Homegrown Hero: A funny and addictive thriller for fans of Informer. Khurrum Rahman
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take it you don’t drink‚ Imy. Sup to you‚ yeah. That’s your business. I ain’t hurting no-one. My parents bought me up right and correct‚ mate. I know the difference between good and bad. Everything else... Well‚ it’s just noise.’
Shaz took another sip‚ waved his empty glass and winked at the barman.
‘Why you lookin’ at me like that?’ He grinned. ‘I pray too‚ yeah‚ before you ask. Every night‚ in bed‚ a direct line to the man upstairs. I say whatever’s on my mind. A thanks‚ a wish‚ world fucking peace‚ whatever! That’s how I pray. I ain’t saying other Muslims are wrong‚ but personally I don’t think that I was put on this Earth to bow down five times a day‚ reciting Arabic prayers that I don’t quite understand and – with all due respect – most other Muslims don’t understand either. Going through the same motion day in day out. You know what they’re thinking as their heads are bowed? What’s on TV tonight? Where’d I leave my sunglasses? What time’s the gym closing? Tell me that ain’t true. Look... It’s like this‚ I know I ain’t Muslim of the year and when I do go and God judges me‚ I probably won’t get to sit at the top table with the Mashallah crew. I’ll most likely be in the nosebleed seats‚ with a pillar blocking my view! But trust me‚ yeah‚ I ain’t going to hell. Way I see it‚ we’ve been given the gift of life. Live it‚ man‚ you’ll be alright. You hear me?’
I heard him. It was all I could think about. I managed to convince myself that if I picked up a glass‚ smoked a little weed‚ there was no way I’d ever be suspected. It was the perfect cover. But really‚ I wasn’t convincing anybody.
I easily fell in love with the lifestyle. I easily fell in love with having a choice. I easily fell in love with a girl.
Soon after‚ when Shaz and I went to the pub it was;
A pint for him… and a pint for me.
Now Shaz was a regular feature‚ and he was also the funniest person that I knew – mostly unintentionally. He helped me find laughter that had been absent for years.
Like me‚ he was a Muslim‚ and like me he wasn’t much of one.
He rested one foot up on the edge of the coffee table. ‘Let’s take a moment or two to admire my new desert boots.’ He said. And in that instant… I was back there again.
*
Most of what I remembered from growing up in Afghanistan was my impatience to grow up. In fact‚ just before all it kicked off‚ my biggest concern was that I was done with being nine. I had been counting down the days until I hit the all-important double figures. In my village in Afghanistan‚ ten was a big deal; ten brought you a certain amount of respect‚ responsibility and power. Ten was being a man. Though‚ whichever way I chose to look at it‚ the truth was‚ at ten‚ I was still a child. And at that moment‚ when everything changed‚ I had never before felt more like a child.
I remember my father telling me to run. I remember my mother screaming at me to hide. I remember that being the last thing they ever said to me.
The sound of gunshots was not rare in our small village in Sharana. For us children who were in a hurry to grow up‚ the sound signalled one of adventure. The presence of the Taliban was not uncommon; they would ride in on their dusty jeeps or their dusty horses and once in a while shoot a hole into the sky just to make us aware of their presence. We would surround them with respectful smiles and sometimes they would let us hold their rifles. My parents hated it but acquiesced‚ because really‚ what choice did they have?
The sound of these particular gunshots were different. Cleaner. Relentless. Getting closer. Moving from home to home until they were pounding down our door. From my hiding spot‚ under my bed‚ I hear a muffled question‚ a nervous reply. My mother’s scream‚ my father’s anguish. Heavy feet making their way through our home. My parents separated. My father taken to our small kitchen and asked the same question over and over again. My mother taken into the bedroom‚ screaming‚ and forced to perform what should only take place between a husband and a wife. I couldn’t move‚ my shalwar wet and stained‚ my eyes closed painfully tight and my hands clamped over my ears but still unable to block out the sounds of the final two shots.
Then silence. No more gunshots‚ no more screams. I opened my eyes and from my position under my bed‚ I noticed two things; the smoking barrel of a Heckler and Koch machine gun and a pair of sandy coloured‚ British military-issue desert boots.
‘Well‚’ Shaz said‚ rescuing me from my thoughts and placing me back to the present. ‘Pretty sick‚ right?
‘Yes‚’ I snatched my eyes away from his boots. ‘They’re nice.’
Sheikh Ali Ghulam invited his guests‚ Mullah Mohammed Ihsan and Mullah Muhammad Talal‚ to join him for an evening feast. A small team of three waiters piled the table with platters of assorted meats‚ rice and naan breads. They ate in silence at the dining table‚ digesting the food quickly‚ hoping to get back to their hotel room and further digest what had been told to them. The only sound that filled the room was Pathaan noisily sucking away at the bones of a half chicken from the comfort of his armchair.
Ihsan and Talal were grateful that a spread had been laid on for them in the highest of company; they were especially grateful that the Sheikh had chosen them to share the information with. But they could not understand why it was them that he had chosen. The attacks on Oxford Street had been not of their planning‚ therefore they were not accountable for the failure of it. Ihsan‚ based in Germany‚ had his own students‚ three of whom were currently being prepped to visit a training camp. As for Belgium-based Talal‚ after careful watch‚ he had recruited twelve students from the deprived Molenbeek neighbourhood of Brussels‚ who had seen their local Mosque closed down as its teachings were seen as radical. Talal had been given an eighteen-month window in which to train these angry young men‚ and plot an attack in the very heart of Brussels.
Sheikh Ghulam placed his cutlery down on the table and loudly expelled gas‚ muted slightly by his fist. Ihsan and Talal followed suit but did not allow themselves the luxury of belching. They waited patiently but the impatience within them was clear. They wanted desperately to leave‚ to be away from Ghulam’s glare and Pathaan’s menace and to carry on this discussion in private quarters‚ to try to establish the possible reason why they might have been flown out to this meeting.
Ghulam had not seemed to address it. But they could not possibly question him.
Talal cleared his throat to speak. Ihsan shot him a look and discreetly shook his head. Talal went ahead anyway. ‘Who was responsible for Qasim? With all due respect we carry out intensive checks with every one of our students.’
Ghulam nodded at Pathaan‚ one that could possibly have meant anything. Pathaan stood up and Talal braced himself‚ as though he was about to receive a blow to the back of his head. Pathaan smiled at the reaction and disappeared into the master bedroom.
‘Imam Adeel-al-Bhukara‚’ Ghulam said‚ and Talal physically relaxed. ‘He was also invited to join us. However‚ the Brother did not demonstrate the same sense of duty as you both.’
‘So‚ he did not make it?’ Ihsan asked.
‘Pathaan can be quite persuasive‚’ Ghulam replied‚ as the bedroom door opened and Pathaan walked out dragging behind him a large metal suitcase on wheels. He laid it down flat‚ unzipped and flipped open the case. Inside Adeel-al-Bhukara was curled up in the foetal position‚ his walking stick laid across his body. Pathaan picked it up and poked him in the ribs with it. Al-Bhukara wheezed weakly and his eyes opened to slits.
‘Please‚