Khurrum Rahman - Ride or Die

Idris went to his hotel room and I went to mine. Thankfully he was seven floors below me. At that moment I needed that space between us. My room had been cleaned. Six pillows lined neatly against the head board, when all I needed was one. I threw the other five off the bed with unnecessary aggression, losing the complimentary chocolate in the process, and snatched the room service menu off the side table. I browsed through it intently, trying to prioritise my stomach over my heart and mind, which were ready to lead me astray.

Idris. Fucking Idris. I know in his own way he was looking out for me but all he was achieving was to bury me deeper into a hole that I was desperate to climb out of. The detective in him knew I was involved in something, and I could feel his concern, his disappointment that I couldn’t share it with him. I wished I could. I wished I could share all of it with my best friend, but how could I put my shit on him? Instead my silence continued to drive a hole through our friendship.

Idris wasn’t aware that I once had ties with MI5, but he was aware that I once had ties with a group of Muslims that had planned and failed to carry out a gun attack in the heart of London. Some of them were based in Hounslow. Fuck, man, one of them lived across the road from me, and I had considered him a friend. He died as result of his actions. If he hadn’t, others would have. That should have been it, alarm bells should have been ringing, but no, instead, earlier this year, I grew close to a kid – much against Imy’s advice – a kid who was touched by tragedy and decided to even it out by carrying out a fucking acid bomb attack against a right wing group. So, yeah, I get it! Idris was probably shattered from carrying the weight of I told you so s.

Given my track record it was only fair that Idris wanted to know whether or not I knew anything about the bombing, as if any shit that goes down in Hounslow has my name attached to it. If Idris had asked me, if he had brought those words and that question to his lips, I would have answered Fuck no. When the truth was entirely different.

Eight months ago, Imy walked into my home and pointed a gun between my eyes. I knew he was doing so against his will, and he knew that if he didn’t pull the trigger then there would be consequences in the shape of his family.

And it came. The consequence, it fucking came.

This bomber, this child, exacted his plan to perfection, on what should have been the happiest day of Imy’s life. Helpless, he watched his loved ones perish.

The one thing worse than death is watching the ones closest to you die.

The black and white of it. If Imy had killed me, his family would still be alive. But he just didn’t have it in him to take a life.

I bet burying his wife and son changed that.

I had to get to him.

I made four phone calls. To reception, telling them that I would be checking out tomorrow. To Idris, telling him that I would be flying out tomorrow, and then cutting him off without explaining. Then a longer call to Mum with a bullshit excuse, telling her that I had to return home. And finally a call to room service, ordering myself a chicken burger, onion rings and a chocolate gateau.

I placed the receiver back in its cradle and eyed the minibar.

It wouldn’t be the first time that I’d reached for a bottle to dim the madness.

My Prius stayed at home. I couldn’t risk the number plate being picked up by one of the many ANPR cameras. I needed a car that would be less likely for the police to notice, one they wouldn’t expect me to be driving.

With a full moon for company I walked thirty minutes from our home in Osterley, to Kumar’s Property Services in Hounslow West. I hadn’t been back to work since, and I wasn’t planning to, but I still had a key to the office.

I let myself in through the back door and blinked until my eyes adjusted to the dark. Each blink felt heavier than the last and I had to take a deep breath to push away the creeping exhaustion. I cut through the makeshift kitchen and stepped into the front office and stopped. To the left was my desk, as organised as I had left it. It sat opposite what had once been Shaz’s desk. His inane observations and our laughter filled my head. I let it in. Let it add to the rage.

I keyed in the pin to the security box and picked out the keys to the company Ford Mondeo.

An hour later I joined the M40 and settled in for the four-hour journey to Blackburn. I let the radio run in the background, the incessant Christmas music reminding me of all that I would never have.

Rafi Kabir wasn’t the only one to blame. If I’m honest, Rafi was the least to blame. The Kabirs, a seemingly normal, happy family, with good standing in the Muslim community, were in reality a channel for Ghurfat-al-Mudarris. Messages, weaponry and explosive materials would pass through many hands before arriving at 65 Parkland Avenue, Blackburn, straight into the hands of Saheed Kabir – father of Rafi and the head of the family. His responsibility was to secure the package in a safe place until it was picked up by a jihadi.

I was once that jihadi.

The Glock .40 handgun that sat beside me in the passenger seat had been provided to me by Saheed, with the intention of using it to carry out a fatwa that I think I always knew I wasn’t capable of. I clearly remember the meeting. Kabir was a cheery man, full of life, content for the time being in his small role as he waited patiently for the day that his two sons, Asif and Rafi, would come of age and give themselves wholly to The Cause. He would happily and knowingly send his own blood, to shed blood. He didn’t see it coming, though. He didn’t see it coming that his youngest, the impatient Rafi, at ten years old, was ready.

He wouldn’t see me coming.

I turned onto Parkland Avenue and drove at a crawl. The snow had settled heavier than in London. I parked the car in a tight spot outside number 34 and checked the time. It was near ten, still relatively early. The risk of being seen was high. I pulled the seat back and stretched out. Patience was key. I would wait until the early hours of the morning to give me cover.

I let the wipers sweep away the flakes of snow as I looked out onto the street. It was quiet, not a soul or a Christmas light in sight. This wasn’t that kind of place. It was a thriving Muslim community, unashamedly proud at being segregated. I remembered from my last visit, each face was brown and every woman was covered top to tail in black with only her eyes visible. There were four halal butchers, located close together, and two masjids less than a hundred metres apart, with a third under construction. They were frowned upon in today’s backwards Britain, but places like this do exist. I didn’t have a problem with it. I know what it’s like to find comfort with your own, whether that’s family or whether that’s someone who looks like you. It’s only a problem when those values are forced upon you.

I remember clearly Rafi’s elder brother, Asif, walking me up and down this street, proudly showing me the sights, revelling in the seclusion. He pointed out a newsagents, the only business on the street that was owned by a non-Muslim. I remember it being empty at the time, as a result of it being boycotted. Seeing it now, through my windscreen, it was boarded-up, out of business. Job done.

Across the road to my right, fifty metres or so in front of me, I could just make out the outline to the Kabirs’ semi-detached home. I scanned for police presence, for the press that had set up camp outside the house after the attack. It had been widely reported by the media that Rafi was a cleanskin. He wasn’t affiliated to any terrorist group or known in any capacity to MI5 or counter-terrorism. His family were looked at closely, but ultimately they also didn’t appear on any watchlists. They hid their connections well. The press frenzy eventually fizzled out after Saheed Kabir had given his tearful doorstep interview to the world’s media, about the tragic loss of his youngest son. His pain was genuine, even though his words weren’t. His emotion blended easily with defiance as he stated that Rafi was innocent, and had been subjected to religious indoctrination from the day that he had gone missing to the day he took his own life. Not once mentioning that his innocent son had taken innocent lives. As for religious indoctrination, Rafi had been indoctrinated a long time before he went missing. By his father, his mother and his brother, who raised and nurtured him to exact madness against those who opposed their beliefs. The Kafir.