Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

  Sympathy did not come easy. My hands slipped into the bucket pockets of my jacket and my fingers brushed the grip of the Glock. Above me rain clattered onto the roof.

  Omar took position behind Robinson and placed his hands on his shoulders. ‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘it took longer than I expected. This fat fuck was a resilient one, let me tell you. But young Tommy had a bag full of toys that soon had him squealing and revealing.’

  My brain was on the move and shooting, weighing up the one option I didn’t want to reach for. Omar was grinning at me, Tommy was knocking about somewhere in the house and after seeing his handiwork on Robinson, I wasn’t confident about facing him. I wrapped my fingers tightly around the Glock feeling the grip leaving an imprint on my palm.

  ‘He told us everything, Jay!’ Omar exclaimed. ‘Everything.’

  He was fucking swimming in anticipation. His face lit up, the words running from his lips as though he had dreamt endlessly about this moment.

  ‘When my father told me who you were, Jay, I had to find you. I had to share this moment with you.’

  I couldn’t get a word out, a fucking question. The power of speech, of thought, sailed and I could do nothing but blink blankly at him.

  ‘A message has reached Al-Muhaymin. Everything is in place. It’s happening, Jay.’

  I didn’t want to know anymore. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I had a Christmas tree at home waiting to be decorated. I had cigarettes waiting to be smoked. A bed to be slept in.

  ‘We’re going to set him free.’

  My heart stopped. And then it started with a thump. Slamming against my ribcage. Threatening to rip a hole through my chest. I silently begged for him not to say it.

  Please, not another fucking word.

  But he did. He fucking said it.

  ‘Abdullah Bin Jabbar, our great leader. He’s alive, Jay… Your father is alive.’

  Part 2

  You’re not supposed to be so blind with patriotism that you can’t face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.

  – Malcolm X

  Chapter 32

  Jay

  Eight months ago, I reacted to Abdul Bin Jabbar’s death in a way I didn’t think I would. With emotion that I didn’t think I could feel. I mean, who the fuck was he to me? He was my father in name and name alone. But some basic instinct within me took control and I let go of the fact that he had walked out of my life before I was born. I let go of the fucking fact that he was responsible for the loss of so many innocent lives. All I could see was that my dad had been taken away from me.

  I remember knocking back shot after shot after fucking shot, slouched in my armchair, remote control in one hand flitting between every news channel, phone in my other hand furiously scrolling through Twitter. The demise of The Teacher was celebrated under the guise of journalism. On social media #VictoryfortheWest was going viral. One less monster in the world.

  They ought to take a look a little fucking closer to home!

  I felt anger, resentment, and really fucking drunk. I did not take it well. I needed answers.

  Worse than worse for wear, and not knowing how I’d got there, I found myself standing outside the arched entrance of Thames House, MI5 headquarters. I beat down on their doors until my fists hurt. ‘Let me in! I want some fucking answers!’ And those fuckers, those leeches that took and took and sucked the life out of me, were now ignoring me. With alcohol dictating my actions I demanded to speak to those who had made me. ‘I wanna speak to Teddy Lawrence. I wanna speak with John fucking Robinson.’ When that had fallen on deaf ears, I screamed, ‘I used to work here!’ I screamed, ‘I risked my fucking life for you!’ I screamed until I was spluttering. I screamed until two security guards tried to grab me by the arms and I made myself into a little ball on the floor, like a toddler throwing a tantrum in the toys aisle in Asda. It wasn’t my finest moment.

  I was bundled into an SUV, blacked-out windows. The back of two heads in the front. Me at the rear, head in hand and a sore fucking throat. Somebody slapped a bottle of water in my hand which I sipped on greedily. An hour later, the car door opened and I stepped out.

  Remembering my manners, I mumbled my thanks through the closed driver’s side window and watched them pull away without a word.

  I’d stepped into my house, knowing that was it. That was the extent of my mourning. I would not shed another fucking tear for him. He deserved it all. I spent the next eight months trying to forget him and piece my life back together.

  But once again the world had lied to me. My father was alive.

  ‘Face him, Jay. Face the man responsible for your hurt.’

  Omar bunched whatever little hair Robinson had in his fist and wrenched his head up.

  I felt light, as though my feet were hovering above the ground. I couldn’t pick out a fucking thought. Each time I reached for one I was faced with just black. My brain wouldn’t process, it simply just crashed and was replaced by a continuous loud ringing in my ears. Robinson let out a low groan, his eyelids flickered before opening into slits, and through the slits he clocked me. ‘Qasim,’ he said, weakly. Then his eyes flew wide open in fury and his body thrashed from side to side, the legs on the chair rocking in rhythm.

  ‘I knew it!’ Robinson screamed into my face, his bloody spittle reaching impressive heights. ‘Traitor!’

  Inhale.

  Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. Fucking exhale!

  The ringing in my ears stopped abruptly. My brain fired up and flipped to a new page that only I could write. My left hand emerged out of my bucket pocket with the Glock in my grip and I pointed it square in John fucking Robinson’s fucking face.

  He stopped thrashing. All his energy zapped out of him. He looked up at me, his teeth chattering noisily.

  ‘Mashallah,’ Omar bellowed from above him. ‘My Brother came prepared.’

  I smoothly flicked the safety off and retracted the slide, muscle memory from a time that would never leave me. I transferred the gun to my favoured right hand.

  ‘Is it true?’ a voice which didn’t sound like mine asked.

  Unable to hold my gaze, Robinson lowered his eyes, and then squeezed them shut. I pressed the barrel of the gun to his forehead. My finger resting firmly on the trigger.

  ‘Look at me.’

  His eyes opened wet. He looked at me. A measly ‘please’ escaped from his lips.

  ‘Answer me. Is it true?’

  Robinson gently nodded his head and then let it drop to his chest.

  Omar checked his watch. ‘My work is done here, Brother. I have to leave for Coventry. Inshallah, our paths will cross again, but find peace in knowing that your father will be liberated. A day is coming where you will once again stand by his side.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I muttered quietly to myself, practising the words, finding my voice as I desperately tried to compartmentalise all the shit that was tangled in my head.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ I screamed, swinging the gun away from Robinson and pointing it at Omar’s face! I held it firm, I didn’t allow my hand to shake.

  His eyes stopped dancing and popped. His mouth made a small pout. His phone rang muted from his pocket.

  ‘Is that your burner?’ I asked.

  ‘Jay.’ He swallowed. ‘Why’re you pointing that thing at me?’

  ‘Is that your fucking burner?’

  He nodded, dazzled at the turn.

  ‘Take it out of your pocket.’

  Omar slipped it carefully out of his jacket and glanced at the screen.

  ‘Tommy?’ I asked.

  Another nod.

  ‘Answer it. Put it on speaker. Tell him all good.’

  Omar shook his head in genuine disappointment as he accepted the call. He placed it on loud speaker. Tommy spoke first.

  ‘We’ve got a problem!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Omar said, meeting my eyes. I took a step and moved the gun closer to his face. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve seen a black
Q7 drive down the road, turn and then double back.’

  Robinson lifted his head weakly and mumbled, ‘It’s over.’ And then proceeded to burst into tears.

  ‘Pack up.’ Omar spoke into the phone, his eyes fixed on me. ‘We have to go.’

  He killed the call and placed the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so disappointed in my whole life, Jay.’

  ‘You’ll get over it. Untie him.’

  ‘Your father—’

  ‘Say that word fucking word again!’ I hissed, my finger tightening across the trigger. Any more pressure and I’d know what it felt like to kill a man. Omar knew better than to hold my gaze. His knees clicked as he crouched low and started to work on the rope tied around Robinson.

  I relaxed my finger on the trigger and allowed myself to breathe a little, calm a little, get some time to myself and think a little. I had to hold on and stay focused. Help was close. There was no way I could do this on my own. The threat of the gun would only get me so far. I don’t think I had it in me to pull the trigger, come what may.

  ‘He needs to keep still,’ Omar said, as Robinson’s semi-naked body racked and shook with loud sobs. His relief was so fucking great that he was verging on hysteria. Loud, unnatural sounds were coming from him. I thought MI5 were supposed to be trained for this shit.

  ‘Hold still,’ I said. ‘Take a breath and hold tight. Your boys are close.’

  Robinson nodded and swallowed a whimper. With effort he looked up at me, his face a mixture of tears and snot and blood. Even though I was saving his sorry ass, I really couldn’t stand to look at his face. I had a lot of questions and this motherfucker had a lot to answer for.

  ‘Hurry up,’ I hissed as Omar went to work untying him

  Robinson’s eyes widened and his mouth opened and just as my name escaped from his lips, I felt the most amazing pain in the back of my head. Stunned, I dropped heavily to one knee and with my head heavy as fuck, I turned over my shoulder to see Tommy towering over me, gripping a power drill by its nose. I spun on my knee and swung the gun towards him, but the fucking power drill was again descending on me in a blur. It struck across my forehead and sent me sprawling onto my back. The gun slipped out of my hand and clattered to the ground.

  I forced my eyes open and saw three Tommys pointing three guns at me. I blinked weakly and they merged into one.

  ‘Stupid!’ Omar screamed from somewhere, and then, helpfully, made his presence known by delivering a kick to my side. He bent down with his face over me like a pre-op surgeon inspecting a patient. He softly said, ‘When did you turn, Jay?’

  Turn, turn, when did I turn? I don’t think I ever did. It’s complicated. I didn’t say any of that, I didn’t even have the energy for a shrug and he definitely didn’t have the time, what with MI5 prancing around outside. I watched him rise and stand next to his gun-toting-Muslim-convert-comrade.

  Tommy tilted his head from behind the gun as if he wanted me to have a clear picture of his face before putting a hole through mine. He sneered, a barely controlled urge in his eyes as though he wanted to pull the trigger and just keep pulling.

  ‘No.’ Omar pulled rank. ‘We have to get out of here, now!’

  Disappointment painted Tommy’s face. ‘I’m holding onto the piece,’ he said, tucking it into his jeans.

  Their footsteps moved away and they dropped down the hatch, leaving me at Robinson’s feet. He was looking down at me from what seemed like a great height. With glazed eyes and a glazed look on his face, he muttered weakly, ‘I held on for as long as I could but…’ He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as though he was re-running the torture he had to endure in his head. ‘They’ll get to him before we will.’

  I blinked at him twice in the hope that it communicated fuck off and took my eyes away and past him and followed the thick splintered wooden beams holding up the roof. On the other side, the rain had slowed. A gentle, steady, soothing patter, the way Mum used to pat me on my chest to sleep as a child. I closed my eyes knowing once I did they wouldn’t open for a while. My final thought before sleep found me was, fuck Robinson, fuck MI5 and fuck you.

  Nobody, and I swear nobody, is going to stop me from seeing my dad again.

  Chapter 33

  The Teacher

  Eight months ago as Ghurfat-al-Mudarris crumbled, Abdul Bin Jabbar, very much a hunted man, found solace in a safe house close to the Afghanistan border. News had reached him that a fatwa had been placed on his son’s head. Only Bin Jabbar had the power to lift it. To do so he had to come out of hiding and face his enemies.

  Latif, his closest friend and confidant, had strongly advised him against it. The risk was too great. Capture was inevitable, but capture wasn’t on his mind. Bin Jabbar would not succumb to the hands of the enemy. He would walk into certain death in the blink of an eye to save his son.

  What Abdul Bin Jabbar didn’t foresee was that his actions were to leave him hanging somewhere between Life and Death.

  Despite reports of his assassination that had travelled across the airwaves around the world, and despite the news that was celebrated by the West, Bin Jabbar’s followers did not dare stop, they did not dare rest. They would not dare believe the stories of his demise until they saw with their own eyes the dead body of their leader. It wouldn’t be the first time that the world was fooled into believing that a revered Muslim leader had been killed. It was an unrelenting belief amongst his true followers that Al-Mudarris would stand once again and lead his people in the war against terror.

  It wasn’t what Bin Jabbar wanted anymore. But he knew that they would come for him.

  Abdul Bin Jabbar watched the brass ceiling fan above his bed. He was hot, stiflingly so, but there was little chance of his captors turning the fan on. From his peripheral vision he could see, through the single-pane window, the white of the moon trying to get his attention. His dry mouth flopped open and a small breath managed to escape as his chest rose slowly and fell quickly. His pupils slowly glided to the far left. It took effort, and the strain made his eyes water, but Bin Jabbar had to know if the moon was full. He had to know if the stars filled the night sky.

  It hadn’t always been this way. At the beginning of his imprisonment, a man, stoic in expression, and a woman with a kind face, had watched him with care. To the world, the man was a farmer, and she a farmer’s wife.

  Each day, when the sun was at its strongest, the man would lift Bin Jabbar from his bed and bend and contort his body into a wooden chair placed in front of the window. With his bare feet pointed inwards and his limp arms resting on his thighs, Bin Jabbar would allow the sun to run over his burnt, seared body as he looked out of the small window and watched the baby lambs play on the green rolling hills just beyond the compound.

  The woman had said her name was Fatima and he believed her. When the temperature dropped she would place a blanket around his shoulders; when it rose, she would turn on the fan to cool him. The man’s name was Malik, and he would sometimes read aloud to Bin Jabbar, biographies mainly, other times sports headlines. But never current affairs.

  Bin Jabbar had an affection for the couple. They didn’t judge him, they were simply carrying out their duty. For a while, Malik and Fatima were the only two people in Bin Jabbar’s life, aside from the neurologist who visited once weekly to examine him, to report no change, and then leave swiftly in his grocery truck.

  Bin Jabbar counted the days and the nights through the window. After sixty days Fatima and Malik were transferred. A change of personnel. Two out, two in. One male, one female. A young Pakistani couple. Same as before, but not as human.

  Communication was minimal and what there was, was aggressive. Bin Jabbar would be left in bed for days at a time without thought for meals or replacing the over-filled catheter. On occasion they would wake him in the early hours of the morning, a ghetto blaster held over him, an explosion of loud heavy metal music in his face. They’d lift his kurta and expose his stomach and point
at the wounds caused by the bullets that had cut through him. They’d pose by him with wide, mocking smiles and take selfies. Keepsakes. To be shared with the small circle of those who knew that Abdul Bin Jabbar was still alive.

  Alive.

  The moon was full. The stars were indeed out. It was rare for the night to be so beautifully lit up. Bin Jabbar felt the strain in his eyes but he did not look away from the window. The pain was a welcome feeling when the rest of his broken body had long lost all sensation. Tightly, he blinked away the tears but they escaped in opposite directions and pooled by his ears.

  Under the starry night, Bin Jabbar could see the clear outline of the rolling hills. They loomed larger, closer. A shadowy figure scurried down the hill towards the compound, followed by another. And another. The baby lambs had long scattered and were replaced by wolves.

  The door to his room flung open and the light from the hall fell across his bed. Bin Jabbar kept his eyes on the window. The figures had disappeared out of sight. His pupils took the long journey to the far-right corner. He blinked slowly at the woman at his door. The light behind her cast her in silhouette as she stood with her arms stretched out above her head, her hands resting either side of the doorframe. She wore a T-shirt and nothing else.

  ‘The world’s most dangerous man,’ she said, her skin brown, her accent middle England. She entered the room exaggerating her walk, her arms swinging playfully by her side, and walked past the foot of the bed and out of sight. Bin Jabbar’s eyes took time to follow and catch up with her. She stood in front of the window, the glare of the moon seeping through the cotton of her T-shirt.