East of Hounslow

by Khurrum Rahman

  *

  11.30 a.m.

  The last two left standing. Me and my childhood friend‚ Parvez Ahmed. The irritant‚ the agitator‚ now standing with me‚ an AK47 strapped to his shoulder‚ a Glock 19 in his pocket and a rucksack full of ammunition. I looked at him for what he was‚ what he had become; he was no longer that guy that I knew and loved. Something‚ someone had screwed with his head and I was looking at a soldier‚ a jihadi. Ready to go to war without regard for his own safety and without regard to the lives of others. He truly believed in the cause and it was that belief that gave him that air of invincibility.

  ‘Jay‚’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yeah‚’ I said‚ with as much confidence as I could muster‚ and I opened the door.

  A midnight blue Ford Mondeo was sitting outside.

  ‘I’ll take the wheel‚’ I said‚ walking towards the driver’s side. I placed my rucksack in the back seat. Parvez buckled up‚ cradling his rucksack in his lap. I adjusted the seat to give me some leg room‚ and fixed the rear-view mirror. I looked towards Parvez who was staring blankly in front of him. My mouth opened to say something but there was nothing left to say. So I started the car‚ put it into first and we were on our way to Oxford Street.

  79

  11.47 a.m.

  Akhtar had never travelled by tube. The smell‚ the juddering movements and constant battle for a seat maddened him. Every time the Tube stopped he would hustle and bustle through the crowd of those trying to step off‚ only to find that somebody quicker‚ smarter than him had beaten him to a seat. He was frustrated and tired‚ really very tired. It seemed like he had been constantly on the go. The demanding schedule of the training camp‚ the rigorous assault course‚ the long walks in the soaring heat‚ and the long journey from Pakistan to London. What was in front of him didn’t seem too relaxing either. On his feet‚ shooting‚ running‚ escaping. He just wanted to rest‚ sit down‚ just even for a minute.

  He had lost Kamran somewhere in the carriage‚ but that had always been the plan. Kamran had said it wasn’t clever for two Pakis to be sitting together‚ especially with their long coats and rucksacks; it was bound to raise a few eyebrows regardless of how much they tried to fit in. You can’t disguise brown skin.

  Akhtar started to feel queasy. The coat was making him sweat‚ the temperature inside the Tube was the extreme opposite of the December weather. He held on tightly with his left hand to the overhead rail. His shoulder started to hurt and he wanted to change arms. However‚ his rifle was sure to slip if he held onto the rail with his other hand. He looked around the carriage through the bodies for Kamran‚ and spotted him in the far corner. He had only managed to get himself a seat!

  The train slowed and the doors opened. He looked out of the window and saw a sign for Marble Arch. A fair few stepped off the train and two seats became available. The trouble was that the seats were next to Kamran and he wasn’t supposed to be seen with him. But his body moved without engaging his brain. As he scrambled through the aisle towards his goal‚ he could see Kamran give him the eye before looking down to the ground in ignorance. The empty seat furthest from him was taken quickly by a sprightly pregnant woman‚ leaving only the seat directly next to Kamran available. Akhtar hesitated for the briefest of moments‚ but then decided to sit his backside down. He figured if Kamran didn’t like it‚ then he could go and stand somewhere.

  Akhtar rested his rucksack between his legs and discreetly positioned his AK47 so it sat across his chest for comfort. He gave a sigh of relief and stared up at the complicated web-like map of the London Underground. He frowned when he realised that they had to be off in two more stops. He had hoped for a longer stint in the seat. He sat back‚ exhaled deeply and closed his eyes‚ as he thought about how many Kafirs were going to fall. It concerned him that he’d had doubts at the training camp. Not anymore. He still didn’t quite understand the reason for carrying out such a vicious attack‚ even though he had been told over and over by Kamran and Salman. Akthar would walk away with renewed vigour after speaking with them‚ but when he found himself alone‚ he would find holes in the logic. Maybe he wasn’t clever enough to understand politics or jihadism or whatever this was‚ but he owed it to his Brothers to stand by them and have their backs. He opened his eyes and a little oriental girl was smiling mischievously at him. He put his thumb to his nose and wiggled his fingers and her smile turned to laughter. Her parents looked to see what she was laughing at and in turn smiled pleasantly at him. Cute family‚ Akhtar thought. He glanced over his shoulder at the pregnant woman who was reading a baby-names book. He wondered what she would choose.

  He looked around the carriage some more. A young couple were holding hands and brazenly stealing kisses‚ typical Kafir behaviour‚ but Akhtar found it kind of sweet. A group of tourists stood at the far corner‚ with expensive-looking cameras around their necks. A huge Russian-looking‚ heavily tattooed man‚ engrossed in his phone.

  His eyes started to move quicker now‚ darting from face to face. Making snapshot associations. A young boy with his granddad. An Indian family of four. A group of friends discussing what shops they were going to visit.

  It hit Akhtar like a long overdue slap in the face. These people‚ they were all going where he was going; these very people that he had made relationships with‚ albeit just the brief smile or nod of fellow passengers‚ were the very same people that he had to put down.

  What had they done to him‚ again?

  The Tube slowed down and the doors opened at Bond Street. He silently willed for them all to step off the Tube. He could feel sweat dripping down his forehead‚ his eyes travelled back to the Oriental girl and she was no longer smiling at him. She looked concerned by his demeanour.

  The doors closed. Next stop Oxford Circus.

  ‘Bruv‚’ Akhtar whispered. ‘Bruv.’ But Kamran’s eyes remained focused on his shoe laces. So Akhtar nudged him softly with his elbow.

  ‘What?’ Kamran hissed‚ then nervously looked around the carriage.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘What?’ Kamran said‚ in disbelief. ‘No!’ ‘I really‚ really want to go home‚ Bruv.’

  ‘Get yourself together‚ Akhtar?’ But it was too late‚ Akhtar was already standing up. ‘Sit down. Will you please sit down?’

  ‘I’m really sorry‚ Bruv.’ Akhtar stood up. ‘I know you looked out for me and that. But I don’t want to do this anymore.’

  Then to Kamran’s horror‚ Akhtar slipped his hand into his coat pocket‚ removed and placed the Glock 19 on the seat in front of him. He then took off his coat and slipped the AK47 off his shoulder and placed that on the seat too. Kamran was up like a shot walking backwards through the carriage. His fingers working quickly over the buttons of his coat.

  He knew for certain that his jihad was going to begin here and now.

  As the pregnant lady turned the page of her baby names book‚ her eyes landed on the weapons laid out on the seat next to her. She screamed. Then everybody else screamed.

  Kamran’s coat was fully open and his AK47 was in shooting position.

  He shouted ‘Allah hu Akbar!’ and pressed the trigger.

  The father of the cute little Oriental girl went down‚ with a shot to his back‚ trying to protect his daughter. The pregnant woman ran screaming towards the opposite end of the carriage‚ another deafening shot as Akhtar watched as her right ear flew off‚ the impact spinning her around. Everyone was on their feet‚ trampling over each other‚ trying to get away.

  After the first two shots there was a pause. Akhtar knew that Kamran was hitting the selector‚ switching it from semi-automatic to automatic firing. There would be no escaping the sharp relentless burst that would spray death every which way.

  Akhtar stepped forward towards Kamran but there was no chance that he could beat the quick flick of a switch. Then two huge tattooed arms tightly bear hugged Kamran from behind‚ the Russian passenger squeezing the life ou
t of him.

  ‘Kamran‚’ Akhtar shouted‚ but there was no way his voice would be heard over the screams. ‘It’s over‚ Bruv. Can we go home‚ please?’ Their eyes were locked and Akhtar was aware of the flash of disappointment in Kamran’s eyes.

  The Tube started to slow down on approach to Oxford Circus. Passengers frantically slammed the doors with the palms of their hands. Kamran‚ one hand just about mobile against the tight grip‚ reached into the side pocket of his coat and managed to grab his Glock.

  ‘Brother. I beg you‚’ Akhtar shouted.

  Kamran’s hand gripped the handle and pointed his Glock towards the slowly opening door and the masses of people leaning against it. Akhtar went down on one knee‚ picked up his own Glock from the seat‚ smoothly flicked it off safety and shot his friend in the face.

  Kamran’s body slackened in the Russian’s arm and he slipped to the floor.

  The doors fully opened and the passengers fell forward‚ making a mountain of bodies on the platform.

  The screams started to die down‚ replaced with the sounds of heavy boots entering the carriage‚ shouting an angry and repetitive message.

  Put down the weapon‚ put down the weapon‚ put down the weapon.

  Akhtar placed the Glock back on the seat and felt a boot in his back pushing him down‚ his face making hard contact with the floor so that he tasted blood. He was handcuffed and they went through his pockets‚ finding only the small bag of cocaine. They spun him around and he looked up to see eight‚ nine‚ ten‚ armed transport police officers with guns trained at him.

  He chewed on something in his mouth and spat out a bloody broken tooth.

  Then he said the two words that Jay had told him to remember.

  ‘Kingsley Parker.’

  80

  11.52 a.m.

  The cabbie had spent the best part of the journey eyeing up Amirah from the rear view mirror. Amirah wished that she could have shot him in the back of the head‚ or at least thrown a few choice expletives his way.

  ‘This is Soho Square‚’ the cabbie announced. ‘Anywhere in particular?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You want to see a show? I can take you.’

  ‘No‚’ Salman replied‚ from the front seat. He looked at his watch‚ they had over an hour before history was made. ‘Pull up next to that Lebanese restaurant‚ on your left.’

  ‘As you wish.’ The cabbie pulled up and Kamran paid the fare with a crisp fifty and the three bundled out of the cab.

  ‘Let me shoot him‚’ Amirah said‚ half jokingly‚ as she discreetly adjusted her rifle and tightened the belt on her mac.

  ‘It’s good to see you back again‚ Sister‚’ Kevin said‚ as the minicab pulled away. ‘For a minute‚ I thought you were going to fall apart on me back at the unit.’

  ‘I just freaked out a little. I’m okay now. I promise.’

  ‘Let’s eat‚’ Salman said‚ leading the way into the small Lebanese Restaurant.

  They waited to be seated but the only two waiters were otherwise occupied. Not with customers; they were gathered around a small television. They decided to seat themselves‚ choosing a Formica table for four next to a window‚ giving them a clear view of the passers-by.

  ‘Order something that can be made quickly‚ nothing too heavy‚’ Salman said. ‘Maybe a salad for you‚ Amirah?’

  ‘Why don’t you order your own food‚ eh?’ she said‚ picking up the menu.

  ‘I’m getting a lamb roll‚’ Kevin decided‚ as he put down the menu and looked outside. There was a hard-faced woman‚ mid-thirties‚ sitting on a bench just outside Soho Square. She was well dressed‚ in a sharp trouser suit‚ clearly not a Boxing Day bargain hunter. But her disposition did not match her attire. Her feet were flat on the floor‚ pointing inwards‚ one hand was gripping a clump of hair tightly as she cried hysterically on her phone.

  Salman tried to get the waiters’ attention‚ but they hadn’t even realised that they had customers‚ so engrossed were they in whatever programme they were watching. He tutted his annoyance loudly and went back to the menu.

  Kevin shifted his eyes from the woman to the green of Soho Square. In the centre of it sat the famous Tudor House. There were some shoppers‚ if their bags were anything to go by‚ animatedly talking to each other. One was slumped down‚ head in her hands‚ and judging by her rhythmic shoulder movements she seemed to be crying too. Everyone‚ in fact‚ on the little green square‚ seemed to be acting strangely. Anxious‚ scared faces. Some on their phones‚ walking around in small circles gesticulating‚ frustration apparent.

  Kevin blinked and moved his eyes back to his companions. They were both still concentrating on the menu. He looked towards the two waiters‚ and the chef who had now joined them. They had their arms around one another‚ still glued to the box which was obscured from Kevin’s vision.

  He expected the worst‚ even before he had got to his feet and walked across the restaurant. He approached the waiters and stood behind them‚ watching the television over their shoulders.

  He watched for a minute and then calmly walked back to the table and took his seat.

  ‘I’ve decided‚’ Amirah announced. ‘I’m going for the chicken sandwich.’

  ‘Did you manage to get the waiters’ attention?’ Salman asked.

  ‘Kevin‚ your face has turned white‚’ Amirah said. ‘Even more than usual.’

  ‘I want you both to listen to me very carefully. No sudden movements and no reactions‚’ Kevin said‚ slowly. ‘Nod if you understand.’

  Salman and Amirah glanced at each other‚ turned their attention back to Kevin and nodded.

  ‘Something really bad has happened.’

  81

  12.06 p.m.

  Parker was feeling uncharacteristically upbeat. He finally got out of his bed‚ feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He never sought glory‚ but he knew it was close and it gave him a sense of satisfaction that had long been missing.

  He opened his wardrobe and took out grey tracksuit bottoms and a grey sweatshirt. He put them on‚ along with a pair of black running shoes that he had bought with good intentions‚ but had never quite found the motivation to put them through their paces. Today‚ though‚ he was going to run. It was Boxing Day‚ and he figured that half of London was sleeping off a hangover‚ while the other half were knee deep in sales‚ shoving and pushing for a marked-down microwave. He looked out of his bedroom window and his quiet neighbourhood seemed like the perfect place for a run. He stretched his neck far to his right‚ enjoying the crack.

  His mobile phone started to ring.

  He continued to look outside at the pleasant view that he had never really noticed‚ as he stretched his neck far to his left.

  His landline started to ring‚ too.

  Parker turned slowly away from the window‚ with a creeping feeling that his run would end before it even began. He walked to the landline; that feeling of lightness had been all too brief; his footsteps felt heavier and that weight slowly returned around his shoulders. He picked up the landline‚ ignoring the incessant tinny ring from his mobile phone.

  ‘Parker‚’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got through‚’ a voice said‚ but not to him. To him it said. ‘Answer your mobile phone‚ right now. Answer your mobile!’

  Parker didn’t bother to ask who it was‚ but kept the phone to his ear. He reached across to his ringing mobile‚ but before he could answer he heard the sound of someone relentlessly pounding on his front door.

  He put his mobile to his free ear.

  ‘Hello‚’ he said‚ tentatively.

  ‘Please hold for Major General Sinclair‚’ a voice said as the person on the landline cut him off‚ leaving him with a dial tone. He placed it back in its cradle and moved the mobile to his favoured ear.

  ‘Parker‚’ Sinclair suddenly boomed

  ‘Major.’

  ‘Two shooters armed with sawn-off AK47 and Glock 19s.’ Sin
clair went straight into it. ‘One opened fire on a tube on the Central Line‚ between Bond Street and Oxford Circus. One fatality‚ many casualties. The shooter was then inexplicably shot and killed by his partner‚ who we have detained. Both parties presumed Muslim.’ The pounding at the front door continued as Parker tried to digest the information. He walked downstairs with Sinclair in his ear. ‘Get yourself down to Oxford Circus station. A room has been secured in the premises for you to question the suspect.’

  ‘Is there nobody on site that can question him? It will take me some time‚’ Parker replied‚ opening the front door. A man in black motorbike leathers handed him a helmet.

  ‘Negative‚ Parker. He is not talking to anybody‚ not a soul. He won’t even tell us his name.’

  ‘Why do you think that he’s going to tell me?’

  ‘Because‚ he specifically asked for you by name!’

  Parker took a moment to let that settle in and Sinclair afforded him that moment.

  ‘Our intel was wrong.’

  ‘Yes‚ Parker‚’ Sinclair replied. ‘We think it was.’

  *

  With the help of the motorcyclist‚ Parker switched on the Bluetooth on his phone and connected it to the headset within the crash helmet. A call came through instantly.

  ‘Parker? Lawrence.’

  ‘Lawrence.’ A brief hesitation as his mind cast back to the previous day’s conversation. ‘What’s your position?’

  ‘Oxford Circus tube station. I’ve met with the suspect. He’s not talking‚ he wants you.’

  ‘I’m en route. ETA fifteen.’