Homegrown Hero Page 4

  Then silence. No more gunshots‚ no more screams. I opened my eyes and from my position under my bed‚ I noticed two things; the smoking barrel of a Heckler and Koch machine gun and a pair of sandy coloured‚ British military-issue desert boots.

  ‘Well‚’ Shaz said‚ rescuing me from my thoughts and placing me back to the present. ‘Pretty sick‚ right?

  ‘Yes‚’ I snatched my eyes away from his boots. ‘They’re nice.’

  7

  Burj Al Arab Hotel, Dubai

  Sheikh Ali Ghulam invited his guests‚ Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal‚ to join him for an evening feast. A small team of three waiters piled the table with platters of assorted meats‚ rice and naan breads. They ate in silence at the dining table‚ digesting the food quickly‚ hoping to get back to their hotel room and further digest what had been told to them. The only sound that filled the room was Pathaan noisily sucking away at the bones of a half chicken from the comfort of his armchair.

  Ihsan and Talal were grateful that a spread had been laid on for them in the highest of company; they were especially grateful that the Sheikh had chosen them to share the information with. But they could not understand why it was them that he had chosen. The attacks on Oxford Street had been not of their planning‚ therefore they were not accountable for the failure of it. Ihsan‚ based in Germany‚ had his own students‚ three of whom were currently being prepped to visit a training camp. As for Belgium-based Talal‚ after careful watch‚ he had recruited twelve students from the deprived Molenbeek neighbourhood of Brussels‚ who had seen their local Mosque closed down as its teachings were seen as radical. Talal had been given an eighteen-month window in which to train these angry young men‚ and plot an attack in the very heart of Brussels.

  Sheikh Ghulam placed his cutlery down on the table and loudly expelled gas‚ muted slightly by his fist. Ihsan and Talal followed suit but did not allow themselves the luxury of belching. They waited patiently but the impatience within them was clear. They wanted desperately to leave‚ to be away from Ghulam’s glare and Pathaan’s menace and to carry on this discussion in private quarters‚ to try to establish the possible reason why they might have been flown out to this meeting.

  Ghulam had not seemed to address it. But they could not possibly question him.

  Talal cleared his throat to speak. Ihsan shot him a look and discreetly shook his head. Talal went ahead anyway. ‘Who was responsible for Qasim? With all due respect we carry out intensive checks with every one of our students.’

  Ghulam nodded at Pathaan‚ one that could possibly have meant anything. Pathaan stood up and Talal braced himself‚ as though he was about to receive a blow to the back of his head. Pathaan smiled at the reaction and disappeared into the master bedroom.

  ‘Imam Adeel-al-Bhukara‚’ Ghulam said‚ and Talal physically relaxed. ‘He was also invited to join us. However‚ the Brother did not demonstrate the same sense of duty as you both.’

  ‘So‚ he did not make it?’ Ihsan asked.

  ‘Pathaan can be quite persuasive‚’ Ghulam replied‚ as the bedroom door opened and Pathaan walked out dragging behind him a large metal suitcase on wheels. He laid it down flat‚ unzipped and flipped open the case. Inside Adeel-al-Bhukara was curled up in the foetal position‚ his walking stick laid across his body. Pathaan picked it up and poked him in the ribs with it. Al-Bhukara wheezed weakly and his eyes opened to slits.

  ‘Please‚ join us‚’ Ghulam requested‚ and al-Bukhara’s eyes widened in recognition.

  Placing first one hand and then the other on the thick black Persian rug‚ he slowly crawled out of the suitcase before collapsing with exhaustion face down on the floor. His humiliation‚ far from complete‚ was furthered in the knowledge that his peers‚ his Brothers‚ could smell that he had urinated and see that‚ through the light cotton of his shalwar‚ he had defecated.

  Al-Bhukara managed to lift his head towards Ghulam and mouthed water. His wish was granted as Pathaan‚ from a metal jug‚ poured water and ice cubes over his head. They watched as he managed to sum up enough energy to rise to his knees with his mouth wide open‚ and drink what he could from the waterfall. Whatever missed his mouth he collected in his hands.

  Ihsan and Talal were up on their feet at the treatment of the much-respected Imam. The very same Imam who had a close friendship and unbridled trust with Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚ the honourable leader of their group‚ Ghurfat-Al-Mudarris.

  ‘Would you like us to leave?’ Ihsan asked.

  ‘Sit!’ Pathaan asserted‚ his arm outstretched and his finger pointing at them as if it could spit bullets.

  ‘Look at me‚’ Ghulam said.

  Al-Bhukara met his eyes‚ but kept his head bowed. ‘Please‚’ he pleaded. ‘I did what I was told. I did what I believed was right.’

  ‘Javid Qasim was one of your students.’

  ‘I did what I was told‚’ Al-Bhukara repeated.

  ‘He was a traitor‚’ Ghulam raised his hand sharply. Al-Bhukara flinched. ‘He was Secret Service.’

  Al-Bhukara lifted his chin‚ the sudden fire in his eyes matching that of Ghulam.

  ‘He was the son of Abdullah Bin Jabbar‚’ he hissed at the Sheikh and then the fire went out as quickly as it had arrived.

  Ghulam took an involuntary step back. Ihsan and Talal glanced at one another‚ hoping that the other would tell them that they had misheard.

  ‘We waited patiently for the boy to become a man‚’ Al-Bhukara continued. ‘He started to move in the right circles‚ he started to take his Deen seriously. When word reached Bin Jabbar‚ he insisted that we should take him on. Fast track his education. I was but the facilitator. He was his father.’ He took a breath‚ it came out as a low whistle. ‘It was what he wanted.’

  Ghulam regained his composure. ‘Abdullah Bin Jabbar... who has evaded capture for so many years‚ is now on the run. Is that what he had wanted?’

  Al-Bhukara said nothing.

  ‘They are now aware of his description‚ his hideouts and his training facilities. I ask you again: is that what he wanted?’

  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 t
han 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.

  I realise‚ though‚ that my destiny is not in my hands. One day‚ somebody may come calling and try to turn me back into that violent‚ angry boy. Dangling revenge as my motivation‚ reminding me who I really am and what I owe.

  9

  Jay

  It was a little strange having a day off from work‚ as opposed to always being able to do as I pleased. In keeping with my new‚ straight-edged life I had to structure my day to ensure that things got taken care of. It felt good knowing that I could function like a responsible adult‚ but at the same time it was boring the life out of me.

  My first task today was to pick up plane tickets from Shaan Travels in Southall. You can keep all your online deals; nobody touches Shaan when it comes to budget flights. He went down from £470 to £390 before I even had a chance to finish the complimentary crusty samosa and microwaved masala chai that he had laid out in front of me. I paid in cash and pocketed the ticket before moving onto Hounslow and its legendary Treaty Centre for a spot of holiday shopping.

  In keeping with the rest of the Treaty dossers‚ I adjusted my walk as soon as I entered. A little more bounce‚ a little more swagger. It had been a while since I had been to Treaty and the memories embraced me warmly and I couldn’t help but smile at the much-changed but same-old shithole. I think I was around twelve when it first opened its doors‚ and at the time it felt like a shift in direction. Hounslow High Street was ready to join the likes of its glossy neighbours Richmond and Chiswick. Problem was‚ there were just too many fucking Asians‚ loitering or on the pull or just getting up to mischief. Idris and I used to chill there most days after school‚ sat at a table right by the escalators‚ books laid out in front of us as a guise so the mall cops wouldn’t ask questions‚ passing judgement on the girls from Green School as they sauntered by. Yeah‚ Treaty was the only place to be. A couple of quid in your pocket saved from skipping lunch‚ to be spent on penny sweets‚ fizzy drinks and the Daily Sport.

  A few years later‚ to ad
d to the Asian invasion‚ the Somalis arrived‚ and a few years after that‚ the Poles invaded the Treaty. Small cliques were formed‚ the odd fight broke out. It lost some of its charm. Now every second person in the high street is from a different background‚ chats a different language‚ wears a different colour. But they are all after the same fucking thing.

  A bargain!

  That’s why I was there too. A holiday on the horizon‚ I was ready to spend some money – but not too much! I ducked into some fashion boutiques where even the mannequins looked embarrassed‚ and bought myself some travel essentials. Lairy Hawaiian shirts‚ luminous shorts‚ flip flops‚ and a panama hat which I was never going to wear apart from in the odd novelty photo.

  Qatar‚ here I come.

  Mum had recently moved to Qatar with her boyfriend Andrew – her white boyfriend Andrew. She didn’t give a fuck about the gossip‚ and I certainly didn’t either. Good on you‚ Mum‚ do whatever makes you happy. She had tried being a good Muslim wife. Didn’t work out‚ Dad was more interested in playing terrorist.

  Holiday haul complete‚ it was time to get some chores done around the house. So I popped into the cornerstone of the Treaty Centre‚ a delightful little place called Wilko – quality products at ridiculously low prices – for some cleaning products. I was stood in the queue‚ my basket filled with all sorts of hocus-pocus sprays and detergents which guaranteed sparkling results in seconds. I couldn’t see how long the queue was as the person in front of me was well over six foot‚ wide as a motherfucker and black as the night. There is only one person I know with such a frame and he really doesn’t like me… So‚ rather than stay and confirm my suspicions‚ I decided it was time I bounced.