I drove off smiling.
I took the long route home as I was enjoying the smoothness of my car after its service earlier. It had been the perfect afternoon and evening‚ nothing out of the ordinary and nothing exciting. A timely middle finger to Lawrence and MI5 as to how I chose to live my life.
I pulled up into my driveway. Somewhere behind me the sound of a car door opening and closing. By the time I had a chance to clock him in my rear-view mirror‚ he was there‚ standing at my open window.
‘Hello‚ old chum‚’ Silas said‚ beaming‚ ‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’
I caught a glint of something.
25
Imy
On the return journey‚ I called Khala. She was pissed at me for not going into work‚ but otherwise she seemed fine. I called Shaz‚ who laughed at the episode outside Stephanie’s house earlier on‚ not quite grasping the enormity.
Finally I called Stephanie. Jack was getting ready for bed. Her voice had a floaty quality to it‚ the marriage proposal‚ which may as well have happened in another lifetime‚ still fresh in her mind. I tried desperately to match her enthusiasm.
Satisfied that they were all out of harm’s way‚ I pulled into a service station an hour into my journey home‚ curiosity getting the better of me. Thankfully the case had an extendable handle and travel wheels which made the otherwise intimidating bag look a little more ordinary. I wheeled it straight into a disabled toilet‚ figuring that I would require the space. I locked the door‚ placed the case on the floor‚ and kneeled down on my haunches in front of it.
Even though I had a fair idea of its contents I had not yet determined how I would be expected to use them. I assumed that it was going to be a gun attack. At what‚ I didn’t know. At how many? I shuddered to think. I unfastened the six latches slowly one at a time; they snapped and sprang and the sound reverberated around the cubicle. I took a breath and lifted the lid.
I ran the tip of my finger against the cold muzzle of a Glock .40-calibre handgun. Light‚ easy to conceal‚ heavy on impact. Next to it was an Osprey pistol suppressor. Aligned neatly next to these were three magazines‚ which I saw were fully loaded with ammunition. Clipped into the top of the case was a manila envelope.
I opened it carefully and took out a document. Hand written in Arabic‚ I read and understood it to be the official issue of a fatwa. It momentarily threw me. I was expecting a date‚ a location. A mass target. I slipped another document out of the envelope. It was an enlarged image of a young‚ Asian male‚ trying his hardest not to laugh‚ to adhere to the strict rules of having his passport photo taken. Despite everything‚ it made me smile.
He looked familiar and it took a moment to come to me. I flipped over the photograph. Written on the back was his name and address.
Javid Qasim based in Hounslow.
I knew him as Jay.
I’d accompanied Shaz on many occasions when he had picked up from Jay. What wrong could a small-time drug dealer from the suburbs of Hounslow have committed‚ in order to deserve a death sentence from Ghurfat-al-Mudarris?
I picked up the Glock‚ pulled back the slide release and checked the chamber was clear‚ quietly amazed at how instinctively the movements came back to me. I picked up a clip‚ slid it home. I made sure the safety was on‚ before tucking the pistol into my jacket pocket. Then I clicked the briefcase closed‚ and headed back to my car.
*
After a dazed drive home‚ I’d arrived back in Hounslow early that evening‚ and I now found myself driving down Jay’s road. My body impulsively making decisions‚ my mind not quite catching up. I was moving on instinct. Without realising it‚ I’d come to a realisation‚ one that would haunt me until my last day. As sick as it made me‚ I could do this. It was just one target.
Just one kill.
There was no alternative. It was my life or his.
When I received the message that morning‚ every type of attack had instantly run through my head. The bloodshed‚ the devastation. Not the question of whether I was capable; it was in me. I had the physical skill to cause destruction‚ to take a lot of lives and disappear without a trace. However‚ I would forever be on the run. The world would be looking for me. I’d never again see the faces of all those that I cared for. My life as I knew and loved it would cease to exist.
But one kill? One kill would be easier‚ cleaner. Quick in-and-out‚ a double tap to the chest‚ leaving no trace behind. Nobody would ever know I was there. I could carry out my duty and repay my debt to The Cause‚ then get on with the life I was meant to lead. My life with Stephanie and Jack.
I pulled up outside Qasim’s house. The lights were off and the driveway empty. I had told Stephanie that I’d be spending the night at the flat‚ so I had nowhere to be but here. I decided to wait.
I closed my eyes‚ and I could visualise it clearly. Qasim stepping out of the car. I’d be on him‚ Glock trained on his lower back. Forcing him into his home. Pulling the trigger. Dropping him. Retracing my steps carefully out of his house and slipping away. Mission accomplished. By the end of the week I would be packing my bags and moving out of my flat and into the arms of a new life.
I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and felt the cold steel of the Glock. As cold as the act of a kill. It felt familiar‚ a part of me for so long.
I heard the hard and heavy bass-line before I saw the car. A black BMW swung head-first into the driveway. I removed the Glock from my jacket‚ from another pocket I removed the suppressor. As I attached it‚ I watched a black Lexus pull up and park across his drive. I couldn’t see inside the Lexus as the windows were blacked out‚ but the back door opened and out stepped a pin-thin man. Even though the weather was fine he was wearing an anorak with the hood up. I managed to catch a glimpse of his face. I didn’t know him personally‚ but I knew who he was.
Silas was a man who came with a reputation.
He approached the driver’s side of the BMW. A quick word exchanged and then I noticed his arm reach in and then back out through the window before swiftly walking back to his car and driving off. It looked very much like the quick exchange of a drug deal.
I waited a moment for the Lexus to reach the end of the road and turn off. Then‚ after disabling the interior light I stepped out‚ keeping the Glock low by the side of my leg‚ my dark denim helping to disguise it. I only got as far as taking a couple of steps towards the house when the reverse lights of the BMW flashed on.
The wheels screeched noisily on the spot before it hurtled out of the drive towards me. I dived out of the way as the BMW smashed into a lamppost at speed.
I slipped the gun into the back of my jeans and ran over. Peering inside the car‚ I saw that the side of Javid Qasim’s head was resting against the steering wheel. There was blood down his front‚ pooling in his lap. His throat had been slashed.
He looked at me with barely open eyes‚ and smiled lazily.
I opened the door and gently lifted Qasim out of his car. I placed him on the floor in an upright position and I sat behind him and held him‚ letting his head rest on my chest. His clothes were soaked in blood. His eyes closed‚ as though for the last time. His breathing slow‚ shallow‚ barely there. Qasim was dying in my arms.
My work could have been done then and there. I knew I should just let him go.
The hammer of the Glock pressed into my lower back‚ a painful reminder of my jihad. Every instinct screamed at me to let him bleed out and die.
It was at that very moment that I realised what I was capable of.
I reached for my phone‚ and called for an ambulance.
PART 2
This is where you left me...
26
Jay
I was in and out of consciousness throughout the journey to the hospital‚ unable to fully sleep as the sheer amount of blood I was losing was stopping me from breathing‚ from swallowing. I blinked‚ and I was in the hospital‚ with a distant memory of being gently
lowered onto a gurney. I tried to position myself onto my side‚ lift my knees to my chest and curl up like a ball. Clean hands pinned me down onto my back. I was silently outraged – clearly‚ on my side is my favoured position of sleep‚ so why wouldn’t they let me lie there in peace? Obviously they were determined to keep me awake. They even slapped me a few times‚ which given my state I thought a little unnecessary. I tried‚ I fucking tried‚ face up towards the ceiling as the lights whizzed past me‚ bright and offensive.
My throat felt heavy‚ as though it was covered with‚ I don’t know‚ a cloth or a dressing or something‚ and a hundred heavy hands were putting pressure on it. There were rushed voices around me – they said I was in an aggressive state‚ they said I was not cooperating‚ somebody said the words exposed vocal cords‚ as though I couldn’t fucking hear them‚ it made me vomit down the sides of my mouth and onto my face and into my ears.
I blinked again‚ and was in another location‚ under another bright light‚ but this one wasn’t moving. It hovered‚ stationary‚ like a huge space ship above me‚ threatening to land on me. Lots of covered faces peering over me‚ that’s right‚ mate‚ enjoy the show. More words‚ long words‚ words I thankfully couldn’t fucking understand. Regional anaesthesia‚ bilateral block of the hypoglossal nerve‚ preparing for emergency tracheostomy.
An anaesthetic face mask gently placed around my nose and mouth. All that effort trying to slap me awake‚ and now‚ they decided‚ was the time for me to sleep.
27
Imy
Covered head to toe in Qasim’s blood‚ I arrived at my flat a little after midnight. I kept the Glock tucked into my jeans‚ the cold barrel skimming the skin on my lower back. I had debated hard whether or not to keep it on me‚ but the way events were turning I sided with caution.
It was a decision that was vindicated as soon as I unlocked my front door. On the floor‚ parked neatly next to the door‚ was a pair of weathered men’s sandals.
My hand moved without instruction‚ shifting the tail of my shirt and wrapping my fingers around the grip of the Glock. I brought it smoothly forward‚ my other hand joining to steady the piece.
I moved quietly but quickly through the small living room which doubled up as bedroom and stood by the entrance to the kitchen‚ hidden from view. The kitchen‚ and the bathroom which lay beyond it‚ were the only other places to clear. I took in a breath and held it as I moved my head quickly around the door frame and back again.
In that snap movement I saw that my fridge door was open. Under the door I saw a flash of dark bare feet. I hadn’t seen his face as the rest of the intruder was hidden by the door. But he hadn’t seen mine either. I slowly moved my head back through the entrance‚ the Glock pointing safely at the ceiling but ready to snap down and aim.
I could hear him rattling around in my fridge as though he owned the place. I stepped into the kitchen. He cleared his throat‚ heavy and raspy. I flicked the safety off and pointed the gun at the fridge door as I risked a scope around the room. A black leather jacket was neatly hung over the back of a chair and a black motorcycle helmet was sitting on the small kitchen table. Past the fridge‚ past the intruder‚ at the back of the kitchen‚ the bathroom door was wide open‚ revealing that he did not have an accomplice.
I turned my attention back to the only part I could see of him. His feet from under the fridge.
The nail on the big toe of his right foot was black.
I released my breath‚ flicked the safety back on‚ and placed the gun on the table‚ next to the helmet.
*
After my parents had been killed‚ and after the soldiers had left‚ I had stayed under my bed. Though the crackle and hiss of a growing fire threatened to consume me‚ I was too frightened to move.
Through the smoke‚ I eventually saw a pair of open leather sandals moving around my bedroom. The nail on the toe of the right foot was black. The bed was lifted easily over me and in an instant a hand was taking mine and pulling me up to my feet. He had a black and white chequered ghutrah scarf tied tightly over his face to stop him from inhaling the smoke. He picked me up‚ my legs straddling his waist‚ my arms tight around his neck. He pushed my head down so my face was in the crook of his shoulder and neck‚ away from the smoke. As one we walked out of my burning home and into my burning village.
I lifted my eyes and watched over his shoulder as‚ with every step‚ my home grew smaller and smaller in the distance. He tried to place me into the back of a large‚ open-bed truck with some other children from my village‚ but my legs tightened around his waist‚ and my arms around his neck‚ refusing to let him go.
He whispered in my ear‚ ‘Mashallah. You are a strong one.’
It made me relax my grasp‚ and he gently placed me on the bed of the truck. I felt the engine start beneath me. I looked up at him and he pulled the scarf away from his face and smiled at me.
His teeth were coated in red.
For six years I was worked over. From the age of ten‚ all I knew was replaced by what they wanted me to know. I was taught with children from my village‚ children that I had grown up and played cricket with. Like myself‚ their homes had been destroyed‚ their parents slaughtered. We were moved to a small working town deep within Gardez‚ which was located close to the Afghanistan/Pakistan border. We fed off each other’s misery. Our mourning rang out as a cry for help. We were housed‚ cleansed and fed and sent out to work. They watched our every movement‚ and the strong amongst us‚ the good workers‚ were noticed. The lazy‚ the weak‚ those still pining for their parents‚ were moved along without explanation.
For the rest of us‚ our education began. Intently we listened‚ we learnt‚ we trained‚ each day our bodies growing stronger‚ our minds focused and our anger controlled. I put my mind to whatever they asked of me. Never once did I say I can’t‚ I won’t. My body became capable of doing things that I never thought possible. Hand to hand combat with blades and bars and bare fists. Every part of me took a beating‚ but so powerful was the will within me that I never once went down. On every opponent I saw the uniform of the enemy and I would not‚ at any cost‚ allow them to stand over me again.
At ten‚ I had wanted to kill those British soldiers responsible for the vicious deaths of my parents.
At sixteen‚ I wanted to kill everybody and anybody who sided‚ voted‚ affiliated themselves with the West.
With one bag in hand‚ I had landed at Heathrow Airport and then arrived at the door of my Khala. Her husband‚ my Khalu‚ had just passed away after losing a short battle with cancer. She was all alone. I was too.
She recognised me before I even had a chance to knock on her door. In the kitchen‚ washing the dishes‚ absentmindedly staring out onto the road‚ she spotted me stepping out of a taxi. Before I had the chance to pay the driver‚ she was standing out on the porch‚ washing gloves still over her hands‚ squinting‚ trying to confirm the connection. It was when I turned towards her that her eyes opened‚ and then her mouth opened and then she was rushing to me with her arms open. It was an embrace that had been desperately missing from my life. It was my Mother’s embrace.
Khala had assumed that I had died‚ along with my parents. I told her that I had been living with another family until I could save enough money to travel and be with my own. Together‚ we relived the grief of my parents’ death all over again‚ but it was different‚ softer and more compassionate. We laughed as she told me stories about my Mother‚ her Sister.
That first night‚ as I pretended to sleep‚ she entered my room‚ lifted the duvet up to my chest and kissed me on the forehead. It was a familiar touch and a familiar love that I hadn’t felt in six years. She left the room and I spent the night crying.
I never understood Khala’s fondness for the Royal family. Almost every room had a commemorative plate‚ a Union Jack cushion‚ a Lady Diana serving tray. It used to drive me crazy that she was celebrating everything that I want
ed to destroy. But I played along‚ smiled at the silly sentiments. Here‚ I wasn’t a jihadi hell-bent on revenge. I had to play the game‚ had to stay under the radar‚ away from suspicion. So‚ desperate to keep my cover‚ I took it to the extreme.
Not once did I enter a Mosque. In fact I stopped praying altogether. My parents had led by example and taught me about my Farz as a Muslim. Even after they passed‚ I didn’t lose my religion‚ instead I embraced it further with a ferocity that came easily to me. I started to interpret Islam in a way that it was never meant to be interpreted‚ the teachings of Al-Mudarris blending effortlessly with the teachings of the Holy Quran.
I’d always had time for Allah‚ made time for Allah. So to just stop was one of the most difficult things I ever had to do. But‚ I had to get out of that mind-set. If I was going to succeed in my jihad I had to stay away from prying eyes‚ and to achieve that I could no longer move in those circles.
I kept my head down and waited patiently until the day the message reached me‚ until the man who had lifted me out of the carnage gave me my instruction to violently descend on all the Kafirs around me.
But life has a way about it.
*
‘Allah has brought us together again‚ Brother‚’ Pathaan said‚ shutting the fridge door. I stood for a fraction of a second taking in that familiar face. It had grown old‚ but the eyes had not lost any of their intensity. Then I was on him‚ my arms around him. The last time our chests collided he was taking me away to a new life. I had grown taller but I still dropped my head into his shoulder‚ his shirt bunched in my fist as he gently rubbed my back.
I released the grip on his shirt and we separated.
He looked me straight in the eyes. I tried to hold his gaze‚ the way he taught me a man should. He nodded as though I had passed my first test and patted me hard on the shoulder. His eyes travelled down at my clothes‚ soaked and stained in Javid Qasim’s blood. And then he echoed the words that he had said when we had first met.
Homegrown Hero Page 12