Homegrown Hero

by Khurrum Rahman

  ‘Mashallah. You are a strong one.’

  28

  Jay

  Can somebody please tell me if I’m fucking dead?

  I mean‚ I don’t actually feel dead‚ but some confirmation would be nice. Either show me a doctor or show me heaven or hell. In the event that I am dead‚ should I not be seeing a white light and experiencing a sensation of floating through a long tunnel? I read something like that once in one of those glossy women’s magazines whilst I was in the waiting room at the Dentist’s. Instead‚ everything was black and my body felt light. The fantastic pain that I was feeling in my neck seemed to have vanished all too quickly. Had my soul done a runner and left my body? Maybe‚ just maybe‚ those annoying Atheists were onto something; maybe this was death. Once you die‚ you don’t move onto a higher plane‚ you don’t get to meet your maker. A feeling of nothing‚ just left alone with your own thoughts for company for all eternity.

  Could one-point-six billion Muslims have been so wrong about the after-life?

  Come on eyes. Open. Fingers‚ flex. Toes‚ wiggle. Heart‚ beat.

  Fucking nothing.

  Coma! I’m in a coma. I hadn’t considered that option. Mum and Idris are probably sat with me right now. Holding my hand‚ telling me stories‚ hopefully somebody is regularly shaving my face. Coma or no coma‚ I’ve got to keep up appearances. I wondered how often they would visit me; every day‚ once a week‚ once a month‚ then on birthdays and then just phoning in to see if old Jay has stirred.

  I’ll wake up one day‚ soon. Please be soon. I don’t want to emerge from my coma and find that everything has passed me by. Mum’s married to Andrew‚ the war on Islam has come to a peaceful end – wishful thinking – technology has moved on and away from me.

  I really don’t want to be that guy who has the lamest mobile phone on the block.

  My body violently shuddered‚ breaking me out of my musings. It felt like somebody had taken a mallet to my chest. Motherfu–! Then immediately another. An electric jolt dancing through my body. My eyelids flew open and I saw two white pads hovering above me.

  Stop it. Stop fucking doing that!

  I’m awake.

  *

  The doctor stood above me‚ his tone intense and suitably dramatic. The medical terms‚ with more syllables than necessary‚ flying over my head. I got the gist of it though: my windpipe was cut‚ blood pooled in my lungs and as a result I had a pretty decent infection. But my carotid and other major blood vessels weren’t severed‚ otherwise it would have been adios‚ Jay. Doctor Jones‚ who had none of the charm of the Dr Jones‚ told me I was a very lucky young man. At that moment I didn’t feel lucky‚ or young. But I knew‚ in time‚ it would hit me like a long-time slap in the face: how close I came to death.

  The guy in the bed next to me snored through the night. The incessant beeping of machines. The regular trill of a phone. A nurse noisily carrying out her rounds every ninety minutes‚ pushing a creaky trolley‚ all adding to the soundtrack of my night‚ keeping me awake.

  But it was okay. I was alive.

  I made a mental note to buy a box of chocolates and flowers for each of the doctors‚ nurses and surgeons who had fixed me and stitched me. I should also get something for the paramedics who arrived at the scene. I added up approximately how much it was going to set me back and then decided that one big fat Thank You card‚ to all staff‚ would suffice. The one person that I really had a debt of gratitude to was the man who had pulled me out of my car.

  I didn’t get his name‚ but before near death had found me‚ I did see his face. A face that I was not about to forget. I closed my eyes and there he was.

  It wasn’t the first time I had set eyes on him. He was definitely a Hounslow boy‚ one I had seen on many occasions‚ especially when I was dealing. He drove around in one of those hybrid numbers. He used to pull up at my old stomping ground at the Homebase car park in Isleworth‚ always with the same guy. Shaz‚ I think his name was.

  Shaz would jump in my car or slip past the driver’s window for a quick exchange‚ whilst my saviour would stay put in his car. I remembered Shaz well enough‚ as he always bought substantial sizes – and I remembered him too. We’d acknowledge each other‚ through our cars with a slight nod‚ never with words. I would occasionally glance at him as Shaz weighed up and appraised the skunk. He didn’t look like your run-of-the-mill Hounslow bod. Something about him‚ the way he would viciously scratch his head as though he was fighting against some inner demon‚ his eyes reflective and unsure‚ not quite fitting the scenario. Yeah‚ his eyes. That same look he gave me‚ unsure‚ uncertain‚ as he’d pulled me out of my car.

  I let my head sink into the pillow‚ a warm feeling washed over me as the first stirrings of sleep found me. I said a silent prayer‚ a silent thanks‚ and closed my eyes.

  I saw Silas’ vengeful face smiling down at me. The blade in his hand. Then my fucking blood‚ everywhere‚ as he opened me up from ear to ear.

  My eyes shot open. Sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.

  I knew that when Silas found out I was still alive‚ he was going to try to kill me again.

  29

  Imy

  There was only one room to sleep in. The pull of a lever transformed the sofa into a bed and the living room into a bedroom. Out of respect‚ I offered Pathaan the bed. I took the floor‚ so tired was I that I could have slept comfortably on rocks.

  There was no talking‚ and catching up could wait. I showered hard‚ before I slept‚ removing all traces of blood‚ and when I returned he was already asleep on the sofa-bed.

  I woke up first and made him breakfast‚ the same as I had done every morning for six years. Masala tea and bread broken into small pieces soaking in a bowl of hot milk‚ with three sugars sprinkled over. I placed it on the kitchen table‚ next to his motorbike helmet and keys. As I waited for him to rise‚ I looked out of the kitchen window. Across the road sat a black two wheeled cruiser.

  ‘2011 MV Agusta.’

  Pathaan was leaning against the same door frame where‚ just a few hours previously‚ I was standing with a Glock in my hand. ‘It’s a bit showy for me. I much prefer my ’85 Kawasaki. But this is what was waiting for me when I arrived.’

  I remembered his Kawasaki‚ a real no-nonsense motorbike‚ red engine covered in red earth. It was a mode of transport for me on many occasions. As a passenger‚ sitting at the back‚ arms around his waist and then‚ as I got a little older‚ sitting precariously at the front‚ hunched over the handlebars‚ my fingers tight around the hot steel‚ helping him manoeuvre the bike through the long and twisty Karmashy Village Road.

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  ‘I still have it‚’ he said and sat down to his breakfast. Sip of tea first before launching into his bowl. No gratitude‚ I didn’t expect it‚ but it still felt cutting. It was what I’d gotten used to‚ living in a civilised country for the last twenty years. Pathaan looked at my bloodied clothes peeking out of the top of a full wash basket in the corner of the kitchen. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Yesterday morning‚ I drove to the pick-up point and collected the package‚’ I said. Pathaan put a spoonful of milk-drenched bread into his mouth‚ his jaw moved systematically breaking down the bread into near-nothing before swallowing. ‘I arrived back in Hounslow early evening‚ determined to carry out my jihad.’

  ‘You were impatient‚ Imran. A mistake could be costly.’

  ‘Twenty years‚ Pathaan Bhai. I waited. Every night I dreamt of the moment that I would receive the message. Maybe I was impatient‚ but I was ready.’

  Pathaan’s calculating eyes were on mine. After a moment he nodded towards the table. ‘Under my helmet.’

  I lifted his motorbike helmet. Under the helmet sat a small tin‚ rustier than I recalled‚ which instantly invoked long-forgotten memories. I pried it open and in silence did what I’d done for him countless times. My hands and fingers were now more used to wrapping a tight
joint‚ and it showed as I handed him a loosely-wrapped paan. Pathaan studied it with a smile playing on his lips. He folded the paan‚ opened his mouth wide‚ and placed it on his tongue. I watched him move it around his mouth before sinking his teeth into it.

  ‘You broke Brother Yousuf’s leg‚’ he said. ‘Is that any way to treat an old friend‚ Imran?’

  It took me a moment to recall what he was talking about‚ even though breaking someone’s leg with a car door wasn’t something to easily forget.

  ‘It was a misunderstanding. I called for an ambulance immediately. Is the Brother alright?’

  Pathaan didn’t answer‚ instead he pulled out of his top pocket a metal toothpick and proceeded to pick out bits of the leaf and tobacco from his teeth. So I asked him‚ ‘What do you mean by old friend?’

  ‘Yousuf was your neighbour‚ in Sharana‚ you both grew up together‚ and you both lost your parents together.’ He placed the toothpick back in his top pocket and ran his tongue over his teeth and then bared his clamped teeth at me for inspection. Apart from the red coating‚ I nodded that they were clean. I was aware what he was doing. Small familiar acts pushing me back into a place that I did not want to be in.

  ‘He has been watching you for a long time‚ Imran‚’ Pathaan continued. ‘Everything is reported back to me. You have exceeded all expectations. Living a life which wasn’t natural to you. I know‚ Brother‚ I know. The drugs and the alcohol and the carefree living. The best part…’ He slapped the edge of the table hard as his laugh echoed around the small kitchen. ‘You are with a Kafir‚ what is her name? Stephanie? Tell me‚ Imran. Did you impregnate her yet?’

  I was that child again‚ eager to please him. Frightened to anger him. I lowered my eyes and focused on a drop of spilt milk on the table between us.

  ‘Allah will forgive you for your sins.’

  ‘I did what I had to do‚ Brother‚’ I said. ‘This country is not safe for a Muslim unless you are playing by the rules of a Kafir.’

  Pathaan locked his eyes on mine as though he was stealing my soul. I noticed his jaw clench very briefly before his face relaxed and he smiled.

  ‘It looks like my stay here is over‚ Imran.’ Pathaan picked up his rolling tin and slipped it in his shirt pocket. He stood up and shrugged on his biker jacket. ‘This... country. It fills me with disgust. Every whisper‚ every look‚ every white face judging‚ waiting‚ wanting for me to react. I wanted to‚ believe me‚ Imran‚ I wanted to hurt each and every one of them. Ghurfat-al-Mudarris has done so much but there’s so much work left to do.’

  ‘I’m glad you came.’ I stood up and embraced him warmly. ‘I missed you.’ It was true. He was a man who’d brought me up and showed me a war so personal that I had no choice but to be a part of it. Easily justifying the hate and the thirst for revenge. I understood that. I did. I still do. Pathaan was only one man of thousands‚ trying to right what is‚ and remains to be‚ a huge injustice.

  Ghurfat-al-Mudarris is not a religious movement‚ it’s a political movement. They are not trying to sell propaganda with the belief that the apocalypse is coming. They are retaliating in kind to the thoughtless killing of innocents all over the world in Muslim countries. Theirs is not a war against non-Muslims‚ it’s a war against the governments around the world who continue to devastate our lands. Pathaan still carried the hate that I had long let go.

  I could no longer have him in my life. Our paths had taken us in different directions.

  ‘I can go home now?’ He said it as a question. I knew what my answer had to be.

  ‘It’s over‚’ I nodded‚ meeting his eyes and not knowing what I was seeing in them. ‘I saw my opportunity to enact the fatwa‚ and I took it. Javid Qasim is dead.’

  30

  Jay

  As is the Hounslow way‚ word spread quickly about the attempt on my life. During the first few days in hospital I had a couple of visits. At that stage‚ I couldn’t talk‚ it hurt to just open my mouth. I lived the life of a mute‚ gesticulating‚ nodding and gurning like a fool. My eyebrows had never been so active. One of the nurses tried to convince me that body language makes up something like sixty per cent of all communication. I didn’t think so.

  From the Heston Hall Community Centre‚ Ira‚ Zafar and Tahir came to visit me early into my stint. They even brought flowers! I wouldn’t say we were friends‚ but they had gotten to know me over the last few months and I’m not sure what part of me was giving out the impression that I was a flowers kind of guy.

  Their presence irritated me. They seemed uneasy trying to communicate with me‚ eyes flitting towards the heavy stitching across my throat and then away again. I could see them growing increasingly uncomfortable‚ until they decided to talk amongst themselves as if I was wallpaper.

  I tuned in and out as they discussed the weather and the latest episode of Game of Thrones‚ before inevitably moving onto Naaim.

  ‘He’s in a bad way‚’ Tahir said. ‘Police aren’t yet connecting her attack on the bus to her suicide.’

  ‘Cops will suss it out‚’ Zafar said‚ with maybe a little too much nonchalance for Ira’s taste.

  ‘Why you always gotta say stupid shit for?’

  ‘God‚ Ira‚ calm down‚ will you.’

  ‘Maybe you should both calm down‚’ Tahir attempted to smile it away.

  ‘Fuck that‚ Tahir. You keep out of this‚’ Ira spat. ‘I wanna hear what Zafar’s got to say.’

  Tahir’s cheeks turned a browny red. He looked away‚ not used to that tone from somebody half his age.

  When Zafar didn’t indulge her‚ she continued. ‘Cops are either too dumb or too fucking lazy to work it out. They only pull their finger out if the victim is rich‚ middle class and white‚ then it’s fucking front page news. So‚ don’t talk shit‚ Zafar. Even if they do find those murderous bastards‚ it’ll be their word against Naaim’s. It’s not like the whole thing was captured on CCTV.’

  ‘Surely they can make a match‚ Ira. Give ’em some credit. Naaim’s given a description and that video is plastered all over the internet.’

  Video? What video? I looked at them in turn. Ira and Zafar were locked into each other and Tahir was still looking away‚ waiting for his face to return to its normal colour. Excuse me‚ can someone notice me and tell me about this fucking video? I felt around my bed and failed to find the pen and pad that the nurse had left me for communicating with my visitors.

  ‘Description?’ Ira shook her head‚ tiredly. ‘What? Shaved heads and white. That could be anyone‚ Zafar. The video is useless.’

  Zafar finally turned to me as though I had the answer. I didn’t even know the question. I looked at him blankly‚ like I didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.

  ‘The attack was filmed and posted online‚’ Tahir said. ‘Edited to obscure the faces of the attackers.’

  I nodded and blinked heavily.

  ‘Just ’cos the cops can’t do anything‚’ Ira said‚ ‘doesn’t mean something can’t be done.’

  I let my eyes rest and thought about Layla. What had pushed her over the edge? What had made her take her own life? Was it the sickening attack? Or did she find out about the video online for the world to see‚ making her humiliation complete?

  A feeling of injustice to Muslims‚ that I had buried deep inside in exchange for keeping my head down in the pursuit of normality‚ bubbled to the surface. I got it‚ I fucking got it. Ira had a point. But how far would she go to make it?

  I heard a flirty giggle from one of the nurses and opened my eyes. I knew before I turned my head that Idris had arrived. As he approached my bed‚ I caught his eye and discreetly angled my head at the community crew. He understood immediately. A real friend. He would never buy me flowers.

  ‘I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave‚’ Idris said‚ flashing his copper’s badge at them. ‘I need to speak with Javid Qasim.’

  As you do in the company of the police‚ the
y hustled quickly. I shook hands weakly with Tahir‚ a fist bump with Zafar‚ and Ira swept my hair to one side and smiled her goodbye‚ before giving Idris cut-eyes.

  ‘Not a fan of the police‚ I take it‚’ Idris asked‚ taking a seat closest to the bed. ‘Friends?’

  I shook my head quickly and immediately felt like an idiot. As if decent‚ honest Muslims were not cool enough to hang with me.

  ‘I like this quiet you. You’re a lot less annoying‚’ he said. My voice may have deserted me‚ but my middle finger was fully functional.

  Idris didn’t come bearing gifts. No chocolates‚ magazines‚ not even fucking grapes‚ only cutting remarks. He picked up the clipboard from the foot of my bed and attempted to dissect my medical notes. It amused me‚ the way he acted nonchalant‚ as though his best friend hadn’t just nearly died. It was all a front. I vaguely recalled that the night before‚ Idris had been here. I was hopped up on drugs and barely conscious but I was aware what was happening around me.

  I’d been aware that‚ like a sap‚ Idris was by my bedside‚ holding my hand.

  I was aware that he kissed me on the forehead and told me he loved me.

  So‚ yeah‚ act as cool as you want‚ mate‚ I’ve got your number. As soon as I get my voice back I’ll be ripping the piss out of you. I’ll probably leave out the bit where I also‚ at that moment‚ felt an overwhelming love for him.

  Fuck that. He don’t need to know.

  ‘Just a heads up‚ Jay‚’ he said‚ placing the clipboard back. ‘Two of my colleagues from Hounslow nick are going to visit you at some point this afternoon. To take your statement.’

  I covered my eyes with the tips of my fingers and shrugged at him‚ before dropping my hands back to my side.

  ‘Shit‚ Jay‚ it’s like communicating with Lassie. What’s that supposed to mean?’

  I sighed‚ rolled my eyes‚ and tried again.