Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

  Mustafa stopped. Took a breath. I opened my mouth but Imy shot me a look. Mustafa wasn’t done.

  ‘We had it all,’ he continued. ‘Prominent figures around the world. Imams, scholars, politicians in a position to cast influence on the young minds who had seen their Deen blackened, those who’d lost loved ones as the Kafir tore through their homes. They were shown that they had a God-given right to reply.’

  A heavy silence followed.

  Mustafa’s eyes wandered past us and pensively around the camp that once was. I had no doubt that what was running through his mind wasn’t far from what was running through mine.

  The excitement, the anticipation, the laughter of those young minds who had once lit up this camp would never return. The rifle rack would remain empty. The assault course that had broken many, before building them back up, would no longer feel the stain of blood and sweat. Young angry Muslims would never again stand side by side five times a day and pray to Allah for strength to make their presence felt. Not here.

  ‘So,’ Imy asked. ‘What happened?’

  Me. I happened.

  Chapter 50

  Imy

  It was a loaded question and I searched Mustafa for a reaction. I knew the truth. It was a buried truth and I needed to know if it was pushing up against the surface. Mustafa quietly considered the question.

  ‘Secrets were revealed,’ Mustafa replied, his soft voice at odds with his appearance. ‘In an instant everything was over.’

  ‘Somebody spoke?’ I said, holding Mustafa’s gaze, but I could see Jay shoot to his feet, before trying to disguise it by stretching noisily.

  ‘I might get some shut-eye,’ Jay said through a fake yawn.

  ‘You can rest later,’ I said, and with the slightest gesture of my head told him to sit back down. He held his position just enough to prove a point and then resumed his place.

  Mustafa didn’t seem to have noticed Jay’s dramatics, or possibly he was used to them.

  ‘Trust,’ he said. ‘The foundations of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris were built on trust. Its success. And its failure. Yes, somebody spoke.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  Jay fixed me with a glare, and I could almost hear the long list of profanities running through his head.

  ‘It’s known,’ Mustafa replied. ‘Just not to me.’

  I nodded. Jay nodded. I could see the relief set in his face.

  ‘However,’ Mustafa continued. ‘There were rumours. Many, many rumours. Young Qasim’s name was mentioned.’ Jay spluttered into his cup, coughed, water spilled down his chin. Mustafa gently rubbed his back. ‘Easy there, Javid. Easy.’ Jay wiped his face with the back of his arm. ‘Your father, before he was forced into hiding. He called me.’

  Jay swallowed.

  Mustafa nodded. ‘I remember it word for word. The man who I’d worshipped but never before met, the man who I would lay down my life for. Now all is lost, his voice, his words still carry me through. He… he thanked me for my work, my loyalty. I’ll never forget it.’ Mustafa jabbed at a tear from the corner of his eye. ‘And then,’ he said, ‘he asked about you.’

  ‘What did he want to know?’ Jay asked, softly.

  ‘Everything…’

  Jay dropped his eyes, his finger tracing circles in the dirt.

  ‘I told him about your progress, but he wanted more; how you interacted with others, if you ate properly, if you’d been comfortable in your quarters. No matter how much I gave him, he hungered for more.’ Mustafa shook his head. ‘Even before he told me, I knew then that this was not a leader asking after one of his own men. This was a father asking about his son.’

  The conflict in Jay’s face was clear to see, the blood of a man that he despised running through his veins and colouring his cheeks. He didn’t have it in him to say another word.

  ‘Did he say anything else?’ I asked.

  ‘He told me that there was a small faction waiting for him to go under. Men who he trusted, men who had lost faith in his ability to lead. Men who would try to divide Ghurfat-al-Mudarris and turn his followers against him with lies. I told him, I believe only in him.’

  I tried to understand what had been said.

  Bin Jabbar had played his final hand.

  Mustafa gripped the back of Jay’s neck and worked his fingers, massaging him. Over Jay’s shoulder Aslam appeared in the distance. I squinted as the bright sun around him gave him a filmic appearance. He moved in long strides, cutting the distance quickly. I smiled at my old friend; he returned it with a look of nothing in his eyes.

  Aslam stepped onto the mat as though he hadn’t seen it. His foot got caught on the bread bowl but that didn’t slow him down. I uncrossed my legs from underneath me as he continued to trample over the mat, knocking over the flimsy plastic cups and spilling water until he was standing above Mustafa.

  I was now on my haunches, I caught Jay’s eyes and hoped he could read what were in mine. He understood enough and got to his feet and backed away just as Aslam pushed a knife into the side of Mustafa’s throat.

  ‘Go!’ I screamed.

  Jay took another step back, but no more. His eyes were transfixed on the knife embedded in the side of Mustafa’s thick neck, as he scrabbled aimlessly, finding and popping the buttons off Aslam’s shirt.

  Aslam gripped the knife but struggled to remove it from Mustafa’s throat. He used his spare hand to push Mustafa’s head for leverage and, with force, pulled the bloody knife out. Mustafa’s body fell forward heavily onto the mat.

  Aslam turned to me and blinked; any recognition of the boy he’d grown up with was lost. He moved the knife from one hand to the other.

  Jay sprang into action. Brave but clumsy. Running, picking up speed, head down and blind, he made contact with Aslam’s lower back and wrapped his arms around his waist. It only served to push Aslam and the blade closer to me. I shifted to the right and swung, my fist aiming to meet his jaw but glancing off his chin. It was enough to stun him into a stumble. Jay was still grasping onto him. I didn’t need his version of help. I needed him away.

  ‘Let go of him!’

  Jay released him and scrambled away. Aslam wildly lashed out with the knife at me. I let it come, let it whip close to my torso; it threw his balance. I sidestepped and swung again, this time connecting and cracking his jaw.

  Chapter 51

  Jay

  ‘Move!’

  Fuck, he didn’t have to ask me a second time. I got to my feet and ran into the open space towards the eye of the sun and away from the hell of camp. I risked a look over my shoulder to my right. Imy had peeled off in another fucking direction! He was shouting something to me but my fucking heart was in my fucking ears. I figured it out when I saw Aslam’s jeep in his path.

  I stopped at a skid, and shifted direction, my Jordans better suited to a basketball court than the gravelly earth. Imy was in the driver’s seat as I caught up with him. I thought about asking him to shift so I could drive. The man drives a Prius! Last thing we needed was considerate driving, but we didn’t have the time to switch. I jumped in the passenger seat.

  ‘Go!’ I said, looking back at where we’d just run from. Mustafa was still dead! Aslam had regained consciousness and reminded himself that he was on a killing spree. He got to his feet and faced us. The sun reflecting off the knife in his hand. He started walking towards us before breaking into a sprint.

  Imy had taken the ignition apart and was fucking about with the wiring.

  ‘Quick, he’s coming fast.’

  Something sparked and the car exploded to life. ‘Seatbelt,’ Imy said, as he clicked his into place.

  ‘Seriously?! Just fucking go!’

  Imy clicked it into gear and put his foot down, the wheels screeched and spun on the uneven ground, before launching. On second thoughts, I pulled the seatbelt over me and took another glance behind. The wheel-spin had kicked up dust and I couldn’t see shit but a dirty brownish swirl. I watched it carefully as it dissipated, and Aslam flew thr
ough the cloud, a mask of sheer determination on his face as his legs pounded and his arms pumped, gripping the knife like Usain Bolt gripped the baton in the last leg of the relay.

  ‘He’s on us, Imy!’ I cried.

  ‘It’s okay. He can’t catch us on foot,’ Imy said, just as a shiny sharp object flew into the open-top jeep, clattering onto the dash in front of me and dropping into the footwell.

  ‘Fuck!’ I reached down by my feet, grabbed at the blood-stained, jagged-edged knife and threw it out as though it had a mind of its own.

  ‘You should have held on to it,’ Imy said.

  ‘I know! I wasn’t thinking.’ I glanced in the wing mirror. Aslam appeared very small and appeared to have stopped. I imagined him shrugging to himself, before turning away and walking calmly back to the camp to roll himself another joint.

  ‘Our luggage,’ I said.

  ‘Do you have your passport with you?’

  I patted the hundreds of pockets of my combat shorts until I felt it. ‘Yeah. You?’

  Imy nodded. ‘It’s all we need.’

  We drove aimlessly and in silence for around twenty minutes. Everything looked the same, just mountains and vast space everywhere. Eventually we saw signs leading us to a main road towards the nearest town.

  ‘Do you wanna have a go at explaining what the fuck just happened?’

  After a beat, Imy replied. ‘It’s not Aslam’s fault.’

  ‘Think a jury of his peers would feel a little different, don’t you?!’

  ‘Best guess,’ Imy said, ‘is that between picking us up from the airport and attacking Mustafa, Aslam received a phone call. Simple instructions were delivered.’

  ‘So, what, he’s a mercenary now?’

  ‘He’s a cook. A cleaner. A driver. He’s anything you ask of him. No questions asked. This was not personal. He doesn’t do it for money. He does it for those who he’s indebted to. Believe me, it’s not his fault.’

  ‘Yeah, you said.’

  Did I buy it? I think I did. You play the cards you’re dealt in life, and old Aslam had walked into a casino with plastic ducks and one shoe. I waited for Imy to fill me in. I felt that he’d caught up quicker than me.

  ‘Your father—’

  ‘Let’s just stick with names, shall we?’ I jumped in.

  ‘After Bin Jabbar was captured, or presumed dead, whichever way you look at it, he was no longer in a position to lead. That position was handed to Sheikh Ali Ghulam—’

  ‘The fuck who put a fatwa on me!’ I put my hands up in apology and pursed my lips and gestured at him to carry on.

  ‘Sheikh Ali Ghulam was the natural successor but his reign didn’t last. There was an absence, a vacant position. The world’s eyes were on Ghurfat-al-Mudarris, on their network. By any and every means the organisation became dysfunctional. It literally ceased to function. History has shown us, from the IRA to Al-Qaeda, when organisations of such magnitude cease to operate, splinter cells are formed. Objectives shift, as do the method of operations.’

  ‘You’re talking about Al-Muhaymin?’

  Bestower of Faith – I recalled Omar banging on about them. It was only a matter of time before they made their presence known.

  ‘Right.’ Imy side-eyed me, a little surprised that I was up on my terrorist trivia.

  ‘So you’re saying Aslam took an order from Al-Muhaymin?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Imy said, stopping just short of confirming it.

  I stopped myself from asking why and let it sink in as we saw our first sign of life.

  Cars, locals, shops. A small but bustling working town. Imy followed signs to a car park and pulled up at the flimsy red and white plastic barrier. A short squat guard appeared at the jeep with a respectful, ‘Salaam Saab.’ Imy greeted him with a nod, and showed his two fingers to indicate the time we’d be staying before handing him a fistful of rupees. The guard lifted the barrier and went back to his newspaper. We wheeled into the quiet car park, passing spaces until we were near the back. Imy reversed into a spot where he had a view of the grounds and anyone approaching. He killed the engine.

  I chewed the inside of my mouth, a worrying theory forming in my head. I looked across at Imy, wondering if I should share it, hoping, really fucking hoping, that if I voiced it Imy would pierce a thousand holes through it.

  ‘Imy,’ I said. He kept his eyes front and centre but grunted that he was listening. ‘The order Aslam received from Al-Muhaymin. It wasn’t to kill Mustafa, or you. You just happened to be in the way.’

  Imy took his sweet time turning his head over his shoulder and face me. I knew then, but if I’m honest I think I always knew.

  ‘The order was to kill me.’

  After what had happened back at the camp, it was a risk to be seen in public, but our rumbling stomachs made the decision for us. We hadn’t eaten since the flight, and breakfast had been rudely interrupted by a killing spree. Imy reasoned that we were far enough away from the camp, and in relative safety, but we still walked out of the car park not knowing what or who to expect.

  The street was narrow and the traffic tight. A barrage of car horns and dated Bollywood music spilled out of a small radio hastily wired up to a large speaker from a stall selling bootleg CDs and DVDs. We walked silently past shop to shop and I could feel every eye on us. It didn’t matter that our skin was on the same colour palette as everyone else’s, locals could establish just from a glance that we were pretty far from home.

  If you thought about it, I mean, really took the time to dwell on it, it could drive you nuts. At home, back in so-called multicultural London, we were looked at as if we didn’t belong. Jump on a plane and visit your Motherland, and we were still looked at as if we didn’t belong! That shit is pretty fucked-up: having no sense of belonging or proper identity or acceptance. Never really able to embrace home in places which are home. Maybe you get me, maybe you don’t. Maybe now wasn’t the time to think about it.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Imy asked. He was a perceptive one, I’ll give him that.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Just keep your eyes to yourself and walk in a straight line until we find somewhere to eat,’ Imy said.

  ‘Everyone’s looking at us,’ I muttered.

  ‘Your shirt,’ Imy said. ‘Couldn’t you have worn something a little less conspicuous?’

  ‘Says the man dressed like Safari Edition GI Joe. Couldn’t you have worn something a little less bland?’

  ‘I don’t want to be noticed.’

  ‘Well, you are. You look like you’re on an expedition.’

  He smiled, it graduated with honours into a small laugh through his nose. It was the first time I’d seen him express anything other than sadness, anger, or just plain annoyance. It was nice. It suited him. I still didn’t trust him.

  A couple of kids, about seven or eleven years old, I couldn’t tell, decked out in traditional shalwar and kameez get-up, standing on opposite pavements with the road separating them. They were playing catch, looping a tennis ball back and forth over barely moving traffic. The boy on our side of the pavement clocked us and grinned, before shouting across the road to his friend in slang Urdu that I just about understood.

  ‘Did you hear what that little shit just said?’

  Imy shook his head. ‘It’s not my language.’

  I translated. ‘We’re going to be walking back the way we came. Naked.’

  ‘Ignore it,’ Imy advised, and I was tempted to accidentally nudge him onto the road, if it hadn’t been for the man watching us. He was leaning against a black and gold auto-rickshaw, a cigarette hanging from his lips, a phone to his ear.

  ‘Four o clock,’ I mumbled behind my hand.

  ‘Put your hand down, Jay,’ Imy hissed at me.

  ‘By the rickshaw. Think he’s watching us.’

  ‘Along with everyone else. Don’t make eye contact, just keep moving.’

  We moved past a fabric shop, where a woman emerge
d victoriously. A defeated, bag-laden man, who could only have been her husband, tagged behind her. The same the world over. No threat detected. We passed a well-used outdoor Aga, where a heavy-set man punched his podgy fists into dough that smelt so fresh that I could have consumed it in that form. ‘Taza naan, Saab. Doh rupee.’ He called out to us and pointed to two rickety chairs either side of a rickety table.

  I looked up at Imy in the hope that we could park here for a bit and enjoy fresh naan bread, heavy on butter, heavy on garlic.

  ‘Too open,’ he said, and stomped right past it.

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to change pounds into rupees,’ I said, looking around for a bureau de change.

  ‘You’re not going to find anything here.’

  ‘I’m gonna need some walking around money.’

  ‘It’s fine. I have enough money for the time being.’

  ‘Can you drop me, like, twenty quid’s worth, and I’ll sort you out as soon as I hit a money exchange place?’ I asked as I glanced back over my shoulder, and I swear it was like everyone – the two kids playing catch, the roti maker, the smoking rickshaw guy, the woman and her weary husband, everyone – had slowed down almost to a stop and were gawping at us.

  I flinched as a motorbike ripped close past me. Imy grabbed my arm and pulled me closer to him. ‘You’re veering towards the road!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologised. ‘How about here?’ I pointed at what looked like a place that may sell a cuppa and a little something to eat. I walked through the open entrance, not giving Imy a chance to protest. I was too hungry, too thirsty, too fucking tired. I needed a time-out. I stood just inside the restaurant. It was spacious and clean and smelt like I wanted it to smell.

  To the left was an elderly man. He sat alone, bare feet up on a chair, reading a book through a magnifying glass.

  A curvy woman who – judging by her tight pink duppata-less kurta – seemed proud of her curves, smiled a welcome at us. She approached us from around the counter and swayed her hand over a table as if to say, best table in the house.