Ride or Die. Khurrum Rahman
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talking logistics, she thought. ‘I think we should proceed.’
‘Excellent, Sophia,’ Samuel said. ‘It’s been a delight dealing with you. Now, I’m sorry to say that this will be the last time that you and I shall be speaking.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her heart taking a sideways dive. She wasn’t sure why.
‘I’m afraid so. After this call, can you possibly delete this phone number and call register and dispose of the cell phone discreetly.’
‘Yeah, sure. I’ll dash it. Like, an outside bin? Or even in the river?’ Sophia said, enjoying the drama of throwing away incriminating evidence in the river in the cold of the night, right under the noses of where the rich lived.
‘Outside bin is fine. Just as long as the cell is cleared.’
‘Okay,’ she said, nodding thoughtfully to herself, as she recalled the Jason Bourne movie she’d seen the previous night. ‘Should I take it apart piece by piece and put the battery in one bin, and the other bit in another bin, maybe on another street. And the sim card… I could destroy the sim card by frying it.’
Sophia thought she heard a sigh.
‘It’s fine to throw it away in one piece. It’s unregistered.’
‘If you’re sure,’ Sophia said, slightly cut. Maybe she was trying too hard. She should just say as little as possible, though that had never been her style. She had to think about number one. ‘When do I get the rest of the money?’ Sophia asked, carefully.
‘A second key for a second locker will be posted to your address. The same as last time. The remainder of the fee will be there.’
Sophia had no reason to doubt Samuel Carter.
The hotel room phone trilled in my ear. Shut the fuck up! I lifted the edges of the pillow tightly over my ears. The trill dimmed but just would not quit. Defeated, I reached out to it, blindly knocking a bottle of water off the side table as I located the phone.
‘Good morning, Mr Qasim,’ the smoothest of voices said. ‘This is your eight-thirty wake-up call.’
‘Yeah, I’m up, man. I’m up,’ I slurred. My tongue felt as though it was wearing a fur coat and my breath bounced back at me off the phone. I turned my face away in disgust and noticed that the bottle of water that I had knocked over was actually a bottle of beer, steadily dripping onto the carpet. That damn minibar had broken my defences.
‘Fuck’s sake!’ I groaned to myself as I straightened the bottle. That was going to cost me about seven quid in Qatari money!
‘Excuse me?’ the voice said, losing a little smoothness.
‘No, not you… Thanks. Bye.’
I replaced the receiver and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for my vision to clear, trying to piece together my movements before sleep had eventually found me at… who knows when. The last time I had glanced at the clock, it was four something, closer to five.
The thought of meeting Imy had twisted me up inside, and I just wanted to forget about him, just for a minute. I think I had a moment of madness. Me. On my own. Wanting to let the fuck loose with total abandonment before I faced up to my responsibilities.
Not sure what happened after that.
I lifted my heavy head off the pillow and took in the state of the room as it sadly recounted the story of my night.
Yeah, it was coming back to me.
I remember wanting a drink but being too mentally drained to leave my bed. Rather than walk the three steps, I’d crawled to the foot of the bed and reached out to the minibar, which was just tantalisingly out of reach. I hung halfway off the bed, stretching, my shoulder screaming at me as I managed to pull open the door. The light illuminated my face and the miniature bottles neatly lined up greeted me like a surprise party. I started with a vodka.
I’d stayed at the foot of the bed, on my back, my head hanging off the edge as I watched the brilliant Mean Girls upside down, whilst knocking back drink after drink, unable to get Imy out of my head.
I’d pictured standing in front of him, meeting his eyes and letting him know, in no uncertain terms, that I recognised my part in his loss. I’d welcome whatever he threw at me. I’d fucking take it all.
Oh man, I got so wasted. Dotted around the bed were empty miniature bottles lying sadly on their sides, as though they’d been abused. I dropped my head back on the pillow, the pounding in my head taking the attention away from the ache in my stomach caused by all the food that I’d ordered from room service!
I knew that I should be getting up and packing, but I gave myself five more minutes just to get myself together. It’s always five more minutes – How many times had Mum said that to me? Feeling sorry for myself, I turned on my side and curled up in a ball. Beside me was a chocolate gateau, some eaten, some spread across my pillow. I rubbed the side of my face. Some there, too.
I turned my back to it and flopped to the edge of the bed. I thought about how much of a tip I should leave for housekeeping to clean my mess. Next to the bed was a bin, that I’d placed there in case I vomited. Next to that, a pool of vomit!
I groaned loudly and shot myself out of bed and went about carrying out a pre-emptive clean before housekeeping clocked on and, through Chinese whispers, Mum found out. I couldn’t have that.
Satisfied, with the room looking semi-respectable, I spent record time brushing the crap out of my teeth and tongue whilst hopping around in the unpredictable shower. I had used the bath towel to soak up the vomit, so with an impossibly small hand towel wrapped around my waist I set about packing my holiday clothes before getting into my shitty-weather England clothes.
I had a flight to catch.
There was no way I was calling a bell-boy. I had already spent a small fortune on tips, so I belled Idris and asked him to help me with my luggage. He was at my door a few minutes later, looking annoyingly fresh and rested in his shorts and lairy Bermuda shirt. The total opposite of me.
‘You sure you don’t mind me staying on a few days?’ he said, entering my room, sniffing and making a face. There was nothing I could do about the smell, but crack open a window. Idris took me in, jeans and Jordans where shorts and flip-flops should have been. A hoody on the bed to carry onto the plane, and my parka jacket in my hand luggage. Prepared for the wet, windy, vicious weather back home, back in Hounslow.
‘Here, grab that,’ I said, pushing my trolley his way.
‘I still don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why’d you have to rush back?’
Why? A man’s family had burnt and perished and I had a part to play. I had to find out how far a simple sorry would take me in easing the fucking guilt that I was drowning in.
‘I just have to, that’s all, Idris,’ I said, knowing how unfair it was to keep my closest friend in the dark. It wasn’t the first time, and I’d started to realise, the way my life was turning out, that it wouldn’t be the last, either.
‘Obviously, this is about Imran Siddiqui,’ he pressed, and I couldn’t deny it but I could ignore it. I handed him my rucksack. ‘Okay, fine! Be like that. Least tell me what bullshit you told your mum, just so we’re on the same page.’ Idris couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice, or maybe he didn’t want to.
‘Told her that…’ I hesitated, knowing how it was going to sound.
‘Go on. Told her what exactly?’
‘Told