Homegrown Hero

by Khurrum Rahman

  An apology would be an admission that the Sheikh would not dare make. Bin Jabbar did not expect it. The smell of fear that filled the room was admission enough.

  Bin Jabbar was a fair man‚ a man who had always given his people the benefit of the doubt. Ghulam had made a mistake‚ an error in judgement. But on so many occasions‚ without question‚ he had been there when called upon‚ supporting Bin Jabbar‚ as a friend‚ as a financier.

  He would be forgiven.

  ‘Al-Mudarris. I will provide you with safe passage to Islamabad. It is all arranged.’

  Bin Jabbar rested his eyes and formed his son in his mind.

  ‘You will rest there‚ Inshallah. It’s all taken care of.’

  He had his eyes‚ his heart‚ his flesh‚ his blood. Javid had his smile.

  ‘I will personally make sure you live like a king.’

  Bin Jabbar opened his eyes and looked at the man who had come so close to taking away the one thing he truly loved.

  The weight of the Desert Eagle handgun smashed down with almighty force on Sheikh Ghulam’s head.

  Dazed‚ he lifted his head from the desk. A sliver of blood trickled from under his headdress and slowly down his forehead. ‘Al-Mudarris‚ please.’ But the handle of the gun was descending again towards his head‚ and behind it Bin Jabbar’s burnt face carried nothing but fury. Ghulam’s hands flew to his head for protection. The heavy steel smashed down‚ again and again and again‚ cracking first his fingers and then his skull.

  Bin Jabbar walked around the desk‚ past Ghulam’s bloody head slumped on his bloody desk. He looked out of the window at the tall telephone mast. It was exactly where he would have placed a man. At the top of the mast was mounted a large satellite dish‚ behind which he spotted the gleam of a sniper’s rifle.

  Bin Jabbar turned his back to it. He placed his gun on the desk‚ beside a barely-breathing Ghulam‚ and pulled him up by his hair. He picked up the desk phone and wrapped the wire tightly around Ghulam’s throat twice over.

  The Sheikh finally screamed for forgiveness‚ as his life slipped away in the hands of The Teacher.

  *

  Bin Jabbar stepped out of the office as the man he once was. Inzamam Qasim‚ father of Javid Qasim.

  He looked down the long‚ red-carpeted hallway‚ checking in both directions. He peered over the balcony. The mansion was empty. Ghulam’s security detail‚ that he had noticed on arrival‚ had vanished. In his right hand he gripped the blood-splattered Desert Eagle and in his left hand he gripped tightly onto a cell phone that he had removed from Ghulam’s thobe.

  He dialled a number quickly. It was answered quickly.

  ‘Javid.’ Inzamam Qasim gripped the phone and waited to hear his son’s voice one last time.

  ‘They’re coming for you.’

  Qasim smiled. ‘Tell me... How are you‚ Javid?’

  ‘I’m alright.’

  ‘And your mum?’ he asked‚ as though in a dream.

  ‘She’s alright... No thanks to you.’

  Qasim could feel his son’s temper rising. ‘You’re both better off without me.’

  ‘Yeah?’ his son said softly‚ before he found his voice. ‘How the fuck would you know?’

  Qasim stood at the balcony. On either side of him‚ two curved sweeping staircases. ‘We live in troubled times‚ Javid. I chose to take on a higher purpose‚ to help give our people hope. I prayed that one day‚ you would be standing by my side.’

  ‘Fuck off. You disgust me‚ you hear me? Higher fucking purpose? No. I’m not having that. You were a husband and a father. My father! That was your fucking purpose.’

  With Javid screaming in his ear‚ Qasim took the staircase to his right‚ the gun scraping down the gold-plated bannister. He was proud of how his son was tearing him to shreds. As he slowly made his way down the stairs‚ he saw movement through the downstairs window‚ three men crouched low. All wearing the pale colours of army fatigues. All holding automatic assault rifles.

  ‘How is your job?’ Qasim asked. His gun covered the window as he tried to entice as much information as he could from his son. ‘Are you seeing anybody at the moment?’

  ‘You’ve got no fucking right!’

  ‘Please‚ Javid‚’ Qasim said. ‘I’d like to know.’

  ‘I hope they find you‚’ Javid said‚ wearily‚ the screaming out of his system. ‘I want nothing more than for you to suffer and die.’

  The window smashed‚ a gloved hand dropped a canister. Toxic gas quickly filled the room. Qasim refused to cover his face. Desert Eagle handgun in one hand‚ pointing at the enemy. His son in the other. He wasn’t willing to let go of either. A soldier climbed through the window‚ followed by another and another. Their faces shielded with gas masks. A battering ram pounded against the heavy reinforced front doors three times‚ before the doors splintered and swung open. Four more men entered the house.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Javid asked. ‘Where are you?’

  Keep talking‚ son. Stay in my ear until the end.

  Qasim fired a shot for cover and turned on his heel‚ bent low and started to climb back up the sweeping staircase. Above him on the balcony‚ four-gas masked Kafirs were pointing their guns at him as they repeatedly screamed instructions.

  ‘Get down on your knees!’

  ‘Hands in the air!’

  ‘Drop your weapon!’

  ‘Do as they say‚’ Javid screamed. ‘Give up‚ please.’

  Qasim did not get on his knees. He didn’t put his hands in the air. He didn’t drop his weapon.

  ‘Son...’ He lifted the gun. ‘It was always going to end this way.’

  Qasim was quick enough to let off a single shot before his tired body was torn apart‚ ripped up and pulped by bullets. He tumbled slowly down the staircase. His head connected with the marble floor‚ his lower body and legs splayed over the last few steps. Heavy footsteps approached him‚ weapons trained on him. The Desert Eagle had slipped out of his hand‚ but the phone remained firmly in his grip.

  As he lay there‚ Inzamam Qasim could still hear his son. The one word that he had longed to hear.

  ‘Dad...?’

  94

  Jay

  The six-by-nine Blaupunkt speakers beeped to indicate that the call had been disconnected. The music kicked back in. ‘Shut ’em down’. Public Enemy. The bass once again took over and trapped me in my Beemer.

  I placed my phone in the centre console and tried to get back into it‚ but I just wasn’t feeling it anymore. What I was feeling was a little stupid‚ sat in my driveway by myself‚ listening to outdated hip-hop‚ with my shoes kicked off. I slipped my Jordans back on and turned the volume right the way down on the stereo. The dial came off in my hand. I tried to slot it back in place‚ but the fitting had a break in it and it sat askew‚ ruining the whole fucking look of my car stereo. I lifted my leg back and kicked it flush with the sole of my left boot. A large spider crack appeared on the orange digital display. I kicked it again.

  Just above my stereo‚ I kicked the flimsy fucking air vents‚ too. They broke easily. What wouldn’t break so easily was the rear-view mirror‚ I was pulling at it using my body weight‚ almost hanging off the fucking thing. I could see my reflection in it‚ my teeth clamped tight as I put every effort into snapping it away from its neck. It eventually came away with a satisfying crack. I threw it hard and watched it satisfyingly smash through the passenger side window.

  I opened the car door and stepped out.

  Holding my house key tightly in my hand‚ I scraped the length of my Beemer as I walked to my front door. Refusing to allow time to curb my temper‚ I ran up the stairs to my bedroom to retrieve what I was looking for. I emerged from the house with a baseball bat.

  What was it that he asked me?

  How is your job? Are you seeing anybody at the moment?

  I swiped down and cleanly beheaded the wing mirror. ‘Yeah‚ job’s alright. I just got back today after some tim
e off. Forgot my fucking password‚ didn’t I?’ The sound of my baseball bat swinging clean through the driver’s side window was glorious. ‘My Team Leader wants to put me on some training for the call logging system. I’ll find a way out of it.’ I popped both headlights and then I went to town on the front grill. ‘There is this girl‚ actually. Kelly. Thinking about asking her out for a drink. I think you’d like her‚ you narcissist motherfucker! Out to save the fucking world‚ when you couldn’t save your son.’

  The windscreen put up some resistance and the baseball bat vibrated in my hands on impact‚ the welcome pain ran through my arm and up my shoulder.

  Panting hard‚ I got down on my haunches and dropped the bat. It rolled gently away from me. I could hardly blame it. I looked at my beautiful car. Instant fucking regret. My Beemer was as broken as I was.

  Not giving a fuck that my neighbours were out in force‚ I got to my feet and pressed the fob key. It efficiently chirped and locked my car as I entered my home and shut the front fucking door on the whole fucking world.

  I switched the TV on and waited for the inevitable news to confirm reports that The Teacher had been killed. It’d be front page on every newspaper. Talking heads‚ so called fucking experts‚ chatting shit well into the night. A victory for the West. A victory for those who I’d sided with. The world would briefly rejoice. The world would believe whatever was fed to them…

  Me? I won’t believe it until I see my father’s body with my own eyes.

  95

  Eight months later…

  Finally‚ the moment he had been waiting for had arrived.

  Eight months ago‚ Rafi Kabir had entered his parents’ bedroom as they slept soundly. He’d kissed his mother and father gently on the cheek and‚ with a rucksack full of clothes and football trading cards‚ he quietly backed out of his parents’ bedroom and walked out of his home into the early hours of the morning. He’d walked to the end of his street where Pathaan had been waiting.

  He had handed Rafi a motorcycle helmet.

  Rafi had clung on to Pathaan‚ his skinny arms around his waist‚ his face resting on the cool back of the leather jacket. All the way out of Blackburn and into London.

  Rafi had never been to London before‚ it was as dirty as he’d been told it’d be. They stayed in a cramped flat in the backstreets of Hammersmith. The flat belonged to Yousuf Ejaz‚ a British Muslim and member of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. Yousuf had been recovering from a broken leg. In the day‚ Rafi helped to look after him‚ in the evening‚ Rafi listened intently as Pathaan re-educated them on jihad‚ a far cry from the teachings of al-Mudarris.

  Never fear the afterlife. Give yourself wholly to The Cause.

  Never fear the afterlife. Show to the world that we are not afraid to look the Kafir in the eye before we take our last breath.

  Never fear the afterlife. Allah will grant you the highest place in Jannah.

  Pathaan had died without fear of the afterlife.

  Rafi‚ who had just turned eleven‚ would never forget his words.

  ‘How does it feel?’ Yousuf met Rafi’s eye through the full length mirror.

  ‘Like it’s a part of me‚ Bruv.’ Rafi smiled at his reflection‚ a vision that he had dreamt about many times.

  ‘Okay. So let’s get you dressed.’ Yousuf helped Rafi put on the jacket of the decorative sherwani that they had bought one size too big. A rich cream in colour‚ with maroon piping around the sleeves and neck line which matched the drainpipe maroon shalwar. Yousuf got to his knees as he carefully buttoned up the jacket. He looked up at Rafi and laughed. ‘You look like the groom.’

  ‘Shut up‚’ Rafi said. ‘I ain’t never getting married.’

  Yousuf cleared his throat and looked away.

  ‘Come on. Let us pray.’

  *

  It took a lot of will for Rafi not to tear into the school kids who ripped the piss out of his appearance on the H91 bus. He had dealt with little shits like that his whole life‚ before his father had uprooted his family to a predominantly Muslim part of Blackburn. He kept his breathing even‚ as Pathaan Bhai had taught him‚ and let the filth serve as motivation.

  Not familiar with Hounslow‚ Rafi stepped off the bus one stop too early. He walked the last mile towards Osterley Park Hotel with his head down‚ acutely aware that the police or some do-gooder could recognise him. Even eight months on‚ he was still a missing child.

  Rafi weaved through the parked cars within the hotel car park‚ the music blaring in his ears as he approached the function hall. To his right‚ a handful of screeching kids were kicking a can around the car park as an improvised football. A very small part of him wanted to abandon everything and join in.

  One of them‚ a little white kid‚ red in the face from kicking the can around‚ approached him.

  ‘Are you on my dad’s side?’ he asked‚ taking in Rafi’s outfit.

  Rafi nodded.

  ‘This way.’ The boy walked into the hotel and past reception. He picked up one red rose from many red and white roses laid out neatly on a table outside the function hall‚ and handed it to Rafi. ‘You have to wear this.’ The boy had to raise his voice over the music. ‘Red for my dad’s side. White for my mum’s side.’ Rafi accepted the rose and pin and struggled to attach it to the jacket of his sherwani. ‘I can help.’ The boy smiled. Rafi handed him the rose and the boy held it against his chest. Rafi‚ careful not to nick the boy’s hand with the pin‚ secured the rose in place. ‘Teamwork!’ the boy happily exclaimed. ‘My name is Jack. What’s yours?’

  ‘Rafi.’

  Together‚ Rafi and Jack pushed open the double doors to the hall and stepped in just as a classic Bollywood song‚ from a classic Bollywood movie starring Amitabh Bachan‚ Rafi’s favourite actor‚ filled the hall. So many occasions‚ Rafi had danced and showed off and re-enacted the lines to that movie‚ in his living room‚ in front of his family.

  ‘Where are your Mum and Dad?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Parking the car‚’ Rafi said‚

  ‘I have to go.’ Jack said‚ something catching his attention. ‘My mum’s calling me. You want to say hello?’

  Rafi followed his gaze towards the back of the hall‚ to the bride and groom’s table. The bride was gesturing for Jack to join him. Rafi nodded. ‘I have a gift.’

  Rafi followed the boy through the guests. It made him sick as he noticed the difference in colour and culture. Revealing dresses side by side with traditional lenga’s. Masala chai sharing the same table space as bottles of beer. White and brown easily mixing‚ talking‚ smiling‚ laughing‚ dancing‚ as though they didn’t hate each other. Rafi’s eyes searched the hall for the man who had killed Pathaan. The man who’d given away all their secrets to the Kafir in exchange for freedom.

  ‘That’s my Nana and Granddad next to my mum.’ Jack pointed at the sour-faced elderly couple sat next to the bride‚ as they approached. ‘That’s my Khala on the other side. I don’t know where my Dad is.’ Jack ran around the back of the long table and stood by his mother. ‘Where’s Dad?’ Jack asked.

  ‘He’s around somewhere‚’ his mother replied. ‘Mingling‚ I should guess. Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Rafi. He’s bought you a gift.’

  She turned to smile at Rafi‚ just as Rafi turned away to see Imran Siddiqui across the other side of the hall. He was walking slowly towards them‚ stopping only to shake hands with guests‚ his smile so wide‚ as though every fucking thing that had come before had been forgotten about.

  ‘Dad‚’ Jack called across‚ before turning to Rafi. ‘That’s my Dad‚’ Jack smiled proudly.

  Rafi waited for Imran to fucking acknowledge him. He watched Imran smile adoringly at his wife‚ his son‚ his white family‚ before his eyes found Rafi. That wiped the smile off his face and replaced it with pure fear. Imran took a purposeful stride forward towards the table‚ then another‚ and then he broke into a run.

  Rafi slipped his hand into the side po
cket of the decorative jacket of his sherwani‚ and it emerged gripping a small detonator. It was time to show Imran what it truly meant to be a soldier of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris.

  Rafi closed his eyes and visualised the white light flashing across the guests‚ gathered to celebrate the coming together of cultures. He visualised the devastation on Imran’s face‚ helpless‚ unable to help those he loved the most‚ as the deafening blast tore through them.

  He opened his eyes and smiled at Imran.

  Allahu Akbar.

  Acknowledgements

  They say the second book is the hardest to write. They know what they’re talking about. I couldn’t have done it, not on my own.

  The biggest thanks to my amazing family. My wife, for always finding me when I feel lost. My eldest for making it clear that the writing had to revolve around his time. My youngest, well, he didn’t know what was going on, but just his smile and babbling advice made me want to be a better version of myself. My mum, dad and brother, you don’t realise how much you inspire me.

  A huge thanks to my agent, Julian Alexander, of LAW Literary Agency. Right at the beginning he made it clear that I could approach him with anything that was on my mind. A decision which I think he now regrets. Thanks for being patient with me, Julian.

  A massive gratitude to my publisher, HQ/HarperCollins, for believing in me. My editor, the wise and wonderful Clio Cornish, who sees things that I never see and finds solutions when all I see is problems. My publicist, the always-smiling Lily Capewell, who does not take no for an answer. Thank you Team HQ – you make me feel like an Author.

  Finally, and most importantly, I want to Thank God. I know I don’t always play ball, but me and you? I think we’re cool.

  About the Publisher

  Australia