As if to taunt my fractured mind, Arif looked H.O.T. He was rocking an oversized vest – which barely covered his pecs – and rolled-up denim shorts, showing off incredible calves. His hair had been freshly clipped and styled into a cute jagged quiff.
Seeing him look so fly just got me feeling about ten times sadder.
Scooping me up in his strong arms, his fingers twitched across my ribs. ‘There! That’s the smile we’ve been waiting for.’
Now my heart was bleeding.
I wish I’d never met you! my mind screamed at him. How dare you show me what it means to be happy, then have a terrorist for a brother. Why couldn’t you have ignored me like every other popular kid? Now I’m just a train wreck heading for a fall.
Whatever happened now was going to damage me for life.
‘That a selfie stick?’ I asked Arif, tilting my head to one side as he rummaged in a pocket.
‘You tell me!’ he said, with a wink. Then holding the handle against his crotch, he extended the pole to full length.
I jabbed him in the stomach, and we both cracked up. Arif was too funny to be part of a terrorist organization. I must have got it wrong.
‘Here we go!’ he said, hugging me close. Cheek to cheek, faces tilted up to the iPhone perched at the top of the selfie stick, he snapped the pic. ‘Now for a belfie!’ he announced, reaching round and taking a shot of my bum.
‘Gonna need 360-degree panorama mode to fit that in!’ I said.
His smile dropped. ‘Muz, don’t say that. You’re beautiful, man. OK?’ He reached for one of my hands. Placing it on his heart, he folded his large hands over it. ‘I love you.’
The queue at the Shard seemed to stretch to infinity. London was experiencing tropical temperatures, and it was pulling in the crowds from China to New Zealand and beyond. Arif acted like a kid at Disneyland. He chatted and joked, barely noticing how quiet I was.
Then finally it was our turn, and we were ushered into a massive glass lift. Arif took pictures of literally everything. Honestly, he was worse than the freaking tourists.
Everyone’s eyes went straight to the LCD ceiling of the lift. It displayed the four seasons with exciting 3D graphics and special effects. The tour guide had interesting facts on tap, like his brain had been hooked up to some massive database about all things Shard. I watched the numbers roll by on the monitor as we zoomed up the tower. Faster than a rollercoaster, but with none of the drag force. Mind-blowing.
Gripping my hand tightly, Arif bounded up a flight of stairs. In this new section, everything was made of glass. I felt like I was a cloud in the sky, just floating through the air.
The attraction was amazing. Round every corner was another thing waiting to steal your breath away. I gasped at the full 360-degree view of everything London had to offer. It was a panorama for the ages.
A second lift spirited us up to the sixty-eighth floor. But this time the experience was lacking. A couple of women in skimpy dresses couldn’t take their eyes off Arif. I think they even snapped a picture of his butt when he bent over to pick up his keys. For his part, Arif seemed completely oblivious to the effect he was having on them.
Is he also oblivious to the evil in Jameel’s heart, or is he onboard with it?
The view from the top was supreme. A network of cables ran through the crystal tower like delicate bones of silver. As I stepped into the glass atrium, I teared up, feeling like I was seeing something not meant for mortal eyes.
Arif wandered over to a machine called a ‘Tellscope’. Within seconds he’d figured out how to use it. He was like that. Stick a piece of tech in front of him, old or new, and he’d have it sussed in seconds. He’d added tons of features to my Bronze Age phone.
‘Right, I’m off to see Uncle Aqil,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a mo.’
‘Your uncle works here?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Nothing fancy. Security guard, innit?’ He tapped the neon-green USB wristband he was wearing. ‘Jameel ripped some engineering software for his son or summat. Costs seven hundred pounds in stores. Who’s gonna afford that?’
‘You seen what’s on that flash drive?’ I asked, twisting my fingers, afraid of wrecking the mood.
‘You kidding? Engineering sounds proper boring!’
Instinct told me the drive was evil in wristband form. So, was Arif fronting, or did he seriously not know what was on the drive? Were he and Jameel partners, or was he just an overly trusting brother? I knew from experience that Jameel deflected difficult questions by saying they showed a ‘weakness of faith’. It had shut me up enough times.
But then I’d stumbled on his cellar of terror.
I tilted my face up to Arif, gently stroking his cheekbone, as if committing his face to memory. ‘Do what you have to do. Just promise me you’ll never let anyone push you around, OK?’
‘Eh?’ he said, giving me a funny look.
I knew my comment sounded random. But it was my last chance to save him.
‘Remember what you said to me?’ I said, losing myself in the beauty of his dark eyes. ‘If we want to be together forever, we have to please Allah.’ I swallowed, fighting back tears. ‘Sometimes your family doesn’t know what’s best for you. Look at me. My parents pinned all their hopes on me becoming a doctor. Never gonna happen. Not with this brain. And all that pressure has made me grow up believing I’m just not good enough.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, squeezing my hand.
I shook my head. ‘Thing is, I can’t go on blaming them for the rest of my life, can I? At some point we have to take responsibility. We’re the ones living our lives, Arif. Not my parents. Not Jameel.’
I looked out at the River Thames glittering in the sun’s final encore. A ferry painted like a stick of rock candy chugged along trailing foam.
‘Never do anything, unless it feels right in here.’ I placed my hand over his heart.
He looked down at it thoughtfully, then kissed my forehead. ‘That’s deep. Thanks.’
There. I’d given it my best shot. Words were all I had – all I’d ever had – and these came straight from the heart. My poor Arif: years of being programmed to follow Jameel’s abomination of Islam. Could my words break through?
‘Wanna go gift shop?’
‘Sure,’ I replied, making my smile warm. I had to believe Arif would do the right thing. Because if he didn’t, both our lives were over.
Up in the gift shop, Arif handed me a twenty-pound note. ‘Treat yourself, babe. You deserve it.’ He hugged me tightly.
Maybe I was reading too much into it, but there was something final in that hug. And as he stared into my eyes, the mask he’d been wearing all day slipped and I saw how tired and scared he was.
Abruptly, he spun round and ran off.
It was over. Jameel had won the war for Arif’s heart.
That night I couldn’t get to sleep, no matter how many mugs of warm cocoa I chugged. The date I’d seen on Jameel’s memory stick kept flashing in my mind, like a neon sign on a cheap diner.
2nd June! 2nd June!
Three days to get my head sorted. Three days to do the right thing . . .
I tossed and turned like a spin dryer as the hours slipped by. By 1 a.m. I called it quits.
No rest for the wicked! my mind hissed.
‘I’m not wicked,’ I said aloud. ‘I’m not.’
Bleary-eyed, I traipsed to the bathroom, and made ablution, every motion painful. Then I was standing before God on the prayer mat, offering a voluntary prayer, seeking a way out of the epic mess I had ended up in. After weeks and weeks of it, I was finally cracking under the pressure.
I prostrated myself on the prayer mat and cried my heart out. Right and Wrong; Love and Hate – they’d become so mixed up, I could barely tell them apart. Just what the hell was I supposed to do? If I went to the police, they’d ask why I’d been sitting on the memory stick for so long. If I’d got it all wrong, I might as well be putting a gun to Arif’s head. He’d lose Jameel, and his lif
e would be destroyed. How could I do that to someone who had given me confidence, hope and belief in a better tomorrow?
I curled up into a ball, wishing I hadn’t shut my parents out of my life. I wanted to hear Ami tell me silly stories about life in a Pakistani village; listen to Dad brag about being the champion kite flyer of Lahore for three years straight. I wanted to tell them I was sorry for not being smart enough to become a doctor, and I was sorry for the number of times I’d lied. But most of all, I was sorry for not being the daughter they’d always wanted.
CHAPTER 45
‘I had no choice!’ I shrieked in terror.
Darkness.
Silence.
Where was I?
Slowly my bedroom furniture surfaced from the gloom, their familiar shapes comforting. My heart wore knuckledusters as it pounded inside my chest. I’d fallen asleep on the prayer mat and had the worst nightmare ever.
A cloud shifted outside my window, bathing me in milky moonlight. I stared at the crescent moon, so pure and high in the starry sky. Soon dawn would approach and with it my last chance at redemption.
The Compassionate has mercy on those who are merciful, my mind whispered to me. If you show mercy to those who are on the earth, He who is in Heaven will show mercy to you.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked out of the apartment.
CHAPTER 46
I stepped into the buttery glow of reception, certain I was going to throw up.
The officer at the counter gave me a wary look. ‘Can I help you, miss?’
Suddenly I was a deer caught in the headlights. I longed for the warmth and security of my bed. If I could just hold out till my exams were over, my parents would take me to live in Pakistan. Then I could begin a new life: fresh and blameless.
The phantoms from my nightmare reared before me. Wisps of smoke that were heavier than mountains.
This had to end now.
‘I-I’d like to report a terrorist threat,’ I croaked. ‘There’s going to be an attack on London, and I’ve got details.’
The police officer raised smudged eyebrows. Maybe she thought it was a sick prank? I couldn’t afford to get offended. Lives were at stake. ISIS were finally on our doorstep planning an atrocity that would bring London to its knees.
Five minutes later, a couple of counter-terrorism officers escorted me to Interview Room 2. With super-creepy eyes and grooves that dripped from the corners of her mouth, the lady reminded me of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Way before she’d introduced herself as Detective Inspector Judith Clarins, I’d clocked her as the one in charge. Officer Redman I recognized from the awful night my dad reported me as a missing person. Only now he’d been sunburned. He kept scratching his ginger sideburns, sending flakes of skin falling on to his shoulders.
On the wall behind them was a large anti-terrorism poster. Major cringe. The word ‘CONTEST’ hovered over four smaller buzzwords: Pursue, Prevent, Protect, Prepare. There were other posters up too, covering everything from domestic abuse to human trafficking. My nervous eyes spied another terrorism one, this time advertising a confidential hotline number. My stomach dropped. Phoning this in would’ve been a million times easier.
‘I’d like to speak to Officer Sealy, please,’ I said, fidgeting with my hijab.
‘As I explained to you before, Miss Saleem,’ Redman said patiently. ‘Officer Sealy is not part of the counter-terrorism unit.’
‘You guys are making me nervous!’ I shrieked, before getting a grip. ‘Please. I need Officer Sealy to be here. She gets me.’
The officers whispered among themselves, then Redman got up and left. DI Clarins watched me wearily from under a creased brow, then silently placed a voice recorder on the table between us and took out a spiral-bound pad.
Officer Sealy arrived fifteen minutes later, greeting me like an old friend. With her friendly eyes, bouncy curls, and warm aroma of coconut oil, I started to feel safe. Like if things went pear-shaped, she’d have my back.
Sealy winked as she placed a cup of Costa’s down in front of me. From the opposite end of the table, DI Clarins gave the recorder the 411: date, time, situation. All eyes settled on me. I swallowed, realizing it was now or never, then told them everything I knew about Jameel’s terror cell.
‘Well, Miss Saleem,’ Clarins said, after I’d spilt my guts. ‘Don’t think we’re not grateful for the intel you’ve provided, but we’re bound by procedure. We’d need more to go on than that before we could consider organizing a raid.’
I threw down the memory stick like a smoking gun. ‘Everything’s on there. I found it in Jameel’s cellar.’
‘I thought you said he removed all the evidence from there?’ said Redman, turning back a page in his pad, looking puzzled.
‘That’s what he thought,’ I explained. ‘But I found the USB on the floor, hidden in the dust. Must’ve dropped out or something.’ My mouth kept flooding with saliva, and my eyes were wet. I hoped to God I didn’t look like a psychotic attention-seeker.
DI Clarins muttered into her radio, summoning a digital forensics officer. While we waited for the expert to arrive, I described everything I’d seen on the drive.
‘So let me get this straight,’ Clarins said, consulting her notes. ‘You believe Jameel Malik is the leader of a terrorist cell aiming to blow up the London Shard. You also believe he was behind the recent failed tube bombings, having seen evidence of this on eight laptops in his basement. Said laptops went missing shortly afterwards, but you recovered a memory stick. On it are three files: an Islamic State terror manual; a document written in code with only the date 2nd June readable; and a third file, which cannot be opened without a password. Correct?’
I nodded, ashamed that I’d wasted a whole hour telling her what could be summed up in about five sentences. Some writer . . .
She rubbed her chin like she was polishing a pebble. ‘Unless we can find incontrovertible evidence linking Mr Malik to the tube bombing, or the intended bombing of the Shard, he’d be looking at a maximum of four years.’
‘You’re kidding,’ I said. ‘For goodness sake, we’re talking about actual terrorism here!’
Jameel was a mind-thief and a mass-murderer. There could be no bigger crime. They needed to lock him up and throw away the key.
‘You haven’t told us what makes you think the Shard is their intended target,’ Clarins noted, crossing her legs.
‘Arif took me to the Shard yesterday.’
‘Jameel’s younger brother?’ she asked, trying to keep up with the info dumps I was dropping randomly. I cursed myself again for not having thought this through. If I’d written it down first, constructed a proper timeline of events, it would have sounded way more convincing.
I nodded. ‘Jameel gave him this wristband thingy.’
‘Could you be more specific?’ Redman asked, pencil hovering above his pad.
‘Like a cross between a memory stick and a wristband? He told Arif to give it to a security guard called Aqil. I think . . .’ I swallowed, realizing that what I was about to say next could never be taken back.
‘Go on,’ Sealy said gently.
‘I think Arif’s been radicalized by his brother.’ I stared sadly into my lap as the words came out. ‘Jameel might’ve sent him round with some last-minute instructions or something. Cos, well, nobody suspects teenagers, do they?’
My phone vibrated against my thigh.
‘It’s Arif!’ Panic and shame heated my face. It was as if he’d been standing there all along, watching me land him in it.
‘Stay calm,’ Clarins said, galvanized for action. ‘Put him on speakerphone. Watch for my signals. I might scribble you a note. Otherwise act naturally.’
I nodded, shaking like a leaf. Sealy squeezed my shoulder.
‘Hey, Arif!’ I said into the phone, inwardly cringing at how ridiculously happy my voice sounded. A dead giveaway.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.
‘No, not at all. What’s up?’
‘It
’s about what you said yesterday. At the Shard . . .’
There was a long pause, then he cleared his throat.
‘Can you get over here, fam?’
I looked up at the officers. DI Clarins nodded.
‘Er, OK. Are you all right?’ I said.
‘Yeah, yeah. See you soon, babe.’ He hung up.
DI Clarins congratulated me for keeping a cool head.
‘Now listen carefully,’ she said, as if I was one of her officers. ‘It’s going to take a while for Forensics to extract what we need from the memory stick, even with MI5 on board. How long? We don’t know.’ Her face hardened. ‘Jameel Iqbal Malik has been on a surveillance list since 2015, so I do believe you’re telling us the truth.’
I relaxed a little.
‘But the police deal in facts not feelings,’ she continued. ‘From what you’ve said, we have under forty-eight hours left before the attack. If you can help us gather further evidence, perhaps even a confession, it would give us agency to make an immediate arrest.’
The cops told me it was my choice. That I didn’t have to go through with any of it if I didn’t want to. I understood what they meant. They were covering their backs. With or without them, I would have gone to see Arif anyway. Time was everything if we were going to prevent the attack.
From the moment I’d walked into the police station, I’d set the wheels in motion. Yet even now I had my doubts. Whichever way you looked at it, I’d betrayed my husband. I’d tried reaching out to him, reasoned and pleaded and begged. There’d even been that one moment at the Shard when I honestly believed he was going to make the right choice.
But extremism was a virus of the mind. If you didn’t get help quickly, it took you over until you couldn’t see where it began and you ended. I had to admit that Arif was beyond saving. Denying it could mean thousands of innocent people dying. I knew what Khadijah and Latifah would tell me: keeping quiet was haram.
It had begun to drizzle, and a cold wind rustled the leaves on the trees as I stood on the drive of Arif’s house. The concealed microphone I wore burned a hole in my chest. I tried not to think about it as I rang the doorbell.
I Am Thunder Page 23
