Khurrum Rahman - Homegrown Hero

‘What are you teaching our children?’ an elderly Asian man‚ who had stopped to watch‚ countered. His small voice was lost in the commotion as his wife hurriedly ushered him away.

‘Take a look at our council‚ our government. The Mayor of Hounslow is a Muslim. The Mayor of London is a Muslim. Every day‚ five times a day‚ I hear the Islamic cries for Prayers. They are not adhering to our laws. We are adhering to theirs. Believe me‚ Sharia Law is spreading like the sickest of diseases. Here. In our country. In our England .’

Kramer yawned‚ loud and wide. He’d heard this or a variation of this three times already this week‚ and a hundred times before. This little show would be filmed and plastered over Social Media. Their profile would increase. Their numbers would increase. If they were lucky‚ a fight may break out and they would find themselves in one of the local papers. National even. But ultimately not a thing will change. Kramer wasn’t here for that.

He tuned out as Carver moved onto All Muslims are complicit in Terrorism ‚ and scanned the crowd. The two young lads weren’t difficult to find. Black bomber jackets‚ skinny black jeans and red Doctor Marten Boots. They were the reason that Kramer was there.

He placed a call to Terry Rose.

‘Rose.’ Kramer sat in his car to block out the noise. ‘They’re both here.’

‘Course they are‚’ Rose replied. ‘You talked to them‚ yet?’

‘About to.’ Kramer glanced in his rear-view mirror. The two lads were mouthing off at the Pakis‚ intent and anger burning brightly in their faces‚ hands balled into tight fists‚ ready to fly. There was a third with them‚ younger‚ dressed the same‚ but looking painfully out of place. He stood close by and tried to imitate them but Kramer could see that he did not hold the same passion. ‘There’s another with them.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t know. He’s been hanging around them all week. Could be a friend.’

‘Alright. Suss him out‚ and call it‚’ Rose said.

Kramer ended the call. Brushed the crumbs from the sausage roll off his face and stepped out of the car just as the demonstration was dying down. He approached one of the lads that he knew by name and reputation only.

Kramer stood beside him. ‘Simon Carpenter.’

Simon‚ his thick arms crossed‚ his face set like flint‚ stared at what was left of the dwindling Asian group as they started to disperse‚ to his satisfaction.

‘Look at them go‚’ Simon said‚ eyes forward. ‘Off to plot. To plan. We’re not careful‚ they’ll bring this country down to its knees.’ Simon turned to look at Kramer. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Kramer‚ a few inches over six foot‚ was taller and wider than Simon. But not by much. Simon was built like no other eighteen-year-old. The other lad joined them. Kramer knew him as Anthony Hanson. He was taller than his friend‚ but he didn’t carry the bulk. Taut‚ wiry‚ and handy with his fists. Had a history of substance abuse. Kramer had done his homework.

‘Anthony Hanson.’ Kramer smiled‚ producing crooked teeth.

Anthony gave him the once-over and then looked across at Simon. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’

‘I’d like a word‚’ Kramer said.

*

In the absence of a coffee shop close by‚ Kramer took them to a dessert lounge a few doors down from where the demonstration had taken place. He ordered three coffees and waited for them to arrive before starting.

‘I’ve seen you both at the last few rallies‚’ Kramer said.

‘Yeah‚ so?’ Anthony said.

‘I’ve seen you‚ too‚’ Simon said. ‘From a distance. Never seen you join in‚ though.’

‘Don’t agree with it.’ Kramer shook his head. ‘It’s not right.’

‘We got a Paki-lover on our hands‚’ Anthony said‚ his attitude clearly bolstered by having his friend by his side ‘Prime example of all that’s wrong with our country. If we can’t stick up for our own then –’

Kramer shot him a look‚ one that had shut down many in the past. He made a show of interlinking his meaty fingers and Anthony’s eyes travelled down to the red St George’s Cross tattoo on his middle finger‚ just above his knuckle.

‘What do you want?’ Simon slipped off his beanie hat to reveal a freshly-shaved head.

‘You’re wasting your time‚’ Kramer said. ‘These rallies won’t get you anywhere. Their beliefs sit side by side with my beliefs‚ but the objective is a political one.’

‘It’s something‚’ Simon said.

‘It’s not enough. And I think you know it’s not enough.’

‘That supposed to mean?’ Anthony said.

‘Last year. The attack on Sutton Mosque.’ Kramer left it at that. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

Anthony glanced at Simon. Simon quietly kept his eyes firmly on Kramer.

‘How’d you know about that?’ Anthony asked.

‘The attack on the Mosque was celebrated across the country‚’ Kramer replied. ‘I made it my business to find out who was responsible.’

Anthony looked around nervously. Kramer smiled behind his coffee as he took a sip‚ amused at how Simon held his gaze like an equal.

‘Who are you?’ Simon asked.

‘I am one of many. And we’re making a stand.’

‘So are we?’ Anthony shrugged.

‘Don’t be daft‚ son. You think a few fucking marches and rallies is making a stand. Talk is cheap‚ and ineffective.’ Kramer leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘After desecrating the Mosque‚ you hid when you should have built on its momentum. Instead you wear a hole in your Doc Martens‚ marching relentlessly‚ trying to spread the word.’ Kramer straightened up‚ took his time looking them both in the eyes. ‘I work with a small organisation whose members believe that...’ he paused. ‘Action speaks louder than words. A belief that you once shared.’

‘We still do‚’ Anthony said‚ then looked across at Simon who slowly nodded his agreement.

‘That sounds like words to me‚’ Kramer said. ‘If I see that you are serious‚ if you are capable in making a difference‚ a real difference‚ then...’

‘Then what?’ Anthony asked.

‘My partner‚ who runs operations‚ would like the two of you to join us.’

The door to the dessert lounge opened with a cheery chime. The third lad‚ who’d been hanging around with Simon and Anthony‚ walked in and tentatively approached the table‚ trying his hardest to avoid eye contact with Kramer.

‘Where were you guys?’ he said‚ softly. ‘I was looking for you everywhere.’

Simon leaned over the table and locked eyes with Kramer. ‘Tell your partner we’ll show you both just how serious we can be. And...’

‘And what?’

Simon glanced across at the boy who smiled unsurely at him. He turned back to Kramer.

‘Tell him there’s three of us.’

6

Imy

I never did find the remote control so‚ back at my flat‚ I had to go back in time and operate the television up close and personal. Channel set to Sky Sports‚ I settled in‚ a bowl of crisps‚ two glass tumblers next to a jug of water‚ a bowl of ice and an unopened bottle of Jameson on the coffee table in front of me.

Compact was the word I would have used to describe my flat to any potential clients; pokey would have been more apt. The rent was set quite low‚ but I paid even less‚ one of the few perks of being an estate agent. A touch of damp on the walls‚ questionable décor courtesy of the previous owner‚ and a carpet which electrocutes. It sat nicely above The Chicken Spot which some may find distasteful – especially as the smell of greasy food was a constant guest – but‚ geographically‚ I found it convenient.