgitated at him.

‘You were out of uniform‚ sub-heading and then heading teams in a remarkably short space of time. Your record speaks for itself.’

‘Yes‚ ma’am. Thank you‚ ma’am.’ Idris felt like he’d said too much even though he had hardly said anything.

‘With your Law degree you chose to uphold the law rather than stand in a court and pick holes in it.’

Idris chose to say nothing.

‘So‚ my question to you is this: Why did you choose to become a police officer?’

Idris cleared his throat. He knew the answer to this. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked this very question. In fact‚ he remembered smashing this very question when he’d first been interviewed for the Met.

‘I was attracted to the diversity of the role. Every new day brings a new challenge‚ which I thrive on both mentally and physically. The opportunity to help people make better choices and the opportunity to save lives. Being able to lead a—’

‘Stop. Start again. This time you tell me. I don’t want hear extracts from a handbook.’

Idris swallowed‚ his throat was dry‚ his palms sweaty. His pupils floated to the far right of his eyes as he tried to recall the real reason that made him apply for a life in the force when he had other‚ easier and certainly more lucrative options.

‘My father‚ actually‚’ Idris said‚ smiling at the memory. ‘Yes‚ my father. He would say to me time and time again: Son‚ there is too much violence and evil in this world which we cannot control. But we can control what is happening on our doorstep. It’s funny but I’ve never told anybody that before.’ Idris looked at the Chief for some sign of softness or emotion. There was none. Wakefield’s eyes were steady and steely.

‘We grew up in a bad neighbourhood. My dad wanted to be part of the force but all he could manage was a job as a security guard. A job which he took very seriously. Sometimes to a fault.’ Idris shrugged. ‘And I wanted to emulate that attitude‚ that mentality. One day I’m going to have kids and I want them to grow up in a safe environment‚ which I know is probably just a pipe dream. But I have to try‚ and it’s not just for my children‚ it’s for everyone who cannot protect themselves. I want to protect them as my father protected me. I am sick and tired of the scum that litter our streets.’

Wakefield smashed the palm of her hands on the table. The sound reverberated around the room. The neatly stacked pile of documents shuddered and dislodged‚ the top sheet decided to make a break for it and lazily arced through the air before landing itself in the bin. The shudder also disturbed the mouse and the PC monitor came to life‚ lending a harsh glow to Wakefield’s face.

‘So why is it that you have been seen on many occasions with a known drug dealer?’

There it was.

Jay.

Wakefield calmly tucked a stray hair behind her ear which had become loose during her outburst. A feminine gesture which seemed out of character.

‘What’s happened?’ Idris asked in a low‚ measured tone.

‘Do you know how it would look for you‚ for us‚ if word got out that one of our own has been associating with a drug dealer?’

Without taking her eyes off him‚ Wakefield opened up the top drawer to her right and picked out a brown envelope. She threw it down on the desk.

Idris picked it up and slipped out several photographs printed on 7 x 5 glossy card. There were three photos‚ all taken within a very short period. Minutes.

The first was of Idris and Jay in a Vauxhall Nova‚ Jay’s arm hanging out of the window with a dubious roll-up in his hand. The second appeared to show a third person peering through the driver’s window‚ seemingly in conversation with Jay.

The third photo showed a clear exchange of currency and a small package.

Idris calmly slid the photos back into the envelope and placed it back on the desk.

‘He’s a friend‚’ Idris said quietly and clenched his jaw waiting for the onslaught.

‘You stupid boy. The front page of every bloody tabloid‚ if this gets out. I can see it as clear as day. What do you think is going to happen to you‚ Zaidi? Hmm? Sitting in the bloody car with a criminal whilst a drug deal takes place right under your bloody nose.’

‘With all due respect‚ ma’am‚’ Idris countered. ‘He’s a low level juggler. He only deals to mates. It’s not like we’re looking at him.’ Idris’ eyes fell on the envelope. ‘Why are we looking at him?’

‘We’re not‚’ Wakefield said. A small change in her expression led Idris to believe that she had given away far more than she wanted to.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong‚ ma’am.’

‘You have a bright future ahead of you Zaidi and you are in real danger of jeopardising all that you have worked towards‚ and all the trust we have placed in you… Am I making myself clear‚ Zaidi?

Idris gritted his teeth and held his tongue.

‘I insist that you cut off ties with Javid Qasim.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘You are not to see him again.’

Idris knew how this was going to sound but he said it anyway. ‘He’s my friend.’

‘Make a choice‚ Detective Inspector.’ Wakefield said‚ emphasising his title to hammer home the point.

‘This is bullshit‚’ Idris muttered under his breath‚ purposely loud enough for the Chief to hear. Wakefield let it slide as she replaced the envelope back in the top drawer.

‘Dismissed.’

Idris stood his ground for a moment‚ his blood bubbled and threatened to spill over. He eyed the Chief momentarily before turning on his heel and walking towards the door. He placed his hand on the door handle but didn’t turn it. A question had been burning through his mind as soon as he had seen the photographs. He looked down at his hand and his knuckles had turned white. He released it and turned to face the Chief.

‘Who was that man you were talking to outside?’

‘I said you’re dismissed‚’ Wakefield said‚ her head down‚ avoiding eye contact.

Idris couldn’t let it go. ‘Is this anything to do with him?

This time Wakefield’s head snapped up and her eyes locked into his.

‘Get out of my office‚ now!’

15

Major General Stewart Sinclair sat in Boardroom 3 alongside John Robinson‚ Assistant Director of Counter Terrorism Operations. Boardroom 3 was the smallest boardroom in the Security Service building‚ however it remained a popular choice due to the breathtaking and calming views of the River Thames. On the table in front of them was a printed photo of Javid Qasim. Teddy Lawrence‚ the young officer‚ sat across the desk from them and was on his second exaggerated glance at his watch.

Kingsley Parker walked through the door‚ removed his pea coat and hung it on the back of his chair. As he sat down next to Lawrence‚ his coat slipped to the floor. Lawrence suppressed a smile. A smile which did not go unnoticed. Parker picked up the coat and looked around the room for a coat stand. Unable to locate one he folded the coat and placed it on the chair next to him.

‘Traffic bad‚ Parker?’ Lawrence asked.

Parker ignored him.

‘Right. Let’s get started‚ shall we?’ Sinclair announced. His authoritative manner was such that anything he said sounded like an announcement. Every word enunciated and boomed‚ ensuring that there could be no mistakes as to what had been said or heard. The Major General had previously been in the army and he still used his rank. ‘Parker‚ you attended two meetings‚’ Sinclair looked down at his notes. ‘With our very own Dr Thomas Gladstone and Chief Superintendent Penelope Wakefield of Hounslow Met.’ Sinclair didn’t wait for a response. ‘Would you like to brief us?’

Parker fidgeted slightly in his chair. His woolly jumper had started to itch and he had to make a concerted effort not reach around and scratch his back. He started slowly‚ tripping over words but he eventually found some rhythm as he filled them in. From his peripheral vision he could see the obvious glee emanating from Lawrence.

‘Well‚’ Sinclair said‚ ‘the good doctor‚ as always‚ at his elusive best. He is right‚ though. It is very much a judgement call. What’s your take on it‚ Parker?’

‘The ease in which he can adapt to his environment‚ could see him as an invaluable asset. It wouldn’t take much for him to get noticed by the radicals who attend Sutton Mosque. Already‚ he’s shown his commitment to the community with helping out at the mosque and then the subsequent revenge attack at the car park in Staines. No question‚ news of his action would have been noticed.’

‘And we’ve got him by the balls!’ Lawrence chimed in.

Sinclair looked at Lawrence calmly‚ with an amused look on his face. ‘We’ll come to you in a moment‚ son. Please continue‚ Parker. How did it go with Wakefield? Will she bend?’

‘She isn’t best pleased with our proposition. Given the time frame‚ she feels that she is being rushed into a decision that she doesn’t want to make. They have invested a lot of time and resources targeting the upper-echelon drug dealers. One particular big fish‚ actually.’ Parker reached across to his coat and dug around awkwardly from pocket to pocket and eventually removed a crumpled photograph and placed it on the table next to the photograph of Javid Qasim

‘Who are we looking at?’ Sinclair asked.

‘This is Silas Drakos AKA The Drake AKA The Count. We believe he is responsible for a high percentage of the drugs that flow through West London. He is also believed to be involved in the buying and selling of some very heavy artillery.’

‘Drakos is not our problem.’ Robinson finally broke his silence and a waft of his lunch emanated. ‘Wakefield has to cooperate or we go over her head.’

Parker carefully eyeballed Robinson. Robinson was exactly the kind of guy that Parker hated. The type that he had reported to throughout his career.

‘Wakefield has expressed concern that if they were to pick up Javid Qasim‚ Silas may go to ground.’

Robinson looked at each face around the table. ‘Somebody care to tell me how a bloody drug baron is taking precedence over national security? I don’t care if he’s Pablo bloody Escobar.’ Robinson jabbed a nicotine stained finger on to the crumpled photograph. ‘Silas Drakos is not a priority!’

Silence descended. Parker put his hand on his knee before it started to hammer and counted to ten in his head. He took a breath and in a calm measured voice he said‚ ‘There is a way to appease both—’

‘Appease?’ Robinson shouted‚ as though he and that word had shared some dark history. He stood up and walked over to the water cooler. ‘Let me tell you something‚ gentlemen‚ we are currently watching eight Muslim clerics‚ in London alone‚ who are openly spreading hate and inciting violence. These clerics attract a big audience‚ and make no mistake that audience is growing by the day. It is clear as crystal what their agenda is‚ but can we kick them out? No‚ we bloody can’t. Because our government and our laws and our policies are in place to bloody appease!’

Robinson came back to the table‚ his face had reddened and he was slightly out of breath. He drank his water greedily.

‘Please‚ Parker‚’ Sinclair said‚ ignoring the outburst. ‘You were saying.’

‘We have gathered enough evidence for Javid to be convicted. That evidence falls into the hands of Wakefield. They bring him in and he gives a statement pointing to Silas.’

Sinclair rubbed his chin as he visualised how this would play out.

‘So‚ Silas is arrested and we have Qasim in our pocket‚’ Sinclair clarified. He looked across at Robinson. Robinson hesitantly acquiesced with a gentle nod. ‘Only question now is‚ will Jay play ball? We have him for dealing and assault‚ he’s looking at a short spell inside. Is there a chance that he’ll keep quiet and take the hit?’

Sinclair turned to Lawrence‚ who looked about ready to burst if he didn’t have his say soon. ‘Lawrence‚ anything you would like to add?’

Lawrence sat up straight‚ cleared his throat and held strong eye contact.

‘Yes‚ sir. We have Javid Qasim’s car in our hold. In the boot of his BMW we found a rucksack containing seven thousand pounds in cash and just under a pound of high-potency skunk weed‚ both of which we believe are the property of Silas Drakos. Regardless of who they belong to‚ the possession charge alone is going see Qasim receive a significant sentence. On top of which‚ it’s reasonable to assume that Drakos would not have been happy that his drugs and money have gone missing – and that’s putting it mildly‚ given his violent reputation. For both of these reasons I think Qasim has no choice but to sing.’

Sinclair nodded and his eyes momentarily flitted to Parker.

‘It was the wrong move‚’ Parker said.

‘With all due respect‚ sir‚’ Lawrence continued‚ ‘we have invested a lot of time and manpower scoping Qasim. I saw an opportunity and I took the initiative. And as a result we now have enough on Qasim to mould him as we please. We’d still be watching him now if I hadn’t—’

‘You’ve made your point‚ Lawrence‚’ Sinclair said.

‘Well I think that shows a lot of enterprise‚’ Robinson piped up‚ happy to recognise a kindred spirit. ‘What did you say your name is?’

‘Lawrence‚ sir‚’ he said. ‘Teddy Lawrence.’

*

In the corridor outside‚ Sinclair indicated for Parker to hold back as they watched Robinson and Lawrence walk cosily away.

‘They may as well hold bloody hands‚’ Sinclair said. He turned and faced Parker. ‘It’s done. You don’t have to say it.’

‘Sir?’ Parker said.

‘Lawrence… He’s not your responsibility anymore. I’m going to ensure that he is moved somewhere better suited. His enthusiasm may impress some but moving forward we need discipline and a clear line of command.’ Parker nodded as Sinclair continued. ‘Get Wakefield on board‚ she has no reason to decline. Qasim can give her Drakos on a platter… And listen‚ I think we should have first crack at the boy. This whole Drakos subject is a by-product. Qasim has to agree terms with us first. And then – and only then – can he give a statement pointing at Silas. It has to be in that order.’

‘Yes‚ sir‚’ Parker agreed.

‘Get a couple of our guys to pick him up‚ arrange it so the boys in blue tag along too. But before he sees the inside of that police station… He’s yours.”

‘Mine‚ sir?’

‘I want you to handle him from here onwards‚ Parker.

*

Parker had already decided that he was not going to mention the rucksack or the BMW to Qasim. If he was going to have a relationship with him‚ it was imperative that it was built on trust. Revealing that they had his car and gear would be the wrong move. He was Qasim’s handler; he would handle him how he saw fit.

Parker needed to freshen up. He walked into the toilet and looked into the mirror. His tired eyes stared back at him. He reached up to his face and touched the pound-coin-shaped gap in his stubble‚ the result of alopecia brought on by stress. The cubicle door opened and Lawrence walked out. Parker dropped his hand from his face. They stood next to each other as Lawrence washed his hands.

‘No hard feelings‚ eh?’ Lawrence said‚ through the mirror. ‘I did what I had to do.’

Parker rolled and cracked his shoulders and turned on the tap.

‘You have to admit. Taking his car was the icing on the cake.’

‘You went against my order‚’ Parker said quietly as he slowly rolled up his sleeves.

‘Not really. You weren’t exactly giving out any orders to go against.’

‘Rule number one. Follow orders‚’ Parker said‚ as if rolling out an age-old mantra.

Lawrence noisily squirted soap onto his hands.

‘Still a bit sore about what happened in the meeting?’ Lawrence asked‚ smiling arrogantly. He turned off the tap and shook his hands dry‚ droplets of water splashing Parker. ‘What happened to you? Huh? Where’s this Chalk I keep hearing about? No offense‚ but you walk around looking like you don’t know what day it is.’

The speed and ferocity with which Parker gripped his right ear dropped Lawrence to one knee. The soft flesh burned and threatened to tear within Parker’s large hand. Lawrence‚ his face scrunched in pain‚ used both hands to try to pry away Parker’s grip from his ear. When that failed‚ Lawrence punched him with all the power he could muster in the ribs. From his position on one knee he had the perfect angle to cause some damage. Two punches in quick succession‚ hard and fast. Parker’s body didn’t react‚ and his grip didn’t waver. Instead it tightened and he viciously twisted Lawrence’s ear so it was almost positioned upside down.

‘Okay‚’ Lawrence screamed. ‘Fucking okay!’ Then quietly he hissed‚ ‘Please.’

Parker released his ear just as quickly as he had grabbed it. He turned to the sink and calmly washed his face. He dried off using the paper towels and walked out of the toilet without giving Lawrence a second look.

16

The minicab pulled up outside our house‚ or‚ I should say‚ my house‚ about mid-morning. I started to lug Mum’s suitcases into the boot as she rushed around the house‚ room to room‚ saying goodbye to all the furniture and all the things she held dear. I slammed the boot shut and the cabbie gave me a deathly stare. I put up an apologetic hand to him‚ just as Idris walked around the corner.

‘Don’t you check your fucking voicemail?’ Idris barked before he had even reached me.

‘The fuck is your problem?’ I said‚ matching profanity for profanity.

Idris and I had only ever argued the one time‚ when a chilli eating competition got out of hand. But if he wanted an argument now‚ then I was ready to give him one.

‘I’ve been trying to reach you‚ Jay‚’ he said as he got closer. He noticed the minicab. ‘What’s going on? Where you going?’

‘To the airport. Mum’s leaving today.’

‘Oh shit!’ Idris exclaimed. ‘That’s today? I knew that. I fucking knew that. Mum did tell me.’

I had never seen Idris so rattled‚ as though all his cool had left him. Mum walked out of the house looking like a seventies Bollywood starlet. White flared trouser suit teamed with huge oversized dark sunglasses‚ holding a midsize black leather travel bag.

‘Why don’t you come along? See Mum off‚’ I asked. ‘And then maybe you can tell me what’s on your mind.’

Idris looked towards Mum‚ who was waving happily at him‚ and it seemed like his brain had just rebooted as he walked over to her. He gave her a customary peck on the cheek‚ effortlessly liberated the travel bag and linked arms with her as he escorted her smiling to the waiting minicab.

Okay‚ so maybe not all his cool had left him.

*

We were sat at a Sports Bar in Terminal 2 at Heathrow‚ Idris opposite me as we waited in silence for our lunch to arrive. Mum and Andrew were now airside‚ no doubt stocking up on Duty Free goods. It was‚ as expected‚ an emotional farewell. Mum’s white suit had ended up stained with a mixture of her mascara‚ my snot and both of our tears. I hadn’t felt any shame sobbing my heart out in front of Idris‚ who had just about managed to hold it together himself.

‘So‚ what do you think of Andrew?’ I asked.

‘Yeah‚ he’s alright‚’ Idris answered‚ absent minded‚ his eyes flitting all over the place before landing on mine. ‘They seem good together.’

An Arab couple walked into the Sports Bar‚ the wife was covered from head to toe in a Burka. In a heartbeat‚ the tension in the room become palpable and the din died down for a millisecond and then started up again.

‘Poor bastards‚’ I said. ‘Do you reckon they ever get used to that?’

Idris didn’t seem to hear me. The food arrived‚ a Full English Breakfast‚ minus the scum. I tucked straight into it.

‘Jay?’ Idris said‚ ignoring his food.

‘Yeah‚’ I said‚ with a mouthful of hash brown.

‘Look‚ I don’t want to freak you out.’

‘Well‚ don’t then.’

I smiled. He smiled. But only briefly before his expression turned to dour again.

‘I’m serious‚ Jay.’

I looked at my meal longingly‚ and then hesitantly I put down my knife and fork. I took a sip of my orange juice and placed my glass down on the table.

‘What’s bothering you?’

‘I think they’re coming for you‚’ Idris said‚ rubbing his forehead.

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked‚ as controlled as I could‚ when everything in me wanted to scream a thousand questions.

‘It’s just something that happened at work.’

‘Like what?’

‘My chief had me in her office.’

‘Oh‚ did she now?’

‘She showed me some photos of us together in your car‚’ he said‚ rightly ignoring my childish remark.

‘In my Beemer?’

‘No‚ your Nova.’

‘So?’ I said‚ trying to remember anything untoward that had happened in my Nova that would have cause to be flagged.

‘You were doing a deal.’

‘Yeah‚ I remember that. A few weeks back‚ yeah?’ I said‚ and then realisation hit me. ‘And you were in the car with me?’ Idris nodded. ‘Oh‚ shit! Did you get fucked? Is that what this is about?’

‘Yeah‚ I did‚ but—’

‘God. I’m sorry‚ man. I didn’t fucking know. How much trouble are you in? Can they prove that it was a deal? I could have been passing anything.’

‘No‚ Jay‚ shut up for a second. This isn’t about me getting the hairdryer.’ Idris leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘It’s about them watching you.’

‘What do you mean watching me? I haven’t done anything wrong! Nothing that warrants surveillance‚ anyway.’

‘I know that‚ Jay. If they were going to arrest you for your nickel-and-dime bullshit dealing they would have pulled you over‚ searched your car and hauled your ass down the station. This is something else.’

I looked down at my food. It didn’t look too appetising anymore. ‘Idris‚’ I said‚ tentatively. ‘The attack on the mosque. Last Friday. Do you remember?’

‘Yeah‚ course.’

‘Do you remember I told you about that meeting at Ali’s?’

‘Yeah‚’ Idris said‚ his eyes narrowed‚ as he tried to follow my thought process.

‘Do you remember—’

‘Can you stop saying that‚ for Gods sake‚ I’m not fucking senile‚’ Idris said‚ loud enough for a few patrons to crane their heads in our direction. ‘Go on.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You were in Ali’s. So? What happened?’

‘I ended up with Parvez and Khan.’

‘Khan?’ Idris said‚ rubbing his face again. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

‘Alright‚ calm down‚ man. You’re getting loud again.’

Idris sat back in his chair and crossed him arms and motioned for me to carry on. ‘We got into a dust up with some white boys in Staines. I tooled one of them… Pretty fucking badly. But he was alright… I think‚’ I said‚ sheepishly. ‘Do you reckon that’s what it’s about?’

‘No… I don’t know… It could be.’

‘Yeah‚ well‚ thanks for clearing that up‚ Detective.’

‘Look. What do we know for a fact? They’ve been watching you for at least a few weeks‚ right?’

‘So they can’t be after me because of the fight. That only happened last week.’

I cracked my knuckles. A nervous trait which hadn’t been evident in a very long time.

‘Unless…. Unless…’ Idris said.

‘What? Unless what?’

‘Unless they were waiting for you to screw up.’

17

We decided to take the bus home rather than fork out for another minicab. We sat up on the top deck‚ right at the very back. Me at one window‚ Idris at the far other. A big gap between us‚ just like we did a thousand times back in the day on the way to school. That back seat belonged to us‚ and even though there was a huge gap between us‚ everyone knew better than to occupy it.

This felt like that‚ but at the same time it didn’t.

My stop arrived first. We made rushed plans to see each other soon‚ to shoot some pool‚ but I think somehow we both knew that would never happen. It felt very much like the next time we saw each other everything would have changed.

As I put the key in the front door of my empty house I heard a car pull up behind me. I turned to face a silver Ford Mondeo haphazardly parked halfway across my drive‚ inches from my Nova. I’d already lost one car recently; I wasn’t about to lose my fucking Nova too. I glared through the windscreen‚ ready to give the driver a piece of my mind‚ but first I wanted to get a good look just in case he was bigger than me. There were two of them‚ both white‚ one male and one female‚ and they were releasing their seatbelts‚ eyeballs fixed on me. I instinctively knew who they were‚ even before the second car pulled up directly behind them. This car was a white Vauxhall Astra with blue lights attached to the roof and the word POLICE written back to front on the bonnet.

The hairs at the back of my neck stood to attention and I broke into a cold sweat. Four doors opened in tandem as the couple from the first car stepped out‚ and two uniforms got out of the police car and stood behind them. They stood in the middle of my driveway watching me carefully to see if I would make a move.

I looked down the road to my left and then I looked down the road to my right. Escape was not an option. Mexico was a long fucking way away. Across the road curtains twitched and I knew what my nosy neighbours were thinking. His Mum has only been gone five minutes and look…

I coolly turned back towards my front door and looked at the key still swinging in the lock. I turned the key and opened the door.

I walked into my house and shut the door in all their fucking faces.

18

I think it was due. It had to be. I’d been on easy street for as long as I could remember. Even back at school I did pretty much whatever the fuck I wanted to‚ and I never ever found myself in detention or in the headmaster’s office. I don’t know why that was. I think maybe I had some charm‚ or an innocent face or whatever‚ but shit never seemed to stick to me. Teachers left me alone‚ bullies didn’t target me‚ and to an extent Mum let me be too. I just never got busted. Until now.

The four little pigs knocked on my door and I answered it‚ nonchalantly eating a Twix. They didn’t seem too chuffed at having the door shut in their faces. A uniform reached across with handcuffs. I still had one full stick of Twix remaining so I clamped it between my teeth as they secured my wrists behind me.

I was escorted out the front door and the twitching curtains had progressed to some of my neighbours standing out on their front porches‚ gawping.

I think maybe it’s the rap music or the too many viewings of Scarface‚ but I acted like a man without a care in the world. I walked confidently with my chest out‚ the Twix hanging from my mouth like a Cuban Cigar‚ my steps measured and my gait straight up gangster.

Better that than the world seeing me cry.

*

With my hands cuffed behind me‚ I was sliding all over the place on the leather seat every time we took a turning. We reached a junction and stopped at the traffic lights‚ and it took me a moment to realise that we were in the wrong lane. Hounslow police station was to the right but we were out in the left lane. I shifted around in my seat and looked out of the rear window‚ just as the patrol car left its position as sentry and manoeuvred next to us in the correct lane. I noticed my driver give the uniform the slightest of nods as the traffic lights turned green and the patrol car turned towards the police station. And we went in the opposite direction.

I waited a minute‚ thinking maybe there was another car park for unmarked police cars. When that didn’t materialise my mind went into overdrive. I couldn’t think of one rational reason why they wouldn’t have taken me to Hounslow Nick and then with a jolt I realised that when they had arrested me‚ they hadn’t read out my rights or my charges.

I started to see signs for Isleworth and then Brentford and the next thing I knew we were on the fucking motorway.

‘Where we going?’ I was frightened as to what the response might be. And they gave me the most unnerving response possible.

Silence.

I looked at the back of their heads. I could see their side profiles and they carried no-nonsense‚ business-like expressions on their faces.

They definitely weren’t the police and this was definitely not an arrest.

Was I was getting kidnapped? I know how that sounded‚ but I couldn’t think of any other explanation. Could this be Silas’ doing? He had always been one for the dramatics but I still had two days left before my deadline.

I positioned myself so I had my back towards the door and I could just about grip the handle. But then what? Even if they hadn’t locked me in‚ what was I going to do? Jump out onto the motorway with the car doing north of seventy? I glanced around the car‚ desperately searching for other options. A boot to the side of the driver’s face would cause the car to veer‚ leading to a possible distraction. But at this speed‚ on the motorway‚ with a Heavy Goods Vehicle in the next lane‚ there was every chance that I could end up in a far worse situation than I was in already.

My shoulders ached because of the unnatural position my chained hands were in. If shit kicked off and I had to defend myself‚ I would have no chance with my hands trapped behind my back. I had to try and bring them to my front. I pushed my shoulders back as far as they could go and tried to slide my hands from underneath. It was a tricky manoeuvre and I almost popped my shoulder at one point. Hollywood made everything look so easy. I was seriously out of breath and my hands were now trapped under my arse. Every muscle in my upper body screamed to give up. So I did.

The car started to slow down without any obvious reason‚ there was no traffic for as far as I could see and there wasn’t an exit for them to take. The driver indicated left and pulled over onto the hard shoulder.

That really threw me. Were they going to beat me‚ or worse‚ right there on the hard shoulder‚ with hundreds of witnesses driving past? This was bordering on the bizarre and if it wasn’t for the pain racing through my shoulder I would have had this down as some sort of cheese-induced dream.

I heard the loud growl of an engine and I turned back to see a serious-looking black motorbike pull up a few feet behind us. The rider walked towards the car. He was still wearing his helmet and in his other hand he held another. The couple opened their doors and got out of the car. They stood in a tight triangle by the side of the car. The rider handed the woman the spare helmet‚ and I saw him reach up and take his own helmet off and hand that to the man‚ as well as the keys to the bike. I couldn’t see his face but he was tall and powerfully built. I watched as the couple mounted the motorbike and rode off. The driver’s side door opened and the rider climbed in.

He turned and faced me and his dark‚ dead eyes seemed to look right through me.

*

You know when you give somebody cut eyes. That look‚ that glare. The one that says in no uncertain terms that I am not scared of you. You should be scared of me. In my world that look is second nature. It took me a while to perfect it‚ and I used it as a weapon. I could tell you about any number of occasions when I’ve got out of scrapes and misunderstandings just by shutting somebody down with that look. Eyes slightly narrowed‚ grinding teeth‚ jaw clamped tight. Measured and menacing. I had it down to a fine art.

But this guy… Forget about it.

He looked at me as if I wasn’t there. His eyelids drooped in a way that cried out for sleep. The whites of his eyes were tinged with yellow and his pupils were two black holes. His face made him look older than his body would have you believe. I couldn’t compete and I dropped eye contact almost immediately.

‘Javid Qasim.’ Not a question. He knew me.

‘Yeah‚’ I said‚ without sound. I swallowed and said it again‚ with as much confidence as I could. ‘Yeah.’

He reached into the pocket of his trampy pea coat.

‘Turn around.’

‘Fuck you.’ I hissed. False bravado making an appearance.

He pulled his hand from his pocket and I recoiled. He was holding up a small key. ‘Turn around.’ This time I did and he removed my handcuffs.

‘Thanks.’ I muttered‚ as I twisted my wrists‚ trying to get the blood circulating back into them.

He turned away from me and faced front. He adjusted the rear-view mirror until he had a good visual of me.

‘My name is Kingsley Parker. And right now I’m the only friend you’ve got.’

19

Friend?

Like buddies? Like Best Friends Forever? Like‚ let’s go for a pint and try our luck with the local talent?

I don’t think so.

Parker passed me a deck of B&H over his shoulder. I took one out and slipped it between my lips. I lit it using the car lighter‚ while he watched me through the rear view mirror. I pocketed his deck.

‘Javid Qasim‚’ Parker said‚ and continued monotonously. ‘Jay‚ to your friends. You’ve lived all your life in Hounslow with your Mum‚ Afeesa Qasim‚ who just this morning flew from Heathrow to Doha‚ Qatar‚ with one Andrew Bishop. You were there to see her off‚ along with your childhood friend‚ and now Detective Inspector‚ Idris Zaidi.’ He waited a beat. I let it sink in. He continued. ‘You are not averse to a drink‚ most usually a pint of San Miguel at your local pub‚ the Rising Sun‚ and you like to have the odd gamble which you carry out online on your phone which‚ by the way‚ is a Samsung Galaxy S8.’ He turned his head slightly over his shoulder towards me. ‘You haven’t had much luck recently. Maybe gambling isn’t your thing.’

‘Kane missed that penalty in the last minute. Would have been quids in otherwise‚’ I said‚ as though this was a casual fucking conversation.

He turned back and continued to address me through the mirror. ‘You attend Sutton Mosque every Friday for prayers and you helped with the clean-up and restoration of the mosque after it was attacked.’

‘Alright mate. Stop right there. Wanna tell me what you want?’

‘We’ve been watching you‚ Javid.’

‘No! Really?’ I said. ‘And call me Jay.’

He nodded.

I put out my cigarette in the small ashtray and clumsily climbed into the front seat. The sudden movement caused Parker to swiftly pull his arms up at chest height in a defensive stance‚ fists tight and ready. In doing so his elbow hit the wiper switch. I sat next to him‚ showing the palms of my hands in a placatory gesture. He relaxed and dropped his hands onto his lap. We both looked ahead in awkward silence and watched the wipers redundantly judder against the dry windscreen.

‘Look. I know you ain’t the fuzz‚’ I said‚ reaching across and turning off the wipers. ‘So… who or what are you then?’

‘I work for the government‚ son.’

A cold shiver ran down my spine. He had already mentioned my affiliation with Sutton Mosque. Had they put two and two together and got twenty-two? ‘I’m not a terrorist‚ I swear.’

‘No. I know that.’

I waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

‘What the fuck‚ man? Can we stop playing twenty questions?’

It was clear that Parker was uncertain where to begin. I wondered if maybe the guy who was originally supposed to be here had called in sick‚ and they’d had to draft in this clueless lump to take his place.

‘Jay‚ we are in the process of recruitment and development. Part of the reason for the surveillance was to establish personality. You‚ Jay‚ fit the profile and we would like you to come and work with us at MI5.’

‘MI5!? Get the fuck outta here.’ I snorted‚ looking around the car for hidden cameras. It had to be a joke‚ an elaborate set up. ‘Who put you up to this? Is this gonna be on YouTube?’

‘You are young‚ capable and according to your medical records you are fit and healthy. You would make a fantastic addition to the team. A real asset… We think you can make a difference. I am offering you a job‚ son.’

The way he said that left me with no doubt that he was telling me the truth. And I hate to admit it but it excited me.

‘But…’ he said. And left it there.

‘Oh‚ here we go. But what?’

‘You’re in deep with Silas Drakos. You owe him some money and from what I’ve been told not only is it a substantial amount‚ but you haven’t got a hope in hell of paying him back. Now‚ unless you’ve got that kind of cash stashed somewhere we haven’t been able to find it‚ I think you’re about to be on the back end of a lashing. And given Drakos’ history‚ it’s not going to end well for you‚ son.’

Not that I was counting‚ but that was the third time that he had called me son. I didn’t mind it. It felt strangely comforting.

‘You’re in a whole lot of trouble.’

Parker turned to face me just in time to see me shrug. ‘You don’t know the half of it‚’ I said‚ under my breath.

‘No‚ you don’t know the half of it.’

‘That supposed mean?’ I asked. His agitation fed mine.

‘Aside from Silas‚ the police have evidence to make a very strong case against you. The way things are looking‚ you could be doing some hard time. They know about the flat in Cranford.’

That shook me. They fucking had me.

‘It looks very much like its set up for growing some serious cannabis‚ judging by the fluorescent lamps and the bags of soil‚ not to mention the packets of feminized skunk seeds.’

‘I was going to give that flat up. I swear. It was a dumb idea. I could have never made it work‚’ I said‚ desperately trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

‘Regardless. Coupled with the fact that you are a drug dealer‚ albeit a low level one‚ it doesn’t look good for you.’

‘How long am I looking at?’ That whole venture with the flat was going to put me away‚ and I wasn’t ever really going to go through with it. I could not believe my shitty luck.

‘Wait.’ He held up a big hand. ‘There’s more… Eugene Milford is currently in hospital with severe concussion.’

‘Eugene who?’ Then it hit me. ‘Shit!’ I said‚ sliding down in my seat. The beginnings of a headache looming. ‘Elmsleigh Car Park.’

‘When Eugene got home that night‚ after suffering a heavy blow to the head‚ he collapsed outside his house. His father found him and called for an ambulance.’

‘How is he?’ I asked‚ feeling very fucking small.

‘Hard to say with a head injury… But signs are promising. However‚ Milford Senior insists that Milford Junior presses charges.’

I closed my eyes. ‘How long?’ I asked‚ again.

Parker expelled air. ‘If you get yourself a top lawyer‚ you’re looking at three years‚ and if you keep your head down inside‚ you’ll be out in two.’

‘I can’t afford a top lawyer.’

‘Then you’ll be provided with one.’ ‘A crappy one‚ though.’

Parker nodded. ‘Yes… A crappy one.’

I couldn’t go to jail‚ there was not a chance in hell I would survive three months‚ let alone three years. Yeah‚ I can handle myself‚ but that’s because I pick my battles carefully. In there I wouldn’t have that luxury. I closed my eyes‚ but behind my eyelids my eyes were dancing with harrowing visions of getting daily beatings in the morning‚ getting my food thieved in the afternoon‚ and getting royally shafted in the evening.

As though he’d read my mind‚ Parker said‚ ‘We can make all this go away.’

‘What are you proposing?’

‘A two-tier agreement.’

I had a strong feeling I knew what one of those two was‚ and I had a fair idea what the other one could be. But I asked anyway.

‘What’s the first?’

‘Silas Drakos. He’s part of a large ongoing investigation‚ and with your help they can put him away for a very long time.’

‘He’s going to kill me‚’ I reasoned. Truth was‚ if I didn’t get my hands on 10K pretty fucking sharpish‚ he was going to kill me anyway.

‘He won’t know it’s you‚’ Parker said‚ not quite reassuring me. ‘Tomorrow you give a statement down at Hounslow police station. Tell them whatever you know about Drakos‚ and I have it on very good authority that he will be picked up that very same day.’

No Silas‚ no debt‚ no threat hanging over me. But could I do it? Could I break the oldest rule of the streets? Could I grass?

‘I need to think about it.’

‘That’s fine. You have twenty-four hours‚ otherwise you will be arrested‚ and this time it will be for real.’

I nodded wearily.

‘The second condition is that—’

‘I come work for you‚’ I said‚ interrupting him. ‘At MI5.’ I let out a small incredulous nasal laugh at the absurdity of it.

‘Yes‚ Jay.’

‘And you want me because I fit the profile‚ right? I could make a difference. Something along those lines?’

I turned and faced him. He pursed his lips and I noticed his knee hammering. He knew what was coming.

‘Or is it because I’m a Muslim?’

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