Khurrum Rahman - Ride or Die

And it just felt like home.

The car came to life on the button, as though it’d been waiting for my touch. Automatically it connected to my phone via Bluetooth. I opened up my playlist on Spotify and swiped my finger down, and watched all those killer tracks tumble down. I jabbed at one at random. ‘Appetite for Destruction’ – NWA .

Yeah, that sounds about right.

I wheeled my Beemer out of the car park and pointed it towards Hounslow.

First stop, find car wash. Second stop, find Imy.

I rolled my car into American Jetshine behind the Treaty Centre and requested the full complement. I walked out with my face in my phone and almost bumped into a car queuing to get into the car wash. I mouthed an apology as I checked out the car. Trust me, this car was built to be checked out. Latest model Mercedes AMG GT Coupe, dropped low on matt black 22s. The colour was a customised job, like a slimy green. The bodywork looked immaculate, and not at all like it needed a wash.

I couldn’t make out the driver’s face as the sun was bouncing off his windscreen, but I could feel his eyes on me. Typical cuts, I assumed. It’s something you get used to living in Hounslow, a fucking pastime, looking to make something out of nothing. He slid down his window and I moved away before he could start something. The last thing I needed was more friction.

As my Beemer was getting scrubbed behind the ears, I took a stroll through Hounslow High Street. It had been a long, stiff flight and I needed to stretch my legs and allow the cold air to slap me out of tiredness. I couldn’t be a shattered mess when I faced Imy. I had to be on point.

I grabbed a takeaway cappuccino heavily sprinkled with chocolate for a boost, and strolled aimlessly, hoping for some of that Christmas magic to rub off on me. It didn’t work, not like it used to.

It just doesn’t feel like Christmas around Hounslow anymore, not like it does in neighbouring Kingston or Richmond or the like. I don’t know what it is. Maybe the rise of the powerful pound shops, or the lack of a decent shopping centre. Sure, we have Treaty Centre, and it gets seasonally decked out, but it all seems a little half-arsed. It wasn’t always like that. I remember Mum taking me to a giant Santa’s grotto in the main lobby of the Treaty. She’d plonk me on the lap of a pretty decent Santa, surrounded by proper sized elves, year in, year out. It took until my early teens for me to clock that most of the kids queuing were younger than me. I didn’t care. Christmas was everything. I’m not sure what changed, or when the mood shifted. Looking around now, it could be that there’s just way too much culture and colour and other occasions that take precedence, and are celebrated with a little more gusto, to give too much of a crap about Christmas. Either way it was sad to see.

On a whim I nipped into Argos and picked out a six-foot plastic tree, and then hit the 99p store and left with a bag of decorations for under a fiver. I decided that I was going to make the most of Christmas, like it used to be. Like it should be. I refused to be on my lonesome like a sad Christmas commercial. I’d invite Idris over for some pre-Christmas-dinner drinks, and then I’d invite myself over to his place for his mum’s halal chicken with all the trimmings, and watch whatever Harry Potter was showing on a satisfied stomach. I owed it to myself to end the year on a high, after the shit-circus of a year I’d had.

With two weeks to go before Santa was due to shoot down the chimney, I started to get that feeling, but I had to put it to one side. For now, I had more pressing issues to suss out.

I picked up my freshly cleaned motor, then steeled myself and headed towards Imy’s place, a short drive down London Road. I only knew that Imy lived there because he and a stoner called Shaz used to session there, and I’d made the occasional visit to deliver some green. Seemed like a lifetime ago.

Across the road I could see workmen pulling temporary traffic lights from the bed of a truck, and I knew I was going to get stuck in traffic on the flipside. I pulled up on the opposite side of the road to The Chicken Spot. The strong smell wafting from there and through my open window made my stomach moan in anticipation, and I tried to recall the last meal I’d had. I’d never had the privilege to eat there before. According to the locals, the chicken was fried to crispy perfection, but I’d always been loyal to Aladdin’s and their Inferno Burger. Either way, I wasn’t there to eat.

Above the chicken shop was Imy’s flat. The curtains were drawn. I watched intently for a moment, but couldn’t make out anything other than that the curtains were drawn. I imagined Imy behind there somewhere, mourning. Or maybe he was past mourning and was intently plotting. Could be that plotting was his way of mourning. I could picture him sitting in an armchair staring at a wall covered with photos of all those who had wronged him, with maps and locations and bits of different coloured string connecting them. I wondered if I was on that wall. I wondered if he was waiting for me, watching me from a great height through the telescopic sight of a high-powered rifle.

I shuddered, killed the engine and stepped out of my car, not knowing what to expect. It could be anything from a slap in the face to adios , Jay. Whatever! I had to make my presence felt. I owed him that much. I looked both ways before jogging across the road and then slowing to a walk. I glanced inside The Chicken Spot and wasn’t surprised to see customers queuing for a speciality heart-attack breakfast. I approached the door just to the side of it and pressed the buzzer. It sounded muted, like the batteries needed replacing, but probably Imy wasn’t ready for household chores. I knocked on the door, respectfully at first, and then a little louder. I took a couple of steps back and looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun, which had made a surprise appearance considering the time of year. The curtains were still drawn. It got me thinking.

Imy had just got married. Would he have planned to live here with his wife and son, above a chicken shop? Doubt it. But in the absence of any other options this was as good a starting point as any.

I doubled back and stepped into The Chicken Spot, the smell of grease and onions and the hunk of doner meat smelt divine, and my stomach grumbled at me: Fill me the fuck up! I ignored it and leaned my arms on the counter.

‘Mate,’ I said to the guy with the greatest moustache in the world and a food-stained apron that I could easily have licked.

‘Help you?’ he said. Heavy accent, could have been from anywhere. I’m not hot on accents.

‘Yeah,’ I said, trying not to talk to his ’tache. ‘Have you seen Imy? He lives upstairs.’ I pointed up at the cracked, yellowing ceiling.

He took me in, paying special attention to my sandy mac, his eyebrows banging into each other in bemusement, maybe because I’d accidentally mistaken a chicken shop for the missing persons bureau. He leaned over the counter and his moustache was almost as close to my face as it was to his. ‘You look like journalist,’ he growled.

I gasped; I’d never felt so offended in my life.

I ventured out a smile. ‘I’m a friend,’ I said, playing fast and loose with the truth.

He snorted through his nose and something flew out. ‘Where you from, boy?’ he said from somewhere under his moustache.

‘Here, Hounslow.’

‘From newspaper!’ he said, not letting it go. He picked up a meat cleaver in one hand and a blade sharpener in the other. ‘I tell you what I say to all newspaper people. Get out of my restaurant!’