Ride or Die. Khurrum Rahman
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the queue and taken in for questioning, even though he was clearly Sikh judging by the turban wrapped neatly around his head. Fuck, man, how do these clueless fucks get these jobs, all they see is dark skin and a beard and it’s hunting season. I could be wrong, he could have been pulled for a whole ’nother reason, but I don’t think so. When the man appeared back, half an hour later, looking dishevelled and more than a little humiliated, I knew that he’d had his turban hand-checked and possibly removed. Do these clowns not realise how fucking offensive that is? It pissed me off, but was I surprised? Fuck no! If you’re brown and travelling, you best have your affairs in order because fuck knows where you’re going to end up. Airport security don’t think twice, barely think once, they just react on some unfounded instinct. Happens all the time. But that doesn’t mean we get used to that shit.
I could feel him, could feel the angst in his face. I watched him look around sheepishly to see if anybody noticed. We all noticed, mate. I caught his eye and nodded at him in solidarity He didn’t return it and turned his back to me. Fair play.
I swear these things never used to bother me until that is, they did.
I picked up my luggage from the merry-go-round, and on a whim slipped on the mac that Mum had gifted me. I buttoned it up to the hilt and stepped out of the terminal. Even though I’d braced myself, the weather was a shock to the system. Only twenty-four hours ago, I was on my arse sizzling in the sun as I made eyes at my girl on the other side of the pool. And now this. Sideways fucked-up rain pelting me, and a strong wind not letting me spark up a much needed post-flight fag. I popped the collar shielding my face, and took the shuttle bus to the long stay car park. Just to elevate my bad mood I was charged for the full four weeks, even though I’d returned two weeks early. Bad mood didn’t last long, though. Just for a minute everything was forgotten as, sitting there in Red Zone, Row 4, comfortably holding its own between a white Bentley and a silver Maserati, was my black BMW.
Restored to its full glory.
When Bin Jabbar had been killed, my Beemer had taken the full force of my anger. I’d taken a baseball bat and smashed the shit out of the one constant in my life. The regret was instant and overwhelming, and I didn’t think twice about parting with the best part of five G to have it restored. That money was pretty much the last of the MI5 pay-off, and I was living off the kindness of strangers until somebody hooked me up with a job.
I placed the trolley and holdall in the boot, and then I did a couple of slow laps around my car, inspecting it for even the slightest sign of damage, a scratch, a nick, a fingerprint. I knelt down by each wheel and rubbed the built-up dirt away from the alloy with my sleeve. I nodded to myself, satisfied that my baby was as I’d left it. I pressed the button on the fob, and the interior lights lit up softly. I opened the door and sat behind the wheel, shutting the door gently on the world behind me.
And it just felt like home.
The car came to life on the button, as though it’d been waiting for my touch. Automatically it connected to my phone via Bluetooth. I opened up my playlist on Spotify and swiped my finger down, and watched all those killer tracks tumble down. I jabbed at one at random. ‘Appetite for Destruction’ – NWA.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
I wheeled my Beemer out of the car park and pointed it towards Hounslow.
First stop, find car wash. Second stop, find Imy.
I rolled my car into American Jetshine behind the Treaty Centre and requested the full complement. I walked out with my face in my phone and almost bumped into a car queuing to get into the car wash. I mouthed an apology as I checked out the car. Trust me, this car was built to be checked out. Latest model Mercedes AMG GT Coupe, dropped low on matt black 22s. The colour was a customised job, like a slimy green. The bodywork looked immaculate, and not at all like it needed a wash.
I couldn’t make out the driver’s face as the sun was bouncing off his windscreen, but I could feel his eyes on me. Typical cuts, I assumed. It’s something you get used to living in Hounslow, a fucking pastime, looking to make something out of nothing. He slid down his window and I moved away before he could start something. The last thing I needed was more friction.
As my Beemer was getting scrubbed behind the ears, I took a stroll through Hounslow High Street. It had been a long, stiff flight and I needed to stretch my legs and allow the cold air to slap me out of tiredness. I couldn’t be a shattered mess when I faced Imy. I had to be on point.
I grabbed a takeaway cappuccino heavily sprinkled with chocolate for a boost, and strolled aimlessly, hoping for some of that Christmas magic to rub off on me. It didn’t work, not like it used to.
It just doesn’t feel like Christmas around Hounslow anymore, not like it does in neighbouring Kingston or Richmond or the like. I don’t know what it is. Maybe the rise of the powerful pound shops, or the lack of a decent shopping centre. Sure, we have Treaty Centre, and it gets seasonally decked out, but it all seems a little half-arsed. It wasn’t always like that. I remember Mum taking me to a giant Santa’s grotto in the main lobby of the Treaty. She’d plonk me on the lap of a pretty decent Santa, surrounded by proper sized elves, year in, year out. It took until my early teens for me to clock that most of the kids queuing were younger than me. I didn’t care. Christmas was everything. I’m not sure what changed, or when the mood shifted. Looking around now, it could be that there’s just way too much culture and colour and other occasions that take precedence, and are celebrated with a little more gusto, to give too much of a crap about Christmas. Either way it was sad to see.
On a whim I nipped into Argos and picked out a six-foot plastic tree, and then hit the 99p store and left with a bag of decorations for under a fiver. I decided that I was going to make the most of Christmas, like it used to be. Like it should be. I refused to be on my lonesome like a sad Christmas commercial. I’d invite Idris over for some pre-Christmas-dinner drinks, and then I’d invite myself over to his place for his mum’s halal chicken with all the trimmings, and watch whatever Harry Potter was showing on a satisfied stomach. I owed it to myself to end the year on a high, after the shit-circus of a year I’d had.
With two weeks to go before Santa was due to shoot down the chimney, I started to get that feeling, but I had to put it to one side. For now, I had more pressing issues to suss out.
I picked up my freshly cleaned motor, then steeled myself and headed towards Imy’s place, a short drive down London Road. I only knew that Imy lived there because he and a stoner called Shaz used to session there, and I’d made the occasional visit to deliver some green. Seemed like a lifetime ago.
Across the road I could see workmen pulling temporary traffic lights from the bed of a truck, and I knew I was going to get stuck in traffic on the flipside. I pulled up on the opposite side of the road to The Chicken Spot. The strong smell wafting from there and through my open window made my stomach moan in anticipation, and I tried to recall the last meal I’d had. I’d never had the privilege to eat there before. According to the locals, the chicken was fried to crispy perfection, but I’d always been loyal to Aladdin’s and their Inferno Burger. Either way, I wasn’t there to eat.
Above the chicken shop was Imy’s flat. The curtains were drawn. I watched intently for a moment, but couldn’t make out anything other than that the curtains were drawn. I imagined Imy behind there somewhere, mourning. Or maybe he was past mourning and was intently plotting. Could be that plotting was his way of mourning. I could picture him sitting in an armchair staring at a wall covered with photos of all those who had wronged him, with maps and locations and bits of different coloured string connecting them. I wondered if I was on that wall. I wondered if he was waiting for me, watching me from a great height through the telescopic sight of a high-powered rifle.
I shuddered, killed the engine and stepped out of my car, not knowing what to expect. It could be anything from a slap in the face to adios, Jay. Whatever! I had to make my presence felt. I owed him that much. I looked both ways before jogging across the road and then slowing to a walk. I glanced inside The Chicken Spot