Ride or Die

by Khurrum Rahman

  ‘We’ve a long journey ahead of us,’ Imy muttered, before turning away and planting himself in the front seat without calling shotgun.

  I climbed into the back as Aslam secured the luggage. ‘You and Aslam seem close.’ When he didn’t fill in the obvious blanks, I pressed, ‘How’d you know each other?’

  ‘We grew up together,’ Imy said, quietly. I had to lean forward and pop my head between the front seats so I could hear him better. ‘He was my neighbour. We were in the same class together.’ I glanced at Aslam; he looked like he had ten years on Imy and a hundred years on me. ‘Life’s been tougher on him,’ Imy said, hopping onto my thought train.

  Aslam got into the driver’s seat. He nodded and smiled fondly at Imy. Imy returned the gesture. Aslam started the car and set off with a jerk.

  ‘So… What happened?’ I prompted, before Imy shut down again.

  ‘We were just kids when our village burnt down. Ghurfat-al-Mudarris took us in, provided us with shelter and food, and quickly put us to task. Those who were weak, those who mourned for their parents, were given menial duties.’

  I sneaked another glance at Aslam. I wondered, if he’d understood English, would he have been offended? He just stared forward, on autopilot, his eyes red from whatever he’d smoked earlier. He slapped himself hard on his cheek as though a fly had landed on it.

  ‘He’s been a driver ever since he could reach the pedals. These roads are all he knows.’

  ‘Did you not…’ I stopped midsentence, knowing that my line of questioning could potentially see me on the back end of Imy’s wrath. But he was on it. He turned his head slightly over his shoulder so he was meeting my eyes. I had the urge to lean back and away from him.

  ‘Did I not mourn for my parents?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to… Forget I asked,’ I said, backtracking. Some things were none of my business.

  ‘I mourned for them every second of every day,’ Imy answered, ‘but it didn’t break me.’

  ‘It must have been hard,’ I said. It was all I had, and it sounded as lame in the open as it had in my head. ‘But, I guess, it made you hard,’ I recovered.

  For a moment he watched me, like a hawk watches a worm, or whatever a hawk fucking watches. He took a breath in through his nose and let it out again, before finally speaking.

  ‘It made me determined.’

  Chapter 46

  At Benazir Bhutto Airport, Comb-Over checked the time on his watch on repeat. He desperately needed his mobile phone but it wasn’t permitted on duty and was stored in his locker. His other option was to tell one of his colleagues about it – he wasn’t the only one on their payroll – and they could easily pass on the message. But he needed it more, he needed the light to shine on him. He needed the money that would befall him as a reward. Five children, and a wife who refused to earn a living, wouldn’t feed themselves.

  He checked his watch again and then compared it to the time on the clock on his computer. It was five to midnight. Five more minutes before he finished his shift, and almost twenty-five minutes since he’d learnt of the news.

  There was a queue forming in front of him. He went through the motions, giving passports a cursory check before letting them into the country. At two minutes to midnight, he rushed on his uniform blazer over the stripes of his uniform white shirt and slipped the locker key into his hand. He held onto it tightly, the teeth of the key biting into his palm, and counted down the last sixty seconds in his head, and then half-leaped out of his booth.

  His head down, he paced across the terminal, into the staff room, ignoring the small talk coming his way from his colleagues. He jammed the key into his locker and removed his phone, switching it on immediately as he headed for the toilets. He checked underneath every stall as his phone picked up a signal, and then he located the number which he never believed he would have to dial. As it connected, Comb-Over ran through how he would spend his new-found fortune. A new Kawasaki bike seemed more appealing than replacing a weather-worn roof.

  The ‘Salaam, Brother’ caught him off guard.

  Comb-Over looked in the mirror above the sink and grinned victoriously to himself.

  ‘He’s here,’ he said. ‘Javid Qasim has just arrived in Islamabad.’

  Chapter 47

  Jay

  It was half-five in the morning when we arrived at the training camp. I slipped both arms through the straps of my rucksack and picked up my trolley from the back seat before Aslam could get his heavy hands on it. Imy stood by my side. He cracked his neck by dipping his head from one shoulder to the other as together we took in the camp.

  It seemed different, somehow. Smaller. The trees at the foot of the mountains that acted as a barrier around the camp were thinner, skeletal, almost hunched, as though standing sentry had finally tired them. The ground itself, once red earth, was dark, dank, covered in patches with sodden leaves. To my right was the entrance to where I had once stayed, a cavernous opening with a wooden rifle rack bolted into the rock. The rack was empty, and I suspected it had been for some time. This place that had broken so many souls now suffered the same fate.

  I scanned the camp, looking for the man who was as big and as invincible as this camp had once been. An ex-American soldier who had broken ranks and switched sides to fight for his own people, rather than against them. His name was Mustafa Mirza.

  Aslam placed a hand on the horn to signal our arrival. It was loud and offensive and because I was still standing so close to the jeep, it was right in my ear. I turned to Aslam; he grinned at me before running his tongue along the length of a rolling paper. Yeah, you go get high, mate.

  A hammer of a hand clapped me on my shoulder. Any harder and, I swear, I would’ve dropped. My shoulder vibrated. I turned and came face to face with a green army T-shirt, tight against a ridiculous chest. I craned my neck up a degree and then a few degrees more, and smiled at Mustafa.

  ‘You,’ he said, his American twang apparent in that one word. And then again, ‘You?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Me.’

  For the next ten seconds I was on a fairground ride. Squeezed tightly in his arms, being lifted off my feet and twirled around getting a blurred 360 of the camp, not quite knowing if this treatment was of friend or foe. He put me down gently.

  Friend.

  I found my feet and my head slowly stopped spinning. I could see Imy looking at me curiously. ‘Me and him go way back,’ I said, punching Mustafa gently on the arm, then worrying slightly about the retaliation.

  He introduced himself to Imy with a handshake. ‘My name is Mustafa Mirza,’ he said, before turning to Aslam who had his bare feet up on of the steering wheel, a tight joint behind his ear, smiling like he was winning.

  ‘Aslam,’ Mustafa boomed. ‘A breakfast of eggs fit for kings.’

  Aslam stumbled away to prepare us breakfast. Mustafa turned back to me, placed his meaty hands back on my shoulders. He shook his head in near disbelief.

  ‘Javid Qasim, as I live and breathe. The great pretender,’ he smiled. ‘Or the heir to the throne?’

  Chapter 48

  Imy

  Aslam prepared breakfast. With Mustafa’s blessing, Jay showed me around the site. It was clear that there was a closeness between him and the camp. A place where he had formed and broken friendships, a place where he had grown.

  Jay was in control there. That was fine. As soon as I sensed him losing a grip on it, I’d take over.

  He led me towards a deep-set opening within a rock formation. Outside of it sat an empty rifle rack. I sensed that with the current state of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris – defunct, both operationally and functionally – it would remain empty. This camp would no longer see the lethal successes it once had. There would be no more training of zealous young Muslims. Not without a leader.

  In contrast to the strong sun, inside of the cave felt cold, and to the touch it was. An array of threadbare rugs overlapped each other on the floor. There were two openings, one to the left and one to
the right.

  Jay pointed to the left. ‘That way is a tunnel, about thirty metres. Leads straight into Mustafa’s cabin. You saw that, right?’

  I had seen it. A decent-sized, well-constructed wooden cabin, that sat adjoined to the foot of the mountain. There was a huge clock attached externally, central to the structure above the front door, with five moveable markings to indicate prayer times. The next one would be Zohar prayers at 1 p.m. I’d make sure I wasn’t around for it. There was nothing I had left to say to Allah.

  ‘And to the right is our quarters.’ Jay shrugged. ‘You know, if we’re staying. Are we staying?’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Jay spun right and I followed him into the room. A small generator was buzzing in the corner with a thick white cable trailing along the skirting and finishing between two sleeping bags where there was a single power point.

  ‘Only the one point.’ Jay wagged a finger at it. ‘Best we charge our phones while we can.’ He sat low on the sleeping bag and took out his charging cable from his rucksack. He slipped out his phone and connected it. He stayed sitting on the sleeping bag, for once at a loss for words – either that or he was lining up what was going to come through his mouth next. He pulled his knees in towards himself and rested his arms on them.

  ‘Did you hear what Mustafa said?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Heir to the throne!’ Jay whispered loudly at me. ‘He knows that I’m his son. The fuck’s he know that?

  I placed my bag down and sat on the sleeping bag opposite him. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So, how do we play this?’

  ‘Breakfast first. Eat whatever is put in front of you, we don’t know when our next meal is coming.’

  ‘I mean how we going to bring it up, you know, about Bin Jabbar?’

  ‘Mustafa is sure to bring it up again. Any member of Ghurfat-al-Mudarris is incapable of going five minutes without bringing up their precious leader.’ I instantly regretted saying it. I’d been so busy trying to rein in Jay and his mouth that I hadn’t paid attention to what came out of mine. Despite Jay’s intentions, it was clear to see that there was still a relationship between father and son, regardless of how dysfunctional that was. I had to tread more carefully. ‘Let’s freshen up. Once we’re out there, follow my lead.’

  Jay exhaled loudly, and followed it with a shrug. It was the closest he’d get to acquiescing.

  There was no sense in instructing him any further; he didn’t seem to have a character that took well to instructions. I stood up and removed my shirt and jeans.

  Jay made a face and gestured with his head. ‘There’s a stall down there. If you wanna get changed.’

  I unzipped my bag and took out a fresh shirt, half-sleeved, and cotton trousers, both off-white. I slipped them on as Jay took his eyes off me and busied himself. He reached for his trolley and opened it up. I caught a glimpse of its contents, unnecessary and unsuitable to say the least. I removed my shoes and socks and took out footwear chosen to suit the terrain.

  ‘Crocs?!’ Jay exclaimed, and for some reason laughed behind his fist. ‘Oh, man.’

  ‘They’re more suited than those.’ I nodded to his high tops.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at that. A friend of mine swears by them. Lives in them!’ His smile was smaller now. ‘Lived.’ He corrected himself before hissing to himself. ‘Fucking past tense.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘His name was Parvez. And, yeah, he’s dead.’

  I nodded. It was nothing that I didn’t already know. Parvez had been another victim who was killed fighting for Ghurfat-al-Mudarris.

  Jay got to his feet and met my eyes and for the first time I saw fire in them.

  ‘No two ways about it, we have to find Bin Jabbar,’ he said. ‘That man has blood on his hands, and I’m going to make sure he fucking pays for it.’

  Chapter 49

  Jay

  I wasn’t about to strip and get changed in front of Imy like he’d just done. No thanks. I didn’t want him casting judgement on my body, especially as my gym sessions over the last few months hadn’t yet kicked in. Though, from the quick glimpse I clocked of his torso, I was surprised to see more than a little squish there. Didn’t exactly inspire me with confidence. Thought he was supposed to be a badass! I expected muscle, a six-pack, at the very least a flat stomach, not a Dad-bod.

  I got changed in the bathroom. Not a bathroom like you and I are accustomed to, let me tell you. It was a stall. Barely there swing-doors and a rubber pipe attached to a tap, used to wash, shower and clean your backside with. Don’t even get me started on the hole-in-the-floor squat-toilet that was currently housing a couple of loved-up cockroaches. I slipped out of my clothes into something more suitable for the climate, balled up my England clothes, and got the fuck out of there as quick as I could.

  Even from deep inside the mouth of the cave I could hear voices. They were muted, but I was still able to discern the boom in Mustafa’s tone and the short measured responses from Imy. I checked that my phone was charged, and unplugged it before walking out. The heat embraced me like a second skin. Even in Pakistan, December shouldn’t have been that warm, especially in the North amongst the rocks. I swear, if it ain’t people killing each other, fucking nature is.

  Mustafa and Imy had taken places on the floor and sat themselves cross-legged around a straw dastarkhwan mat. Aslam hovered around setting down plates filled with a form of egg that I didn’t recognise. Armed with my bottle of Tabasco that I’d had the good foresight to pack, I walked towards them, clearing my throat loudly for no particular reason.

  Imy’s eyes travelled up, down, up and away again, and I knew immediately that he was judging the sailboats on my sky-blue Hawaiian shirt. Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t got any dull clothes for the occasion. I sat down opposite him, decked out in his stupid safari outfit, with Mustafa at the end in his usual green military T-shirt and combat pants. It looked like we’d all misjudged the theme on the party invite.

  I saw Mustafa’s arm swinging towards me, and tensed just in time to absorb the heavy clap on my back. He beamed at me. ‘We were just talking about you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, searching the mat, knowing full well that Aslam still hadn’t been cutlery shopping since my last visit. I placed the Tabasco next to the bowl of bread and signalled a help yourself gesture.

  ‘I was just telling Imran about your antics last year.’

  ‘Weren’t exactly antics though, were they?’ I said.

  Mustafa turned his attention to Imy. ‘From the moment I laid eyes on young Qasim here, I must be honest, I had doubts.’

  ‘Shouldn’t judge,’ I muttered, picking up a strand of egg and holding it up for close inspection. Just past it I could see Imy staring at me: eat your food. I split open a bread roll and carefully picked out any bits of egg that looked some way cooked, and laid them out into a sandwich, before dousing the crap out of it with Tabasco.

  ‘He didn’t share the same enthusiasm as his fellow comrades,’ Mustafa continued. ‘Switched off, I think is the best way to describe him.’

  ‘In the zone is another way to describe it,’ I said, mouth full; it wasn’t all that bad.

  ‘We have a training course eight kilometres that way.’ Mustafa pointed into the distance. ‘We would jog in the hottest part of the day, assault rifles strapped to our backs, with just enough water to teach them a thing or two about rationing. Javid here,’ he laughed, ‘drank half and emptied the other half over his head before we had reached the two K mark, and then he suffered the rest of the way, stopping and starting, moaning and groaning, slowing everyone down.’

  Yeah. It’s true. It happened. Fucking inhumane is what it was. I noticed Imy, with the smallest of smiles. He was enjoying this! I poured some grey water from the jug into my barely standing crumpled plastic cup. Then thought, I’d better do the same for the others.

  ‘After the first few days,’ Mustafa continued, ‘it wasn’t just me that had do
ubts. I could sense fear in the others. We were days away from unleashing hell in the heart of London. Plans had been cemented, weapons had been placed in hands. But… Questions were asked. Could Javid Qasim walk into a war shoulder to shoulder with his brothers? Could he be trusted?’

  I’d just about had enough. I was ready to get to my feet and skulk away but it was exactly that attitude that these stories were made from. I kept my head down and stayed put, waiting for the next batch of tales, of which there were many. Instead, Imy spoke.

  ‘That’s not the Jay that I know.’

  My head popped and my ears tuned in.

  ‘Looking at him, I’d have to agree,’ Imy said, looking at me. ‘But past the mouth, the attitude and the inability to follow a simple instruction…’

  Fuck, man, get to the good stuff.

  ‘There’s a directness to him, a determination. A drive which you’d be forgiven for missing when you first experience him.’

  Experience him. Not sure what Imy meant by that, but I took it as a compliment.

  Mustafa considered it with a creaky nod. He smiled and squeezed my shoulder as gently as he could. ‘Who knew that this troublesome young man would turn out stronger than most? Braver! To this day it shames me that I had judged the boy who would one day lead us all. For through him runs the blood of Al-Mudarris.’

  At a loss for words, and probably better that way, I turned to Imy.

  ‘This,’ Imy said, ‘is common knowledge?’

  ‘Go back twelve months, and things were very different,’ Mustafa said. ‘Ghurfat-al-Mudarris was known to the world by name and name alone. Our enemies, the authorities across the West, despite their so-called intelligence, their resources, and the obscene amount of money that they steal for a war of their own making, they were drowning in desperation. For many years our beloved Teacher was allowed to roam freely amongst his people, knowing never a word would escape their lips. Our training facilities and camps on both sides of the border remained hidden from Kafir eyes.’