Khurrum Rahman - Homegrown Hero

‘How about I swing by after? Take you to the park or we can go on a bike ride. Your choice.’

‘Both… Can we do both?’

‘How about you ride your bike to the park. How’s that sound‚ kid?’

His eyes finally met mine and he nodded excitedly. ‘Are you doing sleepover tomorrow‚ too?’

‘I’ll bring my PJ’s. Let’s make a camp and sleep in there‚’ I said. ‘Now come on‚ bring it in‚ give me the good stuff.’ He stood as I got to my knees and gave me a hug that only a five-year-old could possibly give‚ nice and tightly fitting into my body. I kissed him on the head and hissed in his ear.

‘Where’s the damn remote?’

‘I’m not telling you‚’ he replied‚ whilst his hand snaked into my shirt collar and released damp grass down my back before running off inside laughing manically.

I sat in my car and watched them for a moment. Stephanie in the kitchen‚ steaming mug in one hand – coffee ‚ one sugar ‚ no milk . In the other hand she held a Spiderman beaker – hot chocolate ‚ microwaved ‚ one minute medium . Jack stormed in and clumsily climbed up onto the stool in front of the breakfast bar.

I said a silent prayer. Warmth‚ health and happiness.

But I knew that as much as I loved them‚ inevitably it would be me that took all those things away.

2

Javid Qasim (Jay)

The phone rang again‚ chirpy and incessant‚ desperate to be held. I looked across at the two other operators sitting either side of me. To my left Dave‚ or Davey as he liked to be called‚ a middle aged man who dressed way too young and smelt like tangerines. To my right‚ Kelly‚ a cute‚ geeky girl‚ the type who turned up transformed to the school prom and surprised the hell out of everyone‚ and ended up sleeping with Jason‚ the captain of the swimming team. Probably‚ I don’t know. I just wanted to go home.

Kelly and Dave were busy on calls and the phone was still screaming in my face. I sighed loudly‚ my irritation clear to Carol‚ the team leader from hell. She glanced over at me just as I glanced over at the clock. Two minutes to five. Two minutes before I could get the hell out of this place for a few hours before it all starts again. I knew if I answered the phone I’d be stuck here past five. I can just about make it to five‚ but keeping me here any longer is tantamount to taking the fucking piss‚ especially on a Monday. I locked eyes with Carol and ventured out a hopeful smile whilst inclining my head towards the clock‚ the smile wasn’t reciprocated‚ instead she nodded down her long beak at the phone. I huffed and puffed a little‚ just enough to have made my point‚ and then I answered the phone.

‘IT Helpdesk‚ how can I help you?’

*

On the short drive home‚ I mentally pictured the inside of my fridge‚ it didn’t take long. I couldn’t be arsed with a big shop‚ I could do that later on my iPad‚ from the comfort of my armchair‚ but I did need a quick fix for the night.

I ducked into the newsagents at the end of my road and browsed the ready meals‚ picking myself out a prawn curry and a litre of milk. At the till‚ my eyes fell on the Daily Mail . On the front page a painfully familiar image was staring back at me. One I had seen many times‚ an image fast on its way to becoming as iconic as the plane flying into the twin towers on 9/11 or the devastated London Bus with its top blown on 7/7. My neighbour‚ my friend‚ Parvez Ahmed‚ laid out on his back atop a police van. His eyes open and lifeless‚ a sawn-off AK47 hanging around his neck and a Glock 19 handgun gripped in his dead hands. I picked up the newspaper‚ knowing full well that it was going to spoil the rest of my evening.

I placed the prawn curry in the microwave and read the article at the worktop. I was expecting inaccuracies‚ and it didn’t disappoint. It had been around three months since the failed attack and the media just would not let it fucking go. It’s exactly this kind of journalism that prods and provokes and burns an imprint into the public’s consciousness. Not letting them move on‚ not letting us move on. Not a spare thought for those who suffered‚ whose families suffered. Parvez‚ who had died for a belief that many would never even contemplate understanding. Now they celebrate his death‚ parade the images like a badge of fucking honour. A constant reminder of the victory for the West. British intelligence working for the people.

But I knew better. I knew the truth.

Nine jihadis‚ four holding points‚ Oxford Street. All armed with automatic rifles and handguns‚ the objective to block in thousands of shoppers on Boxing Day‚ one of the busiest days of the year‚ and shoot at will. Parvez was one of the nine jihadis.

I was another.

I had been drafted into the Secret Service to spy on those that looked like me. My job was to uncover a terror plot and to establish what I could about the terrorist cell‚ Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris. My career had been short-lived. I was no longer part of MI5‚ I no longer wanted to be. They had taken my life and hung it upside down‚ and people that I cared about had tumbled out. I’d given them the intelligence to prevent an unthinkable level of carnage‚ and they fucking rinsed me‚ man. Bent me over and fucked me and left me in a collapsed heap on the floor‚ sucking my thumb and crying out for my Mum. I gave them my all‚ flew half way around the fucking globe to a hell hole training camp where they knew that a certain somebody would want to see me. That somebody being Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ better known to MI5 as The Teacher. A man shrouded in such mystery and myth that MI5 had to resort to using me – a small-time nickel and dime dope dealer from the streets of Hounslow – to ascertain information pertinent to national security. I gave them a name‚ I gave them locations‚ I gave them a description and in the process I found out that this fucking Bin Jabbar character‚ with the stupid fucking moniker‚ was my fucking father‚ who‚ until then‚ I had never before met.

And what did they do with that information? Jack-shit. The Teacher was still bouncing around between caves and mountains and safe houses somewhere in Afghanistan or Pakistan or who gives a fuck. I’d done my part.

Fucking MI5 and their fucking half-arsed operation. They didn’t achieve shit‚ though they happily took credit for narrowly avoiding an attack on Oxford Street – never once mentioning that it was a stroke of freak luck that one of the jihadis had a last-minute change of heart and put a spanner in what would have made the 7/7 attacks seem like a teddy bears’ picnic.

I sound angry. I know. I am. Fucking fuming .

MI5 referred me to a shrink to help me understand my feelings and recognise that my actions helped with a big result.

So ‚ how did you feel when your friend Parvez was shot in front of your eyes?

It felt like shit.

He was about to start shooting innocent members of the public? He was going to be responsible for hundreds of lives? Women? Children?

Still felt like shit.

Why?

Parvez was my friend.

He was a terrorist .

They didn’t have to kill him.

Don ’ t you feel it was necessary? We ’ re fighting a war on terror .

At that point I laughed in her ignorant face. War on fucking terror! The hypocrisy was mind-bending. Instead of helping me understand my feelings‚ it just vexed me further.

It was around then‚ a couple of months after the attacks‚ that MI5 sent me packing. They made me sign a lot of confidentiality documents‚ swearing me to secrecy‚ as if I would want anybody to know that I was a part of that organisation. They patted me on the back as though I was a child and gave me a briefcase full of gold coins‚ you know‚ services rendered .