‘Kevin‚ Salman and Amirah‚’ he continued‚ calmly laying down his instruction. He spoke slowly and clearly‚ loosening his American drawl‚ giving us the opportunity to take down detailed notes. At every point of instruction‚ he would click the remote and change the slide‚ and point to exactly where each person should be holding position.
Around me I could hear the frantic scrabble of pencil on paper. I knew that I too should be taking notes. The intention was there. My pencil had made contact with the pad but all I could accomplish was a grey dot‚ which grew darker and bigger as I applied pressure on it. My hand was rooted. It wouldn’t move‚ paralysed at the overload of information that was flying towards me and the knowledge of the target.
‘The time: One p.m‚’ Mustafa said. ‘The date‚ one of the busiest days of the year. January 1st. New Years Day.’
The pencil snapped in my hand.
Salman stood up‚ smacked the table with the palm of his hand. Kevin‚ not to be outdone‚ stood up and thumped his chest. Both screaming ‘Inshallah’. Yasir and Irfan embraced whilst Parvez started to repeatedly yell ‘Allah hu Akbar’. Amirah stood on the table and joined in with the chant. Kamran stood up and screamed at the top of his lungs‚ ‘Leave no man behind.’
Akhtar was the last to stand. He did so hesitantly‚ eyes darting around the room. He lightly patted his chest‚ inaudibly mouthed something‚ trying so hard to believe‚ wanting to believe‚ but not quiet fully understanding the enormity of what was happening around him.
But I did. I understood.
As I watched them manically bouncing off the walls‚ shouting and screaming words that were never meant to be used in this context‚ an emotion that could never be articulated burning brightly into their twisted faces.
I truly understood.
They were angry.
Angry at being seen as second-class citizens. Angry at being seen as an evil religion when at the heart of Islam lies peace. Angry because one soldier is beheaded in broad daylight in the streets of London and it is milked by the media‚ and by those who consume the media‚ and they carry the flame as they watch documentaries condemning the actions on every fucking anniversary‚ refusing to let the flames die – but are happy to turn a blind eye to those very soldiers in their pristine uniforms‚ with their expensive weaponry‚ walking into our communities‚ our villages‚ our homes and murdering‚ pilfering‚ raping‚ shattering thousands of innocent lives. A small girl‚ an innocent child‚ blown to pieces by a remote-controlled bomb while she sheltered in a hospital‚ her body still unclaimed – does she get the time of day‚ a fleeting moment’s thought‚ column inches‚ a fucking documentary?
Those conflicting thoughts that had besieged me of late hit me like a speeding train. I stood up and screamed at the top of my lungs.
‘Allah hu Akbar!’
69
They all spilled out amongst the mountains‚ dancing‚ shouting‚ and shooting the sun from the sky. Mustafa approached each of them‚ one at a time‚ a small holdall in his hand. He requested that everybody drop their phones inside. We wouldn’t be needing them any longer. He reasoned that the time for relaying our message on social media was over for now‚ and it was time to focus solely on the mission ahead. Truth was‚ Mustafa did not trust a single motherfucker regardless of the importance that he regularly put upon it.
My hand slid into my jean pocket‚ index finger chipping desperately away at the slot in my phone‚ trying to blindly remove the SD card. I saw him striding towards me just as the card dislodged. I slipped out my phone and dropped it in the holdall.
I was absolutely petrified‚ my right leg was trembling and I was worried that the card would pop out of my pocket. I forced my leg to stop and I smiled at him.
‘Hard work starts tomorrow‚’ he said. ‘Today you have the day to yourself. Go celebrate‚ you have the run of the camp.’
‘Oh‚ okay. Thanks‚’ I said‚ just because I had to say something.
‘And Jay… You have done well. I may not show it but I am proud of you.’
I beamed as though his words meant everything to me. He slapped me hard on my back and then moved away‚ only to be replaced by Akhtar.
‘What you up to‚ Bruv?’ Akhtar asked. ‘Why are you not celebrating?’ His smile could not have been any weaker.
‘You go ahead‚ I’ll catch up with you later‚’ I said‚ as the guns cracked around me. ‘I’m gonna go for a walk. Take it all in.’
‘Can I come with you?’
I inhaled deeply. I needed time to think. I needed time to myself‚ to get away from the anger and the excitement.
‘Akhtar‚ listen‚ Brother. Why don’t you join in the celebrations? I’ll be back soon.’
He looked around at the spectacle and swallowed. ‘Please can I come with you?’
‘Fuck’s sake‚’ I snapped. He flinched. ‘Just leave me alone for a minute.’
He looked at me as if he had just been slapped. He tried to compose himself quickly but I had hurt him‚ and it showed. He moved away and picked out a rifle from the gun rack and shot holes into the sky with the rest of the jihadis.
*
It wasn’t my intention‚ consciously anyway‚ but I had ended up back at the assault course. It was reaching mid-afternoon and the sun was at its hottest. I looked up at the skies for some divine intervention‚ some inspiration. Nothing!
But I did it anyway.
Now‚ a better story would tell you that I had completed it. Beaten it. Scaled the wall‚ crawled through the barbed wire net‚ swished across the high beam and jumped through the ring of fire amongst all the other obstacles. And the rest of the group had gathered‚ watching me‚ cheering me on. Willing me across the finishing line where they would carry me up on their shoulders‚ shouting my name‚ accepting me. Trusting me to walk side by side with them in battle.
Well‚ this isn’t that kind of story.
I set off. The barbed wire net was the first obstacle. I laid on my stomach as low to the muddy ground as possible. I crawled‚ letting my midsection and my arms inch me forward‚ my legs remained passive. I crept slowly‚ slowly through the net and about half way through‚ when I dared to think that I could make it unscathed‚ a metal wire grazed my back. It didn’t break the skin‚ it barely scratched it. But it served as the final straw.
With my face in the dirt I started to bawl uncontrollably.
I cried for my mum‚ I cried for my dad. I cried for Parvez. I cried for all the Muslims around the world that had to pick up a weapon and resort to jihadism because they truly believed that there was no other way. But most of all‚ I cried for myself. Knowing that my actions‚ from here onwards‚ were going to hurt a lot of people.
It seemed like an eternity before I got through to the other side of the net. I didn’t even bother entertaining the idea of the rest of the obstacles. I was done.
It had beaten me.
70
Christmas Eve.
We had spent those last few weeks sticking close with our allocated team members. Encouraged to spend as much time as possible together‚ to fully trust and understand each other‚ bucking one up if the other tired. We studied the material comprehensively. We discussed what we would wear‚ what the traffic would be like‚ best route to the holding point. I had spent hours in close proximity to Parvez and in that time I did not once attempt to question his motive‚ talk him out of it. I knew that he could not be reasoned with; his brain had been cleansed to the extent of no possible return. All he could see was the jihad.
It was the night before Christmas and I was staring into the dark from my sleeping bag‚ the furthest away from the Christmas feeling that I had ever been.
‘From your position on Argyll Street‚ Brother‚’ Parvez said through the darkness‚ ‘you’ll be fully mobile‚ able to move in any direction. As will the rest of you.’
‘Yeah‚’ I said. ‘I know that already.’
‘But me‚ I’
ll be on the balcony. Stationary.’ He hesitated. ‘My target from that height will be far and wide. I can take out as many Kafirs as the bullets I have. And‚ Brother‚ I intend to make every bullet count. I have been granted the most effective position and I am grateful for Mustafa to have that faith in me. But…’
‘But what?’ I hated hearing him talk like that‚ although that kind of language had become second nature to me.
‘It means that escape for me will be less likely.’
Even though he couldn’t see me in the dark‚ I nodded.
‘If I get caught‚ I swear to Allah I will never ever give up my Brothers.’ He sniffled. ‘No matter what they throw at me.’
I didn’t want to patronise him. Tell him that everything was going to turn out just fucking wonderful. I knew that he would be arrested as soon as he set foot back in London. That plans were probably being put in place as we spoke. He was going to be locked up somewhere dark and dingy and horrific‚ and tortured until he broke. And it would all be my doing. But it was easy to justify to myself. Somebody like Parvez‚ no matter how I felt about him‚ the best place for him‚ for all of them‚ was under lock and key.
‘Goodnight‚ Parvez.’ It was the only thing I could say.
‘Goodnight‚ Brother.’
71
The whirring sound of a washing machine woke me up. It was loud and rude and abrupt‚ as though it was spinning rocks. And it sounded like it was getting closer. I sat up on my sleeping bag. Everybody else was awake and sat up too‚ scratching their heads and rubbing their eyes as they tried to determine where the offending sound was coming from. It grew louder and louder still and the room felt cold‚ as though a huge breeze was blowing in.
‘What is that?’ Salman asked‚ stepping out of his sleeping bag.
We were all standing now‚ frightened to leave the solace of our room. Amirah’s head popped around the doorway.
‘Come‚’ she shouted over the noise. ‘Come quickly.’ Then she dashed.
We all pegged it after her‚ and looked tentatively outside at the black helicopter approaching to land in the enclave between the mountains.
‘It’s a helicopter.’ Akhtar stated the obvious.
Shit! It’s on. I tried to step back and find a quiet place to keep my head down. This was about to get really messy and I didn’t want any part of it. Any second now‚ some pretty pissed off soldiers were going to leap out of that helicopter and rain hell. I felt a sudden surge of guilt overwhelm me.
‘They found us. Tool up!’ Kamran said.
‘No. That’s not military‚’ Irfan shouted over the noise. ‘Look‚ there’s another one.’
A second helicopter‚ a white one was making its way down to land. I surprised myself by breathing a sigh of relief.
As they landed‚ loose earth blew hard‚ causing a giant cloud of dust to travel towards us‚ covering us in dirt. Through the dust cloud Mustafa came jogging towards us‚ taking us by surprise‚ which made us all scramble back into our room.
He entered our room. ‘Apologies for the rude awakening‚ soldiers.’ Mustafa raised his voice over the thunderous roar of the two helicopters. Immediately questions flew at him.
He put up two meaty hands and the room quietened.
‘By the mighty grace of Allah‚ I believe that every one of you is ready.’ There was no Inshallah or Mashallah booming back at him. Instead just a fear of the unknown. ‘I have watched you all grow into fighters‚ into jihadis. Now is the time to prove your faith. Now is the time for you to take that step.’
What?
‘The attack will no longer take place on New Year’s Day‚’ Mustafa said‚ handing out new passports. Fake passports. ‘It will take place the day after tomorrow. On Boxing Day.’
Part Four
Ballad of a Dead Soulja
– Tupac Shakur.
72
Unit 71. Park Royal. London. Christmas Day.
The two helicopters had flown us from the training camp in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa to Kabul‚ where we were driven to Hamid Karzai International Airport. To my disappointment the fake passports held up and we were able to board the plane and fly thirteen hours direct to Amsterdam Airport Schiphol‚ after which we stepped on a Eurostar to take us from Amsterdam to St Pancras‚ London. Four prepaid minicabs had been waiting for us to take us to Unit 71‚ Park Royal.
Throughout the journey‚ we were split into our designated teams‚ dotted around the airplane or on different carriages so not to attract suspicion. We were not allowed to leave each other’s side for a second‚ to the extent that we had to accompany each other for toilet breaks and wait outside the cubicle. This had made it impossible‚ as was the intention‚ to raise a call for help.
It was an exhausting passage from Pakistan to London‚ but the guys had buzzed with anticipation throughout‚ fuelled by adrenaline and untapped aggression.
It was approaching midday as we arrived at Unit 71. About three hundred square feet of floor space‚ with eight no-nonsense single beds on the near side and one on the far side‚ with partitions around it‚ for Amirah. A large steel safe with a digital numerical security pad loomed menacingly by the far wall. Its shape and design was that of a wardrobe. Two wide drawers at the bottom and two tall doors at the top.
Kamran walked confidently to it. From his pocket he slipped out an envelope and calmly punched in four digits. The safe clicked and he took a step back.
‘What is it?’ Irfan asked. ‘What’s inside it?’
‘I don’t know yet‚ I haven’t looked‚ have I?’ Kamran replied.
‘Well‚ what are you waiting for?’ Irfan joined him‚ kneeled down and opened one of the drawers. He pulled out a brown paper package‚ tied with string. ‘Jay. This has your name on it.’
I stood rooted.
‘Jay‚’ Irfan hissed. ‘It’s yours‚ take it. There’s one here for all of us.’
We all stepped forward as Irfan handed out the packages.
‘It’s clothes.’ Akhtar said‚ as he ripped open the package. ‘Oh‚ that is sick. This is designer gear‚ Bruv. I got a Tommy H. shirt and Levi’s. And a long coat…’ He looked at the label. ‘Ben Sherman.’ He laughed. ‘Trainers‚ socks‚ toothbrush‚ digital watch. They even got CK chaddis!’
I carefully opened my package. It was similar. In mine I had a full black adidas tracksuit‚ with Nike kicks‚ and a chunky black puffer jacket.
‘They want us to blend in‚’ I said to myself.
‘Of course they do‚’ Kevin said‚ patting me on the shoulder. ‘We can’t exactly walk around looking like…’ He searched for the right word.
‘Terrorists‚’ I said‚ quietly.
Kevin scoped the room‚ looking to see if anybody heard. ‘Brother‚ don’t ever make that mistake again.’
‘I was only—’
‘Just don’t‚’ he said. The conversation was over.
‘Hey.’ Irfan opened the tall safe doors. ‘Look at this.’
We all gathered around and there was a collective sharp intake of breath as we set eyes on nine neatly lined-up sawn-off AK47s and nine shiny Glock 19s.
‘Take your guns‚’ Irfan said. ‘They are your responsibility. Put them by your beds‚ get used to having them close to you.’ Irfan carefully handed out the weapons. ‘They look unused but check and clean them anyway.’
‘What’s in the bottom drawer?’ Yasir asked. Irfan opened the last remaining section and there sat a small black plastic box. We all hovered over his shoulder as he carefully flipped open the lid. After a while of staring at it‚ and nobody wanting to spell out exactly what it was we were looking at‚ Salman said‚ ‘It’s there for those who need it.’
‘Why would we need cocaine?’ Akhtar said.
‘Because it speeds up the way your mind and body works‚’ I said‚ reaching into my past. I pulled one of the small zip lock plastic bags out of the box and prised it open. My little finger dipped in and I sampled the gear‚ just a to
uch but enough for it to take immediate effect on my heart rate.
It was strong. It was required. It was forbidden in Islam.
‘At your own discretion‚’ Irfan said‚ quietly‚ handing out the bags to the group.
Nobody‚ not any one of those high and mighty‚ fundamentalist religious‚ Allah-fearing‚ zealotry-preaching Muslims said anything.
Hypocrites. Dipping in and out of the laws of Islam to suit their agenda.
73
The knock on the door was jaunty. Jauntier than Parker was used to. Jaunty enough to irritate him‚ and just enough jaunty to warrant him putting down his shop-bought tuna pasta‚ getting up off his arm chair and peeking through the blinds. It was the last person he would have expected to see at his home on Christmas Day. Curious‚ Parker put on his cargo pants and answered the door. He would deal with it as quickly and efficiently as possible‚ and send him along on his merry way.
He opened the door and there was a bottle of something in his face. Parker inclined his head slightly to see Teddy Lawrence beaming from behind it‚ with teeth that Parker had often fantasised about knocking into the back of his throat.
‘I know you don’t drink‚ old chap. So I found this non-alcoholic wine from a quaint little off license down this delightful little road that I was surprised to find that you lived on‚’ Lawrence said. He might as well have sung it. He placed the bottle in Parker’s hand‚ declaring ‘Merry Christmas!’ and let himself in.
Parker stood at the door‚ looking at the spot where Lawrence had just been standing‚ and wondered how he had slipped past. He shut the door and attempted to prepare himself for whatever this was. He walked into his living room to see Lawrence walking round the room whistling appreciatively at his surroundings.
East of Hounslow Page 27
