Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

  ‘Is that what you think happened?’

  ‘Nah, I don’t actually. It wouldn’t have gone down so… amicably.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, thinking back. The knock on the door. The exchange of words. Imy leaving them at the door to pick up his house keys and phone before voluntarily going with them. ‘It was pretty fucking amicable.’

  ‘If they had any inkling that he was up to… you know, they would have turned his house upside down.’

  ‘So you don’t think he’s at Heathrow nick?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he definitely didn’t get pulled into Hounslow?’

  ‘No.’

  I almost asked Idris for another favour. Another call. See what he could find out about what went down last night at Clareville Road. It was on my lips, but when he spoke next, I knew I couldn’t ask him. Knew I couldn’t keep taking the piss and not giving anything back.

  ‘You gonna tell me what’s going on, Jay?’ he asked. It was token, his voice weary of asking me the same thing over, and me forever evading the question.

  ‘Nothing, Idris,’ I said, trying to inject a smile into my voice. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  I ended up burning petrol as I took a tour of Hounslow trying to figure out my next move. I was expecting Omar to bell me at some point. What did he say? If things go as planned, then believe me, bro, you are going to want to be a part of this. The fuck’s that supposed to mean?

  I really hadn’t taken to that riddle-talking motherfucker. His old man was a monster and it looked very much as though he wanted to do something to serve in his memory. I could easily tip him off to the cops, put him on their radar. Let them deal with him and whoever the fuck this Tommy character was. But could I trust the cops not to fuck this up?

  How many times have we seen an attack take place by somebody who was known to the authorities, but they chose to sit on it?

  As stressed as I was, my head was playing mind gymnastics, that feeling of doing something right, something important, creeping up and tickling the back of my neck, making my spider-sense tingle. It made me feel alive, it drove me, and no matter how easily I could have walked away from it all, I was involved because I wanted to be involved.

  As I waited for Omar to bell me I thought I’d do a little homework, see what I could suss out. Knowledge is power, right, something like that? I filled up my Beemer, ready for a round trip to South Kensington.

  In the daylight, Clareville Road was a pretty chilled-out street, well-kept homes belonging to those who liked to be well kept. There was nothing uniform about it, each house was detached and had its own character. It didn’t seem like the kind of neighbourhood that had ever experienced violence, and as I slowly drove past number 102, at a glance, it still didn’t seem like it.

  Everything felt static, almost staged. As though the night before a woman hadn’t run for her life from a knife-wielding attacker.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to expect; some police presence, door to door, asking questions. I guess there was a chance that the intruder had been jacked soon after we’d made our getaway, and the whole thing had come to a stop before it started. But, I don’t know, that didn’t fit either.

  I dropped to the kerb about ten doors down from 102 and clocked the scene in my rear-view mirror. Between the house and my car, a man and woman walked towards each other, stopping by a post box. I watched them for a minute.

  They were chatting and laughing as though they’d just bumped into each other after a dalliance at Uni some years back. Her hand playfully brushed his arm, as she ran the other through her hair. He shuffled confidently from one foot to the other as he went through his repertoire of hilarious anecdotes with animated gestures. Not a hat, jacket or scarf in sight as though they were immune to the cold. They could have been neighbours who’d nipped out to post a letter and were just catching up, but my neighbours don’t greet me like that!

  I looked past them towards the house, and was dying to get out and have a nosey. I waited for the long-lost sweethearts to budge, but I knew they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  Their actions seemed to loop, as if they had only rehearsed for a short period before stopping and repeating. Him hopping around from one foot to the other, holding court. Her hand on his arm and through her hair. The over-exaggerated laughter.

  It could’ve been something, could’ve been nothing.

  I removed the Glock from my pocket and placed it in the glove compartment, and stepped out of my car. I slammed the door deliberately hard, expecting them to flip their heads in my direction, but they were still wrapped up in each other.

  I zipped up my parka and jammed my hands in the bucket pockets. I felt around and found a balled-up used tissue. I started to flatten it. It was time to put my theory to the test.

  I walked casually towards the post box where they were standing. Even though I was in their peripheral vision they didn’t even so much as glance towards me. About level with them I heard him say something like, ‘And that’s the last time I’ll be using that plumber again,’ and she laughed with a flirty, ‘Oh, stop it, Richard.’ I moved on past them, her continuous laughter still ringing in my ears. There’s no fucking way his plumber joke could have been that funny. I made my move: operation used tissue. I had un-balled and flattened it as much as the room in my pocket would allow me to, and my hand emerged out of my pocket with it and I dropped it accidentally to the ground.

  Now, check this out for tactical nuance: I could have dropped my keys but they would have hit the ground quicker; the flattened tissue would float slowly to the ground like a snotty parachute, and if my suspicions were correct, and they were watching me, their eyes would naturally be on the flight of the tissue gently floating to the ground and I’d have a small window to make my move.

  I made my move.

  In one swift motion, I spun and caught the tissue before it hit dirt. As anticipated, both their eyes were on it, and then wide on me. I busted them. They knew I’d busted them. And they knew that I knew that I’d busted them. Her fake laugh was suspended on her face, and he’d stopped hopping around as though somebody had shouted, ‘Cut!’

  They’d been watching me as soon my Beemer had made an appearance.

  ‘Keep Britain Tidy!’ I said, holding my used tissue up.

  I turned my back to them and walked towards 102 Clareville Road, as I tried to piece together the significance of it.

  Were they cops straight out of Undercover School? Were they watching me, or were they generally looking for any suspicious behaviour? Or, was I just being characteristically paranoid? My brain was still trying to digest it, but all of a sudden it seemed way too hot to be having a nosey around. If they were cops, they’d want to know what I was doing at that address, and I wasn’t ready to spill just yet.

  I moved casually past 102 without so much as a glance, as I tried to figure out an alternative destination that wouldn’t put me on the radar. Before I knew it I was walking down the path of the neighbour’s home.

  I pressed the bell. It vibrated gently under my finger, and as I waited for an answer, I looked back at the couple. They had moved, like, ninety degrees, so that she had her back to me and he was in front of her, able to sneak a peek over her shoulder as they insisted on continuing their little charade.

  I heard the chain rattle from the other side of the door. I hoped that a little charm would go a long way. The door opened. A woman, old, older than me anyway, dressed in a lot of Lycra, jogged on the spot like a cartoon about to take off. She eyed me with curiosity.

  ‘Hi,’ I smiled brightly, as though all her dreams had come true. ‘How are you?’

  She looked at her watch, a smart number, and she swiped the screen a few times. ‘Yes?’ was her curt greeting.

  ‘My name is Jay.’

  ‘Jay?’ She said it with suspicion, as if I’d just made it up.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ I said, as my brain tried to race ahead and fig
ure out where I was going with this.

  ‘You look lost,’ she said, as though she knew that I didn’t belong.

  ‘No, not lost, Miss.’

  ‘Mrs Carson,’ she replied, and I think she instantly regretted giving her name away.

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Carson, I’m looking for someone. She—’ I started, but was rudely interrupted by my phone chiming from my pocket. I padded from pocket to pocket and blindly disconnected the call.

  ‘She, whoever she is, is not here!’ she snapped. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’ Her hand moved towards the door and I knew if I didn’t improve my bullshit sharpish I’d be staring at a door number.

  ‘She was working a shift yesterday evening. Next door,’ I blurted and gestured with my head.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Sophia, yeah, that’s her,’ I said, and for no valid reason, added, ‘She’s my girlfriend.’ I said it as part of the act, didn’t mean anything by it, but weirdly butterflies fluttered through my stomach.

  Mrs Carson took a moment to look me up and down, probably trying to picture us together, the coverage of the attack at Imy and Stephanie’s interfaith wedding reception probably still fresh on her mind. But, to her credit, and my shame, she said, ‘Hope you’re going to make an honest woman out of her?’

  ‘Ha, yeah, no, it’s still early days.’ I swear those butterflies just would not quit! ‘Thing is, Mrs Carson, Sophia was supposed to meet me last night. We had dinner planned at The Shard. It was my birthday, you see, but she didn’t show. I tried belling, um… calling her, but her phone was switched off. I even went round to her flat. She wasn’t there, either. So you know, I got worried that something happened to her. I tried knocking next door, but no one seems to be home. So… you know.’ I shrugged softly at her.

  ‘It’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it, young man, to assume she’s missing? Maybe she just forgot, she’s not the most organised, let me tell you.’

  ‘I know! Totally disorganised. That’s exactly what I thought!’ I said, starting to warm to the story. ‘So I slept on it and tried to get in touch with her again this morning… It’s just not like her. I knew that she had a shift here so…’ I shrugged. ‘I wondered if she turned up for it last night.’

  She sighed, and then she followed it with a second, and then the lines in her forehead disappeared as her features softened. ‘She did turn up for her shift. She picked up the house keys from me, she normally returns them after, but I guess she must have left in a hurry.’

  I tuned out for a second as I pictured Sophia running for her life and scrambling into my car, into my home, into my Batman onesie and into my life.

  ‘I gave her a hard time yesterday, I must admit,’ Mrs Carson continued. ‘She turned up early, was a little jittery by all accounts.’

  ‘Did you see her leave last night?’ I said, and carefully added, ‘Or did you see anything out of the ordinary?’

  Mrs Carson shook her head. ‘No. Though I did hear some boy racer screeching down the road. By the time I looked out of the window, he’d gone.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, sheepishly, and risked a glance at the couple at the post box. They were still in situ, freezing their bollocks off. Served them right for not wearing their jackets. ‘But nothing happened after?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll leave you to your run, Mrs Carson.’

  ‘John is usually back home around seven, maybe he could shed some light?’

  ‘John?’

  ‘Yes, that’s who that house belongs to. John Robinson.’

  I didn’t say much after that. Couldn’t! I just plastered a smile on my face and nodded. I think I managed to mumble a few words of gratitude. I walked away down the path and I heard her call out, ‘I hope you find her.’

  Hearing John Robinson’s name simply dazzled me. But pieces were falling into place.

  Omar had engineered, what? The kidnapping of a highly ranked MI5 officer? And Sophia had been paid off to give them access to his home and then turn a blind eye? That sound about right? And me, how did I fit into this bullshit? Okay, so it didn’t all fit, but the pieces were staring me in the face.

  I slipped past the couple still loitering by the post box, they were busting a gut trying to ignore me. I ghosted past them to my car. My phone connected via Bluetooth and I spotted the missed call. I recognised the number, it wasn’t 666 but it wasn’t far off.

  I jabbed at the number and returned the call. He answered almost immediately.

  ‘Ah, Jihadi Jay,’ he bellowed, as though a man in control. ‘We need to talk.’

  Chapter 29

  Jay

  15 Jersey Way, Osterley. It’s where it all started. This house. This fucking shithole of evil. I was one of many who had walked through the front door, up the narrow stairs, and into the unfurnished bedroom where I’d spent hours sitting on the hard floor alongside young and angry British Muslims with a seed planted in their heads for some fuck to water and flourish. We got close. Like brothers and sisters close. I understood why they felt they had no option but to lash out. I didn’t agree, but I didn’t know what the fucking answer was either. It took a giant leap of faith for them to trust me, and trust me they did. All the while I was giving them up one by one to MI5.

  I pulled up my hood and knocked on the door, a silent unexpected prayer on my lips. It took all my will not to get back in my car and drive far, far away.

  The door opened and Omar greeted me with a smile that told me things were going his way. He was wrapped up in scarf, gloves and coat buttoned to the top, with the collar popped. He stepped out.

  ‘Let’s go sit in your car. I’ve no heating in there!’

  I didn’t protest. I wasn’t in any hurry to set foot in that place.

  ‘Turn the engine on,’ Omar said, through chattering teeth. I started my car and he turned the heat to max and pointed the vent in his direction. ‘You got seat heaters in this thing?’

  I pressed a button. ‘Where’s your ride?’

  ‘Three roads down. I couldn’t keep it here. You’ve seen my car, way too conspicuous!’

  I could tell he was bursting to tell me, but I had a feeling he was going to milk this cow.

  ‘Let me tell you about a man called Tommy,’ he said.

  I recognised the name from the phone call that he’d received when we’d first met. From what I could figure, he was the one who’d broken into Robinson’s house and threatened to hurt Sophia.

  I shrugged. ‘That name supposed to mean something to me?’

  ‘In due time, that name will mean something to everyone.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked, but in true Omar style, he switched the subject.

  ‘Imagine growing up in a place where everyone is different to you. Their appearance, their language, their thinking.’

  ‘You could be chatting about anyone of colour. We still talking about Tommy?’

  ‘He grew up in Southall, right behind Central Masjid. The only white face in a sea of brown. His old man, the only reflection of him, was a weak man. Lost his job to a Brother, and then lost his wife to a Brother.’ Omar smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth at odds with his stale coffee breath. I cracked the window open a touch. ‘Abandoned by his mother, little Tommy, all eleven years of him, landed in the care of his useless bum of a father who spent the rest of his short life bathing in booze rather than taking care of business. You feel me?’

  I nodded to indicate that I was feeling it, that I was feeling a little sorry for Tommy, but fuck, man, doesn’t everyone have a story?

  ‘So tell me, where do you think little Tommy found solace?’ Omar asked.

  ‘Within the community?’ I replied, knowing it was more than that.

  ‘Within the Muslim community, Jay!’

  As if to serve as an exclamation mark, there was a sharp crack on the passenger side window. It made me jump as I looked past Omar to see a face staring in. I could see a smear mark on the glass, left behind from his knuc
kles.

  ‘That him?’ I asked.

  Tommy met my eyes with intensity. I gave it back to him and then some. This was the ginger motherfucker that had threatened Sophia with a knife. I bit my tongue as Omar slid down the window.

  ‘Get in the back, Bruv,’ Omar said.

  Tommy sat square behind us. I regarded him through the rear-view mirror with no more than a nod as Sophia ran through my mind the way she’d run from him. I took his measure. He was nowhere near as good-looking as Sophia had made him out to be.

  ‘This is Jay,’ Omar said, proudly, arms out, expansive, as though he was introducing the Queen. Tommy leaned back in his seat and barely nodded, obviously not a fan of royalty. Omar squirmed in his seat; this wasn’t the coming together that he had been hoping for.

  Tommy dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of twenty gold and I watched him slip one out and bring it to his lips. I’m a smoker, but seriously, not in my fucking car, and I wanted to impart that particular rule to him, but it already felt a little awkward between us, so instead, I said, ‘You got a spare?’

  ‘Running low, mate,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ I nodded, even though I’d clocked the tops of plenty when he’d slipped one out for himself. Yeah, he really hadn’t taken to me.

  ‘We were just talking about you,’ Omar said, a little put out by the frosty reception.

  ‘How far did you get?’ Tommy said.

  ‘Just told him about your loser of a father.’

  Oh, man, I couldn’t believe he went there. Regardless of his father’s shortcomings, you don’t say shit like that about someone’s old man. I watched Tommy through the rear-view mirror, expecting a reaction. He held the cigarette between two fingers in front of his mouth, as the smoke swirled and masked his face.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, as the smoke cleared. His eyes were tight on me through my rear-view mirror. He tapped the cigarette, a beard of ash floated and dissolved onto my leather. I took my eyes off him before he killed me with the death stare.

  ‘How’d you two meet?’ I said.