Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

  ‘Is this okay?’ she said, pinching at it. ‘I found it hung up behind the bathroom door. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Yeah, no, yeah, it’s cool,’ I said, feeling my cheeks colouring. ‘Cool, cool, cool, cool. I’m, uh, making some lunch. Take a pew.’

  Pew! Pew! I don’t say shit like pew. I take the piss out of people who say shit like pew. Sophia took a pew at the kitchen table and I turned away and took my time stirring the baked beans, as I made some award-winning small talk.

  ‘Did you have a good shower? Sometimes the hot water can get too hot.’

  Yeah, that’s what I said.

  ‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘I used your bath sponge, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Yep, that’s fine.’ I swallowed. I turned around to face her. She was leaning on the table with both hands cupped around my matching Batman mug, and I suddenly felt like I was seven years old again. ‘I was just about to make you one, but wasn’t sure if you wanted tea or coffee?’

  ‘This is good,’ Sophia said, taking a sip from my tea, which I thought was an intimate gesture, or possibly she just wasn’t very particular.

  I pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. I linked my fingers and then steepled them; it felt unnatural. I was acting weird and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t disengage, not now, I had to own it, as though steepling was my thing. I took my time before speaking as she watched me with a measure of amusement over my mug.

  ‘You feeling better?’ I asked. ‘You know… After last night?’

  Sophia nodded gently at me, a smile playing in her eyes as she brought my tea to her lips. She had a way about her, I’ll give you that. But fuck, I couldn’t let a pretty face get me into trouble. I was quite capable of doing that shit all on my own. But she was in trouble, and just by her being under my roof, by association, so was I. Now I had to find out exactly what brand of trouble we were in.

  ‘Wanna talk about it?’ I prompted. ‘We should.’

  ‘Jay.’ I loved the way she made the one syllable last, as though it felt as good on her tongue as it did to my ear. She placed the mug down and pushed it towards me. I peered in and it was still half full. I took a sip. There was something about sharing the tea and I really need to snap the fuck out of this! ‘We’ve told the police. Let them deal with it. I really don’t want to relive it.’

  ‘Yeah, no, I know. Totally understand! But I can’t have this coming back to me. I need to understand what happened last night. I need to know.’

  In my thirst for information, to see how it all tied in with what Omar was jabbering on about, I had said too much, and I think Sophia had picked up on it. She narrowed her eyes to slits and wrinkled her nose and she looked like that cute witch from Bewitched that I used to watch with Mum.

  I shrugged casually to throw her off the scent, and stood up. I opened the fridge door and looked inside for inspiration.

  ‘What were you doing on that road last night, Jay?’ she countered defensively.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said over my shoulder as I randomly picked up an apple that I’d bought with good intentions. ‘I was on my way home.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she said, and I could tell that she wasn’t buying it.

  I shut the fridge door, and leaned back casually against the counter and crossed my legs at the ankles, and took a bite out of an apple for the first time in years.

  ‘Look, Sophia, you’re in my home. Don’t you think I should be asking the questions?’ It was a crap thing to say, but I had to flip the script before she started asking questions about what I was doing on that road in the first place. ‘You called the cops anonymously. Why? They’re going to want to chat to you. You were involved. And now I am, too.’

  All of a sudden she looked smaller, a little vulnerable. It felt like the dynamic had shifted and I felt that if I continued to push, I’d lose her.

  Sophia got up and approached the sink beside me. Her shoulders hunched forward and her head dipped as she turned on the tap and started to wash the mug.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ I said, side-glancing at her as she placed the mug in the drying rack and started on my cereal bowl and spoon. ‘Seriously, I can do that.’ I palmed the tap shut. She stood motionless for a moment watching the tap drip before turning to me. The whites of her eyes cracked red as she turned to me. I straightened up from off the counter, which only made the distance between us tighter. ‘I can help you,’ I said. ‘Trust me, I’m not as useless as I look.’

  Sophia smiled, but it was small, and there was nothing behind it. She dropped her eyes and then dropped her head. There was a quietness for a moment, only the sound of her breath and the fast beat of my heart. She took a small tentative step towards me and rested the side of her head against my chest. The water from her hands seeped through the back of my T-shirt and onto my skin. I placed the apple on the counter and put my arms around her. I noticed over her shoulder that lunch was long past burnt as she spoke softly into my chest.

  ‘He put a knife to my throat. He was going to kill me.’

  Chapter 27

  Tommy woke up on the sofa, in the living room, in a house that had once belonged to Omar’s father. Despite having slept in his jacket and jeans and his socks, he was feeling the freeze. Omar had explained that the heating and electricity had been long turned off. The house was an empty shell of the home that it once was.

  On the floor beside the sofa sat a tattered old brown leather holdall. One that Tommy found at home while rooting through his old man’s wardrobe. It had been full of old photo albums, filled with memories that didn’t mean a thing to him. He’d emptied it out and replaced the memories with tools. Tommy stretched the musty threadbare blanket tightly around his body and gently traced a line on the dry cracked leather straps, mentally picturing how he was going to use the tools.

  He sat up straight when he heard the front door open, but kept the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He blinked tightly to get the sleep out of his eyes as Omar appeared, looking well rested. He had spent the night at his own place. Tommy didn’t know where that was, but he guessed the heating was in working order.

  ‘Salaam, Brother,’ Omar greeted him as he passed over a steaming hot drink in a polystyrene cup.

  ‘Yeah, Salaam,’ Tommy replied, the word still sounding unnatural to him. ‘It’s really, really cold in here.’ His voice shivered in tune with his body as he wrapped both hands around the cup, despite the smell of coffee making him feel nauseous. The number of black coffees that he’d made daily for his half-cut old man had put him right off it.

  ‘How’s our guest?’ Omar asked. Tommy could see the curl of a smile protruding from beneath the thick knit scarf. ‘Comfy?’

  ‘I’ve not heard a thing,’ Tommy replied, eyes up at the ceiling. ‘I was knocked out.’

  ‘Alright.’ Omar clapped his gloved hands twice. ‘Drink up, and let’s go say hello.’

  Tommy followed Omar up the stairs, the tools in his leather holdall rattling in his hand. Omar was talking enthusiastically but Tommy was unable to make out his words, and didn’t deem them important enough to ask. They stood on the landing, breathing plumes of warm vapour into the freezing air.

  ‘Through there,’ Omar marvelled, pointing at a closed door. ‘That’s where history was made.’

  ‘Yeah. You said that last night.’

  ‘Did I?’

  Tommy was aware that Omar was itching to bring up his father’s achievements again. How he had nurtured five young men in that very room, imparting great wisdom and turning them into brave Jihadis.

  ‘Yeah. You did.’ Tommy smiled, trying not to offend.

  ‘Do you want to have a look inside?’ Omar reached for the handle. ‘For, uh, inspiration.’

  ‘As you said, Brother.’ Tommy still wasn’t comfortable with that term. ‘It’s history. I’m looking to make my own history.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ Omar nodded, his face small as he dropped his hand away from the door handle. ‘And I’m going to help you wi
th that.’ Omar’s face lit up, the slight set aside. ‘As agreed, I’ve reached out already. My contact has what you need. As soon as we’re done here, you and I are going on a road trip to Coventry.’

  Tommy had to trust him, and he did. It was clear that Omar wanted desperately to follow in his father’s footsteps. Take on the role of the provider, to place tools in the hands of others and then stand back and watch the destruction from a safe distance.

  ‘Let’s get this over and done with,’ Tommy said as they both lifted their eyes to the hatch door leading to the loft.

  Omar stood on tiptoes and pulled the catch to flip down the hatch door. He slid the attached metal ladder down and moved to one side. Tommy climbed up through the hole and disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘Bag.’ Tommy’s voice echoed.

  Omar’s slight frame struggled to lift the bag, let alone hoist it over his head, but motivation helped give him strength. A hand appeared out of the hatch and wrapped a fist around the handle. The bag disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘The light switch is on your… Oh, you found it.’

  Omar followed, and entered through the hatch. It was colder in the loft, much more so than the rest of the house. He tightened the scarf around his neck and stood beside Tommy, the holdall at their feet. They looked to the far end of the loft.

  ‘Is he supposed to be that colour?’ Omar asked, some concern etched on his face. ‘Do you think he’s alright?’

  Tommy picked up his brown leather holdall, the contents clunked and clanged as he walked past the stuffed bin-liners and stacks of damp cardboard boxes filled with memories of Al-Bhukara family history. He stood in front of their prize.

  Naked from the waist up, the hostage was secured to a wooden chair, his body a pale grey, flesh spilling over the thick rope that had been tied so tight that his shoulders had folded unnaturally inwards. His eyes were closed and his head dropped. His chin rested on his collar bone and his body shook from both the shock and the cold.

  ‘Is he…?’ Omar called. He hadn’t moved from his spot and was rubbing his hands and stamping his feet for warmth.

  ‘He’s alive,’ Tommy replied.

  Omar walked across the loft and stood beside Tommy. ‘Alright then,’ he said. ‘Wake him up.’

  Tommy knelt down and unzipped the leather holdall, almost expecting to see old photo albums. He noisily scoured the contents, supplies that he had recently purchased from B&Q, and picked out a white paper suit. He slipped it over his clothes, zipped it up and lifted the paper hood. He rummaged further through the bag, and picked out a cordless hammer drill and attached a 25mm spade bit – a wide flat blade with a sharp point, primarily used to bore holes smoothly through wood. Tommy placed the sharp point on the thigh of the hostage and caressed the trigger. He looked up at Omar.

  ‘Wait!’ Omar turned his head away and grimaced. ‘Do it!’

  Tommy softly pressed the trigger of the hammer drill a quarter of an inch, just enough for the sharp point of the spade bit to rapidly rotate a couple of rounds. It ripped easily through the trouser leg and with the same ease pierced a red hole into soft flesh.

  As though a string had been pulled on a toy doll, the hostage’s eyes flew open. He cried. ‘Do you know who I am? Do you know who the bloody hell I am?’

  Omar delivered his response, slowly relishing each word.

  ‘As it happens, I do. John Robinson, Assistant Director of Counter Terrorism. Now, I’m going to ask you a question, and I hope you will give me the same courtesy of answering me.’

  Robinson stared agog at the small red hole… in his thigh. He hissed through his teeth as the pain and the cold caught up. ‘What do you want?’ he asked, weakly.

  ‘Where are you holding Abdul Bin Jabbar? The man known to the world as The Teacher?’

  Chapter 28

  Jay

  No. Before you ask. We didn’t sleep together. The fuck d’you think this is? I held Sophia for a bit, longer than I’d expected, but not as long as I wanted to. It was nice. Sophia was nice. But that’s all it was. Didn’t mean anything.

  I’d come close a couple of times, but I’d never truly fallen in love. I liked the idea of it. I liked the feeling of my brain shooting in all directions as it formulated warm and fuzzy scenarios. A roaring fireplace, candles dotted on the windowsill, sinking into the sofa with limbs entwined watching Netflix on a full stomach after a take-away lamb madras. The images came quickly, then reality kicked in, and just as quickly they popped.

  We’d moved into the living room. She made herself at home on my armchair. Both of us had lost our appetite for lunch, instead making do with a pack of Quavers and a Twix. I browsed the news channels and scoured online hoping for a mention of events from the night before. Absolutely nothing.

  It’s not like Sophia was imparting any further knowledge; she only fed me drops, when I needed chapter and verse.

  ‘Did you get his name? The guy who…’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know his name,’ Sophia replied quickly, avoiding my eyes, and hoovered down the back end of the crisp packet.

  Of course she knew him, or at the very least knew something about him. But to admit to that would be admitting that they were working together. ‘What’d he look like?’ I said, swallowing my frustration.

  ‘He was young, good-looking.’

  I shifted in my seat. ‘How… How do you mean, good-looking?’ I said, not coming across as jealous at all.

  ‘Just…’ She shrugged. ‘He was attractive.’

  ‘Look, I’m going to need more than attractive if I’m going to help you.’

  ‘Light eyes, long lashes, maybe early twenties. Oh, and short red hair.’

  ‘Ginger? He’s a ginger?’ I said, feeling a little better about myself.

  Sophia nodded, followed by a sigh. ‘I know you mean well, Jay, I just can’t see how you can help me.’

  ‘I have contacts,’ I said, holding up my phone as if to prove my point.

  She rolled her eyes at me. Even that was cute. But I couldn’t just sit around sneaking glances at her as she went through her repertoire of expressions. I mean, I could’ve, but I had calls to make, people to see. Somehow I was part of this and I needed to know exactly what my part was.

  The only thing was: could I trust her alone in my home? Probably not, if I’m honest, but I couldn’t exactly take her with me. Not with this threat hanging over her. I did a quick mental run through of my house and tried to establish how much damage she could do. There was only that one thing.

  I wiped the Twix crumbs from my mouth and shot to my feet, propelled into action.

  She looked at me with a measured expression. ‘What?’

  ‘Back in a sec,’ I said. Before she could respond I ran upstairs and into my bedroom. From under my bed, from my Nike shoebox, I retrieved the Glock. Not because I had any intentions of waving it around; I simply could not leave the piece at home with Sophia knocking about.

  I shrugged on my parka and dropped the Glock in the bucket pocket and made my way back down. I stopped in my tracks halfway down the stairs.

  Sophia was standing in the hallway, her back tight against the front door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, her eyes and voice both filled with apprehension.

  ‘There’s something I gotta do.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t have to do anything.’

  ‘I have to.’ I walked down the last few steps and stood in front of her. ‘Don’t open the door to anyone and do not leave the house. I’ll be back soon as.’

  Sophia looked at me like she cared, or maybe that’s just how I saw it. She stepped to one side and I opened the front door.

  ‘Jay,’ she said, as I moved past her. I turned back to look at her. She had her arms tightly wrapped around my Batman onesie and it almost broke my will. ‘I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me.’

  It was the closest Sophia had come to an admission.

  ‘Take my number.’
>
  I read out my number and she put it in her phone and then she gave me a dropped call so I had her number. It felt weird, like the first step in a relationship, but this was nothing like giving out your number to a girl in a bar.

  ‘Save it and check in on me later, if you want, you know, it’s up to you.’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll save it under J.’

  I dialled Idris from my car. The international dial tone filled my car through my speakers.

  ‘Yes, Jay.’ Idris’ voice came through, he sounded like he had his mouth full. ‘The buffet in this place is killing me, I must have put on at least half a stone.’ My heart bled; God forbid he might lose one of his abs from his precious six pack. ‘So, what did I catch you doing earlier? In your mum’s bedroom of all places. Jesus, Jay!’

  We weren’t video-calling, but nevertheless I could picture the stupid look on his face. ‘You wanna tell me what you found out about Imy?’

  ‘Not a thing, Jay.’

  ‘What’s that mean? They let him go?’

  ‘No, Imran Siddiqui was never there. There’s nothing on the system. He wasn’t checked in.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Could they have taken him to another shop?’

  ‘According to you he was picked up in Osterley—’

  ‘What d’you mean according to me? He was picked up in Osterley! I didn’t make this shit up.’

  ‘Jay, you wanna calm down? I’m not saying you made it up. Look, if he was picked up in Osterley, nine times out of ten he’s going to Hounslow nick. But if the crime is, let’s just say extreme, then he’ll get hauled down to Heathrow Police Station.’

  ‘Extreme? What?’ I waited for him to respond before answering myself. ‘Extreme like terrorism-related? Are you saying they pulled Imy in on terrorism charges?’

  ‘Fuck, why don’t you say that word a few more times, just in case GCHQ missed it?’