I wasn’t planning to go to the cemetery. Paying my respects at the Mosque was my only intention‚ but having seen the low turnout‚ I figured I should help make up the numbers‚ bearing in mind that in Islam‚ women are not allowed to visit graves.
The hearse led‚ the small convoy trailed. We headed towards Greenford Park Cemetery‚ leaving Ira and all the other women behind at the Mosque. The burial was impersonal‚ as a bunch of strange men‚ drafted in by the Imam‚ stood around the casket. Naaim‚ the only relation‚ was quiet and unapproachable as Tahir found out. The casket was lowered into the ground and we took turns covering it with earth until the JCB took over. A Prayer carried out by the Imam was observed in respectful silence and the small crowd quickly dissipated‚ leaving just a few of us.
‘What now?’ Zafar asked.
I shrugged. I just wanted out of the cemetery. I was acutely aware of how close‚ very recently‚ I had come to death. I wondered how many would have attended my funeral. Idris‚ the Heston Hall crew‚ Mum. It would be like this: a bunch of well-meaning Muslim strangers from Sutton Mosque‚ unfamiliar hands lowering me into the ground. There was once a time when I thought I was the man around Hounslow‚ but it was the kind of popularity that being a drug dealer attracts. They weren’t friends. They didn’t care. They didn’t visit me at the hospital. They certainly wouldn’t come to say goodbye.
I think I was starting to get a bit depressed. I think it was a long time coming.
‘It’s okay‚ Brother.’ Tahir put his arm around me‚ as I wiped a tear from my eye. ‘Moments like this make a man question his own existence‚ his mortality.’
‘Live life to the fullest.’ Zafar added a perfectly timed cliché.
‘Mashallah‚ Brother‚’ Tahir nodded. ‘We must never fear death‚ but we should never forget that it is coming‚ without warning and without question. Live and love and laugh with those closest to you.’
That’s it. That is fucking it. Tahir was right. He‚ Zafar‚ Ira‚ Naaim‚ they’d tried to get close to me and I’d pushed them away‚ rejecting them again and again. They weren’t my kind of people; Heston Hall was the only place I’d allow myself to be near them. Why did I think I was better than them? Because I wear better trainers‚ and Tahir wears a cotton shalwar and kameez. Or because Ira wears a hijab. I thought I was too good to be around those whose appearance screamed Muslim. Zafar was a funny guy‚ mostly unintentionally. Tahir was the sensible head. Ira‚ the feisty one and Naaim‚ the youngest‚ in desperate need of support.
I think I needed them as much as they needed me. More.
Naaim was on his haunches in front of his mother’s grave‚ his fingers aimlessly combing the freshly laid soil.
‘He’s going to need our help‚’ I said‚ surprising them as much as myself. ‘He’s probably going through hell. Layla... and now his mum.’ I moved away and approached Naaim‚ expecting my efforts to be rejected. I placed my hand on his shoulder. He turned to look up at me‚ his eyes dry and lifeless. We all react in a different way when facing death‚ but I hadn’t seen him shed a tear throughout the funeral. I took my hand away from his shoulder and put it in front of him. He took it and I helped him to his feet.
‘Look‚ I’m… I’m really sorry for your loss‚ man‚’ I said. It didn’t feel right. I couldn’t leave it like that‚ something about this kid filled me with a hope of redemption. ‘I’ll never understand what you’re going through‚ but know this‚ we’re here for you... I’m here for you.’
I stepped forward and took him in my arms. Naaim placed his head against my shoulder and shed his first tear.
*
In Naaim’s living room‚ the curtains were drawn a good few hours before they needed to be. A dull‚ artificial light barely illuminated the room. The television was set to UK Gold. A classic but politically incorrect old sitcom. Simpler times.
We talked. Not about the funeral‚ not about Heston Hall‚ just bullshit small-talk. Naaim quiet at first‚ conversation respectful at first‚ but when Zafar couldn’t stop himself from laughing‚ as Tahir misjudged a dunk and his custard cream plopped into his tea‚ the mood lifted.
‘Here‚’ Ira said‚ ‘Give it to me‚ I’ll make you another.’
‘No‚ Sister‚ it’s fine.’ Tahir took a sludgy sip and made a face.
Ira disappeared anyway and returned a moment later with a replacement tea for Tahir and took her place back on the sofa‚ next to Naaim.
‘Milk’s almost finished‚’ Ira said. ‘I’ll pick some up in a bit. I’ll get some basics too‚ fridge is bare.’
‘Mashallah‚’ Tahir said.
‘You want us to chip in‚ Ira?’ Zafar stood up and dug around fruitlessly in his pocket.
‘Sit down‚ yeah‚ Zafar‚’ Ira replied‚ ‘We all know you ain’t got a dime in there. You’re more unemployed than I am.’ Naaim snorted. It served as a moment for all us to join in and laugh at Zafar’s expense. Or lack of it. ‘Don’t worry‚’ she continued. ‘I’ve got plenty funds‚ yeah.’
‘Struck gold‚ have we?’ Zafar sat back down.
‘Benefits kicked in.’ Ira shrugged. ‘I get by.’ Zafar opened his mouth‚ but she was onto him‚ quick. ‘You better keep that mouth of yours shut‚ yeah. If they won’t pay us to work‚ they better pay us to survive.’
‘I didn’t say anything‚’ he replied‚ with a knowing smile.
‘Yeah‚ you better not.’
‘Can you pick up some sturdier biscuits‚ Sister?’ Tahir joined in.
It was nice‚ considering that we’d just come back from a funeral. Natural‚ it felt very much as though this group of people‚ this Muslim motley crew‚ were going to be in my life for some time‚ if I let them.
‘You know what’s funny?’ Naaim said‚ ‘My father doesn’t even know his wife has died.’
I looked over at Zafar. We both silently agreed that it actually wasn’t that funny.
‘He wasn’t there for her when she was alive. Why should he be there when she’s dead?’ Naaim said.
‘Screw him‚’ Ira exclaimed.
I could feel Zafar and Tahir both looking at me‚ I knew exactly what they were thinking. This is what we were talking about. They were right. Ira’s influence was there for all to see. And if we weren’t careful‚ it would get us all in trouble.
40
Maimana‚ Afghanistan
Before Abdullah Bin Jabbar was affectionately known as The Teacher.
Before he detonated his first explosive vest and suffered horrifying third-degree burns that resulted in blackened‚ charred skin all over his hands‚ face and body.
Before he created Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris‚ a terror cell that grew in numbers; men and women who shared his passion for life and his hatred for the West.
Before his legend grew and The Teacher became a mythical figure that could never be touched.
Before all of that‚ his name was Inzamam Qasim and he lived in Hounslow.
He worked as a chef in an Indian restaurant on Kensington High Street. His signature minted lamb chops drew admirers from afar. For three years he saved whatever money he could as he carefully studied the intricacies of running a successful London restaurant with the ambition of one day opening his very own place. It was his only dream at a time when dreams were achievable. Qasim wanted a partner by his side‚ not a business partner but a life partner. Somebody he could share this dream with as their family grew.
His parents showed him a photo of a girl. He liked it.
He met her once. He liked her.
Her name was Afeesa and they were married within a few months. Qasim’s closest friend‚ Adeel-al-Bhukara‚ a Muslim scholar‚ was his best man. They honeymooned in Marrakech. A few days in a small hotel with a few stars behind it. They spent the days browsing the souks‚ and visiting the Atlas Mountains. At night‚ when they weren’t getting to know each other‚ they watched the small hotel television. Only the news channel worked.
The co
verage of Operation Desert Storm‚ the Gulf War‚ was so very different to what he had seen and read on the news and newspapers back at home. The death and destruction of hundreds of thousands of men‚ women and children. Babies.
The easy deaths of innocents. The easy deaths of Muslims.
In the time that they had spent in Marrakech‚ watching the war unfold on the portable television‚ they witnessed reports of cluster bombs dropped at a truck stop. Open fire killing attendees at a wedding – a wedding just like theirs had been‚ a young couple celebrating the start of their lives together. Two missiles ripping through a busy bank. Another missile killing everybody on board a public bus. Twenty-three homes in an agricultural area hit with bombs in two separate attacks. All taking place within a period of three days.
And always the same result. No survivors.
When the newlyweds got back to England‚ to London‚ to Hounslow‚ it was a different story. The roles were reversed. Villains were heroes. A war justified. Sympathy for the Devil. The Allies consistent in their lies‚ just as they were consistent in their murder. It quickly became clear to Qasim that he had been told and sold a pack of lies.
He had always believed in helping the weak. He had always believed in an eye for an eye. He didn’t know just how far that belief would take him.
He told Afeesa that he wanted to help. He told her he wanted to fight. She told him she was pregnant.
Inzamam left her with money that was once dedicated to a dream. He left her with a roof over her head and food on the table. He left her to fight for a cause bigger than him‚ than them‚ than their unborn child. His friend‚ Al-Bhukara‚ promised he would watch over them.
Inzamam Qasim changed his name to Abdullah Bin Jabbar. Soon‚ he was affectionately known as The Teacher or‚ in Arabic‚ al-Mudarris.
His son was born. He was named Javid.
Twenty-eight years later the war against Muslims still consumed the world. In that period‚ four million Muslims had died at the hands of the West. It was a war that The Teacher could not win‚ but he would die trying. His organisation‚ Ghurfat-al-Mudarris‚ which had grown quick and hard‚ had a direct hand in fifteen devastating retaliation attacks. Planned meticulously and carried out to shattering effect. He never once asked his men to sacrifice themselves in war. Those who were caught welcomed the questions‚ the torture. If they had to‚ they would die slowly and painfully before they gave his name.
From London‚ Adeel-al-Bhukara kept in communication with The Teacher. He told him his son had come of age. He told him that Jay wanted to fight for The Cause. Just like his father before him.
For nearly thirty years The Teacher walked amongst his people‚ through their villages‚ welcomed into their homes. They worshipped him and loved him for what he was desperately trying to achieve. Any one of them could have spoken out against him. Revealed his location‚ his identity. But they would not. They did not.
But his son would. His son did.
The one and only time that Abdullah Bin Jabbar met his son‚ he felt a certain pride. Even after all that he had achieved‚ it was a pride that he had never felt before. With visions of his son one day taking over from him‚ and leading the good men and women of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris into battle‚ he revealed too much to Javid.
Al-Bhukara was right. Jay wanted to fight for The Cause‚ but it was a different cause.
Javid Qasim was responsible for the failed attack on Oxford Street. He was responsible for revealing The Teacher’s locations‚ description and the infrastructure of his cell. Javid‚ his own blood‚ had done something that his own men had never done. He had failed him.
The Teacher would spend the remainder of his days on the run. Ghurfat-al-Mudarris‚ the organisation that he had built from blood‚ sweat and tears‚ would never operate with the same ruthless efficiency with the eyes of the Kafir firmly on it.
The Teacher knew what was expected of him. A message had to be sent.
Javid Qasim had to die.
The thing was‚ Abdullah Bin Jabbar could never give that order‚ because something unexpected had happened.
He’d fallen in love with his son.
*
Intazaar was a small run-down restaurant located in a poor rural village in the Maimana region of Afghanistan‚ surrounded by broken‚ little-used roads. Behind it is a crop field used to grow wheat‚ maize‚ barley and rice.
In the basement of Intazaar is a small kitchen where Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ fearless leader of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris‚ now worked as a chef.
These days‚ his legendary lamb chops‚ which once dazzled the taste buds of Londoners‚ and delighted the mother of his only son‚ now feed the hungry in a village left in a state of disrepair by a war that they didn’t ask for.
In the corner sits a large‚ well-used Aga cooker. It would require three strong men to move it. Behind it is a masked‚ secure-coded panel‚ accessible only by Bin Jabbar. The panel‚ once removed‚ leads to a tight tunnel. On hands and knees‚ the tunnel runs a hundred metres and then meets four more underground tunnels that stretch two miles underneath the crop fields and out into four different neighbouring villages.
Four fully fuelled vans‚ each fitted with a hidden compartment‚ are stationed close by.
The lamb chops sizzled away to near-perfection on the Aga. A little longer was required for that slightly burnt‚ crispy taste. Bin Jabbar buttered the freshly made tandoori naan bread as he waited. His efforts were measured‚ his people were waiting to be fed‚ regardless of the disturbing news that he had heard. He waited patiently for confirmation. If it came‚ The Teacher would have to take a huge risk and come out of hiding. Preparations were already being put in place.
His dear friend‚ Latif‚ the only follower of Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris that he kept close‚ walked down the narrow stairs and into the kitchen basement.
‘Al-Mudarris.’ Latif swallowed.
Bin Jabbar carefully turned over the lamb chops one at a time. ‘Latif.’
‘Muhammad Talal is here at your request.’
He turned off the Aga and turned to see a man standing cautiously behind Latif. Bin Jabbar was accustomed to the awe and admiration that his people expressed for him. He was also aware that those who set eyes on him for the first time couldn’t help but register disgust at the dark layer of seared skin that covered his face and hands. Though never once had he seen fear in the eyes of his men‚ as he had in Talal’s.
He knew the meaning of it. But he had to hear the words from the mouth of the messenger.
‘Al-Mudarris.’ Talal lowered his eyes. ‘It is by the grace of Allah that –’
Bin Jabbar held out a charred hand to cut him short. He gestured to a wooden chair at the small wooden table. Bin Jabbar poured Talal a glass of water and stood opposite‚ behind an empty chair. He leaned forward‚ resting his hands on the wooden rail of the chair.
‘I would have come sooner‚ Al-Mudarris‚ but I was detained by the Belgian authorities. For two weeks they questioned me‚ repeatedly.’ Talal put a hand to his heart. ‘Wallahi‚ I didn’t say anything.’
‘It is okay.’ Bin Jabbar kept his frustration in check‚ hands gripped the rail. ‘Tell my why you are here.’
‘I have news. Sheikh Ghulam has taken control of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris in your absence.’
Bin Jabbar nodded.
‘I attended a meeting at the request of the Sheikh.’ Talal cleared his throat. ‘He has raised his first order.’ Talal looked nervously at Latif.
‘You may speak freely‚ Talal‚’ Bin Jabbar said.
‘But Al-Mudarris...’ Talal said.
‘Please‚’ Bin Jabbar inhaled‚ his fingers tightening and whitening around the wooden rail of the chair. ‘Continue.’
Talal picked up the glass of water and brought it to his lips‚ sipping generously. It spilled down his chin and onto the table. ‘Sorry‚’ he said‚ as dabbed at the spilt water on the table.
The wooden rail collapsed underneath
Bin Jabbar’s grip‚ he flung the chair across the kitchen. Striding forward he upturned the wooded table and placed his hand around Talal’s throat.
‘Speak‚ now.’
‘Javid Qasim.’ Talal spoke quickly‚ the glass shaking in his hand. ‘The Sheikh has placed a fatwa on your son.’
Bin Jabbar released his grip. He gently straightened out Talal’s kurta and patted him lightly on the chest. Latif remained neutral in expression.
‘Latif‚’ Bin Jabbar said. ‘Please show our guest out.’
Latif helped Talal to his feet and escorted him out of the basement kitchen. Bin Jabbar stood at the Aga and ignited it. He needed to feel something‚ to feel pain. He slowly lowered his hand on the flame. It burnt and peeled away another layer of skin‚ yet he could not feel any sensation.
‘Al-Mudarris.’ Latif returned and silently watched Bin Jabbar’s steady hand over the flame as the faint smell of burning skin reached him. ‘Please‚’ he said‚ softly.
‘Give me your phone‚ Latif.’ Bin Jabbar removed his hand from the Aga.
Latif adjusted his glasses. ‘I will arrange for a secure phone.’
‘No.’ Bin Jabbar held his hand out. ‘Now.’
Latif placed his phone in Bin Jabbar’s hand. He could clearly see the redness‚ swelling and blistering that had appeared on it. ‘Javid‚’ Latif surmised.
Bin Jabbar nodded. ‘I have to hear his voice.’
‘Al-Mudarris‚ I must advise against it. They will be watching Javid‚ have alerts on his phone‚ precisely for this very reason. They will trace this location within seconds.’
‘It does not matter‚’ Bin Jabbar said. ‘I am not coming back.’ He picked up the upturned wooden table and sat down‚ placing the phone in front of him. He stared pensively at it.
‘If you travel‚ they will hunt you.’
‘My people will carry me through‚ Latif.’ Bin Jabbar smiled at his friend. ‘It’s the only way that the fatwa can be lifted. I must speak with Sheikh Ghulam.’
There was nothing that Latif could say to change his mind.
‘Arrange for this food to be distributed‚ Latif. When they are fed and strong‚ send three men to move the Aga. Then I want you to ensure that each driver at each location is awaiting my arrival. Go‚ now.’
Homegrown Hero Page 18