Khurrum Rahman - Ride or Die

Restaurant! Probably best not to correct him. But I did need to convince him that I wasn’t a journalist. I think it was my new sandy mac, it made me look exactly like a fucking hack. I assumed I was being judged by association. This shop had probably seen its fair share of reporters attempting to dig up dirt on Imy so they could write an inaccurate article.

‘He’s my friend, I just want to know where I can find him.’

He stared me down before turning his sizeable back on me and going about his business. I was losing him, and it made me do something I’m not proud of. Something which contradicted my friend status, and cemented that I actually was a fucking journalist.

I cleared my throat loudly. He turned back around to see near ten pounds, in coins, neatly stacked on the counter. I looked at the bribe and then at him. He looked at the bribe and then at me. His jaw tightened and his eyebrows collided. I swallowed and lowered my gaze, realising quickly what a shit idea it was. I had no choice but to abort mission and improvise.

‘Can I have three pieces of chicken, fries, and a can of Coke, please?’

I blasted the heat to max, dropped the gear and pulled away from The Chicken Spot towards London Road, only to drive into a standstill. Ahead of me were unnecessary road works galore. I was temporarily defeated by temporary traffic lights. I shifted the gear into neutral and checked my mirrors for the cops before firing up the web browser on my phone, hoping for some inspiration. I typed Imran in the search bar and Google ominously auto-filled Siddiqui . I ran my eyes down the first few hits.

Racially motivated bomb attack at wedding party.

Five dead. Many injured. Husband survives.

Ten-year-old Jihadi targets interfaith marriage.

Hostile reception for Prime Minister as she visits Osterley Park

Hotel amidst protests.

Calls for tighter immigration laws.

Nah, I ain’t reading any of that shit.

I shut down the browser and exhaled dramatically as traffic crawled slowly in front of me. It was killing me to be so stationary. Frustrated, I slipped the car into gear and pulled a daring U-turn and I was on my way. I glanced in the rear-view mirror, wishing away the suckers stuck in traffic, when I noticed a slimy green Merc pull the same manoeuvre.

There was no way that there were two of them in Hounslow. Not in that fucking colour. I’d seen that car twice in the space of a couple of hours.

Okay, so rationalise. It’s not exactly unheard of to pull out of traffic and head in the opposite direction. The earlier appearance at the car wash was a little strange, though, considering the car already looked squeaky clean. But then again, if I was rolling around in a motor like that, I’d be getting it washed daily. I shrugged it off. I didn’t have the time or the energy for paranoia. I put my foot down and put some distance between my Beemer and the Merc and took a turn and slipped down a quiet residential road.

Finding Imy was turning out to be a proper mission. There was one person who could help me in my search, but I really, really did not want to go there. The last thing I needed was for a next man to get involved, but with fuck all in the way of options, I had to consider it.

Using the dial on the centre console I scrolled through my phone book and stopped at S.

I caught myself smiling as his name appeared on the screen.

I wouldn’t say we were friends; he was once my customer and I was once his dealer, that was the extent of our relationship. But I liked him, he was funny as fuck, mostly unintentional as he muddled through life like I once did. He and Imy were close, like only stoner-buddies can be. If anyone could point me in the right direction, it’d be Shaz.

My finger hovered over the screen. I swallowed the guilt at getting him involved and jabbed at his name. The phone rang through my car speakers, and eventually a small voice that I didn’t recognise came through.

‘Hello.’

I turned the volume up a touch. It didn’t sound like Shaz at all. His token greeting had always been a jovial ‘What’s cracking, Jay?’ followed by an inexplicable laugh and a smoker’s cough.

‘Shaz?’ I asked, unsure.

‘Yeah. Alright, Jay?’ he said through a sigh.

‘It’s been time, man.’

‘It has. Look, I’m not looking to score at the moment.’

‘That’s cool,’ I replied. ‘I’m not looking to deal.’ I laughed unnecessarily. He didn’t, unnecessarily or otherwise. I cleared my throat. ‘I wanted to chat to you about some next thing.’

I heard him sniff, as though he’d been crying or maybe he just had a seasonal cold.

‘I haven’t got long, Jay,’ he said softly.

‘What’d you mean?’ I said carefully, wondering if he was ill, as I tried to recall the last time I’d checked my testicles.

‘I’ve got a coach to catch in an hour.’

‘Oh,’ I said, relieved. ‘I just need, like, five minutes, ten, tops.’

He didn’t answer, and whatever he had said up to that point didn’t seem like the Shaz that I knew. Considering the sensitivity of the situation, and the sensitivity coming off him in droves, I figured it would be better to meet him rather than chat about it over the phone. That way he wouldn’t be able to cut me off.

‘I can link you now, tell me where you are?’ I said.

‘Seriously, this is not a good time.’

‘Please, Shaz. It’s important,’ I said, approaching the junction to the Great West Road, my hand hovering over the indicator, the direction dependent on his reply. It came in the form of a low moan. I was frustrating him, I know, but I couldn’t let it go.

‘Is this about Imy?’ he asked, so fucking gently, that I had to think twice before answering.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s about Imy.’

‘Sorry, Jay,’ Shaz said. ‘I… I can’t meet you.’

He disconnected the call.

Deflated, I slowed down, and without a destination I parked my car to the side. I let the engine idle as I slid down in my seat. I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. The fuck was I thinking, calling Shaz? He’d probably been at Imy’s wedding reception – scratch that, he was probably best man! He would have seen the tragic events of that night unfold in front of his very eyes. I should have let him be.

I exhaled deeply, trying to loosen a little of that frustration. I opened my eyes and in front of me that fucking slimy green Merc was creeping towards me. Any thoughts about coincidences curled up and died when it slowed down and stopped beside me.

His window slid smoothly down. He was a young Asian man, with a tight buzz cut and a small stud on the side of his nose. He was wearing a bright red tracksuit over his skinny frame, and he was watching me with an air of amusement on his face, as though Tom had finally caught up with Jerry. He twirled his finger, gesturing to me to drop my window.

I acknowledged him with a slight nod, and in no mood for bullshit, I said, ‘I saw you at the car wash. What? You tailing me?’

‘Nah, bro. Just trying to get your attention,’ he said. ‘You walked away just as I was about to say hello.’

‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

‘I think me and you should catch up,’ he said, completely pissing over my question.

‘Catch up?’ I said, not a clue what he was chatting about.

He slipped his hand in the centre console and reached for something. My heart did a backflip. This is exactly how drive-by shootings happen. To my relief his hand emerged holding up a business card between two fingers. He passed it across through my window. I took it. It was a black and glossy, embossed gold trim bordering around an embossed gold phone number and nothing else. Not even a name.