I dropped down on my armchair and poured myself another shot. From the hallway I could hear Jay shuffling to his feet, muttering a swear word under his breath. I slumped back and took a sip of neat vodka. I placed the glass against my forehead to help cool a fast-approaching headache.
I know, I damn well know that Jay isn’t responsible for my family’s death, but if I’d never set eyes on him, they would be here and he wouldn’t.
The front door opened. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath as I waited for the door to close behind him. And only when it had, did I exhale and feel my heartbeat slow. A moment later, when I opened my eyes, Jay was peering into the living room.
He pointed to his bright white hi-tops and said. ‘Shoes off… or…?’
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ I said, ready to dish out more punishment but not having the heart, will or energy to go through with it anymore.
‘I’ll just keep ’em on, if that’s cool?’ Jay tentatively stepped into the living room, holding his side from where I’d struck him. He stood around awkwardly for a moment as he regained his breath. His eyes wandered over to the coffee table, to the bottle of vodka and the tumbler and then back to me. ‘In the kitchen?’ he said.
I clenched my jaw as he disappeared, and I could hear him in the kitchen noisily going through the cabinets before popping his head around the doorframe.
‘Can’t find any. There’s a couple of glasses in the sink, but they need washing.’ He waited for me to reply, and when I stared back at him in open-mouthed disbelief, he said, ‘It’s cool. I’ll wash them.’ And with that he disappeared again. My fingernails dug into the arms of my chair, and my heartbeat started to race again, my head started to pound.
I heard the tap come on, then I heard him hiss, ‘Fuck! Hot!’ He clattered around for a while, longer than he would need to wash one glass. I got to my feet and peered around the door and into the kitchen. Jay had taken his coat off and placed it on the worktop, and he was bent over the dishwasher stacking days-old dirty dishes.
I backed away as he closed the dishwasher door. A moment later he returned, a clean tumbler in his hand which he placed on the coffee table. I held his gaze. He tried to return it, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes as he stood awkwardly in front of me.
‘Do you mind?’ Jay asked, nodding at the bottle. When I didn’t answer, he poured himself a small shot and sat on the edge of the family sofa which I still hadn’t sat on since.
He took a sip. It started small and then developed into a gulp, possibly for courage. He made a sickly face before wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. I reached for the neck of the bottle and Jay covered the top of his glass with the flat of his hand.
‘Can’t. Driving,’ he said before realising that I was pouring one for myself. ‘Oh, right, yeah, you go ahead.’
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
‘Just…’ He shrugged. ‘Wanted to see you. See how you are.’
‘Why?’
Jay took his time finding the right words and, unable to bring them to his lips, he said, ‘You know why?’
My hand shook as I poured another for myself. ‘You think that you owe me something. Is that it?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’
‘As if it all happened because of you?’ I said. It sounded harsh, and maybe I wanted it to.
Jay’s eyes wandered round our living room, stopping at the canvas of Jack dressed as a sheriff on a rocking horse. ‘Is that how you feel?’ he asked, carefully.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s how I feel.’
The words had left my mouth without regret and without meaning. I watched him, nodding his head in agreement, his eyes going back again to the canvas of Jack. He blinked away the tears.
My words were designed to cut him, and they did.
Chapter 16
Jay
Fuck, man! Tighten up. Don’t cry now. If anybody should be crying, it should be Imy, not me. I didn’t have the right. But, too late, the process had started, and I had to take a few undercover breaths to hold the tears from dropping down my face like a sap.
I turned away and quickly ran a hand over my eyes before he noticed. Not going to bullshit, his words hurt, but if that’s how he felt, then that’s how he fucking felt. I wasn’t there to change his mind just so I could get a better night’s sleep. Sleep and I didn’t get along anyway, dotted with shit that I didn’t want to see. What’s one more thing to carry through the night?
I could feel him measuring me. He seemed pleased with the effect his words had on me. I think he was expecting me to up and leave. Well, fuck that. I wasn’t done yet.
‘I chatted to Shaz, earlier,’ I said, measuring him right back.
He blinked at me with intent and challenged it with a ‘So?’
‘He’s worried about you?’
‘It’s not his place anymore. And it’s definitely not yours.’
Okay, still hostile. Understandable. But that was enough playing tag around the park. It was time to get to the point. ‘He said that you’ve got a shooter.’
Imy shook his head slowly, incredulous, snorting through his nose as though I had no right to ask him. I opened my mouth to say more, but he got to his feet and grabbed me by the arm and lifted me out of my seat. ‘It’s time for you to leave.’
‘What’re you going to do with it?’ I asked, and I noticed his face flinch. It set me on edge. ‘What the fuck have you done, Imy?’
He dug his fingers into my arm and I just knew it was going to leave a bruise. I pulled away. He took a step into my face and it took a lot for me not to back away. I held my ground and locked into his eyes, they were red raw and his jaw was set tightly. I expected another beating. So fucking be it.
The doorbell saved me.
Imy kept his glare fixed on me as it rang impatiently a second time. He stomped out of the room and I heard the front door open. I inclined my head and assumed the eavesdrop position, but I couldn’t quite figure out what was being said. It didn’t sound like he knew them. I figured it was the time of the year when the God-squad did their rounds, and I expected the conversation to be short. A minute or so later, Imy walked back into the living room. He picked up his house keys from the coffee table and dug them in his tracksuit pocket.
‘Let yourself out,’ he muttered, without explanation. I opened my mouth to speak but he walked away before I could respond.
I rushed over to the bay window and stared out through the nets. He was walking across his drive flanked by a blandly dressed man and equally bland woman, towards a car parked across his drive.
I paid special attention to the motor; a Skoda Octavia, dark in colour and only two years old. It was clean and well kept. I couldn’t see from my position but I’d bet my life that the dashboard was busy with communication instruments. No question, this was an unmarked cop car.
The man opened the rear door and Imy slipped into the back seat, and the door was slammed shut.
I did what I always did when I needed information: I placed a call to Idris. It did that weird international ring, reminding me that he was still in Qatar and not local. He wouldn’t be happy with me for asking this of him, again.
‘Jay-Jay,’ he said, chirpily, obviously having the time of his life. ‘Let me call you back, I’ll Facetime you. You gotta check out this view.’
‘No! Idris! Fuck!’ I exclaimed as he cut me off. I watched the undercover cop car pull away and out of sight before my phone rang. I swiped to answer and Idris’ big head popped up on my screen.
‘Hang on,’ he said, as he flipped the camera. Past his bare legs and hairy toes, I saw what he was seeing. White sand, the beautiful blue ocean and the sun out in force. ‘Huh? Huh? Aaaah!’ Imy cooed at the picture postcard!
‘Idris,’ I said over his appreciative murmuring, ‘fuck’s sake, turn the camera around. I have to chat to you.’
‘I can’t believe you walked away from all this,’ he said, appearing again. ‘What’s up?’ he lo
oked past me and into Imy’s living room. ‘Where are you?’
‘Will you shut up for a second and let me talk?’ I said. ‘I need your help.’
‘Are you alright?’ he said, some concern on his face, some urgency in his voice. ‘I’m in Qatar, Jay. I can’t get to you. What’s happened?’
‘No, I don’t need you here. I need you to make a phone call.’
‘Phone call? What d’you mean? To who?’
‘Hounslow nick,’ I said.
‘Work! You want me to call work?! I’m in Qatar, Jay!’
‘Yeah, I know, you don’t think I can’t fucking see that?’
Idris shook his head. ‘I swear you take the piss. Are you going tell me what’s going on?’
Shaz crossed my mind. The damage inflicted on him by the secrets Imy had kept from him.
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Idris sighed in frustration, or disappointment, or both. He looked away and took in his surroundings. The sunny disposition long gone from his face, replaced by a wistful look as though things were soon about to come to an end.
‘What do you want, Jay?’ he said, ever the friend. A better friend than I was.
‘Can you find out about…’ I hesitated.
‘About what?’ he pushed.
‘About Imy,’ I said. ‘Imran Siddiqui.’
‘Oh, Jay! The hell is wrong with you?’
‘He’s been hauled in by a couple of yours and I need to know why.’
Imy glanced quickly at the top corner of his phone, checking the time, figuring out the time difference. I could tell he was curious.
‘Bell me back when you hear something,’ I said, disconnecting the call just as he made his disappointed face.
I pocketed my phone and looked around. It felt as though my presence there was invading precious memories. I had to get out of Imy’s home, but the punch in the ribs that I’d taken was playing havoc on my bladder. I had to go before I went.
I climbed the stairs and stepped into the bathroom and took a really long, really guilty piss. I zipped up and washed my hands. But my eyes were fixed firmly on the edge of the sink.
From the little training that I’d once been given by MI5, and then the little training I’d once had at a Ghurfat-al-Mudarris training camp, I knew that balancing on the edge of the sink was an automatic Glock .40-calibre handgun.
I took two steps at a time down and jumped the last four, and left Imy’s house in a fucking flash. I jumped in my car and even though I was in a rush to get home quickly I drove like I’d never driven before: considerately. I couldn’t risk getting collared by the cops.
I pulled into my drive and opened the glove compartment and stared at the Glock that I’d taken from Imy’s house. What the fuck was I thinking? I took my eyes off it and looked up at my house. I hadn’t been back since I’d stepped off the plane and I swear it was calling to me. It looked bare compared to my neighbour’s sparkly number. First chance I got, I was going to drape a Christmas light or two around my yard and put up the plastic Christmas tree. Keep up with the Kumars and all that.
I reached for the Glock and shoved it down the back of my jeans.
I opened my front door and hauled my luggage in, trampling over the small mountain of mail in the process. I rushed straight up to my bedroom and my heart dropped. It took me a second to work out that I hadn’t been burgled, and my bedroom was just in a fucking state. My heart dropped a second time when I patted my waist and couldn’t feel the Glock. I fished it out from halfway down my jeans. Calm, calm the fuck down. Shaz, Imy, Idris were all jostling for space at the forefront of my mind. I took a deep breath, one fucking thing at a time. I dropped down and flattened myself to the bedroom floor and reached under my bed, pulling out my secret red Nike shoe box. I sat on my bed with the box on my lap and blew away the dust. I lifted the lid and inside was my old life.
My old drug dealing paraphernalia was all present and correct. The weed grinder that never quite worked. Two packets of king-size silver skins, perforated neatly for roaches. The zip-lock bags in various sizes that I’d bought to replace the cling film in an effort to polish up my image as a street dealer. A simple time.
I made some room and placed the Glock right at the bottom.
I think I knew why I’d nabbed the piece from Imy’s house, but I wasn’t sure if it was the right move. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. All I knew was that I had confronted Imy about the gun, and a minute later he was being hauled away by the cops.
My train of thought – and this train only travelled for a few seconds before breaking down – was that if his place got raided on the back of some suspicion, and the cops located the gun, it could see him doing time for possession. I wasn’t out to play Judge Rinder, but after what Imy had been through, I owed him something. The other reason I nabbed the Glock was that if I had it in my possession, then he was less likely to go on a killing spree. The only thing that was bothering me was, what had he already done?
And, was it justified?
When the time was right and when I’d figured out how, I had to get shot of the shooter.
I checked the time on my Batman clock. It was just approaching four, but that meant it was just past four and I needed to stick some fresh batteries up the Caped Crusader’s backside. Idris would call me as soon as he found out why Imy had been taken in. Until then, I didn’t think I had anything to do.
I thought I heard my armchair calling.
I made my way downstairs for a long-overdue reunion and noticed the scattered mail by the front door. I could have left it for later, but a small chore felt like a touch of normality. I bent down and picked up a stack of threatening bills and menacing bank statements. Amongst it all was a glossy black business card, the same one that had been handed to me earlier. I flipped it over. Scrawled on the back it read, Bell me!
I stood holding it. Through my living room door, I could see my armchair facing the television, so fucking inviting, and I wanted nothing more than to collapse on it. I could’ve. I should’ve. I’d done what I’d set out to do. I’d faced Imy. I could simply just stop.
But curiosity is a motherfucker.
Who the fuck was Omar and what the fuck did he want from me?
I dialled his number.
It rang a few times, and when Omar answered, I realised that he knew a whole lot more about me than my name and address. The first thing he said made me want to turn back time.
‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t Jihadi Jay.’
Chapter 17
Imy
As soon as I’d opened my front door it was obvious from the way they were dressed and the dour look on their faces that they were plain clothes police. They flashed their warrant cards at me as confirmation.
DCI Humphrey assisted me into the back seat of an unmarked police car with a vice-like grip on my arm, as though he’d already decided that I was guilty. He shut the door hard behind me, just as I’d pulled my leg in, and threw me a look before settling into the driver’s seat. I sat with my hands crossed at the wrists resting on my lap as if I was wearing invisible handcuffs.
DCI Taylor was younger, warmer. ‘Truly, we’re very sorry for your loss,’ she’d said, twisting to face me from the front seat. Like the rest of the country she’d heard the news and I think the sentiment was genuine, but I couldn’t be sure how she’d meant it. Judging by the colour that her cheeks had taken, she was possibly embarrassed that I was being hauled in so soon after my family had been killed.
DCI Humphrey didn’t seem to agree with his colleague’s sentiment. From my view in the back I could see from his hunched shoulders how tightly wound he was. He was much older and whiter than DCI Taylor. A well-worn look on his face that I read as a man set in his ways.
‘When did you come to this country?’ he asked me sharply, when I think he wanted to ask, Why did you come to my country? Maybe it frustrated him that I’d taken up with a white girl and would’ve had a hand in raising her white son.
>
Or maybe he simply blamed me for the terrorist attack that I was a victim of.
I wasn’t particularly surprised when they skipped the turning towards Hounslow Police Station and continued on the A4, eventually stopping at an industrial estate in Colnbrook.
I was led through the car park and into what looked like a low-level office block. Inside smelt of lemon disinfectant, and the only sound was the echo of our footsteps as we crossed the narrow corridor. They pushed open a door to a small square claustrophobic room with bare walls and a desk bare apart from a digital recording device.
They sat me at the desk, on the other side of it was an empty chair and I wondered who I’d be facing.
‘Can I get you a cup of water?’ DCI Taylor asked.
‘He’s fine!’ DCI Humphrey was quick to reply on my behalf.
They both left the room leaving me to my thoughts. I could’ve simply got up and walked away. I hadn’t been arrested and I knew my rights, but I was curious as to what they knew. The information that they would impart would only serve as knowledge. So I waited, sitting perfectly still.
It was almost two hours before the door opened.
DCI Taylor walked in first. She rounded the desk, and stood in the left corner, avoiding the one available chair. Her cheeks still coloured red and her eyes only met mine long enough for me to notice the uncertainty in them.
DCI Humphrey followed closely behind, and like DCI Taylor he didn’t sit in the available chair either, instead he stood behind the desk in the right-hand corner of the room and communicated with me through a scowl.
I didn’t turn to see the third person enter until she walked past me carrying a thin, A4 Manila envelope. She took the seat opposite me. Contrary to her colleague’s, her face didn’t show any obvious emotion.
DCI Taylor acknowledged her as ‘Ma’am’, whereas DCI Humphrey grunted his acknowledgement. She ignored them both and glanced at the recording device.
Ride or Die Page 8
