Khurrum Rahman - Homegrown Hero

A single tear slowly escaped Al-Bhukara’s eye.

‘Our cell has been compromised. Decades of hard work and planning‚ wasted. Is that what he wanted? ’

Ghulam sat down on the chair‚ his outburst had tired him. He leant forward and with his finger lifted Al-Bhukara’s chin and said softly. ‘I do not care if Qasim is his bastard son. It is your role to thoroughly look at his background regardless of who he is. Good men died‚ men better than Qasim‚ and the Kafir now laugh at us‚ in their newspapers‚ on their televisions. I will not allow you to lay the blame at the feet of the great Bin Jabbar. As far as I am concerned‚ Javid Qasim was your responsibility.’

Al-Bhukara closed his eyes tightly. Sweat ran down his forehead and tears raced freely down his face. His body racked and shuddered as he clenched as hard as he could to stop himself adding to his already soiled shalwar.

Ghulam sat back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. In his heart he understood that Al-Bhukara had no choice. When an order comes from the very top‚ no question‚ it has to be obeyed. Bin Jabbar had always run Ghurfat-al-Mudarris with heart and emotion‚ loved and adored by his vast army as he walked‚ lived and broke bread amongst them. Now he was impoverished‚ moving from barely-furnished safe houses to barren caves hidden in high mountains.

It was not how a leader should lead.

Bin Jabbar was no longer in the position to give further orders; the remainder of his days were to be lived out‚ running and hiding as the net around him tightened. Ghulam saw himself as the natural successor. Change had been forced upon them‚ but it was a change that was required. The teachings of Al-Mudarris were dated‚ his attacks planned meticulously so his men lived to fight again when thousands of men would be willing to give their lives for The Cause. His love for his people had clouded his judgement‚ blinded him to the truth that there is no higher sacrifice to Allah than the sacrifice of life.

‘Pathaan‚’ Ghulam said‚ turning to him. ‘Do we have any sleepers in the vicinity?’

‘We have one. Based in West London‚ a few kilometres from Heathrow Airport‚’ Pathaan replied. ‘In close proximity to Qasim.’

‘Is he capable?’

Pathaans blinked. A vision of a scared child‚ held tight in his arms‚ flashed behind his eyelids.

‘Qasim is the son of Abdullah bin Jabbar‚’ Ghulam continued. ‘Regardless of his treachery he deserves the respect of a clean death… By our hands.’

‘He is capable‚’ Pathaan said.

‘It is time our sleeper went active. Make contact and inform him of the fatwa.’

Al-Bhukara was still shuddering‚ his sobs coming in quick staccato beats. Ghulam’s intention was not one of forgiveness‚ there would be no second chances‚ but the knowledge that al-Bhukara had been acting directly under the orders of their leader troubled him. Could he punish a man for that?

Ghulam’s eyes landed on Ihsan and Talal who had inched closer to the door‚ wearing expressions as though they had been caught peeping through a keyhole. He remembered why he had invited them. It was to illustrate to them that a mistake like this could never happen again.

‘Pathaan‚’ he said‚ finally coming to a decision. ‘Please‚ show al-Bhukara the respect that he deserves.’

Al-Bhukara lifted his head and exhaled a sharp breath of relief. Still crying hysterically‚ he opened his mouth and searched for words suitable for the huge gratitude he’d felt towards the Sheikh. From the corner of his eye he could see Pathaan rise from his armchair. Al-Bhukara turned his head towards him‚ just in time to see him cut the distance between them in two long strides and then raise his gun‚ shooting him point blank in the side of the head.

8

Imy

‘Two of the greatest teams the world has ever seen‚’ Shaz said‚ knocking back the last of his drink. ‘With an abundance of attack and creativity at their disposal‚ and it ends up being a soulless‚ goalless draw.’

Shaz and I had spent the best part of the night cursing the so-called spectacle that it was billed to be. Between us we’d cleaned a litre bottle of Jameson‚ coupled with a few joints‚ and then went one-on-one in my living room with a plastic football.

A little past midnight and one broken lamp later‚ we bumped fists as Shaz‚ who still lived with his parents‚ went home. I did not envy him one bit‚ knowing what he was about to go through. The journey home after a heavy night was never straightforward. I knew this as I’d been in the very same situation on many occasions when I lived with Khala.

First‚ it used to involve a detour to Heston Services to use their facilities and scrub my face clean. Then I’d spend five pounds on strong mints‚ bottled water and eye drops. Two in each eye‚ ten minutes to take effect. Knocking back the bottled water to help sober up‚ and popping mint after mint until I arrived at my front door.

Then the hard part.

Trying to re-enter my own home‚ hoping I didn’t wake Khala. Slowly taking one tiptoed step at a time upstairs‚ then creeping past her bedroom‚ a quick glance to make sure she’s asleep. Edging closer to my own room‚ avoiding the squeaky hot spots on the plastic carpet protector‚ before finally pushing my bedroom door open‚ tantalisingly close to my single bed. Fifty percent of the time I would succeed‚ the other fifty…

‘ Imran .’

Silence. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Hope that it passes.

‘Imran‚ is that you?’

The jig is up. Double back‚ lean against her bedroom door frame to stop from wobbling. On would come the lamp‚ then would come the questions. Her words‚ as always‚ running into each other at pace‚ her English better than ever before but still broken in places.

‘Where were you?’

‘Khala‚ sorry I’m late. Go back to sleep.’

‘Sleep? You think I sleep? I wait for you. Why your eyes red?’

‘I was on my phone most of the night.’

‘ Astaghfirulah .’ She would always say Astaghfirulah when she was annoyed. Similar to how Christians use Jesus ‚ but with more drama. ‘You and your phone. You’re going to ruin your eyes‚ how many times I tell you? You want to go blind‚ Imran? Do you? Well‚ do you? Because you know what is going to happen? You’re going to go blind!’

‘Yes‚ Khala.’

‘It is two in the morning‚ you not have work tomorrow? You know how difficult it was to ask Kumar to give you job? You humiliate family name.’

‘It’s fine. My first viewing is at ten.’

‘Why do I smell smoke? You smoke‚ Imran?’

‘No‚ it was Shaz‚ he was smoking around me.’

‘He is a stupid boy. I do not like him.’

‘Goodnight‚ Khala.’

‘Shall I make something to eat?’

‘Goodnight‚ Khala.’

She sounds like a ball breaker. She isn’t. She is the sweetest person I have ever known. She took me in at sixteen‚ and a damaged sixteen at that‚ and knocked the damage right out of me with her overbearing brand of love. It didn’t matter that I was now in my mid-thirties‚ I was fine with her treating me like I was still that sixteen-year-old. Now that I was away from her‚ in my own place‚ she was very much still part of my daily life. One phone-call a day‚ numerous texts and three visits per week‚ minimum.

It was fine.

After the death of my parents I’d spent the remainder of my childhood in Afghanistan as a man. One with order‚ discipline and responsibilities. A way of life drilled into me from the age of ten until the age of sixteen when I was sent to London‚ to Hounslow‚ to live with my Khala. Now I’m of age‚ the hardness has softened‚ but it’s still within me and I pray that it doesn’t see the light of day. My life‚ if I’m honest‚ is easy. I feel love for and loved by those close to me. All I want is to live carefree for a little longer before I settle down with Stephanie and Jack.